Synopsis
A wealthy and beautiful Spanish Countess prepares for a private dinner party with her husband and children at the White House with the President and First Lady. As she arrives, she casts her mind back to a very different life.

Jim, a young boy, is brought up in a deprived and abusive home in London’s East End. Aware of his TS condition, he suffers abuse and humiliation, culminating in a homosexual predator taking advantage of him. Finding himself in jail, undergoing special ‘treatment’ to combat his ‘anger’ problems, the young man finally is abused by the state.

When you hit the bottom, there is only one way to go. And a girl called Jemma decides to go up.

---

 
Tanya has a new website where she will display her latest works first and then to BigCloset TopShelf a few weeks later is here at Tanya Allan's Tales .
Tanya's Book Shop where she is selling her works in book form is at http://tanyaallan.authorshaunt.com/shop.php . Please Visit!

---

 
The Legal Stuff: A Fairy’s Tale  ©2004 Tanya Allan
 
This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Permission is granted for it to be copied and read by individuals, and for no other purpose. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited, and may only be posted to free sites with the express permission of the author.
 
This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism, and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
 
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.
 
This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don’t read it.
 
 

 
Please enjoy.

Tanya
 
 
Part 12
 
 
“Senorita, telephone call for you. Seá±or Collins,” Diego said.

“Thank you Diego. I’ll take it in the study,” I replied.

I walked through the villa to the study. It was late October 1975, and I was now relaxed and much more at peace with the world. The wedding was set for the next June, as Roz wanted me to be a June Bride. Francisco was currently in America on business and I had become very fond of my mother-in-law to be. Roz and I formed a relationship that was as close to mother and daughter that two unrelated people could ever hope to achieve.

A couple of months after the blackmail attempt I had told Roz the whole truth. To my surprise, she had been as accepting as her son had been. I was very humbled by the whole experience, knowing full well that I did not deserve such wonderful people.

I had not asked any questions of Francisco over the Collins affair, until eventually he told me what he had done. I was so surprised, that I had had to sit down.

“I offered him a job. But I told him that if ever he betrayed any trust again, he would be very, very sorry indeed.”

“A job?”

“I need a good lawyer, who asks no questions sometimes. My business is legitimate, but some of the dealings I undertake are with persons who are not as legitimate as I am. I need to be safe from any legal repercussions. What better than to have a hold of a man so thoroughly, that he would never dare betray my trust?”

“I accept your decision and admire you for it. I’d have castrated the little shit.”

“You had the option, yet you shied away from it.”

“I know, my love. Really, you have done the best thing.”
 
 
“Mr Collins?” I said on the phone.

“Miss Adams. I need to contact the Count.” Stuart was ever so formal with me.

“He’s in the States. How urgent is it?”

“It can keep for a couple of days, but I need to speak to him by Friday.”

“I will tell him when he calls me tonight.”

“Jemma?”

“What?”

“I just want to apologise.”

“You already did.”

“I know. But I still feel bad.”

“Good. You were a stupid, greedy little bastard. Because of that, you have lost a perfectly good friend.”

“I know. But I also wanted to say thanks.”

“What for?”

“For not doing to me what you could have done.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Yes, it was. The Count told me that you decided not to have me done away with.”

“So?”

“Thanks. I mean it. I have this job and all. So, I just wanted to say sorry again.”

“Apology accepted. But trust is a fragile thing; so don’t expect me ever to trust you as I did before. What Francisco does with you is different. But, never think things will ever be the same.”

“Okay. If it makes any different, I think I have finally learned my lesson.”

“Yeah,” I said, and he laughed.

“You always were a hard little cow,” he said.

“You’d better believe it.”

I hung up.
 
 
The tabloid press had tried digging up facts about me, but were not successful, and as other more startling and spectacular news to cover, like the IRA bombings on mainland UK, and industrial unrest. So I slipped into the murk of disinterest.

Except, there was one journalist, coincidentally, the man who was convinced I was worthy of investigative journalism, and the same man who was interested in James Gardner; a certain Robin Hawksmith. He’d once told me that he never liked not knowing, so he did not like not knowing about me.

I shared my disquiet with Francisco, who smiled.

“Would you like my friends to deal with him?”

“No, that wouldn’t help. He is a journalist, so he’s totally different to corrupt greedy lawyers. I shall have to deal with him another way.”

“I have a suggestion.”

“Yes?”

“Give him what he wants, only through an untraceable source.”

I frowned, was he mad?

“Not the truth, but a story that is so unreal as to be believable, but once published, leaves him open to be sued by everyone.”

“Go on.”

“At present, your past is vague, military father, no fixed school, no set of relatives, or guardians, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then give him a different past, one with a father of high office, a politician or even Royalty - with an illegitimate birth and government cover-ups. He will take flimsy evidence, publish, and be open for litigation, but not by you. Let everyone else threaten to sue, and you keep quiet. That silence will convince him that he is correct, so he will embarrass himself out of a job.”

“I can’t do that. I don’t have the resources or the contacts. And even if I did, I can’t risk my real past being discovered.”

“I have certain resources at my disposal,” he said, smiling that gentle smile.

I just shrugged and left it at that. It was one of those conversations that one has and I thought no more of it.

Then, one morning, Stuart called.

“Jemma?”

“Hello Stuart, do you want Francisco?”

“No, it’s you I want to speak to. Have you seen the Sun this morning?”

“Even if I wanted to, I’m hardly in a location where everyone has instant access to one.”

“You’re on page two.”

“At least I’m not on page three.”

“It isn’t funny. You should read what they say.”

“Go on.”

“It says, ‘The Sun has exclusive evidence that beautiful blonde Jemma Adams (21) is hiding a great and embarrassing secret. Recently engaged to dashing Spanish Count, Francisco del Valdarez, the sexy Jemma’s past is very secretive and until now has been mysterious and unknown.

‘This reporter is in possession of information that proves that Jemma is the illegitimate daughter of a very prominent figure, and not, as is claimed, the daughter of a dead British serviceman. Her father is alive and well, and if the full facts are published, he is likely to be caused great embarrassment, and indeed, he is known to be married and has several children.

‘Photographs reveal the young Jemma playing in the grounds of Balmoral Castle when about six or seven, add fuel to the speculation of he highly placed father.

‘Miss Adams was unavailable for comment, and a palace spokesman said this was highly speculative and fictional rubbish. More tomorrow.’

“What do you think?”

“What bollocks,” I said.

“The photographs actually look as if they could be you, a sort of young version. They have a recent picture next to it.”

“You know it’s bollocks,” I said.

“Jemma, it looks like you.”

“It isn’t me. You know that’s impossible.”

“So how did it happen?” he asked.

I remembered my conversation with Francisco.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you want me to start legal proceedings?”

“No, we will simply deny it to another paper and let Hawksmith dig a bigger hole for himself.”

“How did you know it was him?”

“I can guess. He always was an arse.”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“Call the Times on my behalf. Issue a statement to the affect that it is untrue and that Hawksmith should be very careful what he says about other people.”

“Is that all?”

“Unless your contact in the Irish embassy wants to get arrested, that is enough, don’t you think?”

“He is not there now.”

“Oh, am I in danger?”

“Hardly, he died of cancer three months ago.”

“So?”

“All the records have been transferred to central registry in Dublin, including yours. You are legal.”

“Completely?”

“Absolutely.”

“How do you know?”

“Your fiancé asked me to check. So I did.”

“Then offer to show the Times my birth certificate.”

“Okay.”

I rang off, not a little troubled.

Francisco came and found me, and I turned on him.

“You could have bloody warned me,” I said, quite angry.

“I was going to, but things got out of hand. Hawksmith didn’t even wait to verify the information; he just went ahead and published. I am sorry Jemma, truly, I was going to tell you about it, and the other things.”

“Other things?”

He smiled.

“Come with me,” he said. I followed him to his study, still angry and frightened.

