This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 6

The interview at the school went well. In the past, Max had been too distracted by his problems to make much of an effort with his SATs, but now his natural interests came to the surface. It turned out he had a good logical mind, which meant he possessed a natural gift for mathematics, IT and at least some of the sciences. I’d done well enough with this, but through hard work rather than natural talent. My own areas of expertise had involved subjects that required more memory than processing power (Max’s term) so between us we did exceptionally well with the school’s entry tests.

As Paul had anticipated, Peter’s friend and my new head mistress, Mrs Wedgewood, not only offered me a place, but a scholarship as well. Peter mentioned my bequest to him and that we were unlikely to have any difficulty paying the fees, but Maddy insisted that I’d earned it. She shook my hand and said she looked forward to welcoming me formally into the school in a week.

“How would you feel about us all moving into your old house?” Peter asked as we drove away. “It’s bigger, it’s in a better neighbourhood and it’s closer to both the school and my work.”

I shrugged. “Karen and I bought the place with a mind to starting a family. It’d be good to see what it’s like with one in it.”

“You didn’t leave her anything. Karen.”

“She doesn’t need anything from me. She’s happily married now, so even a reminder of our time together would only serve to sour what she has.”

“Are you so sure?”

“I don’t really know. Maybe my own memories of what we had are a little tainted.”

“Can’t you think of anything that might make her respond kindly towards you?”

I let my brain – our brain – ponder for a short while. “Could you stop by the house?”

“Your house? I don’t have the keys yet?”

“Actually, your house. You don’t have the piece of paper to say so yet, but if anyone objects, all it’ll take is a phone call to the solicitors.”

“I still don’t have the key.”

“No but you do have the code to the key safe. I had it installed the year after you moved on. I figured if someone needed a place to crash in the future, like Max or one of Mandy’s girls for instance, it would give them a way in without needing me to be there.”

“So why are we dropping by?”

“My neighbours will remember you stayed with me, so this could be just you trying to connect after hearing about my death, and the inheritance.”

“Yes, but why are we really going?”

“To give me access to my computer. You’ll be given the login details along with my bank information and other stuff by the solicitor when he hands over the key. I’ve had an idea for something I probably ought to have left for you to find on there. You have no objections if I do so retrospectively?”

“If you’re thinking of writing a note, won’t it have a file creation date on it or something?”

“There’s a trick to that. Something I learned a while ago for when I didn’t quite make a deadline at work.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes. Manually set your system date to what you want – best to disconnect from the internet first so it has no way of correcting while you’re messing about – then copy and paste your work into a new document and save that. If you want to be super clever, change the system date again and make a few minor changes to the document. Reset everything afterwards. You now have a document with a creation date and last modified date to suit your story.”

“I think I said this before. You scared the shit out of me sometimes.”

“And I also said, not in front of the kid.”

“So, are you going to tell me anything more about what you plan to do when we get there?”

“Actually, I thought it would work better if there were witnesses when you found it.”

Stopping at the house didn’t add much of a diversion. As Peter had said, the place was closer to the school and the centre of town than their house. What took time was thinking about what I had in mind to say. I drafted it out in my head while we were still driving, but it wasn’t just Collin and Karen I needed to think about if I was going to do this right. It took about three quarters of an hour to write and another ten minutes to set up the time stamp so it looked like I’d written it before I’d died. I gave it the title, ‘Peter, read this’ and left it in the middle of the desktop.

Peter had used the time to call home and explain that we were going to be delayed slightly, so Paul wasn’t upset when we were an hour later than expected, just curious.

I made a meowing sound and throat cutting actions, which prompted a snort from him.

Dinner was steak and chips – since we could afford it now, and we had something to celebrate. They shared a decent bottle of Cab Sav between them, leaving me a little envious. Paul did offer me a small taste of his own, which left my young pallet recoiling in disgust. I suspect it was his small retaliation for me and my curiosity and the cat thing. I did have a coke with mine which was heavenly enough. Fully sugar loaded in a way I’d not been able to enjoy since my doctor had persuaded me to curb my sugar intake.

The cake was a triumph of Paul’s decorating skill and looked almost too good to destroy. It tasted better though, so no one cried over its demise.

