The Might-Have-Been Girl A novel by Bronwen Welsh Copyright 2016

As we started to walk down the ward, I heard a noise behind me as a cart and several medical staff came crashing through the plastic doors. We both turned and stepped to one side at the sight of them, but they stopped at the first bed where several nurses were gathered, and pulled the curtains around.

Emma grabbed me by the arm as I took a step towards the bed and said “That's not Mum, she's down the end,” and I could only think 'Thank goodness it's not her.' and then felt guilty. After all, it was someone else's parent or child who was obviously in a very bad way.

Emma then led me to Mum's bedside at the far end of the ward next to a window, and I hardly recognised her. Lying there with her eyes closed, breathing noisily and irregularly, with a drip running into her left arm, and oxygen tubes into her nose, she seemed to have shrunk and also aged twenty years.

I sat down on her right side and took her hand in mine.

“Mum, it's Harriet. I'm here now Mum,” I said quietly, so as not to disturb the other patients. There were tears running down my cheeks but I ignored them. “I love you Mum, we all do. You've got to get better Mum. We can't do without you.”

I didn't know if she could hear or understand me. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead and I took a small towel from the bedside table and gently patted at them. Mum moved her head and muttered something that I couldn't catch but I thought I heard my name. She seemed to be in another world and I was so scared that she wasn't coming back to ours. Emma sat on the other side of the bed and took Mum's other hand. Tears were streaming down her cheeks too. We both sat there for about an hour. I kept talking to her. I don't know what I said and maybe it didn't matter. It was just to let her know I was there. I prayed that she could hear me, although she didn't acknowledge my presence and occasionally muttered something unintelligible.

After about two hours, she seemed to settle slightly and rest more easily. I looked at my watch. It was six o'clock.

“Emma, you have to go to the theatre. They're counting on you,” I said.

“I don't want to leave her,” she replied. “I heard the doctor say to one of the nurses that the next twelve hours are critical.”

“I know, but you've done everything you can today. There's nothing any of us can do but wait. I'm here now and I promise I won't leave her and I'll call you if anything happens, but she seems a bit quieter now.”

Reluctantly Emma got up, but she saw the sense in what I was saying.

“Alright, I'll come back as soon as the performance is over,” she said.

I got up and we hugged. “She'll get better,” I said. “She has to.”

I resumed my seat and continued to hold Mum's hand and talk quietly to her. Every half hour a nurse arrived to check her pulse, blood pressure and temperature. Every half hour I asked if there was any change, and each time the answer was the same “No change”. I tried to take comfort from the fact that at least she wasn't getting any worse. The bottles attached to the drip and containing antibiotics were changed at regular intervals, and once, a technician came to take some blood to check on the progress of the infection which had entered her blood stream. One of the nurses kindly brought me a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches. I wasn't really hungry, but forced a sandwich down not to appear ungrateful, but I did appreciate the cup of tea, and another one that followed an hour later.

The hours passed slowly. It was dark outside and all I could see was my reflection in the window. I looked terrible, but I couldn't leave Mum. I had a feeling that by keeping hold of her hand I was somehow maintaining her grip on life, silly I know but I had to hang onto hope in whatever way I could find it. Gradually though exhaustion overcame me and I decided to rest my head on the bed for a minute, and inevitably I fell asleep. I was told later that when Emma arrived back after the show, she saw me lying there and when the nurses asked if she wanted to take me home she said “Please let her stay where she is – Mum needs her there.”

Emma sat on a chair at the other side of the bed, and as the darkest hours of the night passed, she too fell asleep. Apparently neither of us stirred as the nurses performed their regular checks.

Then, as the light began to slowly brighten through the window, something made me stir. I slowly opened my eyes, turned my head and looked through the window at the rosy hue of the growing light, and unbidden there came to my mind a line from the first scene of 'Hamlet' that I had read on the train and without realising I spoke aloud -

'But look, the morn in russet mantle clad...'

