Chapter 1

It’s funny, you know, the things that stick in your mind. They ought to do a University Study on earworms. My grandmother was always singing or humming “I am strong, I’m invincible,” until the day she dropped dead. My mother had ‘Hotel California’ embedded in her brain. I didn’t listen to the radio at lot. Probably a good thing as having odd lines of ‘gangsta rap’ lyrics in your brain in later life would be like a living hell.

I had a mixture of songs that would pop into my head, most of them from visiting shops where they seem to still be living in the sixties, from the music they played. One thing that I do remember, a re-occurring ‘brain worm,’ is an advertisement that I never saw. Against the other events, this may sound like pure frippery. To me, though, it had an important place in my life, in my development, in my relationships, and in my very being.

I was born in the last year of the last century, in the Maternity Wing of the Derriford Hospital, Plymouth. My birth was nothing unusual, and my life followed that same path for many years. My parents christened me Tristan Arnold Southby. My mother was Margaret, and my father was George. I expect that they thought that by giving me an aspirational name, they would have a successful child. I think that, for the most part, I disappointed them.

They had a commercial flower nursery, southeast of the city, where they grew blooms for sale in the Flower Market. It did, I have to say, develop into a good business as I grew up, but not one that I had an interest in. Not that I was crap at looking after flowers. Where I lived, I was getting a rent reduction for looking after the garden. My address was a share of a house near the corner of Stadden Park Road and Goosewell Road, Plymstock. It was a good-sized yard with a greenhouse and some raised beds for vegetables.

How did I end up there, I hear you ask. It happened when I passed my exams, but my father refused me when I asked to go on to tertiary studies. He wanted me beside him in the family business. It was “Work with me or walk out!” So, I walked out. I had seen it coming and had already organised my departure. I had some savings from birthday and Christmas gifts, and a job to go to at The Broadway Shopping Centre.

The job had come about from some artwork that I had created for a competition that one of the fashion shops had. My design was so good they passed it on to their Head Office and I had been paid a small sum for the rights to use the design. The Centre Management employed me on a casual basis to design sales banners, event logos, and the like. Anything that needed a graphic designer, I was the man on the spot, with a small workshop to create my masterpieces. It wasn’t full-time work, though.

I had always been good at drawing, and my art marks were good enough for further education to be an artist, but my father called it all ‘arty-farty’, and nothing that a red-blooded boy should have anything to do with. So, there I was, living with some school friends, growing ‘smokeable’ plants in the glass house, along with vegetables from the raised beds. I had cleared some of the glasshouse to give me room for an easel, and had cleaned the windows, inside and out, to improve the light, for both my work and the weed.

I know that you’re hanging out to find out what my ‘brain worm’ is. Well, while I was at school, I had logged on to sites which taught the basics of graphic design online. I had also looked at a few sites that delved into the history of advertising. There was one advert, which had been in print and on the television in the previous century. It was adapted from a poem by Longfellow.

There was a little girl, Who had a little curl, Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good, She was very good indeed, But when she was bad, she was horrid.

It was for a long-forgotten hair product, for beating unruly hair, and replaced the words with ‘There was a girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her ponytail’. It was mentioned because of the poetic cadence of the words, a lesson for advertising writers to think about.

It hit me like a ton of bricks when I was fourteen. I had been typical for a boy of that age, but it made a connection, along with my love of looking at girls to see how they dressed, and my hatred of contact sports. I looked at the line, and wondered what it would be like to have curly hair, rather than the straight hair that I usually wore down past my ears.

Naturally, I hid the notion deep inside, acting as I normally did but thinking odd thoughts when I was in bed. It remained as hidden part of me while I was at school, and still remained while I was living with guys who had known me for years. It was galling to be away from home but still with this nagging feeling that I wasn’t complete. I had never tried to see what would scratch that itch; I didn’t know if I was gay, trans, or just strange.

I had looked at the internet and found a site that had trans stories and became an avid reader. It only fuelled my feelings of not being the person I wanted to be. The problem with a lot of the stories was that a boy was forced to dress up and became a model-worthy girl instantly. I knew that this was impossible, but, hey, they were only fictional, weren’t they?

