I can’t see much from by here, not even with my nose against the glass, just a bare wall and the back of a door. It’s a swanky place mind, electric lamps not gas, and carpet-mats right up to the skirting — posh beyond, though the mat could do with a clean. Like I said, there’s not much to see, and I should be getting on with my round — an hour more in this sun and these cockles won’t be fit to sell — so I don’t know why I’m dawdling, except I want a good look at him.

He has a Penclawdd face, so I should know who he is; there’s a bit of a Tucker about him, and that’s a Dalimore forehead if ever I saw one, but whoever he is, he’s not from the village. Nobody from those families was ever so crachu. He dresses like a deacon though it’s not Sunday; a collar and a tie, and shiny shoes, not naily boots like mine, but then he isn’t out on the sands all weathers, or traipsing door to door. Whatever he does, he must be on tidy money to keep a house on his own.

Of course, I only know about the small corner I can see, and have to guess what’s going on behind the door. It’s open a little bit, and I can hear men and women speaking, or singing. They’re talking funny — even for Sais, who are a strange lot anyway - yet the voices keep changing, so they’re visitors and not living here. I do wish I could have a look at what’s going on; it sounds like a very gay party. Everyone’s dressed up no doubt, no rough shawls or aprons, and the women will have feathers in their hats, not cockles fallen from the basket like mine. Even my chapel clothes would look shabby in by there.

He has more women friends than a single man should, but doesn’t carry on with them. This little spot I peek in on leads to his bedroom - I know that because he wears pyjamas like they made Dat wear in the infirmary — and for all his women, not one passes me. Well, that’s true and it isn’t — let me explain, if I can.

A yellow haired woman comes and goes, but I don’t think much of her. She paints her face, and wears shocking short skirts to show off her legs. Every time she passes, she stops to preen in front of the glass. Under all the paint she’s the spit of him, which makes me think she’s his sister; lots of women live with their brothers, and it’s good for him to have a woman around the house. Perhaps she’ll get to work cleaning the carpet-mat, but seems to like looking at herself in the glass better. Listen to me gossiping, I can venture get on with my rounds or I’ll not have a hook to button my boots.

She’s him, I’d be twp not to see it, but it’s not the sort of thing you expect is it? Oh, I’ve seen men dressed as women before, fooling at the fair, and Mari Pugh said she caught her Denzil trying her best bonnet on once — she said she laughed so hard it frightened her donkey half way to Gowerton. None of them ever looked so good as a woman as he does mind; she’s a smart piece for sure and almost pretty in a way. Mr Hughes the minister wouldn’t like it, but she’s not doing any harm is she? I daresay he wouldn’t be awilling for me to be peeping either, I bet he’d be tamping - so will Mam if I go home with a basket full of cockles, and an empty purse.

I’d be the talk of the village if I plucked my eyebrows like that, until they put me to go that is. How does she get away with looking that fast, and what do all his friends think? Everyone’s still chatting away on the other side of the door — I wish I could hear what they’re saying clear — and she isn’t upset at all when she comes back in. A strange lot indeed, the crachach, but they have different ways to you and me. Thank heavens they like cockles, though not many can stomach laverbread it’s true; pity really, as she could do with a few good breakfasts - she’d blow away on the sands, there’s nothing of her.

He’s put a desk, like we had in school, in the corner under the window, to make himself a cwtch. I can’t quite see what all is by there, but there must be a lamp as it lights up her face a treat. She really should put up curtains, if she’s going to walk around in her foundations. Perhaps she wants people to see her beautiful black silk corset; I could never lace mine that tight, and if I did, I’d never be able to rake, let alone fill the griddle. I can see right through her stockings too and there’s not a hair on her legs, like those women in the French postcards Dat hides from Mamgu. I don’t think you could call what she’s wearing ‘drawers’ - there’s more lace than cloth — but I would love a pair just like them, even if I was never wicked enough to try them on. I’ll put an extra penny in the collection on Sunday for even thinking about it, though I won’t have a farthing if I don’t start knocking on doors.

Oh, there’s a grave look on his face, and that stick propped up against his desk doesn’t bode well. I’d like to see him smile again, or his sister, wherever she is today. I know what she is really, but it is like they are two people — brazen hussy that she is. Can you keep a secret? I’ve been putting a bit of money by for a pair of black silk stockings I saw in a shop in Swansea. When I’m going to wear them I don’t know, Mam would have a fit if she saw me in anything so fine, and there’d be no end of clec in Penclawdd. One day, when she’s at home, I’ll knock on the door without my basket of cockles and ask to come in, brazen as what have you, tell her everything I’ve seen and then show her my silk stockings... and not a hair on my legs!

Think of it as a last hurrah. It has been a long time since I indulged myself, though whether lacing yourself into a steel boned corset can count as an indulgence is debatable. Either way, it is good to step into ‘her’ shoes once again, even if it is the last time. Admittedly, I have not had a bad run, with more than a decade’s freedom to dress since I left Penclawdd, but the sheer effort involved has become more and more of a drain as my illness has developed. Balancing on high heels was tricky before I needed a cane, but fatigue has curtailed most my crossdressing. Having someone to help would make a world of difference, but somehow I ended up alone. A few nights ago, I decided to stop torturing myself, and to hang up my wigs for good.

Settling into my cwtch by the computer, I prepare to say my goodbyes to the online community. “It’s just you and me now, merchi,” I tell the print hung above my desk. Just what a ‘Penclawdd Cockle Girl’ from 1903 would make of me I dread to think, but before I have any chance to speculate, someone knocks the door.