New Life Out of Death

By Alexandra Mountferris

I used to enjoy working with the dead. They are undemanding. By which I mean that don’t grab at your backside when you get near the bed and they don’t complain. The third part of my life started when I was working in a hospital mortuary in a seaport town in the South of England. I was not really qualified to work with the living as I could not complete nurse registration in those days without revealing that my birth certificate clearly said I was male but my lifestyle was anything but. Nowadays it would be possible to change the birth certificate but I no longer need to do so.

Then as now I took a pride in the way I dressed. I know that the ‘patients’ did not appreciate it but it was, and is, the defining thing about me. It was clothes that caused me to live that lifestyle, work at that job. Mark Twain said, “Clothes make the man”. In my case it was the clothes, and a little surgery that I had in Thailand, that made the woman. By appearances anyway, inside my panties I was still a functioning male but my 36C bra needed no padding. It was all me. Adipose tissue had been redistributed from my waist and back to my breasts and my backside in a way that seemed to convince most of the young trainee doctors who passed through the mortuary on training attachments. I saw them eyeing me despite the unflattering apron and scrubs. None of them ever asked me out. Perhaps it was my work ‘down among the dead’ that prevented most of them from asking me out. I kid myself that it was. The fact is that I did not encourage it. I even practised an air of studied aloofness with medical students. In those days most of them were upper class males and they did not do anything for me.

Possibly the fact that I was not blonde also put them off. My father had been a visiting US soldier who promised to come back for my mother and really meant it. They were actually married before I was even conceived. He was released from his marriage vows in the hell that was Omaha beach. He never knew about me. My mother’s last letter to him was returned unopened with a note from the regimental chaplain. All I had from him was a genuine Cherokee surname, a shoebox full of souvenirs and medals, deep brown eyes and jet-black straight hair. What’s a genuine Cherokee Surname? You may well ask. The name on the offending birth certificate is Louis Carl Smith. In the area where I grew up it did not help that my mother’s maiden name had also been Smith. It is common amongst the Romany too. War brings about some unlikely meetings. .

The second phase of my life started after my mother died. I sold up our little house in South London, took my trip to Thailand then took up residence in a seaport town on the South Coast. I did not fiddle with my birth certificate but added an ‘e’ and an ‘a’ to one or two other documents and job application forms. As ‘Miss Smith’ to my work colleagues and ‘Louise’ to my few closer acquaintances I was happy enough. I lived alone in a flat near the hospital and spent all my spare money on clothes and make-up. I honestly did not know if I was waiting for Mr Right to come along or for Miss Right to appear. It was a question that I avoided until the events which I am about to describe provided the answer and changed my life for a second time.

The body was brought in late in the afternoon. The famous publisher Sir Richard Mountferris had dashed into the road in the way of a runaway lorry in order to save the life of a child who had slipped away from her mother. Unable to run fast enough to get them both to safety he had somersaulted out of the way of the lorry holding the child in his arms. The child survived unharmed. Sir Richard had a broken neck and the expectation of a posthumous medal. He had been pronounced dead at the scene and brought direct to the mortuary without passing through the main part of the hospital. The pathologist’s examination was hurried and none too thorough. The cause of death was quite obvious. There would be no need for a post-mortem. There was nothing much more to be done.

A tearful Lady Pamela Mountferris had identified her husband. Lady Pamela was an authoress and had been a famous society beauty. She was still, at 50, fantastically glamorous. Even in her obvious state of shock and grief her shoulder length blonde hair was elegantly coiffed, her makeup perfect apart from the slightest smudging caused by tears. Her lipstick was a tasteful pink and, as always, in good order. She wore a salmon pink twinset above a black pencil skirt. Lady Pamela moved with the grace of a catwalk model on stiletto shoes with 5 inch heels. I had seen her often in newsreels and magazines. I envied her look and had sometimes tried to copy her style. She did not see me. I stayed behind the one-way mirror as the Coroner’s Officer ushered her out of the building.

