Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

nagging suspicion that life was finally getting better.
He flipped on his bedside radio. A newscaster informed him that a schoolmaster had been found crucified on a moor in Scotland and that London bookmakers had opened bets on when the capital would have a consecutive forty-eight-hour period without rain. None of it bothered him a bit.
He was brewing a pot of tea when someone rapped on his door. To be almost certain who it was gave him the pleasant illusion of being at home. “Mornin’, mate.”
Michael smiled at the kid. “Mornin’.”
Wilfred was wearing a variation of last night’s ensemble—a bow tie (black) and sleeveless sweater (turquoise), with a white shirt and 501’s. He had a “look,” it seemed. Michael couldn’t help remembering the porkpie hat he had worn all over London when he was sixteen.
“Tea?” he asked.
“Super,” said Wilfred.
“Sit down. I’ll bring it in.”
He returned to the kitchen and came back with the tea things on a tray. “Why didn’t you tell me you lived here?”
Wilfred shrugged, now sprawled on the sofa, one leg draped over the arm. “I didn’t want to be the wog kid upstairs. I wanted to meet you …” He searched for the right words and couldn’t find them.
“With our tribe?” offered Michael.
“There you go.” Wilfred smiled.
“Did you follow me to the Coleherne?”
The kid’s face registered mild indignation. “You’re not the only bleedin’ poofter who goes to the Cloneherne, y’know.”
Michael took note of the pun. “The Cloneherne, huh?”
Wilfred twinkled at him. “That’s me own name for it.”
“Not bad.”
“So what are you doin’ in Lord Twitzy-twee’s flat?”
“We swapped apartments. I gave him my place in San Francisco for a month and … Simon’s a lord?”
“He acts like one, that’s for sure. He’s a poof, is he?”
Michael shook his head. “Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.” Wilfred surveyed the room imperially. “Not very tidy.”
On that point, at least, there seemed to be a consensus. “I don’t think it matters to him,” Michael said.
“Who’s the midge?” asked the kid.
“The who?”
“The midge. The runt lady who visits.”
“His nanny,” Michael replied. “And watch your mouth.”
“His nanny. My-my.”
“What do you take in your tea?”
A powerful voice thundered in the stairwell. “Wilfred!”
“Jesus,” muttered Michael. “Who’s that?”
The kid was already heading for the door. “Look … meet me at the tube station in half an hour. I’ve got something special to show you.”
“Wilfred, who was that?”
“Aw … me dad, that’s all.”
“Your father?”
“Tube station. Half an hour. Got it? You won’t be sorry.”
He dashed out the door, blowing a kiss as he left.
Michael listened to him clattering up the stairs, then sat down and poured himself a cup of tea. This was an entirely new wrinkle. If Wilfred lived with his parents, the last thing Michael needed was to come off as the foreign reprobate who had “recruited” their son. Daddy Dearest didn’t exactly sound like a man of reason.
Fuck that. His life had finally begun to take on a momentum of its own, and it felt too good to turn back now. Or, as Mrs. Madrigal had once explained it; “Only a fool refuses to follow, when Pan comes prancing through the forest.”
So he ate his toast and marmalade, made his bed, and strolled up Portobello Road toward the tube station. Wilfred was waiting for him by the ticket machines. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” Michael said.
“Why?” asked the kid.
“Well … your father sounded pissed.”
Wilfred shook his head. “He doesn’t start in drinking till noon.”
Michael smiled, recognizing a language problem. “I meant pissed angry, not pissed drunk.”
“Oh. Well, he’s always pissed angry.”
“About what?”
Wilfred thought for a moment. “Maggie Thatcher and me, mostly. Not necessarily in that order, mind you.” He mimicked his father’s booming basso. “ ‘O? needs a bleedin’ Thatcher, when ya ain’t got a bleedin’ roof over your head? Eh? Eh?’ That’s his favorite joke.”
Michael chuckled. “You do it well.”
“I hear it enough,” said Wilfred.
Following the kid’s instructions, Michael bought a ticket to Wimbledon, the last stop on the District Line, south of the river. As they waited on the platform, he asked Wilfred: “Does this have something to do with tennis?”
“Just shut your trap, mate. You’ll see.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilfred gave him