Gary

Gary is grinning. There is relief in his eyes as he talks about finally getting the keys to his own flat earlier this morning, on the way to coming to meet me. “Today”, he says softly, when I ask him what a good day looks like now. He takes a long, deep breath. “Getting a home. I love that word at the moment. A home.”

Both Gary and I have arrived late to our interview which takes place at the Ace of Clubs centre in Clapham. He apologies when we first shake hands, and again when we sit down, holding onto his cane tightly for support. But as he takes off his mask, he reveals his charming charisma, cheekily twisting the ends of his moustache and leaning forward onto his cane as I ask if he is comfortable sharing intimate details with me. “I have nothing to hide” he says with a gentle pride.

His story, he says, is a sad one. “I’ve been through shit you see”. He pauses as I prepare for the interview, switching on the recorder and trying out a few pens to check they have ink. Once I sit back, ready to start, he smiles at me. “But it has a happy ending”.

Gary was born in 1959 in Birmingham. He never met the man who was declared his father on his birth certificate, and instead lived with his mother, his siblings and his mother’s boyfriend.

“Mum got ill and died. I was nine. My sister then married my Mum’s boyfriend who had lived with us. He had also sexually abused me. I went into the school one day and said ‘My sister married by Dad yesterday’, which rung bells obviously. Social services got involved and I was taken into care, and stayed there until the last year of school. Being in care is awful. You feel alone, because you have no one there. You move around, I think I was in four different places by the end.”

Gary describes the sexual assault inflicted by his father figure as his ‘first trauma’. It was his first sexual experience, and his first sexual interaction with a male, which affected him for many years, particularly as Gary is gay. Society, and indeed the help he was offered after the accusations were made did little to support him.

“When it first happened I was told by him that it was normal. This is what you do, how you learn. Wash your bits. I’ll show you mine. How to wash yours. And social services didn’t believe me. They believed him. They called me a liar. A few years later I was even taken to a psychiatrist for being gay”.

Gary’s eyes tell his story just as well as his words, they are compelling and expressive, straining as he talks back over this period of his life. He composes himself and says, “But since then you see, I’ve had relationships with men, loving relationships.” Do you think you have managed to reclaim being gay in a healthy way for yourself? I ask. He smiles. “Yes, yes. Later I was in a relationship for 22 years with a man, Ron.”

“I left school at 16 and rented a bedsit, but I then got three years in prison for punching my sister’s boyfriend. A few years later I got a job as a bingo caller, and it was there that I met my ex-wife who I was married to for 14 years. We had two children. I felt pressured to marry a woman you see. But I told her I was gay and we divorced.”

”I moved to London in 1993 and started working in theatre, making costumes and wigs. That’s when I met Ron. We moved in together, and had a dog together. Dogs just love you unconditionally, don’t they? He was such a sweetheart. My grandkids would ride him like a horse whenever they visited”.

“Three years ago though, I was evicted from Ron’s flat. We had had an argument about something…pathetic, and I grabbed him by the neck and pushed him back. He called the police, who arrested me. I pleaded guilty in court, and was not allowed to see him again for 12 months. I wasn’t allowed to pick up my belongings, medication etc. I was homeless. We spoke a few times on the phone, but I never saw him again. He died last year.”

When lockdown was imposed in the UK in March 2020, the government funded local councils to bring people without accommodation into hotels to prevent further spreading of the virus. Gary was one of the people taken into the temporary home.

“I hated it. There were some people who shouldn’t have been there, who should’ve been better supported. You had some people pissing around. A woman kept taking her clothes off and dancing around. The security guys just laughed. I thought ‘Don’t laugh. Do you know what I mean, it’s a mental illness that she’s got!’ They were taking the piss, taking pictures. It was horrible.”

After another pause, I ask if he still sees his grandchildren.

“Not for two years since corona. My son died last year, and I don’t think his wife likes the idea of a gay grandad, so I’ve never met my grandson. But my son, he used to tell me off for using the word ‘faggot’. He loathed that word. He said, ‘Dad, don’t say faggot, it’s a horrible word’. And I thought I had embarrassed them for all these years, but he said, ‘No Dad, I’m proud. I’m proud of that fact –”

Gary’s eyes swell up at this moment. He takes a sudden deep breath and stops talking, as if there are decades of emotion built into that last sentence. He apologises repeatedly as he cries. “I’m sorry. It’s a lot.”

Gary has a thriving relationship with his daughter now, who now has two children. “We talk regularly and have a great, great relationship. She rung me the other day. I’ve always loved her you know, but again I thought I was embarrassing to her. She’s going to bring her partner down to visit next week, so I can meet them. She’s my closest friend nowadays, my daughter.”

“I’ve never really liked myself you see. I’m grumpy, and I’m old, and I’m selfish sometimes. But when someone says they’re proud of you, you know? It makes you feel wanted. Appreciated.”

When lockdown was lifted, the council set Gary up in a temporary flat, during which time staff at Ace of Clubs helped him bid for settled accommodation. Eventually, the council sent an evaluator to assess his needs. Gary heard from the council a few months ago that he had finally been granted a flat.

“I was there the other day, it felt so wonderful. I opened every door I could, so that me and the kids can run around in circles chasing each other”. He wipes away a tear and smiles. “These are tears of joy”.

He looks around the health clinic we are sitting in, one which Ace of Clubs uses to assess service users’ needs. “I needed stability to start building my life back. Places like this help. I came here about two years ago when lockdown began, and they helped me bid for my accommodation online as you need a computer for that you see. I don’t have a computer, or Wi-Fi. They supply food here too which we didn’t get in the hotel, washing as well, and it’s an enormous saving.”

“But it’s not just the support. It’s the company as well. It’s seeing someone human.”

As we finish up the interview, I ask him what family mean to him.

“For a long time … loneliness. Maybe because I’ve been rejected too many times. Abused. But, you know, I’ve managed to turn that around. Now it’s everything to me. There is nothing to hide in a family. You’ve got no secrets whatsoever. And luckily, my daughter, and my ex-wife too, we’ve always been open. Now It means peace.”