I kept in touch with my mother. She would text me when she was going to The Broadway to do some shopping and I’d fire up my aged Ford to go and sit with her in one of the food outlets. She had a secret of her own that she kept from my father, a love of chicken nuggets. She was supportive of me, and always asked if I was all right for money. Actually, I was usually good. The signage work may be spasmodic but did pay well.

I painted scenes of Plymouth while I was in the greenhouse and sold them at the Plymouth Market on Saturdays. I was in a group that had one of the stalls. Two did potteries, one did macrame hangings, another did knitted baby clothes, and there were about another half a dozen who would join us when they had created enough stock.

We clubbed together to pay the site fee, with some using the site for all weekend, but always left space for me on Saturdays. I usually painted three or four small pictures during the week, and they sold well. I had a deal with a frame maker, and only paid for frames after I had sold the painting.

All in all, I was cruising along, hiding my feelings but making my own way in the world. I wasn’t making a fortune, but I wasn’t starving. One Monday, I was creating a banner for a fruit and vegetable store that was opening up in the shopping centre, when a quite elegant woman walked into my little workshop.

“Sorry to bother you, I’m looking for Tristan Southby.”

“That’s me. What can I help you with?”

“I’m from the Head Office of Hook and Hokem, the company that you did that competition picture for. It was well noted, and your name came up when we wanted to create a new advertising campaign. Our usual people have become far too repetitious with their offerings, so we decided to try someone new. Someone like yourself.”

“That would be interesting. The competition was with swimwear, will that be what I’ll be doing?”

“It’s a whole range, a complete wardrobe of women’s clothing. We will need you to come to live near the Head Office, it will be several months of creative work, over every season. If it works, I have been authorised to tell you that it would be a permanent placement, as long as your imagination keeps coming up with new ideas.”

“Where will I be living?”

“We will put you with some of our staff, they share a big house and there’s a spare room at the moment. If you say you’ll come in with us, I’ll tell them not to get anyone else in.”

“Whereabouts is the Head Office, may I ask?”

“It’s in Southampton. We have a warehouse at West Quay, and we import a lot of stock, so have to be very careful with what we order. Too much stock wastes money, too little and we miss out on sales. The actual office is in a block of offices on Portland Terrace, and the house is on the corner of Cossack Green and Winton Street. It’s a walk of about five hundred yards from the house to the office. You’ll have a drafting board to create with, and the final product will be finished by a printer.”

“Is there space for my easel? I like to finish some of the ideas in colour, and also dabble in paintings which I sell at the local market.”

“That’s lovely! The room where you’ll work is quite large, as it used to be home to fifteen typists when the building was designed. If you’re any good, there’s a well-respected gallery which holds about half a dozen showings a year. Several well-known artists had their first outings there. It’s about as far from the house as the office, to the north.”

“Will I be able to see everything before I commit?”

“I would be worried if you didn’t ask for that. I’m going back there on Wednesday if you want to ride with me. Will you be finished with this job by then?”

I gave her my address to be picked up. She said to pack for four or five days, as she would drop me back on her way to a store in Exeter on the following Monday. I finished the job I was on, got my money and packed a bag with enough for a week. I rang my mother to tell her what I was going to be doing for a few days, and she congratulated me on making a serious move forward. I told the guys that I would be back in a week and showed them which of the plants were ready for harvest. I didn’t smoke the stuff, and I wasn’t sure if any of them did, so I expect that they augmented their income with it.

I was waiting, my bag at my feet, when she turned up. When I said that it was a nice car, she just said that it was leased by the company. On our way out of Plymouth, I found out that her name was Marilyn. She asked me about my background and laughed when I told her the family business that I had walked away from.

“My father wanted me to be a baker in the family bakery. I understand exactly what made you do what you did.”

We stopped at a services on the way, for a bite to eat. When we arrived at Southampton, I realised how much bigger it was against Plymouth. She took me to the house first and parked in the back. I carried my bag up to the top floor, where I put the bag on a bed, in a nice room with ensuite. We left the car where it was and made the walk to the Head Office. It was a nice stroll, some of it with park around us.

The Head Office was in a large redbrick building. It was upstairs and she led me into the office, where it was populated by some girls, all dressed well. They all said hello, and we went to a door at the back, and into what would be my workplace. It was large, with a computer on a desk, with a big screen. There was a draft board, and enough space for an easel, with nice light from the large windows. I thought it was great, so started asking about hours, payments, and the stuff of reality.

