‘The man was wearing tights,’ he kept saying. The wig, the earrings and the dress were bad, but it was the tights that had really got to him. ‘Tights, Kate. Tights. Jesus.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I walked out.’
‘I’m seeing him next week,’ said Kate, and explained about her move to the new flat. ‘I’ll be dropping some stuff off at Thurso Lane.’
Simon looked as though she’d dropped a scorpion down his back. ‘Don’t do that, for Christ’s sake! Don’t go near him. Leave your gear with us. We’ve got space in our cellar.’
‘Thanks, but Dad’s place is a lot more convenient.’
‘Don’t be beholden to him. Just don’t. It’s demeaning, it’s . . .’ Simon put his face into his hands. His cage had been rattled, all right. ‘Tights! Christ. I wouldn’t even know how to put on a pair of tights.’
Kate had pretended she didn’t mind Dad wearing tights and a wig and anything else he wanted to wear, but it wasn’t the truth. Not at all. It was too much to take in. Too much to understand. Just . . . too much.
It was Monday now, and she was coming apart at the seams. No matter how hard she tried to concentrate on work, she kept imagining a pantomime dame—sequinned and feathered and stiletto-heeled, with a clown’s painted mouth and false eyelashes. She imagined the dame mincing about, twirling her handbag and talking in a falsetto. It wouldn’t be especially funny on a stage at Christmas; it was seriously unfunny when it was your own father. Maybe Simon had a point. Maybe a shrink could retune him, like a mechanic fixing a car. If only life were that simple.
By nine a.m. she wanted more coffee. She really wanted coffee. She mustn’t stop, though. She had to work until ten before she could reward herself.
Lipstick?
If it had been someone else’s father, she’d have been a cheerleader! ‘Be true to yourself,’ she’d have said. ‘You only live once. Be a man, be a woman, be androgynous—who cares, so long as you’re a good person?’
This was different. This was Dad.
The post van turned into the drive. It was all the excuse she needed. Good old Bryan, she thought as she jumped down the last few stairs. Nice, normal, dependable Bryan the postie. They’d gone to school together; he was one of the gang who used to play British Bulldogs in the hay meadow. He had two kids now, though, and a beer gut, and looked shagged out every time she saw him.
He rolled out of his van holding an electricity bill, a bright yellow envelope announcing that ‘The Householder was The Lucky Winner of £1,000,000!!!’, and two identical cream envelopes addressed to her and Eilish. She recognised her father’s regular, tidy handwriting. She’d learned at the age of ten that his writing was easier than her mother’s to forge, and had put this discovery to good use.
Unfortunately, Kate cannot take part in the cross-country run today. She has a sprained ankle.
Kate was off school yesterday with a vomiting bug and a high fever.
She was finally caught after handing in this piece of literary fiction:
Kate was unable to complete her homework last night, despite her best efforts. We had distant cousin’s visiting from Dubai.
It was the apostrophe that led to her downfall. Her primary school teacher smelled a rat and phoned home to ask about the ‘distant cousin’s’, and Kate was rumbled. She spent every lunchtime of the next week in detention, writing lines: There is no apostrophe in a plural.
Bryan was in a mood to chat. ‘You home for good?’ he asked.
‘’Fraid not. Leaving tomorrow. It’s back to the big smoke for me.’
He looked up at the house. ‘Mr Livingstone still away?’
‘Mm.’
‘Haven’t seen him for a while.’
‘No.’
‘Sophie in the pub says he doesn’t come in anymore, and my wife Jo—she’s parent rep on the school board—she mentioned in passing that he’s missed a couple of meetings. He sent his apologies. But, seeing as he’s chair, they were a bit surprised.’
‘Sorry about that. Flat out at work.’ Well, it was probably true. Dad was always flat out at work.
Bryan didn’t believe her, of course; it must have been painfully obvious that the Livingstone family were in trouble. It was only a matter of time before the true reason came out. That’ll set the lace curtains twitching, thought Kate, as she dropped Eilish’s post on the kitchen table.