He went behind his large desk, and sitting in the big red leather armchair, he opened a drawer, taking out a folder. He passed it over to me.

“All you need to do is deny it and offer some proof of identity. This may help.”

“Already done?” I said, reaching out for the file.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Good, now let nature take its course.”

I opened the file.

My birth certificate was there, as was a photograph of a man in the uniform of a British Army Sergeant with Irish Guards insignia on his uniform. A pretty woman was seated on a bench in another photograph, and there were several photos of them with a baby girl, and a couple with a little girl who looked remarkably like I should, or could have been at that age. There was a series of different school reports and photographs of school children with a pretty blonde girl in each. They were very well done, and I was amazed.

“By the way, who is supposed to be my father?”

“I thought the Duke of Kent was quite a good choice.”

“Franco! No?”

He smiled.

“Don’t worry, there is no way the source can be traced and the photographs are very well done.”

“Who is she?”

“She is a young girl in Canada, one of my friends thought she resembled you very closely. The photographs were adjusted accordingly. No one will suspect, so don’t worry.”

Over the next few days, the Sun continued the story, never actually printing the name of my supposed father, but the hints became stronger. More photographs appeared, as the London Times issued my denial and the threat of legal action. Upon close examination, one could see that the photographs in the paper were all of the same girl, but it was as if she had been pasted into the background photograph. They looked false, good ones, but still false. The Sun was going to have egg on its face.

As soon as mention of my birth certificate appeared and verification was completed with Dublin, the Sun closed the story. I imagined that Hawksmith’s services were about to be downgraded.

I called the Sun.

“Robin Hawksmith’s editor, please.”

“Who is calling?”

“Jemma Adams.”

There was a mild panic on the other end.

“Mark Ritchie, Assistant News Editor.”

“Mr Ritchie. My name is Jemma Adams. For some obscure reason a reporter from your paper has got it into his head that I am the illegitimate daughter of someone famous. I find this fascinating and highly amusing, but the joke is wearing a bit thin. What do you propose to do about it?”

“That really depends on you, Miss Adams.”

“You want to know whether I am intending to take legal action, don’t you?”

“Are you?”

“Well, I understand that further supposed evidence is being published soon, if Mr Hawksmith is to be believed. Although intrigued as to the inventiveness of this desperate hack, I don’t actually believe that his false evidence will do the unfortunate famous person, your paper or me any good whatsoever. How he is kept on, beats me.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Put it this way. I know that the evidence is false and I can prove it. I have the original photographs from which these were taken. I don’t know how Hawksmith got hold of them, nor do I know who tampered with them and altered them. But even I can see that they are constructed. So, if a full retraction and an apology are not forthcoming within three days, I will. Is that fair?”

“Three days? That does not give us much time.”

“How long does it take to kill a story and print a few lines, or would you like the sight of my birth certificate and all the school reports that Mr Hawksmith doesn’t want to use, in case he loses his precious story?”

“You’ll get your apology.” Mr Ritchie said.

“Oh, and Mr Ritchie?”

“Miss Adams?”

“I have been hounded by your paper for long enough. I am a simple girl, who just happens to have been lucky in love. If Mr Hawksmith ever even thinks about doing another story on me, I will take it very personally. And, I now have quite a considerable legal resource at my disposal.”

“Point taken. You need not worry. Mr Hawksmith will not bother you any more.”

“Don’t misunderstand me. I’m quite open to press coverage where I am involved. But really, my formative private life is an open and very dull book. But I do strongly object to lies and fiction made to look like fact and my fiancé will see it as a personal insult should it happen again.”

“I accept that, and believe me, this paper will ensure that any story is properly verified.”

“Thank you. I look forward to seeing that in print,” I said, and hung up.

Sure enough, two days later the Sun published a full retraction and an apology to all those involved, both named and hinted at. Mr Hawksmith’s services were dispensed with, and I felt slightly more relaxed. I had learned never to become complacent.
 
 
Part 13
 
 
The wedding was over in a flash. My feet never touched the ground, although I was in a complete daze throughout most of it.

It took place in Spain at the local church, where generations of Valdarez ancestors had been baptised, married and buried. The main hacienda hosted the reception, with worthies coming from all over the world to attend.

My dress was the most magnificent creation that Roz’s friend from Paris had ever produced. Yvette Blanchfleur was a leading independent dress designer, who had won awards some years ago. Specialising now in wedding dresses for the rich and famous, her creations were often five figures or more.

The ceremony was conducted by the local priest in Spanish and English. The church was full to overflowing, so the hall next door was used as an overflow with audio link. At the moment when the priest asked if any person present knew of any just cause why we should not be wed, the pause seemed extended to me. Someone coughed, and I had to resist the very strong urge to turn round to see the culprit. However, to my relief, we were declared man and wife, and that kiss that sealed the vows was, to me, the most wonderful kiss ever!

One thousand people had been invited and after shaking hands for what appeared to be an age, I guessed that not many declined the invitation. The handful of my friends who did make it, were completely awe struck at the splendour of the occasion. I dreaded to think what it had all cost. The hacienda had been transformed into a floral wonderland, and Roz had enjoyed herself immensely in organising the arrangements.

George Jameson had been completely overcome when I had asked him to give me away. Lynette dissolved into tears, and they had both made the trip. They were the only other people, apart from Stuart, who knew the truth. Both had sworn to secrecy, and as they had given me the helping hand when I was at my most vulnerable, I loved them the more for it.

Sally and my three friends from the old Massage Centre days made wonderful bridesmaids, and I was tempted to ask Darren’s Morris to don a dress just for a laugh. When he turned up dressed as a girl, completely convincing, I almost died! He was in a powder blue twin set suit, of a silk blouse, bolero style jacket and skirt. He had grown his own hair and had it styled in a neat bob. He looked wonderful, fully made up and with exceptionally long crimson fingernails and teetering on stiletto heels. He even sported a cute blue cowboy-style hat, and he looked so relaxed and feminine.

It turns out he had changed his mind about dressing as a girl. He wasn’t going for a sex change, as Darren liked certain parts as they were, but he just adored the clothes. He had already had breast implants, and looked about as feminine as one could get.

When he and Darren came forward to be introduced to Francisco and Roz, we kissed cheeks and Darren introduced him as Marissa. He took the kiss from Francisco, who arched his eyebrow. He had recognised him, but said nothing.

It wasn’t a formal sit down occasion, and once the speeches were concluded, it turned into a wonderful celebration that went on deep into the night. The speeches were short and witty. George Jameson was very nervous, but he was excellent in the end. He had stood up, stared at the vast sea of faces and put his notes back into his pocket.

“Your Royal Highnesses, my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen. My humble speech is of no consequence in such august company.

“As I stand here, in loco parentis, for the lovely Jemma, I am humbled beyond belief. Jemma came to us with nothing. She was a desperate child of tragic and unhappy circumstances. Such was her will and determination to make something of her life, I am not in the least surprised to now find her amongst Europe’s titled nobility.

“It is rare to find someone with such a damaged past, whose temperament and character has allowed her to rise above that past and we have all marvelled at watching her become the lovely young bride of this wonderful occasion. I feel privileged to have been part of her life, and that part of her life which has witnessed her rise up and accept the challenge to succeed.

“Her amazing ability to adapt, her incredible determination, her exuberance and infinite capacity to love, has no doubt made her the charming girl she is today.

“I would be proud if she was my own daughter, and I am honoured to be standing here on such an occasion.”

The speech ended with a toast, and I felt at one with the world.

I circulated amongst the guests, stopping finally at the small but very select English group.

I sat next to Morris, giving him a hug.

“You look simply wonderful! How long have you been dressing like this?” I asked.

“Well, a week or so after that conversation we had in the pub, Darren and I went to s special function at a club. There was a glamour competition for T-girls and the one that won it was really quite butch. Darren bet that I’d make a more convincing girl, so I tried it the next time. I won, so took to dressing more often. It’s now so much me that I live all day and every day en femme and Daren loves it, don’t you lover?”

