Becoming Nancy

by Terry Ronald

  ‘I’ve got an idea of what you’d like to submerge yourself in!’ Frances had taunted on Friday afternoon during my wig-fitting, and we’d both cackled like fishwives. Surely she must know, I thought; must have realized by now. But then I thought: realized what, exactly? There was nothing to know yet … was there?

  ‘Oh my gosh, Starr! Ye canna wear that bloody wig!’ Hamish said, bustling into the costume room with his arms full of orphans’ breeches, pointing at the sleek, blonde-bobbed hair I was fussing with. ‘You’re a Georgian whore, not one of Charlie’s Angels. I’m certain we can find a more suitable hairpiece for you than that.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ I said, feeling thwarted.

  Hamish threw the trousers into a pile and said, ‘I’d actually like a word, David, if you don’t mind … in private, please!’

  His face was solemn, and I became slightly alarmed, turning to Frances in a hushed panic, but she was no use.

  ‘I’ll meet you by the football pitch after last bell,’ she whispered.

  And then she disappeared, leaving me perched anxiously on a hamper in the cramped costume room – formerly the art cupboard – with Mr McClarnon.

  He looked on edge, and he was wearing a singularly unconvincing grin and fidgeting with a mob cap. What the hell was all this about? I felt myself flush slightly, and the longer he said nothing, the worse it got. Was there something amiss with my portrayal of Nancy? Maybe he’d decided that having a boy play her wasn’t such a good idea after all. I finally decided to pre-empt any possible denigration of my artistry and speak up.

  ‘Is it my performance in the tavern, sir?’ I said assertively. ‘Is that what you want to talk to me about? Only, if it is, I have to say in my defence that I’m entirely hampered by an extremely shoddy Bet. Sonia Barker is wholly inept, and not nearly good enough to play her, particularly with those cuts all up and down her arm; and unless we write it into the script that Bet has consumption or some other life-threatening, lung-related ailment, I think we should try to get her to stop coughing every five minutes and wiping her nose on her leg-o-mutton sleeve: she’s second-row chorus at best, sir!’

  Hamish laughed, thawing instantly and pulling a packet of cigarettes out of his tan jumbo corduroys.

  ‘Do ye mind?’

  I shook my head and he lit up.

  ‘You want one?’

  I shook my head again, and he sat down next to me on an upturned dustbin.

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with your performance, David. I’m very happy wi’ that,’ he said softly. ‘The thing is, though, I’ve observed your behaviour around young Maxie Boswell and I wanted te talk te ye about it.’

  I was shaken, and felt like I might vomit into the Artful Dodger’s top hat, which was sitting beside me on the hamper. Hamish put his hand on my shoulder, evidently sensing my agitation.

  ‘Now, don’t go fretting. You’ve done nothing wrong in my eyes, son, but I notice how animated you become when the lad’s about, and I detect a certain … what can I say … chemistry, almost … perhaps even … flirting, on your part. Would you agree with that, or am I talkin’ outa my behind?’

  I could feel the corner of my eye twitching, and I got the distinct feeling that Mr McClarnon was now wishing he’d never started the conversation at all. But I was intrigued and somewhat delighted, to be honest, not to mention flattered, that someone had noticed the apparent bond between Maxie and me. Hamish ploughed on, clearly selecting his words with some prudence.

  ‘I’m just worried, David. I know what some of the other kids call ye sometimes, and I see how ye get when you’re around him … and … well, ye might not be doing yourself any favours running around like Marianne Dashwood, if ye know what I mean. Do you know what I mean, David?’

  There was a snow globe on the shelf opposite me. It had a fairy in it. I looked into it, unable to speak, unable to answer Mr McClarnon. But I had to answer him. I had a choice to make, and I had to make it then and there – for myself if for no one else.

  ‘Do ye … like him?’ Hamish almost whispered.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are ye attracted to him? You’re very tactile with him, I notice. I think other people might – Bob Lord said something to me just yesterday about how he thinks you’re distracting the boy from his sports. And besides that, I’m not sure if Maxie would … I’m uncertain that he’s … David, do ye think you might be gay? There, I’ve said it!’

  Hamish took a huge drag on his Marlboro.

  ‘It’s no bad thing if y’are – and if you’re not, I’m dead sorry for bringing it up; but you see, being gay myself, and having been a gay kid myself, I sorta notice this kind of thing, d’ye ken?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Yes what?’

