Chapter 7: The Naming

I went to the clubhouse on Sunday, but I did not go to stand beside anyone.

I went because I'd decided I would ask my question in front of every person who had ever eaten at my table.

The Black Gannets keep their clubhouse in an old mill on the canal, with a bar along one wall and a stage nobody uses.

That afternoon it was full.

Forty bikes stood outside.

Inside were wives and kids and trestle tables with paper cloths, and a sheet cake with a blue anchor on it.

The kitchen hatch was open and Dennis's wife was handing out sausage rolls.

She gave me a nod and a plate.

I did not take the plate.

I stood by the back wall with my arms folded.

The room noticed me one table at a time and went quiet.

Joss was at the front.

He had the baby in his arms and his bandaged hand under the little head.

Poppy stood beside him in a clean white top with her hands clasped in front of her.

Dennis came up on the stage with a bottle of whisky and a small glass, and every voice stopped.

"Friends," he said. "Family."

He had a lovely voice for it, deep and slow.

"We're here for a new life. A small lad who's come into this club by the front door, the way a brother's son should."

Somebody at the bar said, "Hear, hear."

"Joss Holroyd has stood up before you and said, this is mine."

He let that settle.

"It's a hard thing for a man to say, and an honest one. So in the old way, I'll bless him."

"Dennis."

I hadn't known I would say it.

My voice carried.

Heads turned all over the hall.

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