Darren grinned and nodded.

“We went to a pub in Camberley the other day. Marissa was like this and I bumped into two blokes I knew from the mob (army). They had suspected I was gay, but when they saw Marissa, they changed their minds. It is such a buzz, being able to kiss my boyfriend in public, as no one turns a hair,” he said, still with a huge grin on his face.

“It really turns me on, too,” said the sexy Marissa, as he fondled Darren’s leg.

I so wanted to tell them the truth about me, but knew it wasn’t either the time or the place. I also knew it was no longer important.

Sally disappeared at eleven with one of Francisco’s cousins. They were headed towards the stables, and I knew Sally wasn’t interested in the horses!

After the cake was cut and distributed, my husband and I went and changed. I was reluctant to change out of my fairy princess dress, but the going-away outfit was almost as expensive and equally stunning. A helicopter landed on the polo field, and whisked us away. I waved at all the faces below, finally able to relax with my husband. From there we went to the airport, and ended up, many hours later in the Maldives.

We spent two weeks in the sunshine, enjoying the sea and each other. Wearing clothes rarely, we acquired all-over tans and I became my husband’s devoted and willing slave. I worshipped the ground he walked on and there was nothing I wouldn’t do for him. I loved him completely and utterly, which he reciprocated in every way. We made love often and experimented with numerous new positions and sensations. He had been a slightly staid lover as far as that was concerned. I shocked him a little with my obvious skills at oral sex.

He was well endowed, not as big as my ski instructor, but still he filled me comfortably. He seemed to exist to please me and was the most unselfish lover I had ever had. In turn, I sought new ways to please him, so we both experienced new heights of pleasure. In giving we each received a hundredfold!

“Jemma?” he asked, as we lazed on the beach, one day.

“Mmm?” I said, rolling over so I could look at him.

He was regarding me closely, smiling as I made eye contact with him.

“Are you sure you were ever a boy? You seem all woman to me.”

I smiled, but said nothing. It was still painful to me and I didn’t like being reminded of it. We had rarely talked about it, but I knew that we would have to, eventually.

“He’s dead. He died inside that place.”

“I’m sorry, but it seems so far fetched that that person is the same as you are now.”

“He isn’t.”

He moved closer to me, and with his index finger traced the line of my breasts down to my belly button, and then down to my fine pubic hair. I shivered in anticipation.

“Was it very bad?”

I nodded.

“How old were you when you realised that inside you were a girl?”

“I can’t remember, very young. Four, five, I guess.”

He shook his head slightly, catching a tear on his finger as it fell from my eye. He placed it into his mouth.

“What was it like?”

“What, knowing I was a girl inside a boy’s body?”

He nodded.

“Incredibly frustrating, depressing and painful. The bum really isn’t designed to take men, you know?” I said, trying to inject a little humour into a depressing subject.

He rested his hand on the flat of my tummy, by my belly button.

“You had many men, that way, I mean?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

I shrugged.

“Because I was a girl, and that’s what girls do, they let men come inside them.”

“Did you enjoy it at all?”

“Sometimes. It isn’t bad once you get used to it, and have the right technique. Why, do you fancy it for a change?”

“No, my love. I’d like to think that’s one place I have no desire to go.”

“I wouldn’t mind, as long as you’re gentle,” I said.

“Don’t even think about it. You’ve everything I need right here!” he said, caressed my labia.

“I went through a lot to have that, so I adore you wanting it!” I said, opening my legs to allow him to caress further. I held his hand tight against me.

“When I think of what you went through, I get so angry. It was barbaric.”

“Yes and no. If they hadn’t done what they did, I wouldn’t be the person I am now. I’d never have met you and gone to heaven!”

He smiled.

“Is that how you feel?”

I nodded, tears falling freely now.

“You have made me feel like a complete person. Your unconditional love has freed me from my demons. I just feel so dirty when I think of my past and what I did just to survive.”

“Don’t! You have risen above all that, as you are now a beautiful woman whom I adore. You were right, the person you were died, and I think we should bury him forever!”

He kissed me so tenderly, I cried as he pulled me towards him. I went willingly and sighed with contentment as he entered me. I adored feeling him inside me, yet I felt a little guilty that I had quite enjoyed the anal sex all those years ago. However, this was so much better, there was no comparison and no going back now. Thank God!

It was the last time he ever mentioned my previous existence, and I hoped that in the past it would remain.
 
 
We returned to real life and became a family. Roz was relieved to pass responsibility for the children over to me and picked up her old social life once more. We set up home in London, although Francisco’s business empire was truly international, he was happy to base his family in London for a while.

I was now moving in a whole new world, and as my wonderful husband spent most of his time travelling on business, he left me to organise the children and their education. Carlos was an energetic young man, who thought up many different ways to test and assess his new stepmother. I taught him the rudiments of Karate, which seemed to meet with his approval. I never thought that something I learned in prison to defend myself from sexual assault would come in handy as a mother!

Conchita was a solemn little two year-old, yet she was the exact opposite of her hyperactive brother. Whereas Carlos would be active from the moment he first awoke, until he went to bed, Conchita was content to just sit wherever I was, playing with her dolls, colouring or looking at books. I think she was confused about me. One moment she had a dark mother, and the next moment a blonde one appeared. She was quite clingy, and didn’t like being separated from me very much. I adored both children, but was quite relieved when Carlos went off to pre-prep school, and peace rained in the house for a short time every day.

I was still very young, and so we employed a Norland Nanny to assist me. Rachel McGuire was from Dublin and was in her late twenties. She was a big girl, ruddy of complexion and with flaming red hair, which she put up whilst at work.

I explained that I was not into strict regimens as far as childcare was concerned. I expected discipline, but I wanted it nurtured through love and creative freedom. She looked at me with a strange expression.

“I had a very deprived childhood,” I explained. “These kids have everything. I want them to learn the value of people and things so they take nothing or no one for granted. The real wealth is in those aspects of life that money can’t buy and that is what I want them to learn. I want them to learn self-respect and to respect others, no matter how humble their origins. I want no notions of superiority to rub off on them. They may be privileged, but they must learn that that is a responsibility not an advantage.”

Rachel’s face broke into a wary smile.

“Yes, Ma’am,” she said.

“And another thing, my name is Jemma. I never want to hear you call me anything other than that, is that clear?”

She looked a little pained.

“Is that a problem?” I asked.

“Not with me, ma’am, but the agency wouldn’t approve.”

“Stuff the agency. You may have been trained by them, but you are paid by me, and as far as I’m concerned, you call me Jemma, okay?”

“It will be a pleasure, ma…Jemma.”

“And don’t be getting any funny ideas that just because I’m a bloody Countess, I don’t know what happens in the real fucking world!” I said, in the best Dublin accent I could manage.

She gaped at me for a moment, but then her smile threatened to split her face in two.

“My Da was from the old country!” I explained.

From that moment we became friends as well as employer and nanny.

The house in Kensington was huge, and with a staff of three, not including the Rachel, I was soon bored when Francisco was away. My husband was very wealthy and even my own investments had grown beyond all projections. The first couple of years were exciting. Francisco encouraged me to accompany him on many of his business trips, which I did and thoroughly enjoyed. Travel was one experience that I had never had, so I made the most of it.

I began to get an idea as to my husband’s business at the same time. His main concern was the realisation of opportunities. By that I mean, a client wanted to start a venture, Francisco’s company identified the optimum site for the factory, the most appropriate market and the most effective distribution location. He’d actually buy land and sell it, conduct market research, and gauge employment markets. He’d end up reselling the land, charging fees on successful completion of business, retaining consultancy options with the many companies he worked with.

Life in Kensington was good. I didn’t have to try to form friendships. Francisco’s established position in society and business meant we were constantly socialising with the rich and influential. I found many powerful men had highly intelligent and equally ambitious women behind them. I also found out that many of these men and women were hardly discreet about their extramarital affairs. Several men, and I include cabinet ministers amongst them, made overtly obvious passes at me, even when Francisco was in the same house.