I was left alone with the body. The expectation was that it would be collected on the following Monday by the undertakers appointed by the family. In those days nothing much happened on a Sunday. I looked down at the handsome, smooth skinned man. His hair, once as black as my own but now greying at the temples, had been combed and neatly arranged for the identification. He looked almost as if he was posing for a formal portrait photograph. His lips were arranged in a neutral way and his chin tucked in against his chest. He was still wearing the suit and tie he had been wearing at the time of the accident. I set about the job of stripping the body whilst the Coroner’s officer was escorting the grieving widow to her car. There are really supposed to be two people present when this is done but it is a rule more honoured in the breach. Nothing has ever gone missing in my mortuary. Well nothing up to then. I undid Sir Richard’s trousers and pulled them off his legs. Like so many middle-aged men he was wearing white Y fronts.

I silently apologised to the dead man as I hooked my thumbs into the elastic and gave them a tug. I only got them as far as his knees and stopped. Something was definitely missing. There was no pubic hair for a start. That was unusual in itself but the shocking thing was that there was no penis or scrotum either. Sir Richard was perfectly formed and complete. Labia majora and minora were present and normal the clitoral glans was quite pronounced but fully covered by the hood. Sir Richard was, and always had been, female. Imagining that I could hear the coroner’s officer returning I quickly covered him with a sheet and moved to the upper part of the torso. I needed time to think. I had some knowledge of reconstructive surgery on breasts having studied it at some length before going under the knife. The scar tissue was minimal and well healed but there were two faint crescent-shaped incision marks about three inches under each nipple. They would have been missed by anyone not looking for them. I covered the body and pushed it into the cold chamber. When I got back the coroner’s officer was going through the deceased’s belongings on the table and making a list.

“I’m about finished here, Louise, are you going to lock up now”

“Yes, Tom,” I replied, trying to sound as if everything was normal. “The temporary death certificate is on the front desk. The doctor signed it before he rushed off to the football”

“Yes, well there wasn’t much to be gained by him staying was there? A straightforward case at last”

“Yes, I suppose so, Tom, but a sad one nevertheless.”

Tom took his certificate and left me with my thoughts. Sir Richard would be all right where I left him (I still to this day think of him as male). Even if the pathologist was called out over the weekend he was unlikely to spend time with a cadaver that had already been ‘signed off”. I went into the changing room and put a plain blue mac on over my scrubs and covered my hair with a paisley scarf. Before I locked up I copied Lady Pamela’s address and telephone number from the next of kin details on the official paperwork. I walked the short distance to my flat deep in thought. Once inside I ran a bath with a liberal dose of scented bath oil. Later I sat at my dressing table, drying my hair and made my mind up. I would have to speak to Lady Pamela. If the body in the mortuary was a look-alike substitute for her husband she would need to know. If she already knew then I needed to know the story for my own peace of mind. I telephoned the number given and spoke to a member of staff in her house. I was told that she would see me at 6:30pm.

My hair was shoulder length at the time but when I curled it inwards at the bottom in a ‘long bob’ it hung clear of them. I decided that if I was going to visit Lady Pamela then I would have to pass the minute examination that she would be bound to give me. I laced myself into my black waspie corset and put on matching bra and panties. I have never had much of a problem with my male parts showing. Sturdy elasticated panties are normally enough to keep me in control. Fully fashioned black stockings followed, I attached them to the six suspender straps with care to ensure that the seams were straight. I went to my wardrobe to choose what to wear. A black nylon slip was the obvious next stage. In those days one would rarely go out without one. I decided against wearing all black as might appear to be a mockery of her mourning. I also thought that my favourite red silk blouse would be out of place. I settled on a high neck blouse in royal blue silk. It was not an easy thing to do up as it buttoned down the back but I managed to get into it without upsetting my hair.

I them put on a cotton cape and sat down to do my make-up. Despite my coloration I have never shaved. A few whispy hairs appeared when I was 16 or so but I did not use a razor. My grandfather, who died before either of us could save enough money for a trip across the Atlantic, wrote that I should pluck them, as was the custom of our people. I cleansed my face but did not apply any foundation. I honestly did not need it. In any case there was none available for my skin-tone in those days. Blue eye-shadow, black eye-liner and black mascara followed (this was 1969 but I still use them!) and I pencilled in the line of my plucked and arched eyebrows with a black pencil. (With my colouring I am allowed it!) I outlined my lips in deep carmine the filled in with red. The effect may sound a little dramatic but I knew that I had to make an impression to get a hearing. I took of the cape and hung a sting of faux pearls around my neck over the blouse. Matching pearl studs in each ear and a ring with a rosette of five pearls completed my jewellery. The pencil skirt of my grey suit followed then I sat down and put on my best shoes. They were plain black court shoes with 4” stiletto heels. They were now disappointing to me since I had seen the shoes that Lady Pamela wore earlier that day but they were the best I had.

