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He knows that he’s a he. That was one of the first things he’d realised, that when they teased him about his height and weight and hairy legs, saying he’s never be a proper girl, he… actually didn’t mind. He didn’t want to be a proper girl, really. He wanted to be a boy.
So, he/him. At least internally. He hasn’t quite been brave enough to tell anyone yet, and then there’s, well, the other thing. He… doesn’t really have anyone to tell. Apart from his mum, of course, and she…
She’s sick. He doesn’t want to bother her about it.
Except, well, he’s having trouble thinking of a name, because, it needs to be right, she needs to like it, because he’s basically throwing away the name that she wanted for him, isn’t he, so she’s probably going to be upset, and maybe if he picks the right name, then she won’t be upset.
So he needs to pick the right name.
“Mum,” he asks her one day, after he’s got her settled in her armchair, and he’s about to head off to the chippy for his shift. “When, um, when I was a baby. Before I was born. Did you have a name planned for if I turned out to be a boy?” He asks in Polish, because it’s her language and she likes hearing it, even if she says he can never get the accent right.
His mum’s lips twist. “Why are you asking that?” she spits.
He picks up her blanket from the sofa. His hands twist around the fabric. “Um. Some people at school, they were talking about-“
She snorts. “People at school. Idiots. Aren’t they meant to be teaching you better than that?”
He looks away. He doesn’t go to school anymore, though he hasn’t told her that yet. He doesn’t have time, what with his work down at the chippy, and behind the counter at Snappy Snaps, and cleaning tables at Starbucks. They need the money. It’s fine.
He finishes folding up the blanket, tucking it over her knees. He’s fine.
She huffs out a breath. Her skin is so thin, it wrinkles up easily with her forehead. “I don’t even remember,” she says primly. “It was years ago. It doesn’t matter anyway.”
“Right,” he says softly. He steps away. “I… I have work. You, you know you can call me if you need-“
His mum waves a curled, sharp hand, lips pursed.
“Right,” he says again. “Bye.”
And that had been the end of it.
After she moves into the care home, he starts experimenting. Talks to his GP, and then to a specialist, and then he’s put on the waiting list for T, and he’s buzzing about it, all alone in his tiny flat. He buys himself a takeaway curry to celebrate, even though it was expensive, and then he has the leftovers for lunch the rest of the week, so it isn’t wasteful.
He still isn’t sure about a name. He tries Leo, for a bit, but he doesn’t think he really looks like a Leo. At his job, with the cleaners, he introduces himself as Alex, then a week later changes his mind, and asks if they could call him Oscar instead, but doesn’t really do it right. It all ends up with three of them still calling him Alex, and six others calling him Oscar, and a couple who aren’t really sure and just avoid referring to him.
He was experimenting. These things took time, the online resources told him. He needed to feel comfortable with his name. There were links to baby name websites, suggestions, and he scrolled through them late at night, testing them out on his tongue.
Harold. Phil. Ben. Emmett.
None of them felt perfect, felt like him. He realised, staring at his ceiling at 7AM after a shift stocking shelves at Tesco, that he didn’t want a name without any connection to him. He didn’t want to pick one off a list, at random. He wanted a name that was his, that had a real connection to him.
His Dad was called Martin. He remembers that. He considers it, for a moment. Martin Blackwood.
His mother would never accept that. He needs a different name. He likes the idea of it coming from his family, though.
“Mum,” he asks, over the phone. His stubble is growing in properly now, a bit of a beard, and he’s thrilled, and he knows that if he went to see her she’d be livid. So, these days, he speaks to her over the phone. “What was your father’s name? Back in Poland?”
“Piotr,” she says. “Piotr Nowakowski, married to Irena Nowakowska. They are both dead. Why do you care?”
“Just curious,” he says. “No real reason.” His voice cracks, badly. He winces.
“Hm,” she says, and he can hear the judgement in her tone. Her past is buried. It is none of his business. She’s told him that before.
He changes the subject. But at his next job, he fills in the little information form as Peter Blackwood.
He likes it. His coworkers call him Peter, or just Pete, and it gives him a little thrill, to know he’s honouring his grandfather. He didn’t know the man well. Trips to Poland were expensive. But, it’s just… nice. A family name.
He has a good feeling about it. Good enough that he takes a deep breath, and calls up the home, and arranges to visit.
It doesn’t go well.
“How dare you,” she shouts from her wicker throne, hands curled around it’s armrests, nails digging in. “Taking my fathers name and smearing it with your little fantasies, changing it, how could you possibly think-“
He leaves, and feels everyone in the home staring, and he drives away and pulls over on the side of the road and has a good, long cry.
He goes off the name Peter, after that. Goes back to baby-name websites, scrolling through listlessly. He puts down a different name for every job.
Ollie. Steven. Jake. George.
He starts forgetting which name he’s using where. Gets a bit muddled with them. It’s not that bad. The jobs start drying up, and he starts to… boost his CV, a little.
Kevin. Walter. Richard. James.
He keeps applying, and getting a polite rejection, and applying, and passing as qualified for a month or two, and getting fired, and applying, and never hearing back, and applying, and-
Eddie. Tom. Vincent. Dominic.
And then, one day, he applies for some academic job, and he’s just been fired again, and his mum isn’t taking his calls, and he’s probably not going to get it anyway, and well, fuck it.
He puts his name down as Martin.
He spends the next couple of days filling out more applications (Phil. Daniel. Craig.) He almost misses the email.
Dear MARTIN BLACKWOOD, it says, and his breath catches in his lungs.
The Magnus Institute has considered your application for the role of JUNIOR LIBRARY ASSISTANT. You are invited to an interview with LAURA MAYS at 11:20 on 14/3/2009.
He goes to the interview. “Martin?” the woman in the pink jumper asks when he arrives. There’s that thrum of recognition in his bones, that little shock. He won’t forget that this name is his.
“Yeah,” he says. “Um. Martin Blackwood.”
His mum would hate it. But, he’s kind of started thinking that she’s going to hate whatever he ends up choosing, and it’s not based on the name. So.
He gets the job. He smiles at patrons, and reshelves books, and he has a ID card that says M. BLACKWOOD on it. After a couple of months, he stops thinking of it as his dad’s name. It’s his name now.
He starts liking it.
“Martin,” His boss Laura says, “Could you get a book from the top shelf for me? I just can’t quite reach… Thanks. You’re a star.”
“Martin,” Tim from Research says, “Do you know where the stuff on mermaids is? Got a new project. Cheers mate, lifesaver.”
“Martin,” Elias Bouchard says. “I’ve noticed you’ve been working hard in the library. You’ve done a commendable job. I think your talents could be useful elsewhere.”
“Martin,” Jon says, and he always enunciates it so crisply, hitting the ‘t’ hard. Martin likes the way it sounds.
Martin settles into his name, and it fits him. It’s the name of someone who ran away, but he’s picked it up and dusted it off and he likes it. He’s allowed to like it.
“Martin,” Jon says, and he sounds so soft.
“That’s me,” Martin says, and he smiles.