Dot and Sam 35

Dorothy Philpot. Landlady of The Harbour Light pub
Sam Philpot. Drag-queen and lifelong companion of Dot’s.
Billy Parkins Doorkeeper.
Jessica Merlot The town’ and county archaeologist.
Josephine MacDonald The town and county archivist.
Richard Drummond Town planning inspector
Robert Vincent. Junior planning inspector.
Georgina. (Georgie) Homeless Transgender girl previously known as George.
Bobby Gay boy on the school bus.
Marty Girl on the school bus. (She becomes Georgie’s best friend and lover)
Jack. Marty’s twin brother (Keen runner).
Trevor Aitkins, Georgie’s Biological father.
Lucinda Aitkins Georgie’s biological mother
Terence Georgie’s step-dad
Peter Terence’s homophobic son.
Allison. Old school friend of Trevor & Retired Solicitor
Fred Allison’s husband
Elizabeth Aitkins (Beth) Georgie’s younger biological sister. Later proves to be sympathetic to her ‘sister’
Jonathon Aitkins (Johnny) Georgie’s younger biological brother.
Rosie the Rivetter Terf Gang Leader on campus.

Dot and Sam 35

On the Friday evening, before the May-day march, Marty came home to find me packing my overnight bag.

“Are you serious about going to Manchester?” She asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “and I think you should come too.”

“D’you really think there’s going to be trouble?”

“I’m beginning to believe the police theory that there might be some sort of ‘Agent provocateur’ stirring up mischief. It’s not like the police to come out and say so unless they’ve got some sort of hard evidence.”

“What sort of trouble d’ you think it’ll be?”

“I dunno, but if it happens, there’ll be violence and possibly lots of it. It’s a big march by all accounts.”

“And do you seriously think it’s going to kick off?” Marty frowned.

“Bloody hell Marty! You’ve seen the troubles on the smaller marches, plus all that business with the attacks on the mosques. I’m pretty certain something’s going to happen. Just make sure you keep away from LGBT groups, or TERFS or any of those anti-islamic gangs, the Defenders-of-the-realm and such like.”

“That’s a big ask, they could be anywhere amongst the marchers.”

“They ARE the bloody marchers!” I snapped back angrily. “And that’s exactly why I’m not going! I don’t know who’s who, I don’t know when they’ll attack or where they might attack and I certainly don’t know how big the various groups will be. I tell you Marty, I’m staying away.”

“You’re over-reacting,” Marty scoffed.

I wagged my head resignedly and sighed. There seemed to be no way of getting through to Marty short of my ‘coming out’ to her about my activities. I put my foot down and declared resolutely/

“Well; I’m not going and that’s that! I’ve had beatings enough in my short life and I’m not looking for more. There are a lot of TERFS on the campus who know me by sight and I know for a fact that ‘Rosie-the Rivetter’ would like to settle her score with me since she discovered I was trans. It would be an ideal opportunity for her to set her dogs upon me in the anonymous mayhem of a TERF attack. I just don’t know and I don’t intend to find out!”

“Oh stop worrying girl and come to bed.”

Glad of an excuse to not talk about or contemplate the forthcoming march, I slid into bed beside my erstwhile companion. She could sense the tension in me so she reached across to rest her arm over my breasts. Then she hugged me to reassure me before asking.

“What time’s your train?” She whispered.

“I’m getting the eight o’ clock express nonstop and it’s costing me the earth. Now let me get some sleep.”

She loosened her arm and eased away from me slightly as though showing displeasure. Sensing this I tried explaining.

“I’m not angry that you’re going, I’m just worried.” I whispered. “Promise me you’ll stay alert and stay away from any obvious gangs or groups.”

Marty gave me one last hug then turned to face me again before whispering.

“I’ll be okay and I’ll keep away from any groups.”

