Chasing Men (28 page)

‘Carole? Who’s Carole?’

‘
You
know. You’ve seen her. High heels and fishnet tights. Well,
she
knows
you
.’

Was this the young girl in the shop? The description didn’t fit. Somebody who’d been on the programme, or who’d applied to appear?

The woman at the café?

‘How does she know me?’ They were trotting side by side now.

‘Dunno. But she mentioned your name on the phone. You’re a respectable type, Hetty, so she must have figured you could help.’

Further enquiry or denial seemed pointless, so Hetty asked, ‘Where are we headed?’

‘Cop shop. Lavender Hill. Take us ten minutes if we walk fast.’

It took all Hetty’s breath to keep up with the rapidly marching Doris, whose chin was thrust forward, elbows pumping, as if she were trying to take the lead in a fiercely fought road race. As the older woman had predicted, they soon came to the square grey station on the corner with Latchmere Road.

Without pausing, Doris marched up the steps under the blue lamp and into Reception where she banged on the counter and rang the bell for attention.

‘Service here!’ she called, as Hetty hovered behind her.

Hetty had not been in this police station before. The posters on the walls were more intimidating than the Dorset versions, with mugshots of a dozen wanted criminals, grubby posters of missing persons (some of whom looked as grim as the wanted men), pictures of stolen vehicles and weapons involved in crimes, and slavering dogs with warnings about rabies. A large notice gave the number of a rape counselling service; another advertised the Samaritans. The place smelt of tobacco, urine and floor polish. The local station where she had once reported a strayed pet, not much more than a detached house in a nearby village, was sleepy and charming by comparison.

‘Not the kind of place you’d come to ask the time,’ she said to herself.

The door at the back of the counter opened. A heavy-set sergeant in shirtsleeves entered. ‘Right. What’s up?’

‘You’ve got a friend of mine here,’ Doris announced. ‘The transvestite. She phoned me.’

‘Oh, that one,’ the officer said, with deep meaning injected into the words. He began leafing through a day book whose columns were covered in scribbles. He examined Doris and Hetty with interest. ‘You together?’

They nodded.

‘You two
are
women, I take it?’ The gruff voice had a hint of sarcasm. He jerked a thumb. ‘Your pal inside is refusing to give her name. His name. Whatever. That’s an offence.’

‘But that’s not why you arrested her,’ said Doris, with spirit. ‘What’s the game?’

‘Importuning. Approaching men on the common.’

‘In broad daylight?’ Hetty was unable to remain silent.

‘Two hours ago. Causing a bit of a stir.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Hetty under her breath.

‘Has anyone complained?’ Doris demanded.

‘Oh, aye. A woman walking past with two small children. Said it made her sick.’

‘But Carole wasn’t approaching
her
, was she?’ Doris had taken over the role of interrogator and was clearly enjoying it.

‘No-o-o,’ said the sergeant thoughtfully. ‘It says here that she was seen talking to several men. They rebuffed her advances and moved away.’

‘I’d be astonished if she was,’ Doris said decisively. ‘Unless she was trying it on to see if they fancied her. She’s married.’

‘So what?’ the officer responded. ‘They all are, on that bloody common.’

‘Well, chatting up strangers is not a crime, as you well know, Sergeant,’ said Doris firmly. ‘She didn’t do anything really stupid, though – like exposing herself, did she?’

He checked the sheet. ‘No.’

‘And nor is dressing in women’s clothes a criminal activity. Even if you do look like something the cat dragged in. It’s a free country. We can wear what we like, as long as the dangly bits are hidden.’

The man’s mouth was twitching. ‘I can see you know your law, ma’am,’ he observed. ‘You’d better come and discuss the matter with the prisoner.’

He held open the door behind the counter and ushered the two women inside. Hetty clutched her handbag to her chest as if it were more at risk inside the police station than on the street. Her eyes were wide, her mouth clamped shut.

Down a corridor and through a set of swing doors they came to a row of tattered chairs. More notices on the walls instructed visitors not to spit or damage the furniture. A poster above a payphone advertised a solicitors’ help line. The smell of urine was stronger.