Then she went back outside, and sat under Charlotte’s maple tree to open the letter from her father. Branches shivered above her head, stirred by the breath of a breeze. She wished Charlotte were alive. She’d always imagined a girl with russet hair, like the leaves of her tree. Her older sister would have been wise and calm. If she’d been here, she would have known what to think about all this; and perhaps Dad would have been happier if Charlotte hadn’t died. He’d been a lovely father, of course, but for as long as she could remember there had been nights when he didn’t sleep and left for work at four in the morning; days when he seemed to be somewhere else, even though he was present. As she grew up, Kate had assumed that this darkness came when Charlotte died.
There was one terrible memory, one she tried never to revisit and pretended was just a dream. This tree must have been much smaller then, but so was Kate. She was little but wiry, tucked in among the leafy summer boughs, watching millions of thistledown heads float up into the blue. She felt happy. No school for weeks, and tomorrow they were off to Wales for their summer holiday at the beach.
Dad was coming across the lawn. He’d been in one of those quiet moods when Mum would kiss him and ask, ‘All right, darling?’ and he’d say that he was but then go and shut himself in his study. Mum used to explain that it was all to do with the stresses of his job, and nothing to worry about. Ten-year-old Kate wished he’d choose another job. From up in Charlotte’s tree, she noticed that his head was down; he was bent over, as though he didn’t have quite enough bones in his body to hold him up. He was wearing his nice green jersey that Mum gave him. Kate grinned to herself. She’d wait until he got closer and then give him a fright by leaping down. That would make him laugh for sure, and she wanted him to laugh.
He came up to the tree and stood under it with his forehead leaning against the trunk. Kate was about to jump out when she heard him say something out loud. She caught the words God and hate you. Who did he hate? God? How could anyone hate God? Then, all of a sudden, he did something awful; something she didn’t understand, even years later. He punched himself—not once but lots of times—all over his body, even in the balls, which, according to Simon, was the worst place a boy can get hit. Kate watched with her mouth hanging open, thinking he’d gone mad.
Even when he stopped hitting himself, the terrible thing wasn’t over. Kate heard the most frightening sound ever: her dad crying. It was all wrong. Adults didn’t cry, children cried. Dad’s crying was in a deep man’s voice, and it made her feel sick. She knew she was watching something really, really secret, something she should never have seen. Was he crying for Charlotte? Then other, worse, possibilities occurred to her. What if he was dying of cancer? What if he and Mum were getting a divorce?
The next moment, he’d stopped crying and pulled his hankie out of his pocket. He was looking towards the house. Kate looked too, and saw Simon standing on the terrace, holding the telephone.
‘Dad!’ he shouted. ‘Da-a-ad? You out here? It’s Grandad!’
Dad pressed the hankie into his eyes and took a deep breath before yelling, Right you are! Kate watched as he sprinted across to take the phone. How could he be running, or talking to Grandpa, when he was so sad and probably dying of cancer?
The next day they set off for Wales. The parents shared the driving, while Kate—for once—sat quietly and didn’t wind Simon up. Dad seemed all right today, no signs of dying, so Kate pretended nothing had happened. Gradually the memory had lost its sharp edges, and she’d begun to hope she’d dreamed the whole thing.
Full circle. Here she was, twelve years on,
visiting Charlotte’s tree and shit-scared again. She knew now, of course. She knew what had been torturing her dad that day.
The letter was printed, but there was also a handwritten note in blue ink. Kate was pretty sure he’d used the pen they gave him for his birthday. Simon had had it engraved, and asked if she would like to contribute. Sweet, really. That boy had his good moments.
Darling Kate, this letter explains itself. I have—as you would say—cocked up big-time. Recent events have demonstrated that people must be warned to expect changes in me. If they are not warned, and are caught unawares, they may be very shocked. I must be totally open from now on, every step of the way.
Kate reread this paragraph. The wording bothered her, especially as her dad had a gift for understatement. Recent events? What frigging recent events?
