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The Might-Have-Been Girl A novel by Bronwen Welsh Copyright 2015

Chapter 5 The London season.

At a meeting of the cast at the theatre rehearsal room, Duncan told us that we were booked in the London hotel from the eighteenth of December. He mentioned how I would be in girl mode all the time we were in London and that everyone must call me Harriet. They all murmured their agreement. Later he told Emma and me that Mum had been booked into a room at the hotel from the twenty-second to the twenty-eighth. Sir Edgar had been as good as his word.

Back home, Emma was busy sorting out clothes for me to wear.

“I'm going to buy you four sets of your own underwear and some tights,” she said, “I've got enough suitable clothes for you to wear, so we don't have to buy anything else.”

“You must let me pay for them,” I said. "I'm getting more money now."

David had told me that for the whole season, and that included the last night at Bridchester, I would receive the same pay as the rest of the cast. As a repertory company, all the actors were paid the same amount, and it was more than I had been receiving as assistant stage manager. What's more, he had managed to negotiate with Sir Edgar that we would all be getting a special 'London allowance' on top of our usual pay to offset the increased cost of living. Nevertheless, this was not a time to start throwing money around on clothes, as we had little enough to spare at home.

Emma had started to sort out things for me to take and called me into her bedroom where she had clothes laid out on the bed. There were several dresses including the blue satin one I had so much enjoyed wearing to the afternoon tea with Sir Edgar, some skirts and tops and also two pairs of jeans and some trousers.

She saw me looking doubtfully at them and said. “I know you'd prefer to wear skirts, but it's getting really cold now, so trousers with tights underneath will really help to keep your legs warm. Besides, so many young women wear jeans, jeggings or trousers nowadays that you will blend in with them, and that's what we want. Don't worry, you will still look like a girl, but you won't stand out.”

I could see the sense in what she was saying. By not rating a second glance when out in the streets, I further lowered the chance of anyone suspecting that I wasn't a girl.

It was the day before we were due to board the train for London and we were having a special 'Christmas' dinner at home, as this was the last time we'd be together until Mum arrived in London on the twenty-second. We had chicken with roast vegetables and a small Christmas pudding with custard. We were enjoying a small glass of port in front of the fire when Mum excused herself and came back with a package wrapped in Christmas paper and pink ribbon.

“This is a present from Emma and me,” she said. “I know it's early, but now is the time to give it to you.”

Puzzled, I took the package and carefully unwrapped it to reveal a pink cardboard box which had 'Venus' in fancy script printed on it. When I opened it, I stared at the contents in shock. Nestled in tissue paper were two breast forms.

“Oh Mum, Emma,” I said, and started to tear up. Ironically, I had looked up breast forms on the internet, but they were far too expensive to consider buying myself.

“Now I know you're going to say something about the cost,” said Mum, “But I happen to know a lady who works for a company which sells them. Don't worry, I didn't explain who they were for and she didn't ask, but she let me have them for the wholesale price.”

I got up and hugged her and Emma.

“Thank you so much,” I said, “They will be so much more convincing than the chicken fillets.”

'And make me feel more like a girl all the time' I thought.

“Why don't you and Emma go upstairs so that you can put them on and show me how they look?” said Mum. Not for the first time I thought how lucky I was to have a mother who had so readily accepted the thought of her son becoming a girl for a month. Most mums would have totally freaked out.

Emma and I went up to my bedroom and I took off my top. I had already shaved my chest in anticipation of the trip, and I didn't have much hair anyway, so she told me to lie on my bed so that she could work out exactly where the breast forms should go and mark the positions with a make-up pencil. Some adhesive had been provided with the forms. During my research, I had read that the forms could stay in position for a week or so at a time and then removed for a while to allow my skin to breath.

Emma added the adhesive to each form in turn and also my skin and carefully placed them in position. I stayed lying down for ten minutes to allow the adhesive to set, then gingerly got up. The weight on my chest was a strange feeling and I instinctively held each breast in my hands, afraid they would fall off, but they held firm. Emma then put on my bra and adjusted the shoulder straps.

"How does that feel?” she asked.

“A little strange, but much better,” I replied.

