CHAPTER 42
Another morning, and another monster hangover. I spent a long while drinking tea and eating simple buttered toast to tray and settle my stomach, and then, after a long round of hugs that seemed to include the entire club, I was off down to the station on the pillion of one of the prospects, who had served his club the hard way the night before by staying sober. I tried to wind him up about that, perhaps seeking to lift my miserable mood by lowering someone else’s, but he just grinned.

“Given what I stand to gain as a full patch, I can bear a few sacrifices. Always another night, isn’t it? Always a party to come”

I could see his point, so left the snarkiness to fester inside me and simply tucked down for the ride into the city. I grabbed a newspaper and a few soft drinks from the station shop, and gathered another cup of tea to drink on board, after spending a little while in the ladies’ to get rid of the gallon or so I had already drunk, as well as the toast. I found another use for the paper, just then, as something to kneel on while I threw up.

A miserable and slow ride to the English Midlands followed, the fizz of the cold drinks serving to refresh my mouth, and many hours later I was soaking in our bath before a really early night.

Shit happens, girl. Learn to handle it. Show some class.

Two days later and I was back at Mossman’s, the shit in question pushed to the back of my mind as I alternated two days of riding shotgun with single days of sitting on the other side of the cab. Carol and Pete had dropped around with some ready meals for me, but they didn’t quiz me after their first question brought a glare in response. I really needed to get a grip on myself; it simply wasn’t fair to keep lashing out at the best of my friends. It couldn’t go on.

Two weeks after the wedding, a letter arrived from Mam and Dad, setting out their plans and giving me a chance to get my balance levelled once more. They would meet me in Hexham, at the station, and we would head up for some days at Graham’s place on Druridge Bay before relaxing more typically at the Hairy Stottie. Mam’s farewell was so typical of her:

‘We’ll be at the station mid-afternoon on the Thursday. If you can make it, we’ll pick you up there. If not, we’ll catch you in a few months’

I had a month and a half, then, to settle my life, find that balance, and offer them a smile. I resolved that I would only join them if I felt I could offer them a fair chance of a welcome and not a moping and miserable kid. I picked up the phone and rang my local surgery for an appointment.

“Deborah Wells to room three!”

Doctor Nugent’s smile was as genuine as I had come to expect, but it faded as little as she inspected me.

“Tears, Debbie? Or some other inflammation? Your eyes are rimmed in red”

I shrugged, trying to pass it off as something minor, but she was steadily getting to know me, and that time it didn’t work. Bit by bit, she teased the story out.

“Not really being professional in saying this, Debbie, but given what you have survived, I am always amazed at your resilience. It’s OK, you know, to let go every now and again. Anyway, I have a suggestion. You are still hoping to complete things. At least I assume you are, but if this stuff has changed your mind, I will understand. Honestly”

I had fallen into yet another teary session before she spoke, so I blew my nose before answering, which gave me a little space to find the words.

“Not giving up, Doctor. Not on this. What are you offering?”

“You need to see a mental health specialist before you can see a surgeon, Debbie. I think it would help things if you talked to him about all of your issues, not just the gender identity disorder. He may be able to see you onto a sounder footing”

“I haven’t got any disorder, and the only issue I have is my plumbing. That can be sorted”

Her mouth twisted.

“Really? Well, then, let me be even more unprofessional than I already have: your state of mind is dreadful. Being raped is bad enough, but your case was bloody well industrial! Your self-esteem is rock-bottom, and I am bloody well worried about you. You are not coping the way you think you are, my girl. Anyway, I can’t make you go, but I have a name, someone you could talk to. Say the word, and I’ll speak to him. Not only that; he knows a surgeon or three”

She paused to gather her breath, before giving me a gentle smile.

“I’d like to see you smiling again, Debbie. What would I say to Maureen if you were lost to us?”

I had to smile at that quip, but it fractured quickly, and I fell into tears once more. To my astonishment, Doctor Nugent came over to hug me until I was done. Her voice in my ear was soft.

“Please go and see my colleague, Debbie. Please”

I left the surgery with a small piece of paper bearing the address and phone number, along with Dr Nugent’s promise to book me an appointment. I don’t know what strings she pulled, but only ten days later I found myself walking up Lichfield Street into central Wolverhampton, looking for ‘A green door opposite the Post Office’. I had actually made an effort that day, pulling on a newish dress and wearing tights for the first time in what seemed like years, although I had stayed with flat shoes to avoid painful feet. I had even applied some makeup, which wasn’t normally my thing. As I spotted the Post Office, I found myself grinning. I was a rocker, a biker chick, and I was wearing a straight’s clothes, which summed up the rest of my life rather neatly. I just hoped that getting rid of what remained of my boysuit would be as simple.

The place was one of those multi-occupant buildings, with a column of name plates and door buzzers. Doctor Bernard Quayle lotsofletters was third from the top. I took a few deep breaths, then pressed the button. The reply from the little speaker was tinny but clear.

