by David Nobbs
Alan looked at him in astonishment.
‘Aye,’ said Bernie. ‘Your old dad’s turning into a bit of a goer in his old age.’
‘It’s a wonderful idea, Dad.’
Of course the thought of Bernie enjoying a few sunny days in Blackpool or Brighton filled Alan with pleasure, but he had to admit to himself that the thought of a few dadless days at number thirty-three filled him with even more. He loved his dad dearly, especially this new dad, but still … he was human … he would like to be able to open another bottle of red wine without somebody saying, ‘Another bottle! Have we won the lottery or something?’
‘Aye,’ said Bernie. ‘Get me out from under your feet for a few days.’
‘No!’ said Alan. ‘The thought never crossed my mind.’
He offered to drive his dad in.
‘No,’ said Bernie. ‘I’ve got me bus pass. Not much point in having a bus pass if you don’t use it.’
Alan didn’t insist. He didn’t want to seem too eager.
At seventeen minutes to eleven, not long after Bernie had gone for the bus, Em rang from Kos.
‘Hi, Mum. It’s me.’
‘Hello, darling. Are you having a nice time?’
‘Very.’
He took the cordless out into the hall.
‘Oh good. I am pleased.’ He called out to Gray, ‘It’s Em,’ and then he continued to Em, ‘How’s the weather?’
‘Lovely. Too hot, though.’
‘It’s too hot here too. How’s the villa?’
‘It’s fantastic. It’s right by the sea.’
‘Excellent.’
‘We swim three times a day.’
‘Excellent. Here’s Gray.’
He put him on. Gray sat at the table and put his feet up on it – cool!
‘Hi, Em … Yeah … Yeah? … Oh yeah! … Piss off … Yeah, bring some lettuces … Kos. Kos lettuces. Is Andropolos stuffing you as much as he did in Paxos? … And you! Do you want Mum any more? … OK. Bye, Em.’ He put the phone back on its stand. ‘I don’t think that girl has any sense of humour.’
‘Because she didn’t laugh at your jokes about Kos and Paxos.’
‘Not a titter.’
‘Inadequate evidence, Gray, I’m afraid. So, it sounds good.’
‘What does?’
‘You know.’
Gray did. He might be lazy and inarticulate. He wasn’t stupid.
‘You mean that the Greek boy friend may not turn out to be as big a bastard as Giorgio, François and Carl.’
‘Gray! Learn some compassion. At least her international relationships are real.’
‘This is just a very old-fashioned way of thinking, Mum. My relationships aren’t not real just because they’re on the net.’ He blushed. ‘Juanita’s real.’
‘Gray?’ There was something she wanted to ask him before he went back to his room.
‘What?’
‘On the phone just now you said, “Piss off.” ’
‘Sorry.’
‘No. I don’t mind. I just wondered what Em said to make you say, “Piss off.” ’
‘I can’t remember. I … oh yeah. Yeah. I remember. She said …’ – he twisted his face into a half-smile, half-grimace, very mobile, very Ferenc oh God!! – ‘She said, “I love you, bruv.” ’
‘I thought so.’
‘Not cool. Well, I suppose Greece isn’t cool. Laugh, Mum. That was a witty remark.’
‘Ah.’
‘That was self-mockery, Mum. “Ah! Maybe he’s growing up at last.” ’
‘What?’
‘That’s what you were thinking. Bye, Mum. See you later.’
If only he hadn’t had to say, ‘Piss off,’ when Em said, ‘I love you, bruv.’ More importantly, however, if Em said, ‘I love you, bruv,’ things must be going really well with Andropolos. Thank God. Not that he hoped that Em would marry a Greek waiter, but he didn’t want her to get hurt any more.
Bernie rang at twenty-eight minutes past twelve. ‘I’m in the Coach. Don’t make me lunch.’
He banged on Gray’s door.
‘Come.’
He entered the Temple of International Communications. All seemed calm.
‘Fancy a pizza at the Positano?’
‘OK. Cool.’
‘See you in ten minutes. Get yourself untidied.’
‘What?’
‘Frayed jeans with holes in them. T-shirt that doesn’t quite reach the frayed jeans, showing an area of young Divot stomach. Cool!’
