Sex and Other Changes (33 page)

‘I hate the summer, me,' said Bernie at breakfast. Alan gave him a look. He didn't notice. ‘You long for it all through the winter and spring and what happens? The bastard lets you down.' Now he did catch Alan's eye, and he grinned sheepishly. ‘Well, take today,' he said. ‘It's like a boil waiting to burst.' Then he gave a rueful little laugh. ‘Aye, I know,' he said, ‘but you must let me have a little moan now and again. An addict can't give up moaning overnight like.'

The Midsummer Dinner was a new event – pedants were already complaining because it wasn't actually being held at midsummer. It was the brainchild, if that isn't an exaggeration, of the PP, the Pompous Prat, Wing Commander Miles Forrester. He said that its purpose was to celebrate the short northern summer, but its purpose was to raise more money. At twenty-five pounds a ticket, even though that included a half bottle of house wine, it would be quite a profit-making event and a touch on the steep side for Throdnall.

Alan hadn't intended to go – until he discovered that Nicola was booked in ‘with a party'.

He hadn't heard from Nicola since the day she left after caring for him – brilliantly once again – as he recovered from his hysterectomy and ovariectomy. It had involved a rather longer
convalescence than the double mastectomy, being an altogether more invasive process.

The operation had gone well; Nicola had visited every other day; Mrs Mussolini had seemed a little softer, as if she'd thought about why people called her Mrs Mussolini; Pat (who had been on holiday during the mastectomy) had forgiven Nicola for letting their little secret slip and embarrassing her greatly with the aforesaid Mrs Mussolini; Em and Gray, a year older, had been just a bit more comfortable about hospital visiting; Bernie had sent his usual message of apology – it would all have been quite a routine affair if it hadn't been for Prentice.

Just before he went into hospital, Alan received a letter from him.

Dear Alan/Alison/Alan (you're on your way to Alanhood and are more Alan than Alison, but you aren't there yet!)

I was devastated to learn from a colleague of yours at the carriage works that you had been for your mastectomy and I hadn't known about it and hadn't visited to cheer you up with a few laughs. So now, if you go to Gaza and strip (Gaza Strip, get it? They didn't in Droitwich. Not a titter. O'oh. Titter! Sorry! Unintentional), you will not be ‘Eyeless in Gaza' (Huxley novel – they hadn't heard of it in Droitwich!) but ‘Breastless in Gaza'. And now it's time for the removal of your womb, which was once a ‘womb with a view' (another floperoonie in Droitwich!) for the deliciously lovely Em and the not deliciously lovely Gray. I hope your recovery wasn't nippled in the bud (Oh dear! Who is this man?) by my absence.

Well this time I will be there in glorious person, in full Technicolor, to cheer you and speed your recovery.

Love and kisses

Prentice ‘Fun with Flab' Prentice

The whole of Alan's time in hospital was blighted by his expectation of Prentice's visit, and he never went, just sent another letter a week afterwards.

Dear Alan/Alison/Alan/Alan (more Alan than ever now – nearly there)

So very sorry not to make it. Devastated in fact. Got invited for a free holiday in Crete, and you have to be selfish sometimes, don't you? Hope you weren't ovarily disappointed (they don't get any better, but I hope you have).

Love, hugs and wet kisses

Prentice ‘Mirth with Girth' Prentice

Nicola had been rather quiet and self-contained as she went about the business of running number thirty-three while still coping at the Cornucopia. She had said that she was tired and Alan had allowed himself to believe that that was all it was, but now he was worried. Three weeks had gone by without a phone call, and all he got when he rang Cluffield was the answer machine and sometimes not even that. He'd only left two messages; he didn't want Nicola to know that he was anxious. It was for this reason that he hadn't rung the hotel. Nick had never liked being rung at work.

It had been getting to the stage when he thought he really would have to ring the Cornucopia, but then he had found out that she was going to the Midsummer Dinner, and he had decided to wait until then.

He'd still been ringing Cluffield almost every day, and for a week at least the answer machine hadn't been on, but now there was no need to ring, he would see her this evening – well, he hoped he would.

‘With a party'? That didn't sound like Nicola.

It was all a bit worrying.

Usually, Bernie had breakfast on his own in the granny flat (making it helped him keep his hand in, and he'd even begun cooking the occasional meal for them, can you believe it? He had one recipe – Pork Normandy – which was truly excellent), but that Saturday Alan made him breakfast, two poached eggs on toast, because he suddenly felt that he would like his dad's company.

