“I don’t know. I don’t know.” I screamed, and fell to the floor sobbing. “I’m not a real girl, I don’t know……..I don’t know.” I wanted to die, there and then. I felt so miserable, so awful. The confidence I had been building up after years of living miserably had been shattered. Shattered by the one person I thought I could always trust. I felt the knife twisting inside me, ripping out my guts and my heart. I was a nothing.

`Charlotte’s Tale.
by Angharad.

I woke early the next morning. This in itself was unusual, especially after a late night. I felt full of energy, I got up and felt a spring in my step that hadn’t been there for a long time.

The sun was shining, both outside the window and inside me. It was a strange sense of happiness which pervaded me and everything to do with me. Although I hadn’t been up more than a few minutes, I knew I would smile or laugh at anything today. I felt bubbly like a bottle of fizzy drink.

“You know it’s Saturday?” asked my mother.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because it’s only eight o’clock, and you aren’t normally awake for at least another hour, let alone up and eating breakfast. That’s why!”

Inside, my mind said, “I don’t care.” Sadly my mouth said, “Whatever I do is wrong, isn’t it?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” came back the response.

“That’s right, use big words to beat me. This was a lovely day, I only wanted some breakfast, why did you have to spoil it?” I almost screamed the last part, before bursting into tears and rushing up to my room.

I thought my mother loved me, so why did she pick on me? I hate her!

“Right young lady, what is your problem?” demanded my mum sitting on the edge of the bed.

I pulled the bedclothes over my face and continued sobbing. I didn’t want to talk to her, except to tell her that, I hated her.

“Come on Charlotte,” she tried to coax me, “tell me what the problem is, why have you chucked a dummy?”

I stayed silent, just sobbing. I was not going to talk to this horrible woman, even if she was my mother.

She started to stroke the top of my head. Normally, I found this very soothing and nice. Today it only made me worse. I turned over on my side, away from her.

“Charlotte please don’t turn away from me, it’s very rude.”

“Good.” I heard my treacherous mouth say back.

“If that’s the way you want to play it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Pity. I thought that as you seemed to be dating, I was going to take you to find some new clothes, maybe get your ears pierced. …..but as you only want to be rude to me.” I felt her rise from the bed.

My mind was calculating the loss. I’d like some new threads, and get my ears done. I spun around in the bed, “I’m sorry Mu… where’s she gone?”

She was nowhere to be seen. “Oh damn!”

“I heard that Charlotte. I’ve asked you not to swear.”

“I’m sorry Mum,” I followed her voice. It was coming from her bedroom.

She was changing her bed. I thought some subtlety was required. “Do you need some help?”

“That’s very kind.” She smiled back at me, “my, Charlotte, you seem to have some awful mood swings. Are you sure you’re not having periods?”

“Course not. I only wish I could.” I replied wistfully.

“I don’t know girl, you could end up with the best of both worlds. Periods are not desirable. Speak to any woman, and she’ll tell you there is nothing good about them, pain, mess, cramps, sore boobs, feeling bloated, mood swings. Yes sir, a real hit list of wanna haves. Would you really want all those?”

“Not really.” I said as I thought about it. There wasn’t much to be said in favour of them.

“I mean would you really want to have the gruesome pleasure of wearing a sanitary towel or tampon? They get hot and smelly, especially in warm weather. If you have a heavy period, they don’t always absorb all the flow, then the blood marks your clothes or your bedding. It’s obviously a turn off to your partner or husband. It’s quite literally a bloody nuisance.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I said, “I knew girls got periods, but no one had ever really told me about them.”

“No, I don’t suppose they did.” She paused. “Come on let’s get this bed finished and have some real girly fun.”

I felt confused by this last statement and said so. “What d’you mean, Mum?”

“What, real girly fun?”
“Yeah.”

“I thought it was blondes who had the reputation for being dim, but since you dyed your hair dark, it seems to have darkened your brain as well.”