When he was away on business, I was surprised at the amount of male callers who turned up at the house on some pretext or other. All claimed to have forgotten, or were allegedly unaware Francisco was away, and then proceeded to attempt to get me to go to bed with them. It took some time, but eventually they all got the message that I wasn’t interested, and would tell Francisco after each attempt. He would use this information when forming new business deals, and those who I had rebuffed sexually, would find themselves suddenly out of favour in the financial field.

By the time I was twenty-five, Conchita was in school too. It was 1979 and although I was blissfully happy and Francisco’s Countess, I wanted to do something constructive with my own life. I began to look for ways I could make a difference. I found that many charities were always on the lookout for famous or titled people who could patron their charity. As the Condesa de Valdarez, soon I was inundated with offers.

I was opening my mail one morning, as the children were getting ready for school. Another charity was seeking to add my name to a list of patrons in order to increase it’s standing in a highly competitive field.

Five Fingers was: - ‘Dedicated to helping those young offenders who come from abusive backgrounds, or have been the victims of sexual abuse whilst institutionalised, in order they might have a better chance of leading near normal lives.’ The stylised five fingers, or helping hand was shown reaching out to those in trouble.

This struck a chord. So as soon as I dropped the children off at school, I drove my Range Rover to call on the charity at their registered address.

The executive officer was a retired nursing officer called Richard Mabley. He’d worked in the Prison service for many years and had seen first hand the abuses of sexual assault and ritualistic rape.

I couldn’t tell him my story, but he was rather at a loss as to how to deal with me.

“Um, your, um Countess, um Vald….”

“Richard, my name is Jemma, so forget the countess crap and use my name. It will make life much easier,” I said, and he was stunned into silence.

I laughed.

“I was born to poor circumstances and suffered abuse. I can understand what these young people are going through, and will keep on going through, unless something is done. Too many people turn a blind eye to a corrupt and overtly abusive system, in the mistaken belief that those who run these places actually care. You and I know that they are paid to keep offenders off the streets, and only that. The courts sentence them, so they lock them up, and rarely is there any thought to rehabilitation or education.

“If only government would place sufficient resources into that sector, then some good could be done. If offenders didn’t re-offend, then the police and courts wouldn’t be so busy and the prisons wouldn’t be so full. There just aren’t enough votes in such radical action!”

Richard shook his head.

“I’m speechless, Jemma. I had no idea you were so passionate about this. Certainly, nothing in your manner would indicate a deprived childhood, and I am so surprised to hear that you suffered abuse.”

“I don’t seek to advertise the fact, and as you see, one can successfully rise above it.”

He showed me round their head office and I then drove him to a halfway house where eight youngsters were staying. They’d all been released from one institution or another, and were suffering from varying degrees of trauma.

I sat and chatted with the kids, all boys. I cried a little as each one told me their tale. Notwithstanding the obvious embellishments, their stories were such that I could identify with each one.

I stayed and had lunch with them, returning to the office with Richard afterwards.

“Would you be willing to join an inspection team?” he asked.

“What team?”

“We’ve been asked to supply a member for a Home Office inspection team to visit various Young Offenders Institutions, to compile a report for the Home Office Minister for Prisons. Would you be interested?”

“You bet your life, I would.”

He seemed relieved.

“Well, that is one worry less. We are so short of reliable staff that I can’t afford to release a permanent member. Your arrival on the scene is a Godsend. If I give you all the information, I’ll put your name forward on behalf of the charity, if that’s okay?”

“Perfectly, only don’t give me too much reading, I’m dyslexic, and will never wade through reams and reams of bumf.”

I never realised that in a few short weeks, I’d cross the threshold of Garside once more.
 
 
Part 14
 
 
As the bus drew close, it was as if some invisible demon had his claws into my heart. The last time I had travelled this road, it had been on my release in the winter of 1973. It was now April 1980, I had been married for a few short years, yet my life was completely different. Hell, I was completely different!

Five Fingers had developed and had joined with another charity and now called itself Helping Hands. I had not really been asked to do much. I had attended a few fundraising events, dinners and concerts for the most part. There’d been a couple of meetings, where a faintly patronising civil servant from the Home Office had lectured us on his view of what the Inspection Team should be looking for.

I had my agenda, but was not overly impressed with the other team members:

There was an elderly Judge, who had prostate problems and kept having to go to the loo.

Then there was a very snobby housewife from Guildford called Natasha, who still believed in the birch, and kept loudly proclaiming that hanging was too good for some people.

A retired Anglican Canon moaned about the permissive society, stared at my tits and dribbled at every opportunity.

A social worker from Brixton called Ruth, seemed so highly strung, that if the coach backfired, I thought she’d have a heart attack.

Roger was an alcoholic retired detective Superintendent from Birmingham, and he spent all his time dozing and waiting for his next drink.

Wesley Phillips was a Jamaican outreach worker from Lambeth. He was a lovely God-fearing man, with three sons and two daughters. The eldest of which was my age. He was a kind and gentle man, and the only one who actually shared my agenda - to see what we could do to help these abused kids and give them a chance in life that would otherwise be unavailable.

“Most of these people have no idea what kind of world these kids have to exist in!” Wesley said. We were sitting together on the bus, and Garside was only three miles away. This was our fourth visit to a YOI, and the one I had hoped not to have to make.

I stared out of the window. The rain lashed the side of the coach, and the grey day made the whole experience seem even more depressing.

“Are you alright, Jemma?” the kindly man asked.

I stared at him and smiled.

“Yes, sorry Wesley, I was miles away for a moment.”

“Now, take your good self, how much do you really know about these kids?”

I looked at him.

“You’d be surprised, Wesley, believe me.”

“You think you know, but in reality, your upbringing and whole experience of life can never give you a feel of what it is like.”

I sighed. I yearned to tell him the truth, but I couldn’t. We, that is, my husband and I, had agreed that the past was dead. My life now consisted of a complex fabricated version, into which much time and money had been invested to appear convincing. I stuck to it like glue.

“Wesley, I may look and sound like someone born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but I promise, I’m not! I was abused as a child, and although I don’t want to go over old ground, let me just say, there is nothing in there that will either surprise or shock me.”

He looked at me over the top of his spectacles. I could tell he didn’t believe me.

“Let me explain. My father was a drunk and beat the living shit out of me. Then while I was supposed to be in the care of the state, I was raped when I was fifteen. Need I say more?”

His greying eyebrows shot up his mahogany forehead.

“I don’t want to talk about it any more, but just accept what I tell you. I want to help these kids because I’ve been there, not out of some egalitarian sense of noble philanthropy.”

We pulled up at the outer gate, which I observed, was now firmly shut.

A uniformed prison officer got onto the bus. I half expected it to be bloody Mr Simpson. It wasn’t.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Garside Young Offenders Institution. We will proceed immediately to the staff canteen where some refreshments will be available and the governor will address you. He will give you an overview of the facility. Please be advised, we will ask you to leave certain items at the reception, which you may collect when you leave.”

I alighted from the bus with a degree of dread in my heart. The place seemed smaller and shabbier than when I left a few short years ago. Only this time, I was wearing a luxurious Kashmir dress, a very smart coat, nylon stockings and high heels. I may look like and behave the Countess that I was, but in my heart, a very frightened little boy was all but crying.

We walked through the small door in the large blue outer gate straight into reception. The ladies had their handbags searched, and one or two lost items like scissors and nail files. I hadn’t brought anything, knowing what had happened on the previous visits to similar facilities.

While I waited, I looked round. This was where I had assaulted the doctor on my first day, and it had hardly changed at all. Noises echoed around the bare walls and floors and there was an atmosphere of hopelessness and gloom everywhere. Paint was peeling from the walls, while someone had obviously attempted to clean some of the place, much of it was hardly touched.

