Marc has a difficult life. His father and brother’s are men’s men and he is anything but.

Where necessary or possibly helpful to some, there are notes at the end on word usage.

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Marc was not a boy. He had known it from as far back as he was aware, and since as far as he was aware he wasn’t a girl either and he knew of no other options he did not know what he could be. Aware he had a boy’s body and his father and elder brothers considered he was a boy, he had been reluctant to admit his thoughts to any, least of all his parents, and he’d had no intention of mentioning it to any else till he was old enough to be able to tell any who was bothered to go and fuck spiders. His dad was a man’s man who had played rugby to county level and was obsessed by sport. He was a highly successful, and thus wealthy, salesman who operated in the male dominated world of heavy engineering. Marc knew if he said anything his dad would have lost his temper, hit him and finally insisted he had therapy.

His mum, who was an accountant, would have hugged him and said, “Where ever it takes you, Love, I’ll be here for you.” Which though he knew it was true wouldn’t have helped. His two brothers would have poured scorn and homophobic vitriol on his head at every opportunity, which wouldn’t have made any difference because they did any way. So he kept his thoughts to himself. Despite his mother’s best attempts to protect him, his dad, and brothers too with their father’s approval, never missed an opportunity to belittle him because he preferred to read rather than play football and referred to him as that ‘nancy boy’ or that ‘bloody sissy’ because most of his friends were girls, and at school his friendship group comprised a dozen girls, two very effeminate boys who were openly gay and himself.

The last year had been easier because his second brother had moved on to the secondary school to join his oldest brother whilst he remained at primary school. He was dreading next year because he would be at the same school as his brothers. He was unaware that his mother had put his name down for a different and much smaller secondary school than the one his brothers attended. The voluntary aided Roman Catholic high school his mother had chosen for him had a lesser academic reputation but a far better pastoral reputation than his brothers’ Local Authority controlled high school.

Their father had never attended any of the boys’ parents’ evenings and left the boys’ education to their mother, and she had no intention of telling her husband where Marc was going to school next year till the places had been allocated and it was too late to change things. If possible she had no intention of telling him till just before the new academic year and after she’d bought Marc’s school uniform. She intended to allow her husband to believe, without actually lying, that it was the Local Education Authority’s decision knowing full well he would bluster and rage, make threats of writing to his MP(1) and giving the schools a piece of his mind and then do nothing.

That his father and brothers would eventually discover just how different he was Marc was aware, and living on the edge of exposure made him a permanent bundle of raw nerve endings, as a result he bit his nails. He didn’t just bite his nails he chewed the ends of his fingers too. It hurt, and they were raw and bled, but the pain somehow comforted him. He tried to stop, but it wasn’t long before he knew he couldn’t stop, for he needed the comfort of the pain.

He had never had a crush on any one, girl or boy, but he knew as he grew older he would one day desire an intimate friend and probably that friend would be male. He was aware there were spectra of sexuality and identity and had done some research into the issues, but he hadn’t understood most of what he had come across. As a result he hadn’t decided where, if any where, he was on those spectra, but he did know he was as girly as the girls he was friends with, and their acceptance of him as one of themselves made him happy to be so, even if he had to keep it to himself outside school for the foreseeable future. He had turned eleven on Easter Sunday, and his brother Gerry had sneeringly asked him the day before, “What do you think you’ll get for your birthday, Marc? A new pair of rugby boots?”

His eldest brother, Colin, had said, “I bet he’s hoping for a nice pretty dress, then when he plays with the girls he won’t look out of place.” His brothers had left him to his thoughts roaring with laughter as they left. Marc felt nervous, but had a sense of relief too that his secret was perhaps soon to unravel and be public knowledge. Anyway he thought, what’s wrong with wearing pretty clothes? They don’t have to, but they don’t have to be mean to someone who does.

His brothers and father were not to expose him, nor realise how different from their expectations he was, for in early July, much to the three boys’ surprise, their parents separated. Marc’s brothers decided they wished to stay with their dad in the south who as part of the separation settlement had bought out their mum’s share of the family home. Their mother moved to a village in Cumbria near the Scottish border not far from whence she had originated, and Marc went with her. His mum said it wasn’t worth him going to a new primary school for what was left of the term, so he had eight weeks before he went to a new secondary school.