Sitting back down at my dressing table I attached my false nails and touched up the red varnish. I sat for a while to think and admire my own image. With my eyes almost closed I could see the effect of the mascara and shadow. Just what I wanted! At five o’clock I sprayed some Estee Lauder on each wrist and picked up my black leather gloves and handbag, checked myself in the hall mirror and walked down to the bus-stop. Thinking back now I really believe that was the last time I ever went on a bus! I sat on the top deck because I intended to have a cigarette to calm my nerves but decided against it in the end. I did not want to have an accident with ash or spoil my lipstick.

The Mountferris House was on the top of the hill overlooking the town. The higher up the hill the better the quality of the house. You can’t go higher than the top. I paused at the gate and looked down over the town. I could see vehicles moving between the streetlights and ships waiting outside the harbour. I rang the bell. It was very quickly answered by a maid in traditional black and white uniform. She said nothing but indicated that I should follow her and turned away.

As I walked behind her I noticed the sound of our heels on the wooden floor of the wide square hallway. Looking down I could see that she was wearing five-inch heels. There was little time to reflect that this was unusual in a domestic servant as I was shown into a sitting room furnished like a gentlemen’s club with leather chesterfields either side of the impressive fireplace. The maid left without a word and I was left standing in front of the fireplace. I was looking at the clock on the mantelpiece when Lady Pamela’s modulated upper-class voice almost made me jump out of my skin.

“This was my husband’s favourite room. He used to come here to read.”

I turned to face her but was initially unable to speak. Lady Pamela had, of course, changed since I saw her at the mortuary. Widow’s weeds never looked so elegant. A black jersey knit dress just above the knee, sleeveless and with a scoop neckline and a single diamond brooch at her shoulder. Lady Pamela was clearly not the sort of person to greet a visitor in her carpet slippers. She now wore black stilettos with at least six-inch heels. I had to look up to her. This was obviously what she had in mind.

“What can I do for you Miss Smith?”

“Lady Pamela, I must ask you something. It’s very delicate and I am anxious not to distress you anymore than you already must be but I believe that it really is necessary”

She moved, gracefully as ever, to the sideboard, opened a silver cigarette box and took out a cigarette which she fitted into a white holder about six inches long. Picking up the box she held it out towards me.

“Can I offer you one?”

I took one. ”Thank you”

She gave a very short smile in acknowledgement

“I think we will be more comfortable if we sit down, don’t you?”

I readily agreed and moved back towards where I had left my handbag and gloves, turned and waited for her to take a seat first then sat on the chesterfield and took my own holder out and fitted the cigarette into it. With my lighter I lit her cigarette first then my own. She blew out a stream of smoke upwards to the ceiling and spoke first.

“Isn’t it fascinating, the way that little things tell us so much?”

“Little things?”

“For instance the fact that a woman uses a cigarette holder tells us that she is fastidious about the condition of her lipstick. We have that in common, Miss Smith. But I digress, what was it you wanted to ask me. I presume it concerns my late husband.”

“It does. I told the person I spoke to yesterday that I work as a mortuary assistant. It is my job to deal with the bodies once the investigation of cause of death has been determined. I also present them for the identification,”

Lady Pamela looked pale but listened intently, taking an occasional puff on her cigarette.

“I did this for Sir Richard … for the body that you identified as Sir Richard. I also collected together al his personal effects. Including his clothes, all of his clothes.”

“Ah”

“It was necessary to take them off him of course”

“The point you are trying to make is that you discovered that ‘he’ was in fact a ‘she’”

“So you did know”

“Yes of course I knew. We were married for twenty seven years”

“I thought that there might have been some elaborate substitution, a hoax, an insurance scam or something”

“No. I assure you that the person in your mortuary is the right one. That is the publisher known to the world as Sir Richard Mountferris.”