Seated cowering on the furthest chair, her back turned to the new arrivals, was the person Doris had come to rescue. The dress was the black lace Hetty had seen before, but it was torn and there were holes in the fishnet tights.

‘Carole!’ Doris said, in a commanding accent.

Carole half turned, to show a tear-streaked face, the jowls blackened with mascara,
the lipstick spread over the lower jaw like tomato ketchup. The wig was askew and an earring was missing. ‘Oh, Doris,’ she wailed. ‘Oh, I’m such a mess …’

Doris rummaged in her handbag and sat down by Carole’s side. With a handkerchief she tenderly wiped the stained cheeks and attempted to remove the lipstick. ‘What happened, dear?’ she asked gently.

‘Two men on the common. I was only asking them for a smoke – to see if they’d talk to me as a woman. They decided to have a go instead. Took offence, they said. Some lady yelled at them and they ran off. She had a mobile phone and called the police.’

‘That’s not the story on the charge sheet.’ Hetty was bewildered.

‘Well, no, it wouldn’t be. I’m not going to press charges, am I?’

‘Why not? If they attacked you. You have rights as well.’

‘Be practical, Hetty,’ Doris advised. ‘Carole may come out one day. But not yet. Not while the children are small.’ She put a finger under Carole’s chin. ‘You promised you wouldn’t go out in daylight for exactly that reason, too. What’s happening?’

‘She’s taking over,’ Carole whispered brokenly. The voice was high and thin. ‘I can’t help it.’

Doris helped the trembling figure to her feet. The heel of one of her shoes was broken, so walking was tricky. Hetty darted back to the sergeant; and after some discussion and the exchange of a fiver, a pair of battered trainers was retrieved from the lost-property box. She returned with them held out in front of her, like a prize. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘You’ll probably catch athlete’s foot, but at least we can get you – Where are we going, Doris?’

‘Home,’ said Doris decisively. ‘Where we came from.’

An hour later they were seated in the simple living room of flat two. Mrs McDonald was wielding a teapot, and Carole had vanished into the bathroom. The sound of a shower could be heard for a long time.

‘Would somebody mind telling me,’ said Hetty at last, ‘what’s been going on?’

‘We’re very grateful to you, Mrs Clarkson,’ said Mrs McDonald formally. The Scottish accent burred and lengthened the syllables. ‘Would you like a biscuit?’

‘No, but I would like an explanation. Is that Mr McDonald?’

‘It is.’

‘And Carole is …?’

‘Carole is my husband when he is dressed as a female,’ answered Mrs McDonald calmly, as if explaining how the gas meter worked.

‘I don’t get it,’ said Hetty weakly. ‘You’re in on all this?’

‘I am. Always have been.’

‘But how long …?’

‘It was a couple of months after we were married that I saw Carole for the first time. She wasn’t as … striking as she is now. I came into the bedroom one evening and found her in one of my nightdresses.’

‘Heavens.’ Hetty sat back abruptly. ‘Weren’t you shocked?’

The woman sipped her tea. ‘I was a bit green, then. I wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or not. I didn’t know anything about it.’

‘So it’s been like this’ – Hetty struggled – ‘the whole time you’ve been together?’

‘Oh, yes, but she was probably there ages before that. The tendency often shows up in childhood. For Andy it wasn’t till he was a teenager. Then his mum caught him trying on her dresses and she threw him out.’

‘But you didn’t throw him out, did you?’ Doris’s eyes were sharp.

‘I didn’t. I fell in love with
Andy
, see. The
person
. I met him at work. He was so kind, and so considerate. Nobody’s ever been so nice to me. I’m not exactly a great looker, and I was dreadfully shy. He was good to me.’

‘So when you found out about Carole …?’ Hetty could not formulate her question. It was clear, however, that Mrs McDonald had asked it of herself, and had answered it to her own satisfaction.

‘When I first met Carole, I cried and cried. But then Andy showed me he’s still the same human being who loved me and married me. And he carried on being the same husband. And, in a way, it doesn’t bother me as it used to: I can turn a blind eye. Anyway, by then I was pregnant, so there was no going back.’

‘But how do you feel …?’ Hetty’s voice trailed away. If Stephen … it didn’t bear thinking about. She doubted if her own reaction could ever have been as measured, or as compassionate.

