by David Nobbs
Was she interested because she was going to be a woman, she wondered. Would she end up saying to him, ‘Take me, Ferenc’?
No, because he wouldn’t.
She realised that while she had been musing he’d been speaking, and she had no idea what he’d said. That wouldn’t do. That wasn’t masterful (should that be ‘mistressfuP now, or was that politically incorrect? Personful? Concentrate!)
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘What did you say?’
‘I asked you – I should think it’s a question anyone would feel that they must ask – why you are wearing ladies’ clothes?’
‘Good question. Very good question. So I’d like you to divide the staff into two in such a way that while one lot hear me speak the other lot will be able to keep the place ticking over. I’ll … er … the Aston Suite’s free today, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll use the Aston Suite. One lot at eleven, the other at eleven-thirty. I’d like you to be there as well, Ferenc, for one of those times.’
She smiled, quite mistressfully. It was a good moment and she was determined to enjoy it. She sat back in her chair behind her neat desk and crossed her legs luxuriously. She had completely forgotten that she had balls and a prick and as she crossed her legs they got badly squashed inside her tights. It was excruciating.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Never better, Ferenc,’ she gasped. ‘In the pink.’
The worst of the pain passed and she stood up very carefully, and tried to move her legs in such a way that her genitalia would cease to stick together and would rediscover their separate identities. In vain! There was nowhere for them to go. Her surprising feeling of well-being ebbed away. She found the prospect of carrying her male private parts around in her knickers for two whole years deeply depressing.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes. Yes. I was just wondering if my skirt was straight.’
‘Er … yes … yes. Pretty straight.’
‘It’s difficult when you’re not used to it.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll get used to it.’
His eyes widened slightly.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going in for a sex change,’ he said.
She supposed that it was inevitable that he would guess – there weren’t that many possible explanations – but it added to her sudden feeling of flatness. It rather took the gilt off her gingerbread. Nick had always felt that he was a man destined to have the gilt taken off his gingerbread, and now it looked as if things might not be very different for Nicola.
It was to be expected, on this dramatic morning and with all the hormones that were coursing through her body, that Nicola should experience mood swings. As she stepped on to the raised platform at the end of the Aston Suite she no longer felt flat. Yes, she was nervous. Yes, she realised that she must cut a rather absurd figure. (Not that absurd, though. She had looked at herself in the mirror in the Ladies’, and thought that on the whole she really wasn’t too bad; she could have imagined fancying her if she had been a man, which of course she had been, so probably she wasn’t a bad judge.) But above all she felt – perhaps for the first time in her life – that she was interesting. She sensed a crackling tension in her audience, not the usual ‘Oh God it’s him again’, but ‘What’s going on?’
She felt a surge of great joy. Her liberation had begun.
The room had been arranged in lecture mode, with rows of chairs facing her. It was far from full, and her audience had gathered themselves into little clusters – kitchen staff and waiters at the back where they could giggle and whisper – receptionists, office staff and management at the front, looking serious and corporate – a gaggle of chambermaids to the left, huddling together for comfort in this formal set-up – a couple of porters to the right – one of the barmen all on his own to the left.
Behind and beside her audience there were photographs of various Aston Villa stars of the past. She had learnt their names. Charlie Athersmith (who once took an umbrella on to the pitch), Pongo Waring, Ron Saunders, Charlie Aitken, Peter McParland. She’d never in her heart of hearts given a damn about them, but now she had a fanciful feeling that even they were interested, they looked interested, especially Pongo Waring, and her heart warmed to them.
She launched straight into it.
‘You’ll all be wondering why I’m dressed as a woman,’ she said, and then she explained about the operation, the Real Life Test, etcetera. There were one or two sniggers. She saw Emrys, the Welsh commis chef, murmuring something that was only too obviously obscene to Paulo, the Portuguese sommelier, whose gammy leg made it so difficult for him to cut an adequately authoritative figure as he bore down on customers with the dismal wine list. She saw the chef, Leonard Balby, turn and hiss at Emrys for silence. There was a snake’s venom in that hiss. Nick had always given thanks when each week went by without a drowned body in the potage du jour.
