Chapter 1

I was the third child born into what was supposed to be a large family. The first three of us were named alphabetically, as per my father’s family. My brother was Adrian, my sister was Belinda, and I was called Clarence. Our father had been from a big family and was called Gordon Higgins. He had been born in 1988, while my mother, Annabel, had been born in 1990, and was an only child.

Adrian had been born in Queens Hospital, Romford, in 2010, just a year after the marriage. My sister was born in the same place, in 2013, while I came along in 2016, at Barking Hospital. By that time, the family had moved to Netherfield Gardens, from a rental in Rush Green.

My father had been a toolroom machinist at the big Ford factory in Dagenham, until they closed the stamping plant in 2013. He had been there since he started his apprenticeship in 2004 and was moved to the engine plant. One thing about metalworking workshops is the very high numbers of smokers, and he had been on forty a day for several years before he developed problems with his lungs. That came to a head in 2021 when he got Covid and died after some weeks in intensive care.

All of that meant nothing to me at the time, as I was only five when he died. All I knew was Dad wasn’t around, and that by mother cried a lot. She was a widow at thirty-one and still had time to enjoy life, even if she was sad at the time. He had insurance and we were able to get by. By the time I started secondary school, she was still under forty and had a new man in her life, my stepdad, Jim Delmont. He wasn’t a bad father, just more interested in their new son together, my half-brother, William. Jim was an electrician and had met Mum when he was called in to fix some power problems in the kitchen. He stayed for a cup of tea when the power was back, and then became a regular visitor.

When I started secondary school, in 2027, I expected to grow big and strong, like my Dad had been, and how Adrian had developed as he got further into his teens. I just stayed smaller as both he and Belinda started dating and playing sports. Adrian, then in his final year, played soccer and Belinda, at fourteen, was on the school netball team. Mum told me not to worry, as size didn’t matter, but I tried my best by taking supplements to assist my growth. All they did was reduce my pocket money. It was around that time that Adrian decided to give me a very specific nickname. He called me EFTPOS.

In the world that I grew up in, cash had almost disappeared, and everything was done by flashing or tapping a card, using your phone, or even your smart watch. Every kid had a phone, and most were getting paranoid about their looks or their standing in the peer group. When Adrian, in his final attack on me, let it out that I was to be known as EFTPOS, most kids just laughed. Until, that is, when he started telling his friends that it stood for Extra Feminine, Totally Puny, Odorous Sibling. Then, he left school to go and work with Jim as a trainee electrician, going to night classes.

That was an underhand trick, with some of the kids started coming up and smelling me in the next term. Some laughed and agreed with the nickname. It wasn’t my problem that I used the underarm spray that my sister used, as Adrian had put all the men’s deodorant in his room. Jim had his own in the ensuite, along with Mum’s. It fitted the first part of the name as well, and, even I had to agree with the middle part, as I was still a bit shorter than my sister and weighed about the same.

What ensued was that I was left out of the boy’s activities as queer, and also the girls activities as a nominal bloke. I spent my free time as a loner, reading and working on my laptop. After several nasty messages on my mobile, I removed the apps and experienced a bubble of silence from the never-ending chatter. I wasn’t lonely, as Belinda still spoke to me, and my Mum was still supportive. The side-effect of being focused was that my grades improved.

I don’t know if it was allowed, but the PE teacher banned me from the boy’s changing rooms as a ‘deviant character’. That was good, as I watched the others go out and get cold, wet, and muddy, while I was under cover doing my homework. I did my best not to smile when the biggest bully was carried from the field on a stretcher, with a broken leg. If I had been out there, that would have been my fate almost every week.

As I moved through my secondary schooling, I developed a keen interest in English. I started writing well received essays, as well at getting good marks in the Literature classes because I would avidly read all the books in the syllabus. I submitted a story to a local competition and won a couple of hundred pounds, on a debit card, which made me want to do more. I joined a local writers group, who were mainly women and spent a lot of time talking about the books they liked to read.

Most of the stories were ‘romance’ ones, usually with a gorgeous girl on the cover, her boobs hanging out, with a handsome guy in the background. For a laugh, I wrote one of these and emailed it to all of the group that I had been given the addresses for. Two weeks later, they were all over me, telling me what a wonderful story it was. One, who had a friend in the publishing business, sent it to them to have a look at. A few weeks after that, the word came through that they wanted to publish it.