Memories were sharp, and I could remember everything that happened to me on that first day. When the screw had beaten me for not answering properly and supposed insolence. I looked down at the scruffy yellow line painted on the floor. It was still there. And, as I stepped forward to have my bag searched, I put my toes over the line.

I half expected to be shouted at, yet when I wasn’t I was surprised.

“Are you sure you can cope with my toes over the line?” I asked the officer.

He looked at me blankly, and then looked down at my toes. His eyes met mine again, and he frowned. I didn’t recognise him, but that meant little. There was always a quick turn round of staff, so he may have been here when I was.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am?” he said, still frowning.

“Isn’t this where you bring inmates on the first day, and make them stand behind the line?”

“Oh, that doesn’t happen any more, Ma’am.”

Yeah, like I believe that! I thought to myself.

“Oh, when did that practice cease?”

“Some years now. We find that young people respond better to a more positive approach.”

“I don’t think a bit of discipline hurt anyone, do you, Countess?” Natasha said.

I turned to look at this middle class matron. She had lived in blissful ignorance for years and I suspected she believed every unconvincing platitude spouted by countless rightwing politicians eager for her vote.

“Discipline? No, I believe that discipline is an important part of life, but state sponsored torture and sanctioned sexual abuse isn’t quite the same thing, is it?”

There was an embarrassing hush, as my voice echoed around these bare walls. It had a hard edge to it, and Wesley touched me on the arm.

“Gently, Countess, gently,” he said, ever so quietly.

I smiled sweetly at Natasha, turned and took my handbag back from the officer who had been searching it for files, chainsaws and rope ladders.

We followed the officer out and into part of the facility in which I had never ventured before. We found ourselves in the canteen and they served us tea in china cups.

I saw the officer whisper to the governor and both looked at me. I must learn to keep my bloody mouth shut. The governor was relatively new. He was a tall man in his forties and had a pleasant smile that never touched his eyes. He had hard eyes, born out of working for the prison service for twenty years, no doubt. His smart suit was undermined by his rough London accent. Although in his speech he welcomed us to ‘his’ institution, I could see that he clearly didn’t want us here and couldn’t wait for us to leave. I didn’t listen to his empty words, I was eager to get this unpleasant experience over and done with.

They split us into two groups and took us on a tour of the place. Some inmates had apparently been selected to meet us in the recreation hall, so were there so we could talk to them without intervention or interruption.

As soon as we went through the familiar double barred gate into the main wing, the whistles started. I smiled. These whistles were the last memory I had of the place when I had left. I had blown kisses to those I left behind, and I was keen to do the same again now. I restrained myself.

“Show us yer tits, darlin’!” came a voice.

I was temped to shout back, ‘Only if you show me yours first!’

This was very hard.

We reached the hall and the officer remained outside. There were half a dozen boys in the hall, looking nervous and uncomfortable. I tried to imagine the kind of pep talk that the officers would have given them before our arrival. There were semi-private booths, set up so we could have private conversations.

I immediately was drawn to a slender young lad who was sitting on his own. His body language screamed at me -‘effeminate! He had long hair drawn and tied back in a ponytail. His prison uniform hung off his slim frame, while his slender wrists and hands seemed languid and very fluid in their movements. He was immature for his age, which must be fifteen or sixteen.

I went and sat opposite him.

“Hello, I’m Jemma,” I said, aware that my cultured voice immediately created a vast gulf between us. I sounded educated and sophisticated, and despite trying not to, I’d been doing it for too long, and was unable to lose it.

“I’m Stephen,” he said, eyes widening as he looked at me, taking in my youth and clothes. I smiled, and he frowned.

“’ave you go a fag?” he asked.

“No, I’m sorry, they wouldn’t let us bring any in with us. But I don’t smoke anyway.”

“Fuck all else we can do.”

“I know it must be pretty fucking awful!” I said.

He looked at me sharply. “Sounds odd, a classy woman swearing like one of you lot, doesn’t it?”

“Wot you trying to prove?”

“I don’t have to prove anything; not any more. Tell me, does old Ron Clarke still work in the kitchens?”

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

“’ow do you know him?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah, the screws told us, you’re a fucking Countess of sumfink.”

“And he told you not to tell me how it really is, didn’t he?”

The boy’s eyes flicked to check who was watching or listening, then flicked back to me. He nodded.

“You don’t need to tell me anything. I already know. Someone who was here once, he told me everything.”

“Who’s that then?”

“Ever hear of Jimmy Gardner, or Larry Sparks?”

He shook his head.

“How about the kid who sued the prison service for giving him drugs?”

“Yeah, I heard of him. He’s fucked off. Got a fair old pay-out from the government and no one knows where ’e is.”

“Well, I’ve met him and he’s in good shape. He’s very happy.”

“Is it true, then?”

“Is what true?”

“The drugs they gave him, they turned him into a girl?”

“Is that what you heard?”

“Yeah. They said he was more a girl than a boy when he left. The bloke who shared a cell said he even had tits.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I couldn’t possibly comment, except to say, he’s found happiness.”

His eyes widened and he actually smiled, almost.

My eyes warned him not to react too much, so he stared at me, willing me to say more.

“Let’s say, he’s become an acquaintance of mine, and leave it there.”

“I hope he’s okay.”

“Oh, he is, believe me.”

“Good. Life can be shit, sometimes,” the boy said, his face looking more forlorn than ever.

“Do you identify with him?” I asked.

“You what?”

“I’m not blind. It must be tough in here if you aren’t macho like some of them.”

He nodded but his eyes were wary.

“Look, if I could read you within seconds of walking in, so can most people. It is really bad?” My voice was soft and I tried to sound caring. It must have worked, as tears started welling up in his eyes. I could see him trying to fight his emotions, but they were too strong for him.

“How old are you?” I asked to give him space.

“Sixteen.”

“How long have you known?” I asked, looking at his long slender hands. His nails were nicely shaped and pointed.

“Known what?”

“That you should have been born different?”

He frowned and looked uneasy again.

“Wot you mean?”

“Your nails. They’re a lovely shape,” I said.

He looked panic-stricken for a second, so he thrust his hands into his pockets.

“When do you get out?”

“Eight weeks, why?”

“Have you a home to go to?”

“Yer joking, ain’t ya?”

“No, why?”

“I’m in ‘ere for setting fire to my folks place.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. Was it your dad?”

“Was what my dad?”

“Let me make it easier for you - My dad used to beat me,” I said.

His eyes narrowed again, then he relaxed and looked down. It was like a cloud left him, as he finally lowered his guard. The tears started, and I handed over a tissue.

“I knew I should have been a girl when I was about six. When I was eight or nine, my dad found me dressing in my sister’s clothes and damn near killed me. I was careful after that. But he caught me again and put me in hospital. That was just a few months ago, now. When I got out of hospital, I burned the fucking place down. I wish I’d killed him, but he lived. They said I was mentally unbalanced due to the beating, but he did more than beat me, the bastard!”

“He sexually abused you, didn’t he?”

Stephen looked up in surprise.

“I was raped when I was fifteen. So, I know what it’s like,” I said.

“By your dad?”

“No, not that bad. Why?”

“I don’t know. He said if I wanted to be a girl that bad, then I should feel a real man! He was drunk, but he shouldn’t have done it, should he?”

“No he shouldn’t. What happened, did you tell the police?”

“I couldn’t. My mum made me promise not to say anything. Why did he do that to me?”

I took his hand, but he was weeping almost uncontrollably now.

“Shh, I’m so sorry, sweetie. Maybe he did it because it was done to him by his father. He’s sick, you’re not!”

“Not sick? I want to be a girl, for fuck’s sake! They all tell me how sick I am.”

“So, what’s wrong with that?” I said, and he stopped crying. He looked at me with a strange expression.

“Huh?”

“You want to be a girl, then become one!”

“How?”

“When you get out, call me. I’ll come and get you, and give you a job. Okay?”

“Why?”

“One day I might tell you, but pretend it’s my way of getting back at a crappy system.”