The next day was New Year’s Eve which seemed impossible. Had all these changes really happened in just one week? It was bright and cold and my new dad’s – that’s how Max wanted to think of them – insisted we go for a walk. Max and I couldn’t get enough of being out in public in a dress, so there were no arguments from me. Peter had a call to say Collin’s challenge of the will had been presented and summarily dismissed. The solicitor had applied for probate on Peter’s behalf and, because I’d taken his advice at the time I set up the will and put all relevant documentation in an easy to find place – including a reasonably recent valuation on the house – it had been awarded without any delay. Inheritance tax had been calculated and paid, so Peter could pick up the keys and papers any time he liked, which turned into a short family outing to the solicitors before they closed early for the holidays, followed by a shopping trip to find me a proper party dress. My treat since my dads had arranged for some friends to come over in the evening and they – Paul especially – wanted to show me off.

It was a fun do. I kept to the background and let Max be the centre of attention, which he absolutely loved when he realised all anyone saw was a pretty, young girl.

Of course, it helped that half the attendees came in drag, including Paul who looked resplendent in his party frock.

We stayed up for Big Ben’s bongs and the fireworks, toasting in the New Year with orange juice and lemonade then bidding everyone goodnight, let Paul take us up to bed.

‘That was magical,’ Max said to me after Paul had tucked us in and left.

‘The sort of magic every kid our age should get to enjoy.’

‘Do you think any of them made us?’

‘Does it matter if they did? I doubt any of them would have been bothered.’

‘No, of course not. I loved the idea though. The New Normal. If normal means a couple has to be a man and a woman, then this was a fun way to make it happen.’

‘The kind of party I’d have enjoyed as Gerald.’

‘You’d have had to come with another guy.’ Said with a playful grin.

‘He’d never have agreed to that, but I might. My old life was all about denying the girl in me. Now anything that validates her is okay in my book.’

‘What does that mean? Validate?’

Sometimes I forgot how young he was. Sometimes he forgot he could just look in my memories.

‘In this instance, supporting the truth of something.’

‘I like that.’

‘Mmm. Maybe we should try and get some sleep.’

‘Okay. Happy New Year.’

‘And to you.’

The next morning started late and reluctantly on all our parts. Paul was the last to rouse and the loudest to moan, but then he had less body mass than Peter and he’d probably drunk more.

Peter made pancakes which pleased me though not Paul, at least not until he’d eaten something to settle his stomach and taken a couple of paracetamol to counter his throbbing head. He returned to something close to normal around lunchtime, which was when Peter said he felt safe to drive and did we fancy visiting my old house in the afternoon. I could see he was all eaten up with curiosity about what I might have left him on the computer.

We had a light lunch to balance the heavy breakfast, drank more water and headed out. The streets were empty, apart from the odd police car. Peter was driving carefully though, so none of them saw any reason to pull him over.

At the house, Paul set about doing an inventory of the place. I showed him my wardrobe full of frillies. They’d be a bit big on him, but altering them wouldn’t be beyond his skills with a sewing machine.

“Not this one though,” I said pulling out a silken evening dress.

“Why not?” he asked, obviously taken by it.

“Peter will tell you. You don’t have to keep any of it if you don’t want to, just... I mean you looked pretty good last night.”

“Are you thinking it might be nice to have a mummy and a daddy sometimes, like at parents’ evenings?”

“I think the school already knows what to expect from my dads. It’s more about what you want than me. Just because you’re a gay man doesn’t mean you might not have a little bit of girl inside who might want to come out on occasions.”

“I’ll give it some thought. Now, shall we go find Peter? See what he’s found?”

He had the computer on and my letter to him open. It wasn’t short, so we gave him time to finish reading. He eventually looked up and smiled through the tears we hadn’t seen. Paul put a hand on his shoulder, which he took hold of.

“Do you mind?” Paul asked pointing at the screen.

“I’ll read it out,” Peter said, scrolling back to the top. “My Dearest Peter,” he began.

“I may have acted a little rashly,” he read on, “but you prevented me from confronting your father and that just left me feeling so angry I had to do something.

“You’ll have discovered by now that I changed my will. Or rather I wrote one. Without it, all my things would have gone to Collin as my closest relative, and after what he did to you I felt he deserved nothing from me.

“Since it’s possible he’s cut you out of his own will, it seemed the fairest thing to do was redress the balance by leaving you as my sole beneficiary. Apart from the bloody watch of course, but then I had to do something to make a point.