The next day, I got Mum to sit down while I told her what had happened. Before she would do anything else, she wanted to read the story, so I sent it to her phone. It took her some time to read, but, when she had finished, she hugged me and told me that I was brilliant.

When I told the writers group that we were going ahead, the first thing they asked was what I was going to use as a pseudonym, as there were no men writing these stories. That was something that hadn’t occurred to me, so I discussed it with Mum.

“Mum, the writers group have told me that there are no men writing these types of stories.”

“I expect that there are, Clarrie. It’s just that men writing that type of story would not be looked on as normal.”

“Like me?”

“Well, you are a bit different from your brother and you are a very good writer. If you want to go ahead and publish, we will need to give you a name. The writers of these books don’t get invited to big events. The content isn’t considered serious enough.”

In the end we decided that I would be known as Clare Higgins. Between us, we set out a plan, where she would open an account in my name to receive any income from the book. She gave the publisher the go-ahead, as I was still underage, and the account number for deposits.

While we waited, I started writing more of these stories. The typical length of these is about forty thousand words or less, so you don’t go into too much depth, backstory, plot, or too many characters. I was enjoying life, and being a loner wasn’t a hinderance to my writing. One evening, I was engrossed in a particularly sexy chapter, when Belinda breezed into my room to ask me something. I wasn’t quick enough to close the screen.

“What’s that, are you reading things you shouldn’t?”

“Not reading, Belle, it’s a story I’m writing.”

“You! Writing a story. Pull the other one?”

“It’s true. Ask Mum if you don’t believe me. One of my stories has already been accepted by a publisher. Look, I’ll email it to your laptop, and then when it’s in the shops, you can read it and know that it’s mine.”

“How on earth can you know what women think?”

“I’ve been here with you and Mum for fifteen years, without being close to other guys. Even my own brother called me a pansy. I can’t explain it, but I see things happen and remember them, then slot them into a data bank in my head. I’ve heard you complain so many times about how your clothes fitted as you grew, how you had run out of tights and needed to borrow some from Mum, and also how you needed to borrow her make-up because yours had dried out. You have taught me a lot. I’ll have to dedicate a book to ‘Annabel and Belinda – who helped me grow up’, how would you like that?”

“Can I tell my friends when the book is out?”

“Please don’t. I was told that men don’t write romance stories so it will be Clare Higgins on the cover. That will give Adrian even more to badmouth me with.”

From then on, she said that she would support me in my school and my writing. She was close to being in her final year by then and had already been accepted for a job in an office, as soon as she finished school. When the book came out, I was sent a box with half a dozen copies. I signed one each for Mum and Belinda, saved one for myself, and took the others to the writers group to give to the ones who had helped me. It really made them proud to have another published author in their midst.

The publisher wanted more, so I sent them the next manuscript I had finished. By the time I finished secondary, in 2033, and had qualified for a place at university. I had done some research and had chosen to study Creative Writing at the University of Essex. I had applied for a grant, using my now five published books as previous experience, and had been accepted for fifty percent funding. I would have to move to Colchester to attend, full time, but both Jim and Mum were happy to fund the other half. I had enough in my account, by now, to be able to live.

The only one not happy about this was Adrian, who was now a tradesman electrician and part-time soccer player in the local league, while I was the first in the family to go to Uni. He was even less happy when I thanked him for his actions that had led to my increased study time. I think that he was just miffed that his stunt had backfired on him. He would have been even more miffed if he had known about my bank account and how it had grown.

Belinda had left school three years previously and had started work in an office. In her bedroom, she had a bookcase with my books lined up. I had dedicated the third one for her and Mum, and it was hard for her to keep her relationship with the author quiet, especially when other girls in the office commented on the books. Actually, I think that it helped her, by enforcing a sense of keeping the secret which made here more able to gauge others by their willingness to divulge everything.

When it came time for me to leave, I didn’t have a lot to pack. There was my clothes, my laptop and my books. The accommodation that the University had was furnished, so I just needed my bed linen and bath items. Over the summer before I left, Mum had transferred my earnings into my own account, and I used some money to buy a scooter. I had looked at where the University was and there was a very big hill between the town and the campus, so a pushbike wasn’t very good.

