Sex and Other Changes (29 page)

She touched him on the shoulder, said, ‘Love you, old thing,' in a hoarse voice and left him to whatever it was she was leaving him to.

Tears had sprung into her eyes. She needed a pee. (Those two things were not connected.) She went to the en suite and stood – stood at the loo before she remembered – oh my God – two minutes ago she'd forgotten that she hadn't given birth to Gray because she
hadn't
been a woman, and now she had forgotten that she had to sit to pee because she
was
a woman. She knew all about gender confusion, but this was ridiculous.

She had arrived at her old home as a happy single woman. She left as a lonely father. It dismayed her to realise that she could no longer live happily in the cocoon that she had woven.

It was only five past eleven when she left. She hadn't wanted to stay.

Alan watched her drive out, and then tip-toed to the granny flat. He couldn't hear any sound, but he could see, through the thin crack where the door didn't quite fit, that the light was still on. He knocked quite softly.

‘Who is it?'

‘It's me, Dad.'

‘Oh, come in, Alison.'

There was an absolute fug in the granny flat, an airless aroma of human wind and mothballs. Both bars of the electric fire were on, despite which Bernie was wearing a cardigan and a jacket.

He was watching television with the sound turned down. Alan didn't make the mistake of commenting. He had once said, ‘Don't you want the sound turned up?', and Bernie had found the devastating reply of ‘No. It's rubbish.' On this occasion it was some kind of chat show, and Anne Robinson was speaking. Alan had to admit to himself that she was better with the sound turned down, but on the other hand he felt that she was better still switched off, so he switched her off.

‘I were watching that,' said Bernie indignantly.

‘And now you aren't,' said Alan. ‘You never know what's round the corner in life, do you? Dad! Listen to me. I don't want to put you in a home, but I will if you go on like you are.'

Bernie looked at his daughter in astonishment.

‘What have I done wrong now?' he asked, in his hurt little-boy voice, his self-pitying voice. ‘I haven't done owt.'

‘Exactly,' said Alan. ‘The stonemason's working on it now.'

‘You what?'

‘Carving your tomb stone. “Here lies Bernard Kettlewell. He didn't do owt”. I've told him to get it ready.'

Bernie gasped, belched, didn't apologise, stared at Alan.

‘I don't think I'm going to like you as a man,' he said.

‘That's got nothing to do with it,' said Alan. ‘I love you, Dad, but you've become idle, boring, unhygienic, smelly, selfish, ungrateful and …' He paused dramatically. ‘MISERABLE AS HELL.'

Bernie just stared, mouth open. He was shattered.

‘There's no point in your living here as you are because you don't enjoy one single thing about it. It's an ultimatum, Dad. Start enjoying life or you go to Honeyfields.'

‘Honeyfields? I hate Honeyfields.'

Alison had put him in Honeyfields Residential Care Home – the worst in the area, and that was saying something – deliberately, for a long weekend, so that he'd know what it was like. A couple of the staff had been excessively nice, overly caring, so she had been practically certain that they were cruel in private. She had hated every moment of that weekend, thinking of him in there, but she had felt that it had been worthwhile as a Dreadful Warning.

‘What do I have to do?' he asked.

‘Talk. Think. Listen. Wash. Bath. Clean your teeth. Do up your zip. Avoid self-pity. Put your hand in front of your mouth and apologise when you belch. Stop saying “Oh dearie me” when I'm doing my very best for you. Give praise without being prompted. Take an interest in Em and Gray. Take an interest in me. Go into the garden when you can't avoid farting. Take some exercise. Live.'

‘Is that all?'

‘For the moment. I'll think of some more when you've done all that.'

‘I apologise for being born,' he said pompously. ‘It were right inconsiderate of me.'

‘Don't be stupid,' said Alan. ‘Stop thinking about yourself all the time.'

‘You're a hard woman, Alison. I can see why you want to become a man.'

‘I'm saying all this for your sake, Dad.'

Alan didn't know whether Bernie believed him. He didn't know whether he believed himself.

‘It's not very nice waiting to die,' said Bernie.

‘Exactly
!' Alan almost shouted. ‘Exactly. Don't you see that you're bringing on the very thing you fear. Goodnight, Dad.'

Alan kissed him, and Bernie looked at Alan imploringly. Then he farted, but he did apologise.