I’m sending Mum a copy too, though she and I discussed these things when we met some weeks ago. Thank you for keeping her company. I know it isn’t fair to ask you to carry so much. I am only beginning to find out who I am, but I do know who you are. You are my brilliant, tolerant and beautiful daughter. I do not deserve you, but I do love you.
Dad XXXXX
Kate lay flat on her back. She could see nothing but endless blue, dappled by Charlotte’s leaves. This lawn had always been mossy. The grass felt like a dry cushion under her head, smelling of herbs. She lifted the letter up in front of her face.
My dear family,
I am writing to all of you so that there are no more secrets. Keeping this secret for so long has been my greatest sin.
The word ‘sorry’ is hopelessly tame. I’ll say it anyway. I am sorry.
It is difficult to write this letter. Difficult, because I am trying to express feelings which I barely understand. Difficult, because I know I am hurting all of you. But I must try. My behaviour will seem like madness, selfishness, or perversion to you. I did not do at all well when I first tried to explain to some of you. I am sorry (there’s that inadequate word again) that I was not prepared. The decision to confess took me by surprise—though not, I appreciate, as much as it did you.
In some fundamental way, most people’s minds match their bodies. You, Kate, don’t like the labels of ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’. I applaud that in you. But the fact is that you’ve always been allowed to live, dress, talk, and express yourself freely. I have not been so lucky. I’ve said that I feel trapped in the wrong kind of body. It’s worse than that, really. It’s as though the real me is smothered underneath the false one—alive, but unable to speak or move.
Those of you who are female, please try this bit of mental gymnastics: imagine waking up one day and finding that there’s been some switch—maybe an alien abduction!—and you now inhabit a male body. You mustn’t wear jewellery or make-up anymore. Your hair must be cut. You can’t wear feminine clothes or shoes or anything remotely pretty, even underwear. None. You have to pretend you have no interest in those things. Your body is all the wrong shape and size, and you hate it, so you try to avoid mirrors. From now on you’re treated as a man by other women. You have to fit in with men. You have to pretend to be one of them. You must talk as they do, be interested only in what interests them. You must never, ever slip up. You live in constant terror of slipping up, and with constant inner turmoil.
Now imagine that this is a life sentence. You will live, love, die and be buried in that wrong body. Nobody will ever know who you really are.
This was me. I became exhausted. I became brokenhearted. I couldn’t go on.
That’s all very well, you say, but what’s unforgivable is the fact that I lied for so long! I have no defence—except to say that I fell head over heels in love with a girl called Eilish French. I was under her spell, and remain so to this day. Everything would be all right, I was sure, if she would share my life with me. I dared to hope. Was I so wrong to grasp at happiness? And, of course, having married her, I had to keep going. And so the years went on, and I kept on burying my real self.
Since I left Smith’s Barn I have researched and taken advice. The process is complicated; I don’t know exactly how things will unfold. What I can promise is that from now on I will tell the truth.
I’ll soon start taking oestrogen and something to block the testosterone. If I can find the courage, I will eventually try to live as a woman. Not just any woman—one woman in particular. I’ve known her all my life, because she is me. Her name is Lucia.
Each of you will have to decide what this means to you. I fear what lies ahead, and I would welcome your company on the journey. My dream is that you will accept me as I am.
Even if you cannot walk with me, perhaps you could try to forgive me.
With my love always,
Lucia
Kate read the letter three times. Then she shut her eyes and did as he’d asked. She imagined looking into a mirror and seeing a grown man. She imagined being a spy behind enemy lines, in constant terror of discovery. And, just for a moment, she thought she understood.
Eilish was in the kitchen. Her face was set, as pale as the letter on the table in front of her. ‘That’s that, then,’ she said, taking off her reading glasses.
She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want a cup of tea. Kate followed her as she marched down to the garden shed. It doubled as Dad’s woodwork room, and smelled of timber and linseed oil. Eilish emerged with a pair of clippers and began to slice the heads off roses—all the roses, whether they needed pruning or not. Mostly not.
Eilish
‘He’s certifiably insane,’ yelled Simon, who’d jumped out of his car and was waving the letter at me. ‘He’s actually signed himself Lucia!’
