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Chapter 4

Previously …

Down below there it was.

The crescent of Penmarris Cove looked lovely. At its centre was the village itself and the harbour with boats bobbing about. At each end of the village there were unspoilt sandy beaches. The hillsides were dotted with colourful houses and bungalows. On the hill, overlooking the cove was a large imposing looking mansion and to the side a little nearer the village centre, I could see a church tower.

I didn’t have time to see more, as the bus moved off again, but it made me eager to see more of Penmarris and in particular, my mum.

And now the story continues…

The bus continued on its journey, going steeply downhill, with several rather hairy sharp turns to contend with. Soon we were in the outskirts of Penmarris, with more cottages and houses evident. Within a few minutes, we were down by the quay and several people, including myself, got off.

As the bus left, I stood by the side of the road and took a deep breath. From a distance, Penmarris looked lovely, from the centre, it looked wonderful.

The place was in festive overload. Everywhere I looked there were Christmas decorations; on the lamp posts, trees, houses, shops and some of the boats in the harbour. It seemed like Penmarris took Christmas seriously. Then there was the huge Christmas tree sat back slightly in an alcove that could have been made for it. All in all it was a festive and colourful scene that would be even nicer at night time when all the lights were on.

There were lots of people milling about and the café and tea shop were doing a roaring trade, as was the fish and chip shop, where the lovely smells wafting over was making my mouth water. There were a few gift shops along the quay and they were open too. At the end of the quay stood a pottery shop and what looked like some sort of art gallery. All in all, it was a busy scene and I was surprised, because I always thought that places like this would be dead in the winter and this was the complete opposite.

I looked around and wondered vaguely if I had arrived at some sort of film set and they were shooting scenes for a film called Christmas at the Cove and all the people were actors.

Forgetting that fanciful thought and realising that I needed to get my head together, I went over to the café, took off my coat, beanie hat and scarf and found a seat by the window to sit down. None of your plastic table cloths and tacky interiors here; it was all white linen, silver cutlery and an appearance of style and good taste.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a girl in a waitress uniform with starched white pinny.

‘Can I have a cup of tea and a scone please?’

‘Cream and jam?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Coming up.’ she replied with a sunny smile.

Looking around at the other tables, I wondered how many there were visitors for Christmas or whether any of them were locals.

I went a bit cold for a moment, realising that one of these women could be my mum. I had never even seen a photo of her. All I knew was that she had blond hair, like me. I remembered her hair for some reason; it was long and straight and felt very soft to touch...

‘There we are,’ said the girl, putting down the tray in front of me. Then she sat down opposite, which kind of surprised me.

‘I just need to take the weight off me feet. I’ve been on the go since this morning. Do yer mind?’

‘No, that’s fine.’

‘So,’ she said, ‘Down ‘ere for yer holidays?’

‘Erm no, visiting a relative.’

‘Oh, anyone I know?’

‘I’m not sure. Do you know Carol Young?

She thought for a moment and I held my breath.

She shook her head. ‘Can’t remember anyone of that name; she lived ‘ere long?’

‘About a year, I think, if she’s still here.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Along Beach Road, wherever that is.’

‘That’s downalong the beach,’ the girl replied.

‘I thought that it might be.’

‘I know most, hereabouts, can’t remember anyone called Carol Young. She be an aunt or somethin’?’

‘No, my mum.’

‘Don’t yer live with ‘er then?’

‘No.’

I wasn’t going to tell her everything about my private life on such short acquaintance.

The girl shrugged and then looked up when an old couple came in.

‘Ah well,’ she said, getting up, ‘I ‘ope that yer find yer mum, any road.’

‘Thanks,’ I said as she went off to serve the new customers.

Sipping my tea, I wondered if my journey had been a wasted one. I could tell that this was the sort of place where everyone knew your name, if you were a local that is. I could feel tears pricking my eyes, my emotions were all over the place; to come this far, for nothing?

Pulling myself together, I finished my tea and lovely scone and then decided to venture out again and try to be a bit more positive. Just because the waitress didn’t know my mum, did not mean that she wasn’t living in Penmarris. The village was large; almost a town and thousands must live here…

Trying to think positively, I decided that It was time for me to go and find my mum.

It wasn’t that cold, but the sea breeze did drop the temperature down a bit, so I zipped my coat up to my neck and walked along the quay. The sound of rigging on the boats in the harbour was nice. Now that I was nearer to the beach, I saw a long white stretch of sand that went to the far end of the cove.

I saw the name Beach Road on someone’s wall, so I knew I was on the right track and I continued on up the road, which ran parallel to the beach, looking at house names as I went.

