Sunday Best (6 page)

I was happy for the Cloth that he had at last found his pet little nigger. I sneered as audibly as my position would allow,
as much at Baines as at the other members of the staff who seemed to find nothing unsavoury in his very own brand of discrimination.

‘If you would allow me to continue, Mr Verrey Smith. I hope you understand of course that I am under no obligation whatsoever to divulge this story to my staff, but I believe that this is a school problem and should be understood by all those in authority.'

If he thought he was putting me in my place, he was mistaken. I was prepared to hold my tongue only as long as he had his say.

‘The child's mother complained that over the past few weeks the boy has been very sullen and given to fits of rage. It appears that a few days ago the child, at the end of his tether, confided his problem to his mother. It would seem that Mr Parsons had a daily assignment with the boy after school hours behind the maintenance shed in the playground. I leave it to your imagination what the nature of that assignment was.' Then, after a pause, doubtful that we had imagination enough, or perhaps because he himself relished the telling, he added, ‘In fact, the child was brutally assaulted. With or without his consent is an irrelevancy.'

A unanimous gasp from the staff, from all except myself and Mr Hood, who whistled instead. In the extreme circumstances, the Reverend was willing to overlook his music master's eccentricities.

‘I am very concerned with the matter,' the headmaster went on, ‘because there may be other boys involved, coloured or otherwise, Mr Verrey Smith.'

I held my tongue. What else could I do? If you defend a pervert vociferously enough, the backlash could be on you. You could well be accused of obliquely defending yourself. I was beginning to lose appetite for the Parsons campaign, and I disliked myself a little for my cowardice. The headmaster was at it again. ‘I want you all to be on the look-out in your classes for any unaccountable sullenness, to investigate it as delicately as possible and to bring all your findings to me. Boys are secretive about this sort of thing. They are ashamed and fear recriminations. But often a sensitive boy will break down under the strain, and I want you all to keep your eyes and ears open. Any seemingly insignificant piece of information is important. I have every intention of getting to the
bottom of this matter.'

He was blissfully unaware of the aptness of his metaphor. I allowed myself a little giggle. I was entitled to that after all, and felt no need to excuse myself for it. He was closing the meeting and thanking us for our attendance, as if we had any other choice, and as he rose, he called, ‘Mr Verrey Smith. A word with you, if I may.'

I trembled. Was it possible I was not completely in the clear, that out of deference to my feelings, he had chosen privacy for my private prosecution. I hung about, fiddling in my brief-case to give the others time to get out. Miss Price, the eternal aide-de-camp, made no show of making herself scarce, and I was obliged to present myself to both of them.

‘Mr Verrey Smith,' he started. ‘I find your overall behaviour at this meeting hardly creditable.' A nod from Miss Price put her squarely in my opposition. ‘Your laughter, which, I take your word for it, was possibly hysterical, is one thing. But your questioning of my sense of justice is quite another. I shall handle the Parsons affair in my own way, and let me be absolutely honest with you, Mr Verrey Smith. Perhaps I am doing you a favour in telling you this. It casts no savoury reflection on your own character if you are bent on defending a man like Parsons and his practices.' Again I found his phrasing apt, and I smiled a little.

‘I am sorry if you find this a trivial offence, and one wonders what, if anything in your eyes, would appear criminal. When, in the year 1927, in the case of Brown versus Jones Jnr the learned barrister Charles L. Johns defended Brown in the case of sodomy, there was a body of opinion that felt that in his vociferous protest Johns was defending himself. Remember that, Verrey Smith,' he roared at me. ‘A man is known by the company he defends.' He opened the door for me on this last remark, and gave me no opportunity for reply, even if I had been able to think of one. And as I walked down the corridor back to the staff-room, my confidence waned considerably. I didn't believe his story. The Reverend Richard Baines was not the kind of man to have such information at his fingertips. I was convinced that he had made up the story as he went along. He had no confidence in his own argument, and had perforce to avail himself of evidence from better minds than his own, invented or otherwise. Even so, this thought made me feel no better. I had a sudden urge to go
home and get into my Sundays. The Reverend Richard Baines had unnerved me completely. He had made me feel guilty, and again, I did not know of what charge. I decided to by-pass the common-room, not wanting to face the gossip that surely must be simmering, gossip about myself as well as poor Mr Parsons, and I went straightaway to the cloakroom to get my coat. As I crossed the playground I made an elaborate detour to avoid the maintenance shed. I felt that the Reverend Richard Baines was spying on me through his window.

