Dot and Sam 36

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.

Chapter 36

“Come on Rip van Winkle! It’s time to rise and shine.”

“Mmmph!” Marty protested from under the duvet.

“Cm’ on,” I protested to her, ”I didn’t come all the way to Manchester just to curl up under a posh duvet. It’s ten to eleven.”

“What’s that bloody awful noise?” Marty grumbled as she pulled the duvet tightly over her head.

“It’s Sunday morning and those are the church bells.” I reminded her.

“I thought we were in LGBT country around here.”

“We are but they’ve still got a few christians as well. I’m told even the vicar of this parish is either LGBT or a woman.”

There followed some more muffled grumblings from under the duvet and eventually a face appeared blinking in the light.

“Why are you getting up so early?” She croaked.

“What are you croaking for, you can’t possibly be hung over!”

“I’m not, I’m just tired. Let me sleep.”

“Okay then, you sleep your life away. I’m going down Canal street cos’ there’s quite a bit of socialising on a Sunday morning. If you get up, I’ll be sitting on the street tables by the canal. Probably opposite The Rembrant Bar where that lovely guy tried to pick you up last night.”

“Mmm,” Marty reflected, “he was quite dishy. If I weren’t gay I could have fancied him.”

“Yeah well he was probably bi, I saw him later, all over a young kid who was apparently too young to get in the bars. They were sitting in ’The Village Chippy’ by Napoleons,” on Bloom Street. The kid looked homeless. It’s not all gaiety and laughter.”

“Yeah, I noticed quite a few younger kids begging. The police kept trying to detain them. One of them looked only fourteen and a policewoman was talking to him, - or her!”

“Yeah,” I sympathised. “If they’ve run away from home at that age, there’s nowhere for them to go. Most of them are looking for a hot meal and a safe, warm bed.”

“Dot said you were like that when she found you.”

“Yeah, I was dead lucky and I landed on my feet with Dot. Lot’s don’t. Anyway, I’m having brunch in the hotel restaurant then I’m off down Canal street. Call me if you’re up and about later.”

By that time Marty was alert and she joined me for Brunch. We then spent the afternoon savouring the easy-going atmosphere of the gay village. It was there we spotted the news headlines and mayhem that had erupted on the Durian farmers march. There we learned that over six hundred people had received various levels of medical attention and over four hundred people had been arrested. Apparently, tens of thousands had attended.

“Are you glad now, that you didn’t go?” I toned seriously to Marty.

“It’s bad,” Marty replied, “I’ll try and phone 'Rosie the Rivetter'. She was with the TERFs and she’ll have some info.”

We took a table opposite the Rembrant bar and sipped coffee while Marty tried her dammedest to reach Rosie. She may not have been a friend; indeed I would have counted her amongst my enemies; but I would not have wanted her injured. She was, after all, living in the same halls of residence as Marty and me.

Truthfully though, I did not feel any concern or worry about Rosie. Perhaps Marty was more empathetic and humanitarian than me?

Having failed to reach Rosie, Marty resigned herself to waiting until we returned to college. We returned to our hotel feeling quite subdued and slumped dejectedly in the lounge. As we sat digesting the television news, both our phones rang as our parents confirmed we were okay and Marty’s dad rang me personally to thank me for keeping his precious daughter out of danger. I felt a wave of guilt when I reflected how close I might have come to endangering Marty.

Despite Marty’s dad’s gratitude, I still felt guilty, and I had no ‘father confessor’ to reveal my activities to. It was then I realised I would have to keep ‘Macavity’s’ identity a secret to my grave.

I seriously doubted that even my own father Trevor would have forgiven me for helping to precipitate such violence onto London’s streets.

It had all been so, so easy and frighteningly effective, that it caused me to shudder at how simple it was for populist demagogues to rabble rouse a nation to war if there was sufficient discontent in the population.

As these and many other thoughts were settling in my mind, our peace was disturbed by the American, Ohio State University Band Alumni returning from the 'Northern Festival of Brass'. As they tramped en-masse into the foyer, our previous acquaintances spotted us and enthusiastically inquired what time we were going out into Canal Street.

We explained that Sunday night was usually a relatively sober affair and there would be few, if any, of the exotic and provocative costumes that had made their appearances on the Saturday night.

How ever, this was a ‘Bank Holiday weekend and the Show Bar on Bloom Street usually had a drag night so they elected to go there because the customers often joined in the spirit and the exotic costumes sometimes spilled out onto the street if it wasn’t too cold or raining.

This particular weekend was of course May bank holiday and people did not have to face a Monday morning at work. The Show bar excelled itself and the Americans were impressed.

Napoleon’s Club also proved a good night out and the venue did not disappoint. So much so that the group who had attached themselves to us had returned to the hotel in good spirits and amidst some pretty intense debate.

As the group gathered in the all-night bar to rejoin their fellow visitors, the volume of debate and discussion rose steadily while Marty and I slinked off to bed again as dawn was breaking.

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

On Monday we dressed in ‘respectable,’ every-day attire and spent the afternoon shopping before finally taking the early evening train back to London. We arrived at our halls of residence that night grateful to be back in our own bed and asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillow.

Tuesday plunged us straight back into academic endeavour and we did not learn of Rosie the Rivetter’s injuries until we ate our evening meal in the refectory at around six p.m. As we ate, several of Rosie’s henchmen came over and we both tensed in anticipation of trouble.