And a different voice in a whisper so faint I barely heard it, completed the couplet

'Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill.'

I turned my head “Mum! Oh Mum, you're awake!”

A faint smile appeared on Mum's face. “Harriet darling, you came.” She looked pale but the fever had left her, and she was lucid again.

“Oh Mum!” It was all I could say, and then the floodgates of pent-up emotion finally burst and I sobbed with relief burying my head in the sheets of the bed. It was then I realised what had woken me as Mum gently stroked my head. Emma awoke and realising what had happened, she began to cry too, and a nurse came rushing up fearing the worst, took one look at Mum and beamed with relief. “I'll call the doctor,” she said.

A few minutes later a doctor arrived and we moved aside so that she could check Mum. “Well, it seems the worst of the infection has gone and that you're on the mend,” she said, smiling.

Mum smiled too. “I've got my two angels here to look after me,” she said.

“Well, they've done a very good job,” said the doctor. “You'll have to stay on the antibiotics for another day or two, but we can safely say that you've turned the corner.”

Turning to us she said “Well young ladies, I understand you've been here all night. I suggest you go home and get some sleep. Your mum will be fine with us now, she just needs to rest.”

We both bent over the bed and kissed Mum on the cheek. As we turned to leave the ward, Emma suddenly turned back.

“Mum, I've got some good news for you. Aunt Peggy is coming over from Australia to look after you.”

Mum smile broadened at the news. I knew that she and her sister were very close and wrote constantly to one another – none of that newfangled email for them, they used aerograms. I realised that Emma must have rung her when things were touch and go, but now that Mum was getting better she would still need help when she was sent home.

As we left the ward I noticed that the bed which the 'Code Blue' patient had occupied was now vacant, and my heart went out to their family. It could so easily have been Mum's bed that was now empty and involuntarily I shuddered at the thought.

As we waited outside the hospital for the taxi to take us home I asked Emma how Aunt Peggy came to be a farmer's wife in Australia.

“You probably don't remember much about her, as the last time she was here was just after Dad died. She stayed for about a month then, and she really held the family together,” said Emma.

As it happens I did remember her – a jolly plump woman with a strange accent which was a mixture of Yorkshire and Australian. I could even remember her holding me in her arms when I sobbed and sobbed after trying to be brave as the 'man of the house' which I never could be, and finally finding the loss of Dad just too much to handle.

“Aunt Peggy's husband is Ronald McDonald and they live in a place called Yackandandah in Victoria where he owns a farm.”

“Really?” I actually started to laugh, and I think that was Emma's intention. Whether it was the absurd place name or Ron's name I don't know, but it all sounded rather unbelievable.

“Yes really,” she replied. “His friends call him Ron or 'Macca'. Anyway, you're old enough now to hear the story of how he came to England. He was three weeks away from getting married when he paid an unexpected visit to his great mate who was to be the Best Man, and found him in bed with the 'bride to be' – so he called off the wedding.”

“As you do,” I said.

Now it was Emma's turn to laugh. “Apparently she begged and pleaded, said it was a mistake, a one-off, didn't mean anything etc., etc., but Ron was having none of it. His one contact with his former 'best mate' was to tell him he was welcome to 'the sheila' as he put it. He had bought two economy tickets for a honeymoon trip to the 'Old Country', by which he meant here. He exchanged them for one business class ticket and set off. He spent the first two weeks on a continuous pub crawl around London trying to drown his sorrows. Then he saw a poster advertising Edinburgh. He'd heard about Scotch whisky, so decided to travel north.

“When he reached York, he got off the train to stretch his legs, ended up in the bar and the train left without him, but when he finally went back to the platform the Bridchester train was there. He was pretty drunk by then so didn't notice the difference, and he got on board and travelled to Bridchester, which he assumed was a suburb of Edinburgh. He couldn't find his case which of course ended up in 'Lost Property' in Edinburgh, but slaking his thirst was more important, so he headed to the nearest pub and there was Aunt Peggy behind the bar. She told me that the sight of the tall lean bronzed Aussie made her go weak at the knees.