He went in a jacket and neat open-neck shirt. He had an Americano. Alan had a Capricciosa.
They had a good time in the Trattoria Positano. A good time with Gray? What was the world coming to? They talked about uni and railway carriages and pizzas and Em and Andropolos and Peru. Gray didn’t actually mention Juanita again, but suddenly he was an expert on Peruvian politics.
At forty-three minutes past two, Bernie returned, a bit flushed, weaving ever so slightly.
‘I hope you didn’t mind my popping into t’Coach,’ he said, ‘but I had to tell Clarrie and Edgar about me Short City Break.’
‘Ah,’ said Alan. ‘You booked one. Where to? Brighton? Scarborough?’
‘Krakov.’
‘What?’
‘It’s in Poland. Paper reckons it’s a grand city. It’s got a cloth hall and such like and I don’t know what. They said they could throw in Warsaw an’ all and it’d only be a hundred and twenty-six quid more. Fly to Warsaw, train to Krakov, fly home from Krakov. I said to her … nice girl, stud in her nose, but quite well spoken … I said to her, “No. That might be a bit much for me, first time of asking like.” She said, “How do you mean, first time of asking?” I said, “First time abroad, and on me own.” Well, Marge always liked Eastbourne and such like and there didn’t seem any point. I said, “I think Krakov on its own’ll do very nicely, thank you.” She said, “There’s a supplementary tour of a salt mine, you’re advised to book early.” I said, “Aye, go on, then, let’s go the whole hog while we’re at it.” She said, “How about Auschwitz?” I said, “What do you mean, ‘How about Auschwitz?’?” She said, “There’s a supplementary tour of Auschwitz and all. They ask us to warn you that it can be very distressing.” I said, “Oh aye, it will be. Aye,” I said. “I’m on for that. You’re too young to remember, so who’ll remember if I don’t? Aye,” I said, “be a pity to die wi’out paying my ’omage to ’istory.” So that’s whar I’ve booked.’
Alan went up to Bernie and kissed him. ‘We leave at ten to seven,’ he said.
Yes, neo-Dad was such a changed man that he was taking him as his guest to the Midsummer Dinner.
He sighed. He was so worried about Nicola. Oh, he did hope she was happy.
Time passed slowly. He had a hot bath, then a cold shower because the hot bath had made him sweat.
Then he got dressed. It was his first ever black tie do. Yes, it was black tie in that heat. ‘Throdnall has to learn to be classy,’ the PP had said. It was quite exciting, though, dressing up in his first penguin suit, and a whole lot easier than being a woman and having to agonise over what to wear.
He couldn’t tie his bow tie. Gray did it for him. God, it was hot and tight.
‘Great,’ said Gray. ‘Have to admit it, Mum. Cool.’
Alan thought that helping him in that way had made Gray feel rather grown up.
He was looking forward to seeing Nicola, provided she was all right, of course, but he wasn’t looking forward to going to the Golf Club.
He’d booked his tickets almost at the last minute, after he’d learnt that Nicola was going, and the snotty-nosed Social Secretary had said, ‘I think we can fit you in’, even though everybody knew that tickets hadn’t been selling too well. He’d been rather brusque, excessively brusque in fact, having been in the middle of a tense and tiring week at work. He’d had an extremely hectic time organising the guest list for the unveiling of the new tilting carriages, amid unsettling rumours that Northern Vision were g
oing to cancel their contract and go to Bangladesh for their carriages. Mr Beresford had been like a bear with a migraine all week, and Alan had been contaminated by the fall-out.
He felt sure that the Social Secretary, who didn’t like him any more than the PP did, would get his revenge by placing them on a table with all the people nobody else wanted to sit with – Major and Mrs Peskott, the ‘abominable’ Snowmans, Celia Pilkington-Wilks with her delusions of grandeur – and he wouldn’t even be able to complain because he’d booked late.
Bernie’s penguin suit was decidedly old-fashioned, and there was a distinct whiff of mothballs, but he looked good, he really did. He was a picture of elderly elegance.
The evening air was still and stale. It seemed impossible that there wouldn’t be a storm. Alan set off too early, in his nervousness, so he had to drive slowly. The Ka behind him hooted impetuously in Owl Hoot Lane, as if it thought it was appropriate. Small men were tetchy, so were small cars.
