The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (22 page)

Throwing her letters into the dark mouth of the post box, she darted down Thurso Lane. She took off her shoes, her breath ragged now, and held them as she sprinted. The pavement bruised her soles. The friendly cat shot away to hide. The night was torn by the howls of those men who hated her so, calling for her as
though they were looking for a lost dog.
Tran-nee! Where are you, Tranny?

She tripped and fell down the area steps. The impact knocked the breath out of her but she forced herself to her feet, fumbling with her keys.
Wrong one, wrong one, bloody hell, where is it?
The security light was a beacon, marking her out to a hostile world. Her tights had ripped; her leg smarted where she’d grazed it.

At last, she had the door open.
Thank God
. As she fell inside, the robin stopped singing and flew away.

Twenty-four

Kate

She wasn’t a morning person. Never had been, never would be. The fact that recently she’d been at her old school desk by seven o’clock every morning was testament to just how keen she was to make some progress. She’d spent hours sweating over this writeup, cursing herself for not nailing it when she first got home. She never pulled her finger out until she was staring a deadline in the face. Last-minute-dot-com. Well, she was paying for it now.

Mind you, it was tough to concentrate on the long-buried bichrome pottery of a civilisation that died out three thousand years ago when your own family was smashing pottery right here, right now, in your own kitchen. She had the precious shard of red and yellow on the desk in front of her. It was her talisman.

Simon had got her all stirred up again on Saturday. He’d arrived at Smith’s Barn in a state, raving about how he’d seen Dad cross-dressed at the flat the day before. Luckily, Mum was out for lunch with Stella. Kate had never seen her brother in such a mess. He didn’t touch the coffee she made him. Instead, he poured himself a couple of very stiff gins and knocked them back. She warned him he’d be over the limit. He said he’d be fine—but he wasn’t fine. He was marching around, all over the kitchen, talking and talking.

‘The man was wearing tights,’ he kept saying. The wig, the earrings and the dress were bad, but it was the tights that had really got to him. ‘Tights, Kate.
Tights
. Jesus.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I walked out.’

‘I’m seeing him next week,’ said Kate, and explained about her move to the new flat. ‘I’ll be dropping some stuff off at Thurso Lane.’

Simon looked as though she’d dropped a scorpion down his back. ‘Don’t do that, for Christ’s sake! Don’t go near him. Leave your gear with us. We’ve got space in our cellar.’

‘Thanks, but Dad’s place is a lot more convenient.’

‘Don’t be beholden to him. Just don’t. It’s demeaning, it’s . . .’ Simon put his face into his hands. His cage had been rattled, all right. ‘Tights! Christ. I wouldn’t even know how to put on a pair of tights.’

Kate had pretended she didn’t mind Dad wearing tights and a wig and anything else he wanted to wear, but it wasn’t the truth. Not at all. It was too much to take in. Too much to understand. Just . . . too much.

It was Monday now, and she was coming apart at the seams. No matter how hard she tried to concentrate on work, she kept imagining a pantomime dame—sequinned and feathered and stiletto-heeled, with a clown’s painted mouth and false eyelashes. She imagined the dame mincing about, twirling her handbag and talking in a falsetto. It wouldn’t be especially funny on a stage at Christmas; it was seriously unfunny when it was your own father. Maybe Simon had a point. Maybe a shrink could retune him, like a mechanic fixing a car. If only life were that simple.

By nine a.m. she wanted more coffee. She
really
wanted coffee. She mustn’t stop, though. She had to work until ten before she could reward herself.

Lipstick?

If it had been someone else’s father, she’d have been a cheerleader! ‘Be true to yourself,’ she’d have said. ‘You only live once.
Be a man, be a woman, be androgynous—who cares, so long as you’re a good person?’

This was different. This was Dad.

The post van turned into the drive. It was all the excuse she needed. Good old Bryan, she thought as she jumped down the last few stairs. Nice, normal, dependable Bryan the postie. They’d gone to school together; he was one of the gang who used to play British Bulldogs in the hay meadow. He had two kids now, though, and a beer gut, and looked shagged out every time she saw him.

