The New Woman (37 page)

The White Hart looked solid and respectable. A light rain was starting to fall, tiny drops forming an aura around the streetlights. He waited in darkness. The shards of his bottle were jagged. They
could do horrific damage to a human being. The back door of the pub opened and shut, followed by quick footsteps.

His fist tightened on the neck of the bottle. He’d smack it into his–her face. This was one lady boy who would never again lure an innocent man into its web.

‘Simon?’ she said softly.

Yes, he could hear it now: it wasn’t an ordinary woman’s voice. It was husky and low. He shivered in disgust, because he’d thought it sexy.

‘Here,’ he said.

‘Why are you skulking back there?’

The footsteps came closer until the slim figure appeared, just visible in the light from the hotel’s windows. He felt a tug of affection. There was a halo of mist around her hair, and her smile was as sweet as ever.

No, he corrected himself, not
her
smile.
His
smile
.
And it wasn’t sweet, it was false. This was a cunning trickster.

‘Simon? What’s up?’ Jessica seemed puzzled by his silence. She came closer. Then she saw what he was holding.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, Simon. Oh my God.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jessica.’

He stepped right up to her, and put a hand on her throat. ‘Don’t fucking give me that. I want your real name.’

She was shaking. She looked down at the splintered glass in his hand.

‘Joshua,’ she whispered.

Simon swung the bottle. ‘You should have been drowned at birth,’ he said.

Light flashed on dagger shards. The he–she person didn’t try to run away, or even to defend herself. She simply stood with rain and tears on her cheeks, waiting for her boyfriend to maim her. Five hours and twenty minutes ago, he’d said he loved her.

Thirty-eight

Eilish

New Year’s Day. Kate was nursing a hangover and—to my shame—so was I. The pair of us drooped around the house, knocking back the Alka-Seltzer and tripping over Baffy, who seemed anxious that he might be abandoned again.

‘So,’ Kate said. ‘Did you play tonsil hockey with my old science teacher?’

I felt myself blush. ‘What a very unattractive expression that is.’

She nodded calmly. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Eew. How come you’re home, then? How come you didn’t stay for a night of passion—or whatever passes for passion when you’re talking about two teachers in the sack?’

‘Because, when it came to it, he wasn’t your dad. Would you have minded?’

‘I probably would, but it’s none of my business who you shack up with. It’s only a matter of time, anyway. The sharks are circling. Mr Chadders will get you in the end—or if he doesn’t, somebody else will.’

In the afternoon we summoned enough energy to walk with Baffy across the fields. He seemed to think this was a trip to heaven, full of rabbits and streams and dead things to roll in. The
little dog was growing on me; there was something appealing about his zealous stupidity. Casino didn’t find him appealing at all, but the two animals had come to an understanding. It was pretty simple: the cat was boss. Poor Baffy had the scars to prove it.

I’d invited Meg for dinner, and then to stay the night. I thought she’d like to see Kate. At five o’clock the hybrid ladybird puttered up to the house. Neither Kate nor I was up to cooking, so the three of us went out to the Bracton Arms. It’s a marvellous pub in winter: open fires, stone flags, and oak beams around the bar. As a bonus, Ingrid and Harry had gone on a cruise, so we were able to order meals without being cross-examined.

‘Bloody lucky,’ whispered Kate as we settled ourselves into an alcove. ‘Ingrid’s getting harder to fob off, bless her mule slippers. When I said Dad’s working on some bloody enormous deal and the commute’s just too much for him, she actually stuck her tongue into her cheek.’

‘It’s her job to know about everyone,’ said Meg. ‘It’s better than living in a big city where nobody knows or cares.’

My mother-in-law was her usual dapper self—in appearance, at least. I wasn’t sure what was going on underneath. She raised her glass to us in salute . ‘Here’s cheers. Let’s hope this year turns out better than the one that’s just gone.’

‘Cheers,’ chimed in Kate. ‘Right. Now you’re both here: hit me with it, oh ancient ancestors! How was Christmas Day at Simon and Carmela’s?’

