by David Nobbs
‘Have you got any comedy engagements coming up in the near future?’
‘No.’
‘When are you due back at work?’
‘Oh, not for a while. Got some holiday owing.’
Not even those great exploiters of the double negative, Alan and Nicola Divot, could successfully use the device to winkle out Prentice’s intentions.
‘Don’t you find there’s not a lot to do in Throdnall?’
‘There isn’t a lot to do anywhere. Hadn’t you realised?’
After eight days, Prentice announced, ‘I’m afraid I have to leave today.’
Such is the inherited pressure put on the English middle classes to show good manners that Nicola had to fight to stop herself saying, ‘Are you sure?’
The only thing that stopped her was the fear that Alan, whose background was so much less middle-class, would have killed her.
When he’d gone, they danced round the dining room table, shouting, ‘He’s gone! He’s gone!’
And there he was, looking in.
Alan opened the front door to him.
‘Made some notes for my act,’ said Prentice. ‘Left them upstairs.’
Not a word was spoken about the scene in the dining room.
‘I have to admit that the visit was not a huge success,’ said Nicola over their evening meal in the kitchen. ‘I do apologise for inviting him. Do you know, he even tried to get me to bed?’
‘And me,’ said Alan.
‘What?’
‘He said he hadn’t yet managed to find a man attractive enough to have sex with, but he felt rather excited by the thought of a man who had once been a woman.’
‘He’s so twisted,’ said Nicola. ‘I don’t expect he can get aroused by somebody straight and normal.’
‘I think he can,’ said Em.
‘What?’
‘He clambered on to the Zed-bed last night. Said he’d lost a heroic battle against temptation.’
‘Oh, Emma! Oh, Em!’
‘Oh don’t worry, Mum. I dealt with him.’
‘How?’
‘I lost a heroic battle against kicking him in the goolies.’
‘Oh my poor girl.’
‘Don’t worry, Mum. I don’t mind. Look at it this way. If he hadn’t, and I hadn’t, he might still be here.’
‘I feel left out,’ said Gray.
Spring ripened into summer. By July Nicola had only two hairs on her chest. She was shaving once every three weeks. Alan was shaving every five days, and he had six hairs on his chest. There were severe thunderstorms on the seventh.
18 The Last Supper
Alan wanted it to be a really good family evening. Tomorrow night Nicola would be facing ‘Nil By Mouth’. Next time she ate supper in this house she would be a fully fledged woman – or as fully fledged as she would ever be.
‘Well this is nice,’ said Nicola as Alan placed a succulent portion of chicken paprika in front of her. She didn’t actually feel at all hungry, her stomach was churning, but she knew that she must eat, or Alan would be hurt. Much though Alan had come to irritate her through these tense times, she had to admit that he had attempted to be supportive. ‘A nice family dinner.’
‘Supper,’ said Alan. ‘A nice family supper.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘No starter. I didn’t want it to seem too formal.’
Bernie burped and didn’t apologise. He was definitely beginning to deteriorate.
‘Thank you, Dad,’ said Alan.
‘What for?’
‘Burping. Adding that casual touch. Making sure it isn’t too formal.’
Nicola looked at Alan in amazement. Was he taking over her mantle of sarcasm now that he was going to become a man? He really was beginning to look quite manly, apart from that somewhat smaller but still embarrassingly prominent bosom.
‘Your hair’s changed colour, Em,’ said Bernie.
Alan had wondered when anybody would comment on Em’s hair. It was bright blonde. What other family could sit through the best part of a weekend and not mention a thing like that?
‘Carl likes blondes,’ said Em. They were beginning to get quite a few references to this Carl, and, although the lighting was dim, Alan thought she was blushing. ‘I thought I’d try it for him.’
‘What nationality is Carl?’ asked Gray.
‘He’s American actually,’ admitted Em. ‘He thinks the senate will acquit Clinton.’
‘I’m sure President Clinton will be very relieved to hear that,’ said Bernie.
‘Dad!’ hissed Alan.
‘Sorry I spoke,’ grinned Bernie.
He’s being wicked tonight, damn him, thought Alan.
‘Oh God!’ said Gray.