He rolled out of his van holding an electricity bill, a bright yellow envelope announcing that ‘The Householder was
The Lucky Winner of £1,000,000!!!
’, and two identical cream envelopes addressed to her and Eilish. She recognised her father’s regular, tidy handwriting. She’d learned at the age of ten that his writing was easier than her mother’s to forge, and had put this discovery to good use.

Unfortunately, Kate cannot take part in the cross-country run today. She has a sprained ankle.

Kate was off school yesterday with a vomiting bug and a high fever.

She was finally caught after handing in this piece of literary fiction:

Kate was unable to complete her homework last night, despite her best efforts. We had distant cousin’s visiting from Dubai.

It was the apostrophe that led to her downfall. Her primary school teacher smelled a rat and phoned home to ask about the ‘distant cousin’s’, and Kate was rumbled. She spent every lunchtime of the next week in detention, writing lines:
There is no apostrophe in a plural.

Bryan was in a mood to chat. ‘You home for good?’ he asked.

‘’Fraid not. Leaving tomorrow. It’s back to the big smoke for me.’

He looked up at the house. ‘Mr Livingstone still away?’

‘Mm.’

‘Haven’t seen him for a while.’

‘No.’

‘Sophie in the pub says he doesn’t come in anymore, and my wife Jo—she’s parent rep on the school board—she mentioned in passing that he’s missed a couple of meetings. He sent his apologies. But, seeing as he’s chair, they were a bit surprised.’

‘Sorry about that. Flat out at work.’ Well, it was probably true. Dad was always flat out at work.

Bryan didn’t believe her, of course; it must have been painfully obvious that the Livingstone family were in trouble. It was only a matter of time before the true reason came out. That’ll set the lace curtains twitching, thought Kate, as she dropped Eilish’s post on the kitchen table.

Then she went back outside, and sat under Charlotte’s maple tree to open the letter from her father. Branches shivered above her head, stirred by the breath of a breeze. She wished Charlotte were alive. She’d always imagined a girl with russet hair, like the leaves of her tree. Her older sister would have been wise and calm. If she’d been here, she would have known what to think about all this; and perhaps Dad would have been happier if Charlotte hadn’t died. He’d been a lovely father, of course, but for as long as she could remember there had been nights when he didn’t sleep and left for work at four in the morning; days when he seemed to be somewhere else, even though he was present. As she grew up, Kate had assumed that this darkness came when Charlotte died.

There was one terrible memory, one she tried never to revisit and pretended was just a dream. This tree must have been much smaller then, but so was Kate. She was little but wiry, tucked in among the leafy summer boughs, watching millions of thistledown heads float up into the blue. She felt happy. No school for
weeks, and tomorrow they were off to Wales for their summer holiday at the beach.

Dad was coming across the lawn. He’d been in one of those quiet moods when Mum would kiss him and ask, ‘All right, darling?’ and he’d say that he was but then go and shut himself in his study. Mum used to explain that it was all to do with the stresses of his job, and nothing to worry about. Ten-year-old Kate wished he’d choose another job. From up in Charlotte’s tree, she noticed that his head was down; he was bent over, as though he didn’t have quite enough bones in his body to hold him up. He was wearing his nice green jersey that Mum gave him. Kate grinned to herself. She’d wait until he got closer and then give him a fright by leaping down. That would make him laugh for sure, and she wanted him to laugh.

He came up to the tree and stood under it with his forehead leaning against the trunk. Kate was about to jump out when she heard him say something out loud. She caught the words
God
and
hate you.
Who did he hate? God? How could anyone hate God? Then, all of a sudden, he did something awful; something she didn’t understand, even years later. He punched himself—not once but lots of times—all over his body, even in the balls, which, according to Simon, was the worst place a boy can get hit. Kate watched with her mouth hanging open, thinking he’d gone mad.

Even when he stopped hitting himself, the terrible thing wasn’t over. Kate heard the most frightening sound ever: her dad crying. It was all wrong. Adults didn’t cry, children cried. Dad’s crying was in a deep man’s voice, and it made her feel sick. She knew she was watching something really, really secret, something she should never have seen. Was he crying for Charlotte? Then other, worse, possibilities occurred to her. What if he was dying of cancer? What if he and Mum were getting a divorce?