  I gathered every bit of courage within myself, as if I were about to leap off a high ledge into a swollen river. I stared directly at the fairy trapped in the glass bubble of the snow globe, and I said, ‘Yes. I think I might be gay. I think I’m gay. I like boys. I fancy boys. I fancy … I’m in love with Maxie Boswell.’

  And right then and there, I was sick in the Artful Dodger’s top hat.

  Frances was loitering by the goalposts, chomping her way through a bag of Frazzles, when I arrived at the pitch to meet her twenty minutes later. An uninterested goalie was kicking up bits of turf beside her, and there were jackets and sports bags strewn all around the vicinity.

  ‘What was that all about?’ she muttered, not taking her eyes off the ongoing Friday-night footy training.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, it must have been something,’ she bristled. ‘He wasn’t coming on to you, was he?’

  ‘Don’t be soft,’ I said.

  And I leaned on the goalpost she was resting against, so we were shoulder to shoulder. The goalkeeper, who was now having a crack at spitting, ignored us.

  ‘Mr McClarnon wanted to know if I was gay, that’s all,’ I said casually, and reasonably quietly.

  ‘Oh! And what did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him I was. Can I have a Frazzle?’

  Frances offered me the packet, glaring at me attentively.

  ‘Oh!’ she said again, clearly desperate to sound matter-of-fact-ish about the whole affair. ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘He said that I could go and talk to him at any time, and about anything, even things about sex, and that I was to go careful around Maxie Boswell and try not to flutter my eyelashes at him.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve noticed you do that,’ Frances affirmed. ‘And?’

  ‘And that there is nothing wrong with me, and that I should be proud of who I am.’

  ‘And who are you?’ Frances laughed. ‘Martina Navratilova?’

  That started me off laughing too, but then Frances went all serious.

  ‘Are you, then?’ she said. ‘Proud?’

  She stepped in front of me, and glared at me with a sudden gravity in her eyes that jarred me.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘More terrified than proud,’ I said. ‘I’ve never said it out loud to another living person, to be honest, and I’m not quite sure why I’m saying it now.’

  I looked towards the sky.

  ‘Perhaps love has made me brave,’ I said.

  Frances rolled her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ she snorted.

  At that moment the ball rolled towards us and stopped only yards from our feet. Hollering and whistling from the pitch ensued, and one of the players came racing up to us. It was Maxie.

  ‘Hey, you two!’ he said.

  He was bathed in evening summer light and looked quite beautiful. Suddenly I knew I’d done the right thing.

  ‘I didn’t know you were practising tonight,’ I said breezily, struggling not to admire the thick shape detectable under his snug shorts.

  ‘Afraid so,’ Maxie laughed. ‘Mr Lord’s roped me in on the fucking swimming team as well, now.’

  ‘Really?’ I semi-lunged forward, surprising even myself.

  ‘Oh, for
fuck’s sake!’ Frances interjected. ‘Hadn’t you better get back to the game, Maxie? You’ll be in the shit if you hang around over here.’

  ‘It’s half-time,’ Maxie said. ‘Anyway, I wanted to ask you two what you were doing next weekend? My mum and dad are going to Southend, so I thought you could both come over to my place. We could get a Chinese, and maybe do some line-learning after.’

  Frances kissed her teeth.

  ‘I hain’t got n’ damn lines,’ she laughed, exaggerating her West Indian twang, which she knew I loved. ‘And you two fuckers should know all yours backwards by now, the amount of time you’ve spent cosying up together learning them.’

  I felt myself redden, and Maxie giggled.

  ‘Anyway, we’re going to the Rock Against Racism gig in Brockwell Park next Sunday, aren’t we, David?’ Frances went on.

  ‘Well, it’s not definite, is it?’ I said. I’m a fickle spirit, to be honest.

  ‘Really?’ Maxie looked excited. ‘Ah! I’d bloody love to go to that with you guys. That’d be fantastic! Do you mind?’

  Frances seemed pleased.

  ‘The more the merrier, crushing the rise of the Nazi scum, as far as I’m concerned,’ she said. ‘Mr McClarnon is going with us, and Mr and Mrs Peacock. It’ll be a right laugh! There’ll be wicked bands playing, too!’

  ‘Yeah!’ I said. ‘It’ll be amazing!’

  I was suddenly coming round to the idea, for some reason.