Emma laughed. “Well mine starting growing when I was about thirteen so I grew used to them as they got bigger, but I guess to suddenly have breasts must be a strange feeling.”

'A strange feeling but very nice' I thought to myself as I looked down at my chest.

“Now put a top on and go and show Mum,” she suggested, so that's what I did. As I ran down the stairs I could feel them bouncing slightly and realised why girls wear bras.

“Goodness me, you look very nice,” said Mum. “No-one could tell that they aren't real. After all, women who have had a mastectomy wear them too since breasts are such a mark of femininity.”

That evening we made sure that our cases were packed and that we hadn't forgotten anything. Going to bed, I took the bra off and felt the additional weight of the breasts as I slipped on a nightie.

“Should I lie on my back to sleep?” I asked Emma.

“Perhaps you should until you get used to the breasts, but after that you can lie on your side,” she replied.

The next morning after a slightly tearful farewell with Mum, Emma and I took a taxi to the railway station. At her suggestion I was wearing smart blue trousers with tights underneath, black ankle boots, courtesy of Emma, a cotton top, a nice warm coat, and a woollen hat to insulate me from the weather. Emma was similarly dressed. Getting onto the train felt like the start of an adventure. I had only been to London once before and that was when I was about eleven.

We had to change trains at Doncaster and finally rolled into Kings Cross Station in the mid-afternoon. Emma had given me some warnings as a 'newbie' from the provinces.

“Stations are notorious for pick-pockets and bag snatchers,” she said. “They can tell someone like us a mile off, and probably think we're holiday-makers. Put your bag around your neck and make sure it's zipped up. Keep a hand on it at all times. Never leave your suitcase unattended even for a moment.”

I took her advice seriously. Emma might be only four years older than me, but in my eyes she was a 'woman of the world', having been down to London several times. In fact, we managed to negotiate the crowds without incident and after purchasing an Oyster Card each, found our way to the underground station, or the 'tube' as Londoners call it, and took the Victoria Line to Finsbury Park.

It was my first experience of travel on an underground train and I looked curiously at the other passengers who determinedly ignored everyone around them, burying their faces in newspapers or the mobile phones everyone carries with them nowadays. Being mid-afternoon the carriages weren't full, which was just as well as we both had a large suitcase to maneuver.

At Finsbury Park we alighted, and back at ground level again, found a taxi rank and got into one of the famous black London cabs. Emma told the driver the name of our hotel, and also asked him to drive past the Mercury Theatre on the way so we could get our bearings.

“There's nothing on there at the moment, miss,” he said, possibly thinking we wanted to book seats.

“We know,” said Emma.

A few minutes later he slowed the cab outside the theatre, which looked like a very nice modern building. We were pleased to see lights on around the awning, and also on the large frames holding posters advertising 'Brutus'. Up until now it had almost seemed like a dream to me, but this confirmed it was really happening.

“Look Emma, there's our names,” I said excitedly. The cab driver was interested.

“Are you ladies actresses?” he enquired.

“Yes we are,” said Emma. “This is where we'll be performing from Boxing Day.”

Of course he wanted to know our names and naturally, he'd never heard of us.

“I've 'ad a few famous actors and actresses sitting where you are now,” he said, and rattled off some very famous names indeed.

“Well, maybe one day we'll be famous too,” said Emma.

“Good luck,” said the cabbie as he drew up outside our hotel which was only about a block away.”Me name's Tom. Here's me card. Call me any time you need a ride.”

The fare was nine pounds and ten pence but Emma gave him a ten-pound note and told him to keep the change. He thanked her and drove off.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“They expect a tip,” she explained. “Anyway, he'll tell some of his other customers about the play. More 'bums on seats' you know.”

Indeed there was a lot I didn't know.

After signing in at the reception desk, we were shown up to our room which had two single beds.

“I guess it will do,” said Emma after the porter had gone, pocketing a one pound tip. I said nothing but began to think that living in London was going to be very expensive.

“I think it's quite nice,” I said and she responded, “Tell me that in four week's time.”