During that summer, I had written two more Clare Higgins stories, with my team reading them and offering suggestions, after which I emailed them to the publishers with the new banking details and a new address for the pre-release copies, a post office box that I had opened when I had visited the town to get an idea of the streets and have a look at the University.

On the day I left home, I rode the scooter while Jim drove his car with Mum in the passenger seat. Adrian had given me a handshake as he went to take the company van to a job, and Belinda had hugged me and told me to keep in touch. It was quite moving. She would be looking after young William while his parents were away and moving him into my room.

I led the way to the Wolfson Court accommodation within the campus and the others helped me settle in. It was a shared flat with me having my own room. It was the cheapest option, and one that I could afford. The University was open for the new intake, and we walked over for me to sign on. I think that they were both surprised at the size of the campus and the whole thought that I would be here for a few years.

The closest pub to the University was the Spinnaker, and we had a meal there before they dropped me back at the campus and left for home, Mum did say that they would be stopping at a hotel in Tiptree, because she wanted to have a look in the Jam Museum before going back to Barking.

I had signed up for a Batchelor of Arts Degree in Drama and Creative Writing, ticking the option of a year overseas, taking the course from three years to four. The course would give me an insight into literature and movies, and I would be expected to contribute to the plays that they had at the Lakeside Theatre, on the campus. They even had their own small cinema. What I hadn’t factored in was that there was a course in Movie Making which we would supply plots and screenplays for.

In my first year there, I tried to socialise with the other students. OK, I was short and a writer, but so were others in the classes. I had left my early days behind and it did me good to be out of Barking. That was the only thing that followed me, though, as I gained a new nickname. I was called ‘Mad’, as in ‘Barking Mad’. I accepted it with the humour that had been intended, and made a lot of friends, something that had eluded me before.

One of the things that changed was that I had to own up to being Clare Higgins, the writer of now eight romance novels, which raised my standing with the girls in the group, to the extent that I was often asked, by the guys, about the girls and their preferences. It made me a sort of gatekeeper between the sexes. A few of our class had cars, and we would go into Colchester on a Saturday, with me learning to dance with girls, and then learning to socialise with one girl in particular. Her name was Elaine Terrey, and we became a couple.

Ellie was shorter than me in flats, but a shade taller in heels. Our first time talking together was when we were all at a pub with live music. All the others were on the floor and gyrating madly. She was sitting, guarding the drinks, so I moved over and sat beside her. When the band stopped, and the others came back, we were talking about the course. I found out that her background was a drama group where she had been helping out with writing some scenes. She was also a movie buff.

When the band came back, they started by playing some slower songs and we danced. I was amazed at how easily we got on, as if we were brother and sister. It was the same as I had I had felt with Belinda, and none of my teen shyness was showing. Ellie was cute, a natural blonde, with a lovely personality. We began going into town on my scooter, not being part of the wilder group when they went rampaging.

As an exercise, we decided to write something together, with my romance experience as a guide. We wrote a story about young love and finding your true self. We turned it into a play, which the movie course wanted to film. It was a great experience, being in love and being creative together. Of course, the play and the film were only short, as class projects, and the two of us stayed on campus during the weekends and turned it into a longer book, which I sent to my publisher under her name. It was warmly received, and I gave them the new banking details.

Over the course of my first year, we sent the publisher two more Elaine Terrey books. The supply of Clare Higgins stories had almost dried up. After we had gone to a motel on my scooter, and losing both our virginities, we went to see the housing office and took a double room, with ensuite, in the University Quays. We were excited to be moving in together, but also knew that we had a few more years before we would be able to marry.

It was when we were filling in the paperwork for the new room that I found out that her middle name was Fiona. That made her initials E.F.T. It made me start thinking about a new sort of book. With my new knowledge of sex, I could write something with a romantic setting, but with a harder edge. The Elaine Terrey stories were similar to my old Clare Higgins ones, so we got together on a new story.