Mrs McDonald’s face was impassive. ‘It’s up to him. Provided he doesn’t get himself into trouble. Or us.’

‘Nearly did today,’ Doris commented. ‘Not supposed to be flouncing about in broad daylight, is he?’

Mrs McDonald shook her head.

Hetty recalled her several sightings of ‘Carole’ in the neighbourhood. ‘At the police station,’ she said slowly, ‘your husband told us that Carole was taking over. What did he mean?’

‘Just that,’ answered the woman, ‘and it’s been getting worse recently. The worry is that Carole will insist on taking over and we won’t be able to stop her.’

‘And then?’

‘Then he’ll want to be Carole the whole time.’

There was a silence. Hetty found the solid, unemotional stance of Mrs McDonald almost unbearable. She turned gravely to Doris. ‘Are the children supposed to be in on the secret? Is it a secret? Or was I the only one in the block who didn’t –?’

‘It’s an open secret,’ Doris elaborated unhelpfully. ‘The children haven’t been told about it, not properly. But they’ve caught sight of their dad once or twice. If you don’t tell them otherwise, they assume it’s normal.’

‘For my husband, it is.’ Mrs McDonald did not seem flustered.

Hetty could not make up her mind whether the woman was a martyr, a saint or a
self-deluding
madwoman. Sympathy, even if not entirely whole-hearted, seemed the best response. ‘In those circumstances,’ Hetty ventured, ‘many wives would have shown the man the door, and told him never to come near the children again.’

‘But why? He’s a wonderful father. He’s great in every way – he works hard, brings home every penny he earns, treats us with respect. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t swear. He loves us, and we love him.’

‘Yes. I can see that. You’re very lucky, I suppose. But it must put the marriage under
strain, surely?’ Hetty was uncertain of her own meaning, then realised she was asking about their sex lives, their right to qualify as a couple, perhaps. Such topics were none of her business or anyone else’s.

Mrs McDonald drew herself up with some dignity and gave Hetty a cool stare. ‘I have an excellent marriage, Mrs Clarkson.’

Suitably quelled, Hetty munched a biscuit. The bathroom door opened and Mr McDonald emerged in dark slacks and a sweater, the clothes worn but clean. Behind him Hetty spotted the dress, carefully hung up, its torn hem dangling.

‘Thank you for your help.’ The remark was agonised and evidently sincerely meant, but it was also a dismissal. Doris and Hetty rose, shook hands awkwardly, and left. Behind them came a low murmur of voices: there would be no screaming match, no recriminations in that household.

At the bottom of the stairs Hetty held on to the banister rail to steady herself. ‘Doris, what did she mean, she has an excellent marriage? How can that be possible?’

‘It takes all sorts,’ Doris answered. ‘The shop has taught me that, if nothing else. How are we to judge? Your marriage fell apart, hers hasn’t. Mine – well, that’s another story. But in this block, Hetty, there are two happy couples, and they’re one of them.’

‘Two?’

‘Yeah. The gay men upstairs, Markus and Christian – don’t you think of them as a couple? You should. But, comparing them, I’d say the McDonalds are far more likely to make it till death us do part, et cetera.’

‘And how do you figure that?’

‘Because they have no illusions, either of them. He’s a cross-dresser – he just
is
. She’s a plain dumpy lass that no other man would have, probably, but she’s a homemaker. He gave her that chance, that status, and she repays him with total loyalty. And, despite the difficulties, they’ve promised to care for each other and for the children.’

‘My God,’ said Hetty, chastened.

Doris prodded her arm. ‘Bit of a challenge, hey? A model partnership, Het. A wonderful example to us all.’

‘Maybe,’ said Hetty, her mind in turmoil, as she trudged slowly up the stairs.

Hetty stirred her cappuccino, licked her spoon and watched idly as the froth collapsed. ‘Shouldn’t have done that,’ she said out loud.

‘What is it?’ Clarissa’s voice betrayed concern. ‘You’ve not been on form today, Hetty.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Hetty answered, and pulled her shoulders back. ‘Mustn’t slouch.’

