Sex and Other Changes (6 page)

She dropped to the ground and limped up the fairway towards the green. She felt suddenly weary. She lowered herself gingerly on to the grass and lay on her back, looking up at the stars, there on the ninth green. Her hands were stinging. Her toes were bruised. Her shoulder was aching. She had behaved ridiculously.

The grass was sodden with dew, but she wouldn't catch cold, she was tough. She alarmed herself by thinking how peaceful it would be to die here.

That wouldn't do. She leapt to her feet. It began to rain, a
deluge of fine rain, she was soaked. It stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and then it came again, a wall of rain driven on the wind.

What wind? There was no wind.

She realised that she was standing in the path of the sprinklers.

She wanted to hide her cuts and scratches and bruises from him. She didn't want him to know that she'd been climbing trees like an irresponsible child.

How best to hide them from him? Sadly, by undressing in front of him in the chilly master bedroom in the same way that she did every night.

He didn't notice a thing.

They lay side by side, so close, so far away. He slid his right hand across, and clasped her left hand. She didn't respond, but she didn't take her hand away.

‘Oh, Alison,' he whispered, although all the rest of the family were fast asleep, ‘I don't expect you can even begin to imagine what it's like to feel trapped in the wrong body.'

For God's sake! The patronising beast! The infuriatingly complacent tub of lard. Could she bring herself to support him?

‘I can probably imagine it more than you think.' Dangerous, Alison. Either tell him or don't. No hinting. You must forgo the delicious temptation, the glorious linguistic tension of the knifeedge. ‘What I mean is, I am actually quite imaginative.'

Alison realised now why Nick hadn't wanted sex any more than she had. She remembered that party at the Billinghursts, only last month. They'd been tired and had left early. Someone had said, ‘Can't wait to get home and get at it, eh?' They were like that in Throdnall. They'd looked at each other rather shiftily, rather shame-facedly, and thought, Thank goodness we'll be old by the time the government starts to publish league tables for copulation.

It was almost as if he'd read her thoughts – well, they did sometimes seem to be able to, that was the pity of it, that was the great waste of it.

‘This is why … I find this very hard to talk about, Alison …' He squeezed her hand. ‘This is why I … haven't wanted sex for so long. I hate my prick, Alison.'

‘You're hurting my hand, Nick.'

‘Sorry. I hate it. Bloody upstart.'

Hardly the most suitable phrase, thought Alison drily.

‘I hate my testicles. I hate the hairs on my chest.'

What – all five?

The carriage clock in the dining room struck two.

‘I absolutely loathe shaving.'

Yet you do it every day, for the sake of your self-esteem, although you could get away with doing it every other day, to be honest.

‘I think I've felt inadequate every day of my life, Alison. For years I've thought it was because I was inadequate as a human being. Then I realised that it was because I was inadequate as a man. It didn't solve anything, but it was a huge relief.'

All this in whispers.

A late reveller drove past the house much too fast. The council were planning speed bumps to cut out that kind of thing.

‘How long have you … you know?'

‘Alison, I don't think I should tell you that.'

‘Don't you think it's about time we stopped having secrets?' Oh ha ha, Alison. Very funny.

‘You remember the night Gray was conceived?'

How could I forget? No, Nick, don't go into that. Please. Please!

‘Yes.'

‘The last time we … as it happens.'

‘Yes.'

‘You were so … so incredibly loving. I …'

‘You were pretty good that night, actually.'

‘Yes, but … no.'

‘Oh, Nick, you can't stop now.'

‘To … er … to … er … in order to … er …'

‘Climax? Come?'

‘Yes. I pretended you were a man and I was a woman, Alison. That's why I was under you.'

‘You shouldn't have told me that.'

She withdrew her hand. She didn't want to, but she found that she couldn't not. Queen of the Double Negatives again.

‘Oh, Alison, what a mess.'

‘There was, wasn't there?'

‘Alison! Don't be frivolous.'

‘Don't you think we have to be if we're to survive, Nick? This is all too serious to be taken seriously.'