It turned out to be sexy, with real descriptions of real feelings, and wasn’t totally without twists. We made it work inside sixty thousand words, while not taking any time off our studies. I emailed it to our publisher, telling them that Clare had stopped, for the moment, and Patricia Olivia Shelley was taking her place. The book was accepted, but as a general reader category, which attracted a signing bonus as well as a percentage of the sales. We took the scooter to the railway station, then took the train to London and went to the publisher’s office. It was the first time we had met him.

He was happy to see us and showed us the projected sales for the new book, as well as the sales numbers for my previous books. These had tapered off but were selling steadily. Elaine’s books were also selling steadily, and he asked us what we intended to do. We said that we would continue to write, working together, sending the two different types of story. What happened after we finished University was still up in the air. He had photos taken of the two of us and filled in more of our growing-up details in his data base.

At the end of the first year, I didn’t go back to Barking for the summer break. Elaine took me to her home, in Norfolk, where I met her parents, and they accepted me as the future son-in-law. I got on well with them, and her mother admitted that she was glad that her daughter had fallen for such a nice boy, who wasn’t some dumb gorilla. It was a strange moment when her sister admitted that she loved Clare Higgins books in a discussion about what we liked. It was then that we told them that I was actually Clare. They knew about Elaine’s books but hadn’t fully understood that they were written by me and their daughter.

Elaine’s father had been a secretary to a UK minister in the EU, before Brexit, and had met her mother in Brussels. Annika was Belgian, and conversations in the house were in French, English, or Belgian Dutch, depending on who was talking to who. Elaine had grown up using all three languages.

We had an interesting few months, sitting out in the garden with laptops. Being able to spend all our time writing, we produced another two Clare Higgins books, a longer Elaine Terrey book, and a new Pat Shelley book. Her sister was our editor and offered us a few suggestions in regard to more contemporary language, seeing that we were now oldies, at twenty.

Back at the University, for our second year, we had a lot more work to do which took a big chunk of our time. We had to decide where we were going to spend our placement year. We chose to go to the University of Antwerp. I had a good smattering of French, from secondary school, and Elaine had relatives who were multi-lingual where we could live while we were there. Over the year, we only produced one book each, but the study was full on. At the end of the year, we had written four plays, two of which had been picked up by the local drama group for their summer season.

For the Easter break, we went to Barking to visit my parents. I had kept in touch by phone and email and had sent them every book as they were published, including the Elaine Terrey ones. What I hadn’t told them that Elaine was a real person and that we were living together. I had asked Mum to organise a double room at a nearby hotel. She had got us into the Bank Hotel, near the railway station, which was also cheaper than the big chains.

We rode the scooter down, with our bag strapped to the carrier and Elaine with a backpack. I had decided that this would be the last big trip for it, as we were starting to need a car to get around in. Between us, we could pay for one which we could take to Antwerp, via the ferry from Harwich.

When we pulled up outside the house, after freshening up at the hotel, the whole family was there to greet us. Mum hugged us both as I introduced Elaine; Jim shook my hand and then gave me a man hug before hugging Elaine; Belinda was all smiles as she hugged us both. Little William was hugged, much to his embarrassment, and Adrian just shook both our hands, a sour expression on his face. As soon as he greeted us, he professed to an urgent job and left.

The rest of us went out for dinner and had a lovely time. Mum really warmed to Elaine and Jim told me, quietly, that I was a lucky guy. Belinda rearranged her bookshelf after that first meeting, with the collection placed in EFT and POS order. She had known about my previous nickname and thought that it was a hoot that we had used it with our new books. I took Elaine to meet the writing group and we had a lovely evening, with both of us signing their copies of our books.

By the end of our visit, my folks knew that Elaine would become part of the family when we were finished with Uni, and that I had grown up in a way that Adrian hated. He was, we were told, unable to keep any of his girlfriend’s very long. When we went back to Colchester, we took the scooter to a bike shop and put it in for sale, on commission, with all the clothing and accessories that we had collected. We went to a second-hand car dealer and bought a small Citroen, driving it back to the Uni. The paperwork would follow.

When the second year ended, we loaded up the car with all our things and took the ferry to the Hague, then driving to Mechelen, where her mother’s sister lived. It was south of Antwerp, and midway between it and Brussels. This was to be our home for more than a year and was a factor in how our lives would unfold.

Marianne Gregory © 2025