‘Sorry,' he said. ‘Sometimes it comes up on me unexpected like.'

Next day he made no comment on what Alan had said, but Alan heard him running a bath.

Nicola never felt the same about number eight, Lane Road, after that dinner. She realised that she needed to get away from Throdnall if she was truly to lead a new life.

There were two reasons for this. She couldn't start a true new life as a woman if everybody knew that she was a woman who had been a man; and she found it difficult to get away from her past role as the man of the house at number thirty-three.

Not that she wanted not to see her children. She loved them. She never ceased to be astounded that she met so many parents who didn't love their children. She found that one of the saddest things of all in a sad society.

But she would always be a visitor to her children now, and the best visitors don't live practically next door.

There was a difficulty, though, about moving. She had a safe, reasonably well-paid job at the Cornucopia. She couldn't see herself landing as good a job anywhere else unless she was able to conceal the fact of her sex change, and she couldn't face the idea of living a lie. She was a woman who had been a man, that was her history. If the subject didn't come up, so much the better, but to hide it would be to deny her history, to deny her true existence.

She wouldn't go through life saying, ‘Hello. I used to be a man,' but she wouldn't deny it when asked. If people said, as they did, ‘What big hands you've got,' she wouldn't say, ‘Well, yes, I was a man, you see,' any more than she'd say, much as she might like to, ‘Yes. All the better to throttle you with.' She'd say, ‘I have rather, haven't I? Big feet too, I'm
afraid,' and hope the subject would be so boring that it'd be dropped. But to actually hide her past, to live a lie, she had no taste for that.

Where could she live, within commuting distance of Throdnall, but where her past history wasn't likely to be known? There was only one possible answer. I'm sure you've guessed it. Cluffield.

Cluffield is a strange place. It's only twelve miles from Throdnall, yet it could be fifty miles away for all the impact Throdnall has on it. It isn't really a town, it's more like an overgrown village, a dormitory village for Birmingham, and it's to Birmingham that Cluffield people look for a night out. The arts are virtually unknown in Throdnall, there isn't a truly first rate restaurant, even the late night fighting's better in Birmingham. The odd Cluffieldian (and most Cluffieldians are odd) might pop into Throdnall very occasionally to eat at ‘Le Flageolet' or the ‘Trattoria Positano', but none would be likely to venture into the Cornucopia. She could almost certainly lead an anonymous life in this jewel in anonymity's crown, finding her feet (her large feet) as a woman.

She rented a little place called ‘Sunny Cottage' on the very edge of Cluffield, in the direction of Clopthorpe, for those of you who know the area (well, still in the direction of Clopthorpe even if you don't). It was an old smelt-grinder's cottage and – you've guessed it – it was entirely surrounded by tall trees. Not sunny at all. It had small, latticed windows too, so it really was very dark inside.

The day she left number eight, as Old Bill lumbered her possessions into his smaller van (symptomatic somehow that she couldn't fill his bigger one), Lance and Rex came out to say goodbye. Rex's eyes were milky with regret for what might have been. Lance was less honest than his dog.

There was a bit of an awkward silence on the steps of number eight. They were both remembering the night of her arrival. Lance filled the silence with a question that might just have been
a cover for his embarrassment or might perhaps have been genuine.

‘You know Ferenc Gulyas, don't you?' he asked.

‘Er … yes.'

‘Can you do a little favour for me? Could you try to persuade him that he's a very talented painter?'

‘Is he?'

‘Oh yes. He could be the salvation of the Lafayette.'

‘Ah. Well, of course I will, Lance.'

What a feast of insincerity that morning provided. Nicola had no intention of doing any such thing. The truth was, she just didn't like Ferenc. It was unfair, she didn't think the man had ever done anything to hurt her, but it was a fact.

Lance then came hurtling up on the inside in the Insincerity Stakes.

‘I feel I hardly know you,' he said.

Nicola didn't bother to reply, ‘Whose fault is that?'

Finally he surged past her in the finishing straight – left her flat-footed, he did.

‘I shall miss you,' he said.

Cluffield is gloriously dull. It has three pubs, but they're all owned by chains.

One evening, feeling that she ought to make some attempt to get to know people, Nicola went into one of them, the Black Bull.

It took courage to go into a pub on her own as a woman, especially as it had taken her courage even when she'd been a man.