“I sensed that you believed that. I watched you through the one-way mirror. I needed to know if you had been deceived or coerced in some way. “

“I understand that. When I first heard that you were coming to see me I made the presumption that you were going to attempt to blackmail me, however since meeting you I find that you and I have more in common than you might think and that you are really not in a position to blackmail anyone.”

“I don’t know why you make that judgement. It’s immaterial really because I never did have the slightest intention to blackmail you, I really am flattered to think that we might have something in common but I don’t know what it might be.”

“Please, hear me out. When I was a young writer of romantic fiction I approached a publisher. I was told that the work was good and publishable but I would have to change my name. Readers have expectations, preconceived notions of what an author of romantic fiction should be called, should look like. The publisher had just the name I needed. Pamela Mountferris. It was the name of the publisher. I took her name and she took mine. When we married we both became Mountferris. I live as Pamela and she… he lives…lived as Richard. We both have perfectly valid birth certificates and our external physical characteristics were similar enough to use each other’s passports. I was not always blonde, you know.”

She re-crossed her legs, patted her hair and took a long pull at her cigarette.

“The knighthood came five years ago. The right person was honoured. It was Richard who set up the children’s charity and funded it from his own money. He had an abusive childhood and would do anything to protect children, as today’s events illustrate.”

She paused here and for the first time I thought that she might cry. She composed herself with an effort and went on.

“I was born Richard but I will die, when my time comes, as Pamela. My main consolation is our child, Alec. Yes ours. We covered Richard’s pregnancy by going to the Scottish Highlands for seven months, ostensibly for me to research and write a book. We stayed out of sight even though we were not so well known then. We emerged in our new roles with our child. Alec is in Dublin on business. He is due back today”

All this time she had been looking at the ceiling. She now looked directly at me.

“You were not, I think, born as Louise.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“No, not at all. I suppose it is a case of it takes one to know one. The main giveaway was your behaviour towards me over the cigarette. You waited for me to sit. You lit mine first. It was gentlemanly behaviour. I was your hostess. It was up to me to do those things for you but you were raised as a polite young man and it gave you away. You have no beard, though”

“That’s hereditary, and a long story”

“Not hormones or surgery?”

“Apart from breast augmentation, no. I was never ready for that. I heard some awful things about what happened to some people who went to Morocco. Although I admire April Ashley I don’t think I am a s brave as her.”

We were interrupted at that point. A tall young man came into the room. I knew straight away by his build and colouring that it was Alec.

He went straight to his mother. I stubbed out my cigarette and got up to leave.

Pamela said

“No, please stay.”

Alec turned to me and time stopped. I looked into a pair of deep dark brown eyes and he looked into mine. Later Pamela told us that she thought at first that we were merely embarrassed and too shy to speak, but she was holding Alec’s hand at the time and had sensed a change in him then turned to look at me. I was caught like a rabbit in headlights. Stunned, with my mouth partly open and my right hand extended in what had started as a gesture towards leaving but was now frozen. Pamela brought Alec towards me leading him by the hand. I broke from the trance and made to leave

“No, sorry” I heard myself say. “I must leave you “

“No” Said Pamela firmly, “you really must stay. Louise, you need to know that Alec is really like his father in almost every respect and certainly in all physical ways. Alec, you need to know that Louise is just like me in all physical respects and, I suspect, in many other ways too. What I have just seen is something that very few parents ever have the privilege to witness. Even on this difficult day it is not something that can be ignored ”

Alec just said “Louise”

His mother put his hand in mine and turned and walked out of the room. We stood there holding hands. After a long pause Alec broke the silence.

“My mother…she…”

“... is very beautiful and very brave” I said.

“You are very beautiful” he said, and pulled me towards him

Dear reader, I did not melt into his arms. I put my free hand around his neck and pulled hum towards me. As first kisses go it was clumsy and urgent. All I remember is that it was electric. When we broke he said

“Are you really like my mother, I mean, like you know? I mean I don’t mind if you are not but she is really my fa…”

I put my finger on his lips

“Yes. And you are… “

“She said you knew about Dad”

“Yes”

“My real name is Alexandra”

“and mine is Louis”

“I have dreamt about meeting someone like you. Someone like mother.”

