Damon Jackson had read that there was a bond between grandparents and grandchildren. It cut across the generations, made the years irrelevant. But you read a lot of things when you were sixteen, and you were told a lot of others. You didn't yet know what was significant and what was trivial.

Damon thought that this one might be true. He'd always got on well with Nana Pat and Grandpa Joe. Better than with his dad, sometimes. A lot of times, really. He knew that it was because his dad had to discipline him and give him standards, because Dad had told him that. And Mum too – but she always said it as though it was an afterthought, some sort of apology. Grannies can afford to spoil you, Mum said, because they don't have to live with you all the time, don't have to bring you up.

Sometimes Damon thought he wouldn't have minded being brought up by Nana Pat and Grandpa Joe. They seemed to know quite a lot about life. They seemed to be able to put things into perspective better than Mum and Dad. Especially things which happened at school. They knew all about bullying and what you should do about it. Damon had been twelve when he'd dealt out his first bloody nose. Alan Harrison, it had been, and he'd asked for it. Damon had got into trouble over the fight, but he'd sensed at the time that the teacher who'd put him into detention had secretly understood and approved what he'd done. And Harrison's bloody nose had stood him in good stead ever since.

Down to Granddad, that was. It was Granddad Joe who'd told him he must stand up for himself. Mum would have told him not to fight, and Dad would have shied away from anything which might make the school want to talk to him as a responsible parent.

Damon enjoyed going round to his grandparents' new bungalow at weekends and holidays. They lived four miles away, but he could be round there quite quickly on his bike. He liked it better when he was there on his own than when he went with his parents. Everyone seemed to be watching what they said carefully then, and that meant that nothing of any consequence was said at all.

But Damon rode more slowly today. He wasn't anxious to get there as quickly as possible, the way he usually was. He wasn't timing himself and trying to beat his record today, even though the streets were quiet. Nana Pat and Grandpa Joe would have heard his news by now. He was wondering how they'd react.

This would be the first time they'd know that they were talking to a gay grandson.

The older generation took these things differently. He knew that from what they'd been told at school; it was one of the few things he'd accepted without question. Apparently being homosexual had been against the law when the grandparents had been his age. That sounded incredible, but it was absolutely true. He'd checked it.

Billy Johnston, who was in the class above Damon, said that his grandfather had refused to speak to him when he found out he was gay. But Billy's granddad was really ancient, about ninety, he thought. He'd fought in the war against Hitler and the Nazis. He said they'd landed in France on D- day and fought their way across Europe to make a land fit for heroes, not for queers and poofters. And he hadn't spoken to Billy since, which made it over two months now. They'd made a joke of it at school, their group, but Damon knew that Billy was sad about it.

Damon rather liked that word 'poofter', even though he knew that it was only offered to him as an insult. It rolled off the tongue nicely and had a real ring to it, unlike 'queer' and 'bumboy' and the other assorted epithets. They were merely vulgar and easy, but 'poofter' had a certain impact and distinction.

But he knew he was only distracting himself with that thought. As he pedalled nearer to his grandparents' bungalow, he was increasingly nervous about how they would react to his new sexual status. They were nothing like as old as Billy's granddad, who was more like a great-granddad really. Pat and Joe – it was the first time he had ever thought about them without their titles – were about seventy, he thought, though that seemed quite antique to Damon. Joe hadn't fought in the war, hadn't even done that National Service thing which Damon had seen in a programme on the telly, where apparently all young men had had to suffer two years of being yelled at by manic sergeants and corporals.

Would the fact that Gramps had never been a soldier moderate his attitude to poofters? Damon wheeled his bike up the path more slowly than he'd ever done before and leaned it carefully against the side of the house, studying the bricks and the cement between them for several seconds. His legs moved more unwillingly than ever before to the familiar back door; he was sure his knock was far too tentative. He opened the door six inches and called in a deliberately loud and confident voice, 'It's me, Nana Pat. All right to come in?'

'Of course it's all right, lad. Come in and sit down.' It was Grandpa Joe, being as hale and confident and as determinedly normal as Damon had tried to be himself. 'Kettle's on. Sit yourself down and we'll have coffee. I think your nan's made some of those ginger flapjacks we both like.'

Grandpa Joe was as brisk and friendly and welcoming as he'd ever been. A little too much so, possibly. He chuckled nervously and busied himself with plates and beakers and the flapjack tin. He didn't look at Damon.

The flush of the lavatory down the hall sounded louder than usual to both of them. They were both glad when Nana Pat came in. Unlike her husband, she did look directly into her grandson's face as she said, 'How nice to see you, Damon. And what a grand day you've brought with you!'

They sat round and enjoyed the coffee and her flapjacks. They tasted as good as ever; both Damon and Grandpa Joe said that in turn. Nana Pat was good at making conversation; women were usually better at that than men, in Damon's so far limited experience. But she talked about what she'd been doing during the week, instead of asking Damon about the latest happenings at school, as she usually did. And there was something artificially bright and brittle about their exchanges, as though they were all on their best behaviour.

Damon realized that his gayness was not going to be discussed. He thought that he should perhaps take that as a slur. But he found that he was actually immensely relieved about it.

He had a second flapjack, wondering how this taut and edgy conversation was going to end. 'You're a good baker, Nana. There aren't many as good as you.'

'I learned when I was young. There weren't so many bought cakes then, and they were expensive.'

Damon glanced out of the window and found a little inspiration. 'I see the fencing's finished, Granddad. That paddock's going to look good, after you've given it a couple more mowings.' He knew nothing about gardening and he was just repeating what Joe had said to him a couple of weeks earlier. But that was one of the things about old people: they didn't always remember exactly what they'd said to you. You could feed their ideas back to them and they believed they were your own and thought what admirably good sense you were showing.

That happened now. Like most modern bungalows, this one had a pitifully small and cramped garden. But five months ago Granddad Joe had bought a patch of ground from the farmer whose field came up to his boundary. It was almost a quarter of an...