‘Snigger if you must,’ she said, and all sniggering stopped abruptly. ‘I hope I don’t look too grotesque, but I have no illusions that, even with the hormone treatment, I will ever be another Marilyn Monroe. I don’t mind a few laughs, we’re all human, but please remember at all times to preserve the dignity of the hotel.’
The dignity of the hotel! Even as she said it she realised how OTT it sounded, but nobody smiled – not outwardly, anyway.
‘I will be known as Ms Nicola Divot. Please would you adjust the board in the foyer, Naomi?’
Naomi nodded. She was from New Zealand. She was attractive in a sturdy, outdoor way. What on earth was she doing in Throdnall?
‘Why am I doing this?’ Nicola asked rhetorically. ‘Because I have never been happy with my gender. All my life I have been uncomfortable. I have never felt a real man.’
‘I have,’ whispered Tracey too loudly. Nick would have glared. Nicola had to resist the temptation to give her a smile as one woman to another.
‘I come now to a very serious point,’ she continued. ‘Head Office doesn’t yet know, and I’d like to have time to show them that the efficiency of the hotel is unimpaired before they summon me. I ask, therefore, for complete silence about this. That is the loyalty I demand. I do suggest that if I go you may get somebody much less easy to work with. So, please, no idle gossip. I don’t want the local press finding out about it just yet. Even my own daughter, who works for them, is sworn to silence.’
At the end of the talk she asked if there were any questions.
‘Yes,’ said Iris from the office. ‘This is probably a silly question, but which toilets will you use?’
‘It isn’t a silly question at all,’ she said. ‘I’m dressed as a woman, but I am still technically a man. I believe that to comply with the law of the land I ought to continue to use the Gents’, but in order not to look out of place I intend to use the Ladies’ from now on. I trust none of you will grass on me, and if I forget myself at first and use the Gents’, somebody remind me, please.’
‘How please should we address you?’ asked Paulo.
‘That’s another good question. You already address me in different ways, so … er … if you’ve called me “sir” it’ll become “ma’m”, I suppose. Nick will become Nicola, and Mr Divot becomes Ms Divot.’
The new young porter went a bit red and began to speak. He didn’t look more than sixteen. He had a Black Country accent as thick as soot, and his skin was an eruption of spots. It was brave of him to contribute.
‘I want to say something, Ms,’ he began. ‘It’s … er … well it’s not exactly a question exactly like, but what it is is … I’ve had the … you know, been told like … I suppose I shouldn’t be saying this, I’ll get into trouble like … been told that you’re … you know … like a bit of a wimp like.’
There was a gasp. Ferenc turned and glared at the other porter, the long, thin one with the big nose with the drip on the end of it every time he went out to get luggage. Clearly Ferenc thought he was the one to have said that Nick had been a wimp. N
icola missed nothing on this morning of high awareness.
‘No, please, carry on,’ said Nicola.
‘Well, I don’t think you are a wimp like. I don’t know what anybody else thinks, but I think what you’re doing, I think it shows a lot of … er …’
‘Balls,’ interrupted Leonard Balby. He was from Goole.
Nicola was furious with Leonard, but she knew that she mustn’t show it, she would have to ride with the laugh.
‘Yes, I still have those,’ she said, and she could see that one or two of the girls thought that surprisingly risqué of her.