“Can Oi help yow?”

“Deborah Wells, to see Doctor Quayle”

“Do yow have an appointment?”

What an accent… “Yes. For eleven o’clock”

A few seconds later, “Come up to the second floor, please”

I blessed my foresight in wearing flats as I clambered up the stairs to the second floor landing, where another locked door needed a push on a button before I was at the reception desk. Half an hour later, as I was dozing in an uncomfortable chair, I was called into the consulting room, where I was greeted by an implausibly tall man with a halo of grey curls around the shining dome of his baldness.

“Hello, hello! You will be the young person referred by my Cannock colleague?”

“Yes. Debbie Wells, Doctor”

“Fine. Fine. Please take a seat. You have rather a full history for such a young person, so I will dive straight in and start swimming. How many times were you raped?”

I couldn’t answer at all for a few seconds, my mouth opening and closing in random ways, but my tears had been on permanent standby for weeks, and didn’t disappoint. I found some words, though not too coherently.

“It was years and years. Lost count…”

He smiled, in a gentler way.

“I am sorry, my dear. I have my ways, and one of them is to take you off balance. It avoids wasting my time with thespians. There are tissues on the desk, there in the box. Now, shall we recommence?”

In half an hour, he had my early life stripped bare, and I was working out some of his lines of questioning. Eventually, we arrived at the evening Carl had kissed me.

“You are sexually attracted to men, then”

“I am straight, yes”

He looked at me over his glasses, eyebrows raised, for a moment.

“We shall see, Deborah. Now, as you remain essentially male in your anatomy, did you have any particular idea as to where such an assignation might lead?”

I stared at him, trying to work out which sort of answer he wanted. Fuck him.

“Not a clue, Doctor. All I wanted was to be bloody well loved, just once”

“Fine. And you say it was the kiss to your neck that broke the romantic spell?”

I stared at my knees, wanting to punch him while recognising that he was holding the keys to a new and more fitting life. Breathe, girl.

“Whenever Don raped me, it was rushed, which was a fucking good thing, because he never washed. I think it was him I got crabs off. Charlie was different, after the first few times. He spent a lot longer, and after he came, he would always kiss the back of my neck. He even started to fall asleep on top of me once. Tried to do it face-to-face a couple of times, but I bit him. Does that answer your questions? Need anything else for your wank bank?”

I looked up at him as I said that, and caught just a hint of moisture in his eyes. What the hell? H took off his glasses, wiping his eyes with the back of his right hand, before replacing them and drawing his own deep breaths.

“Miss Wells, you have my sympathy here. I have been particularly harsh towards you only because I find it achieves results more quickly than a softer approach, but I have covered what I need to cover. Doctor Nugent was perfectly correct in referring you to me, and I would rather, if we could go back in time, I wish it had been possible to have seen you much earlier. You have been in hiding for some considerable time”

“Yeah! What would have happened to me if I had been found? Another place like Mersey View, or even that hellhole in Carlisle?”

He nodded, his face weary.

“Yes. And there have been others, and there will no doubt be more. I have a number of opinions concerning your medical state. The first is a simple one, and that is what we call your gender identity. I was concerned that you may have adopted a female role as a response to your abuse, but that is clearly incorrect. In my professional opinion, you are a male to female transsexual, and if sex change surgery is your desire, it would most definitely be the most appropriate course of action”

Suddenly, he was smiling.

“I also offer, in my professional capacity, that you have more than passed what is called the ‘real life test’ of living in your affirmed gender! Now, I know a surgeon, who may have a space for you, but that will be on a private basis, and not via the National Health Service”

I nodded.

“I have money, Doctor. I have an inheritance from my biological parents”

“Fine, fine. ‘Biological’. Hmmm. Anyway, returning to your own case, I also diagnose a broken heart. Sloppy terminology, which I try to avoid, but never mind. Severe depression, initiated by incredibly traumatic early life experiences, exacerbated by the barriers erected as a consequence. Miss Wells, in short, you have recovered remarkably, and found yourself a better life, but you are being hamstrung by something called posttraumatic stress disorder, which is a new diagnosis emanating from over the Atlantic. It is not that you cannot release your past, but that it is riding on your back like Sinbad’s Old Man of the Sea, hands clamped on your throat to stop you breathing freely.

“In summary, your transsexualism can be treated, and we can discuss a plan along with Mister Hemmings. His practice is in London, I am afraid. As for your depression, I would wish to spend more time with you. I cannot guarantee surcease, but there is benefit in bringing sunlight to many illnesses. All I need from you is your agreement to proceed with this examination, seeking a viewpoint from which things may look better than they appear now”

I gave my assent, and he started the ball rolling towards my real life. It might never be a happy one, but at least it would involve continuing to breathe.