‘There! I told you,’ said Clarissa, in triumph. She rummaged in her voluminous shoulder-bag, found cologne-soaked tissues, and patted her brow. ‘You’re talking to yourself the whole time, now. This living solo has got to you. I’m sorry, but you seem to have made no progress. In fact, darling, you’re going backwards.’

Hetty put her spoon down in the saucer. They were seated under the palm trees in the Bluewater concourse, the vast shopping complex near London that boasted it was the largest in the country, a virtual city. Their packages were piled on spare chairs like First World War trench sandbags, creating a barricade that gave scant protection from swirling muzak, the whine of four sets of escalators, heavy-metal snatches from a CD shop two floors up and a squalling baby in a pushchair at the next table.

‘I’ll be crawling out on my knees, if we don’t have a quiet half-hour,’ Hetty answered ominously. ‘Where are we, anyway? How far is the car?’

Clarissa sipped her espresso. ‘Back there. We’ve walked quite a distance.’

Hetty raised her head, her brow puckered. ‘The complex is over a mile long, and we’re near one of the western exits. So that means one hell of a trek back.’

‘All right. My mistake,’ Clarissa conceded. ‘Back to Harvey Nicks next time. And coffee in Knightsbridge. But if you expect me to traipse round the tube with my Harrods bags, you’ve got another think coming.’

‘What I don’t get,’ Hetty said, sipping the remaining froth and refusing a tissue, ‘is the attraction of these places. It’s packed. Entire families have arrived for a day out. The kids hate it, the old ones are confused, the teenagers start nicking, the young mums get exhausted and the fathers despair – that is, when they bother to come.’

‘It’s shopping,’ Clarissa said doggedly. ‘And you’re supposed to enjoy it.’

With her sore feet rested, Hetty felt more relaxed. ‘How’s Robin?’

‘So-so. As ever.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘He’s having a whale of a time as head of chambers. Dinners every night, lectures, meetings. It’ll guarantee him a position on every committee going plus an income for life – he’s now a confirmed member of the Gee-gees.’ Hetty must have looked blank. ‘The Great and the Good. The list of approved spiritual and temporal leaders, as Robin puts it, from whom the Public Appointments Unit selects names. The odds are, he’ll spend his retirement chairing one inquiry after other. He
will
like that.’

‘And you won’t, I take it?’

‘Not much. He’s busy, and I’m excluded. If he dines at his club, the snooty one that won’t admit women, I’m relegated to some chintzy horror on the mezzanine floor to wait for
him. So I stay at home.’

‘More women should be put on those bodies,’ Hetty suggested.

Clarissa bridled. ‘I hope not. It’d mean more women on his body, that’s for sure.’

‘All those fact-finding trips abroad?’ Hetty smiled.

‘Correct. And with the press inquisitive about perks, partners are frowned on. Researchers, on the other hand, are essential. They travel by the truckload.’

‘Your Robin, though. He’s not like that,’ Hetty explored carefully.

‘They’re
all
like that.’ Clarissa glowered.

The two women ordered second cups of coffee and abstemiously shared a slice of strawberry cream gateau.

‘I’ve applied to an agency,’ Hetty said airily. She had been waiting for the moment to mention it.

‘Why? You fed up with your job?’

‘No, silly. A dating agency. Soul Mates. Going to find me a man, they say. I hope so – it’s costing over thirty pounds a month.’

‘That’s one middling dinner in town, or a ticket in the back stalls of a hit show,’ Clarissa calculated quickly. ‘Anything worthwhile shown up yet?’

Hetty shook her head. ‘But I’m determined. Time to abandon my starfish bed, and fill it with basking sharks. I hope.’

‘Come again?’ Clarissa was briefly mystified. She leaned forward, her voice confidential. ‘I bet you could go back. I’ve heard that your Stephen’s been seen moping about at weekends, on his own again.’

‘Ah …’ Hetty pondered. That explained the original letter, and another, similarly worded but shorter, which had arrived the previous week. ‘I’m sad to hear that. But it doesn’t follow that I’m the antidote to his afflictions, does it?’