“Are you on the level?”

“Don’t you trust me?” I asked.

“I don’t trust anyone, why should I?”

“I’ve nothing to gain and nothing to lose. You don’t have to call, but believe me, it could make a difference to you.”

He looked at me suspiciously. I didn’t blame him in the slightest. I remembered how I felt not that long ago. Good things just don’t happen to people like us!

“Stephen, please call, I really can help!”

He looked at me with those big, moist eyes. I could see he desperately wanted to trust someone, so he nodded, still not entirely convinced.

“Is the food okay, or still awful?” I asked, changing the subject. He frowned again.

“Still awful, have you ever tasted it?”

“As I said, I’ve spoken to lads who have been here before.”

“Oh, it’s okay, I suppose.”

“Any chance of seeing the kitchens?”

“Dunno, I could ask, if you want.”

“Why not?”

I stood up and walked to the door. I knocked and it opened. An officer stood there.

“Is it possible I could see the kitchens?” I asked.

“I’ll check, ma’am, please wait here.”

He went off to phone, returning a few minutes later.

“Ma’am, if you come with me, the governor has approved your request.”

I accompanied the officer through the facility. Memories came flooding back, as the place had hardly changed. The inmates glared at me with a mixture of disbelief, sexual desire and contempt. I tried to look as if I cared, but was only too well aware that to them, to care was to be weak.

Ron Clarke had hardly changed.

Still fat, sweaty and red in the face, his good humoured laugh and booming voice echoed down the corridor before I turned the corner and caught sight of him.

I paused for a moment, reliving all the hours I had spent in this particular kitchen. I had actually found a degree of peace and contentment here, so I didn’t hate the place as much as one would expect. To see Ron standing there brought tears to my eyes. I had to look away to gather my thoughts.

“Mr Clarke, word of your culinary expertise has travelled far!” said the sarcastic prison officer. “The countess here has specially requested to visit your hallowed portals.”

Ron wiped his hands on his filthy apron.

We locked eyes and he frowned. Somehow, a spark of recognition had come alight in his mind.

“Mr Clarke, this is very kind of you to allow me a glimpse behind the scenes,” I said, my voice at its poshest I could manage.

He was still frowning as I approached.

“I am La Condesa de Valdarez, but please call me Jemma,” I said, offering him my hand.

He took it, shaking it very slowly. He retained it after we had shaken. The escorting officer wandered off, peering into a steaming vat.

“Condesa? Is that foreign?”

“Yes, I’m married to a Spanish Count.”

“You aren’t Spanish, are you,…ma’am?” he asked, adding the ma’am as an afterthought.

I laughed.

“No Ron, I’m not Spanish,” I said. “I was born in the East End of London. I was just very fortunate to marry well. In fact, my early life was pretty bloody awful. Is it hard to get good help in the kitchens, these days?”

“Good help?” he repeated, still frowning.

“Still trying to get a quart out of a pint pot?” I asked, using one of his favourite phrases.

I walked along the row of ovens, peering through the dark stained glass fronts.

“Looks like steak pie, it must be Wednesday,” I said, turning to look at him. I flicked my hair back in the same way as I used to when I’d been working here.

His eyes opened wide, as the truth slowly dawned on him. He looked about, as if frightened of discovery. I released my hand from his slightly damp clutches.

“So, Mr Clarke, what’s on the menu for today?”

He went through the motions of showing me his kitchen and the preparation of the food. He waited until we were away from eves-droppers.

“You seem familiar, ma’am, just how is that?”

“Come on Ron, you know me, surely?”

“How? My God, it’s unbelievable!”

“Where there’s a will!” I said, smiling enigmatically.

“It is you, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, although I’d deny it if anyone asks. Fancy claiming the reward?”

“My God, no. Every time I read about how Jimmy Gardner has fooled the press and can’t be found, I said to my wife, ‘Good for you’. Are you really are a countess?”

“Absolutely. I just wanted to come back and say a special thank you for being the only person to treat me properly.”

“My God, you’re taking a risk!”

“No, Ron, that’s all in the past. I’m now able to do something about what happens in places like this. So, my special friend, thank you from a very grateful lady!”

“I often wondered about you. I had no idea you were, you know who. My wife reads all the society gossip, so she told me about your engagement and marriage. The missus gets all the magazines, as you were in the colour supplement when you got married. I never twigged, and yet I suppose I knew you as well as anyone. The press came snooping after the pay out.”

“I thought they might. Did anyone say anything?”

“Shit no. It was more than their job was worth. The new governor told us that anyone who spoke to the press would be dismissed. I don’t think anyone expected this!” he said, looking me up and down.

I smiled.

“No, me included. How have you been?”

“Okay, pissed off with the job, but while I’ve mouths to feed and a mortgage, I need to keep working.”

He shook his head, a huge smile on his face.

“I can’t believe this! You look so, … shit, … so fantastic! No one would ever guess you were that poor soul.”

“That’s my hope.”

The warder came over, so I thanked Ron for his kindness.

“Thank you so much. I hope we can manage to persuade the powers that be to improve the budget for food.”

“No, thank you, Countess, you’ve made an old man very happy!”

With a smile, I left him grinning after me, returning to the group, which was now doing a tour of the training facilities. These were new since I’d been here. There was a fully functioning machine workshop and engineering shop. It was in full use, but I gathered by the obvious ineptitude of those young men taking part, it wasn’t in use very often.

Wesley, bless him, asked the question about how often the place was used.

“As often as possible,” came the reply.

Wesley then asked one of the boys the same question.

“I dunno. This is the first time I’ve been here.”

The visit was soon over, so we boarded the bus to the outside world, once more. I never got to speak to Stephen again, but I doubted he’d contact me. Fear and mistrust are always difficult to shake off.
 
 
Part 15
 
 
It took me a long time to get over my visit to Garside. I hadn’t realised how much of an impact the place had on me. The over-riding emotion I experienced was anger. I was angry that society treated these kids like this, I was angry that the parents had allowed the kids to get to such a state and I was angry that the kids allowed themselves to be manipulated by bad role models and their environment to get into such a situation.

However, with my lovely family, I was able to retreat from my anger, to provide them with as much love as I could. The visit produced a report, which, in my opinion was tempered too much to be of any use. But I was able to get my oar in and instigate an improvement in the catering budget.

Government cut-backs and efficiency savings meant that little constructive work could be done in the attempt to rehabilitate those poor kids who would be left to fend for themselves whilst inadequately prepared for what life would throw at them. I was not naíve enough to think that there weren’t those who deserved to be locked up, and no amount of rehabilitation would make a scrap of difference. However, if we, as a society, could actually reduce the likelihood of those ever getting to that stage, we’d be helping future generations.

It was with some surprise that I got a call about ten weeks later. It was early evening. The children had just gone to bed and I was settling down to watch TV. Francisco was abroad on business, Brussels I think. But as it was only a two-day trip, I had declined to accompany him.

It wasn’t Stephen, but a casualty nurse from Whipps Cross Hospital in East London.

“Hello, I’m staff nurse Carol Green, could I speak to the Countess Jemma? I’m sorry but that’s the only name I have.”

“I am the Condesa Jemma de Valdarez, how may I help?”

“Um, I’m not sure. We’ve just had a young lad brought in having taken an overdose. We don’t believe it was a serious attempt, as he didn’t take enough of anything to do much damage, but there is no doubt the poor kid is at the end of his tether. I asked if he had anyone who cared about him and he said you were. He had ‘Countess Jemma’ and a phone number on a piece of paper. He has no one else and I was hoping you’d know what we could do.”

“It’s Stephen, isn’t it?”

“Stephen Bayliss, yes.”

“I didn’t even know his surname. I’m involved in a charity that helps ex-offenders and so I met the poor kid on a prison visit a couple of months ago. I told him I might be able to help him when he came out, but he never called. I’d assumed he’d forgotten.”

“Can you help?”

“What’s the situation?”