Over the years, I have inevitably thought of my father whenever I have indulged in Sunday dressing. In the intention, the art itself, and the after-taste, thoughts of my father persist. And though such thoughts are a curse, my appetite for my hobby is overpowering, and I would not dream of forfeiting such pleasure even if it meant that I could discard my father from my mind. I knew as I left the headmaster's study that my only escape route into peace of mind was through my wardrobe, and I hurried home, through the back lanes, avoiding the Johnson door. I tried to think of Parsons and what would happen to him. What was indefensible was not his perversion but his stupidity. At least I had involved no one else in my aberrations, and I had to fight down a strong feeling of self-righteousness. My father would have killed a man like Parsons. He had a pathological aversion to any trait in a man that could possibly be construed as womanish. Even gentleness did not become a man, a theory that all his life he managed to put into practice. I don't want to think about him, but I cannot think of Parsons either, and as I quicken my pace towards my wardrobe, he voids my mind of all but himself; he pounds it as he pounded my chest as a child with a viciousness he hoped his paternity could confound. He tramples on my nerve-ends as he trampled those icy fields, pitch dark in the winter mornings, dragging me over the hard-frosted grass that pierced my toes with fire. ‘Come along then, breathe, breathe, open your lungs, man', and he would pound my chest to bruise it open to the menacing fresh air. I don't want to talk about him. It is too late now anyway. I am er-forty-two, and my teeth are panic-loose, and a man lies rotting in the earth. If now I were to tell you about my father, or even to tell me about my father, would my teeth tighten and that man resurrect? Would I have to cast off my wardrobe too in order to come to terms with
him or must he remain the eternal discordant accompaniment of my only joy?

A crude man, my father, a bitter man, a drunk with a loosened vulgar tongue. I hear his voice, his voice in my mother's bedroom at the end of a drunken orgy. ‘Clap yer thighs shut, woman. Yer meat stinks.' With a father like that, who needs literature. I hate him, I hate him, because in the end he forgave me. One day, I will have to tell you about him.

I am weary of this confession, and find myself eager to get on with my story which would excuse me from further exposure. But I know it to be cheating. The real story is that which went before, the story that engendered this thin narrative line that I am trying to get away with. I remember how often in my childhood I wished him dead, and sometimes now I wish he had survived so that I could wish him dead again. But he cut off that hope for me by actually dying, and now I can only wish him to rot, a poor plea, for he will do that in any case, and without my participation. He is beyond my evil eye. I was more comfortable, I suppose, when he was alive.

He would drag me over the fields – our home was isolated - our nearest neighbour, two miles away. Every morning, tho' in the winter I thought it was still night, I had to shadow his demoniac stride across the fields, and all I had to look forward to was the cold shower on my return. ‘I'll make a man of you,' he shouted, and I thought for many years he was talking to himself. Until the first time he forced me under the cold shower, running back and forth from the garden with handfuls of snow to rub on my body. And when I shivered, he hit me, and said I was like a woman. It was then that I started to hate him.

But I have spoken of him enough, and I feel no better for the telling. I know what I ought to tell you about my father, but that is the one thing I shall never tell you, at least not yet, so early on in my story, for it could prejudice you, and I have to be fair to myself. Perhaps when I am dying, I shall whisper it out, for it is a secret that would not lie easily in the grave. But should I shed it now, much else would peel off with it, including, heaven forfend, my Sunday clothes. So I'd sooner settle for the disease for the cure is too costly. Let him rot, my father. I shall try not to speak of him again.