‘But it could be ideal. Now you’ve had your bid for freedom, and rediscovered yourself, and taken advantage of … what do they call it? … having your own space for a while, you two could start afresh on a much stronger footing.’ She tapped her nose. ‘You could keep in touch with the agency as an insurance policy.’

‘The hole in that scenario is that I like my freedom. I like my friends. I like living where I do. It isn’t a compromise any more, if it ever was.’

Clarissa’s face betrayed bewilderment. ‘You sure? Sounds a bit like bravado to me. Surely any sane woman, given what Stephen might be offering, would jump at the chance. That’s why girls go to these agencies, for heaven’s sake. And he’s a handsome man still: Robin and I saw him at a Guildhall dinner the other week. He was alone.’

Hetty kept her peace. Doris would not be impressed if she decamped to Dorset, or set up some imitation of her former life. Father Roger might make supportive comments, but he would also regret the loss of their gentle, platonic evenings out. Markus and Christian would ask anxiously if she were sure that was what she wanted, and if so, she would probably never see them again. Or the McDonalds, and certainly not Carole, who had manifested herself rather less frequently recently. And there was Brian, who had reappeared on his old pitch, careworn and gaunt, but selling the
Big Issue
once more: she longed to take him for another coffee and fill in the gaps. Worst, the job. That would go out of the window. Rosa would not be pleased.

‘I suspect you’ve described accurately what, maybe, the BJs want. But I’m way past that stage,’ Hetty said, cagily.

Clarissa prodded her arm. ‘The BJs – are these your drinking mates? Hardly the best people to judge, are they? Heavens, Hetty, your lifestyle since you went to live in that
hell-hole
doesn’t bear examination. Talk about sowing wild oats. You, a respectable woman.’

The last person who had called her that had needed rescuing from a police station on a sex charge. Hetty decided not to tell Clarissa about that little adventure. ‘I’m okay. Honestly. Probably happier than you, in fact.’

‘How do you work that out?’ Clarissa was indignant. She began to gather up the bags ready to leave.

‘Well, you’ve just moaned at length about Robin. And when I’ve seen him, he’s not been – the perfect escort, shall we say? Fell over in my brother’s kitchen, for example. So why do
you
put up with it? You should get stubborn. Insist he takes your needs into account. And do it soon.’

‘
You
’re giving
me
advice?’ Clarissa’s mouth dropped open.

‘Why not? There are worse things to be than a single fifty-something, Clarissa. In fact, I can assure you –’

The top bag teetered and toppled off the pile. Clarissa jerked out a hand to stop it and knocked over her shoulder-bag. The coffee-cup clattered to the floor. Heads turned, a loud ‘tut’ came from the woman at the next table.

Hetty went down on her haunches to pick up the broken china and retrieve their belongings. It was then that she saw a slim volume sticking out of Clarissa’s bag.

‘What’s this? You becoming an intellectual all of a sudden?’

‘Give that here.’ Clarissa snatched the book and stuffed it quickly back into the bag.

‘Did I see
Teach Yourself Sociology
?’ Hetty’s eyes were round.

‘Perhaps.’

‘But you – are you about to become a student or what?’

‘I might.’ Clarissa’s cheeks were scarlet; she scrabbled about with the carrier-bags until clusters of handles were in her fists, then said stiffly, ‘Shall we go?’

Hetty grabbed the remaining shopping and trotted along beside her friend, her tiredness forgotten. ‘So, the cosy married life isn’t quite as fulfilling as all that?’ she teased.

But Clarissa, marching fiercely, eyes straight ahead, would tell her no more.

The following evening Hetty discovered she was the only person of her acquaintance who wished to see the
South Park
movie. Its irreverent send-ups of political correctness, its uproarious two fingers to censorship had her chuckling throughout, even if Kenny died in a particularly gruesome manner. Those politicians who wanted adults to set good examples to children should be aware of the unconventional advice given by the school chef to the
eight-year-
olds in his care, mainly on seduction techniques. On the other hand, its real target was intolerance, and that appealed to her.

She trudged back across the common. After a moment she realised that she had taken the wrong path, and was headed away from the corner of Apiary Lane towards the north side. Lost in reverie, she had not noticed where she was.