‘No, well, yes,’ continued the young porter with the spots. ‘I mean it takes guts like to do it and guts like to face us, and I just want to say, “Ms … good luck like.” ’
Nicola was moved, and she sensed that the lad wasn’t the only person in the room to feel some admiration for her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and she realised that her voice was going to crack. Oh God. How un-British. She could feel tears welling in her eyes; if she was as emotional as this on the first day what would she be like as a fully-fledged woman? She couldn’t bear to break down in front of her staff. Desperately she plunged into Cornucopia-speak. ‘And I think it illustrates something important about the Cornucopia Code of Conduct. We are all a family – the Cornucopia family. Every one of us is valuable – even invaluable.’ In the Code of Conduct booklet it actually said, ‘Never forget that in every Cornucopia inn every member of staff is inn-valuable.’ ‘Everyone is a member of the team,’ continued Nicola, ‘but also a valued individual. How fitting, how quintessentially Cornucopian, that I, your General Manager, should receive support and praise from the newest member of our team.’ Nicola felt that she was making something rather wonderful out of it – a truly beautiful corporate moment. ‘Thank you very much indeed, Mike.’
‘My name’s Mark,’ said the young porter.
Ferenc smirked. Nicola could imagine Alison, if she’d been there, cringing.
It was clear that while some things were going to change now that she was no longer Nick – she would feel like smiling at cheeky chambermaids instead of glaring – others would remain the same.
She would still not be able to manage beautiful moments without spoiling them.
11 Broken Nuts
Alison felt sick in the stomach as she shepherded the Peugeot through the rush hour traffic. The sky was dark and lifeless. A bus had broken down just before the Colton roundabout, on which the flowers were sponsored by Rentokil. There is something deeply depressing about a broken-down bus. All that power nullified.
But the bus wasn’t the cause of her feeling sick. The cause was four-fold:
1) She felt so anxious for Nicola. She knew how difficult things would be for her on her first day.
2) She felt so anxious, by extension, for herself, and for the day when she would first drive up Sir Nigel Gresley Boulevard in men’s clothes.
3) She felt very nervous about telling Mr Beresford about Nicola’s sex change. Mr Beresford wasn’t an easy man to talk to about anything, let alone a sex change.
4) She had received a very disturbing letter from Customer Services at the Royal Mail. Would she arrange a meeting to discuss her serious allegations against her postman?
She was tempted to do another illegal U-turn in Sir Nigel Gresley Boulevard – there was something about Mr Beresford, some indefinable hint of darkness, which made him difficult to be with, however immaculate his behaviour – but she had to face him. She couldn’t get into the habit of inventing migraines.
She showed her car pass at the gate, even though it was Leroy and they went back years.
She always felt so tiny, sliding along the edge of the great carriage sheds in her little car. At the end of the sheds she turned right and crossed the railway lines that came out of them and snaked through the industrial estate to the main line. Round the back, she parked against the brick wall of the Administration Block. A notice on the wall above her parking space proudly announced to the world, ‘Personal Assistant to Mr Beresford’. She’d have preferred it if it had just said, ‘Mrs Divot’. She took the form of words as a reminder that she wasn’t indispensable.
Mr Beresford was in. She could see his Daimler. Damn. She was only a minute or two late but he was a stickler for punctuality.
She climbed the creaky stairs and walked along the corridor that ran the length of the block, affording a view over the canal to the out-of-town shopping centre with its phoney Greek pillars, its B & Q and its Toys Us.
Halfway along the corridor there was a door, and beyond it the corridor was carpeted. She had entered first class.
The carpet had been decorated with white circles which held the letters TcW, the uninspiring logo of Throdnall Carriage Works. In the early days Carriage Works had been spelt as one word, but that had given an even less inspiring logo, so it had been changed.
The corridor ended at the door to Mr Beresford’s office. Her office was just before that, on the right. It was much smaller than Mr Beresford’s. That didn’t worry her, but it was somewhat galling that it was exactly the same size as Connie’s next door, and Connie was only PA – well, glorified secretary really – to Mr Beresford’s second-in-command, the aptly-named Mr Bland.
She sometimes tried to think, ‘Millions are starving in Africa, forget the size of your office and pray for an end to famine.’ She didn’t often pray – she didn’t believe in God, she only prayed very occasionally as security in case she was wrong – but when she did pray she prayed for an end to famine in Africa and a larger office.
‘Mrs A. Divot’. One day that sign would say ‘Mr A. Divot’. She felt exhausted just at the thought of the long journey she had to make, just to lose an ess.
