Sex and Other Changes

by David Nobbs

  ‘Alison, I don’t think I should tell you that.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s about time we stopped having secrets?’ Oh ha ha, Alison. Very funny.

  ‘You remember the night Gray was conceived?’

  How could I forget? No, Nick, don’t go into that. Please. Please!

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The last time we … as it happens.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were so … so incredibly loving. I …’

  ‘You were pretty good that night, actually.’

  ‘Yes, but … no.’

  ‘Oh, Nick, you can’t stop now.’

  ‘To … er … to … er … in order to … er …’

  ‘Climax? Come?’

  ‘Yes. I pretended you were a man and I was a woman, Alison. That’s why I was under you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have told me that.’

  She withdrew her hand. She didn’t want to, but she found that she couldn’t not. Queen of the Double Negatives again.

  ‘Oh, Alison, what a mess.’

  ‘There was, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Alison! Don’t be frivolous.’

  ‘Don’t you think we have to be if we’re to survive, Nick? This is all too serious to be taken seriously.’

  ‘On that note, Alison, maybe we should try and get some sleep. We’ll be wrecked in the morning otherwise, and tomorrow we’ll have to tell the family.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One last question, Nick. When did you actually decide to do something about it?’

  ‘Gradually, I suppose. It isn’t something that strikes you in a blinding revelation.’

  It is if you go to Marks and Spencer’s. Oh it is tempting to say that. So tempting. Resist, Alison. Resist.

  ‘Have I … has what I’ve said sort of given you an understanding of how terrible this has all been for me?’

  Yes and no, Nick. No, because words can’t. Yes, because I know that my words to you wouldn’t be … won’t be … any more convincing. Words can only take you so far.

  ‘I suppose I have a grudging understanding, Nick.’

  She wanted to be more generous, but couldn’t. He’d given her such a shock and, which was almost worse, he had no idea that he had.

  ‘Good. Night night, Alison.’

  ‘Night night, Nick.’

  The carriage clock in the dining room struck three. They slept. So close, so far away.

  6 Thank You for Your Support

  Alison was loading the dishwasher, Nick was sipping a glass of Chianti, sip sip sip. His delicate sipping irritated her. She looked across the kitchen table at him. With his soft fine hair, halfway between sandy and blond, and his finely flared, almost equine nostrils, he’d make a more than passable woman, damn him.

  Suddenly Em stormed in, a whirlwind. She’d promised to be back by eight-thirty but it wasn’t even eight o’clock. They stared at her in surprise.

  ‘Men are such bastards,’ she said, and she stormed off to her room for a good cry.

  So young, and so little left to learn, thought Alison. She smiled to herself, grimly. Her desire to become a man wasn’t based on admiration, it was simply a need to correct a monumental mistake. She felt so sorry for Em. Sometimes she looked quite pretty in a rather heavy sort of way, but that evening, in her anger and pain, she looked swollen and almost ugly.

  ‘God, I’m tired,’ said Nick.

  ‘I kept you awake last night. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter – and it isn’t just that. There was a crisis in the kitchens today. Emrys threw a large wobbly.’

  Emrys was a commis chef at the hotel. He was Welsh.

  ‘I must say I feel …’ She wanted to say ‘knackered’. Such a nice masculine word. It didn’t seem appropriate, now, to use masculine words like that. ‘… pretty exhausted myself.’

  She wanted to switch the Ceefax on to see how Spurs were doing. They had a midweek match. But that would infuriate Nick. He hated football. Besides, if they were losing it would only depress her further.

  Nick had asked the family to assemble in the lounge at half past eight ‘for an announcement’. Alison knew that it was silly of her to hate calling it the lounge, but she couldn’t help it. The fact that they had a lounge, not a drawing room, was like a symbol of how far her life had fallen short of what it might have been.

  She plonked herself into the Parker Knoll, because she knew that he liked it. She wasn’t usually petty, but she was still simmering with resentment.

  Bernie was the first to arrive, irritatingly on the dot as always.

  ‘She’s dropped off nicely,’ he said. ‘The International Monetary Fund did the trick.’ A thought struck him. ‘Oh. Did you want me to bring her through? I didn’t think. Is she supposed to hear your famous announcement?’

  Alison looked at Nick, forcing him to take the responsibility of answering.

  ‘Er … no,’ he said. ‘You can … er … relay the news to her tomorrow, Bernie. Let her sleep. After all …’

  He stopped abruptly, to Alison’s intense relief. She had feared that he’d been on the verge of saying something dreadful, like ‘After all, she won’t be around to see it, so it hardly matters.’

  Em arrived soon afterwards, red eyes almost concealed. Alison’s heart bled for her. She’d been very fond of Sam, and it would take months for her to realise that she was well out of it.