I felt myself blushing, she was pulling my leg, I knew that, but it seemed rather cruel to me. I wasn’t enjoying it one bit.

“Come on Charlotte, what do all girls enjoy doing?”

My blush intensified and my skin, especially on my face felt as if it was on fire. My mind was a complete blank. “What do girls enjoy doing? I don’t know.” I thought to myself, “does that mean I’m not really a girl?”

“I don’t know, dancing, kissing boys. I don’t know.” I felt frustration welling up inside me.

“Can’t you do better than that?” she smiled at me, but I felt threatened. Was she insinuating that I wasn’t really a girl?

“Wearing nice clothes?” My face was now, I was sure, giving off megawatts of heat energy. “Putting on make-up, looking nice?”

She stood shaking her head at me. The smile was condemning me. I wasn’t a real girl. I should know the answer and I didn’t, so I can’t be real.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” I screamed, and fell to the floor sobbing. “I’m not a real girl, I don’t know……..I don’t know.” I wanted to die, there and then. I felt so miserable, so awful. The confidence I had been building up after years of living miserably had been shattered. Shattered by the one person I thought I could always trust. I felt the knife twisting inside me, ripping out my guts and my heart. I was a nothing.

“Oh my pet, my little lamb,” cooed my mother, “don’t be upset. Of course you’re a girl, my favourite girl. My baby girl.” She was now caressing and rocking me in her arms. We were sat on the floor, she was crying too.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was only a joke. It wasn’t a serious question or test. It was meant to be a bit of fun, mother and daughter stuff. I’m sorry if you think I meant to hurt you. I love you, you silly thing. I love you to bits.” She continued to rock and hold me, rubbing my back and neck.

I continued to weep copiously, enjoying the attention and the intimacy but unable to make sense of it or myself any more. Nothing made sense any more. Life was ugly and unpredictable. I got up this morning feeling like I could walk on air, now I want to die. What happened?

“You sssaid…..” I sobbed and hiccoughed at her, “…..I’m….not….a proper girl.”

“No I didn’t Charlotte. I didn’t say that, you misunderstood.”

“You did, you did, you did!” I screeched, “’cos I can’t have periods, ‘cos I don’t know what girls do for fun, I’m not a real girl. I hate you, I……..(sob), hate…. you. (sob.)” Despite saying this, I held her tighter. I didn’t really hate her, I just wanted to hurt her back.

“Oh my lamb, I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t trying to belittle you. I was trying to tell you how lucky you were. I didn’t mean it like that, I honestly didn’t.” She hugged me tighter too, and I could feel her tears dripping on to my shoulder.

“You’re quite right to hate me. I didn’t realise I was hurting you. I wouldn’t do that for the world, you know that. I love you my lamb, my baby. I love you. Will you forgive me?” she hugged me tightly, “Please.”

We sat for some time, holding each other, me still snorting and hiccoughing, Mum, weeping silently, her cheek upon the top of my head. It was nice, yet very sad. I didn’t want to die, well not for the moment, but I still didn’t know what real girls did for fun. The curiosity was eating away at me.

“Mum,” I croaked in between snorts.

“Yes my baby.”

“What do real girls do for fun?”

“The answer is, shopping. Like I said, it was a joke.”

“Shopping?”

“Yes dear.”

“So if I like shopping, that makes me a real girl?”

“Yes dear, boys can’t stand it.”

“Oh.” I said. “That’s silly!”

“I know dear. I did say it was a joke.”

“No, Mum. Why don’t boys like shopping? It’s really good fun.” I looked up at my mother, she was shaking her head.

“You really are a proper girl, Charlotte, and don’t let anyone tell you different.” She laughed, I laughed then giggled then became hysterical and wet myself again. The day was not improving!

We spent some more time together. I didn’t really hate her, only sometimes. Like I sometimes hate Jane, when she pisses me off, and she does that regularly. I’m still not sure why she wanted me to go to the dance with Simon, but I’m glad I did.