It was close to knocking off time by now, so we left with the girls, and started walking back towards the house. On the way, I found out that Sally, Gloria, Judith, and Monica were the ones I would be sharing the house with. It was so close to one of the stories I had read, it made me wonder just what I was letting myself in for.

As we walked, the girls told me what a fantastic area we were in, with plenty of eating places in a good walk, and several night clubs close by. If I was into soccer, the main stadium was only about five hundred yards, or so, to the east of the house. I was going to be allowed to stay with them until Marilyn took me back to Plymouth. When I came back, I would have to pay my share, which I found out was only a little more than what I was paying now. At the house, Marilyn left in her car, leaving me with the four girls.

They sat me in the kitchen and laid down the ground rules. No smoking, no girlfriends in my room, no loud music. They said that they also followed the rules, but with no boyfriends. The lounge area was able to be booked, should one want to entertain, and the kitchen was the common room and had to be kept tidy. My room and my ensuite were mine to keep clean. I was told, up front, that Gloria and Judith were a couple, and had the biggest bedroom with a double bed. Sally was on the same floor, at the back, and Monica was on the top floor with me, her room overlooking the front.

They asked me if I had a car because none of them did. I owned up to a dilapidated Ford. Their ages varied, Gloria and Judith were a good five years older than me, with Gloria being the Office Manager. Monica was the youngest, only a few months older than me, and had only been working in the office for about six months. I was told to go to my room and tidy up, because we were all going off to the ‘Angel’ for a meal.

The ’Angel’ turned out to be less than a five-minute walk and a good pub. I bought a round, and we ordered our meals. It was very different to be out with four girls and I stayed quiet as their conversation swirled around boys, girls, clothes, and shoes. They gave me some information about the styles I might be creating artwork for. A lot of other boys and girls stopped by to say hello and get introduced to me. I would never remember all their names.

I’m not a drinker, so refused to take part in another round. It may have been a test, because we left after we had finished our meals, without another round being bought. Back at the house, I put my things away and pulled out my sketchbook. I had been storing pictures of them in my mind, so sat on the bed and started sketching. I have a problem when I sketch; I lose track of time. I was startled when there was a knock on my door. I called out “Come in” and Monica poked her head in.

“Are you all right, Tristan? I saw the light on and it’s pretty late.”

“Sorry. I get carried away when I sketch. My mother used to call it my artistic white-out.”

“Can I have a look?”

I said she could, and she came into my room and sat on my bed, looking at my drawings. I suddenly realised that there was a girl, sitting on my bed, in a nightie and dressing gown, something that had never happened since the last time my mother had tucked me in.

“These are very good. Do you paint as well?”

“Yes, I do. I didn’t mean to be up so late. It’s just that I store up pictures in my mind and need to get them on paper while they’re fresh. Being with the four of you was a feast of visions.”

“You’ve certainly captured our likenesses well. I love the one of me. If you did a small painting of that, I’d buy it to give to my mother for her birthday. We do have a strong bond and I know she misses me.”

“I’d have to take the job and stay here to do that.”

“Tristan, you know that you’re going to take the job. You are a nice boy, and you have all the fine qualities of a proper gentleman. You’re certainly a talented artist. You’ll fit in with us well. You will begin to love being here, we have a bit of fun, and we know a lot of people. The others have told me that they moonlight as helpers when the big art gallery has a show, they may be able to sweet-talk the owner into putting some of yours on the walls. Now, you need your sleep, so put this away and get yourself to bed. We’ll wake you up at six, so that you can join us in our jog in the park. You do have sneakers, I hope.”

When she left me, I made ready for bed and had a surprisingly good sleep, only being woken by my phone alarm playing the ‘Valkyries’. I had loved watching ‘Apocalypse Now’ when I was smaller. It was amazingly good at getting me awake. I had track pants and a sweatshirt, with my socks and sneakers on, when there was a knock on my door. I opened it to see Monica, similarly dressed.

“Good, you’re dressed. We run before breakfast, then get ready for work. We start at nine.”

When we got downstairs, the others were in the kitchen, taking water bottles from the fridge. I was given one and we left the house to go into the park, which I was told was Palmerstone Park. At first, I was concentrating on getting into a rhythm, and then looking around at the park in the early morning light. We had turned back towards where we had come in, when I finally looked more closely at the girls in front of me. They were loping along effortlessly, their pert butts, and their ponytails, swinging with the effort. I stopped dead.