Glancing over the low wall to the beach, I noticed that there were a few people walking their dogs; or was it the dogs walking their people? Other than that, it was pretty deserted; it wasn’t bucket and spade weather!

The sand looked clean and had been washed by the tide that had receded quite recently. After a bit, the road split into two, one narrow unnamed road going along to the end of the cove, following the waterline and the other, slightly wider went uphill quite steeply. I decided on a whim to go up.

After about a quarter of a mile, I stopped outside a white cottage, my heart thumping. On the gate was the name I was looking for, The Seashells.

The front garden was well kept with a small lawn and flowers beds. The cottage itself looked quite old but nicely looked after. The brickwork had been rendered in white and looked clean and inviting. The door was a bright blue colour and added to the all-round cosy, niceness of the place.

Back in Ross-On-Wye, I had thought that it would be a good idea if I dressed myself sort of androgynously, so as not to confuse my mum too much when she came to the door. That had been a complete waste of time because she wasn’t there. I had changed my mind about how I should present myself to my mum after that and had decided that she would have to take me as I am. The way I was dressed now and the fact that I wore makeup, left no room for doubt as to who or what I was – a girl.

By now, my heart was thudding even louder, if that was possible and I felt slightly sick. Before I gave myself reasons to leave, I opened the gate and on shaking legs, went up to the front door.

I attempted, without success to pull my skirt down a bit. Was it to short and was my makeup okay?

Although the chrome knocker was small, it sounded quite loud when I used it and the sound seemed to echo around me.

I waited for a few moments and knocked again, a bit louder and for good measure I rattled the letterbox.

All I could hear were the waves in the distance and the sound of the birds wheeling overhead – no footsteps

It was no good, no one was in. My shoulders sagged. Once again I had been disappointed and I wondered if there was someone up there who didn’t like me. I bent down and had a look through the letterbox. I wanted to see if there was any sign of occupancy. For all I knew; she (if my mum still lived there) could have gone away for Christmas. It was dark and I couldn’t see a thing.

Standing there, my emotions were mixed. Was this a sign that I was never meant to see her? For so many years I had waited for this moment and her not being there was such an anticlimax that it left me feeling almost numb. My mind went back to when I was still small and hopeful.

At first, I believed that she would come and take me away and that we would live happily ever after in some idyllic place like this one. I spent hours looking out of the various widows where I was staying in the vain hope that she would come and take me away.

As the years went by and she did not come, I began to wonder if I would ever see her and I stopped looking out of the windows for her. The only thing that kept my hopes and dreams alive were the cards that she sent to me. I still had them all in my case, tied up with a pink ribbon... Why had she stopped sending me the cards?

I had no answer to that and with a sigh, I turned away, let myself out at the gate and went back down the hill.

In an attempt to cheer myself up, I decided that I had to do a bit of sleuthing, so I went to the post office and waited in line. Eventually, I reached the front and asked the lady behind the counter if she knew who lived at The Seashells.

The lady thought for a moment and said, ‘Can’t say that I do. I’ll ask Alf, he’s the postman, he’ll know.’

She went into a back room and returned with an oldish man in a faded postman’s uniform. He motioned me over to the side.

‘What’s up Miss?’

‘Sorry to trouble you, but do you know if a Mrs Carol Young still lives at The Seashells along Beach Road?’

‘I shouldn’t tell you that, because it be confidential, but yer don’t look like one of those serial killers, so I’ll trust ye.’

He laughed at his own witticism while I stood there waiting, tapping my foot. Then, patience not being my strong point, I said, ‘well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Does she live there?’

‘Who?’

‘Mrs Young.’

‘Is that Young with an e or without one?’

‘Without.’

‘So no e?’

‘No.’

‘Carol, ye say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Carol Young without an e?’

‘No, I mean yes!’

‘No need te shout, I bain’t be deaf, young lady. I only asks ‘cos there be a Younge with an e living off the High Street.’

‘What’s her first name?’ I asked hopefully, thinking that my mum might have moved and he might have been a bit confused – read stupid.

‘Who?’

Mrs Younge with an e.’

‘Brenda, she be eighty-five now.’

I felt like grabbing hold of his throat and throttling the life out of him.

‘Who lives at The Seashells?’ I asked through gritted teeth.

‘On Beach Road?’

‘Yes,’

‘Let me see, well there’s only been a few letters delivered there in the past year. What’s the name?’

‘I don’t know, you were going to tell me.’

‘Was I? Oh yes, Stevens, a Miss Margaret Stevens, that’s it.’

