Elgan nodded and continued, ‘–and in the book the three of them go to the laundrette together, and Jenny helps Martin prepare a surprise birthday party for Eric… just everyday scenes of ordinary family life. But Mrs Thatcher didn’t like that kind of family; she actually referred to it as a pretended family relationship. She was horrified and disgusted that this children’s picture book was being used in primary schools across London in the early 1980s to help children learn about different kinds of families, and help the children who came from such families to understand that there were others like them.’ Elgan paused and wondered just how much background he needed to cover. ‘You could search this story too, Fridolin. I’m giving you the very short version. Thatcher’s government drew up legislation to stop Local Education Authorities using this kind of teaching material, on the basis that it promoted homosexuality and presented homosexuality as a positive lifestyle.’

‘But isn’t that why my mum and dad asked you to be my Patenonkel… so that we would see how people can be different… and that it’s okay?’

‘I remember your mother telling me that her parents weren’t so happy that I’d been chosen. They thought that an openly gay man as a godfather would be a bad influence.’

‘Yes, but they’re old –.’

‘They’re the same generation as Maggie, Frido.’

Fridolin reached across the table and took Elgan’s hand. ‘I love it that you’re my Patenonkel,’ he said. ‘When I first thought that I might be gay it just wasn’t a problem for me to talk with my dad and my mum, because of you.’

‘Hmm, so maybe your grandparents were right,’ Elgan offered – a joking provocation.

‘Don’t make fun about it. It’s too important to me to make a joke like that.’

‘I’m sorry.’

The silence that slipped between them was swept away when Fridolin rose from the table. ‘Shall we walk for while?’ he asked. ‘I don’t get to come into the central London very often.’

‘Is there something specific you want to see?’

‘No, let’s just walk.’

The long, cold winter in Britain had postponed the spring. The trees in London’s parks were still skeletal, the spring bulbs in floral borders just green shoots. But on that April afternoon of Baroness Thatcher’s funeral the sun shone and tattooed young men lay bare-chested on the winter-weary grass.

‘One of the final year students is choreographing a piece for his honours project and he’s asked me to dance for him,’ Fridolin ventured as they walked beside the Serpentine.

‘Congratulations… that is exciting.’

‘Yes… I’m the only first year student he’s asked… but he wants me to dance without clothes… and I’m not sure I’m comfortable.’

‘There’s a lot of nudity in Contemporary Dance these days. It’s something you’ll have to decide, sometime.’