‘What?’ said Em.
‘At last I’m allowed to drink a decent amount of wine, and all we’re going to get is Californian,’ said Gray.
It was fair comment. French wine had been banned since the François debacle.
‘Stop sniping, you two,’ said Alan firmly. ‘It’s your dad’s last night.’
‘You don’t expect her to die under the surgeon’s knife, do you?’ said Gray, and Nicola smiled, but it was a false and frightened smile.
‘I meant, her last night as your dad,’ said Alan angrily.
‘Well what will she be?’ asked Gray. ‘Not my mum. I can’t have two mums.’
‘All right,’ shouted Alan. ‘He’ll still be your dad, but this is her last night as a man. Oh, do stop splitting hairs. I’ve worked hard to cook you a nice meal. Let’s enjoy it.’
‘I am enjoying it,’ said Nicola. ‘It’s delicious. Can’t eat much, my stomach’s too tense, but it’s lovely.’
It seemed ridiculous calling her a man or a dad that last night. Alan thought she looked really pretty. She was wearing a burgundy and pink ankle-length tweed skirt and a long-sleeved pink angora sweater, and now she had her own pearl necklace and earrings and no longer needed to borrow Alan’s.
‘I’m not splitting hairs, really,’ said Gray. ‘I mean, when I apply to join Pricewaterhouse I’ll have to fill in a form. What am I going to say under “Father”? I’ll never get a job.’
‘I thought you were going to uni if your results are good enough,’ said Nicola.
Alan was amazed to hear her say ‘uni’. The old Nick despised such lazy shortenings.
‘Same difference. I’ll have to fill in forms.’
‘I can’t understand anybody wanting to be an accountant,’ said Bernie.
‘We all need accountants, Bernie,’ said Nicola, suddenly the great appeaser.
‘Oh aye,’ said Bernie. ‘I can understand folk ending up as accountants. Somebody has to, like, but to set off on life’s great adventure wanting to be one, it’s tragic.’
‘Excellent, Dad. Very helpful indeed. I think we’re all grateful for that nugget,’ said Alan. Privately, he agreed, but it should never have been said and not that night of all nights. He was surprised Gray didn’t explode.
‘Sorry I spoke,’ said Bernie.
Alan gritted his teeth. An old car clanked rustily as it swished over a speed hump too fast.
He cleared the plates. Em was the only one to help. He couldn’t have expected Nicola to do it that night, but Gray and Bernie just sat there like statues. Then he brought in the lemon meringue pie and made the mistake of saying ‘There you go’ as he handed Em a slice. He didn’t know why he said it. It was an expression that irritated him when other people used it. It slipped out due to tension, and proved a red rag to a dad.
‘I hate that expression,’ he said. ‘It’s stupid. It doe’n’t mean owt.’
‘Would you very much mind if I don’t have any, Mum?’ asked Em. ‘Only I ought to be getting off. Carl sort of wants to see me.’
‘I did hope we could have a family night tonight,’ said Alan.
‘Doing what?’ mumbled Gray, through a mouthful of lemon meringue.
‘Don’t eat with your mouth full, Gray,’ said Alan. It was obvious th
at he meant ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full’, everybody knew that, but Gray being Gray had to make capital out of it. Well, accountants are good at making capital. When he’d finished his mouthful he took a pretend mouthful and chomped on it.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Em.
Alan would have thought she’d have realised, but she was already miles away (probably in bed with Carl). ‘He’s not eating with his mouth full,’ she explained wearily.
‘So it’s OK if I go, is it?’ asked Em.
‘Well I suppose so.’ Alan knew that he couldn’t stop her. ‘But I thought we might play games or something.’
‘Games?’ said Gray incredulously. ‘What games?’
‘I don’t know. Cards. Scrabble. Charades.’
‘Charades???’ said Gray with at least three question marks.
‘Marge loved charades,’ said Bernie.
‘Right. That’s out then,’ said Alan. ‘Cards?’
‘I think I really have to go. Really,’ said Em. ‘Carl has a bit of an obsession about Sunday evenings. He thinks they’re depressing, and watching TV is too negative. He thinks you need a more pro-active way of coping with the tensions of the approaching Monday, or you risk developing a work phobia.’