“It appears he’s homeless, undernourished and very depressed. We can’t keep him in for longer than a day or so, as he’s no longer on the danger list, and the psychiatrist doesn’t believe he’s a danger to himself or anyone else. There’s no psychotic illness that can be treated, so we will discharge him.”

“Just like that?”

“That’s why I called. The poor child needs some TLC, and the NHS don’t provide a lot of that in these circumstances.”

“He’s only a child!”

“I know. Look, I’m a mother too, but I can’t do anything for him. I was hoping you’d know what to do.”

“How is he at the moment?”

“He’s asleep. The doctor gave him something to calm him down. That’s part of the problem, he hasn’t been sleeping well of late. His mind keeps him awake, he says, and in the dark hours he thinks about all the bad things that happened to him.”

“I can identify with that,” I said.

“You? I’m sorry, I just didn’t think…”

“No, it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t always a countess, that’s all. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Are you sure?”

“My children are in bed. I have someone who can watch them.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to come out. I just thought that you’d know someone who could help.”

“Sometimes, we must do what we can. As I said, I’ll be there in an hour.”

I found Rachel in her sitting room and told her what had happened. She was no longer a nanny, having left Norland and taken up full time employment in my service. Her official title would be ‘household manager’, but in effect, she was my friend and confidant. She was also on the point of becoming engaged to Miles, Francisco’s English chauffeur.

“Don’t you worry about anything, as I’ll get the children to school if you’re not back. Just take care of the poor soul!”

Taking the Range Rover, I drove through Westminster and the City, and out towards the east. I parked the car in the large car park at the hospital, which was an uninspiring edifice on the fringes of Epping Forest.

I went to the reception desk in the busy casualty department.

“Hello, I’m the Condesa de Valdarez. I’ve been called by Staff Nurse Green. It’s about a Stephen Bayliss.”

The fraught looking receptionist looked up at me with tired eyes. Taking in the smart clothes, the cultured accent and expensive jewellery, she nodded wearily.

“Please take a seat, madam, I’ll call the nurse.”

It was only a few minutes later that a nurse, much the same age as myself, came out of a door marked, “Staff Only”.

“Hello, Countess?” she asked. Several of those waiting glanced over at me.

“Call me Jemma. Are you Carol?”

“Yes, thanks for coming. Please come through.”

I followed her through the doors and found myself in an area of curtained cubicles.

“Stephen’s been admitted to a ward, but it’s only for the night. Beds are very scarce, yet there is no reason to detain him any longer.”

I went with her to a long ward. Stephen was in an end bed, by the window. He was so thin he hardly made any impression on the bedclothes. His hair was slightly longer and unkempt. His pale face looked gaunt and haggard, with large dark rings around his eyes. His chest was rising and falling slowly, but it was the only thing that showed he was alive. Taking his hand, I noted his skin was very cold to the touch. The poor child looked almost like a corpse.

“I’ll stay with him for a while,” I said, sitting in the chair next to the bed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. If he comes round, he’d like someone to be here.”

“Thanks, you don’t have to, you know?”

I stared at the pathetic boy.

“Yes, I do.”

Carol walked off, leaving me with the boy.

He seemed at peace, but then strange expressions flitted across his face. He frowned and moved, moaning softly.

“It’s okay, sweetie, you’re safe now,” I said, feeling inadequate and rather useless.

Surprisingly, he calmed down and seemed to be sleeping peacefully. I simply sat and held his hand. I found his breathing almost hypnotic, and rested my head on my other arm.

I must have dozed off, for I was wakened by Stephen speaking. His voice was soft and was full of surprise.

“You came?” he said.

I smiled at him. He was still holding my hand. He was holding it very tightly, but now he increased his grasp.

“Hi, yes, it seems I did. How do you feel?”

“Why?”

“Because I care, why else?”

He began to cry silently. Tears just rolled down his face.

I cradled him, letting him cry into my shoulder.

“I just wanted to die!”

“I know.”

“I can’t face my life. I’m so unhappy!”

“I know.”

“What can I do?” he asked, despairing.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to be me!” he said, a real cry from the heart. I knew that cry so well!

“Then will you trust me to help you find out who that person is?”

He nodded.

“Then, go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up tomorrow and you will come home with me. Your old life is over. Tomorrow, we’ll start your new one.”

“Don’t leave me!”

“I have to go home to my children. But I promise, I’ll wait for you to go asleep and I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“You have children?”

“A boy and a girl, why?”

He shook his head.

“I dunno. I thought maybe you were the boy we talked about.”

I smiled.

“Really?”

He smiled an embarrassed smile of someone who realised he was wrong.

“I’m sorry, it was daft of me. I just hoped if it happened to you, it could happen to me.”

“It might at that. Just go to sleep.”

He smiled and relaxed. Within a few moments, he was asleep again, this time with a faint smile on his lips.
 
 
I returned home, updated Rachel as to what was happening and we prepared a bedroom on the second floor.

I was back at the hospital at eight the next morning. Carol wasn’t on duty, but had told the duty staff nurse to expect me. I was to wait in the reception area while the doctors did their rounds. It was twenty past nine when this frail form appeared clutching a small plastic bag of belongings.

“Hello Stephen, how are you?”

“Confused. Did you come to me last night?”

“Yes, why?”

“I don’t really remember. They’d doped me up to make me sleep, so I thought I dreamed it. Are you really taking me home?”

“Unless you don’t want to?”

“No, I want to. I’m just tired of running away from everything.”

I gave him a cuddle and led him out to the car. The poor child was so thin and frail that I thought if a strong wind came along, he’d blow away.

He was silent on the drive across London, until we left the City and travelled through Westminster.

“You’ve got lovely nails,” he said, out of the blue.

I glanced at my long varnished nails. I should do, I spent enough time on them.

“Thanks.”

He looked out of the window at the passing scenery. I was so used to this part of London, I no longer really thought about it.

“This is posh. I’ve not been here before. Where do you live?”

“Kensington.”

“Is that the posh bit?”

I smiled.

“Some of it is.”

“I like the car. Are these leather seats?”

“I think so.”

“It smells nice, like you do.”

I smiled again.

“You know, you told me I could become a girl?”

“Yes.”

“Were you on the level, or were you pulling my plonker?”

“I was on the level. You can, you know?”

“Yeah, but what would I look like? A bloke in a dress?”

“No, you’d look fine.”

“Yeah!” he said, sarcastically.

“Really, you’ll be fine. First, though, we need to feed you up a little and take you to see a doctor.”

“Why? I’m not ill.”

“No? How often did you have anal sex in Garside?”

“So?”

“Disease has a habit of being transmitted a lot that way.”

“Oh.”

“Also, we need the doctor to find out whether you should be psychologically evaluated.”

“Why?”

“Stephen, you might feel that inside you’re a girl.”

“I do!”

“I know, but before a doctor will start you on any course, they need to know it’s the right thing to do.”

“Why? I know I should be a girl!”

“Yes, I know you do, but it’s irreversible, so they like to make sure it’s the right course of action.”

“Why?”

“Because they have to prescribe you the necessary hormones for the change.”

“What change?”

“The sex change, silly!”

“Oh.”

He was silent for a while.

“How does it work?” he asked.

“The change? First, you see a doctor, then you see a shrink, who makes an assessment of you and whether it is justified and essential. Then you get put on hormones to block your male development and other hormones to bring out the girl in you. You have to live as a girl for about a year, as your body changes and you grow breasts and things. Once all the doctors agree, the surgeon cuts off the old bits and makes you a set of girl’s bits.”

“A whole year?”

“It sound a long time, but really it isn’t and it’ll go very fast.”

“What will I do?”

“I said I’d give you a job, so I will.”

“Doing what?”

“I have in mind to make you my Household manager’s assistant.”

“What’s that?”

I smiled.

“General dogsbody. You can help around the house. My husband and I entertain a lot of influential people, so we need people to serve food and drink, tidy the place and help in the kitchens. It might not be rocket science, but you’ll be kept busy.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. I glanced over and he was staring at me.