She strode, with a boldness she didn't feel, to the bar, uncomfortably aware that silence had fallen as she entered.

‘Red wine, please,' she said.

‘Large or small?'

‘Oh, large, please.'

Ridiculous. Nobody knew her here, but she would have been ashamed to say ‘small'.

The wine came from near the bottom of an unpromising bottle. It would not have been good even when it was first opened. Goodness knew how long ago that had been, not before 1997, anyway. Nicola had tasted vinegars that had more subtlety.

She sat at a table not too far from the bar, not wishing to look as if she was daunted by the ambience – all the customers were men, most of them were on their own, and they all stared at her. Was it because she was grotesque?

She took a second sip of the wine. There were subtle hints of old herrings and anthracite, just the faintest suggestion of mature dish-cloths, and a dry robust undertone of silage that lingered on the palate – how she regretted that single word ‘Large' – yet she didn't feel that she could lose face by leaving it, and she certainly wasn't prepared to say to the uncomprehending landlord, ‘This is undrinkable.'

She attempted to brazen it out, looking round as if she hadn't a care in the world. A man winked at her, and another said, ‘Hello, darling,' and she realised, to her amazed delight and total horror, that they most definitely weren't looking at her because she was grotesque, they were undressing her because she was prettier than their wives. She heard a customer say, ‘Nice arse on it, but not a lot in the tit department.' The biggest tit appeared to be over there!

She didn't know whether it was better to take tiny sips or to face taking large gulps and get through it quicker. She took a large gulp and thought she might die. Three sips followed, then another gulp. Sip sip sip gulp. It seemed to be the best way. Sip sip sip gulp. How large can a glass of wine be? Sip sip sip gulp. There, it was gone. She could hardly breathe.

She took the glass back to the bar. She knew that wasn't necessary, but having endured such agony she didn't want to be associated with even the faintest whiff of defeat.

‘Same again?'

‘Better not. Driving. Thank you. Goodnight.'

She beetled out as fast as her high heels would allow, and vowed never to go in a pub on her own again.

There were two small supermarkets in Cluffield, but they were badly stocked (Tahini? Forget it. Fennel? What's that?), so she soon started to get her meat and veg from the Farm Shop, which wasn't in Cluffield, it was halfway between Cluffield and Throdnall. In fact, you turned off by the Halfway Inn to get to it. Occasionally she was served by a rather slow but very good-looking man in early middle age, occasionally by a rather slow but very ugly woman in her seventies, who must surely be his mother. Their meetings were the nearest thing to human conversation that she found in the leisure part of her new life, yet she no longer felt tempted by the early evening crowd at the Trumpet. They pointed her towards the past, not the future.

Her remarks at the Farm Shop would be along the lines of ‘Two pork chops, please. They are outdoor reared, aren't they?' (influence of Em) and they would say, ‘Yes, madam, that pig was enjoying the spring sunshine only last week.' The mother never said anything unless spoken to first, but after a few weeks the son ventured the occasional pro-active sally, such as ‘Another nice day, madam' or even ‘That was a nasty accident on the main road yesterday, madam. The vet's got three cracked ribs,' to which she replied, ‘Funny you should mention ribs. Have you any rib of beef?' at which he laughed and said, ‘Yes, madam, how big?' and she said, ‘Oh, just enough for two, please.'

Why for two? Did she have company? Had she an unusually large appetite for a woman, a relic of her apprenticeship as a man? No. In her new, uncertain life she couldn't bring herself to admit that she was on her own. If that wasn't pathetic, she didn't know what was.

One day in early summer, she was driving back from Throdnall. She'd had a bad day at the Cornucopia, well, perhaps
difficult would be a better word, and she thought, I‘ll pop to the Farm Shop and get two sirloin steaks. She had to wait at the Halfway – it was a very awkward crossing, you had to nip across the other carriageway and sometimes you had to wait for quite a while, and this particular day she did have to – and she thought, Blow it. I'll go to the Spar in Cluffield, but then she thought, No. I want to see the man in the Farm Shop. Yes, she admitted it to herself, she fancied him. She felt a slight warmth – yes, she really believed she did – in that hitherto inactive organ which she'd had for so long, and dilated for so long, that she no longer thought of it as her neo-vagina.