“Anyway, it’s done, and now I’ve started thinking of a long list of additional things I’d like to put in there. Once I’ve completed the list, I may well get in touch with my solicitor and change it, but in the meantime, you as the person who gets all this can still act as my executor, should you wish to do so.

“This is entirely up to you. You can delete the letter and pretend you never found it, in which case you get it all. Or you can read through the wishes I have outlined below and pass on my thoughts and requests. If you choose the latter course, I’d prefer it if you passed on the paragraphs I’ve written below exactly as written, but as mentioned before, the choice lies with you.

“To my brother Colin. You’d have ended up with all of this if you hadn’t been so bloody narrow minded and stubborn. The way you treated Peter makes my blood boil even now as I’m writing this.

“If my estate had come to you, you’d have eventually discovered the contents of one my wardrobes and realised that I haven’t been batting for the same team all my life. Who knows? Maybe I died in my sleep and my little predilection has been made public knowledge. In any case, your response to your son gave me a clear indication of how Mum and Dad, and possibly you, would have reacted if I had lived the life I wanted. I hate that you find this sort of thing intolerable, that you find it necessary to respond in this manner, even to your own flesh and blood, especially since it’s possibly your own flesh and blood that’s made Peter what he is.

“My research shows that the whole LGBTQ spectrum has genetic roots, and between myself, Peter, Lily and Pam and now Max, we have twenty percent of our family affected in some way or another. You are now the head of this family, for better or for worse. Please don’t continue to drive it onto the same rocks Dad chose. It’s not all that pleasant from this side of the minority, you have my personal assurance of that.

“There’s nothing I should like more than to see you and Peter reconciled, but that’s only going to happen if you change. Peter cannot and after the life I have lived, I would not recommend to anyone that they suppress their feelings in matters such as these. I’ve chosen to leave the vast majority of my belongings to your son because I suspect you plan to leave him nothing. I doubt you’ll need anything from me in any case. Let the watch act as an indicator of how it feels when someone you believe owes you some indication of appreciation for being in your life gives you nothing. Let it give you some small indication of how it feels to know that your own father is so blinded by mindless prejudice that he chooses to turn his back on his own son. Let that teach you the shame you should be feeling in this moment.

“I love you, brother, but I hate the way you have acted towards Peter and that more than anything has led me to this decision. Forget the inheritance. Make up with your son while you still have time.

“There’s a page break then:

“To my longsuffering Karen. There is nothing I can say or do that will make up for the hardship I put you through. If you only knew it, you did the same to me, ably aided and abetted by my own distorted state of mind. I regret that we caused one another such pain and offer you this bequest not so much as a gift but as a symbol of what stood between us.

“I am glad beyond measure that you found love and acceptance in the arms of your new husband. Your reaction to the dress will tell you all you need to know about what we might have had. If you like the dress and agree with me that it will go well with your eyes, then please have it altered to fit you and remember me with a little kindness each time you wear it. If, on the other hand, you find it repellent that I should have worn the dress in the past, then dispose of it however you see fit and live the rest of your life with the reassurance that our marriage would never have survived.

“New page again.

“Dear Mandy, I applaud your efforts in raising your girls, but I would ask you to remember that not all men are as much of a waste of space as that arsehole you married, and your daughter’s should learn this. If you need proof, look to your father. He may be a dickhead with regard to gay people, but he’s stood by your mum and made his best effort at raising his five kids. Pam and Lily may end up feeling they’ll be better off married to other women, but I hope they make room in their lives for male friends. To this end, I’m authorising Peter to put a couple of hundred quid into the wedding fund for each and every man attending either wedding he believes to be a genuine friend to one of your girls.

“Seriously? A couple of hundred quid per bloke?”

“Up to you to decide whether they’re there as genuine friends or part of a rent-a-crowd. You don’t even have to justify your decision. If you even suspect they’re trying to fiddle the system, just say no. It’ll reinforce their hatred of men, but if they’re trying to con you out of the money, there’s not a lot you can do for them anyway.”

He shrugged and went back to reading.

“Lisa, Mike is a bastard. I don’t know what persuaded you to marry him in the first place, unless it was him pressuring you to do so. I don’t see him changing, which means I don’t see anything but misery in your future. If you continue to take his side, you’re likely to lose Max forever. He’s a sensitive child and he’s suffering, because that arsefuck of a husband of yours won’t let him be himself, or as I suspect herself.

