Sex and Other Changes (7 page)

He did at least acknowledge her support, but not in words that she could welcome.

‘Well said, old girl,' he said.

‘I'm sorry, but I don't think it's well said,' said Em. ‘I think he's being incredibly selfish. He isn't thinking of any of us. He's cocooned in his own emotional universe. But why should I be surprised? He's a man.'

‘Yes, but I'm going to put that right, Em,' said Nick.

‘Well I won't welcome you to the club,' said Em, and she stomped out, slamming the door.

‘It makes my flesh crawl,' said Gray. He shuddered. ‘Excuse me. Gotta split. I'm halfway through a chess match against the third best schoolboy in the Falkland Isles, and I'm winning.' He walked to the door and turned to speak. ‘It does. It makes my flesh crawl. I feel …' He searched for some impressive description. Even at this tense moment Nick and Alison longed,
as they always longed, to hear him say something impressive, clever, imaginative, poetic. ‘… all goose-pimply all over.'

‘It'll kill her,' said Bernie, and he slunk back off to watch Marge sleep.

Nick looked across at Alison and gave a weary half-smile.

‘Thank you for your support,' he said. ‘I shall always wear it.'

Oh God, Nick, you're a pain, thought Alison. The sooner you become a woman, the better.

Nick went to bed, after he'd told them all, feeling that he'd climbed a mountain. He awoke feeling that he'd barely reached base camp. The whole terrifying enormity of it swept over him in wave after wave of panic.

He could hardly eat a thing at breakfast.

‘Gray?' he said, as Gray pulled bits of his shirt out over his trousers so as to look cool as he waited for the school bus in Badger Glade Rise. ‘Gray? About last night. Keep it under your hat, eh?'

Why did he use such a silly phrase?

‘You don't think I'd tell anybody, do you?' said Gray. ‘I'd be laughed out of town.'

Em swept through. She was dressed in combat gear and defiantly unfeminine in every respect, aggressive in her denial of being interested in men in the aftermath of the Sam fiasco (as Nick realised later. At the time he thought, So that's how they dress on the
Advertiser.)
.

‘Em,' he said, ‘not a word about … you know.'

‘But Dad,' she moaned. ‘It's my first ever scoop. “Leading Throdnall Hotelier in Sex Change Shock.” '

‘Em, don't you dare! You can have the story, of course, but in the right way at the right time.'

She was out of the door before he'd finished. She was in ‘Real Journalists Are Always In A Rush' mode.

As he drove to work, Nick reflected on the events of the previous evening. He had plenty of time for reflection. They were installing speed humps throughout Badger Glade Rise, and there were two sets of temporary traffic lights. He was caught by them both.

On the whole he thought the family had taken it pretty well. Gray had been quite cool about it really, but then he was so determined to be cool about everything that you never knew what he was thinking.

Em might become quite proud of him in the end. She'd find that he wasn't quite as boringly middle-class as she thought. She'd done a work experience at Throdnall General and had been delighted to discover entries on several forms saying ‘NFT'. ‘Surely all these people can't be working for the National Film Theatre?' she'd asked. Everybody had laughed. ‘No, it means “normal for Throdnall”,' somebody had explained. Em had the maturity to tell the story even though the laugh was against her.

Ever since then she'd delighted in using the phrase, ‘Oh, Dad, you're so bloody NFT.' Well now she could never say he was NFT again. (The work experience put her right off the whole idea of medicine, incidentally.)

Poor old Bernie. Nick had almost let slip that they knew that Marge was sinking. His aim in life was simply to protect her. His quiet love was wonderful to behold. Nick would have liked to have waited till she'd gone, but who knew how long that would be, and time wasn't on his side. His next birthday would be the big four-oh.

At last he got into Clarion Road. The traffic ran freely for a while before coming to a complete halt outside the cake factory. Fancy living at the side of that, with its permanent, sickly smell of sponge and hot jam. He thought about how wonderful Alison was. He'd hardly been able to believe his ears when she'd come out with that statistic about transsexuals. She must have been looking the subject up during the day. Maybe they had a library at the carriage works, and in amongst all the books about rolling stock she'd come across one about sex changes and had pored through it, eager to understand what he was letting himself in for and to find arguments to support
him. What a woman! He hoped Mr Beresford realised how lucky he was. Alison was the ideal PA for him. In her work clothes she looked very presentable but not in any way sexy, so there was no risk of Mr Beresford fancying her and his wife perceiving her as a threat.