My heart sort of flip-flopped. This wasn’t the information I wanted to hear.

‘So you’ve never heard of Carol Young?’

‘Without an...’

‘...e, yes.’

‘I seem to recall the name, but, I ‘aven’t ‘eard of her, this last year. I think we ‘ad some letters that were returned te sender.’

I looked at him. He seemed a bit; dare I say it, simple? But he was the postman and if he didn’t know who lived there, then no-one would.

With a false smile, I thanked him and left the post office; conscious that a dozen pairs of eyes and ears had heard my conversation with him.

Going down to the quay, I sat down on a seat overlooking the harbour. I wanted to cry. This was all turning out very badly; it very much looked like mum had moved on, if she had ever lived there at all. What was I to do now?

I felt lost, helpless, emotionally drained and very tired. I thought that my previous Christmases had been bad, but this one seemed like it was going to be the worst one on record...

A woman sat down beside me, but I took little notice as I was in my own little world of misery.

‘Sorry Dear, but are you all right?’

Looking up, I saw a pleasant faced woman in her thirties, she looked a kindly sort, but I wasn’t about to blab all my secrets to her or anyone else.

‘I’m fine,’ I said looking over at one of the yachts and wondering if I could sail away on it. Barbados, Timbuktu, no that was in the centre of Africa; Hawaii..?

‘Pardon me for interfering, but I was in the post office while you were there and overheard what Alf told you. You can’t avoid hearing what Alf says, he speaks rather loudly; he’s a bit deaf, you know and he doesn’t realise that they can hear him from Cornwall when the wind’s in the right direction. You seemed upset at what he told you and to be frank you look even more upset now.’

‘It’s nothing.’

We sat there for a few moments longer and then she spoke again. 'Look, I know that I’m butting in and tell me to go away if you want to, but my business is helping people. For my sins, I am the vicar’s wife and my name is Jocasta Gotobed. David is my husband and we have two pony loving, mad, silly daughters who we love to bits, but they have problems like all kids do. So I know what teenagers go through and you look as if you have gone through rather a lot yourself. Everyone says that I have a sympathetic ear; would you like to talk about it?’

‘No.’

She sat there for a moment longer and then got up.

‘If you need me, I’ll be over in the tea room; I fancy some tea and scones and they do some very good ones; goodbye Dear.’

With that, she quietly left. I had sort of expected the hard sell. I had been on the receiving end of that quite a lot of that sort of thing from supposed well meaning people who think that they knew what was best for me.

I put my head in my hands and had a little cry. Those damned hormones were getting at me again; it was one of the side effects I hated, the emotional swings and the crying jags at the least opportune moments.

Around me, people were going about their business. One or two kind souls came over and asked if I was alright and I told them that I was fine. It was nice to be in a place where people cared...

Then I thought about that. For some weird reason, I felt that people did seem to genuinely care including, what was her name, oh yes, Jocasta Gotobed; funny name that. Could I take a chance on trusting her?

I had tried trusting people before and that hadn't worked out for me. How many promises had been broken? Now here was someone else who had offered to help me.

She seemed nice though and she was, after all, a vicar’s wife. Didn't helping other people come with the job description?

I had such mixed emotions and didn’t really know whether I was coming or going. Then I felt a sense of guilt. I had been very short with the vicar’s wife and hadn’t thanked her for her concern. I made a sudden decision; I would go and say sorry for my rudeness. I was trying to turn over a new leaf and one of the things I was hoping to do was to be a nicer person. Time would tell if that would happen or not.

I could hardly hear myself think though, as a fishing boat came into the harbour followed by a whole flock of seagulls making raucous noises in the hope of getting some free dinner. Then, as one, they suddenly all shot off towards the edge of the cove.

‘Something must have spooked them.’ I thought.

Getting up, I went to cross the road, when suddenly, I was startled as a car bibbed its horn at me. Being in my own world at the time and not paying too much attention to my surroundings, I jumped at the noise.

Looking up, I saw that this ginormous Rolls Royce, driven by a chauffeur. It had stopped just short of where I was going to step out. That would have been great after the wonderful day that I had had; to be run over by a Roller and turned into strawberry jam!

I mouthed sorry and the chauffeur smiled and the car continued on.

My eyes were drawn by the person in the back of the car and was taken aback slightly by her. I wondered in passing if she was royalty. She could have been anything between fifty and a hundred years old and had on this large feathered hat and she looked at me with a piercing gaze that would melt lead. She raised one eyebrow at me and then she and the car was gone.

I wouldn’t have wanted to meet that lady on a dark night. She scared the heck out of me! Behind me, I could hear that the seagulls had come back to pester the boat again, but I ignored the noise as I had other things to concern myself over.