I looked at Meg, and she looked back at me.

‘Mmwell . . . it was a beautiful meal,’ she began, twisting her mouth. ‘Carmela did a special pudding that she said was a Spanish delicacy. She’s a clever girl.’

Kate giggled. ‘When people start yakking about how terrific the food was, I know the whole event was fucking dire. Come on, Granny.’ She rapped her knuckles on the table. ‘On a scale of one to ten, just how bad was it?’

‘Ten,’ said Meg promptly. ‘No, nine and a half, because I have to admit those children are a delight. But the elephant took up so much space, there wasn’t room for anything else. I mean, how do you celebrate peace in the world when there’s a son not speaking to his father? Or even
about
his father? And Eilish, I have to say this . . . he’s drinking too much. He was slurring his words by the time I left. Carmela looked so upset. It wasn’t good, was it?’

I agreed with her. Carmela had done her best, but the day was a disaster.

‘And then there was Wendy,’ I said.

Meg covered her eyes with a hand. ‘I sometimes wonder whether she’s really mine. She got all tearful, Kate. Said she’s lost her only brother. Which I suppose she has, in a way.’

I was sticking to sparkling water that evening; I just don’t have the stamina anymore. Kate was nursing a half of Guinness. She claimed to like it, though I wondered whether it was an image thing. ‘And what about you, Granny?’ she asked. ‘Have you lost a son?’

Meg thought about this question for quite some time. I waited, intrigued. Finally she put down her glass. ‘Fifty-five—nearly fifty-six years ago, I gave birth to a child. He was gorgeous from the first day. I don’t have favourites, but if I did—’ a guilty little grin ‘—well, no prizes for guessing which it would be. Now that child has grown up into an adult and had children of his own. Turns out there were things about him I didn’t understand, but the fact remains that he’s the one I gave birth to. He was always kind and thoughtful, and he’s still kind and thoughtful. He was always clever; he’s still clever. I always loved him, and I can’t see that changing now.’

‘You’re a saint,’ I said.

‘No, no. I wish I was.’ Meg shook her head. ‘He was suffering. That’s what I can’t get over, that’s what keeps me awake at night. I keep thinking back and remembering how that boy of mine never smiled. I
knew
something was up but I didn’t ask. I was too
scared. I let myself get caught up in the farm and the girls and Robert, and things I wouldn’t give a bar of soap for now.’ Her hand was trembling as she took a sip of her wine. I reached out and touched it, and she murmured, ‘It’s all right, dear.’

‘Mothers aren’t mind-readers,’ said Kate. ‘They can’t know everything their children are thinking. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

A waitress—Sophie—turned up with cutlery and serviettes. She was a friend of Kate’s who’d built many a hut by our pond, and she stopped to chat. I listened vaguely to the small talk, smiling in the right places, but I was fretting about what Kate had just said.

She’s wrong
.
Isn’t she wrong? Mothers can almost be mind-readers.
I remembered the jolt I’d felt when two-year-old Simon touched an electric fence—as though the shock had bolted through my own body; and what about those sleepless, tearful nights when Kate was being bullied? Luke and I felt what our children felt, feared what they feared. I’d be horrified if I learned that Simon had been depressed as a youngster and I hadn’t even known.

Then I remembered the hints Jim had dropped, over dinner at The Lock.
He hasn’t always found life easy, has he? Bit of a loner
. I hadn’t known my husband, after all; perhaps I hadn’t known my son either. Perhaps we never really understand our families at all, any of us. Perhaps those we love the most are really a bunch of strangers, with secret thoughts and inner lives. I didn’t like the idea.

After Sophie left, Kate rolled up her sleeves.

‘Now,’ she said. ‘There’s something I have to say. I want to talk to both of you about Christmas Day with Dad. I’m not sure either of you is going to like this, but I think you have to know.’

Meg and I listened with increasing astonishment—and, in my case, indignation—as she described her day. By the time she came to the end of the story, I imagine our jaws were touching the table.