“I recognise something of myself in Max, but without the long years of fighting it. Max doesn’t have the strength to fight like I did, so either you let him discover who he – or she – truly is or you will crush him utterly. If you do that, then I hope you find as much misery in every day you spend with that piece of shit you call a husband as you caused to your child.

“I thought about leaving Mike an empty box to tell him exactly what I think of him, but for one thing, you can’t put less than nothing in a box. For another the box has some value, which is more than can be said for him. I suppose I could piss on it, but then someone would have the unpleasant task of storing it until I die.

“For you, I have a necklace with a pendant in the form of a chrysalis. It looks ugly and misshapen, but it’s meant to because that’s what chrysalids are like. You need to remember that inside they hold the promise of a butterfly.

“This is how you and Mike presently see Max. If you insist on keeping him like this, he will remain ugly and stunted and he won’t survive long. If you allow him the freedom to develop as he wishes, you will be rewarded with something new and beautiful.”

Peter looked at me with a question in his eyes.

“You have to remember, Max hadn’t attempted to kill himself when this was written.”

He allowed for the small lie we were all choosing to believe.

“Raymond and Russell, you have kept your heads down while all this has been going on. Probably a sensible policy. I imagine one day you will be called upon to take a side and the temptation will be to take the path of least resistance and side with the bullies. I’m giving each of you the same thing as a reminder to act on your own consciences, and hopefully choose to respond justly rather than in accordance with whatever prejudice your dad tried to teach you.

“What is it I’m supposed to give them?”

“There’s an Australian brand of cleaner called Gumption. Comes in little tubs or bottles. I was hoping you could get hold of some and replace the contents with a couple of hundred quid each.”

“That’s not a lot.”

“It’s probably more than they’re worth. Fine, whatever you think. Maybe keep the product in there and stick a diamond or something similarly valuable for them to find. The point is if they don’t bother to check then they don’t get the goodies.”

“You don’t think much of my family, do you?”

“They’re my family too, and honestly, apart from those who’ve strayed from the median a little, the answer is not really.”

“And by strayed from the median you mean...”

“You, Max and me. Maybe Pam and Lily, although I’m not sure if they’re genuinely gay or just suffering from an acute case of misandrism courtesy of their mother, but let’s give them the benefit of the doubt for now.

“I’d have been inclined to let them all go hang, only you’re apparently better than me. And you’re right. If we can mend a few bridges through this and maybe educate a few people, we’ll all be better off.”

“Do you have a printer?”

“In there.” I pointed at a cupboard built into the lower part of the desk.

Peter printed off a copy of the document, a page for each person, then turned to his husband.

“So, what do you think of the place?”

“What do you think I think? I love it. There’s so much more space.”

“More to clean.”

“Buy me a bigger duster, or better still, lend a hand.”

“I won’t mind helping,” Max said with no prompting from me.

“There,” Paul said. “Your niece has offered to help. If you don’t do your part, that’ll be child slavery! We could have you arrested!”

“Oh the melodrama!! Here I am working my knuckles to the bone to provide you two with a better home and what thanks do I get?”

“I think you’ll find I did most of the working my knuckles to the bone to provide this place,” I said. “Admittedly I didn’t expect to be taking advantage of it like this, but either way, neither of you get to complain about it.”

“Oh, but that’s the best part!!” they both said in unison, which had us all laughing.

“The gardens a mess,” I admitted when we’d all calmed down and Paul had set about making us all a cup of tea. He’d had the foresight to bring everything needed, including cookies. “That was Karen’s domain. I left it to do it’s own thing after she left, though I’m not sure whether out of spite or self pity.”

“I think we can rescue it,” Paul said, looking out the kitchen window. “Peter can build you a Wendy House over there and that tree looks like it could hold enough weight to put up a swing.”

“And what will you be doing while I’m adding blisters to my blisters?”

“Digging up weeds and planting flowers, trimming back hedges and mowing the lawn. You know how it is, you do the heavy lifting and I make things look pretty.

“Of course Abri will have to help me. I mean it would be going against all that’s good to damage such beautiful, soft skin, don’t you think?”

“You’re happy for me to tear mine apart.”

“Ah but rough hands on you is so manly. It suits you.”

Max and I left them to their sniping and wandered out into the garden where Mrs Bickerage stuck her head over the fence.

“who are you?” she asked sharply.