‘On that note, Alison, maybe we should try and get some sleep. We'll be wrecked in the morning otherwise, and tomorrow we'll have to tell the family.'

‘Oh God.'

‘Yes.'

‘One last question, Nick. When did you actually decide to do something about it?'

‘Gradually, I suppose. It isn't something that strikes you in a blinding revelation.'

It is if you go to Marks and Spencer's. Oh it is tempting to say that. So tempting. Resist, Alison. Resist.

‘Have I … has what I've said sort of given you an understanding of how terrible this has all been for me?'

Yes and no, Nick. No, because words can't. Yes, because I know that my words to you wouldn't be … won't be … any more convincing. Words can only take you so far.

‘I suppose I have a grudging understanding, Nick.'

She wanted to be more generous, but couldn't. He'd given
her such a shock and, which was almost worse, he had no idea that he had.

‘Good. Night night, Alison.'

‘Night night, Nick.'

The carriage clock in the dining room struck three. They slept. So close, so far away.

Alison was loading the dishwasher, Nick was sipping a glass of Chianti, sip sip sip. His delicate sipping irritated her. She looked across the kitchen table at him. With his soft fine hair, halfway between sandy and blond, and his finely flared, almost equine nostrils, he'd make a more than passable woman, damn him.

Suddenly Em stormed in, a whirlwind. She'd promised to be back by eight-thirty but it wasn't even eight o'clock. They stared at her in surprise.

‘Men are such bastards,' she said, and she stormed off to her room for a good cry.

So young, and so little left to learn, thought Alison. She smiled to herself, grimly. Her desire to become a man wasn't based on admiration, it was simply a need to correct a monumental mistake. She felt so sorry for Em. Sometimes she looked quite pretty in a rather heavy sort of way, but that evening, in her anger and pain, she looked swollen and almost ugly.

‘God, I'm tired,' said Nick.

‘I kept you awake last night. I'm sorry.'

‘It doesn't matter – and it isn't just that. There was a crisis in the kitchens today. Emrys threw a large wobbly.'

Emrys was a commis chef at the hotel. He was Welsh.

‘I must say I feel …' She wanted to say ‘knackered'. Such a nice masculine word. It didn't seem appropriate, now, to use masculine words like that. ‘… pretty exhausted myself.'

She wanted to switch the Ceefax on to see how Spurs were doing. They had a midweek match. But that would infuriate Nick. He hated football. Besides, if they were losing it would only depress her further.

Nick had asked the family to assemble in the lounge at half past eight ‘for an announcement'. Alison knew that it was silly of her to hate calling it the lounge, but she couldn't help it. The fact that they had a lounge, not a drawing room, was like a symbol of how far her life had fallen short of what it might have been.

She plonked herself into the Parker Knoll, because she knew that he liked it. She wasn't usually petty, but she was still simmering with resentment.

Bernie was the first to arrive, irritatingly on the dot as always.

‘She's dropped off nicely,' he said. ‘The International Monetary Fund did the trick.' A thought struck him. ‘Oh. Did you want me to bring her through? I didn't think. Is she supposed to hear your famous announcement?'

Alison looked at Nick, forcing him to take the responsibility of answering.

‘Er … no,' he said. ‘You can … er … relay the news to her tomorrow, Bernie. Let her sleep. After all …'

He stopped abruptly, to Alison's intense relief. She had feared that he'd been on the verge of saying something dreadful, like ‘After all, she won't be around to see it, so it hardly matters.'

Em arrived soon afterwards, red eyes almost concealed. Alison's heart bled for her. She'd been very fond of Sam, and it would take months for her to realise that she was well out of it.

‘Ah. Em. Splendid,' said Nick, oblivious to her red eyes. ‘Go and drag Gray out, there's a good girl.'

‘I wouldn't even if you hadn't used that ridiculous, patronising and utterly inaccurate description,' said Em. She had taken to using as many long words as possible, for fear that they'd think that in becoming a journalist she was dumbing down. They'd wanted her to go to university; she might not be the brightest but she could have scraped in to one of the lesser ones if the Collinsons' boy could. She could have done ‘media studies' or ‘golf course management' or ‘PR' or ‘forestry
technology' or something unacademic. But no, she'd wanted to go straight into ‘the media', which sounded rather an ambitious phrase when applied to the
Throdnall Advertiser
. ‘He can drag himself from his self-imposed isolation.'