‘Sorry,’ I said, blinking in bafflement. ‘
Sorry?
You’re telling me you went for a sedate little promenade around East London with two . . . with two . . .’

‘Two women.’

‘Both of whom had . . . ?’

‘Wedding tackle,’ suggested Meg helpfully.

Kate nodded. ‘Wedding tackle. But two women, all the same.’

‘One of whom was
my
husband and
your
father,’ I said.

Kate opened her hands. ‘I can’t describe it in any other way, Mum. I’m telling you, I felt as though I was out and about with two women. I was
not
in the company of men. Their . . . I don’t know, their life force was female.’

I don’t do New Age, and I wasn’t going to start talking about life forces now. ‘You never met Chloe when she was Carl or Geoffrey or whatever she was,’ I said. ‘Fair enough, I can see how you might suspend your disbelief about her. But surely you can’t do that when it comes to your own father?’

‘Yes. No.’ Kate pressed her fingers to her temples. ‘Aargh, how do I explain this? Yes
and
no. I don’t think gender’s about wedding tackle, or the lack of it. The problem is this obsession we’ve got with categorising people into discrete little boxes.’

I sat back in my seat. ‘Kate, I’m appalled! How could he ask this of you? He never used to be a selfish man—never, ever. Maybe Simon’s right, he’s gone completely mad.’

‘I asked him to do it.’

Meg was swirling her wine around in the glass. It caught the light from the fire.

‘Seeing him,’ she said. ‘That’s going to be a real test. I don’t know how I’ll cope with that.’

Kate was positively evangelical, as though the sight of her father cross-dressed had been a road to Emmaus experience. ‘Granny, I was dreading it too, but, believe me, it was okay. I think I understand now. When I picture Dad as I grew up, he
was gorgeous, but somehow . . . there was something dark. It’s hard to put your finger on it.’

I knew exactly what she meant.

‘A shadow,’ said Meg. ‘That’s how I see it.’

‘Bang on!’ Kate clapped her hands. ‘Well, I think Dad’s shadow is finally lifting. And I’ll tell you what, he’s bloody convincing as a woman. He’s been practising.
She’s
been practising. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. It’s not. He’s lonely and he’s scared. Chloe seems quite worried. She reckons transition is a dangerous time . . . actually, she said it’s the hardest fucking thing ever and if we don’t front up, Dad might not get through it. I think she means suicide.’

The word winded us all. Our meals arrived; we made appreciative noises and said no thanks, we don’t need ketchup. Then we let our food go cold. We were a silent trio of women, all of us thinking about the same man.

Meg recovered first. ‘Right,’ she said, pulling her knife and fork from a serviette. ‘I’m not having that. I failed him when he was a kid and I’m not going to make the same mistake now. If you can face seeing him like that, Kate, then so can I. It’s lucky Robert’s gone. This would definitely kill him.’

‘Have you heard from Gail?’ I asked. I barely knew Luke’s eldest sister.

‘Oh, Gail.’ Meg rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, I’ve heard from her. She phoned the day she got his letter. She said she always knew he was a freak. She said she never wants to hear his name again. I told her that was her business.’

‘She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?’ said Kate.

She and Meg talked for a while about Gail, but soon their conversation began to range through quite a sweep of topics: Owen’s new girlfriend (Meg disapproved—old enough to be his mother), Meg’s appointment at the audiology clinic (Meg disapproved—there was nothing wrong with her hearing), and a pop star who’d frolicked about completely naked for her latest music video (thereby objectifying all women, according to Kate; Meg just thought the poor lass looked cold).

I half listened, even chipped in from time to time, but my mind was on Luke. I wondered what he was doing right now, tonight, and whether he was safe from himself. For the first time, I began to imagine what kind of a woman he would be.

Kate thought his shadow was lifting. If that were true, then all this might be worth it.

The new term began. Every day, somebody in the staffroom would complain about the fact that it was January. I was tempted to have badges printed for them to wear, save them the trouble of moaning out loud.