It’s Never Too Late To Apologise.
by
Angharad.
‘I walk along the city streets I used to walk along with you,’ Sandi Shaw’s nasal twang accompanied me as I drove rather than walked the city streets, but the message was apposite. I was going to see, I hoped, someone I hadn’t seen for ten years and with whom I used to walk and play on these same streets.
It’s very strange coming back to somewhere that was familiar but is no longer so, a bit like discarding an old piece of clothing or shoes. They were once indispensible but eventually become trash, the sentimental value being lost in those last moments before they are consigned to the bin.
Not far now I told myself, and will I recognise her? Geez, how long have they had traffic lights here–oh poo, that’s now a one way street, so much for sat nav. Damn, I can’t remember how you get round that way. I indicated and pulled into the kerb and consulted my street map. Once upon a time you could only get them for places like London or the other big cities, but now they do them for whole counties.
I could feel myself getting all hot and bothered, this was going to be hard enough as it was. I mean how do you say sorry after all this time? Where did all the aggression come from–how could I have done what I did and just walked away feeling so self-righteous? But I did. Teenage boys can be so callous–almost dangerously so–and I was one of the worst. Upon reflection, I think I might have been bordering upon psychopathic. Thankfully that’s all changed now and I like to think I’m a relatively empathic and sensitive person–just as well, I’m a General Practitioner by trade.
We moved away from here just before I went off to medical school, must be ten years ago and after I’d destroyed my once best friend. I hoped the flowers I’d brought would be appreciated, for her mother at least, though it won’t bring her back nor will it reduce this sense of guilt I have–nothing but my own death will diminish that–and I don’t plan on dying for a long time.
I still recall the row we had. Peter, whom I loved like a brother, with whom I’d holidayed, double dated and done everything since we went to junior school together just dropped his bombshell.
“Dan, I can’t keep this secret from you anymore, I just can’t.” He had tears in his eyes, something was really cutting him up.
“Pete, we don’t have secrets,” I replied knowing that reality meant we all have secrets we’re afraid to share.
“I do, Dan, and I have to tell you.”
We were sitting on a grassy knoll in the park where we’d played football, cowboys and Indians and war games with the other boys in the neighbourhood. I was leaving a week or two later but I counted on keeping in contact with Pete–like I said, he was like the brother I never had.
I sipped the tin of lager and burped loudly, laughing at my rudeness–if you knew my mother you’d understand my laughing at my vulgarity–she polices us, that’s Dad and I like an etiquette nazi. I burped again and laughed–god it was so common but at that moment it felt good. I blushed at the remembrance.
“I’m going to become a woman, Dan.” Peter said and the tears streaked his face.
I just laughed, I was half pissed but even in that state what he said was nonsense. He was Pete, how could he be anyone else? He was my brother not my sister. I didn’t want a bloody sister. My little world began to feel cracks develop at the edges and I felt suddenly very frightened. “What are you saying? I asked beginning to sober up very quickly.
“I’m going to become a woman–it’s something I always knew I wanted to do–and now I’m going to do it. I just wanted to tell you myself, because we’ve always been such good friends. I hope I can count on your support.”
I sat there staring at him, his lips were moving but the words he was speaking were like a foreign language–they might well have been–I couldn’t understand them. I was in shock. Pete wasn’t Pete he was going to become whatever–some stupid fucking woman.
“What are you saying?” I demanded standing up and feeling betrayed, by this my best friend.
“This is so hard, Dan, I love you like a brother–I’d hoped you’d understand, but I had to tell you before you left.”
“What the fuck? You little shit, you fucking homo–I shared a bed with you on holiday, you little fucking queer.” That was when I let fly and caught him on the side of his face. He fell down crying and I pushed him over with my foot, he was too contemptible to even kick.
“I’m sorry,” he kept saying as he cried and I turned to walk away.
“I hope you’ll be fucking happy, you little twat–piss off and get your dick cut off if it’ll make you happy.” I threw my beer can at him and stormed off back to my house. I was in a funk for days, then packing became the priority and we left.
“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to Peter?” asked my mum.
“No,” I snapped back and sat in the back of the car as we followed the furniture remover’s van out of the street. I never saw him again. That same night he walked out across the level crossing as the express was coming through. I shuddered at the thought. His parents would hardly have enough of him left to fill a shoe box let alone a coffin and how could you hug a piece of steak?
I don’t know what happened so it’s surmise, but I suspect he brooded after our final conversation and my total rejection of his need to change–he was always was a bit moody–and he decided to end it all. But what a way to do it–that poor train driver–and his poor parents. I didn’t find out for months–I was too wrapped up in my own life–medical school is hard work, and I wasn’t the brightest in the class by a long way, so I slogged.
When I found out, I was saddened then felt guilty–had I tipped him over the edge. Then I called up my chauvinism and decided to blame it upon his own weakness of character–he’d never have made it as a woman, hell, he’d never have made it as a man–ergo, nothing to do with me. I did however write to his parents expressing my regret at the loss of my good friend and their son. I didn’t even mention he could be anything else.
I discovered he was cremated and en route, had finally managed to find the cemetery and laid some pink roses on the grave where his ashes were buried. I’d left a card saying, ‘To a friend who was also my sister,’ although the inscription said Peter Elliot. I knew who was really buried there and I offered an apology to her though I knew I could never really undo the harm I’d caused. However, living with it was a punishment I’d never escape as long as I lived.
I stopped at a nearby coffee shop which wasn’t there I when I frequented these parts. The espresso gave me a shot of caffeine which I hoped would enable me to find and speak with her parents. One thing I needed to know, what was she going to call herself–I just had to know it–I don’t know why, perhaps to offer prayers for her soul–or maybe so my own could rest in peace. I didn’t know.
At last, Magnolia Avenue hove into sight. I’d checked in the phone book, her parents still lived here and I pulled up just beyond the house. Since qualifying as a doctor, I’ve done some awfully difficult things, like telling people they only have weeks to live, or that their loved one was life extinct. When it’s a child, boy does that hurt, it’s like standing in a bath of boiling water and speaking words of acid that want to dissolve your tongue and burn your mouth. I like to think I do it professionally, that is with a mixture of compassion and objectivity. Some change from the bastard who condemned his friend to death ten years ago–eh?
I got out of the car and picked out the flowers from the boot. I took a deep breath and turned towards the house–a fifties brick built, detached house with four bedrooms and a double bay window in the lounge and master bedroom. I recognised it, the garden was meticulous and the garage had a new door but it was Peter’s old house.
My shoes seemed to echo as I walked down the driveway and up to the front door. With a sweaty palmed hand I reached out a finger and pressed the bell-push. I heard it ring inside the house. I saw a shadow approach through the glass panel, it was her mum.
The door opened and I was right, it was Mrs Elliott, she was about the same age as my mum but looked at least ten years older. I suppose I would if that had happened to my daughter.
She looked quizzically at me and at the flowers I was holding. “Can I help you?”
“Hello, Mrs Elliott, I’m Danielle Crane–I used to be...”
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.