‘Thanks, love, that were grand,' said his dear neo-dad. He thought about all the times he'd had to quarry the praise out of his stony face, and he marvelled.

‘Good.'

‘I think I'll pop into town on t'bus. Pop into travel agent's like.'

‘Travel agent's? Why?'

‘I thought I might book one of these Short City Breaks I've been reading about.'

Alan looked at him in astonishment.

‘Aye,' said Bernie. ‘Your old dad's turning into a bit of a goer in his old age.'

‘It's a wonderful idea, Dad.'

Of course the thought of Bernie enjoying a few sunny days in Blackpool or Brighton filled Alan with pleasure, but he had to admit to himself that the thought of a few dadless days at number thirty-three filled him with even more. He loved his dad dearly, especially this new dad, but still … he was human … he would like to be able to open another bottle of red wine without somebody saying, ‘Another bottle! Have we won the lottery or something?'

‘Aye,' said Bernie. ‘Get me out from under your feet for a few days.'

‘No!' said Alan. ‘The thought never crossed my mind.'

He offered to drive his dad in.

‘No,' said Bernie. ‘I've got me bus pass. Not much point in having a bus pass if you don't use it.'

Alan didn't insist. He didn't want to seem too eager.

At seventeen minutes to eleven, not long after Bernie had gone for the bus, Em rang from Kos.

‘Hi, Mum. It's me.'

‘Hello, darling. Are you having a nice time?'

‘Very.'

He took the cordless out into the hall.

‘Oh good. I am pleased.' He called out to Gray, ‘It's Em,' and then he continued to Em, ‘How's the weather?'

‘Lovely. Too hot, though.'

‘It's too hot here too. How's the villa?'

‘It's fantastic. It's right by the sea.'

‘Excellent.'

‘We swim three times a day.'

‘Excellent. Here's Gray.'

He put him on. Gray sat at the table and put his feet up on it – cool!

‘Hi, Em … Yeah … Yeah? … Oh yeah! … Piss off … Yeah, bring some lettuces … Kos. Kos lettuces. Is Andropolos stuffing you as much as he did in Paxos? … And you! Do you want Mum any more? … OK. Bye, Em.' He put the phone back on its stand. ‘I don't think that girl has any sense of humour.'

‘Because she didn't laugh at your jokes about Kos and Paxos.'

‘Not a titter.'

‘Inadequate evidence, Gray, I'm afraid. So, it sounds good.'

‘What does?'

‘You know.'

Gray did. He might be lazy and inarticulate. He wasn't stupid.

‘You mean that the Greek boy friend may not turn out to be as big a bastard as Giorgio, François and Carl.'

‘Gray! Learn some compassion. At least her international relationships are real.'

‘This is just a very old-fashioned way of thinking, Mum. My relationships aren't not real just because they're on the net.' He blushed. ‘Juanita's real.'

‘Gray?' There was something she wanted to ask him before he went back to his room.

‘What?'

‘On the phone just now you said, “Piss off.” '

‘Sorry.'

‘No. I don't mind. I just wondered what Em said to make you say, “Piss off.” '

‘I can't remember. I … oh yeah. Yeah. I remember. She said …' – he twisted his face into a half-smile, half-grimace, very mobile, very Ferenc oh God!! – ‘She said, “I love you, bruv.” '

‘I thought so.'

‘Not cool. Well, I suppose Greece isn't cool. Laugh, Mum. That was a witty remark.'

‘Ah.'

‘That was self-mockery, Mum. “Ah! Maybe he's growing up at last.” '

‘What?'

‘That's what you were thinking. Bye, Mum. See you later.'

If only he hadn't had to say, ‘Piss off,' when Em said, ‘I love you, bruv.' More importantly, however, if Em said, ‘I love you, bruv,' things must be going really well with Andropolos. Thank God. Not that he hoped that Em would marry a Greek waiter, but he didn't want her to get hurt any more.

Bernie rang at twenty-eight minutes past twelve. ‘I'm in the Coach. Don't make me lunch.'

He banged on Gray's door.

‘Come.'

He entered the Temple of International Communications. All seemed calm.

‘Fancy a pizza at the Positano?'

‘OK. Cool.'

‘See you in ten minutes. Get yourself untidied.'

