CHAPTER 2: CHILDHOOD’S END

Morning assemblies at Newburn Grammar School were acts of worship. Weddings, christenings and funerals apart, they formed the sum total of my contact with the Almighty. In common with the overwhelming majority of my fellow pupils, I came from a family who considered themselves staunch Anglicans but didn’t hold their creed in such high regard as to actually attend services at the parish church. They therefore got the best of both worlds, paradise in the next one for doing bugger all in this.

My personal philosophy could be boiled down to a single sentence. I believed in God because it was too much bother not to.

Today, the last of the half-term, the service began with 'O Jesus I Have Promised'. This was followed by the headmaster’s lesson. Skelty Boulton had a simple and infallible system: on the first Monday of every autumn term he would hobble up to the lectern in the centre of the stage, turn to the first chapter of Genesis and read it; next day he would read the second chapter, and continue in this manner until July, by which time he’d be in the middle of Joshua. What happened after Moses gave unto the tribe of Levi not any inheritance we were left to discover for ourselves.

It was after Isaac had given up the ghost, and his sons Esau and Jacob had buried him, that the introduction to the closing hymn presented Plug with the opportunity to start whispering into Gash’s ear. They were too far along the row for me to hear what, if anything, was said in reply.

He who would valiant be, ‘gainst all disaster

“I’m tellin’ yer, it’s true.”

Let him in constancy follow the master

“I’ll bet yer any money.”

There’s no discouragement…

“He can’t come back. They won’t let ‘im.”

…shall make him once relent

“Me mam knows ‘is mam. Has done for ages.”

His first avowed intent…

“Summat else an’ all. He’s not the only one.”

…to be a pilgrim.

Was he talking about Pansy? I wondered as we filed out of the lobby. I knew that Mrs Graydon and Mrs Porter were acquainted — and Pansy hadn’t been in registration.

The obvious thing to do was go up to Plug and ask him. But something held me back. Maybe I couldn’t face finding out that what he’d said yesterday about the television programme was the truth.

Or worse, that he might have heard of a drug called Testranol…

He’s not the only one.

Once again I chided myself for being paranoid. Pansy was off school because his parents had decided that with us breaking up today it wasn’t worth sending him back. Case solved.

At the end of double Physics I made my way to the west wing, climbed the stairs to the top corridor and joined the queue outside the masters’ room at the head of which stood Oscar, perusing each set of lines he was handed with the meticulous attention to detail of a Victorian counting-house clerk before giving its author leave to depart. Briggsy and Kendo, whose efforts had evidently been found wanting, waited a short distance from the door; cowering between them was a thin, weasel-faced figure who looked ready to wet himself.

“Yer fuckin’ dead, Rafferty,” Briggsy snarled at him.

“Aye, yer a goner,” added Kendo.

Oscar’s face could have felled forests.

“If either of you miserable wretches dares to utter one more word,” he roared, “I shall go to great lengths to ensure that he arrives at his next lesson wishing he had never left the warmth and comfort of his mother’s womb.”

He collected the rest of our lines, then went into the masters’ room. I had little doubt as to the implement he would be brandishing when he returned.

Rafferty pointed a trembling finger at me.

“Blame Stokesy!” he snivelled. “It’s ‘is fault. He told us what to write.”

“Hang on,” I said, holding up my hands. “All I did was help him with some of the spelling.”

Briggsy eyed me suspiciously.

“You told ‘im to write it?”

“Write what?”

“Yer fuckin’ know what,” said Kendo.

“No I don’t,” I protested. “Rafferty, have you still got that scrap of paper?”

He dug inside his pockets, pulling out a gobstopper wrapped in a handkerchief so grubby I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a cloud of flies spring from it. Finally he found what he was looking for.

I bent forward to read what he’d scribbled down.

Sed fuck it inter ear fuck it inrepairable tempus

“It’s ‘fugit’, you daft cunt,” I yelled at him. “Did you write that out six hundred times and never once think how unlikely it was that Oscar would give us lines with the word ‘fuck’ in them?”