She halted. Overhead the wind whistled through the branches: rain had been forecast
and it was getting dark. This was not the most salubrious sector of the common, with its shrubbery and foliage dense enough to conceal those who did not wish to be observed. Some nights, Hetty knew, it could become quite crowded here; Doris had warned her to avoid this area out of daylight, unless, like those visitors who chose to frequent it, she had pressing reasons to be there.

She was not afraid: she was not seeking drugs, or illicit sex, from the seedy boys who were already lurking near the park bench. They were not all gay, by any means.

She turned and began to walk steadily towards the road. The sun had gone: here, where there were no street-lamps, it was murky and damp. A movement on her left made her jump. Two men had emerged from the shadows, shoulder to shoulder. One was sporting a baseball cap and white jeans – the hallmark, in these parts, of a gay prostitute. He was pocketing what appeared to be money.

Hetty tried not to stare. It was none of her business. If it suited these men to seek love, or whatever they called it, in public with anonymous others, she could only pity them: she would not condemn. Most of all, she should not interfere. But something made her twist half round, to reassure herself they had no interest in her and that she was safe.

The Adam’s apple bobbed, the elegant profile swung rapidly away. The golden hair caught the remaining light. Then the tall young man in the green sweater broke into a loping run and was lost in the bushes.

The boy with the baseball cap shrugged, tucked the notes away, found a handkerchief and wiped his hands, then strolled back into the gloom.

Hetty was more than a little shaky as she arrived at her front gate. Was that an illusion? Had she really seen Christian on the common, and if so what had he been up to? Paying for services, or selling them? She had seen the notes in the baseball boy’s hand, though she could not tell whether he was the recipient or the customer. What had got into Christian that he should be so engaged and taking such risks?

The happy couple upstairs were, perhaps, not so happy. It showed how few assumptions could be made about others.

As she stood on the doorstep and fumbled for her keys, Hetty felt deeply upset. Markus and Christian had given no signs of friction, though she recalled Christian joking about the common one Sunday at the Café Pinocchio, about doing it the first time with strangers. Markus had recoiled at the comments but his disapproval had been fleeting and private. Perhaps the joking had developed further: into a dare? Or did Christian find coupledom in flat six a bit stifling? His earlier experiences, from which he had been rescued by his older lover, suggested a self-destructive streak. Maybe he was heading that way again?

It would help to talk it over with Doris. As she put her key in the lock, however, Hetty heard animated voices coming from Doris’s flat: not the usual scolding of Thomas for moulting on the sofa or eating the spare ham, but a male and female in conversation.

Hetty tiptoed into the dark garden. She would not be seen from inside. For a moment she hesitated: she did not normally spy on anyone, let alone her friends. But the film had made her feel mildly unconventional, and she meant no harm.

Doris’s kitchen was well lit, the blind up. Inside Doris was at the table, with a
thick-set
man. She was devoid of pinny or curlers or turban, her lipstick was tidily applied, the
excess rouge absent. She was nodding, head on one side, a smile on her lips. The man was about her age, silvery at the temples and bald, in a smart navy suit with a blue shirt and tie. At the far end of the table Thomas was curled up like a ginger cushion, his eyes watchful slits. Between them stood two glasses – Scotch, perhaps.

Doris would not dress up like that for the rent man. It was evidently an expected visit, for the makeup and hair would have required effort. That also explained why she had not been free to go to a movie. The old lady’s eyes radiated contentment, even joy. Hetty had never seen her like that before, and suddenly could visualise Doris as a young, sweet-faced girl, exuberant and full of spirit.

And this must be the gentleman friend, Jack, whose wife lived up north, and who owned the sex-shop. Who owned several sex-shops, but had a background as …? Hetty ransacked her memory. On the bus home after the carol service, Doris had mentioned casually that he had been a police officer. In that dark blue outfit he looked the part, as if he might have been a detective. The unstated implication in that conversation, then, was that Jack was
au fait
with that sleazy trade and would conduct it honourably, so no more questions need be asked. Yet, given Doris’ roguishness, her means of earning her living, her familiarity with the law (as demonstrated in the rescue of Carole), Hetty began to wonder. How had they met? Had Doris once been known to the police?