Arriving at the tea room, I looked around and saw Mrs Gotobed over in the corner. She waved at me and I went over.

‘Hello Dear, want a cuppa?’

‘No thanks, I just came to say sorry for being rude and to thank you for your kindness Mrs Gotobed.’

‘Think nothing of it Dear and please call me Jocasta or Jo if that’s too much of a mouthful. Look, I have this large pot of tea here. We don’t want it to go to waste. Why not have a seat and we can finish it off?’

The kind look on her face and the way she treated me made my heart melt a bit. Taking my coat off, I hung it with the other coats there. Then I put my case and bag next to the wall and sat down beside her.

‘Thanks.’ I said shortly.

She poured me a cup of tea and added two lumps of sugar.

‘It’s nice here isn’t it? I came to Penmarris when I married David. He kidnapped me from over the border in Cornwall and I haven’t looked back since. Do you come from around here?’

I sipped my drink before replying.

‘No, I come from London.’

‘That’s a long way away.’

‘Yes, but I’ve been moved about a lot, so I don’t really have a home to speak of.’

‘If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘You look younger, no don’t frown like that; when you get to my age, you want to lose years, not gain them. I have been twenty nine for a few years now. So, are you here to find a relative?’

Looking up, I weighed the pros and cons of telling her everything. In my heart, and if I was trying to be truthful to myself, I didn’t just come into the tea room to say sorry to her, I wanted to talk to someone and she seemed so kind. I just hoped that my trust in her on such a brief acquaintance was not misplaced.

Taking a deep breath, I told her everything.

‘My mum gave me up because she couldn’t cope. She had me when she was fourteen and I was taken into care. I never saw her again but received birthday and Christmas cards every year up until last year. I have been in and out of several homes and stayed with many foster carers. I haven’t been able to stay for long in any one of them. Then I was told by the care home manger that I should move to a place called Charring House; it’s a sort of home that is supposed to be used as a transition to going out in the big, wide world as an adult. The trouble is that it has a very bad name; violence, drugs and stuff like that and it has another big problem about it.’

‘What’s that Dear?’

I looked into her eyes. She didn’t look shocked or judgmental about what I had said.

‘What the hell.’ I thought.

‘They used to be girls and boys there, but after a nasty incident, the girls were moved to another place, not much better, but without the boys.’

‘So why didn’t you go to the girls’ home?’

I shut my eyes.

‘Because as far as the authorities are concerned, they believe that I’m a boy called Ben Young and not a girl called Katie.’

I kept my eyes shut but could feel the tears leaking from my eyes.

‘Here it comes, more rejection...’ I thought.

‘Have a tissue.’

I opened my eyes and took the tissue, dabbing the corners of my eyes carefully, I didn’t want to mess with my makeup, although, I was sure that major repairs were now necessary. She didn’t look that shocked or disapproving. Maybe vicar’s wives were shockproof.

‘Thanks.’

‘That’s okay. So I take it that you are transgendered?’

‘Mm, I suppose that’s the official name for it, although I have always thought of myself as a girl.’

‘Are those real?’ she asked, vaguely pointing at my chest.

‘Yes, I’ve been taking contraceptive pills for quite a while.’

She frowned.

‘Without a doctor’s prescription?’

I nodded; she looked a little unhappy at that.

‘Why didn’t you tell your carers about your gender problem?’

‘Because they would have called me a freak. I didn’t fit into their cosy system as it was. Having the gender thing hanging over me would have made things even worse.’

‘So you decided to find your mum. How do you know she’s here?’

I explained what happened when I went to Ross and that I was told that she had moved to Penmarris. I also told Jocasta about my calling at The Seashells only to find that no one was in and then my attempts at the post office to confirm that Mum was still there and how upset I was to find that she didn’t live there after all.

‘What do you want to do now?’

‘I still want to find Mum, but I don’t know where she is.’

‘Have you booked up anywhere to stay?’

‘No.’

‘Well, because it’s Christmas and it’s a busy time in Penmarris, you might find it difficult to find somewhere.’

‘I...I’ll manage.’

‘What, find a nice cardboard box and sleep in a doorway?’

I smiled ruefully.

‘Would you like to stay overnight with us? We have plenty of room...’

‘I don’t want charity...’

She looked at me and smiled sadly.

‘Still building brick walls against the world?’

I said nothing. I was getting into one of my moods and I felt a train crash coming.

I started suddenly as her soft, warm hand covered mine. It was a good thing that we were in a secluded corner away from the few other people in the tea room and I wondered in passing if she chose this table for a reason.