“I am not yet convinced that I am not dreaming. If I am not then I certainly will dream about this,”

“You are not dreaming. I am here and you are here and we are real”

We stood in silence for a while, by now I had both arms around his waist and my head on his shoulder. He had his left arm around my upper body and his right hand on the back of my neck.. I have never felt so safe before. Perhaps that’s why I remember so much of this now. I had grown up an odd little boy, an only child and the only boy in a family of competing would-be matriarchs. Compared to my South London peers, I looked odd; I grew my hair long in an age of short back and sides; I had no beard, moustache or sideburns in the age of Elvis Presley; I never wanted to chase girls. Some said I looked like a girl (I even dressed like one in private) but neither did I want to chase boys or let them chase me (still less catch me)! I had never had a close relationship with anyone except my mother. Now I was clinging onto this tall slim young man, knowing full well that he was no such thing. I should have been afraid or at least confused but I felt safe, content, warm. Alec spoke first.

“We should go to mother”

“Yes, we must, what will she think of me, taking you away on a day like this.”

We walked hand in hand out into the hallway. I could see Lady Pamela through the open door of the dining room opposite. She was supervising the maid laying the table with plates of cold meat and salad.

“Just cold cuts I am afraid, but we need to eat and we need to talk, all of us.”

The maid was dismissed with a gesture

Alec held out a chair for me. I looked up at Lady Pamela, she smiled,
“You’ll get used to it” she said and waited for her son to seat her opposite me before taking his own place. He seemed a little confused at first then moved rather slowly to take his place at the head of the table. He smiled at me in a self deprecating way and my heart did another somersault. He put his hand over mine and gave it a squeeze.

After we had helped ourselves to food Pamela started the conversation.

“Before Louise came here tonight I was worried that we were about to be found out and the press would be on the doorstep. What has come to pass since then has given me new hope.”

“I don’t think we need worry about Louise, Mother”

“No darling I don’t think we do but we must take precautions. I have spoken to Georgina Jones. She was a friend of your father’s at university before he and I met. He is one of only about 10, or should I now say, eleven, people who are fully aware of our situation. Georgina is managing Director of a firm of undertakers. She has arranged for… “

For only the second time that evening, Pamela’s voice faltered.

“… for collection to take place early on Monday. Once he is out of that place we should be safe from unwanted attention. Will you be there Louise?”

“I am not supposed to be,” I answered, “I have already booked out on two weeks holiday. Not that I am going anywhere but they will not be expecting me at work.”

“If you were to show up suspicions might be raised.”

“I think so.”

Alec cut in at this point

“We should go up to the school, Mother. Nobody would look for us there. We are not even known to be connected with the place.”

Now I was puzzled.

“What school is that.”

It was Alec who answered
“A very special and rather secretive finishing school. We turn out young ladies ready to take their place in society as anything from domestic servants to executive secretaries.”

“Secretive?”

“Er, well our students don’t actually start out as young ladies. You would do well there. There is a lot that they could learn from you.”

“That’s settled then,” Pamela was in decisive mode now. She stood and dropped her napkin onto her plate.

“We will go there tonight. Louise, you must come too.”

“But I only have the clothes I am wearing”

“I am sure that we can find something for you. It is just that I don’t care to risk you going home until our position is assured. In any case I believe Alec wants to keep you nearby, and so, for that matter, do I. Do you have any objection?”

I looked at Alec who smiled and nodded at me. My insides did another somersault.

“None at all. No. None at all.”

Alec reached out and took my hand

“Enough time for that later, my dears. Alec, please tell Anna get the car out. Let us go before my resolve falters. Louise, have you a topcoat?”

“No, I didn’t think I would be out late.”

“Come with me. You can wear one of mine until we can get you one of your own.”

Twenty minutes later I was wrapped in mink sitting between Alec and his mother in the back of a huge black car. As we swept out of the gravel drive onto the road I began to realise that my life had once more taken a new direction. In front of me Anna, whom I had taken to be a parlour-maid, was now dressed in the black suit of a chauffeuse.

Pamela seemed lost in her own thoughts. Alec squeezed my hand. I rested my head on his shoulder as the lights of the city receded.