We were up early the next morning, had a shower and got dressed. I would have preferred to wear a dress but it was chilly according to the forecast on the television, so I wore jeans instead, and again wore tights under them. We went downstairs for breakfast and appeared at the theatre at ten o'clock for orientation. Duncan and David were already there, plus Des, the theatre's stage manager. All the cast had arrived, so we were shown around the theatre, including the dressing rooms, emergency exits, fire extinguishers and hoses, which I sincerely hoped we would never have to use. As usual, several of us were allocated to one dressing room, and in my case it was with Emma and Shirley again. We then gathered on the stage which was bigger than the one in the Bridchester theatre, so we would require some re-blocking of our movements. I was pleased to see that a number of the flats were already in position, so the backstage staff must have been busy at work. Both Aunty and Georgie had been brought down from Bridchester as David felt we would be more comfortable getting ready with people we knew.

We were given the rest of the day off, but told to appear at ten o'clock sharp the next day for rehearsals. Emma suggested we check out the local shops, so we spent a pleasant afternoon wandering around Finsbury Park and window shopping. Previously I had only clothes shopped reluctantly when there was something I really needed, but I now realised why girls enjoy shopping so much; there was so much variety, and the sales assistants seem to expect you to try many things on and then maybe not buy anything at all.

I had been reading up on transgender issues on our laptop computer at home and we had brought it along with us. One thing that did concern me was being 'read' as a non-genetic female and therefore a transvestite in most people's eyes, and I had learned from reading the experiences of other people like me that young women were the most likely to spot a 'tranny' as they called them.

As we walked along the road between shops, at one point three teenage girls walked towards and passed us, and I was alarmed to hear them break out into fits of giggles.

“Don't look round,” said Emma in a fierce whisper, and by a super-human effort, I did as she said.

“Do you think they knew about me?” I said in a strained voice.

“Probably not. Girls in a group giggle all the time, it could have been about anything,” she replied. She might have been right but it shook my self-confidence.

When we returned to the hotel, I was still worrying about the girls. What if they really had seen through me? Soon I was going to be acting the part of a girl and effectively proclaiming to the world that I was a girl. If anyone had the slightest inkling that I wasn't what I seemed, I could be booed off the stage and what's more, the whole production might collapse.

I sat on the bed and felt thoroughly miserable. A single tear coursed down my cheek and dripped onto my jeans. Emma, who had been going through her clothes turned and saw me. Bless her, she knew immediately what was wrong, and came and sat on the bed and put her arm around me.

“You mustn't worry; you look totally convincing as a girl and you've learned to act exactly as a girl acts. You are a really good actor, and don't you forget it.”

I turned and hugged her. “Thank you, Emma, you're the best sister anyone could have,” I said, “ I don't know what I would have done without you.”

Emma smiled. “I could say the same thing about you,” she replied. “Now dry those eyes or you'll ruin your make-up.”

I managed a smile as I dabbed away at my eyes with a tissue.

A few days later, in between rehearsals, Emma insisted we go shopping again. I'm sure it wasn't so much with the intention of buying anything but restoring my self-confidence. Before we left the hotel, she gave me a pep talk.

“Remember that girls look at each other all the time, mainly to check out the fashions everyone is wearing. I don't think boys ever do that. So don't worry if girls look at you, that's all they are doing.”

Emma is so wise. We went out and even though we sometimes passed teenage girls in couples or small groups, I never heard any giggling again, so it must have been a 'one-off' and nothing to do with me.

Rehearsals went well for the next few days and then it was time to meet Mum who was coming down by train. David had agreed that Emma and I would rehearse in the morning and have the afternoon off. I wanted to look nice for Mum but also keep warm, so I wore a tartan skirt over some opaque black tights and boots, a woollen top and a woollen beanie to keep warm. Emma said I should be wearing a Tam O'Shanter to look like a real Scots lassie!

We arrived down at the railway station in good time and watched out for Mum. By now I was getting used to the crowds of people in London. Then suddenly there she was, pulling along her suitcase so we ran up to her and there were hugs and kisses all round. We had kept in touch with her by frequent phone calls of course, but it was great to see her again. I took charge of the suitcase, and she was told to put her bag around her neck, although now she had two escorts we didn't anticipate any problems. We went down to the tube and this time took the Piccadilly Line out to Finsbury Park.