Yes, it’s actually Mrs Kerridge, but she’s been the same since the first time I met her, so the name kind of stuck. I’d even used it to her face before now, which hadn’t helped our relationship much.

“Oh, hello,” I said brightly. “My name’s Abrielle, or Abri for short. My Great Uncle Gerald used to live here, but he died before Christmas.”

“Hmph. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“That’s not very kind.”

“Neither was he. He was always so bad tempered.”

“A bit like you right now?” I couldn’t help asking.

“How dare you! I shall be talking to your father about this.”

“No need,” Peter said from behind me. “Good morning Mrs er...”

“Miss. Kerridge. Are you the child’s father?”

“Uncle, but I am Abrielle’s legal guardian. I heard enough of your conversation and, I agree that her remarks weren’t particularly polite. I shall have appropriate words in a short while. Go on inside, Abri.”

“Well, I’m glad to see someone around here has manners.”

“Well, since we’re about to be neighbours, it feels right to make the effort. My name’s Peter. Lassiter. My uncle left the house to me and it’s much nicer than the place we currently live, so we shall be moving in next week or thereabouts.”

“You’re married?”

“Yes. You’ll meet my husband, Paul, soon enough.”

That set her to coughing and spluttering, and Peter to smiling in a grimly satisfied way. He followed me inside.

“Appropriate words?” I asked.

“Yes. Nicely said.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The appropriate words. I couldn’t say them in front of her. Sort of an adult thing. I had to give her a chance to be friendly. Doesn’t look like it worked though.”

“Don’t you remember her from when you stayed here? She’s the one who started the rumours about you and me.”

“You have to give people room to change.”

“Some of them you have to give a solid boot up the backside if you want them to.”

“Well, consider the boot applied. At least there’ll be substance to her nasty little rumours this time.”

“Yes, but when the rest of the neighbourhood react as they did last time, what then?”

“As I recall there were a number of positive responses. Do you remember what you told me back then?”

“Something trite and unhelpful that indicated how little I understood what you were going through I expect.”

“You said there would always be arseholes and that I should take what I could get of the good when I found it.”

“Yeah, like I said then.”

“It’s actually pretty sound advice. Paul and I have found a lot of haters in all the neighbourhoods we’ve tried to settle, but there are a few good eggs where we are right now, which makes it possible to tolerate the arseholes. With at least as many friendlies around here, we’ll do alright. Maybe in time we can teach some of the others that their fear and hatred is unfounded. That’s when people like Miss Kerridge will end up isolating themselves.

“As for you, I doubt anyone will mind if you decide to put on a dress.”

“Unless they find out who I am underneath all this.”

“That’s your fear talking. When you listen to your courage you’ll discover that who you are underneath it all is Abrielle Lassiter.”

“When did you get to be so wise?”

“Oh, about the time I ended up spending a lot of time with my uncle. I kind of think it’s a thing in some families, that there’s a wise uncle hidden in the mix.”

“You nominating yourself?”

“I’ll let you decide. Come on, if we stay around here, Paul will start taking down the curtains and washing things.”

We had a few days before school started which gave us time to sort out my uniform and move all our stuff across to the new address. It was mainly Peter and Paul’s stuff, but I did have my new things.

Peter found a letting agent for their old place and stipulated that priority was to be offered to LGBTQ couples, in part to spite the shits in the neighbourhood, but in part because there were supportive families. He said the market wasn’t good for selling, so we should see if we could get enough from the rent to cover the mortgage on the place. The Max in me thought it seemed like a lot of unnecessary work, but I showed him how the letting agent should take the brunt of that and, even if we didn’t make much profit from the arrangement, we’d have a property that was gaining value over time.

Paul did his blitz thing, drafting me into the effort, and soon enough my old home was shining in a way I’d never been able to manage. Perhaps Karen had at one time, but I’d not been in a state of mind to appreciate it.

I did now since part of the effort had been mine. I didn’t even mind doing the work as Paul was a powerhouse when it came to cleaning, and good fun to work alongside. We even managed to make a start on the garden despite it being the middle of winter. In some ways that was easier since the trees and bushes were largely bare sticks.

Peter went back to work early in the New Year, preparing for a new show. He invited me along to one of the rehearsals shortly before I was due to start at the school, and was surprised to find him in one of the solo roles. Doubly surprised when I saw how good he was.