“Thanks,” I replied, “I’ll be gone before you’re up, I’ve got to cross town before getting the train.”
So saying, I kissed her on the lips then snugged my head on her shoulder. She shuddered as my hair tickled her nipples, then we fell into restless sleeps.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday dawned clear and bright, because a brief shower in the night had cleared the air. Fortunately, London now had a pretty clear atmosphere and I savoured the view from our narrow end window which gave me a narrow slice of sky to illuminate an equally narrow slice of the city to the east. I could just see an edge of one of the towers on the Tower Bridge and a sloping, shining sliver of ‘The Shard’ before it disappeared behind the chemistry block, but even that reflected the morning sun enough to brighten the narrow corridor enclosing me view.

Having no time to reflect on ‘Sights-more-fair’, I made a rare stab at some slap then finished my toast and coffee before setting off.

Marty was still asleep as I crept out with my overnight bag in hand.

At Euston I debated calling Marty but it was still only seven forty-five and it seemed a shame to disturb her. However my reservation was allayed when she phoned me as I was walking along the platform.

“Are you on the train yet?” She asked.

“Just boarding, why?”

“I’ve decided to come with you to Manchester, can you wait for me.”
“No I’ve just confirmed my booking with the train manager. However, I’ll make a reservation for you on the nine-fifteen, that’s the next flyer. We can meet in Piccadilly or Canal street.”

“Would that be first class as well?”

“Only if my dad agrees, he gets discounts cos he travels every week to Manchester, London or Liverpool.”

Once on the train, I made the necessary calls and blessed my dad for being so generous. Marty met me in Canal street and after confirming our hotel room, we spent the day doing Manchester.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At lunch time, the news broke about rioting on the Durian Farmer’s March in London. The police, despite posting over a thousand police officers to monitor the parade, had been overwhelmed by the tactics even though they had been forewarned.

The first trouble had broken out, as I’d predicted, at Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park. The police had been unable to ‘kettle’ the troublemakers because Hyde Park is a large open space with no enclosed areas or narrow streets to use for containment. Apparently over a hundred people had been injured, many of them LGBT, before the March could start. Fortunately, few of the injuries were serious because the LGBT attendees had quickly abandoned their support for the march as they were driven away by the muslim organisers..

As Marty and I shared a coffee at a street table in Canal Street, we watched a pub television through an open doorway.
The second major flareup occurred along Piccadilly as the ‘Defenders-of-the-realm’ firstly attached themselves to the march in dribs and drabs then made themselves known forcibly once they had sufficient strength.

This time the violence was much more intense and concentrated as the ‘Defenders of the Realm’ were a well organised gang and they had identified their victims pretty loosely as anybody who ‘looked like a muslim’ and waving a Durian flag. The gang gave all the appearances of having practiced their tactics and they were found to be wearing body armour under their outer clothes.

Hundreds were injured, many of them seriously!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That late afternoon as the news reports exploded across all the channels, the nation was stunned by the images and reports. Marty sat open-mouthed in shock as images of spilt blood on pavements and blood splattered doorways where marchers had desperately tried to avoid the ‘defenders’ attacks, filled the television screens across the nation. Most shocking of all was the many images of blood stained and injured police struggling to contain the violence.

I sat tight-lipped throughout the extended news bulletins while occasionally re-ordering extra coffee as gasps and curses emanated from the LGBT people who had gathered in Canal Street to follow the news as the word spread nationwide.

Finally the national six o’clock news appeared as the familiar music caught everybody’s attention and the Canal Street café-goers fell silent. The familiar face of the senior BBC anchorman filled the screen with his concerned face as he paused before delivering the shocking statistics.

Altogether, over five hundred people had been injured and sixty had been hospitalised. Thirty of those in hospital were police. After the headlines had been bannered by the newscasters, a very senior police chief accompanied by the home secretary, appeared on screen while the remnants of the mayhem were still being cleared up behind them.

The police chiefs’ uniform even bore some blood stains and she sported a plaster over her eye where somebody had obviously targeted her. For the senior police officer to have been injured, pointed to control of the march having been lost at some juncture. The riot had stunned Parliament and several cabinet members were summoned to the house to lead an emergency debate.

Eventually, as the strains of the evening news broadcast faded, Marty turned to me.

“You were right.”

