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There was a poof in the village years ago, when Martin was a baby.
The vet's junior. Mr. Robinson. Deirdre doesn't know how they knew. She can't believe he ever made eyes at any of the knackered old farmers. Maybe it was just their word for a man who was handsome and well-groomed, who came from Down South and spoke like a newsreader on the radio. Deirdre's husband took the mick out of him, anyway, when he wasn't about. Most of the men did, but never her father.
“Good vet,” was what Da would say, if the topic of Mr. Robinson was ever raised in his hearing. “Better than that daft bugger Cartwright. Saved two good milkers of mine.” That alone was enough to put him in Deirdre's father's good books for life. He didn't say anything when Mr. Robinson left. None of them did.
Deirdre's an old woman now, but she's not ignorant. She's got the telly and her Woman's Weeklys. She knows they're not called poofs anymore, and she knows they aren't bad people. She liked that John Barrowman who was everywhere for a while. He was a poof—a gay—and an American besides. And she's never had owt but respect for Sir Ian McKellen.
She's always known their Johnny was that way. She couldn't have said how, but she knew. Knowing it and holding the proof of it, there in her hand, are two different things, but she can't say she didn't expect the day would come. Even here, Johnny was going to find someone, sooner or later. Even here, he was going to meet a man who would, one day, take him away from the farm.
Only Gheorghe—and Deirdre's still getting her tongue around that name—don't take him away. If anything, he makes Johnny a better farmer, a better man. Makes him drink less, work more. And his sheep's milk cheese may be one of the more disgusting things Deirdre has had the misfortune to set eyes on, but it sells, for God knows what reason, and it puts more money in their coffers than they ever had before.
“You got a family?” Deirdre asks Gheorghe one afternoon, as the two of them sit with their tea. Martin's on the settee, asleep again, poor lamb. She called Johnny in, too, but he told her was going to stay out just a little longer, to finish the coop he's building so he and Gheorghe can get some chickens. Filthy things, but the boys tell her they'll look after them, that Deirdre won't have nowt to do with them, save frying up some of the eggs of a morning and counting the money they make selling the rest.
“I have parents,” Gheorghe replies. “And siblings. Three brothers, two sisters.”
“Lord! Your poor ma.” Deirdre only ever had the one, Martin, unless you count his little sister Jean. Nobody does. Died three hours after being born, poor mite, and it's as if she never existed. Deirdre was back on the farm two days later, helping with the spring planting like nothing had happened. Getting on with it. “You could ask them to visit some time, if you want to.” Deirdre's not sure what prompts her generosity. She quickly adds, “Not all at once, like. I'm not running a hotel.”
Gheorghe smiles. “That is a kind offer.”
“They must miss you, is all.” She can't imagine how she'd feel, if Johnny had been the one to go over to Romania. Or if he'd met another man, some university boy who'd taken him Down South, or to the city, the way she always feared.
“Right.” She stands briskly, taking her dishes to the sink. As she reaches for the tap, Gheorghe says, “I will do the washing up.”
“Right,” Deirdre repeats. “I'll go hang out the clothes, then.” There's a bigger basket of them now that Gheorghe's are mixed in with Johnny's and Martin's, but Deirdre finds she doesn't mind. It's as easy to do for three fellas as for two, she thinks. Even if poor Martin does go through more clothes than the boys.
She never said anything, but there's been no repeat of what she found that one time, before Gheorghe left and Johnny brought him back again. Deirdre doesn't know why that is. Maybe they're picking up after themselves nowadays; maybe it's more than that. Maybe it means they've decided they're together for good.
She'd like to see the two of them wed, Deirdre thinks, as she carries the wash basket out to the line. Not just because Gheorghe's a good lad, and he's good for Johnny, but because it would be nice to know everything is in place before she and Martin kick off. Deirdre knows better than to push anyone into marriage, but Gheorghe's nowt like Annie. He loves this place in a way she never did. And Deirdre would love to have Martin leave it to the both of them, equal-like. Johnny and Gheorghe.
And that's something I never thought I'd say. Deirdre sets down the basket and pulls a pair of clothes pegs from the bucket. As she hangs up the first shirt, she catches John's eye, over where he's clipping off the last of the chicken wire on his new coop. It looks good. Solid. Martin will be pleased with it.
“Buna ziua, bunicuţă!” Johnny waves.
“What's that kelter you're spouting?”
“It's Romanian,” Johnny replies, and Deirdre feels a little guilty about calling it rubbish. Just the other day in the village, she gave Mrs. Jameson a mouthful when the old cow started blathering about “dirty gyppos.”
“Save it for your man, then.”
Johnny laughs. It's becoming a common sight, and that's something else Deirdre never thought she'd say. “Anything left to eat?”
“There's some sandwiches out. Mind you don't track mud all over me nice clean floor.”
Johnny disappears into the house. Deirdre hangs up another shirt and a pair of Y-fronts, and then she can see him through the kitchen window.
Gheorghe is standing at the sink. Johnny comes in behind him and kisses him on the cheek, and Gheorghe turns to face him, putting his arms around Johnny's neck as they keep on kissing.
Deirdre's never seen a couple so loved up. Certainly not Martin and Annie. Her own husband thought kissing was only for the bedroom, and even there it was a couple of pecks with the lights off. She knows this is the way young people are nowadays. She watches Coronation Street and Emmerdale. She knows it don't always mean nothing, but she hopes it's a good sign for the two of them. That it means they're built to last, whether they make up their minds to get married or not.
There was a poof in the village when Martin was a baby, but there's never been anyone like their Johnny, or their Gheorghe. Special, like, Deirdre thinks, although it's the kind of codswollop she'd never say aloud. She hangs up one of her own blouses, and two more pairs of pair of bloomin' underpants. A thought strikes her, sudden and unpleasant. But what the flipping heck am I meant to feed them if his family does come to visit?