Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,53

know what to do. My husband and I don’t have a bad marriage, and we have two delightful young children. But I just can’t stop thinking about my friend. Do you think I’m a lesbian?’” At this, Tracey began to laugh so loudly that even my father looked at us for a moment, frowning, shrugging, and then turning away.

I wasn’t laughing nearly as hard as Tracey, and after a few moments I stopped to mull over the letter. I’d heard the word “lesbian” before, yelled at girls in the school corridors, girls who were unpopular, girls like me that none of the boys liked. And sometimes, when two girls walked arm in arm across the playground or played with each other’s hair in the classroom, boys would goad them with “lesby-friends, lesby-friends,” as if touching each other somehow tainted them, as if that was the worst thing they could be. I knew lesbians were girls who didn’t like boys, that they liked girls instead, but up until that moment I’d never really thought that they actually existed.

“What does the answer say?” I asked, trying to tug the magazine from Tracey. I wanted to read the response. Would the woman be told to put a stop to her thoughts, to stop seeing her friend? Would she be told that her impulses were unnatural, that she needed to confess them to a doctor or a priest?

“No,” Tracey said, tugging back. “I’ll read it.”

“You can’t, you’re laughing too much.” She was doubled up, tears streaming down her face. I could feel my irritation turning to anger. It really wasn’t that funny.

“No, I can, just give me a minute.” She took a deep breath and wiped away her tears in an effort to compose herself. “‘Dear Confused,’” she began. Then, looking solemn, she dropped the magazine to her lap. “Yeah, she is confused, all right. Confused and bloody queer. Can you imagine that, kissing a woman?” She slapped the page and contorted her face into an expression of disgust. “Yuck. She needs to be put away. It’s repulsive.”

I nodded, a quick, soft bob of my head.

“Revolting,” Tracey added. “Sick, sick, sick.”

I felt my chest tighten and my stomach knot up, as if my torso were a rag being twisted and squeezed. “Let’s read what the answer says,” I said, making a grab for the magazine.

“What are you two up to?” My mother entered the living room carrying a tray loaded with teacups, saucers, and a plate of fairy cakes.

Tracey and I scrambled to close the pile of magazines we had strewn across the settee and tossed them onto the coffee table. “Nothing. You want a hand with that tray, Mum?” I leaped up and took the tray from her while Tracey straightened up the pile of magazines.

“Thank you, darling,” my mother said as I began placing cups in their saucers. Then, looking at my father, she commented acidly, “Nice to see someone around here can manage to lift a finger to help.”

My father didn’t pay her any attention. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, watching as one of the wrestlers sat astride the chest of his opponent and the referee pointed down at them and counted steadily to ten. “One-a, two-a, three-a, four-a …”

“Well, you can stop watching this bloody rubbish for a start,” my mother declared, marching over to the television and turning it off. The wrestlers flickered, then disappeared to a white dot in the middle of the screen.

“Aw, bloody hell, Evelyn,” my father protested. “I was watching that.” He thrust himself backward into his chair, expelling air from his mouth like a punctured tire.

“Well, you’re not now, are you?” my mother replied, standing defiantly in front of the television, hands on her hips. “Show some respect, can’t you? We’re visitors.”

“God,” he huffed. “Anybody would think we’d dropped in on the lord mayor or something. It’s only your Mabel.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it? My family not good enough for you?” She folded her arms across her chest now. “It’s all right when your father treats me like rubbish, isn’t it?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Evelyn.”

“Don’t you ‘for God’s sake’ me,” she said, waving her index finger toward him. “I know you think you’re better than me. But you’re not, you know. Despite what that sodding father of yours has to say, you’re not.” Her voice began to break, and I was afraid that she was going to burst into tears in front of Tracey. “And I don’t care if he’s