Sex and Other Changes by David Nobbs

Author:David Nobbs
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781409065784
Publisher: Random House

19 Visiting Time

Nicola realised that she had awoken from a deep sleep. She was staring at a complex pattern of cracks on a white surface.

It was a ceiling! Where was she? She moved her neck very very cautiously, because she had a dim feeling that she might have been in an accident.

She was in a small room, with white walls and one window which afforded a view only of sky, an incongruously placid sky of mackerel clouds and glimpses of blue.

It all came back to her. She was in hospital. She had had a sex change operation – or had she? She was truly Nicola at last – or was she?

Supposing something had gone wrong. Supposing she’d proved unsuitable.

She felt down, very nervously, to find out if she still had those hated protuberances – testicles and a penis.

Her hand touched only bandages. Well, that was promising … but not conclusive. Perhaps they had begun the operation and aborted it. (Horrid word. For ‘aborted’ read ‘suspended’.)

She was attached to three drips. There were indicators attached to these drips. Promising … but not conclusive. Maybe she had lost a lot of blood and that was why they had suspended operations … suspended the operation … and that was why she was attached to three drips.

Had she had the operation or hadn’t she?

There must be a bell. Where was the bell? Ah.

It seemed like minutes before anybody came. She felt so alone. She felt so trapped. Didn’t they realise how people felt at moments like this? Fragile. Desperately vulnerable. Full of fear.

Ah. A nurse.

‘Ah! You’ve come round.’

‘Er … yes.’

A starched nurse. White frock, white tabard, red face – all starched.

‘Nurse, have I … had the operation?’

‘Well of course you have, Ms Divot.’

‘Has it … er …?’

‘Mr McWhinnie was very satisfied.’

Unlike you, nurse. You don’t look as if you’ve ever been satisfied.

‘Mr McWhinnie is an extremely good surgeon.’

Rebuked for her doubts, and at such a time. True insensitivity is an art. Only the really talented possess it. In love with Mr McWhinnie. Wouldn’t look at her twice, starched little madam.

‘So, I’m … I’m a woman.’

‘I suppose so, Ms Divot.’

‘Am I … er … doing all right, then?’

‘You’re as comfortable as can be expected,’ she said. ‘Oh!’ she added. ‘Your “wife” telephoned some while ago to say she’d been stuck in traffic but would be here soon.’

They were only the faintest of hints, the inverted commas that The Starchy One put round the word ‘wife’, but they were enough. She disapproved. Personal? Thought Nicola a freak? Political? Resented the waste of resources that should be used on diseases that she thought were real? Regarded this as cosmetic surgery, albeit of a private and very extreme kind?

Not your business, Nicola. Not your worry. It was a shame, though, not to have woken to a friendlier face.

She tried to move. Flames of pain burnt into her insides. Needles of pain thrust themselves into her veins. She gripped the side of the bed. Sweat poured off her. She was sweating down there beneath the bandages.

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