I completely agreed with him. Kate had gone off to meet a friend in the Bracton Arms, leaving me to wreak havoc in the garden. My hurt throbbed and pulsed and threatened to explode. Perhaps I’d feel better if I screamed and hit things. The foulest words were forming in my mind: things I’d like to say to Luke, things calculated to hurt him back. Seeing it all written down—knowing he had sent the same message to all the family—was too much. He claimed to have fallen head over heels in love with a girl called Eilish French. Love? Love didn’t mean lying. Love didn’t mean hijacking another person’s life just to make your own look conventional. Love didn’t mean making someone feel diminished and humiliated and used.
‘He says he wants hormone therapy,’ bellowed Simon now. ‘Well, I’ll help him with that! I’ve castrated four dogs today. I’ll be happy to oblige.’ He made a snip-snipping motion with his fingers. I did the same with my secateurs, decapitating another rose. Soft heads carpeted the ground around my feet. The destruction wasn’t as therapeutic as I’d hoped.
I wished Simon hadn’t driven straight out here in this towering rage. I had enough rage of my own. He looks ill, I thought. He’s too pinched, too shadowy around the eyes. And he smells of alcohol. He must be hard to live with—poor Carmela, poor little Nico. Luke’s selfishness is like a pebble thrown into a pond, causing ripples that spread and spread, ruining people’s lives. How did I ever love such a self-centred, vain creature?
‘You’ve got to have him sectioned,’ said Simon. ‘You have to do it. I can’t. You’re his wife.’
‘What, locked up?’
‘Locked up, yes, until they cure him. They’ll give him massive doses of testosterone, I expect. Something for psychosis. It has to be curable.’
I knew this idea was ridiculous. I was sure that Simon knew it too, in his heart. Still, the thought of Luke being cured was an attractive fantasy.
‘Male hormones,’ I said, edging out from between two prickly rosebushes. ‘Nice idea. I don’t think it’s as easy as that, though.’
I headed across the lawn towards the shed. It was another burning day. Simon fell into step. Even his walk was agitated. Sweat darkened his shirt between his shoulderblades. ‘Look, Mum, I’ve asked around and I’ve got a name for you. A really good solicitor. No connection to Bannermans.’
‘To advise me about the Mental Healt
h Act?’
‘To advise you about divorce.’
I stopped in my tracks. Divorce.
‘There’s no rush,’ I said. ‘Plenty of time for that.’
‘No, there isn’t plenty of time. You need to get on with it, pronto! This woman I’ve found is meant to be a real terrier. She’s in Oxford. I think you should ask for an emergency injunction to protect the house, your savings and the pension. We’ve got to get the money tied up before he blows it on having himself turned inside out in some weird Asian hospital.’
‘He’s not a fiend, Simon.’
He began to speak with forced calmness. I found it patronising. ‘Mum, we have to face the facts. He’s not rational. He’s behaving like a kid in a sweetshop. Grab, grab, grab, not caring what damage he causes. How’s he paying for these hormones? Can he get them on the NHS?’
Thinking back, I remembered what Luke had said over lunch. ‘He mentioned a clinic . . . he wanted to talk about money. I expect he’s paying out of the joint account, or maybe with one of the credit cards. We’ve never divided our finances.’
Simon clutched at his head. ‘Oh my God! Call the bank. Tell them to freeze everything. You’ll end up on the streets, with your life savings in the pocket of some dodgy backstreet quack.’
Luke’s the enemy now, I thought as I logged into our internet banking in the airless study, and ran my eye down the transactions. He was my comrade. Now he’s a shadowy foe who’ll steal all our money if he gets the chance.
‘Found it?’ asked Simon.
‘Um . . . can’t see anything unusual coming out of the bank accounts. Hang on, let’s look at Visa. There’s a few internet purchases—what are they? And . . . yes. This is it. Two payments, each a hundred and fifty pounds . . . they’re to something called Baytrees Clinic.’
The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Page 17
