Sex and Other Changes by David Nobbs Page B

dying.
    After that she set to in the kitchen, making one of her soups. The whole kitchen came to life when she cooked. Suddenly it didn’t seem sad and sterile and suburban any more. People should cook more, she thought, then their houses would buzz and smell nice; they’d be happier.
    She remembered the questionnaire and realised that she no longer wanted Nick to read it and realise how desperate she had been.
    She went to the table, to throw it in the bin, but it had gone. The freepost envelope had gone too.
    Could Bernie have taken it and posted it? Surely not? He never raised a finger to help. He certainly never used his initiative.
    She heard him shuffling up the drive. She opened the door. He stood there looking foolishly surprised, with his key held towards the keyhole that was no longer there.
    â€˜Service with a smile,’ he said.
    â€˜Dad?’ she said. ‘Did you post a questionnaire that was on the kitchen table?’
    â€˜Aye, I did,’ he said. ‘I saw it were completed like and I remembered what you said t’other day: I never raise a finger to help, I haven’t shown any initiative around the house since the day I moved in.’
    â€˜Did I say that?’
    â€˜You’ve been in a funny mood lately, and I thought, “Hey up, our Bernie, this is your chance to show her. So I popped it in t’envelope, and posted it in t’box in Badger Glade Rise. Did I do wrong?’
    Yes, Dad, you’ve probably caused utter mayhem at the sorting office.
    â€˜No, Dad, of course you didn’t.’
    She kissed him.
    â€˜Hey up!’ he said. ‘Twice in one day. What’s happened to the woman? She’s going all continental on us.’
    She got to the station twenty minutes early. She stood on the platform. A lazy wind had sprung up. There was litter between the lines, and a child’s yellow breakdown van, and a pear squashed by a train. The wrong kind of pear?
    His train was going to be seventeen minutes late – reasonable going for the Throdnall line. Her 5op parking ticket was valid for forty minutes. If it over-ran because the train was late, and she was fined, she’d challenge it in the courts, she’d refuse to pay the fine, she’d go to prison if need be, no, she wouldn’t, that was stupid.
    She felt very nervous. She didn’t remember when she had felt so nervous. She wasn’t a nervous woman.
    Supposing he’d decided he wouldn’t go through with it. How disappointed he’d be. Supposing he’d been rejected as unsuitable. She felt so anxious for him and for herself. It wouldn’t be a good omen for her if he was turned down.
    By the time the train arrived it was twenty-two minutes late. She stood by the footbridge, looking both ways for him as Throdnall Man in his many forms strode by. Some strong, some weak, grey, tired, sagging, skins as lifeless as their briefcases. And there he was, her man, well, her partner, her … her Nick. He looked so frail, but not grey at all, he looked golden, her golden girl. It was just a flash, and then it was gone. She kissed him soberly, carefully, Throdnall-ly, not wanting to seem too emotional, not sure how emotional he was feeling.
    â€˜How did it go?’
    â€˜All right.’
    So British.
    â€˜Only all right?’
    â€˜Well, pretty well, really. On the whole. I suppose. Well, very well, I suppose, really.’
    So Throdnall.
    â€˜I mean nothing was said, nothing was actually said, perhaps nothing is said on these occasions, but it sort of seems by implication as though it’s been tacitly agreed that I’ve begun the process. The doctor was OK. He has very large knees, but he was OK. God, though, it isn’t half going to be a long-drawn-out process. Years.’
    Her heart sank. Years for him, and she hadn’t even started!
    â€˜Oh they gave me a letter you’ll have to sign, if you’re prepared to.’
    He handed it to her,