I nodded silently while remaining tight-lipped. Despite my feelings of guilt, I now felt forced to keep quiet. If Macavity’s identity was not to be revealed, it would have to remain known only to one. If the police discovered who Macavity was, they would throw the book at me. I silently thanked my lucky stars that I had seen sense enough not to ever talk or brag about it.

After the news-cast, we went to our hotel to change for a night of dancing and clubbing and we missed the ten o’clock late-night news.

Manchester, as everybody who is LGBT knows, is a fabulous city for transgendered people and Marty, being essentially a lesbian, had never been there. By the time we were ready for bed we had visited all the clubs and the sun was just peeping behind the buildings as we picked our footsore way home to our hotel.

“D’ you fancy an early breakfast?” I asked Marty as we keyed the hotel door.

“Will they be serving it yet?” She wondered.

“The splurge says they have an all-night restaurant. It’s a huge hotel.”

As we limped past the reception desk it was obvious to the receptionist that we had been savouring Manchester’s gay village and she smiled at us as she explained.

“Are you looking for breakfast?”

“Are they serving it?” I responded.

“It’s five o’ clock, yes, the servery will be opening now. Just go to the restaurant it’s opening now.”

We exchanged amused glances with each other before smiling at the receptionist. Our clubbing outfits were ridiculously scanty and we were revealing obscene amounts of flesh. She smiled at us and grinned.

“Don’t worry about your outfits girls, you should come up for the Transgender week in July, the Sparkle Weekend. Those skimpy leotards would really fit in. Believe me girls, despite this hotel having a high-class reputation we see some absolutely wild stuff during Sparkle. Go on in before the restaurant fills up.”

Buoyed up by the receptionist’s encouragement, we boldly entered the restaurant and the maître-de led us to a table then invited us to visit the breakfast buffet.

We looked at the table and realised he had placed us where everybody could see us and we could survey the whole restaurant. It was obvious that we were not expected to be wall-flowers.

To reassure us he explained. There’ll be a large party of your trans sister due down in fifteen minutes so you two won’t stick out like a sore thumb. I promise you; you’ll enjoy the company.

Thus forewarned we settled at our table first, then returned to the buffet to load our plates. Suddenly, as we chose our food, there was a commotion in the main foyer before a large group of Americans almost marched into the restaurant and took their designated places at a long, prearranged row of tables. Marty and I exchanged glances yet again and grinned self-consciously as the Americans began to notice us. We were, after all, the only other people eating, and it was still just after five in the morning.

Naturally, they stared at our skimpy clubbing costumes and started whispering amongst themselves as they made for the buffet. Marty and I just sat tight but eventually, we had to return to the buffet bar to collect the next course. The Americans were still queuing for their first course so we respectfully joined the back of the queue and held our tongues.

Inevitably, more of the Americans came behind us and invariably they were curious about us.

We explained that we had been clubbing all night and we were having breakfast before going to bed. When they found out were only eighteen they were shocked that we were ‘out dressed like that’ and drinking alcohol. (Marty had ordered a couple of drinks from the hotel bar and we were taking them up with us.) The bottles were sitting un-opened on our table.

We then explained that we were visiting the gay village and Marty then wound them up by further explaining she was lesbian whilst I was post-op trans. The gasps travelled down the breakfast queue like a hurricane blast. We then found out that the group were members of the Ohio state marching band alumni and most were somewhat fundamentalist in their views. They were shocked that the police had not hauled us in for indecent exposure.

We retaliated by declaring that England was a free country and we could dress as we liked. Then to add fuel to the fire, the other group of transgendered guests entered the restaurant and were immediately set to sit next to our table by the maître de. Once they were settled, they came over to the queue and discussed the previous evenings fun before stepping to the back of the queue.

Marty and I had never enjoyed ourselves so much as we explained to the American alumni just how free and open the gay village was.

A substantial number were so intrigued that they agreed to meet us in the early evening just to see what went on. They were destined to visit a national brass band competition during the day.

Finally, as the city traffic began show signs of life, Marty and I squeezed together to savour the luxury of a king-sized bed and crisp, new sheets

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