“Because no one else will and I care about you.”

“Why?”

“Because I was once at the bottom of the shit heap, so I know what it’s like.”

“You?”

“Me.”

“When?”

“When I was your age. Only there wasn’t anyone to help me. Some people did a bit, but if I hadn’t made an effort myself, I’d still be down there in the shit.”

“But you’re posh!”

“I haven’t always been, I promise.”

Further discussion came to a halt as we arrived outside our town house. I took the car to the underground garage and parked.

Stephen’s eyes were as large as saucers as we entered the house through the basement. It was a lovely house and, had I come straight here from Garside, I would have been completely bowled over.

As it was, Lynette’s house had seemed luxurious to me, but now I took it all in my stride.

We went up to the kitchen where Rachel was preparing some pies.

“Hi Jemma, the Count called. He’ll be back tomorrow at about noon. He asks if it would be alright to have a small dinner party tomorrow evening for eighteen people.”

“In other words, we’re having a dinner party, so get on and make it happen!” I said.

She chuckled, and then saw Stephen.

“Hi there, you must be Steph?” she said, pronouncing it to rhyme with ‘F’.

The boy glanced at me.

“Rachel is my manager; you’ll be working closely with her. She knows what I know about you, so we’ve no secrets here,” I said.

“Oh.”

“Sit yourself down, let’s get some breakfast inside you,” she said.

I left them to make a couple of calls.

My surgeon, Mr Brown, and William Hardcastle, the psychiatrist, were the only other men to know the truth about my previous life. I trusted them implicitly and knew my secret was safe with them. I’d rarely spoken to them over the years, but as I was hardly out of the public eye and we’d met socially on a few occasions. I knew I couldn’t hide from them.

It was they whom I called now.

I explained the circumstances of Stephen and his predicament. Both were sympathetic and we came to an arrangement. They needed a referral from a GP or specialist, so I called my own GP, James Clarke. He was willing to drop round at the end of his surgery this very afternoon.

I returned to the kitchen, made myself a coffee and sat down by Stephen who was eating a large breakfast as if his life depended upon it. He looked up with those big green eyes of his watching my every move. I sat down next to him.

“Right, first we need to decide what to call you!” I said.
 

* * *
 
The next few days passed very quickly. Dr. Clarke was a lovely man and, despite feeling nervous and unwilling to be examined, Stephen actually warmed to him and allowed a full examination. This led to a visit to the surgery on the following day for blood to be taken for various tests. There followed a series of letters and consultations.

Stephen, or Stephanie, as she decided she wanted to be called, went through a thorough medical and psychological evaluation. As we both already knew, she was severely gender dysphoric, so they had no trouble diagnosing her as a transsexual.

As her father and mother were still technically her legal guardians, we waited the three weeks for her to turn seventeen before starting her on the hormone regimens. It was actually quite fortunate, for the doctors discovered she had a serious infection of the bowel, which had to be treated by a course of antibiotics. Any hormones at that time would have been a complication, so we simply fed her up and let her relax at home.

She was keen to dress as a girl, but was terrified of going outside where anyone might see her and immediately tell she was a boy dressed up. So Rachel and I spent the time gently reassuring her and helping her with makeup and small dressing adventures, which she had never even attempted before. Her sexual experience was as passive recipient of male sexual ardour. She had no particular desire or curiosity about girls, so she was determined to be a girl in everything but birth.

Rachel was a little unsure why I was doing this, so I explained that I just felt I had to.

“Rachel, there was a time when I was an unhappy youngster too. I was very fortunate in the way things happened, so I want to play the Lady Fortune for this poor kid.”

“But a sex change, isn’t that taking things a bit far?” asked the staunchly Catholic Rachel.

I smiled.

“Sometimes nature makes a mistake, so rather than let someone destroy themselves, I feel that I have a duty to help that person find their true self and reach unforeseen potential, don’t you agree?”

Rachel shrugged and accepted my decision, helping all she could in our efforts to turn poor bedraggled Stephen into a girl called Stephanie. She took some measurements and then went to Marks & Spencer’s to buy a selection of clothes that would suit a slender and very shy almost female teenager.

Francisco returned on time, to a house with a new addition. It wasn’t long before he was informed of my pet project by the bubbly Chita.

“Daddy, Mummy has found a boy and is keeping him in the attic until he turns into a girl!”

Francisco looked at me with his aristocratic eyebrow raised.

I explained everything to him, and he looked thoughtful.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Good or not, it’s something I have to do!” I said, rather defensively.

Placing both hands up in mock surrender, he smiled.

“Jemma, my darling, I am not trying to stop you, I just wonder where this will end. Will you have to help all foundlings you come across, or is this a one off?”

I looked down, as he had hit the nail on the head. I hadn’t thought it through to that extent.

“I think this is a one off. Perhaps I can set up a charitable foundation that can offer help to others after this one.”

He nodded.

“Okay, that sounds a good idea. My suggestion would be to find an organisation that already exists and offer some small financial assistance. That way you will not draw undue attention to yourself.”

Reminding me that the press may still become a pain in the proverbial, he was wisely in touch with reality.

“Yes, dear,” I said, meekly.

He laughed as he drew me into his arms.

“Oh, you pickle, of course I approve. When do I meet this unfortunate creature?”

“When she feels ready. I have to say, she is rather shyer than I ever was.”

“Then I look forward to it.”

He went off to play with the children and I went to see how Stephanie was faring in her room.

I found her wearing a denim skirt and a pretty top, kneeling on the window seat staring down into the garden at Francisco and the children.

“Your husband is very handsome.”

“Thanks, I think so too.”

“Will I ever be able to lead a normal life?” she asked, turning towards me. She was wearing a little makeup, looking remarkably pretty, if still a little forlorn.

“Of course. Why shouldn’t you?”

“I’ll never look like a real girl, will I?”

“Haven’t you looked in a mirror recently?”

“Yes, why?”

“Then didn’t you see the real girl look back at you?”

She smiled coyly.

“You’re only saying that.”

“No, honestly, I’m not. That day in Garside, I could see the girl and you were trying to hide her. Well, she’s out now, and as we progress, I hope to see her blossom.”
 
 
Blossom she did. Within a week, she was confident enough to meet the family. Once the hormones started, she would venture out with either Rachel or me for a walk around the local vicinity.

A month later I took her shopping and then to have her hair done. This was a crucial point, for here the hairdresser, a gay young man called Pierre, was effusive with his praise of her colouring and features that she blushed a very rosy red. Pierre never had a clue as to her real identity and therefore her confidence grew enormously.

She lasted the course, underwent the surgery and became Stephanie in truth and fact. I never told her my secret, but it was an unspoken understanding we had. As soon as she discovered my children were my step-children, she twigged, and looked at me in a different light. We were close, almost like mother and daughter.

A couple of months after the surgery, I gave her the option to seek her fortune out in the big wide world. She declined.

“No, you have given me my life, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to stay and repay some of what you’ve given me.”

So it was. She is still part of my life. As we drove to the White House for dinner, I imagined her going back to her apartment to wait our return. Frank was a good man and an excellent chauffeur. He was also very much in love with his pretty little wife. He was another scarred soul swept up on my beach of life. Francisco used to tease me about the waifs and strays I collected, but he never questioned my decisions. I smiled as I realised that I also managed to find wives for all my husband’s chauffeurs.

Stephanie was a success, so much so that I created a trust fund for girls like her. Anonymously and quietly, I helped some of these girls try to find a life for themselves, but it was expensive and lengthy, and I couldn’t help them all!

Stephanie’s tale is such that I should never presume to tell it all. One day, she shall tell it herself. Once she has settled down with her own adopted children. Who knows, maybe there’s more to my story, yet to come!

The car pulled up at the side entrance and a liveried servant opened the doors. I alighted, and accompanied my family into the White House. The smile on my face said it all.
 

---

 
Fin