“They got talking, and he asked her what he should see in Edinburgh and she told him about the castle, Holyrood House and a few other places. When he asked how to get to the castle, her reply was that he had to go to Edinburgh first. After a bit of confusion she realised he thought he was already there. Anyway, to cut a long story short, she organised a room and borrowed some pyjamas for him, and the next day tracked down his suitcase and arranged to have it sent to Brid. It seems there was a great deal of mutual attraction, and he was in no hurry to head further north, so he stayed on.

“In fact he did get to Edinburgh, taking Aunt Peggy with him, and before he left for home, they were engaged. He organised a visa for her to go to where he lived to see what she thought of it, so four weeks later, she quit her job and headed to 'Yack' as Bob called it. She loved the place, and Bob of course, but she had to come back to England to sell her flat and pack up her things.

As the taxi drew up, Emma finished off the story. It seems a couple of months later, 'Macca' flew Aunt Peggy out to Australia again and they got married. Mum was sorry to see her sister go to the other side of the world, but she had met Macca and thought him a thoroughly nice gentleman. Incidentally he'd returned to being a social drinker since he met Aunt Peggy.

“That's a really romantic story, Emma,” I said.

“Well some people thought it wouldn't last, since Peggy had recently broken up with her boyfriend and two people on the rebound was surely a recipe for disaster. Anyway, fourteen years and two children later, it seems likely that it will last, don't you think?”

I had to laugh at that. We had arrived home and Emma made us a light meal. I had two telephone calls to make. The first was to Reggie.

“Hello darling, how's your mum?” he asked as soon as he answered.

“She's much better Reggie. Emma and I stayed in the hospital overnight. To be honest we went to sleep in the chairs eventually, but when Mum woke up she was much better.”

“I'm sure she knew you were there and that made a big difference,” replied Reggie.

“Well I'd like to think it made some difference but it was probably mostly due to the antibiotics.”

“Well the main thing is she is getting better. Did they say how much longer she will be in hospital?”

“At least a few more days, but there is more good news; our Aunt Peggy, Mum's sister is going to fly over from Australia and will be here on Sunday. Mum looked even better when she heard that.”

“Harriet, you sound very tired, are you going to get a proper rest now?”

“Yes I will darling, and thank you for thinking of me.”

“I do every day, you know that. I love you darling.”

“I love you too Reggie, and I can't wait to see you again.”

My next call was to Mark at the theatre. I told him that Mum was improving and asked how things were going there.

“Elspeth's doing o.k.,” he said. “But she isn't you. Still, you must stay there while your mum needs you.”

I thanked him for his thoughtfulness and explained about Aunt Peggy coming over and said I hoped to return next week if all was well. Then finally, I set my alarm and lay on the bed and promptly went to sleep.

Mid-afternoon we both got up and had a shower and change of clothes before going to the hospital to see Mum. She was looking so much better, and told us she was going back to the medical ward the next day. Emma had to leave for the theatre after a while, but I stayed on until I could see she was getting tired.

“When is Peggy arriving?” she asked.

“Emma says Sunday morning,” I replied. “That's good as Em can go to the station to meet her, and if you're home, I can stay with you.”

“I'll have to wait and see what the doctors say,” she replied.

“I'll go now Mum, you get some rest.” I stood up and bent over to kiss her cheek.

She grasped my hand. “I had the strangest dream last night. I was holding hands with an angel and she had your face. I asked her if I was going to heaven, and she said 'not yet, you have more to do on earth'. You were holding my hand all last night weren't you?”

I smiled at her, trying to hold back the tears. “Yes Mum, I was.”

“So perhaps it was more than a dream after all,” she said smiling.

Now that Mum was out of danger, there was another medical issue with which I had to deal. Dr Maria Wilson whom I'd consulted about my transgender issues had asked to see me again after about three months, and now would be the perfect time since I was only back in Bridchester for a short while.