In the summer Marc admitted, “Mum, I am sure I am girly.”

He had expected platitudes and a difficult time, but his mother had said, “So am I, Love. It’s one of the reasons why when I left your dad I moved back home: to put some distance between the two of you. You need my support and love, and your brothers need his, but what ever you are, never forget I’m your mum and I love you.” He went to bed that night with his head a maze of conflicting thoughts, but when he awoke he realised not only was he girly he didn’t care who knew. His mum loved him and was ok with it, and he was starting a new school in three weeks and he would start as he meant to go on, as himself. If he evolved into something else as he grew up, so did everyone else and the school could accept that too, or expel him, but either way he wasn’t going to even try to be someone he wasn’t just to suit arbitrary social conventions.

It was a surprise when two days later his mum passed him copies of TeenGirl and Seventeen, weekly magazines, across the breakfast table and said, “I’ve ordered them with the papers and my Woman’s Weekly, Love. If you’d prefer different ones just let me know.” That night, he read them in bed and his mum’s Woman’s Weekly too, which he found much more interesting.

The following morning at breakfast he said, “Mum, TeenGirl and Seventeen are nice but very childish. I liked your Woman’s Weekly much more, cos I learnt things from it. Could we buy another grown up magazine instead of them? One you would like to read too.”

“Marc, you are amazing, Love! Why don’t we chose a different magazine each week till we find one we like, and do the same with a monthly as well? We could work our way through magazines for the entire spectra of age and every thing else as well. I enjoy reading the Saga magazine from time to time which is aimed at pensioners of both sexes. I have two or three hours work to do this morning, but we could go to the news agent’s after lunch if you like?” Marc’s mum prepared accounts for small businesses, she called it doing their books, and worked from home via the internet, fax and the postal service.

They did as she’d suggested, and both giggling chose a saucy weekly magazine and an upmarket glossy monthly. Mr. Dean the news agent, who had changed accountants and given Marc’s mum his business as soon as he realised she had returned to the area to live, folk in rural Cumbria tended to deal with folk whose families they knew if they could, asked if they wished a regular order, and Marc’s mum replied, “No, thank you, Frank. We are going to work our way through the weeklies to decide what we like. Then we might order on a regular basis, on the other hand we may just enjoy the change, but we’d like a glossy monthly too.”

Marc’s deep red hair was long and cut like a girl’s, and he was dressed as usual in clothes that gave him an appearance on the feminine side of androgynous, which impression his arched eyebrows and long eyelashes reinforced. Mr. Dean knew Julia’s child associated with the village girls including his niece, so had assumed Marc was a girl. Having seen him and his mum with their heads together giggling as they looked at the magazines, he said, “My missus always wanted a lass, she reckoned they would have a lot of fun when she became a teenager, but we had three lads. I see what she meant now. I was saddened to hear of your mother’s death last year, Julia, so you see you look after your mum, Miss Harman. If you like, ladies, I can keep a record of the magazines you’ve had and have different ones delivered for you. I assume you’ll want the papers, the regular Woman’s Weekly, another weekly and a monthly? If you like, I could get my missus to sort out an amusing weekly and an upmarket monthly for you? She’d like that.”

Marc’s mum said, “Thank you, Frank. Mum never really recovered from Dad’s death, and I know she just wanted to be at peace with him. As to the magazines, that would be kind of Dora. Thank her for me, Frank.” After they left the shop, she said, “And I hope that’s fine with you, Miss Harman?” Which caused them both to break out in giggles again.

“I do love you, Mum.”

“I love you too, Marc.” She kissed his cheek, and said, “I know what Dora meant, it’s nice having a teenager to share things with. This wind is blowing your hair all over the place, Love. You look a mess. Tell you what let’s call at the chemist and see if we can find a couple of hair slides.(2) On me. What do you think?”

“Ok. Thanks, Mum.”

In the pharmacy they found some not too girly, as in not pink, slides, and Marc selected four he liked and was happy to use, but his mum added another two that though not pink were more feminine in style. Looking at Marc’s face she said, “I know you won’t wear them now, but as you become easier with your life you will, and there’s nothing like being ready is there?”

“Ok. Thanks, Mum.”