Somehow, her touch seemed to calm me down.

‘I think that those pills you are taking are messing with your emotions. You need to see a friend of mine, a lady doctor, who happens to know something about people with your problems and issues and is very kind and sympathetic. Don’t think that you are the only transgendered person in Penmarris, you aren’t. In fact, I think that it’s a bit of a hot-spot, between you and me. Anyway, what I am trying to say is that you need help, not only to find your mum, but also with your medical issues. Do you agree?’

I nodded, looking down at my empty cup and not wanting to say anything. The last thing I wanted to do was to snap and push aside the first person showing me a bit of real kindness that I had experienced for years.

‘And will you come and at least stay the night? You can then maybe go back to The Seashells tomorrow and see if the owner is in and if so, she can give you a forwarding address or at least some information about your mum.’

Sniffing, I looked up and said quietly.’ Yes please. I will stay with you, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Come on then, it’s not far; just up the hill by the church.’

We took it in turns to drag my case up the hill. She might have been a lot older than me, but she was far fitter and it didn’t take long for me to start blowing like an asthmatic sheep. As we walked we were passed by a number of people, all of which seemed to know Jocasta. Some asked who I was and Jocasta just said that I was a friend staying for a few days. I just kept quiet.

‘A word of warning young Katie, we have quite a lot of gossip mongers here and the jungle drums are probably beating about you, as we speak.’

I didn’t think much of that. I liked to keep my business to myself and the last thing I wanted was for people to wonder who I was and what I was doing in Penmarris. I had long since stopped worrying if people would see me as a boy dressed up as a girl. I knew I passed and for that I was grateful. I felt really sorry for those like me who didn’t pass and although my situation was bad, some of them were in a worse position than me.

With me gasping like I was a fifty ciggies a day girl, and Jocasta totally unaffected, we reached the top of the hill, turned left, through the churchyard, past the church with a wonky tower that wouldn’t look out of place at Pizza and then we were at The Vicarage.

Before I knew it, I was sitting at the kitchen table with a drink of water and a cupcake covered with pink icing. David, the vicar had come in, beamed at me vaguely and then mentioned something about a sermon and Lady F, whoever she was, and then disappeared.

A few minutes later, Jocasta came in.

‘I’ve put your case upstairs in your bedroom. My, are you still out of breath? You need to get fit around here. There aren’t many flat bits!

I smiled; London wasn’t noted for its hills. Before I could reply, there was the sound of a herd of baby elephants coming downstairs.

I winced as Jocasta shouted, ‘girls, come in here!’

Two kids rushed in, one slightly smaller than the other.

The larger of the two said, ‘Mum...’

Then she saw me and stopped in her tracks.

‘Girls, this is Katie, she’s staying here for a bit.’

‘Hi Katie; I’m Jen and this twit is Phillipa...’

‘I’m not a twit and call me Pippa; I hate being called Phillipa; the kids at school have started to call me Flipper after some old Australian whale.’

‘It was a dolphin dear; I remember I saw the repeats when I was your age.’

‘Were you ever my age? Gosh; anyway, hi Katie, are you one of Mum’s waifs and strays?’

‘Phillipa Gotobed, if I hear another word!’

‘Sorry Mummy,’ she said looking down and pretending to be upset.

Jennifer grinned. 'Pippa is almost as daft as her pony Rosie...’

‘Am not.’

‘Am...’

‘GIRLS! Stop it, you are embarrassing Katie.’

Actually, I was finding it hard not to laugh.

‘Now, have you done your homework?’

‘It’s not due in ‘til next term; we broke up remember?’ said Jen.

‘That’s really cool,’ said Pippa and then she turned to me.

‘Do you skate?’

‘Roller skate?’

‘No, ice skate; there’s a cool rink down by the harbour. It’s there every year at Christmas.’

‘That’s right,’ said Jen excitedly. We’re going down there a bit later. It’s nice with all the lights and everything. Do say you’ll come.’

‘I don’t have skates.’

‘You can hire them.’

‘I don’t know...’

‘Girls, don’t pester her. She’s been through a lot and is probably too tired...’

Of course I treated that comment as a challenge.

‘When are you going?’

‘After tea; first we have go to the stables to feed and bed down Poppy and Rosie and then we’ll go on from there.’

I looked at Jocasta.

‘Would you mind?’

‘Of course not, it’s up to you and you don’t have to ask.’

‘Okay, I’ll come.’ I said with a grin.

Things were looking up, just a little bit.

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Please leave comments and kudo thingies...thanks! ~Sue