Sex and Other Changes

by David Nobbs

  ‘Well it’s still wrong. I should have knocked.’

  ‘I wasn’t speaking about that, Dad.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I feel ridiculous calling you Dad, Dad.’

  ‘Em is just going to use Nicola.’

  ‘That makes it sound as if you’re not my dad.’

  ‘I am your dad. You know I am. I know I am. We’ll still know all that, even if you call me Nicola. I think you should try calling me Nicola.’

  ‘I’ll try, Dad. Oh, sorry. Er … Nicola?’

  ‘Yes, Gray.’

  ‘The world’s full of horrible people who abuse other people in all sorts of disgusting ways.’

  ‘Absolutely right, sadly.’

  ‘What I was doing, you know, when you saw me, I wasn’t hurting anybody but myself. I mean they call it self-abuse, don’t they?’

  ‘They do, yes.’

  ‘Well …’ He expelled a deep breath. Nicola could see that he was finding all this agonisingly embarrassing. ‘… I’ve been thinking. It’s the same with you.’

  ‘In what way, Gray?’

  ‘You’re only hurting yourself. Via the surgeon, I mean, but you know what I mean. Other people who are sexually …’

  He ran out of acceptable words. Nicola prompted him.

  ‘Odd? Deviant? Sick?’

  ‘No! Well …’ Nicola could see Gray’s brain working overtime to find an acceptable word. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call literate.‘… unusual.’ Not bad. ‘Other people who are sexually unusual hurt other people. You only hurt yourself.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So what I’m saying is, it doesn’t upset me any more. I can live with it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I can accept you fully as you are.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad, Gray.’ She felt that she sounded insincere. ‘No, I mean it. I’m very glad, Gray.’

  ‘Thanks. Nicola?’

  ‘Yes, Gray.’

  ‘Please promise not to come to speech day or anything like that, though.’

  Bernie didn’t go at all. Afterwards he told her, ‘Hospitals! I would have come, but it’s me chest.’

  Nicola longed to call The Starchy One Mrs Mussolini to her face. She became terrified that she would give way to the delicious temptation.

  She didn’t, but she did give way to an almost uncontrollable urge to be confrontational.

  ‘You don’t like me, do you?’ she asked.

  Mrs Mussolini stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘It doesn’t come into it,’ she said. ‘I haven’t even considered it.’

  ‘You don’t approve of “The Operation”.’

  She went even redder than normal. Nicola was pleased to see that. She’d got through to her.

  ‘I suppose I don’t, no.’

  ‘How would you like it if you had a prick and balls?’

  She was outraged, appalled, terrified, out of her depth.

  ‘I … I couldn’t have,’ she spluttered. ‘I am a woman.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Nicola, ‘and so am I, and always have been. So how do you think I’ve felt all these years?’

  ‘If you’re unhappy with my level of care,’ said Mrs Mussolini, ‘you should make a complaint. There are procedures.’

  Nicola realised that Mrs Mussolini would have led a happier life if there were procedures for existing – preferably with an instructional booklet in five languages.

  She realised something about herself too. She had come to expect too much from her transformation. The ending of confusion. The removal of trauma. The banishment of what was inappropriate. That was all she had a right to expect, and it was enough. It was everything.

  Ferenc presented her with a vast Get Well card signed by every member of the staff. It was a surprise to her, in one or two cases, that they were prepared to put their names to such a message. It was a surprise to her, in one or two other cases, to find that they could write.

  The sight of Ferenc made her uneasy. By this time she was walking up and down the ward – very gingerly, very slowly – and even sitting in the day room occasionally – but she happened to be in bed when he came, and she wished that she hadn’t been, it made her feel rather defenceless.

  ‘Now we all agree that you are not to worry,’ said Ferenc. ‘The hotel is in good hands.’

  He knew that that was exactly what was worrying her.

  ‘None of us want you to rush back,’ he said, and then he tried to make it look as if he’d just realised that he’d said something tactless. ‘Oh, that sounds awful, but you know what I mean. Your health is paramount, and we can cope. I’m sorry about that. My English, it is …’

  Nicola finished his sentence for him.‘… faultless and subtle.’