“Aaaarrggghh!”

They all stopped and looked at me.

“Are you all right, Tristan? Have you sprained anything?”

“No, girls. It’s not physical. It’s mental.”

“Come on, tell us all about it. They say that a problem shared is a problem halved. Was it seeing us, this morning, that reminded you of an old love?”

I stood and tried to pluck up the courage to bare my very soul. We started walking back towards the house when I told them my biggest secret.

“It’s something I saw years ago when I was looking at historical examples of advertising. There was an advert which spoke about a girl with a curl, right in the middle of her ponytail. I haven’t thought about it in weeks, but, when I saw you all, with your ponytails swinging from side to side, it came back to me.”

“So, what is it that causes you so much angst?”

“Because it was an advert about straightening curly hair, and I’ve always had straight hair. It made me think what it would be like to have curly hair and made me question who I was.”

“So, who are you?”

“I’m a crazy, mixed-up, boy. I haven’t had a proper girlfriend, I don’t get on with macho boys, and I paint pictures which always have pretty girls in summer dresses in.”

“He does do good drawings, I looked at his sketchbook last night.”

“He’s here one day and you’ve already seen his etchings, Monica!”

“That’s all that happened, Gloria. It was late and his light was on. He remained fully dressed.”

We had got to the house, and it was decided that we would discuss this more once we had showered and dressed for the office. I was told to bring my sketchbook down with me.

When we were sitting at the kitchen table, they looked at my drawings of them, making nice comments. Gloria looked at it carefully.

“Tristan. I wondered about Marilyn bringing you here. I’m the only one who remembers the last graphic artist we had. Grumpy old bastard, if ever there was one. After he left, we went to an agency. The problem is that they think that we’re just a cash cow. I’ll show you some of their work today, and you’ll see for yourself. Today, and tomorrow, I’ll give you the pictures that our supplier has sent in advance. If you can make those look good, Marilyn is certain to give you the job, and I know we’ll pitch you as deserving better money.”

“That’s very good of you. You hardly know me.”

“I could see you doing something this morning that was hard for you, and impossible for the majority of men. You opened yourself to us, just like women do. It was very brave of you, as well as being very trusting, seeing that you’ve only just met us. We’ll get on, Tristan, never fear.”

We walked into the office. On the way, Sally walked beside me.

“About your hair. I spent a little time in a salon, and I can see that your hair is a bit uncared for. I expect that you use body wash on it.”

“I do.”

“There’s a Superdrug store a few minutes from the office. We’ll go there during the lunch break and get you something better to use. It does need some extra care.”

That morning, Gloria showed me the work that the agency had done, then gave me the folder with the designs in for the new range, the autumn ones would be first. In the back room, I sat at the desk and looked at them. The agency had become lazy, just copying the original supplier pictures, and spacing them out on the previous campaign adverts. If you looked closely, you could pick out the original crease lines from the paperwork.

I turned on the computer, the scanner, and the big sheet printer. I scanned the supplier pictures to a new file which I called ‘autumn’ and made small changes to improve the looks. Then I printed every design on the big sheet printer, big enough to go on the drafting board as a picture big enough to turn into a dress being worn.

I had brought my pencil box and sketchbook with me, so set about adding human details, legs with shoes to suit, arms with slender hands with rings on, and the neck and head, using my sketches from last night as a guide. I had finished two by the time Marilyn came in to tell me it was lunch time. She looked at the design I had on the drafting board.

“Now, that is impressive, Tristan. Are you intent of giving every design a human form?”

“Well, yes. It gives the buyer an idea of what it looks like when it’s worn. I’ve tidied up the original picture and added the rest.”

“That’s Monica. You have captured her youthfulness well.”

I picked up the other one I had finished and showed it to her.

“That’s Gloria at her sassiest! You have the youth range and the mid-twenties there, in a nutshell. How will you go for the other age ranges?”

“I’ll see them in the shops or in the street and remember them to sketch later.”

“You keep this up, and I won’t want you to go home on Monday. Anyway, the girls go out to a café for lunch, get yourself out there and enjoy a break.”

Marianne Gregory © 2024