As Gerald I’d never had much appreciation for modern arts, especially contemporary dance, but it seemed that Max was fascinated enough for both of us, and when I saw Uncle Peter through her eyes, he was utterly breath-taking.

School started off as something of a mixed bag. Between Peter’s advice and both Mrs Wedgewood’s preference and mine, Max and I had decided to come clean about who we were. Not so much the semi-schizoid amalgamation of a young boy and his great uncle, but the idea that we were a girl only under the skin. The main thinking was that being honest from the outset would save us from any histrionics. It didn’t quite work that way – the ones who were going to react badly did so, but at least they had no excuse for full blown hysteria, and it did mean I was able to identify the few individuals who were likely to become genuine friends.

Out of deference to the less than silent minority, the school arranged for me to have access to some of the staff toilets so I didn’t freak anyone out by going into the pupil’s. I was also excused games, which pleased both Max and me no end since neither of us were athletically minded in the least and Max’s body had no strength or stamina to it whatsoever.

We were encouraged to use the time to get ahead on homework, which was a nonsense since it was so easy.

For one thing, Max had as much access to my memories as I did and most of what we were studying was stuff I already knew backwards. After Karen had left me, I’d spent much of my free time reading and had soaked up a very broad range of information, all of which went so far beyond the pathetically limited range of the GCSE syllabi.

There were some subjects I’d not spent too much effort studying when I was younger – lack of interest in some cases, lack of opportunity in others – buy it turned out they were the one’s Max was keen on. Up until recently his mind had been distracted by the difficulties in his life, but now there was nothing to stand between him and his passion for things scientific and technical

I was no slouch at maths, but Max made it looks so easy. The same with science and information technology. So much so in fact that I started paying attention and began to derive as much pleasure as him with the challenges involved. With two minds working on a problem and with my wealth of experience on top we were able to leap forward in our understanding there as well.

I mean let’s face it, the scope of the GCSEs were no major challenge in the first place.

We started answering so far beyond the scope of the of the questions the school set us it wasn’t long before we were called into the head’s office along with our dad’s.

“Peter, Paul, Abri,” Mrs Wedgewood began. “Your daughter already gave us an indication of her precociousness when she completed her entrance assessment. We already started by putting her in top set in all her classes, but...”

She turned the stack of papers she’d been perusing and pushed them across the desk.

Peter took a few pages and passed some of them to Paul. They scanned the answers – I’d persuaded Max to work on his presentation so they were clearly legible – and looked back.

“I don’t understand,” Peter said, ever the spokesman.

“Take the maths for instance.” Mrs W pulled the sheet out from the stack on the desk. “In year seven algebra we teach them simple rearrangement and substitution. Abri completed the homework exercise flawlessly, and I suspect in less than five minutes...”

‘Two,’ I mouthed holding up a couple of fingers.

“She then turned the page over and made her own questions, starting with expanding and factorising single brackets then progressing to quadratic equations which she then solved with a number of different techniques including completing the square and using the quadratic formula.”

“Okay.”

“These last two questions would be level nine on a GCSE paper if not first year A level.

“The same applies to some degree in all Abri’s subjects. Her French suggests she can already speak the language reasonably well,” I could, though writing was an issue, “Her depth of knowledge in literature and the humanities is encyclopaedic, her grammar is better than that of most of our English teachers.”

“So what are you saying?”

“She’s going to be bored if we leave her where she is. I’d like to bump her up a class or two.”

“What’s a class or two,” Paul asked glancing at me.

“Year eleven in maths and English, history and geography and English literature. Year ten in IT and science.”

The dad’s sat stunned for a few seconds. “Which...” Peter coughed to clear his throat. “Which sets.”

“Oh top sets of course.”

“Then what happens next year?” Paul asked.

“We see how well she does in the GCSEs, resist them if needed though I suspect she won’t, then take the rest of them next year along with one or two A levels. There are several I’m confident she could complete in just one year.”

“That gets us to the end of year eight,” Peter said.

“At which point, assuming she continues to do as well as I anticipate, we have a choice. Four or five more A levels over the three years it take her to reach the end of secondary school, or just three over two years followed by a year of pre degree study depending on what she chooses as her degree subject. There are a lot of options, but the first step begins here.”

“How do you feel about this Abri?” Paul asked.

“I’d like more of a challenge than I have at the moment. I’d like to try it.”