I rang the surgery and asked if I could make an appointment with her before the end of the week.

“I'm sorry,” said the receptionist. “She's fully booked.”

At one time I would have accepted that, but being on stage had given me much more confidence, so I replied “That's a pity since she asked me to see her the next time I was in Bridchester, and I'll be returning to London next week. Would you mind asking her if she can squeeze me in please?”

“Just a moment,” said the receptionist in a glacial voice.

She put me on hold and when she came back on the line she said “Dr Wilson can see you at five o'clock tomorrow.”

“Thank you very much,” I replied and hung up.

When I went to the hospital to see Mum the next day I was thrilled with how much better she looked. She no longer had the oxygen tubes in her nose and although the drip was still running, she told me it would probably come out the next day.

I told her I was going to see Dr Wilson at five o'clock and that I would be telling her I was still convinced that becoming a young woman was what I wanted, so I hoped I would start on hormones soon.

“You may have to be patient,” said Mum. “She might want you to stay as you are for a while longer, so don't be disappointed if that's what happens.”

“No Mum,” I replied and kissed her on the cheek before I left. Of course I knew I would be disappointed, but if that's what happened I would just have to accept it.

I had given some thought to what I should wear to see Dr Wilson, not a problem for 'cis-gender' women (i.e. those female from birth). I wanted to look feminine without going over the top, so I wore my grey woollen skirt with black opaque tights, since the weather was still very chilly, and a silk camisole over my bra, with a warm cotton top. My shoes had sensible three inch heels. I carefully brushed my hair and applied sufficient makeup but not too much.

I arrived at the surgery with fifteen minutes to spare and announced myself to the receptionist. I was pleased to see that my name was now amended to Harriet, and she asked me to take a seat.

“Dr Wilson is running a little late, but she shouldn't be too long,” she said.

'What's new?' I thought to myself as I picked up an old copy of 'Vogue' and sat down.

In fact it was only ten past five when Dr Wilson appeared at the doorway and said “Harriet?”

Once seated in her room I thanked her for seeing me at short notice.

“My Mum is in hospital recovering from pneumonia, so I came up from London a few days ago,” I said.

“That must have been very worrying for you and your sister. I'm glad to hear she is getting better. So how are things with you?”

“They're fine,” I said. “I'm currently performing in a new production of 'Dear Brutus' in London, and after it finishes I'm going to be understudy for Ophelia in a new production of Hamlet in Stratford.”

“That sounds very exciting,” said Dr Wilson. “How about you personally?”

I felt myself blushing. It seemed that I had misunderstood her question.

“I feel really comfortable as a young woman, it's who I want to be. I could never think of going back to being Harry again, although I know I still have much to learn about being a woman.” I went on to tell her about Charlie the stalker on the tube when I went to Southgate to catch Reggie play football.

“I only caught his eye for a second and he seemed to think that was a signal for him to follow me. Thank goodness my boyfriend was at the station. Anyway, in future I will take a book or magazine and bury my head in it like everyone else on the train.”

“I think you might have been unlucky,” said Dr Wilson. “The boyfriend you mentioned, how does he feel about you?”

“I've known Reggie for years, even before I started to express myself as a female. That's exactly how he treats me, so I am very lucky. I don't know what the future holds of course. He's going to York University soon and there'll be plenty of young women there, women who could give him a family, something I could never do.” I ended sadly.

Dr Wilson looked sympathetic. “Well none of us know what the future holds, Harriet. You look even more self-assured as a young woman than when I last saw you. I would like you to come and see me again in two months, and if you are still quite sure of how you want to live your life, I will refer you to a gender specialist with the recommendation that you commence hormone treatment. How does that sound?”

I smiled and said “That sounds fine, Dr Wilson.” Mum had warned me that it might be too soon to expect to receive hormones, and she had been right, as she was in so many things. There was no examination this time apart from the usual blood pressure and pulse, both fine, and I left after receiving another script for Aldactone, and making an appointment for two month's time.

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.