There was very little traffic in the Kenilworth Road, so he had to drive right past the Golf Club, turn left into Frog Lane, turn round at the cattle grid at the entrance to Salter’s Farm, go back down Frog Lane, turn right on to the Kenilworth Road, so as to arrive at the Golf Club at four minutes past eight.
Nicola was already there, standing near the entrance doors. She looked really quite glamorous and striking in a turquoise and black long dress and jacket, with black accessories and a diamanté necklace and earrings.
At her side was a fairly tall, very neat and by no means unprepossessing man in his late forties and a white tuxedo.
‘Hello, Alan,’ she said, with a hint of pride that she couldn’t quite conceal, ‘this is Eric.’
Alan felt a sudden, sharp stab. He hadn’t wanted Nicola to be quite as happy as that.
27 Eric
The first time Nicola had seen Eric had been on the day of her Churchillian speech in the kitchen. Eric had been lunching with another man in the restaurant. They had been poring over plans.
He had looked at her twice, an occurrence rare enough to make her remember him. She’d seen him in the restaurant twice more in the following months, and each time he’d looked at her once. She had felt that there was something about those looks, that she had interested him, that if he had been on his own he might have stopped to speak.
And then she saw him alone. And he did stop to speak. It was towards the end of the winter, and not very long after the ending of her relationship (if it justified so definite a word) with Gordon. He was staying in the hotel, and was crossing the foyer towards the exit. He gave her a shy smile and said, ‘Are you the manager?’ and she made the stupid reply of ‘Yes. For my sins. Why? I hope you don’t have a complaint,’ and he said, ‘No, no. Everything’s fine, thank you,’ and then he looked a bit uneasy and said, ‘I don’t suppose you can recommend anywhere nice to eat. Oh dear. I don’t suppose that’s very diplomatic. I should be eating here, but I find hotel dining rooms a little cavernous on one’s own,’ and Nicola said, ‘I know what you mean, sir. Well, I have to say Throdnall isn’t Paris. There’s the usual crop of ethnics …’
‘I don’t think so. I’m not very big on spices,’ he said.
‘I suppose the only two real possibilities, then, are Le Flageolet and the Trattoria Positano. I have to say … although I’m not exactly a disinterested party … that Le Flageolet has been described to me as probably the worst French restaurant in the world. The food at the Positano is at least edible, pretty reliable, and the place is very reasonable and always cheery.’
‘Oh, I rather like the thought of somewhere cheery,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll settle for the Positano,’ and then, to her astonishment, he went a little pink and added, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of your accompanying me?’ and, to her even greater astonishment, Nicola heard herself say, ‘I have some paperwork to finish, but I could join you in half an hour.’
The paperwork was a fiction. She just didn’t want to seem too eager – and she couldn’t believe how eager she was. She had decided, after the Gordon fiasco, that she had to accept that to have become a woman would be the summit of her achievements, and to expect a sex life as well would be to ask too much of her transformation.
She liked the look of Eric. He was tall, with receding brown hair, a wide forehead and gentle, observant brown eyes. His manner seemed … what was the word? … yes, courteous.
The restaurant was all clattering floors and smiling waiters and buzzing customers, with quiet Eric sitting all alone in its midst, like the eye of a storm. He coloured slightly again as Nicola joined him, rose courteously from his chair, smiled, waited till she was seated before taking his seat again. She liked that.
Nicola ordered Parma ham and melon, followed by scallopine alia marsala. Eric asked if the veal had been humanely reared and, on being told that no definite assurance could be given, ordered lemon sole. He didn’t have a starter. ‘I’m not a big eater,’ he explained.
