It’s Never Too Late To Apologise (2).
by
Angharad

I've done a follow up to the short story because of popular demand and I also thought it was worth writing.

This story is dedicated to the memory of Lucy Meadows a teacher who unfortunately took her own life yesterday after harassment from the press and bigoted parents at her school. Given the subject of the story it seems appropriate. May she find peace.

Mrs Elliott gave a little gasp and then said, “You’d better come in.”

“Who is it, Marge?” called her husband and when she didn’t reply he came to see. “Oh hello, young lady,” he looked at his wife.

“This is Danielle Crane,” she said.

“Any relation to that boy, Crane, sorry can’t remember his first name, he was a good friend of Peter’s.”

“That’s me, Mr Elliott, I was Dan Crane.”

“Goodness, I wouldn’t have recognised you unless you’d said.” He seemed completely shocked as was his wife.

After a very uncomfortable silence which seemed to last for hours, he suddenly said, “I’ll put the kettle on–you’ll stay for a cuppa won’t you, Danielle?”

I nodded, my voice had left me for a moment. I handed the flowers to Mrs Elliott and she took them mumbling something which I took to be a thank you. Then she led me into the sitting room. It was awash with the light from a late summer sun and I walked across the thick carpet and sat in an upright easy chair, one with wings on it.

As I sat I swept my skirt under me and pulled my knees together. I was wearing a suit–I thought I’d better keep it relatively formal as a whole decade had passed since I’d seen them. I felt quite warm in the sunshine which blazed over my stocking clad legs down to the court shoes I was wearing.

“You look very well, Danielle,” offered Mrs Elliott.

“Thank you.”

“I’d better put these in water, won’t be a moment.” She rose and taking the flowers with her went presumably to the kitchen where I heard the murmur of voices. My timing might have been less than optimal, it was the tenth anniversary of Peter’s death the next day but I had to speak to them–I’d sworn it to him that I would offer my apology even if they rejected it. I had to do it because it was eating me away inside.

Back came Mr Elliott with a tray of cups and a teapot, a small jug of milk and a sugar bowl. They all matched. They’d got the best tea things out for me–I was right to keep it formal. I just hoped I could keep it dignified as well.

“Milk and sugar?” asked Mr Elliott.

“Just milk, please.” He poured me tea and then added a generous dash of milk.

“You look very well, Danielle, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes I’m fine, sir.”

“Oh c’mon, I’m Frank and this is Marge, right Marge?” She nodded her response.

Damn, that undermined my formal approach.

“So, what are you doing, you went off to university, didn’t you?” he continued.

“Um, yes–I’m working as a GP in Norfolk.”

“So it’s Dr Danielle?”

“Only to my patients.”

He smiled. “And you’ve come all the way from Norfolk this morning?”

I nodded, “It’s not so bad when the M25 is working.”

“I suppose.” He picked up his own tea. I declined a chocolate biscuit from his wife.

We sat sipping tea in an atmosphere which was probably stronger than the tea and which was waiting for someone to start the real business of my visit. It was Peter’s mum who fired the first salvo. “You know what date it is tomorrow?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“So your visit is to do with Peter’s death?”

I felt my eyes fill and my throat tightened, I could only nod but I held eye contact with her although I had a very powerful urge to examine the carpet or the copy of the Hay wain hanging over the mantle-shelf.

“So why have you come?”

I managed to clear the frog from my throat although my voice was more of a squeak than its usual mellifluence. “To apologise.” That did it, the tear glands went into maximum production and water flowed down my cheeks like a leaking pipe.

“Apologise? Whatever for?” She seemed even more shocked than she was when I announced who I was.

I extracted the hanky from my sleeve and carefully dabbed my eyes, although I’d had my eyelashes dyed the week before so it would be minimal mess from makeup. “Before I left, Peter told me what he planned to do and I was shocked and reacted badly. I called him names and think I actually hit him. I need to make amends.”

“I see,” she looked concerned. “He told me you’d rejected him and that he felt he’d betrayed you.”

“At that moment, it was how I felt myself.”

“And yet you were the same?”