It’s funny how a few hours can completely change my perspective on somebody, or at least on a particular body. If I’m fancying Simon Astley does that mean I’m gay or a girl? The doctor said he thought I was a girl, my mum seems to think I’m a girl, and one who’s dating. So she must have seen Simon kiss me, she must know I like him. So either she thinks I’m a girl or that I’m gay. She can’t think I’m gay, because she told me I’m a girl. I must be a girl, because I like shopping. Do gay boys like shopping? I hadn’t thought of that, oh dear. Now I am confused. I don’t know any gay boys or men, but then if I did, would that tar me with the same brush? It’s all so confusing.

I was busy turning my brain inside out with this dilemma when the phone rang. “Can you get that poppet?” called my mother.

I picked up the phone. A foreign accented voice said, “I need to speak mit Mrs Church. It is important, Ja.”

“Hold on, I'll get her,” I ran towards the bathroom from where I thought mum had called. “Mum, there’s some bloke on the phone wants to speak to you, he sounds foreign.”

“Alright darling, I’ll pick up the extension in the bedroom.”

I went back to the hall. Why? I had the phone in my hand, it’s cordless. Habit I suppose. I heard her come on the line and I clicked off the button. I was tempted to listen in, but that would betray a trust. Mum would never, ever listen in to one of my calls, so I don’t hers.

I went back to my dilemma, then a thought popped into my head. Foreign accent, could this be something about dad? Is he on his way home? That would be a lovely surprise.

Just then the door bell rang. Who’s that ? I thought, could it be Simon. Goodness look at me, I’m a mess. The bell rang again. Insistent aren’t they! I slouched off to the door. If it was Astley, he could wait for a few seconds.

I could see a tall dark figure through the glass. It could be Simon, but I didn’t realise he was that tall. I opened the door to come face to chest with a large policeman.

“Hello young lady.” He said, “Can I speak to your mum?”

“She’s on the phone, I’ll go and tell her.” He smiled back at me. I ran off to find Mum. She was sat on the bed, she was crying but still on the phone. I went into the room but she put up her hand to hush me. Something bad was happening. Why was she crying? Who was this man on the phone, who’d upset her? What did the copper at the door want? Were they connected?

Three times I tried to speak to her, three times she repelled me. I ran back to the policeman. “She’s still on the phone, she’s crying.”

The look on his face was no longer happy. “Oh.” Was all he said.

“She wouldn’t let me talk to her. Can I borrow your hat a moment?”

“What for?”

“To wave in front of her, then she may get off the phone.”

“Show her this instead.” He drew his warrant card from his pocket. ‘PC Alec Sheppard’ it said.

Once more I ran to Mum’s bedroom. She was still on the phone. I waved the card under her nose. She tried to send me away again, but I persisted and finally she read it. “Excuse me,” she said to the phone. “Where is he?” she said to me.

“In the hall.”

“Ask him in and offer him a cuppa. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

I ran back to the copper, invited him into the lounge and offered him a cuppa as instructed.

“What a great idea.” He said, “Do you need any help?”

“No, I can manage.” I flirted back. It still didn’t occur to me what could have happened to make Mum cry and have this rather dishy, young copper knock our door.

Mum arrived as I brought in a tray of tea and biscuits. The copper stood up as she came in. He’s polite, I thought. “I think I know why you’re here,” said my mum.

“They phoned from Holland?”

“Yes.”

“Well you probably know more than I do.”

“I’ve just had it in full chapter and verse.”

I put the tray down gently. They were talking in some form of code. I thought only teenagers did that!

“I have to make sure that you are aware of the full implication of the news, and make sure the news you had is the same I was bringing.”

This sounds like something mega bad. I waited by the small table, pretending I was invisible, although in full view.

“I understand.” Said my mum.

“There’s been an nasty accident.”

“It is the same.” Said my mum.

“Your husband has been badly injured.”

“He has since died.”

“I am very sorry, Mrs Church. Is there anything I can do?”