  ‘Cool! It’s a date!’ Maxie declared.

  Date! He actually said, a date! I thought for a moment I might faint.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Frances concluded. ‘Bring some cider.’

  The three of us chattered on, propped against the goalposts, scheduling our upcoming excursion as a burst of deep September sun fell across the green of the school football pitch. Presently Mr Lord headed towards us with a few of the team – including Jason Lancaster, who was rummaging around inside his shorts as per. I had a feeling there might be a bit of bother, so I stood up straight.

  ‘Are you coming back to us again, Boswell?’ Mr Lord enquired superciliously. ‘Or are you stopping here with these girls?’

  Bob Lord was a short man with a shiny face and head to match. He was from Wigan, or somewhere equally grim, but affected an inexcusable Cockney accent: nobody knew why. He was also a so-called born-again Christian, and as far as I could fathom, his particular rebirth into the faith must have entailed an acquisition of sneering sarcasm and mean-spirited malevolence.

  ‘What is your story, Starr?’ Mr Lord said, turning to me, his voice measured and contemptuous. ‘Why are you here? You don’t like football. Seems like every time I turn around you’re hanging round this lad.’

  He nodded towards Maxie, beads of sweat on his nose.

  ‘Do you fancy him or something? Have you got a bit of a thing for him?’

  Mr Lord laughed and gave me a little shoulder punch. Before I could answer, Jason Lancaster piped up for the benefit of the other boys.

  ‘Of course he fancies him, sir! He’s a bloody queer!’

  He laughed uproariously.

  ‘You can see him in the showers looking at our willies!’

  The boys all whooped.

  ‘He’d have to have a bionic eye to spot your dick, Lancaster,’ Frances gallantly yelled over the laughter.

  I began to unravel inside. Not now, please. Not in front of him. Oh God, no!

  Then Maxie strode forward, teeth gritted, fists clenched.

  ‘Shut your mouth, Lancaster, or I’ll knock you out.’

  ‘You see, sir?’

  Jason Lancaster was almost frothing at the mouth now, and he lurched towards Maxie, meeting him face-on.

  ‘Protecting his little lover boy, it’s obvious. Dirty queers!’

  The team all whooped again, whistling and slapping Jason’s back. Bob Lord loved this. This was just what he’d hoped for. He harboured a deep loathing for me, and any other boy who didn’t relish the thought of running around a footy pitch or hanging upside down off a rope in the gym. Quite suddenly, though, a calm washed over me, and I collected myself, stepping forth in the brouhaha, and facing Jason down.

  ‘I don’t think you really mean that, Jason, do you?’ I said evenly. ‘I mean, really mean it.’

  Jason glared at me, and the boys fell silent, evidently wondering why their pal hadn’t laid me out flat. There was turmoil in Jason’s expression, though, and he took a step back.

  ‘Think very carefully before you answer,’ I continued.

  He attempted a look of menace, but I valiantly stared him down.

  ‘Let’s get back to the game, boys,’ he spat, turning away. ‘It fucking stinks around here. You coming, Boswell?’

  Maxie, too, looked confused for a moment, but then gave Frances and me a defeated smile and sauntered back towards the centre of the field. Bob Lord leaned in, jamming his face up close to mine.

  ‘Look at the trouble you’re causing that boy,’ he hissed. ‘Is that what you want?’

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Frances shake her head and look down, and I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘Why don’t you just leave him alone and stick with the girls, eh?’ Mr Lord suggested. ‘I’m watchin’ you, Starr; just you remember that, lad.’

  ‘I don’t really care what you are, David,’ Frances said, taking my hand as we walked along Chesterfield Street later that afternoon. ‘But you wanna be careful of people like Mr Lord and Jason: blokes like that always come out on top.’

  I stopped and faced Frances.

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yes, they do. And the way you goaded Jason back there, you’re lucky he didn’t smack you one – in fact, I’m not at all sure why he didn’t.’

  I took in Frances’ luminous beauty. She was stunning, almost perfect, with elegantly defined cheekbones, soft lips and fiery eyes: so why didn’t I want to kiss her like I did Maxie?

  ‘Jason’s terrified of my dad, that’s why,’ I reassured her. ‘Always has been. Don’t worry, I can handle him.’

  And we walked on.

  ‘So do you think Maxie is gay as well, then?’ Frances puzzled as we reached number twenty-two.