‘Carl sounds a bundle of fun,’ said Gray.
‘Gray!’ said Alan, but privately he sympathised with Gray’s sarcasm. Also, he could see that Em was a bit frightened not to go out with Carl, and that didn’t bode well for their relationship.
‘Right, well, I’ll be on my way, then,’ said Em.
‘You could have eaten your lemon meringue pie by now,’ said Gray, ‘or does Carl think you’re fat?’
Alan supposed that he should have been glad that Gray was bright enough to have scored a bull’s-eye, but he was livid. This was the family at its worst. They’d have Em going anorexic on them if they weren’t careful.
Em glared at Gray, kissed her dad, said, ‘You don’t mind, do you, Dad?’ and Nicola said, ‘No, of course not’, but Alan knew that she did. ‘Love you, Dad. Bye, Mum, Gramps, see you later.’
‘Why does she say “see you later”?’ asked Bernie. ‘We won’t see her later. We’ll be in bed before he’s even finished giving her one.’
‘Dad!’hissed Alan.
‘Why does everybody say “see you later” all the time nowadays? What’s going on?’
‘I’m sorry you find existence so irritating, Dad,’ said Alan.
Gray stood up.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ he said. ‘Great nosh.’ He knew Alan didn’t like the word ‘nosh’, especially about his cooking. ‘Er … look, I … er … family games, great idea, cool. Only thing is, got an appointment with some mates.’
‘Going out?’ asked Nicola, half hopefully.
‘No! On the net. Throdnall bores me rigid. Britain bores me rigid. I’m a citizen of the world.’
‘No, you aren’t,’ said Bernie. ‘You’re a citizen of your bedroom.’
Gray stomped to the door, flung it open, made to slam it behind him, thought better of it, tried to catch it before it banged, caught his fingers in it, gasped.
‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Now see what you’ve made me do. Thank goodness it was my left hand.’
Neither Alan nor Nicola realised the significance of that until later.
Just after Gray had gone, the phone rang. Nicola went out to the hall, and while she was gone Alan poured them all another glass of the Zinfandel, and turned to Bernie.
‘Why are you in such a bad mood, tonight of all nights, Dad?’ he demanded.
‘Because,’ said Bernie. ‘Because it is tonight of all nights. Because she might not have popped her clogs if people like Nick – I can’t call him Nicola, sorry,’ ti’n’t in me – weren’t wasting all the nation’s resources on all this vanity.’
‘You’ve understood nothing if you think it’s vanity.’
‘I don’t care what it is, but these fellers, Alison, these fellers must be clever buggers if they can turn a man into a woman, and there’ll have been research and I don’t know what and such like, and it’ll have cost millions, and the millions could have gone to curing cancer, and keeping my Marge alive.’
It was the first time Bernie had ever used the word ‘cancer’. There wasn’t any answer that Alan could give. He just reached out and took his dad’s hand and held it. A huge breath of wind roared down the chimney, and they should have felt very cosy in their snug little dining room, but they didn’t feel cosy at all. The lighting, which might have seemed atmospheric, looked merely dim now.
‘It’s political correctness gone mad,’ said Bernie. ‘It’s sexism gone berserk. Everyone’s bending over backwards not to offend women like. It’s women, women, women. It’s no surprise men want to become women. They can see which side their bread’s buttered.’
Alan smiled to himself, wryly. He would have liked to have set his dad down in the middle of the world of sexual politics. He’d read all about it. Some of those experts thought that all transsexualism was caused by sex stereotyping by a patriarchal society. They would argue that Alan hated his female body because he’d been conditioned by men to do so, and they would argue that Nicola hated her male body because it was so much more desirable to be a woman. They had corkscrews instead of minds and could twist the facts round until the cork popped out and released a great stream of whatever it was they wanted to believe. None of it seemed to have any relevance to his individual life or to Nicola’s individual life. Theory never was related to individual life.
That was his theory, anyway.
Bernie sat patiently beside him, waiting till he stopped thinking. Alan was a little distressed by the deadly cocktail of love and irritation that he felt for Bernie. He squeezed his hand, and this set him off again.
