CHAPTER 3
I walked with them as far as the bike cages, Karen staying close by me. There was a little bit of eye language, and Terry disappeared into the toilets with James. I gave Karen as hard a stare as I could manage.

“You’ve told him, right?”

“He’s my husband. I know you have a problem with that, but if there is one person I will trust, it is the man I took my vows with. You have a problem?”

Her tone softened. “Look, you know as well as I do, I mean, you’ve already said it, yeah? It is going to be a shit time for you. You need allies, and all I ask is that you trust me on this one, all right? Come here…”

I got a tight hug. She whispered into my ear “You forgot the traditional bit”

“Which one?”

“What’s your name? Please tell me it’s not something silly”

“No, just a simple one. Gillian. Jill. Liked it when I was a little…girl”

“Well, Jill, you be safe, OK, and let us know if you need us”

Terry reappeared along with his son, who still came no nearer than he had to, but managed to thank me softly as they loaded their bikes. They were off, and I was left with the usual sense of loss as the boy rode away. Each meeting started with a locked-down mind, each one finished the same way, but as long as we had more than forty minutes or so he started to become human. It was as if he had to identify me as safe on each encounter, and as we separated the shield slammed shut. I knew it was simply his condition, but I was left with a need to explain it, wondering who had hurt him. It wasn’t that, of course, just his autism, but I ached to be able to hold him and make it better.

Getting broody, Jill. Soppy old tart. Time to wind the bike over to the station and home, spend some time working out just what the hell I was going to do now I had opened the door.

I cleared up some of the mess when I got in. A run to the recycling bins with the bottles, the better to put full ones in their place…

No. Not now. I went into the bathroom and stripped out of the jersey and bib shorts, looking at myself in the mirror as I stood naked. Not a woman checking for sag, not me, just a fat and aging man, thick chest-hair curled and damp from the ride home. Badger’s beard, and the shining space where my hair had been, the hair I had been so proud of as a student.

Who was I kidding? What choice I had, in reality, came down to passing through the gauntlet of contempt and ridicule that a change of status would bring, or dying without ever being who I should have been, and that thought hurt, for I could never, ever be that person. She would have grown into herself, not into the man I had inherited. Who the hell made bras for 48” chests, regardless of cup size?

That brought a smile, at last, as I looked at my moobs and wondered if…if a doctor ever gave me hormones, would they stay as a base for some real ones, or would I be too old to grow anything half-decent? I thought, once more, of the kitchen tiles warming slowly under my arse as I sat there, the Sabatier in hand, waiting to make the cut. Death, without ever being able to live.

Another wry smile, as I remembered the note I had written in those cold, grey morning hours, the note that declared my real name, and a request that I be buried with it and not what I had always considered a stage name.

Could I do it? Could I really cross over?

I answered the phone on the second ring.

“Hiya, Von”

“How was it today, love?”

“Went well, once James had unlocked. Nice set of warblers advertising, got a chance to show them the difference between garden and blackcap. How’s your Mam?”

“Frightened, love. I know your Mam has spoken to her, but it’s still a hooj thing to go through, innit?”

I chuckled. “The word is ‘huge’, love. Bloody Valley Commando, isn’t it, look you”

“That’s no nooky for you for a week, Mr Carter”

I don’t actually want nooky, love, not like that. Certain things are automatic, though, given the right touch.

“Well, as we won’t be seeing each other for at least that length of time, that’s hardly a threat. How are the boys?”

“Excited, innit? Bamps will spoil them, they know that. I have a couple of places to look at, so you should be with us”

“Can’t, love, no leave slots left”

“You know bloody well what I meant, Rob”

“Aye, I do, but you know the answer to that as well. I can’t live off your parents, wouldn’t be right”

A subject that came up every so often, more so as the creaking machinery of her divorce finally swung into action. Sell the house in Hampshire, pack up dogs and boys, and go home to Cwm Taff and her parents. No job there for me, certainly none I could ever hope to do, not if I wanted anything like the wages I was on. And then there was Jill.

My mother had had her new hip at the ripe age of 77, but there were no signs of an approaching end to her life. She had spoken to Siobhan’s mother, letting her know how the operation felt, which was sweet of her, but I had no illusions as to how she would take my own problem. I didn’t wish her dead, I just needed to wait.

How the hell do you explain that to someone? That you see an advantage in the death of your own mother? How sick was I, exactly?

Von was still talking, and I realised she had been describing the travel plans for the trip home, and I grunted and made the other appropriate sounds as necessary, till I thought it was time to sound as if I was listening.

“And the dogs? With Paul?”

“Aye, but at his house, innit. Not letting him get another key to the house, am I?”

She carried on in a similar vein for a while, yet another rambling account of Russian girls met over the internet and delays in allowing the divorce to go ahead, followed by the sale of the house. More appropriately-timed grunts from me, and then a goodbye. I hung up, and made my way to the spare bedroom. The suitcase still sat on top of the wardrobe, but while she was away I allowed myself the small pleasure of hanging my clothes properly. Long, loose print skirt in a dark blue, a tunic top in grey that was described as a ‘dress’ on Tesco’s website, and my favourite shoes, described as ‘nude kitten heels’ by Debenham’s. Thank fuck for the internet. I looked grotesque, I knew, but I felt so much more real, just like that. A simple pair of stretch shorts did for underwear, as I had nothing to need anything further, and as the evening chill set in I left the heating off and pulled on a simple pair of black tights.

I suppose the common impression outsiders have is of a man in all the odder underwear, cock in hand as the excitement of the clothing seizes him, but that wasn’t me. Nothing sexual, not like that, just a chance to at least feel as if I had a future.

I stuck some fish in the oven with dill, chives and lemon juice, started some water for peas, and logged in on the computer. My mailbox had a small blizzard of offers, from Dorothy Perkins, Debenham’s, Tesco, the places I had trawled for what there was of my wardrobe, but I slipped past the temptation easily enough for once and opened my favourite fiction site, one that would make my mother’s eyes water. There were a few newer stories up, from names I knew, and that would give me something to read over tea. As I went over to the stereo and put on ‘Space Ritual’, I wondered whether I had any form of life at all, never mind as myself. I went to work, I came home, I cooked something and ate it to odd music while wearing a skirt. Pick the delights and assets out of that one, Robert Carter.

Later, I sat with my fish, “Time We Left” thundering in my headphones as I read the latest stories of small-featured, feminine boys who make really pretty girls, with just a hint of a makeover, and who turn out, in the end, to be intersexed, so it’s all normal, really, nothing for a parent to worry about.

And I wept.