‘What?'

‘Frayed jeans with holes in them. T-shirt that doesn't quite reach the frayed jeans, showing an area of young Divot stomach. Cool!'

He went in a jacket and neat open-neck shirt. He had an Americano. Alan had a Capricciosa.

They had a good time in the Trattoria Positano. A good time with Gray? What was the world coming to? They talked about uni and railway carriages and pizzas and Em and Andropolos and Peru. Gray didn't actually mention Juanita again, but suddenly he was an expert on Peruvian politics.

At forty-three minutes past two, Bernie returned, a bit flushed, weaving ever so slightly.

‘I hope you didn't mind my popping into t'Coach,' he said, ‘but I had to tell Clarrie and Edgar about me Short City Break.'

‘Ah,' said Alan. ‘You booked one. Where to? Brighton? Scarborough?'

‘Krakov.'

‘What?'

‘It's in Poland. Paper reckons it's a grand city. It's got a cloth hall and such like and I don't know what. They said they could throw in Warsaw an' all and it'd only be a hundred and twenty-six quid more. Fly to Warsaw, train to Krakov, fly home from Krakov. I said to her … nice girl, stud in her nose, but quite well spoken … I said to her, “No. That might be a bit much for me, first time of asking like.” She said, “How do you mean, first time of asking?” I said, “First time abroad, and on me own.” Well, Marge always liked Eastbourne and such like and there didn't seem any point. I said, “I think Krakov on its own'll do very nicely, thank you.” She said, “There's a supplementary tour of a salt mine, you're advised to book early.” I said, “Aye, go on, then, let's go the whole hog while
we're at it.” She said, “How about Auschwitz?” I said, “What do you mean, ‘How about Auschwitz?'?” She said, “There's a supplementary tour of Auschwitz and all. They ask us to warn you that it can be very distressing.” I said, “Oh aye, it will be. Aye,” I said. “I'm on for that. You're too young to remember, so who'll remember if I don't? Aye,” I said, “be a pity to die wi'out paying my 'omage to 'istory.” So that's whar I've booked.'

Alan went up to Bernie and kissed him. ‘We leave at ten to seven,' he said.

Yes, neo-Dad was such a changed man that he was taking him as his guest to the Midsummer Dinner.

He sighed. He was so worried about Nicola. Oh, he did hope she was happy.

Time passed slowly. He had a hot bath, then a cold shower because the hot bath had made him sweat.

Then he got dressed. It was his first ever black tie do. Yes, it was black tie in that heat. ‘Throdnall has to learn to be classy,' the PP had said. It was quite exciting, though, dressing up in his first penguin suit, and a whole lot easier than being a woman and having to agonise over what to wear.

He couldn't tie his bow tie. Gray did it for him. God, it was hot and tight.

‘Great,' said Gray. ‘Have to admit it, Mum. Cool.'

Alan thought that helping him in that way had made Gray feel rather grown up.

He was looking forward to seeing Nicola, provided she was all right, of course, but he wasn't looking forward to going to the Golf Club.

He'd booked his tickets almost at the last minute, after he'd learnt that Nicola was going, and the snotty-nosed Social Secretary had said, ‘I think we can fit you in', even though everybody knew that tickets hadn't been selling too well. He'd been rather brusque, excessively brusque in fact, having been in
the middle of a tense and tiring week at work. He'd had an extremely hectic time organising the guest list for the unveiling of the new tilting carriages, amid unsettling rumours that Northern Vision were going to cancel their contract and go to Bangladesh for their carriages. Mr Beresford had been like a bear with a migraine all week, and Alan had been contaminated by the fall-out.

He felt sure that the Social Secretary, who didn't like him any more than the PP did, would get his revenge by placing them on a table with all the people nobody else wanted to sit with – Major and Mrs Peskott, the ‘abominable' Snowmans, Celia Pilkington-Wilks with her delusions of grandeur – and he wouldn't even be able to complain because he'd booked late.

Bernie's penguin suit was decidedly old-fashioned, and there was a distinct whiff of mothballs, but he looked good, he really did. He was a picture of elderly elegance.

The evening air was still and stale. It seemed impossible that there wouldn't be a storm. Alan set off too early, in his nervousness, so he had to drive slowly. The Ka behind him hooted impetuously in Owl Hoot Lane, as if it thought it was appropriate. Small men were tetchy, so were small cars.