  ‘I don’t know. Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know either,’ she said. ‘But he certainly fills out those bloody football shorts, doesn’t he?’

  Frances sniggered lasciviously.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I coyly replied. ‘I can’t say as I’ve noticed.’

  We both laughed loud and long. We laughed until we cried, dropping our satchels and falling against the front-garden wall outside my house. We laughed and laughed, until a Vauxhall full of rough boys sped past, and a twisted face hung out of its window and shouted, ‘NATIONAL FRONT! BRITAIN FOR THE WHITES!’

  We stopped laughing, and I looked at Frances: ruined and sad in a split second. It made me fucking furious.

  ‘They’re wankers,’ I said, and she nodded glumly. ‘And that’s exactly what next week’s rally is all about, love, getting rid of ’em.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  And as we waved one another goodbye, and I headed up our front path, it suddenly dawned on me: I’d recognized one of those scowling faces in that car. I definitely had.

  By the time Eddie gets back from his Sunday fishing trip, Mum has hidden all the dressmaking paraphernalia and has managed to cobble together a late tea. Aunt Val’s made herself scarce, so I decide to take my milk and a liver-sausage sarnie up to my room and listen to a bit of X-Ray Spex – I’m in that sort of mood. I do hate Sunday evenings, and the looming prospect of the school gates. Well, I usually did. At least, I suppose, now I have Maxie to keep me going. Or do I? I mean, how does he feel about me? I’ve said it out loud now – actually said it out loud to another human being – two, in fact. But Maxie, well, he probably just thinks of me as any other ordinary chum: blissfully ignorant, is Maxie. He doesn’t know – couldn’t know – that I love him. And what the fuck would he do if he did know?


  Eight

  Doomed?

  That night I dream I’m feeding the ducks in Dulwich Park with Debbie Harry. She’s wearing the yellow dress and the same hairstyle that she wore on Top of the Pops when she performed ‘Picture This’, and she’s tossing stale Hovis into the mouth of a gluttonous mallard on the bank. I do hope it is a dream, because I appear to be dressed in a calf-length, burnt-orange dress with a plunge neckline trimmed with white lace, and leg-of-mutton sleeves – something Nancy might wear, I suppose. Peeking down, I discover my footwear to be heavily scuffed, button-up Victorian ladies’ boots that come up to meet the bottom of my rather tatty frock, and I suspect that my hair is piled high on my head with unruly wisps falling about my forehead, but I’ve no mirror to corroborate this supposition so I try, in vain, to find my reflection in the water. The weather in this dream is especially stunning, and, as I watch the ducks and swans glide on the still glass of the pond, it is entirely tranquil.

  ‘So you think you love this boy?’ Debbie Harry asks, eventually turning to me.

  I nod.

  ‘Well, honey, it’s not gonna be easy. You know what people are gonna say.’

  I glance around me at the other folk in the park: the children in breeches and buckled shoes; the women sporting bonnets and twirling parasols – it’s like a painting by Seurat.

  ‘You know what people will say, David,’ Debbie says again.

  I nod again (can I not speak? It’s Debbie Harry, for Christ’s sake).

  ‘Do you think you’re tough enough for this?’ Debbie asks. ‘Do you think this boy feels the same about you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, you’d better find out fast,’ Debbie smiles, dispensing the last of her crusts, ‘cos I’ll tell you one true thing … there’s nothing more painful than unrequited love, baby. It’s always doomed.’

  Unrequited. Doomed. Alarm clock.

  Chrissy and I are wolfing down the last of our breakfast while our cleaner, Moira, stands at the sink, rinsing the remnants of last night’s supper off the plates before she stacks them in the dishwasher – an appliance we all imagined would end the relentless barneys about whose turn it was to wash up; now we just squabble about who’ll load the fucking thing. Chrissy, in preparation for a normal Monday at school, has decided to cake her face in overpriced American cosmetics she’d seen advertised by Lynda Carter, I believe, on television the other week. Now, when I say overpriced, what I mean is that they might have been overpriced had Squirrel not pinched them for her from the Co-op chemist at the weekend, along with a huge stash of sanitary wear, which my sister refuses point-blank to be seen purchasing because she has to request something for a medium to heavy flow. Chrissy is also – and this is at the breakfast table, mind – sporting a pork-pie hat, and more gold belchers than one could shake a stick at.