Before the beginning of term, Marc’s mum said to him, “Marc, I have no idea what is going on in your head, and I suspect you don’t really understand either. I’ve done a bit of research, and from my limited understanding you could be effeminately gay, but I suspect not. I think you may be a trans girl. Either way is fine with me as is anything else. You’re my child and I love you, but I’m sure you shall need more help than I can provide, and I think medical assistance is better early than late. Our new GP,(3) whom I have never met, is Doctor Elspeth Phelan, but if you prefer I could have you transferred on to the list of one of the male partners. What do you think?”

Marc was surprised but not upset. “You’re probably right, Mum, but I think I’d rather talk to a lady doctor than a man.”

“You sure, Love?”

“Yes. I think so. You have always been ok with it, and Dad wasn’t. I’m not assuming all women will be ok and all men won’t, but I’d prefer to see a lady doctor.”

“Ok. I’ll book you an appointment.”

Doctor Phelan was in her late twenties, or possibly early thirties, and asked Marc if he would prefer his mum there or not. Marc panicked at the idea of his mum leaving him alone with the doctor and clutching for his mum’s hand whispered, “I want my mum.” Doctor Phelan asked a lot of questions, listened to Marc’s answers carefully and took notes as his tale unfolded. Most of her questions Marc replied to, but he looked helpless at a few and turned to his mum for help who supplied the answers where possible.

Doctor Phelan eventually said, “It is my belief you probably are a trans girl, but I have little experience in cases like yours, Marc, nor do any of the partners in this practice. I could find out who in the area has most experience, and you could be transferred to their practice. However, they would still be a general practitioner and unlikely to know much more than I. I wish to refer you to a consultant, which will mean a trip to a major city, probably London, but ultimately all GPs would do that. With your permission I’ll refer you and send a copy of my notes, and you can consider whether you wish to retain me as your GP.”

Marc looked at his mum, and she divining his needs and wishes said, “I can tell Marc wishes to stay with you, as do I, and he would like to be referred to a specialist. Marc?”

Marc nodded and said, “Please. How long shall I have to wait? And what will he do?”

“Probably three months, and the consultant I have in mind is Mrs. Yeomans. She’s based in London, and she’ll probably bore you silly and ask all the same questions I asked you and a lot more too and request regular blood tests to determine your proximity to puberty, but you can have the blood taken here and I’ll have the Cumberland Infirmary pathology department email the results to her as well as myself, so you don’t have to travel to see her for every test. I suggest once you know the date of your appointment you have a blood test a fortnight before so she has up to date information when you meet her.

“Ultimately if, and I repeat if, she deems it appropriate she’ll recommend I prescribe puberty blockers at the appropriate time. There is a piece of legislation being argued over at the moment which if it passes, and I hope it does, will mean you could, again if deemed appropriate, take female hormones from sixteen rather than eighteen, but if you eventually wish any surgery there is no intention to permit that before you become eighteen. Would you like to attend a support group? It could I’m sure help you to stop self harming.”

“What do you mean self harming? I don’t cut up.”(4)

Gently Doctor Phelan asked, “So what do you call what you do to your fingers?”

Miserably Marc replied, “Yes. You’re right, but I’m not ready to discuss it, or even meet people who would notice.”

“Ok, but I’ll give the details to your mum and any time you feel you could go give it a try. They meet every week but some folk only attend twice a year. There is no pressure or obligation to go back or even to stay to the end of the meeting.”

“Will you be there?”

“Yes, but though I started the group the rule is I can only speak when asked to.”

In the car, Marc’s mum asked, “How are you feeling regarding all that, Marc?”

“Excited and terrified all at the same time. She was nice, Mum, and laid it on the line. I trust her, but most of all I’m pleased my life is beginning to sort itself out. I don’t want to go to those meetings, well not now. I just hope school is ok.”

“Yes. Let’s hope things go well at school, and if they don’t we’ll find another school ok? I don’t wish you to be unhappy, and I wish to know how things are going.”

Notes on Word Usage

1 MP, Member of Parliament.
2 Hair slides, barrettes.
3 GP, a general practitioner, a family doctor.
4 Cut up, vernacular for cutting oneself, usually on the arms with a razor blade.

Ch 2. Macy goes to a new school and makes a friend.