  ‘I have some news that will cheer the cockles of your heart.’

  ‘Good Lord. That good!’

  ‘That good.’ He smiled again. ‘Takings last week were 2.7 per cent up.’

  Nicola felt as if she’d been struck to the heart with a dagger.

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ she said. ‘That’ll certainly speed my recovery.’

  ‘That’s what we thought,’ he said. ‘How is your progress? Is there much pain?’

  ‘A great deal,’ she said, ‘but gradually less, and I can cope. We Divots are made of stalwart stuff.’

  ‘Now what else can I tell you? Oh yes. You remember Emrys, the Welsh commis chef?’

  A tremor of fear passed through Nicola. What had happened to Emrys?

  ‘How could I forget him? I’ve only been away ten days. Thrown another wobbly, has he?’

  ‘Not at all. No wobbly.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’

  Pat came in to check her blood pressure.

  ‘Ferenc, meet Pat, my helper and angel. Pat, this is Ferenc Gulyas, my assistant manager, currently holding the fort with distinction and aplomb.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Gulyas.’

  Pat’s second glance revealed that she found Ferenc interesting – what was it about him and women? – while he gave her a quick once-over, face, breasts, crutch, thighs, expertly concealed but not quite expertly enough for Nicola.

  ‘Please call me Ferenc,’ he said, which was Hungarian for ‘I wouldn’t say no if you offered me your body.’ He turned back to Nicola. ‘No, Nicola, no wobbly. He asked me if he could put a few Welsh specialities on the menu – just one each week, but rotating – Glamorgan sausages, cawl, cockle bisque, sea bass in laverbread sauce.’

  ‘Oh he’s asked me time and time again. I’ve explained that it’s impossible till I’m as blue in the face as a bottle of Welsh water.’

  ‘I’ve agreed to let him try it.’

  Nicola met his eye and held it. She wasn’t going to say anything more about this in front of Pat.

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Pat. ‘Your blood pressure’s up.’

  ‘That is funny,’ she said. ‘I can’t think why that can be, can you, Ferenc?’

  Ferenc shrugged. He could even make a shrug seem sexy. When Pat had gone, he said, ‘You’re upset. You think I have exceeded my powers.’

  ‘Well, yes, frankly. I want to encourage Emrys, but there’s no rhyme or reason for having Welsh specialities in Warwickshire.’

  ‘Or Hungarian ones?’

  ‘What??’ Nicola’s heart was beating much too fast. Thank goodness Pat wasn’t there to monitor it. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m exciting you. That is bad.’

  ‘What do you mean: “or Hungarian ones”? What have you done?’

  ‘Just one Hungarian speciality each week,’ gleamed Ferenc. ‘That’s all. This week, duck goulash.’

  ‘This week! You haven’t let the grass grow under your feet, have you?’

  ‘We have a saying in Hungary: Don’t wait till it rains before buying an umbrella.’

  ‘We have a saying in England: When the cat’s away the mice will play. No, I’m sorry, Ferenc, but I can’t see duck goulash c
atching on in Throdnall.’

  ‘Mr Summers thought it tasty. He’s going to recommend it to his members for the next Rotary.’

  She was being manoeuvred into an impossible position. She was going to appear petty and jealous, and all because … all because …

  All because she was petty and jealous – and she mustn’t be. She just mustn’t be. She forced herself to calm down.

  ‘Well, that’s all wonderful,’ she said, trying hard to sound sincere (always one of her problems, even when she was sincere, in fact possibly a greater problem when she was sincere than when she wasn’t, and therefore not so much of a problem at the moment).

  ‘You can of course cancel all these initiatives when you return.’

  ‘I could, couldn’t I? We’ll see.’

  She felt tired even at the thought of the battles that lay ahead. She forced herself to meet Ferenc’s eyes – and it was strange, she felt a little trickle of energy returning, no, of new energy, of energy as a woman, as Nicola, as herself.

  ‘Thank you, Ferenc,’ she said. ‘You’ve … you’ve been a help.’

  That disconcerted him!