He didn’t answer. Briggsy and Kendo remained tight-lipped too.

Oscar, who was of course standing right behind me, merely tapped his cane against the palm of his hand.

“I’m disappointed, Stokes. I’d hoped someone of your intelligence might have had the common sense to associate with less disreputable company.”

Which is why I walked back along the corridor with sore buttocks to add to Kendo’s invitation to meet him on the field after dinner so that any differences between us could be ironed out in the time-honoured Newburn manner.

And these were supposed to be the happiest days of your life.

I had no intention of keeping my appointment with Kendo. If it had been Briggsy I’d have taken what was coming to me. He fought fairly, and knew when to stop.

Kendo didn’t. If his opponent went down he wouldn’t think twice about kicking him in the stomach, the chest or even the head. I valued my self-respect as much as anyone, but I wasn’t prepared to go to hospital for it.

When the dinner bell sounded I made straight for the path that descended to the burn. I was now a truant, since pupils who ate school meals were forbidden to leave the premises — and with Maths on the timetable that afternoon I’d stay one. How I was going to explain this sudden deterioration in my health to my form teacher the Monday after next was a problem I’d postpone until I could steal a sheet of mum’s writing paper from the pad she kept in the sideboard drawer.

A more pressing issue was how to pass the four and a half hours before it was safe for me to walk through my front door. I needed to formulate a plan of action quickly; spots of rain were beginning to fall, and the air had that muggy quality that suggested a heavy and prolonged downpour. Although getting drenched and catching a bad cold might have been seen by some as poetic justice, I had other plans for the week’s holiday than coughing and spluttering.

The solution came to me as I was crossing the footbridge. I could keep dry and at the same time put my mind at rest concerning Pansy just by calling at his house. Mrs Porter had never struck me as the type who’d be straight on the phone to mum; after I told her my story there was every chance she’d rustle up the meal my grumbling belly was already starting to miss.

Pansy lived on Grantham Avenue, so I didn’t have to deviate more than a quarter of a mile from my usual route home in order to reach it. The detour took me closer to West Park, and into an area of tree-lined groves and crescents that looked more prosperous than they were. I picked up my pace as the rain grew more persistent, regretting too late my decision not to put on my anorak before I left this morning.

The Porter residence was part of a late nineteenth-century pebbledashed terrace set back from the road by small front lawns bordered with mouldering brickwork and ragged privet hedges. The path leading to the door was cracked and uneven, allowing me to scrape away the leaf mulch from the soles of my shoes; with my big toe poking out of my left sock the last thing I needed was to be asked to remove them.

I nearly didn’t ring the bell. I couldn’t escape the feeling that by entering this house I risked bringing to an end the world I’d always known. But I reasoned that really bad news normally took you unawares; if you expected the worst, it probably wouldn’t happen.

I lifted my finger and pushed.

It was Pansy himself who came to the door. He wasn’t more than a couple of inches taller than me, though he had broader shoulders and a fairly strong chin. His mop of frizzy nutbrown hair was as disobedient as always; if he hadn’t been fully clothed I’d have assumed he’d just climbed out of bed.

“Well well well,” he said, “look who it isn’t.”

“Er, hiya,” was all I could manage in response.

“Let you out a bit early, haven’t they?”

“I’m knocking off. Kendo’s after me.”

“Ooh…” he said, pursing his lips. “What have you done to upset that great lump?”

“It’s to do with the lines we got from Oscar after he came in when you, uh…you know.”

He glanced from side to side, as if he feared that the entire Kennedy clan might be about to descend on the house demanding he surrender the bedraggled fugitive forthwith or suffer the most calamitous of consequences.

“You’d better come in,” he said. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

I was shown into a spacious, high-ceilinged but cosily furnished sitting room warmed by a blazing coal fire. While I settled on the sofa Pansy took the chair nearest the hearth, crossing one chunky thigh over the other and folding his arms in his lap. I offered up a silent prayer that all he wanted to get off his chest was a preference for his own sex.