I was glad that my wife was out when I returned home.
Although my study is absolutely private and it is on pain of death that she enters, I always feel more free when my wife is not at home. Her presence, no matter how muted, is an invasion, an onslaught on my train of thought. So I took my time with the dressing, talking to myself all the while, a practice I can indulge in only in private and when I feel free. What I say follows a repeated pattern, and it is a practice for perfection in women's speech and mannerism, rather than the matter of their words. For women, as we know, are not given to intelligence and what they say is of secondary importance to their manner of speech. Or perhaps I should modify that a little. My wife, after all, is highly intelligent, but not intelligent enough to hide it. And there's the rub and why I find it hard to call her by her name. But that's not true. It is not her fault that I cannot name her. I dare not, for it would be an admission of the wrong I have done her.

It was a good dressing day. My make-up was flawless. The Parsons affair and the Reverend's veiled warning seemed trivial, and I blessed my escape route for giving me an inner peace. Other people find that peace in work; I like to think it is none the less valid if found in pleasure. I adjusted my wig, which today sat easily on my head, its fall of ringlets masking the tell-tale shoulder bone. I found myself moving towards the window, and was excited by my boldness. I had been tempted before, but fear had always overcome me. Because what I wanted more than anything else was to display myself and be taken for a woman. I even went so far as to raise the net curtain, and felt such a boundless physical joy inside me that it was almost unbearable. I saw people coming out of the Johnson house, mostly neighbours, and my wife amongst them. I dropped the curtain, and returned to my desk, savouring the after-taste of the joy that had come from self-display. And I knew that there was only one logical conclusion, that I must venture abroad and pass myself off amongst strangers as a woman. It had always been a secret wish of mine ever since I had started Sunday dressing, but until that moment, having availed myself of the window, I had been totally unaware of the delights that would ensue. Now the ambition to go abroad as a woman took a strong hold on me, and I knew that until I had done it, and done it again and again, and succeeded in my disguise, my life would be less than fulfilled. When I think of it now, it was a
madness I suppose. I had enough trouble with Tommy Johnson and the Parsons affair, without laying myself open to greater risk, but the need to carry on an open disguise persisted and even the nagging thoughts of my father scarcely blunted the pleasure of my design.

I heard my wife come in through the front door, and a little later up the stairs to my study. ‘George,' she called, ‘are you ready for some tea?'

I sensed a friendliness in her voice, and dressed as I was, found no difficulty in responding in the same tone. But as my voice left my mouth, I heard its womanly tones and inflexions. ‘Yes dear,' it said, ‘I shall be down shortly. I must change my clothes.' My voice, which is normally tenor, had reached contralto without strain, identifiable, as I liked to think, with an unmistakably seductive woman. I trembled for her reaction. It was not immediate, and I sensed that she was debating her acceptance or otherwise of my new role. Then after a while, ‘Don't bother to change, Georgina,' she said with a giggle. ‘We'll have a hens' tea-party. I'll ring Mrs Bakewell to come over.' And I heard her run down the stairs and the ping as she lifted the receiver.

There's no question about it. My wife is sick. My appetite for disguise slackened, and I felt a surging resentment towards my wife. By so readily accepting my little habits, and moreover, inviting the neighbours to share the fun, she had reduced my needs to a game. And what is more, a game I must play with her. I had no desire to appear before Mrs Bakewell and my wife as George Verrey Smith in disguise, as if it were a game of charades. I wanted to hoodwink everybody, strangers, as well as what was left of my own family, that I was indeed a woman, and an attractive woman at that. I took off my clothes, angry that I had to depend on my wife for a wardrobe, and resolved to syphon off from my next pay-packet sufficient to buy myself a complete set of attire of my own choosing. This resolve heartened me a little, as I changed into my school clothes, I tried to concentrate on where and what I should buy, trying to oust the creeping thoughts of my father. I heard the doorbell, and guessed that it was Mrs Bakewell who would lose no time in gathering any possible tit-bit of the Johnson affair. I wondered how she could face me after our last insulting encounter, and I thought of ordering my tea in my study. But I was anxious to
discover any developments that had taken place next door, and whether, God help me, there was a whiff of Tommy's story. My curiosity got the better of me, and as my wife saw me coming down the stairs, I could see her disappointment, as if I had let her down in front of her friends. But I had no intention of playing her personal freak, which is what she would have ultimately made me, that was available for display at her pleasure.