  ‘Ah. Em. Splendid,’ said Nick, oblivious to her red eyes. ‘Go and drag Gray out, there’s a good girl.’

  ‘I wouldn’t even if you hadn’t used that ridiculous, patronising and utterly inaccurate description,’ said Em. She had taken to using as many long words as possible, for fear that they’d think that in becoming a journalist she was dumbing down. They’d wanted her to go to university; she might not be the brightest but she could have scraped in to one of the lesser ones if the Collinsons’ boy could. She could have done ‘media studies’ or ‘golf course management’ or ‘PR’ or ‘forestry technology’ or something unacademic. But no, she’d wanted to go straight into ‘the media’, which sounded rather an ambitious phrase when applied to the Throdnall Advertiser. ‘He can drag himself from his self-imposed isolation.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Alison.

  ‘I’ve asked Em to do it,’ said Nick.

  ‘And she’s refused,’ said Alison, ‘and family discipline is not what tonight is about.’

  Nick knew that he had to give way. He was only too aware that he had no natural authority. It was quite a problem at the hotel. Even Ferenc had more natural authority than him. Ferenc could tell the chambermaids, quite quietly, to make less noise in the corridors when the customers were asleep (they weren’t guests any more, they were customers, there had been an edict from Head Office) while Nick had to shout, so the customers were woken by a shrill cry of ‘Cut that bloody racket out. There are people still asleep.’

  ‘OK, thanks, Alison,’ he said irritably.

  Gray came down from his room very grumpily. He hated being interrupted. People told them that he’d grow out of it.

  They all sat down. Nick looked across towards Alison, begging her to help by starting the ball rolling, but she wasn’t having any of that. This was his show. She would offer no help.

  He stood up.

  ‘Er …’ he began, ‘erm … do you all know what a transsexual is?’

  Gray and Em looked stunned. Bernie seemed utterly oblivious to the significance of the question. Alison wondered if his mind was beginning to go, or if it was just worry about Marge.

  ‘Feller what dresses in frocks and knickers,’ he said. ‘We had one in our bowls team. Friday afternoons, as good as anyone in the South Yorkshire League. Saturday evenings, minces off to this club in Wakefield. Vince Brodley.’

  ‘No, Bernie, that’s a transvestite. A transsexual is someone who’s been born the wrong sex and … er … lives as the opposite sex and … er … sometimes even undergoes medical and surgical proc
edures to … er … alter their … er … external sexual … er … characteristics … has what’s known as “the operation”.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Gray.

  Nick looked across at Alison again, for strength. She hadn’t any to give. She was imagining herself making that speech – a little less hesitantly, she hoped, but probably not.

  ‘I … er …’ he resumed. ‘I … er … intend to go through that process. Intend to … er … alter my external sexual … er … characteristics … have what’s known as “the operation”.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Gray. He had a limited vocabulary.

  ‘It’ll kill her,’ said Bernie. ‘The shock’ll kill her.’

  ‘Marge doesn’t need to know,’ said Nick.

  Alison flinched.

  ‘I think she might notice, don’t you?’ said Bernie. ‘She may be ill, she isn’t ga-ga.’

  ‘It’s going to be a long process, Bernie. It doesn’t happen overnight.’

  ‘Are you saying she hasn’t got long to go? She isn’t dying, Nick. She’s in remission.’

  ‘I know,’ said Nick. ‘Of course she isn’t dying. She’s in remission and we’re all delighted. I’m just saying she’ll be able to be introduced to my change very gradually over the years. Of course she isn’t dying. We all know that.’

  Alison wished Nick hadn’t repeated his assurance that Marge wasn’t dying. It sounded hollow. But that’s Nick for you, she thought. If he saw a pudding on the other side of the street he’d cross the road to over-egg it.

  Bernie must have noticed, because he hit out, which wasn’t like him.

  ‘I always thought there was summat wrong wi’ you,’ he said. ‘Summat not quite right. I said to Marge, “Marge,” I said, “there’s summat not quite right about that boy our Alison’s marrying.” ’

  Alison hadn’t intended to support Nick even in the smallest way that night, but Bernie’s attitude struck deep at her sexual political beliefs, and forced her to react.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Dad,’ she said. ‘Most helpful. Nick isn’t a freak. They reckon about one in thirty thousand people are transsexuals.’

  The moment she’d said it, Alison realised her mistake. How could she have known that, if she hadn’t been researching the subject? She felt that she’d given herself away. She blushed.

  ‘Unusual,’ she continued hastily, ‘but not a freak. Brave too. I will support him to the hilt.’

  She was making the speech she would have liked Nick to have made to her. She hoped that he’d come over and give her a kiss, or at least a hug, some physical recognition of her support and of the enormous self-sacrifice which he didn’t know she was making.

  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.

  7 The Die is Cast

  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.