It was late afternoon and the carriages were already starting to fill up. Emma and I sat side by side, while Mum sat opposite us. At Caledonian Road, a smart-looking older lady entered the carriage and after a moment's hesitation sat down next to Mum. As I've previously mentioned, Londoners tend to keep themselves to themselves on public transport, but this lady was different. Looking from Mum to the two of us, she asked her “Your daughters?”

Now Mum is happy to talk to anyone, so she replied: “Yes they are, and I'm very proud of them.” I couldn't help feeling thrilled at that. “We're down from Yorkshire and they're acting in a play in the Finsbury Park theatre. They're very good.”

“I love the theatre,” said the lady. “Since my husband died, my daughter and I have been to just about every London show. What play is it?”

This remark seemed to be addressed to me so I told her about 'Brutus' and how it was written by the same author who wrote 'Peter Pan', which “everyone's heard of course”.

She promised to try and come to it, and as the train pulled into Arsenal Station, she got up and said “This is me. Good luck with your play. I hope it's a great success.”

Emma had kept quiet throughout these exchanges and only spoke as the train moved off again.

“You do know who that was don't you?'

Mum and I looked blankly at her. It turns out we had been chatting with one of Britain's greatest actresses, recently made a Dame for her services to theatre and various charities, and had completely failed to recognise her!

I blushed scarlet. “And there I was telling her who J.M.Barrie was. I feel such a fool.”

“I'm sure she didn't mind,” said Mum. “She's as nice in real life as she appears on the screen. No airs and graces at all – she even travels by the Underground.”

It's funny how sometimes you just don't recognise someone when you see them out of their usual or expected environment. Now that Emma had told us, of course I knew why she had looked vaguely familiar.

We alighted at Finsbury Park station and it so happened that the taxi we took was the same one we had when we first arrived, and the driver recognised us.

“ 'Ello ladies, how's the rehearsals going?”

“Very well Tom,” said Emma. “This is our Mum, come down to spend Christmas with us and to see the play.”

“Afternoon missus,” said Tom. “You must be proud of your daughters.”

“Indeed I am,” said Mum.

We got Tom to drive past the theatre before going on to the hotel, to show off the posters with our names on them, and once again Emma paid him ten pounds.

Mum's room was just down the corridor from ours which was handy. We saw her settled in before we all went down to the dining room for some tea.

It was now only two days until Christmas. David asked the cast to make sure to do all their Christmas shopping before Christmas Eve when we would be having a dress rehearsal in the afternoon. Christmas Day would be free of course, and then we would be opening on Boxing Day.

We arrived at the theatre at ten o'clock in the morning on Christmas Eve. Emma, Shirley and I shared a dressing room. As had happened previously, they got ready first, and Georgie, the hairdresser and make-up artist who had come down from Bridchester, attended to them. Once they had left, I took off my skirt and top and sat in my underwear while she fixed up my hair and make-up.

“You're doing really well with your make-up, Harriet,” she said, after learning that I had done it myself.

“Emma is a good teacher,” I said, “It's handy having an older sister.”

“Well I'm sure she's enjoying having a younger sister,” she replied, thus indirectly referring to my 'special' circumstance.

The rehearsal went well enough, but it seemed to be lacking a bit of that extra 'zing' that I'd experienced on the last night at Bridcheater. I wondered if it was because everyone had their minds on Christmas. I could tell from the look on David's face that he wasn't totally happy, and he asked the cast if we could come in at ten o'clock on Boxing Day so that he could go over one or two things. Emma and I were glad to get back to the hotel and Mum, who apparently had filled in the day by having a look at the local shops.

That evening we sat in the lounge downstairs in the hotel. As long as I can remember, we had always watched 'Carols from Kings College Cambridge' on Christmas Eve. I could just about recall sitting on Dad's knee when I was about six and watching it on our old television set. The format has remained the same over the years, although the young boy choristers I saw then have changed over many times of course. One thing that hasn't changed is the sweetness and purity of their voices. Sitting on a couch next to Mum and Emma, wearing a pretty green pleated skirt with a white satin blouse, I couldn't remember when I'd felt happier.

To be continued

I would like to acknowledge the assistance of Louise Anne in proofreading the text and giving me a great deal of useful advice about modern-day Britain to incorporate in the story.