But if God was listening, He gave no indication of it.

“I’ve begun menstruating,” Pansy announced. “That means I’m having periods.”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. Slowly I became aware of a tingling sensation in my forehead and cheeks. They started to feel very cold.

“You believe me!” he grinned, and for a second or two I clung to the hope that this was just an elaborate practical joke at my expense. I let go when his smile vanished. “I wasn’t sure if you would. I thought I’d have to work much harder to convince you.”

“It’s what Plug said…” I muttered, the words barely coherent even to me.

“Oh him! I might’ve guessed.” He sighed and ran a hand through his untidy hair. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going back there.”

“Is…is that because…?”

“I’m female. On the inside, anyway. I’ve got ovaries, fallopian tubes, a vagina, the lot. I managed to hide it until yesterday. Won’t be able to now. The hormones set off the correction process, you see. Before long I’ll have started to turn into a real girl.”

I was astonished that he could be so blasé about it. On any list of life-changing experiences, this had to occupy the top spot.

“Plug mentioned something about pills,” I said.

“I have to undergo a course of treatment to speed things up. If that’s not successful I’ll need surgery. Minor stuff. Local anaesthetic, they said. But it shouldn’t come to that.”

“Surgery?” I gulped. “Anaesthetic?”

“Yes, I do seem to be taking it all very calmly, don’t I? The thing is, I’ve known this would happen for well over a year. Mam and dad wanted to give me plenty of time to get used to the idea.”

“But how did they find out?”

“It was after I failed the medical for Lanehead. The doctor wrote to them suggesting an immediate visit to our GP.”

That didn’t help. I’d been all set to enjoy a week in the Lake District studying glaciated landforms, then my parents had suddenly decided they wanted to go on holiday. As a result I was in Devon when the medicals were held.

“And what did he say?”

“To me? Nothing. But he told mam and dad that instead of a penis I had a grossly enlarged clitoris. The urinary tract had become attached to it, so I passed water like a normal boy. Apparently it all went back to when mam was pregnant with me. Too many androgens, I think they’re called, in her system.”

I didn’t know what a clitoris or androgens were, but now wasn’t the right time to ask him to cure me of my ignorance.

“Weren’t you upset when they broke the news?”

“I was at first, obviously. Then I realised I wasn’t some kind of freak, I just had a condition that would eventually be put right.”

“I meant about becoming a girl.”

“That didn’t bother me in the slightest. Why would it? You must have noticed which side of my toast I like buttered.” He winked at me, then sat forward. “Actually I’m getting quite excited now the waiting’s almost over. I had a look at the settlement last night and–“

“Settlement?”

“With the drug company. The case didn’t go to court because they paid extra to keep mam and dad from selling the story to the papers. They won’t be able to hush it up for ever, though. Too many families have been affected. There’s already been a documentary about it, but the people who made the programme weren’t allowed to name the product for legal reasons.”

This was the moment of truth. If I didn’t say something now I might never find the courage to bring up the subject again.

I had to grasp the nettle. I had to know.

“It was called Testranol, wasn’t it?”

“Plug does seem to be well informed, doesn’t he?” laughed Pansy. “Yes, it was developed to prevent miscarriages. Mam had one about eighteen months before she fell pregnant with me, so she took it to be on the safe side.”

I stared at the fireplace. I felt as if I was looking directly into the flames of Hell.

The urge to leap up and run out of the house was almost overwhelming. If I left now I could pretend that I hadn’t come here, that the words I’d just heard had never been spoken.

But I stayed put. If fate had dealt me these cards, no amount of juvenile self-deception was going to improve my hand.

“I didn’t get it from him,” I said. “My mother had four miscarriages before I was born. She took Testranol too.”

Pansy’s eyes lit up. He was literally on the edge of his seat.

“So that’s why you’ve had a face like fourpence ever since I mentioned my period! You’re worried that you might start having them! I don’t know if I should say this ‘cause it’ll spoil the fun — but no, not every foetus suffered from virilisation. The figure’s around one in six. There’s still hundreds of us, mind.”

