Page 6 of Reinventing Cato
Yes, he liked where he lived.
Yes, he was sorry he’d missed seeing his sister and her husband. They’d gone to spend New Year with her husband’s family in Inverness. Vigge was genuinely sorry he’d missed seeing Gitte. He was beyond grateful she’d continued to live nearby, teaching at a local school, helping out their parents, when she could so easily have moved. If she could manage to get pregnant as well, then that would be brilliant because grandchildren would change their parents’ lives, give them something to focus on, look forward to.
On one visit here that Vigge had never forgotten, his mother had made it clear she didn’t expect children from him. Gay men had no right to adopt or to seek a surrogate. Children needed a mother and a father. Vigge didn’t argue, didn’t defend his corner. No matter how much he disagreed, he wouldn’t bring more conflict into this house.
It was rare that his being gay was mentioned. It was as if by avoiding it, they could pretend that evening had never happened, that Vigge had never made that admission, aged seventeen, with his hands shaking and heart pounding. But it was what followed that changed everyone’s lives forever, and not just his family’s. Vigge announcing he was gay would be forever associated with that.
It was a given that his parents were disappointed about his sexuality. Gitte told him that, on a fairly regular basis, they had to deal with questions as to whether he’d found a bonnie wee lassie, whether there was a wedding on the horizon, all because they didn’t want it known that their son was gay.
In Vigge’s line of work, it was easier to be straight than gay. Maybe that was true in most lines of work. If asked, he wouldn’t deny he was into men, but he wasn’t going to volunteer the information to his colleagues. To anyone. He didn’t feel as if he was being deceitful, just careful.
“The weather forecast is not good,” his father said, his Danish accent still strong even after living in Scotland for so long. Vigge’s mix of Danish and Scottish accents had faded once he’d left to go to university at eighteen. Now, he thought people would struggle to work out where he came from.
He checked the weather forecast.
His mother nodded toward the window. “It’s started to snow. Your father won’t want to take the car out.”
Please don’t let me get snowed in.The forecast was terrible. He mentally groaned. Blizzard conditions predicted.Where had that come from?He looked for car rentals from Glasgow airport. Driving all the way home didn’t appeal. It was a long enough trek from Heathrow to his house as it was, but if there was no flight, he might have to hire a car. He booked a vehicle, just in case. Easier to cancel if he didn’t need it, than fight the queues at the airport tomorrow.
“I think Hendry’s playing his fiddle at the Bramley Arms,” his mother said. “You could take your father’s and join him.”
Because you don’t want your miserable gay son spending the evening with you?Vigge didn’t know whether to be annoyed or grateful for the chance to escape.“Is that okay, Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Make sure you have your key in case we’ve gone to bed,” his mother said.
“You don’t mind if I go out?”
“We’re not a bundle of laughs.” She sighed. “I know you and Gitte had the best of intentions arranging this visit, but it’s better if we’re on our own tonight.”
And not with me.
“Go to the pub,” his mum said.
“I daresay you’re not looking forward to what the TV has to offer.” His father shot him a smile.
Vigge was grateful for even that small sign of pleasure and returned the smile. “I’m happy to spend the evening with you.”
“It’s better if we’re on our own,” his mother repeated and Vigge flinched.Okay, I get it.
“Go and remind Hendry how good you are,” his father said.
Vigge pushed to his feet. “If the snow’s bad tomorrow, I’ll get a cab to the airport.”
He grabbed his father’s violin case from the side of the dresser, then went over and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year, Vigge,” she said.
Vigge hugged his dad. “Godt nytår.”
“You too, son.”
Neither of his parents had touched him. Not a hand on his arm, not a kiss on his cheek. No affection for eighteen years and not a lot before that. He put on his coat and boots, wincing when he opened the front door and was hit by a blast of snow. Once he’d tugged the door closed behind him, he pulled on his hat and gloves and set off for the pub.
His parents lived on the edge of the village, and the Bramley Arms was in the middle, a few hundred metres away. He called his sister as he walked.
“Hi, Vigge. Killed them yet?”
