Beneath the Blonde (25 page)

Greg smiled. “The New Zealand judiciary is a fine and glorious thing. I present as a man, therefore I am a man. It’s fairly new, but I’m legal. I got a new birth certificate and then a new passport a few years ago, after the last operation. Like all the rest of them, I’m just a good Kiwi bloke.”

Saz looked at him. Greg was a tall, good-looking man in his early thirties. Just like any other. A nice man. Nice to be around, easy to talk to—really, a good bloke. She noted his broad, heavily worked-out shoulders, the well defined pecs outlined across his chest under a thin cotton T-shirt, the man’s waist—straight up and down, narrow hips, no bum, his long legs and his big bare feet beside her own, a smaller girl’s version. Boy’s feet, girl’s feet. She looked at Greg and saw a man.

Greg let out a long sigh, dragged his fingers through his tangled dark blonde curls. He laughed quietly and with little humour, “Well, I’m off to brave the real beast now. I’ll have to tell Siobhan I’ve told you. She won’t be happy but I think it’s best that we all know the truth. Hopefully it’ll help clear all this mess up, eh?”

Saz nodded, uncertain. “Yeah, sure. I mean, you’re right. I’m glad you told me. I just …” She faltered, “Look Greg, I’m sorry. I really don’t know what to say.”

Greg nodded. “No one ever does. You’ll get it eventually,
Saz, it’s a shock. I understand. Sleep on it. That usually helps. I’m going to anyway.”

Greg bent down, kissed her goodnight and then walked quietly through to the kitchen to make Siobhan a placatory cup of tea before waking her and telling her his news. He left behind a kiss on Saz’s forehead and she felt it was a man’s kiss on the forehead.

Greg was really Gaelene who was really Greg and Pat and Dennis were really Greg’s mum and dad and Siobhan was really in love with a man who’d been a woman, though of course she had slept with Saz last night, slept with her really as a woman, not a lesbian myth and Saz was really confused.

Confused and tired and sick of staring at the relentless Pacific pounding on the pale submissive sand and getting no answers at all. Saz took herself off to her own single bed. The sun, setting on a peacefully sleeping Molly, was on its way up again in the Southern Hemisphere and Saz was a long way from peaceful sleep. She knew it was pointless to beat herself up about not being politically correct enough to take Greg’s transsexuality on board as just another fact like Siobhan’s hair really being a dull mousey brown or Greg being the only real blonde in the band. She recognized the fact and was pissed off with herself anyway. And, as she started to get undressed, she remembered the small list of men she’d slept with years ago, some of whom she’d liked very much and one of whom she’d loved. As she pulled on her T-shirt and heard Greg pad past her door and down the hallway to the bedroom where Siobhan slept, waiting for him, she acknowledged that things might have been restrictive and unyielding and exclusive in the bad old days, but they’d also seemed a damn sight clearer. It had been easier to know who and what when queer just meant gay and wasn’t likely to also include women who loved men
who were once women and men who loved women who were going to become men and women who loved women but quite liked men too sometimes and men who didn’t care who they loved as long as they were loved back and every other trans-gender permutation that now gathered under the fluttering and expanding rainbow flag.

Saz slept and her brain was grateful for the chance to relax. Whatever dreams she may have had, she did not remember them when she awoke.

Saz woke the next morning to hot sun falling on her face. She’d fallen asleep exhausted and strained, leaving the curtains open and by seven-thirty stark white light had cornered the house to her room and was slamming itself against her tightly shut eyes. Roaming the quiet house, she found Pat had already left with Dan and Dennis was out in the garden, raking over the runner beans before the ruthless sun drove him inside. So far she’d seen no sign of either Greg or Siobhan. She showered and slathered her body with the vitamin E and lavender creams she used for her scars and, dressed for the spring sunshine, was just sitting down to a thick piece of toasted wholemeal bread and loganberry jam when the phone rang. It was the local florist she’d called briefly the day before. Just in case.

Saz quickly swallowed her half-chewed mouthful of food and spluttered out a reply, “Yes, this is Saz Martin, can I help you?”

“Look, I know it’s probably a bit early to be calling, but this really weird thing just happened so I thought I’d better let you know about it. You know you asked me to call if anyone came in for yellow roses?”