I sighed with unabashed relief. I had a five-in-six chance of growing into a healthy adult male, odds I’d have committed high treason for less than a minute ago.

“How will I be able to tell?” I asked.

“Easy. If your tackle’s the same as every other boy’s then you’ve nothing to worry about.”

I wasn’t quite sure which aspects of my genitals he was referring to — their size, their shape or the way they hung — but I decided not to pursue the matter any further. I’d quit while I was ahead, even if it might be months before I knew I was completely in the clear.

“That’s all right then,” I laughed. “No problems in that department.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” smirked Pansy, and to my lasting shame I reddened.

“You’ll see Benny Hill have a number one hit first,” I said.

I was soaked to the skin well before I reached Ashleigh Close. I hardly noticed; my limited capacity for performing mental calculations had nevertheless informed me that out of every hundred Testranol babies, eighty-three had been born with perfectly normal gonads. What were the chances that two of the unlucky ones would live so close to each other they’d attended the same primary school?

But I didn’t allow myself to become too complacent. The only penis I was familiar with was my own — and I couldn’t very well go round to Plug’s or Gash’s that evening and ask them to whip it out for me so I had something to use as a yardstick.

He’s not the only one.

When I got home I found that the front door was locked. I never took a key with me; mum was always back from the shop by a quarter to four at the latest. I trotted through the covered alleyway that led to the garden gate. That was bolted shut as well. Swearing loudly, I threw down my haversack and called on every erg of energy my biceps could produce to hoist my body high enough to scramble over it, bending my legs at the knee to lessen the impact as I dropped to the concrete patio.

I had no luck with the kitchen door either, but I’d spotted that the spare bedroom’s window was slightly ajar. Since it was a casement and opened outwards, I reckoned I’d be able to force my arm through the gap, flick the stay off its fixing, push the pane aside and climb through.

First I needed to get onto the kitchen roof. With the aid of a dustbin, a protruding door latch and a recklessness that arose from a vision of myself sitting cross-legged in the alley for the next hour and a half, I managed to clamber up there. Not bad for a girl, I thought as I felt my lips curl in a sarcastic smile.

It required a good deal of fiddling, and my wrist smarted where I’d scraped it against the edge of the frame, but I finally had the window fully open. I perched my backside on the sill, swivelled and propelled my feet forward as I jumped down so I wouldn’t land on the plastic bags piled beneath me.

Job done. I was out of the rain; I could now concentrate on making up the excuse I’d give mum when she walked in.

Then I spied the object inside the polythene wrapper I must have dislodged from one of the carriers in spite of my best efforts to avoid them.

A plain white cotton bra.

That was odd. I’d supposed the bags were filled with Christmas presents, bought early so as to beat the rush. But who would think a bra was a suitable gift for anyone?

I bent down to see what else they contained. My rummaging uncovered more lingerie, several pairs of tights, a vanity case, a manicure kit, a purse and a shoulder bag, as well as an assortment of creams, lotions, scented soaps and other toiletries.

Including a box bearing the logo FEMCARE. Below it was printed:

Soft natural materials for comfort and dryness. Strong, knitted loops for extra security. High quality absorbency for full protection.

They were sanitary towels.

Attached to the box with sticky tape was a leaflet, published by Durham Education Committee and entitled YOUR FIRST PERIOD.

Having your first menstrual period can be both exciting and scary. It's a new chapter in your life that will last for decades. Some girls have tell-tale symptoms before the onset of their first period whereas others don't.

I didn’t have to look at the mirror fastened to the far wall to know that my face had gone as white as the paper surrounding it.

Your first menstrual period will most likely arrive between the ages of 9 and 16…

Leg or back aches and a slight headache may also occur…

Breast tenderness may be experienced…

Hormonal changes, which occur when your body is preparing for a period, can cause feelings of sadness, anger and tension…

My God...

You haven’t had any aches or pains lately?

No tenderness anywhere?

You don’t feel tense or angry or bad-tempered?