‘What it is with grief, I reckon they’ve got it wrong. They say time heals. I don’t know about that. It does and it doesn’t like. You learn to live your life again, oh aye, course you do, but you miss your loved one more and more, you’re forced to, because it’s longer since you saw them. Them footballers always say, “It hasn’t sunk in yet” and such like, and I think “By, you must be thick.” Well, the fact that I’ll never see my Marge again, never ever, it’s still sinking in, Alison.’
It wasn’t the moment to remind him that she was Alan.
And then Nicola returned from the hall, and Alan’s intimate moment with his father was over.
‘Andrew Collinson,’ said Nicola. ‘Rang to wish me luck.’
‘That’s rich, coming from him.’
‘Well, be fair,’ said Nicola. ‘Jane might have been making it up about Andrew being the reason. I bet it was Jane all along.’
Bernie stood up, and said, ‘Aye, well, you can’t play games with three.’
‘You can, Dad,’ said Alan. ‘You can play sergeant major.’ It’s a card game that can only be played by three. Bernie quite liked it usually.
‘Aye, well,’ he said, ‘but if it’s all the same with you I think I’ll pop over to t’Coach like.’
‘It’s pouring out there, Dad.’
‘Aye, but it’s me legs.’
‘Your legs?’
‘Doctor Rodgerson said I’d lose the use of my legs if I didn’t keep exercising them. Gangrene. They go rotten from the bottom up. I mean, fair play, it’s no contest, is it, gangrene versus charades?’
‘He’s determined to go, Alan,’ said Nicola. ‘Let him.’
‘Aye, but, what it is, like, Billy Hazledene’s lonely, and you at least have each other,’ said Bernie.
So Nicola and Alan were left on their own.
‘I am sorry, Nicola,’ said Alan. ‘I really had hoped you’d spend tonight in the bosom of your family.’
Alan wished that he hadn’t said ‘bosom’, and Nicola must have sensed what he was thinking – he really did believe that she was getting more intuitive as she approached full womanhood – because she said, ‘Don’t worry, Alan. I’m not sensitive about my appearance. There is a
little detectable swelling; I hope it will accelerate once I’ve had the op, but I know that nobody is going to shout, “Hello! Dolly Parton’s here” when I walk into the foyer of the Cornucopia.’
‘Game of Scrabble?’ suggested Alan. He was aware that it was a pretty creaky gear change, but Nicola didn’t seem to notice.
‘Why not?’
Alan went to get the board from the utility and Nicola fetched the card table from the porch – they’d always had a bit of a storage problem at number thirty-three – and they both heard extraordinary gasping noises coming from Gray’s bedroom. Nicola rushed upstairs with Alan in hot pursuit. She didn’t stop to knock.
Gray was lying on top of his bed, stark naked, breathing heavily, with an ecstatic grimace on his face and Alan’s Tottenham Hotspur away shirt held round his genitals. He went bright red and glared at them.
‘Don’t you ever come into my bedroom without knocking again,’ he said icily.
‘And please don’t borrow my shirt again without asking,’ said Alan.
It was a far cry from the ideal evening that Alan had planned.
19 Visiting Time
Nicola realised that she had awoken from a deep sleep. She was staring at a complex pattern of cracks on a white surface.
It was a ceiling! Where was she? She moved her neck very very cautiously, because she had a dim feeling that she might have been in an accident.
She was in a small room, with white walls and one window which afforded a view only of sky, an incongruously placid sky of mackerel clouds and glimpses of blue.
It all came back to her. She was in hospital. She had had a sex change operation – or had she? She was truly Nicola at last – or was she?
Supposing something had gone wrong. Supposing she’d proved unsuitable.
She felt down, very nervously, to find out if she still had those hated protuberances – testicles and a penis.
Her hand touched only bandages. Well, that was promising … but not conclusive. Perhaps they had begun the operation and aborted it. (Horrid word. For ‘aborted’ read ‘suspended’.)
She was attached to three drips. There were indicators attached to these drips. Promising … but not conclusive. Maybe she had lost a lot of blood and that was why they had suspended operations … suspended the operation … and that was why she was attached to three drips.