They were moving again. He lowered all the windows, to get rid of the sweet tooth-rotting smell from the cake factory.

When he got to work he'd make an appointment to see Doctor Rodgerson. He would feel easier doing that from the office than from his house.

He turned left into Brindley Street and then right into the narrow alley that led to the hotel car park. The glass in the roof of the covered car park was tinted, and unwashed, so that the light in there was always an unhealthy yellow.

He entered the hotel from the back. That way he could see the reception desk through a pair of glass doors before anyone there could see him. He stopped short of the doors and had a sneaky look. There were three guests … sorry, customers … waiting, and only one member of staff to deal with them. Bad! He hurried through the door and approached the desk. He heard one of the customers say, loudly, ‘Am I invisible or what?'

He went up to the man and said, ‘Can I help you, sir? I'm the manager.'

‘Ah!' said the man. ‘Can you see me?'

‘Certainly, sir,' said Nick. ‘In my office straightaway, if you like.'

‘No, no,' he said. ‘You miss my drift. Can you see me? Am I visible?'

‘Of course you are, sir.'

‘I exist, do I? I am an extant being?'

‘Well of course you are, sir.'

‘Well will you tell that fucking cow on your reception desk that I am?'

Ferenc, Ferenc, wherefore art thou at this hour?

He should have said, ‘Sir, I am extremely sorry if the quality of our reception service has not met the standards you expect of the Cornucopia. However, the fault lies not with the one person on duty but with the fact that she has been left on her own, so I would be grateful if you were not insulting to her, and I will deal with you straightaway myself, sir.'

He should not have said, ‘No, I will not, sir. None of my staff are copulating farm animals and if you can't be polite I don't want you in my hotel, so I couldn't give a damn how long you wait.'

No doubt he'd be in trouble over that. Hardly consistent with the Cornucopia Code of Conduct. Nor would Head Office be thrilled if he gave as his explanation, ‘I was feeling tense about my sex change.'

On his way to his office he passed a notice board which stated ‘General Manager – Mr Nick Divot'. Not for long, he thought with relief. ‘Duty Manager – Mr Ferenc Gulyas'. He wondered what Ferenc would have to say about it. They went back a long way, Ferenc and he. A
long
way.

He felt nervous as he phoned the surgery. Now that was ridiculous. He wasn't even going to tell them what he was phoning about.

He would have to wait until the following Tuesday to see Doctor Rodgerson. ‘Unless it's an emergency.'

‘Er … no, it's not an emergency.'

Doctor Humphries could have seen him that morning, but he didn't want to see Doctor Humphries, nobody did, which was why he could have seen him that morning. He couldn't say to Doctor Humphries, face to face, ‘I'm going to change sex.' It would be hard enough even with Doctor Rodgerson.

The very thought of changing sex made him want to pee. He hurried to the urinals. The cleaning roster hadn't been signed
since 8.12 and it was seven minutes to ten. Oh God. He was running a slack ship.

How he hated standing up to pee. He loathed urinals, the sodden yellowing fag ends, the ineffective blocks of disinfectant, the shared expulsion of urine. Sometimes people even spoke to him. One man had actually commented only the other day, ‘This is where the big nobs hang out.' He'd had to laugh, it was said by a big nob, the Mayor of Throdnall.

All this would change. Everything would change.

As he sat in the surgery he grew very nervous. He was tempted to give the whole thing up, just go up to the desk and say, ‘I feel better. I'm going home. Sorry.' He didn't, of course. He'd spent nearly forty years in the wrong body. He wasn't going to give up now. But, oh God, if every stage was going to be as daunting as this …

Doctor Rodgerson was running late, because he was thorough. Nick was surrounded by coughs and sneezes. By the time he left he'd probably have double pneumonia.