Aunt Rachel might have been reading from this very sheet.

There was but one conclusion to draw: these items were all intended for me.

I tried to persuade myself that my parents were only erring on the side of caution. Perhaps they’d watched the documentary and panicked. How else could they have known what the potential side effects were?

It was after I failed the medical for Lanehead.

A medical I hadn’t attended because I was on holiday.

A medical I hadn’t seen the point of having because just weeks before Dr Campbell had given a clean bill of health following the bladder infection I’d contracted…

Suddenly I was angry. Murderously angry.

They’d known for more than a year — and they hadn’t said a word.

How could they have kept this from me? Did they believe I was too weak to deal with it? Was their opinion of me really that low?

What did they think my reaction would be when the truth eventually trickled from my crotch? Or had they simply crossed their fingers in the hope that my reproductive system might never reveal its bloody secret?

I stormed out of the room and sat at the top of the stairs, my thoughts focused only on the confrontation I was determined to provoke the instant mum came through the door.

We’ve been meaning to tell you, Peter.

Something along those lines, I figured she’d answer. It was what she said when I found out that gran wasn’t going to get better.

She’d soon learn that it wouldn’t cut very much mustard this afternoon.

But was I in danger of jumping the gun?

Dr Campbell had been the family GP since before Jeanette was born. He must have known that mum was taking Testranol. What if he’d read about it in the Lancet or some other journal and had considered it his duty to warn her there was a one-in-six chance that their son was really their daughter?

If your tackle’s the same as every other boy’s then you’ve nothing to worry about.

There was one place, and only one place, where I’d be able to confirm that I was anatomically male. I got to my feet and went off in search of my anorak.

Newburn’s central library occupied the lower floor of a dingy red-brick building on Durham Road, between the town hall and the police station. The reference section was on the left of the unlit entrance hall, its shelves, cabinets, drawers and microfiche screens monitored by a stout, greying matron wearing a long-sleeved mauve dress and a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. I could tell at once that the sight of a teenage boy, his hair plastered to his forehead and the bottoms of his trousers dripping water onto the floor, didn’t exactly have her overflowing with unrestrained delight.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” she challenged me.

“Early finish,” I lied. “Half-term and all that.”

She gave me a probing stare, one I was in no frame of mind to be intimidated by. If she hadn’t lowered her eyes first, we might still have been facing one another down when the cleaners arrived.

“So what can I do for you?” she enquired.

“I need to find a book on the human body. It’s for a project we’re doing on the er, on the blood and circulation and things.”

“Well there’s a Gray’s over in the corner by the Britannicas. It’ll probably be a bit advanced for someone your age…”

“I just want to look at the drawings.”

That brought forth an even more mistrustful expression. I wondered what she’d say if I told her the first word I’d be hunting for in the index was ‘penis’.

Fortunately the room was almost empty, so I had no trouble finding a table where I could leaf through the gargantuan tome I’d been directed towards without having to shield it from prying eyes.

It was in a chapter called ‘Splanchnology’ that I located a sketch of the organ in question. The evidence remained circumstantial; although my cock was both shorter and lacking in girth compared to the one on the page, and my bollock pouch nowhere near as large, that might have been because I was a late developer.

But my heart knew otherwise. It had assessed the situation more rationally than my brain, and now it presented its findings.

They were clear and unambiguous. My parents wouldn’t have shelled out for all that stuff unless they were certain I’d need it.

A mist of pure rage clouded my vision.

I wanted to score out every line of that diagram, with my fingernails if I couldn’t lay my hands on a knife.

I wanted to hurl the book through the nearest window, then go on the rampage until the bobbies came to lock me up.

I wanted to shout and scream. I wanted to injure someone. I wanted the world to share my agony.

I did none of those things.

A chapter of my life had ended. A new one had still to be written. This time the person holding the pen would be me.

I returned the copy of Gray’s Anatomy to its shelf. With a polite nod to the library assistant, I walked back into the entrance hall.

Only much later did I realise that I was taking my very first steps as an adult.