Saz knew exactly what she’d asked and hardly needed the florist to tell her, but she kept her voice level and answered politely, “Yes?”

“Well, it happened! Now isn’t that just the funniest thing?”

Being only too pleased to finally have a concrete lead, Saz would have agreed it was absolutely fucking hilarious
had she not correctly guessed that Mrs Dolman of Kath’s Plants and Flowers probably wouldn’t extend her bad language to anything much stronger than “pissed off”. Within ten minutes she had the address of the shop, had changed into her running gear and, following the directions she’d hurriedly got from Dennis, was on the empty road and heading into the town centre.

She arrived at the shop twenty minutes later, boiling hot and almost breathless. While she ran several miles most days, she didn’t usually do so at quite such a fast pace or on hot mornings in a country with great sun and little ozone. As it was Sunday morning, the single main road which constituted the shopping centre was quiet. Not yet summer enough to encourage much Sunday opening, most of the shop doors were locked under the sheltering corrugated iron awnings that leant out into the street, giving an air of a small town waiting for high noon to happen.

Having admired the cut flowers on display, accepted a cup of tea, twice turned down the offer of gingernuts only to have a packet of fig rolls opened for her instead, Saz tried to encourage her informant to get on with the story, “So, Mrs Dolman—”

“Call me Kath, dear.”

“Ok, Kath, do you want to tell me about it?” Saz smiled encouragingly as Kath frowned, her glance taking in Saz’s tired, three-year-old trainers. She knew she might have made a better impression had she turned up looking a little more like Helen Mirren and a little less like someone who thought the concept of burn time was for sissies, but Pat hadn’t been back with the car when she left and not insured to drive the van, running had been her only option. Her scrutiny of Saz’s attire over, Kath swallowed the end of her third fig roll and began, “Right you are. I got in at, let me see … seven forty-ish, unlocked the front door as I always do, locked it again after me, of course. If I didn’t, I’d have all sorts in
bothering me when I’m trying to set up for the day, pensioners mostly, the old dears love a bit of a gossip and a chat when they’re passing, not that they ever buy anything most of them. Still, can’t complain, won’t be long till we’re all there, will it?”

Saz, thinking it would be sooner than she thought at this rate, swallowed a mouthful of the weak tea and muttered encouraging comments.

Kath continued, “Well, anyway, there I am, just taking out the curly kale seedling—it’s good to get the veges out on a Sunday, the weekend gardeners just can’t resist. Do you have a garden?”

Saz gave up on smiling, “Yes. Shared. It’s very small. The woman?”

“Well, there I am with the seedlings and in she comes, large as life and asks about the roses.”

“I thought you’d locked the front door?”

“Yes, dear.” Kath smiled, her greying permed bob nodding for her.

“So how did she get in?”

“Back door.”

“Right. So you hadn’t locked the back door?”

“No, love, got to get the seedlings through from the yard, don’t I? Anyway, I’m on my knees with the boxes and in she walks and says, ‘So, Kath, how about a bunch of yellow roses?’ Well, you could have knocked me down there and then. I mean, I haven’t seen the little minx for two years and in she walks large as life and twice as cheery!”

Saz stared at Kath, wondering if she was hearing right, “You know this woman?”

“It’s a very small town, dear. We’re not exactly Auckland or Wellington, now, are we? Not London either, I suppose. You might miss out on your theatre and dinners and all that in the city, but it’s nicer for the people in a small town. You get to know them, their families, you watch children grow
up and become parents themselves. You’d never get me living in a city.” Kath brightly finished her discourse on essential metropolitan differences, “I like to think you get to know your customers better in a small town.”

Saz repeated, “You know her?”

“Yes. So do Pat and Dennis actually. She used to be their girl’s best friend. Inseparable they were before the Marsdens moved to Auckland. Shona Henderson. Lovely girl, but quieter than she used to be. I think she took it very hard when we lost Gaelene. They were really very close. She doesn’t live here now, of course. Went to London for a while—I thought she was still there, that’s why it was such a surprise this morning.”

Saz was up and out of her chair before Kath finished speaking, “Can I use your phone, please?”

“Yes of course, dear.”

Kath led her to the telephone in the back room where she assembled the bouquets. “I do hope nothing’s wrong. That’s why I was happy to call, you see. I mean, Shona—you must have got mixed up, musn’t you? Whatever it is you’re investigating, she couldn’t have done anything wrong. She’s just an ordinary girl. Right?”