Nicola felt guilty and insensitive about the veal, and called the waiter back and changed her order to spaghetti bolognese. This was stupid on several grounds: a) Spaghetti Bolognese is an English invention, the Bolognese eat the sauce only with tagliatelle, b) Bolognese sauce is a complicated affair and only good if made accurately and slowly. This was unlikely in the ‘you wanna black pepper?’ atmosphere of the Trattoria Positano, c) She didn’t like pasta as a main course. It was never meant to be a main course, and she was a bit of a food snob, and d) She was no good at eating spaghetti and should never eat it in i) a restaurant 2) a restaurant with a companion 3) a restaurant with a companion of the opposite sex 4) a restaurant with a companion of the opposite sex with refined and immaculate table manners 5) a restaurant with a companion of the opposite sex with refined and immaculate table manners on their first date and 6) a restaurant with a companion of the opposite sex with refined and immaculate table manners on their first date when she was wearing her best business blouse and skirt.
While she ate her Parma ham and melon, Eric told her a bit about his life. He loved architecture. ‘I first discovered I had architectural leanings when I was in Pisa,’ he said. Nicola was on the point of laughing when she realised that he was absolutely serious, he’d seen nothing funny in the remark. ‘That trio of duomo, battistero and torre pendente,’ he continued, ‘astonishing.’ It struck Nicola that if most of the people she knew had used the Italian words in that way it would have sounded dreadfully snobbish and affected. With Eric it didn’t. He used the words not to impress but unselfconsciously in genuine enthusiasm. ‘Utterly inspiring. Bad, perhaps, to be inspired by something so beautiful. One is doomed from the start to be disappointed by one’s own efforts.’
He studied in Hull. Anyone less suited to Hull Nicola couldn’t imagine, and that might have been one of the reasons why he dropped out four days before his finals. ‘Exams fill me with dread,’ he said. ‘That’s why I became a furniture restorer. I could teach myself.’
He lived in North Norfolk in a small flint cottage. His business was successful enough, he told her, to finance his modest life style.
He ordered a bottle of Montepulciano, but only drank two glasses. ‘I love wine,’ he said, ‘but I’m not a big drinker.’
Nicola drank the rest of the bottle. She hated waste. Also, although she was not habitually a big drinker, she found herself drinking more as a woman than she ever had as a man.
What a lot of chance there is in life. Eric had never been to Throdnall before the day she first caught sight of him, but an old friend from his college days (‘well, acquaintance more than friend, I’m not terribly big on friendship’) had commissioned him to restore twelve Georgian dining chairs and had then got him interested in helping with a barn conversion west of Throdnall. Eric had thought about the plans and had made further visits to discuss them, deliver the chairs, see the halfcompleted barn and now to offer some ideas about furnishing it. He had decided to stay overnight … ‘I don’t drive big distances’ … and had i
nvited his friend out to dinner, but his friend had begun to go down with flu and had cried off. So here Nicola was.
She had come to the conclusion, after the disappointment with Gordon, that while she still wouldn’t go around talking about her sex change in everyday life, she would have to do so in the context of personal sexual relationships, but she hadn’t expected to talk of it on a first date. Now, with her tongue loosened by the wine, and her mood stimulated by the lively buzz of the restaurant, and her heart encouraged by a sudden feeling of confidence in this kindly and gentle man, she began to tell him.
‘Eric,’ she said, lowering her voice (they put the tables close together at the Positano, at those prices you had to expect it), ‘I have something important to tell you.’
‘Who’s the spaghetti?’ asked the waiter, with the usual immaculate timing of his calling.
Their conversation remained suspended while the waiter placed their main courses in front of them.
‘Something important to tell me?’
‘Yes. Er … something you ought to know right at the …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence. She had talked herself into a corner. She couldn’t say, ‘right at the beginning of our relationship’. It would have been presumptuous. Even ‘right at the outset’ would have seemed presumptuous. An outset assumes a continuation. ‘I … er … a few years ago, Eric, I decided to have …’
‘Black pepper, madam?’
‘Er … yes, thank you. Yes. Just a bit. That’s fine. Thank you.’
‘You decided to have?’
‘I decided to have … Eric, at that time I wasn’t as I am now. I was suffering from …’
‘Parmesan cheese, madam?’
‘Er … yes. Thanks. Yes … yes, that’s fine. Thank you.’
This was not quite the dignified description of her great journey that she had planned.
‘Four years ago, Eric, that waiter would not have said, “Parmesan cheese, madam?” ’
‘I’d be surprised if he was working here four years ago. There’s a tremendous rate of staff turnover in these places.’