She entered her office and, as she began to take her coat off, she looked down through her internal window on to the great sheds where the carriages rotated slowly and were added to by extremely complicated machines. She saw that strange, repetitive world and didn’t ever enter it. She was of it and not of it.
Before she’d finished taking her coat off, Mr Beresford was through the adjoining door and saying, ‘Ah! Mrs Divot! You’re here!’, which was Beresfordese for ‘Three minutes late again.’
‘Yes. Park Road was very congested.’
He gave a thin smile. That’s why we should leave home five minutes earlier, isn’t it? shouted his thin smile.
‘If you have a moment, Mrs Divot.’ Beresfordese for ‘Come into my office instantly.’
She had a moment. She went into his office instantly.
‘Nice weekend?’ The interest was perfunctory.
‘Very nice.’
‘Do anything interesting?’
Bought a complete set of women’s clothes for my husband. Showed him how to use make-up, did a dummy run in the en suite, showed him how to walk and sit as a woman.
‘No, not really.’
‘Fine. Fine. Good. Excellent.’ He handed her a sheet of names. ‘Late payers. Send them all a very stiff warning.’
‘Right.’
‘How’s your husband?’ Perfunctory!
‘She’s very well, thank you.’
‘Good. Good. Excellent. Get on to … what? “She”?’
‘Yes, Mr Beresford. My husband has begun the process of having a sex change.’
‘Shit!!’
She had hardly ever heard him swear.
‘Well, no,’ she said. ‘I’m actually being …’
‘What? No, no. No, no. I was meaning this email. Mercia First Southern have found broken nuts on two carriage wheels. Two different carriages. That’s all I need. That is all I need.’
He went to the internal window and looked down into the sheds, as if he thought he might be able to spot some broken nuts.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes. Yes. Nasty. Very awkward. Sex change? Good God!’
He sounded really disgusted. Suddenly, amazingly, through the external windows, they saw the sun burst throug
h a gap in the thick clouds, and a single shaft of sunlight lit up the canal behind them. No sunlight ever penetrated into the carriage sheds.
‘I’m so sorry, Alison,’ he said.
He’d never called her Alison before. She’d often suspected that he wanted to, but he was a bit of a stickler for the proprieties, was Mr Beresford.
The sun went in again behind its black duvet. It had given a brief glimpse of what the day might have been like. Now it seemed darker and more depressing than ever.
‘Get on to Mercia First Southern, will you, Mrs Divot?’ said Mr Beresford, and she had a strange feeling that the clouds had also closed in on her name, and she would never be sunny Alison again to Mr Beresford. ‘Get the numbers of the two carriages off them.’
‘Certainly, Mr Beresford.’
‘Oh, what a thing.’
She had to be very alert, to work out when he was talking about Nicola’s sex change and when he was talking about railway carriages.
‘Well actually, Mr Beresford, I don’t really mind. I understand.’
‘What? But the man’s turning into a freak.’
‘No. No! That’s exactly what he isn’t turning into, Mr Beresford. He feels that he’s been a freak. He says that every time someone changes sex, there’s one less freak in the world.’
‘Sorry. I can’t agree with you. If the good Lord had meant him to be a woman he’d have made him a woman. So when is he having the operation?’ A dreadful thought struck Mr Beresford. ‘I hope you won’t be wanting time off.’
‘No, Mr Beresford.’ For mine, yes, but not for his. God, imagine his face when I tell him about mine. ‘And it won’t be for a couple of years. He has to live in society as a woman for two years.’
‘Good God! That is completely over the top! That is ridiculous!’
‘Well, actually, I can see the point, Mr Beresford.’
‘What? Oh, no. No, no. No, I was reading down this email. They want us to recall every carriage. Every carriage, for goodness sake! That would be disastrous. Disastrous from a financial perspective. Disastrous from a public confidence perspective. Disastrous logistically. Just plain disastrous. Right, get those carriage numbers and then get on to Balshaw and see if they’re from the same batch.’