I watched these two adults playing this game, someone has died. Who? It’s a man. My dad?

My dad! My dad? Is he dead? Why isn’t anyone telling me anything?

“Has something happened to Dad?” I asked of either of them.

“I’m afraid so.” Replied the young copper.

“Is he, like dead?” I asked, my eyes welling with tears.

He nodded at me, “I’m afraid so. I am so sorry.”

I don’t know why, but I threw myself at him and buried my face in his chest. I was crying noisily and with body quivering sobs. He put his arms around me and hugged me, saying nothing, just being there.

My father was dead! How could this happen? Why did it happen? How could God let this happen? It was a bad dream! I shall wake up in a moment. Until then I howled, and to give him credit, the young policeman held me the whole time.

I still don’t know why I went to him rather than my mother. Perhaps I just needed to be held by someone strong, or by a man or whatever. He was wonderful, and so patient with me. He told me a little later, that he had a daughter, she was six months old. I offered to babysit. What a thing to say!

Eventually, I stopped howling and got some control of myself. My mother was sat with quiet dignity, silently weeping. She had poured some teas. She and the policeman had a cup, I declined. Eventually he left, he was so nice. I asked Mum to write a letter of thanks to him, she agreed.

Then Mum and I just sat together and we held each other, and we cried and we cried, and we cried. It was early evening when the door bell rang again. We had been sat crying for several hours. My mum had fallen asleep, so I eased myself away to go to the door.

I answered the door, it was Simon. “God you look awful, have you been crying?”

“My dad has been killed.”

“Oh fuck! I am sorry Charlotte. Look here’s your share of the winnings. I’d better go. If I can do anything, let me know.”

“There is something, Simon.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Hold me and give me a kiss.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He duly obliged, on both counts. Once more I felt the strength in a man’s embrace. It felt good. Sadly I reflected, I would never feel my father’s muscular arms around me again. That was too painful to think about.

“Thank you.” I said to him, “I needed that.”

“If there’s anything me, Jane or Mum can do, let us know. Okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

He left. I shut the door. I had twenty five pounds in my hand. That would have normally made me feel good. Today, it was just money.

As I went up to my room, I reflected on the day. I thought the day I’d been betrayed by the world, and my schoolmates in particular, was the worst I could ever experience. I was wrong. It had been an awful day, and I had wanted to die, to rid myself of the sense of failure and social pariah status.

Today, someone very close to me had died. I found it hard to believe. How could I believe that my dad, my big strong dad, was dead. It was stupid. But he was, it was no joke or mistake. Inside me I felt an ache, like a giant toothache, it centred on a deep hole inside me. There was an emptiness, like some vacuum deep in my heart. The ache was all I could feel, the rest of me was too numb to register anything.

Inside my head, was a yearning to escape from this emptiness. But I didn’t know how. I had to help my mum, she would need me more than ever. We’d also need money. Mum didn’t work, Dad earned all the dosh. How would we cope without him? Suddenly, I felt very alone in a large and hostile world. It wasn’t a new feeling. In one sense I had survived some time like it at school. In others, it was a new sensation. Even at my depths, I had never felt an emptiness like this, like my heart had been ripped out of me. Life could never be the same, I knew that well enough. What I didn’t know, was how different it would become, without a father. That was scary, and I shivered as I contemplated it.

Moments, or maybe aeons later, I awoke from my daydream and went to comfort my mother. At least, it was something I could do, or did I want her to comfort me.

She woke as I brought in a fresh tray of tea and biscuits. She smiled a sad smile at me, and we hugged. The tears came again and we stayed hugging for some moments. Time seemed irrelevant, everything was in dream time rather than GMT.

Eventually, we parted and over a cup of tea, my mum said, “I shall have to contact the solicitors to sort out your father’s will. I might have to go over to Holland. If I do, do you want to come too?”

“If you want me too.” I answered, unsure of what she wanted me to say.