  When he had gone she felt more tired than ever. It was all too soon. But, beneath the tiredness, she felt for the first time that she was truly happy as Nicola. No exultation. No excitement. Just a feeling of real contentment.

  Then it dawned on her what the great consideration was that had been hanging just out of reach of her consciousness.

  She was no longer in a Real Life Test. She had passed the test. Real Life itself beckoned. A new life beckoned. Now she would really be a woman. She wanted to meet new people. She wanted to reinvent herself.

  She didn’t want to live at number thirty-three any more. Alan had been wonderfully supportive, but she had stayed with him too long. All that was over. It was the past.

  How on earth would she tell him?

  20 Lost Innocence

  Seeing my husband as a woman for the first time was a rather eerie experience, like having a decorator paint your house in his choice of colours while you’re cruising the Norwegian fjords and coming back to find he’d done it in exactly the same shades as before. There was a feeling of anti-climax, mixed in with a little relief.

  I was relieved of course, both for Nicola and my own future chances, that the operation had been a success. I was relieved, as well as disappointed, that the pale, strained, exhausted face that stared at me from the bed was so unchanged.

  Nicola was so very, very tired that first time, and the dreadful Prentice was there – if he ever comes to Australia I’ll warn you! – but I found that things didn’t get much easier with succeeding visits. We didn’t seem to have much to say to each other any more. Inspiration always seems to dry up in hospitals.

  What worries me is that Nicola seems not to have thought about her future, whereas I’ve been thinking about it more and more. I think she truly believes that she’ll be able to continue to live at number thirty-three. I don’t think it’s possible. Where would she sleep, for a start? We can’t go on sharing a bed for ever. I should have told her to go at least a year ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Her op was such a frightening business. But now that it’s over, well, our life together is over. She is a new person. She needs new adventures, as, quite soon, I will too.

  But how can I find the strength to tell her? Oh, Jen, I wish you were here to give me strength. I’ve had to be strong for so long that I think I’m exhausted. I wish we weren’t separated by half a world.

  When you’re in hospital you get institutionalised and the world outside seems very far away. I didn’t feel that while Nicola was in hospital I could tell her about the very sad incident with Dad.

  It was Saturday morning, very bright, unseasonably mild, I was preparing food for the weekend, Em was out with Carl, Gray was in his room. Dad had popped down to the park, he loves the park, ‘It’s a very ordinary park, is Bradwell Park, but I don’t know what I’d do without it. It’s my life-line,’ he said to me once, and I was chopping some red onions and watching two blue tits and a coal tit on the feeders, when the doorbell rang. In films, if it’s going to be something horrid, people react with horror to the doorbell before they go to the door, as if their bells never rang except for things that were horrid, but this was real life and I didn’t have a care in the world at just that moment. I thought it might be Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mrs Willoughby wondering if I had any coriander, and there was Dad standing there with an extremely young policeman.

  I recalled a comment Dad made the other week when Nicola said that she knew she was getting old because policemen were getting so much younger, and Dad said, ‘Wait till you get to my age. Even Popes are getting younger’, and I thought, ‘Yes, he is getting old. He must have forgotten where he lives.’ I felt a wave of compassion for him. He can be infuriating, but I love him, but anyway it wasn’t that, and I suppose I should be grateful, but in a way it was worse, and of course I soon realised how silly it had been of me to think that he’d forgotten where he lives, because if he had he wouldn’t have been able to lead the policeman to the house.

  The policeman was pink-faced and perspiring with embarrassment. He looked as if he was only just out of nappies.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked, suddenly fearful.

  ‘It’s the mothers,’ began the policeman. ‘It’s the mothers down at the park.’

  ‘They’ve complained to the police about me,’ said Dad. ‘Bitches. They’ve ganged up and complained.’

  ‘The mothers think … they don’t like him watching their children in the playground,’ said the very young policeman.

  ‘I just like to sit on my bench and watch the kiddies playing,’ said Dad. ‘I like to hear their laughter. I like to hear their excited squeals on the swings. I lose myself there. I like to watch their healthy little bodies.’