The next moment, he’d stopped crying and pulled his hankie out of his pocket. He was looking towards the house. Kate looked too, and saw Simon standing on the terrace, holding the telephone.

‘Dad!’ he shouted. ‘Da-a-ad? You out here? It’s Grandad!’

Dad pressed the hankie into his eyes and took a deep breath before yelling,
Right you are!
Kate watched as he sprinted across to take the phone. How could he be running, or talking to Grandpa, when he was so sad and probably dying of cancer?

The next day they set off for Wales. The parents shared the driving, while Kate—for once—sat quietly and didn’t wind Simon up. Dad seemed all right today, no signs of dying, so Kate pretended nothing had happened. Gradually the memory had lost its sharp edges, and she’d begun to hope she’d dreamed the whole thing.

Full circle. Here she was, twelve years on, visiting Charlotte’s tree and shit-scared again. She knew now, of course. She knew what had been torturing her dad that day.

The letter was printed, but there was also a handwritten note in blue ink. Kate was pretty sure he’d used the pen they gave him for his birthday. Simon had had it engraved, and asked if she would like to contribute. Sweet, really. That boy had his good moments.

Darling Kate, this letter explains itself. I have—as you would say—cocked up big-time. Recent events have demonstrated that people must be warned to expect changes in me. If they are not warned, and are caught unawares, they may be very shocked. I must be totally open from now on, every step of the way.

Kate reread this paragraph. The wording bothered her, especially as her dad had a gift for understatement.
Recent events? What frigging recent events?

I’m sending Mum a copy too, though she and I discussed these things when we met some weeks ago. Thank you for keeping her company. I know it isn’t fair to ask you to carry so much. I am only beginning to find out who I am, but I do know who
you are. You are my brilliant, tolerant and beautiful daughter. I do not deserve you, but I do love you.

Dad XXXXX

Kate lay flat on her back. She could see nothing but endless blue, dappled by Charlotte’s leaves. This lawn had always been mossy. The grass felt like a dry cushion under her head, smelling of herbs. She lifted the letter up in front of her face.

My dear family,

I am writing to all of you so that there are no more secrets. Keeping this secret for so long has been my greatest sin.

The word ‘sorry’ is hopelessly tame. I’ll say it anyway. I am sorry.

It is difficult to write this letter. Difficult, because I am trying to express feelings which I barely understand. Difficult, because I know I am hurting all of you. But I must try. My behaviour will seem like madness, selfishness, or perversion to you. I did not do at all well when I first tried to explain to some of you. I am sorry (there’s that inadequate word again) that I was not prepared. The decision to confess took me by surprise—though not, I appreciate, as much as it did you.

In some fundamental way, most people’s minds match their bodies. You, Kate, don’t like the labels of ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’. I applaud that in you. But the fact is that you’ve always been allowed to live, dress, talk, and express yourself freely. I have not been so lucky. I’ve said that I feel trapped in the wrong kind of body. It’s worse than that, really. It’s as though the real me is smothered underneath the false one—alive, but unable to speak or move.

Those of you who are female, please try this bit of mental gymnastics: imagine waking up one day and finding that there’s been some switch—maybe an alien abduction!—and you now inhabit a male body. You mustn’t wear jewellery or make-up anymore. Your hair must be cut. You can’t wear
feminine clothes or shoes or anything remotely pretty, even underwear. None. You have to pretend you have no interest in those things. Your body is all the wrong shape and size, and you hate it, so you try to avoid mirrors. From now on you’re treated as a man by other women. You have to fit in with men. You have to pretend to be one of them. You must talk as they do, be interested only in what interests them. You must never, ever slip up. You live in constant terror of slipping up, and with constant inner turmoil.

Now imagine that this is a life sentence. You will live, love, die and be buried in that wrong body. Nobody will ever know who you really are.

This was me. I became exhausted. I became brokenhearted. I couldn’t go on.

That’s all very well, you say, but what’s unforgivable is the fact that I lied for so long! I have no defence—except to say that I fell head over heels in love with a girl called Eilish French. I was under her spell, and remain so to this day. Everything would be all right, I was sure, if she would share my life with me. I dared to hope. Was I so wrong to grasp at happiness? And, of course, having married her, I had to keep going. And so the years went on, and I kept on burying my real self.