“We’d have to get you a new passport, which would mean a trip to London to sort it out.” She gave me a long searching stare. “Well with your father gone, you don’t have to stay as Charlotte if you don’t want to. You could become the man of the house if you want.”

I hadn’t even considered this effect of my dad’s demise. But it was true, I could theoretically return to being James again. I felt I was walking on quicksand. I didn’t know what I wanted or what to do.

“What do you want me to do?” I threw back to my mother, after a pause.

She smiled at me, with that same sadness she had shown before. “I really don’t mind. I love you as my child, which means it’s without any conditions. I love you just as much as James or Charlotte, what I want isn’t so important as who you feel you are. That really is important, because it will affect the rest of your life.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “I feel like everything’s upside down and nothing makes sense any more.” I felt a tear run down my face. “Besides, didn’t we decide all this with that solicitor man, when I changed my name. Wasn’t that official?”

“Yes it was, although we could change it back if you really wanted to.”

“I don’t know what I want, except I want my daddy to be alive again.” I lost it at this stage and my mother somehow picked me up and engulfed me in a hug that squeezed the breath out of me, yet gave me an enormous sense of protection and love.

I knew I was small for my age, but she just scooped me up and swallowed me in her arms. It was delicious. A purely sensual experience, which while not filling the void in my heart, held the pain. It was extraordinary.

The next few days went by in a sort of daze. We were still in dream time rather than reality. It meant on occasion, that time seemed to drag whilst on others, it simply flew. It also seemed that everything happened to other people and that I was watching it all through a thick glass, as if none of it was happening to me. When I did do things, I felt like I do when I have a heavy cold and my head feels thick. My body feels as if it isn’t really all connected together, and I either cry a lot or have no emotion at all. Getting through each day rather than living them.

We didn’t have to go to Holland, an investigation showed that the driver of the other car was to blame. Our lawyer in Amsterdam, was going to sue him. It also appeared that Daddy was well insured, and when it paid up, Mum would eventually receive enough to enable us to live as well as we currently did. That was a relief, I could continue with school without worrying about working to help pay our way.

Mum organised the funeral at the crematorium, and asked me if I would sing the twenty third psalm. I wasn’t sure I could, but I knew Daddy would have liked me to, so I said, “yes.”

When, that awful day came, I struggled to distance myself from the knowledge that just behind me, in a large wooden box, lay the remains of someone I loved very much and would never see again. I stood for some moments taking deep breaths, tears running down my face, looking at the congregation who packed the chapel. I didn’t appreciate we knew so many people.

I wore a plain black dress and jacket. I had no make up on, crying would have destroyed it anyway. My hair was done in a plait, and I wore the perfume my dad had given me. I took another deep breath and began to sing.

“The Lord’s my shepherd……..” When singing, I tend not to think about anything other than what I’m singing. I am totally focused on it, so although I was nominally stood watching the congregation, I didn’t see any of them once I began to sing.

It was just as well, because within a few moments there was hardly a dry eye in the place. My mother, apparently, cried buckets. Even the men were crying, so I’m told. I shall never forget that day. The pain I felt was greater than anything I had ever felt before. It felt like a physical pain, my heart literally hurt with every pump it made of my blood. I cried lots, but then I did that every day. I felt very distant from much of it, as if I was above my body looking down on everything and everybody. It was a strange feeling.

I remember being with my mother and the local priest, who thanked every one for coming. People, some of whom I recognised, some I’d never seen before shook my hand or hugged me or patted my shoulder. They did the same with my mother, and shook the vicar’s hand. We went to a local restaurant and had food and drink. I was congratulated on my singing. There were more hugs and pats.

Eventually, we went back to our house. Then I knew, it was just me and Mum and that’s all it would ever be. That’s when I went hysterical and screamed and I don’t remember any more except the doctor came. He was lovely, and I knew I was safe then. He gave me a hug and I went to sleep in his arms. I wanted to ask him to be my dad, but I knew it was silly. So I went to sleep instead.