‘I'll go,' said Alison.

‘I've asked Em to do it,' said Nick.

‘And she's refused,' said Alison, ‘and family discipline is not what tonight is about.'

Nick knew that he had to give way. He was only too aware that he had no natural authority. It was quite a problem at the hotel. Even Ferenc had more natural authority than him. Ferenc could tell the chambermaids, quite quietly, to make less noise in the corridors when the customers were asleep (they weren't guests any more, they were customers, there had been an edict from Head Office) while Nick had to shout, so the customers were woken by a shrill cry of ‘Cut that bloody racket out. There are people still asleep.'

‘OK, thanks, Alison,' he said irritably.

Gray came down from his room very grumpily. He hated being interrupted. People told them that he'd grow out of it.

They all sat down. Nick looked across towards Alison, begging her to help by starting the ball rolling, but she wasn't having any of that. This was his show. She would offer no help.

He stood up.

‘Er …' he began, ‘erm … do you all know what a transsexual is?'

Gray and Em looked stunned. Bernie seemed utterly oblivious to the significance of the question. Alison wondered if his mind was beginning to go, or if it was just worry about Marge.

‘Feller what dresses in frocks and knickers,' he said. ‘We had one in our bowls team. Friday afternoons, as good as anyone in the South Yorkshire League. Saturday evenings, minces off to this club in Wakefield. Vince Brodley.'

‘No, Bernie, that's a transvestite. A transsexual is someone
who's been born the wrong sex and … er … lives as the opposite sex and … er … sometimes even undergoes medical and surgical procedures to … er … alter their … er … external sexual … er … characteristics … has what's known as “the operation”.'

‘Bloody hell,' said Gray.

Nick looked across at Alison again, for strength. She hadn't any to give. She was imagining herself making that speech – a little less hesitantly, she hoped, but probably not.

‘I … er …' he resumed. ‘I … er … intend to go through that process. Intend to … er … alter my external sexual … er … characteristics … have what's known as “the operation”.'

‘Bloody hell,' said Gray. He had a limited vocabulary.

‘It'll kill her,' said Bernie. ‘The shock'll kill her.'

‘Marge doesn't need to know,' said Nick.

Alison flinched.

‘I think she might notice, don't you?' said Bernie. ‘She may be ill, she isn't ga-ga.'

‘It's going to be a long process, Bernie. It doesn't happen overnight.'

‘Are you saying she hasn't got long to go? She isn't dying, Nick. She's in remission.'

‘I know,' said Nick. ‘Of course she isn't dying. She's in remission and we're all delighted. I'm just saying she'll be able to be introduced to my change very gradually over the years. Of course she isn't dying. We all know that.'

Alison wished Nick hadn't repeated his assurance that Marge wasn't dying. It sounded hollow. But that's Nick for you, she thought. If he saw a pudding on the other side of the street he'd cross the road to over-egg it.

Bernie must have noticed, because he hit out, which wasn't like him.

‘I always thought there was summat wrong wi' you,' he said. ‘Summat not quite right. I said to Marge, “Marge,” I said,
“there's summat not quite right about that boy our Alison's marrying.” '

Alison hadn't intended to support Nick even in the smallest way that night, but Bernie's attitude struck deep at her sexual political beliefs, and forced her to react.

‘Yes, thank you, Dad,' she said. ‘Most helpful. Nick isn't a freak. They reckon about one in thirty thousand people are transsexuals.'

The moment she'd said it, Alison realised her mistake. How could she have known that, if she hadn't been researching the subject? She felt that she'd given herself away. She blushed.

‘Unusual,' she continued hastily, ‘but not a freak. Brave too. I will support him to the hilt.'

She was making the speech she would have liked Nick to have made to her. She hoped that he'd come over and give her a kiss, or at least a hug, some physical recognition of her support and of the enormous self-sacrifice which he didn't know she was making.