I nodded, “I was in denial, I tried to do everything I could to act like I thought a man should act. It was all a facade. I went off to med school and it was when I was doing my psychiatry about five years ago, my consultant picked up on something and challenged me. I had like a mini-breakdown and it all came out, including Peter’s rejection and I wanted to die but I didn’t have the courage to do what Peter did.”

“I see, so you transitioned–when?”

“I did my GP training as a woman.”

“You make a fine looking one,” Mr Elliott rejoined the conversation.

“Thank you, I had a bit of facial surgery done to soften my face.”

“So you think you caused Peter to kill himself?” Marge took back control of the conversation.

“My rejection can’t have helped, can it?”

She sipped her tea then placed the empty cup and saucer on the table. “Danielle, you did nothing to make Peter take his own life. It was his decision which he made because he felt he lacked the courage to do what you ultimately have done. He was due to start his transition the following week as Penelope, he couldn’t go through with it–he left us a note.”

“Oh,” was all I could say.

“Although we’d supported his decision, privately we didn’t think he’d make it.”

“Why ever not?”

“He lacked your mental strength. It was too much for him but it was what he wanted to do. Of course we never told him we thought it was the wrong decision, because that was his to make, and he was determined he wasn’t going to stay a boy. We paid for him to go to Charring Cross Hospital and we think they did all they could in assessing him, but he didn’t tell them about his fears and the black moods he’d have. We lived for about three years wondering if there’d ever be a knock on the door by a policeman with bad news, and when it finally happened–we felt relief. Does that shock you?”

I shook my head. The tears were still washing my cheeks and now both his parents were also weeping. I knew Pete had moods, some days you couldn’t speak to him but we all did, adolescent males do, even ones who want to be females.

“So you see, Peter or Penelope’s death was entirely his or her decision. Naturally we’d have preferred to have had our son or daughter to still be alive and as happy and fulfilled as you appear to be. But it wasn’t to be.”

“I hope my coming here hasn’t upset you?” I was dabbing at my eyes with the lacy hanky.

“Of course not, we’re pleased that you did–you’ll always be welcome here. Isn’t that right, Frank?”

“Absolutely, dear.”

“Rather than upset us, you’ve shown us that some people can cross the gender border and make it work, and maintain a difficult and useful job as well.”

I smiled at her and then across to him, “Thank you.”

“When you used to come here as Dan, the rather hyper boy, we’d never have guessed you were suffering the same troubles that Peter had, so I’m sorry to have appeared shocked when you said who you were.”

I smiled again, but dabbed my eyes again. “I left some flowers on Penelope’s grave, I hope that’s okay.”

“I’m sure she’d be really pleased to receive them and to have you back again as a friend.”

That threw me for a moment, but I smiled while I tried to work out what she’d said; then I let it go. It wasn’t important. I noticed a photo down in the grate by the side of the gas fire. “Is that her?”

“Yes, take a closer look.” I rose and went to the fire place and picked up the photo.

“This was taken some time before she died,” she looked much younger.

“Yes, she came out to us about three years before, she used to dress occasionally at home and help me round the house. I think you nearly caught her once while she was in the kitchen.”

I gasped, I remembered the incident. I’d walked down the drive because my football had rolled down towards the garage and for a moment I thought I saw a girl in kitchen–then his mother appeared, so I’d assumed it had been her I’d seen. Gee whizz, thank goodness I didn’t really see her. I hate to think what would have happened.

“You didn’t cross dress?”

“Um–no, well not until I went away to uni. Then I used to change before doing my coursework or swotting for exams. It helped to relax me.”

“What about your parents, how did they cope?”

“I told them when I had the breakdown, like you they decided they’d rather have a well daughter than a sick son. It took a bit longer than that, but they’re okay with it now.”

“I’m sure they’re proud of their daughter,” Marge added smiling warmly.

“I’d better go, thank you for seeing me.” I handed her the photo, Penelope would have been quite a pretty girl judging by that picture.

“Would you like a copy?” asked Frank, “I could email you one.”

“That would be nice.” I gave him my email address and he promised to send one. I left a few minutes later after a quick visit to the loo. I don’t recall much of the drive home, my mind was on other things. Although I wasn’t religious, probably more agnostic than anything, I would offer prayers for Penelope’s soul to rest in peace and hope that now I’d spoken with her parents, mine could as well.