“Where were you on Saturday?”

“Manchester.” Marty responded.

“So you weren’t on the march?” She pressed curiously.

“As my friend just said, we were in Manchester. We heard the news though.”

“Have you heard about Rosie.”

“No.” I answered monosyllabically as we both looked up.

“What happened?” Marty asked almost disinterestedly.

“She’s badly injured. Some bastard fucking knifed her.” The Terf cursed.

“Did they catch the bastard?” I asked feigning further disinterest.

“Yes, somebody saw it and notified the police. They organised a snatch squad and dragged him out of the march. Rosie’s blood has been identified on his jebella. He’s a Syrian student attending the City University.”

“Good,” I shrugged and resumed spooning my pudding.

“She’s in Charing Cross hospital.” The TERF continued.

“Panic over then.” Marty added as she stood to go and collect two mugs of coffee.”

“We’re going to visit her tomorrow, during the Wednesday afternoon free time.”

Neither Marty nor I responded and the TERF became somewhat confrontational.

“Aren’t you coming she’s a classmate and she shares your stem classes.”

“She doesn’t share my interests nor my welfare. No thank you, I won’t be visiting her.” I replied forcefully.

“You do realise she almost died, She’s only just out of danger!”

“She put herself in danger cos she didn’t heed the police advice. The police warned everybody about their concerns.”

“That’s why we didn’t go on the march!” Marty shouted across the refectory as she heard the volume of our discussion increasing and anticipated yet another abusive interlude.

“Got it in one Marty!” I exclaimed loudly for the TERF’s benefit. “Everybody, including the police thought there might be trouble, and there was.”
I added the last sentence for general interest and as evidence of my views if perchance, the police did come a' hunting'.

The TERF glared at me as she searched for intellectual ammunition to condemn me but she found precious little. She tried a feeble argument to which I found no real cause to contest except to contradict her reasoning and accusation.

“So you’re saying you’re not prepared to stand up for people’s land rights and human rights.”

“Their quarrel is more religious than anything else. The Shias occupy the peninsular and the oil, while the Sunnis occupy the mainland and the artesian water. It's a religious war, not a resource war, and I’ve got no interests in any religious wars. They’re invariably intractable and dirty. A plague on all faiths is my view and I certainly don’t intend to get myself knifed or killed for some religious squabble. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re taking our coffees up to our rooms.”

Marty heard my words and turned about with coffees in hand to head for our rooms.

As we met by the main door to the refectory, Marty grinned.

“It’s useful being atheist, you avoid all the internecine religious squabbling.”

“Except when the fundamentalists come knocking.” I sighed.

“Where you serious about not going to see if Rosie’s okay?”

“I’ll check with the hospital and possibly slip in privately but I’ll not go in ‘mob-handed.’ It’ll probably be Thursday night or even Friday, when I visit, probably after things have calmed down a bit.”

“You’re softie at heart.” Marty opined.

“No, just a pragmatist. I’m not going to invite any more censure, there’s enough TERF transphobic shit around without stirring up anymore.”

Once in our room, we shared a shower then chatted at length about the protest march. Several of out LGBT friends stopped by but we saw nothing of any TERFS.

Wednesday also passed without incident. In the afternoon I joined my usual running group while Marty firstly did some extra maths and physics study in the Library, before going to the dance group in the gym. We met up again at six in the refectory.

As we sat down to eat beside some gay friends, we received some sullen stares from the TERF table but we were not approached. It seemed that the faculty warning about harassment or violence had been heeded, Or perhaps the lethal debacle at the protest march had given some hotheads pause for thought.

Better still, the mood at the gay tables had not altered as Marty and I had sat down. Apparently, somebody had just related some amusing anecdote about the march before we had arrived and others were still chuckling as we joined them. When Marty asked about the smiles, they explained it to both of us and it lightened our moods as well.

“Are you dancing down the Union tonight?” One of the regular troop asked.

Dance troop members almost always danced in the Students’ Union on a Wednesday night as an extension of the societal activities during the afternoon. It was there that we 'freshers' had met last year and joined the ‘theatrical’ wing of the society that put on shows for other student societies either for charity events or general fund raising.

“Yeah; we’ll be there,” Marty answered for both of us.

This cheered the Theatrical troop up because the larger numbers always encouraged the more self-conscious students to address their shyness by gaining anonymity within the crowd.

We left after dining and were confronted by one of ‘Rosie the Rivetters’ lieutenants outside our rooms.

“Rosie was hoping to see you.”

“Too bad.” I replied, “We couldn’t make it.”

“She wondered why you didn’t attend the march.”

“We heeded the police warnings. They couldn’t have made it any plainer.”

“So you’re saying you’re letting the bullies prevent you from exercising your rights to free speech and free assembly.”

“If you put it like that, I suppose you’re right. Trans people have never had many rights anyway, so we weren’t losing much. Nothing worth getting killed for; or stabbed for that matter. Anyway," I added ironically, "isn't it you TERFS who've attacked our rights to assemble or even to have a wee in peace?”

She fell silent as she realised the fatuousness of her words.

With that Marty reinforced my words by noisily operating our door lock and I followed her in as she closed the door firmly behind me. It was the clearest way for us both to express our feelings as we left the girl stuck outside in the corridor staring at a closed door. She had no option but to leave.

Once inside, we made preparations to go dancing later.

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