  I met the policeman’s eyes. It was a pity Dad had mentioned their little bodies. It showed, of course, how totally innocent he was, but I wasn’t confident that the policeman would be sophisticated enough to appreciate that.

  ‘We have no reason whatsoever,’ began the policeman slowly, quarrying the officialese out of his mind with a supreme effort, ‘to believe that there is anything untoward in Mr …?’

  ‘Kettlewell.’

  ‘… anything untoward in Mr Kettlewell’s relationship with, or attitude to, the said children. No reason whatsoever, Mrs …?’

  ‘Divot.’

  ‘Divot. However, a complaint has been made and we are bound to investigate said complaint. May I come in and ask you a few questions?’

  I had to let him come in.

  ‘I’m very sorry to do this when you’re upset,’ said the policeman. He seemed kind. I worried about his future in the force.

  ‘Upset?’ I said.

  ‘I noticed that you’d been crying. We’re trained to be observant.’

  ‘I was peeling onions. Red onions. They’re supposed to be milder but I think they’re getting less mild. I was watching the birds on our feeders, as innocently as Dad was watching the children.’

  The policeman asked for our names and the names of everyone living in the house, and I found myself worrying about whether I should tell him about Nicola, and I must have given myself away, because he said, ‘Are you sure you’ve mentioned everybody?’

  ‘Well there’s my husband,’ I said.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Nicola Divot.’

  ‘Nicola?’

  ‘Yes. He’s in hospital at this very moment, actually. She’s just had the operation.’

  ‘Ah! Is your husband manager at the Cornucopia?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve met h … her.’

  He wrote it all down.

  ‘His sex change has nothing to do with Dad, or sex. It’s gender alignment really.’

  ‘Oh, I know, but I have to do the paperwork. There’s been a complaint of a potentially serious nature. Er …’ He blushed. The in
cipient boil on his neck reddened. ‘What is the name of Mr Kettlewell’s doctor?’

  Dad just sat there, slumped, staring glassily into space. I don’t think he was even listening.

  ‘Do I have to give that, if you believe Dad to be innocent?’

  ‘If he’s innocent you’ve nothing to fear.’

  ‘Doctor Rodgerson.’

  ‘Thank you. We will need to ask him one or two questions. Just a formality.’ He turned to Dad and spoke in a loud, slow voice. ‘Mr Kettlewell, have you ever been charged with any criminal offence?’

  ‘Stealing a street lamp on Christmas Eve in Castleford in nineteen thirty-seven,’ said Dad.

  ‘Nothing wrong with your father’s memory,’ said the policeman. ‘Thank you, Mr Kettlewell. I don’t think you’ll hear any more of this.’

  ‘So that makes it all right, does it?’ said Dad. I was pleased that he could be angry.

  ‘Leave it, Dad,’ I said. ‘It’s not the young man’s fault.’

  ‘Bitches!’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘What it is, Mr Kettlewell,’ said the policeman. ‘They aren’t bitches. They’re just mums what’s worried for their kiddies.’

  I saw him to the door, stood at the porch with him. He’d used cheap after-shave, and his breath smelt of boiled sweets.

  ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I don’t think he should go down the park no more. I’d rather it was just done informal like. I don’t want to have to issue an exclusion order.’

  An exclusion order to keep our dad from the park! What is the world coming to?

  Dad was staring glassily into space when I went back in. I offered him a beer.

  ‘Oh, that’ll really help, won’t it?’ he said. ‘I’m banned from the playground. I’m a dirty old man if I smile at a kid. If I offer them sweets I’m in prison, a beer’ll make a lot of difference, won’t it?’

  ‘Well don’t have one then.’

  ‘Well, no, I may as well.’

  I got Dad a beer and returned to the onions, but now my tears were real. A starling went to the feeders, and the tits flew away. It was the way of the world.

  ‘I like to hear the kids’ laughter,’ said Dad. ‘I like to look at their smiles. I enjoy their joy. Seeing kids with their life ahead of them … well, it reconciles me to my life ending. I think that people like what them mothers think I am should have their goolies cut off very slowly with a blunt instrument and served to them lightly grilled. How the hell can they think I’m like that?’