The phone was engaged, Saz tried twice more and then gave up. “Is there a taxi rank near here?”

Kath pointed down the street. “That way.” She hesitated and then asked, “I haven’t got her into trouble, have I? I mean, I wouldn’t want to …”

Saz shook her head, “No. You’ve been great. Thanks. Look, how long ago did she leave?”

“Right before I rang you. I called straightaway. Must be almost an hour since then.” Kath frowned again, her hands nervously playing with the hem of her overall, “I did do the right thing?”

“Yes. Really. You’ve been brilliant, thanks. Look, I have
to get back to Pat and Dennis’s place, I’ll call you later, ok? There’s probably some more questions I need to ask you.”

Saz edged her way out of the shop and away from Kath Dolman’s worried look. She ran down to the taxi rank, dragged a reluctant driver away from his breakfast conversation with three other drivers and forced him to take her to Pat and Dennis’s house as fast as he could. He drove a little over the speed limit and then double charged her, thinking the pushy English bitch could probably afford it.

By the time Saz got back Pat and Dennis had already called the police. Greg pulled her into the car. He left Dennis holding Shona’s note. The one that told him where he could find Siobhan.

I wouldn’t have been this fast if I’d had a choice. This speed has a recklessness to it which I would not normally approve. I had a plan, a strategy. One after the other. No madness, only method. Like pruning. Remove the dead wood and find underneath the shoot of new growth. And it’s true, it does seem harsh to cut them back with such ferocity, to removed the rosehips, dead-head the blown bloom. Still, the bare branches are always worth the pain when spring comes. Cold winter has its reason in spring. But he left this morning, the beautiful one. He left early before I could remove him. And so the gears are moved up a knotch, graunching against their wheel cogs to be travelling so fast so soon. They’ll catch up.

It was easy to get Siobhan here. Easier than I expected, although admittedly, I had not foreseen much trouble. Siobhan has always thought she was charmed. And then again, she thought this was all about her. Wrong on two counts.

Gaelene was walking along the beach with her father, the two of them, hands in pockets, faces out to the sea, looking for all the world like a pair of Kiwi blokes. Pat had taken Dan to the airport, and the English girl was in town, no doubt chatting to Kath Dolman, getting my name, my age, my telephone number. I expect she will. Eventually. It’s hard to uncover the truth when you’re told the story in half lies. The thief was drinking tea, sitting in the kitchen. She had
not seen Gaelene on the beach, they were further up, past the headland, I passed them when I came down the road. You could not have seen them from the kitchen. Though anyway, Siobhan was looking at the paper in front of her, ignoring the real world outside. I had parked in front of the house, walked up to the door. I held a single yellow rose in my hand.

“Siobhan?”

She started, was not expecting my voice, a woman’s voice. She looked around her to the back door before realizing it was me who was calling. When she stood I saw the flesh of her thighs before she pulled the thin dressing-gown around her. I think she knew who I was, saw me hold the rose out to her.

“Hi, Siobhan, I’ve come to explain. I met Gaelene on the beach. She’s at my place. Come down to the car. I need to talk to both of you. I want to tell you why.”

I didn’t know if she would. I thought maybe she’d call out, and the Gaelene masquerade would come running up from the beach, running to protect the innocent girl. Maybe all of them would be there. I’d thought I might have to tell them what I’d done, why. Or not. I know it seems silly now, having made all the preparations, all the work to clear the ground, but by the time the end was nigh I was starting to feel a bit confused. Not so certain of the plan. Dan’s leaving had thrown my routine. I thought I’d just go along. Improvise. See what happened. And it was far easier than I expected. She just came walking down the steps to me. Because she loves Gaelene. Cares for her. But not properly, not as much as I care for the real Gaelene. She came with me, simply because she believed me. Believed I had Gaelene. Which is true in a way, I’d always had her more than Siobhan ever had. The real her.

I held out the rose as an invitation and she took it. She followed me because she thought I had Gaelene. She believed me. She wasn’t wearing any clothes under the
dressing-gown, she held it to her as she walked down the steps, the thin material smooth over her breasts, the hollow of her stomach, the slight bulge of her cunt, red silk flowing open to her legs with each step.