So, by the end of January, I was an honorary member of years ten and eleven, and setting the standard expected by each class. They could have resented me, and maybe one or two of them did, but for the most part they adopted me as a sort of mascot to inspire them and even provide a little help.

It also helped with the mandatory suicide survivor and LGBTQ support groups I’d been told to attend. With my exceptional attitude towards education it didn’t take much to convince the authorities that I was no longer a suicide risk. I did stick with the other group though, as much for the contributions I could make and the friendships I formed.

The material for the year eleven topics was still pretty straightforward for me, but we’d been put in for year eleven maths and I could feel Max reaching the limit of his capacity with it, even with my admittedly limited support. It was unusual. I sort of remembered the techniques I’d learned years before, but with Max’s brain they made a lot more sense, especially with Max following alongside. We still had to work at it though.

Between the two of us we made it work and the summer after the end of my year seven year I received a brown envelope that informed me I had straight A stars in history, geography, French, English language, English literature and even maths.

Relationships with the family didn’t fare so well. Peter tried to talk to them all using the suggestions in my letter, putting together the suggested bequests and delivering them with my words. None of it went down particularly well and they used the little collection of olive branches he offered to build a fence between us and themselves.

Raymond and Russell both threw back the pots of Gumption without even opening them, so Peter reclaimed them and had the two diamonds he’d hidden in them made into a pair of earrings he gave to me as a reward for doing so well in the exams. My ears weren’t pierced yet – too young according to Paul – but I could keep them for the future. Mandy had been upset that she hadn’t been left anything and took umbrage, while the calculating look Peter described in the twins’ eyes didn’t bode well for what they planned to do at their weddings. There would be men there, he was certain, but none in a capacity likely to convince us they were genuine friends.

Max’s mum had cried over her letter. For that as much as anything, Peter allowed her regular visits with me, on the understanding that Mike wasn’t present. She wore the pendant each time, but she stiffened every time I turned up wearing a dress and became less and less agreeable the more I looked like a girl.

Over time, Mum’s attitude towards me became more uncompromising and eventually it was her who decided to stop meeting with me. That was a sad day for both Max and me, though significantly more for Max.

In the same way that Collin’s reaction had been a sad one for Peter. He’d read the letter Peter gave him, which included my words to my nephew, and decided that I was just as bad as his son and that we’d conspired to cheat him from the inheritance. It was painful enough for me to see how ready he was to make up his own interpretation of my words, so how it must have seemed to Peter, I can’t begin to imagine.

The following year didn’t feel much different. A little lonely with no contact with anyone in the wider family, but school was the same challenge it had been the previous year. Harder work but with a more able mind. We covered the year eleven material in IT and the sciences, which held Max’s attention, and we started maths A level because we didn’t want to lose the skills we’d built up. On top of that we had a go at squeezing sociology and politics A levels into the schedule. They were very different from anything we’d studied at GCSE though so, whereas the school suggested I might try to do them in one year, I rapidly found that was likely to overextend me, so we changed it to two. It meant my year eight year ended with me finishing off my remaining GCSE subjects. With the reduced workload I was able to gain top marks throughout once again.

Year nine saw me to the end of the maths, sociology and politics A levels. Second year A level maths was a significant step up from the first and I was glad of the extra time to spread between it and the other two subjects.

Which led to years ten and eleven. Fourteen felt a little young to be considering university and there was more breadth I wanted to investigate in my studies. The Max in me wanted to extend his knowledge of computers while the Gerald had a growing fascination for biology. As a third subject, we both felt psychology to be worth investigating if only to give us some insight into how our mind worked. Again not so much in regard to the two people one brain thing, but more what the field might have to offer regarding the transgendered condition.

It kept us busy and proved a fascinating diversion from the previous two years study.

We turned sixteen shortly before taking our second set of A levels, which meant legally I was allowed to start hormones. Peter suggested I wait until after the exams and reminded me how much emotional trauma some of my friends had gone through at puberty. It was good advise. I held off for the last few months and kept a clear head all through my preparations and final assessments.

The day after my last exam there were no excuses and no reason to wait any longer. The dads knew it and Peter took time out from his busy rehearsals to drive all of us to the doctor’s surgery where I was treated to an arse full of oestrogen through a needle as thick as my finger, or so it felt.

As rites of passage go it was a little anticlimactic and left me limping to the bus stop. Paul accompanied me on the bus carrying the bag full of hormone patches I’d opted for over the alternatives.