He tried to concentrate on the magazines. ‘Give the marrow a chance,' he read, and ‘The Walsall nobody knows' and ‘ “Why don't we understand apostrophe's any more?” asks Bethany Sizewell.' No use. Even those gems didn't interest him. Sorry, Bethany.

A revolting child was crying. An ugly girl was coughing. He hated surgeries. He started on a bridge problem and as he did so he thought, Oh God, I'll have to transfer to the ladies' team. He began to get into the problem. He thought it must be a question of ruffing three times in the long trump hand. Suddenly he didn't want his name to be called just yet.

‘Nicholas Divot.'

He didn't like hearing his name. He found it faintly ridiculous. He almost said, ‘Yes. Sorry.' He came from a long
line of Yorkshire Divots, which made him sound like mass carelessness on a northern golf course.

His heart was hammering as he walked towards Doctor Rodgerson's surgery. This was the beginning.

‘Good morning, Nick.'

‘Morning, doctor.'

‘What can I do for you?'

‘Er … I want to change sex. I want to become a woman. I want “the operation”.'

‘But …'

Doctor Rodgerson stopped. He didn't need to say any more. Nick could have finished several sentences for him. But this is Throdnall. But you're manager of the Cornucopia Hotel. But I've sat opposite you at the Collinsons' dinner table.

‘You're serious about this, I presume,' he said. ‘You've thought it through.'

‘Oh yes. I've thought it through.'

‘Well you're very brave, Nick,' he said. ‘Very brave.' He sounded quite casual. He could almost have been discussing wine as he said, ‘I haven't had a case of this before.' He was thumbing through a book. ‘I … yes, here we are. Yes, this is a bit beyond my scope, Nick. What I think I have to do now is refer you to a gender identity clinic.'

He asked a few questions and then he stood up and held out his hand.

‘Good luck, Nick,' he said. ‘It's going to be a long haul, I suspect.'

They shook hands. Was it Nick's imagination, or did Doctor Rodgerson almost flinch at the touch of his skin? His expression was disturbingly brave. Was it the tiniest harbinger of what he might have to face?

He had to leave early for his appointment at the gender identity clinic. Alison made him a cooked breakfast. He managed most of
it, though he drew the line at the black pudding. Such a masculine thing.

She drove him to the station. They felt that he might not be fit to drive, his concentration might lapse, and, besides, he'd always been wimpish about car parks. Alison found spaces. He didn't.

He'd got stuff from the library, and he re-read this on the train. He wanted to give a good account of himself.

He didn't get a taxi from the station, because he hadn't the courage to say, ‘Gender identity clinic, please, guv.' He walked the streets of the big city, anonymous in the crowds, a tiny insignificant ant but also a very important person beginning a huge drama. As he got near he began to feel nervous, and when he saw the sign ‘Gender Identity Clinic' on the discreet bland concrete building he panicked and walked straight past. Ridiculous! Nobody he knew could possibly see him here. He forced himself to turn back and enter the clinic proudly, with his head held high.

‘Mr Divot to see Doctor Langridge,' he said, and the receptionist gave him a friendly but not inquisitive smile (very professional, far too good for the Cornucopia; surely if a heart beat under that blouse she must be curious about the kind of patients who went to the clinic?) and invited him to sit down.

He couldn't find a magazine with a bridge problem. He began to read an article with the absurd title of ‘Our Changing Attitudes to Faces. Has the ear had its day?'

Ears were not his problem.

‘Mr Divot?'

Doctor E.F. Langridge, MB ChB FRCPsych FRANZCPsych had a very pleasant, gentle voice. He almost made Nick's surname sound acceptable.

‘Yes,' he replied.

No problem so far! Interview going well!

Doctor Langridge wasn't tall, and he was quite broad, but he
didn't look fat, it was all muscle. Nick thought he'd probably played rugger in his youth.

He shook Nick's hand. Well, it would be more accurate to say that he crushed Nick's hand. Nick's eyes watered. Was the handshake a test of his masculinity? How much did he have to read into everything?

Doctor Langridge's office was like his voice, not his handshake. They sat, not facing each other across a desk but in leather armchairs. The walls were painted in restful pastel colours. They looked as if the clinic had employed a colour psychology stress reduction consultant.