The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2716 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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“I should read it should I?”

“Yeah, it’s good.”

“It was addressed to you, was it?”

She went red enough to almost pass for a pillar box, “I can’t remember,” she lied.

“I can. I ordered that book a week ago from an online bookshop. The jiffy bag it came in, addressed to me is torn open and lying in the hall.”

“Yeah, I saw that, the book was lying next to it, maybe Lizzie found it.”

“I doubt Lizzie or Cate would have the strength to open a padded envelope.”

“Yeah they would, they’ve got strong fingers.” She was still like an irradiated tomato, giving off enough heat to make toast had I had some bread handy.

“I think you’re fibbing. I think you were miffed at me because I picked you up on your English, saw the padded envelope on the hall table with my name on it, and opened it—thinking to steal what was in it, to get back at me.”

“No, Mummy, it was open in the hall.” She got redder and I began to worry if she had any blood apart from that perfusing her skin.

“I think you saw what it was and decided to have look at it, which is why you’re up here not with the others, because they’d be asking you what you were reading.”

“No, Mummy, I didn’t...” tears were now flowing over her cheeks.

“And now you’re fibbing, trying to pass the blame onto your younger sisters.”

“I didn’t, Mummy...” she sobbed.

“I’m going to take my book,” I reached down and she released it to me; “then I’m going to let you reflect upon your actions—that is, opening a package clearly not addressed to you, taking the contents without permission and then telling lies to try and blame your younger sisters. When you’re ready to come and tell me the truth, I’ll be downstairs. You can stay here until you decide.” I walked away and shut the door of the girls’ room.

Back in my study, I placed the book on my ‘new books’ bookshelf, went and made a cuppa and returned to my desk, restarted my computer and tried to settle to do some emails and look at new records for the mammal survey. Some were interesting, water voles at Arne RSPB reserve, on the edge of Poole harbour. How come they hadn’t sent one before, these are semi professionals and keep records of all sorts of things. I might go and see them, it’s ages since I visited there and then I was bird watching and being addressed alternately as ‘mate’ or ‘luv’. I was sixteen and had trained it to Wareham and then camped nearby, with my mountain bike loaded with tent, sleeping bag and changes of clothes, plus enough food and drink for a day.

It’s four or five miles from the station to the reserve as I recall it and I had to cycle into Wareham and phone home to say I was okay. That meant a nine or ten mile ride before I could get birding. Except, I’d be up early and do a walk round the reserve about six in the morning then ride to Wareham and phone home. Usually my mother answered but the second morning it was my dad. As I was about to speak to him someone tapped the phone box and asked if I’d be long, I just said to my dad, “Just a second,” as I dealt with my intruder.

I heard him say, “It’s some girl on the phone, here you deal with it.” I returned to my call and my mother and I chuckled at him not recognising my voice, mind you I rarely talked to him on the phone, which does tend to exaggerate pitch and accent, not that I had much of the latter. After our laugh, Mum said, “So that pleased you then.”

“What d’you mean?” I squeaked.

“You know exactly what I mean, Charlie or is it Charlotte, like the hairdresser calls you?”

I was saved by the pips, “Gotta go, Mum, the money’s running out.”

The door of the phone box was tapped again, “C’mon, luv, I need to call someone.” I picked up the purse I used to keep my money in—one that opened with a sort of top that acted as a tray for coins, with a pocket for notes—shoved it in my small drawstring bag and surrendered the phone booth.

Thinking about this incident again, I thought—they knew what I was and what I wanted to be, why did they play it so dumb? Were they trying to protect me or themselves from embarrassment. I was sixteen and still singing soprano/treble, I had no hair on my face or body, except my groin and that wasn’t much. I was small and relatively dainty which was why I was such a target to the bullies. I was a fifth former and looked and sounded like a second or third year pupil. I was very different and paid for it. Unless I’m misremembering, which is possible, I was fortunate to have enough mental strength to deal with it, many others might not have been so fortunate.

I shuddered for a moment—successful transgender folk are usually quite strong mentally, especially as many seem to have been abused in so many ways, often by those they trusted and who betrayed that trust thereby effectively abusing them twice. When that’s sexual abuse which is all about power, it’s even worse. I felt disappointed by my parents’ response when it became obvious that I should have been female in their eyes as well as my own—they’d let me down. I was determined I wouldn’t do that to my children, no matter what.

I was aware I wasn’t alone as I returned to the present from my reverie. I looked round and Trish was standing just inside the door. “Come in and shut the door,” I instructed her, “unless you want everyone to hear us?” She shook her head and gently closed the door until the lock clicked. “What have you decided?” I half expected some sort of legal challenge she’d read about on her iPad or some spiel on Habeus corpus, it didn’t happen.

“You were right, Mummy, I was a naughty girl.”

“I see. I’m not as dumb as you sometimes think, am I?”

“I never think you’re dumb, Mummy, just a bit slow sometimes.”

“So you were naughty, what shall we do about it?”

Blushing like a stop light she said, “I suppose it’s too late to say I’d like to come with you to Brighton?”

“Hang about, we were discussing opening my mail, stealing the contents and telling lies and you then try to deflect the conversation to my talk in Sussex.”

“I didn’t mean to, Mummy. I am sorry I did all those things, especially as I’m now ten years old and apparently of an age when I’m supposed to differentiate between right and wrong and between honesty and lies. I failed you, Mummy and was prepared to come to Brighton as a punishment.”

“You what?” I gasped. An hour ago she was coming as a treat, now it’s a punishment.

“Well seeing as you didn’t really want me there in the first place, I thought just being there would be like a punishment.”

What do I do with this child, aged ten and running rings round me. Act unimpressed or she’ll really start doing it. “I can certainly make it a punishment.”

“Uh—no, being unwanted is enough, Mummy.”

“Don’t you ever suggest you’re unwanted. Now clear off before put you through the shredder.”

“Eek,” she squealed and high tailed it out the door. I sat there shaking my head, ten years old and she’d out manoeuvred me again. She’ll have to go.