I cried all the way home, not because of the pain in my gluteus maximus (Biology term for you there) but because of the sudden flood of unfamiliar hormones.

“Welcome to womanhood,” Paul murmured in my ear prompting a renewal of the waterworks.

Back home, he made me a cup of tea and left me to saturate my pillow with all the salty goodness my eyes now seemed capable of producing.

It wasn’t that I was upset about anything in particular, though Max reminded us of the bulge between our legs and that set us off again.

I let my tea go cold before I tasted it. “Fuck, that’s disgusting,” I yelled with considerably too much vehemence.

“Abri,” Paul growled at me from the bedroom next-door.

“Shut up!” I screamed then broke out into fresh sobbing. “No, sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry.” I was horrible. I was such a horrible person. I hated myself.

Paul appeared in my doorway. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re having second thoughts, girl. Would you like a fresh cup of tea perhaps, and maybe a slice of cake?” There always seemed to be cake with Paul.

“I’m already too fat,” I said.

“Well that didn’t take long,” Paul replied in mock surprise. “Tea it is then. And cake. You are not about to become anorexic on my watch.”

“What?”

“Girl, I could just about reach around your waist with my two hands. If there’s one thing you are not, it’s fat. You are as beautiful now as you were the day I first met you, which, before you deliberately misinterpret my words, is to say indescribably, overwhelmingly beautiful, and don’t argue.”

He headed downstairs with me following in his wake.

“I’m going to allow you a little leeway,” he continued, “because I can only vaguely begin to imagine what it must be like having such a massive dose of girl juice after sixteen years of none at all, but you’re better than this sweetheart. I’m not going to say fight it, because this is something you’ve been waiting for a long time, but embrace it and look for the wonderful in it. It’s maybe a little overwhelming, but think of it as catching up with all those feelings you should have been enjoying since puberty.

“Personally I’m loving having three years of stroppy hormonal teenager thrown at me all in the space of one morning.”

Have I ever mentioned how much a master of the sarcastic Paul is?

“I’m being a real cow, aren’t I?”

“You’re being overwhelmed is what you are, and if I’m prepared to grant you a little space to have a wobble, so the bloody fuckshit can you.”

“Aunty Paul!”

“Appropriate use of profanity if it yanks you out of that morass of self-pity you’ve let yourself slip into. Now here’s your cake. Eat the whole bloody lot and say thank you while I wait for this geriatric kettle to boil.”

It was a large piece of cake. Probably his petty revenge for my unreasonable behaviour. I forked a small piece into my mouth.

“It is a lovely cake,” I said.

“Nice try, but flattery will get you nowhere today. You will sit there until your plate is empty young lady, which means you will sit there until the cows come home if you keep taking pathetic little bites like that.”

Hot water in the teapot, swish, empty. Tea leaves in the pot and wait for the kettle to finish boiling.

“I thought you wanted me to be all delicate and ladylike.”

“Exceptions to the rule sweetheart. Pick that cake up and bury your face in it till it’s gone.”

Properly boiling water in the pot, apply tea cosy, count slowly up to three hundred. He turned his severest expression in my direction, so I fell face first into the slice of cake.

“Now that’s just disgusting,” he said with a laugh. “Alright, maybe a modicum of genteel, ladylike decorum.”

I sat up and used my pinky to wipe the excess yummy goodness from my face into my mouth.

“You know, you’re exactly what I need right now.”

“And how could I dare to call myself your mother if I didn’t know exactly what you needed?”

An image of my actual mum came to mind. The last time she’d seen me, her face rigid with disapproval, her uncompromising declaration that perhaps it was best if we didn’t see each other again.

Paul noticed my change in expression, of course, and interpreted correctly. “Oh Abrielle!” He abandoned the teapot and gathered my sticky sweet face into a hug. “I can be such a klutz at times. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re right. You’re more of a mother to me than she ever was, and I’m grateful to have you.”

“She’s a stupid cow who doesn’t realise what she has in you, sweetie.”

“Go rescue the tea before it stews,” I said pushing him away.

“Fine. Finish your cake then, and use your fork this time.”

I set about forking the debris on my plate into my mouth while he poured out a couple of steaming mugs, one of which he placed in front of me. It had a healthy brick colour to it and it smelt of heaven.

“Thanks Mum,” I said. “I love you.”