Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 6

I suppose I should get back to what’s happening now before readers start to drift away or die in droves after losing the will to live. Perhaps that is my fate, to be found frail and starving behind a barricade of deceased lovers of literary fireworks.

Well, gentle but so far undeceased reader, you may remember that I had had a small moment of epiphany when someone called Bill had invited me to eat with them, and “them” consisted of his wife Jan, fourteen year old daughter Kelly and an empty chair. Apparently there was another for dinner, but information wasn’t being offered and I felt awkward enough just sitting there without probing.

Let us now be blunt, I’ve read all sorts of writing, some of it very good, on the transgender situation, but I don’t really click with it. All the fascination with jewellery, clothing, make-up, hair salons–it all leaves me cold. I want two things only: to be myself, and to be perceived as who I really am. I love to wear a dress or skirt because they are unconditionally tied to my true nature, but I don’t agonise over labels and colours, and if I could giggle successfully it would surely be over the idea of myself in some eighties seduction rig of heels and microskirt. The irony is that after all my agonising over identity, the girl I am is a tomboy. Okay, I was in a dress, and it was a rather pretty floral print from Laura Ashley, and it did show some of my sparse cleavage (if I took off my sweatshirt) but anyone expecting fantasies of lingerie and heels will be disappointed. Mary Janes and bare legs.

Speaking of legs and skirts, a fringe benefit of cycling was the ability to get my legs waxed without raised eyebrows.

Did I just say “benefit”? Ye gods it hurt! Raised more than my eyebrows, I can tell you.

Back to a tunnel tent the size of a tube train carriage, with its own dining room, I found myself doing a sort of split-screen mental trick. I was being the girl from the little tent next door in one frame, whilst simultaneously analysing everything from an outside view. The biggest difficulty was the fact that to all appearances I had not been read. I mean, I may be skinny and leggy, but I am a rugby forward with a twice-broken nose, for whatever’s sake. Surely even a fourteen year old can spot that one.

My schizoid mind shook hands on a deal pro tem, that for whatever reason they seemed to accept my presentation, and I suddenly started to tear up. It hit me hard, the realisation that this was like all my Christmases come at once. Whether these folk had read me or not, down to their teenage daughter they simply took me as I wanted to be taken. And as that rather unfortunate phrase went through my mind, the missing guest arrived.

Did I mention that I was disappointed to find out that Bill was a family man? At this point I should reveal that his family also contained his brother Geoff and…he walked in.

Remember my “little moment” earlier? This was another little moment, but it was now absolutely a case of the lusts.

He isn’t a big man, perhaps an inch shorter than me, and no six-packed centrefold stud, but he has a way of holding himself that says ”This world doesn’t scare me. It interests me…” He smiles, and the world’s dark places are illuminated and safe.

Oh dear…I have gone all present tense. That’s the narrative tension buggered then.

Everything around me became hyper real. The food was good, the wine (which I avoided) was well-chosen, the conversation was spirited and wide ranging, and the jokes (once Kelly went to change) were suitably filthy. I could tell some if you wanted, but that is not the point.

I know how the story traditionally goes. Young man disregards all the stigmata of a transgender girl, who is naturally slight, short, feminine….

I am 5’10’’, and a rugby player. Androgen blockers do diddly squat at my time of life. I have no hips, and though I was starting to get some adipose tissue (OK: fat) redistributed to my buttocks and general subcutaneous areas, I was still a bloke in a dress. I have some advantages left to me by my parents, though. Male pattern baldness does not run in the family, and we are redheads. Not ginger monsters, or ethereal pale ghosts like Tilda Swinton, but clear-skinned and freckled; we burn easily. My hair is that odd shade that looks lank and brown when dirty but once washed shines with red highlights. It’s naturally slightly wavy, and shoulder-blade long. I plait it for rides, one of my few feminine skills, and this enhances the wave. Add that to hazel eyes, which are in reality a blob of brown in the middle of a sea of green, and I have to admit any sister would have been a head-turner. I have always been more of a head-hunter.

Geoff was the owner of the Super Galaxy outside and had ridden up from Horsham over three easy days, leaving his brother’s family to cart his essentials, including a rather lovely bouzouki. He caught me staring at it.

“Do you play?”

“I have my fiddle with me, I’m looking forward to some sessions, especially the big one on Monday”

“Have you tried any mandolin style instruments? They’re tuned in fifths, just the same”

“I have a mandolin at home, but I must say I prefer the subtlety of fretless stuff. And I’ve been playing this one for 25 years, so…”

“Do you dance?”

Just like that. We’ve had the long introductory chat where we all admit our shameful occupations, and argued over who will be the highlight of the weekend, what bikes we have, where we’ve toured and he asks me to dance. Sort of. Oh shit.

The quiet section of the camp site was right next to the dance tent, and after a joint wash-up session we trooped off. Me, Geoff, Bill, Jan and a hyperactive teen now in an odd semi-flamenco outfit and running shoes. I had grabbed my fiddle as I saw Geoff grab his axe, and Bill and Jan both collected instruments. We had a Plan. The dance would occupy an hour, then 45 minutes each for the Oysters and Gaughan. For local politics reasons, the music was to end by 10 pm, but the bar was open till half past midnight and it was anticipated that there would be a session till we were thrown out. Notice how I was already assuming it was “we”

These were nice people. I had no idea what they thought I was, but they had opened their arms and hauled me in to simple family warmth. I knew it had to fall apart at some point, but for now I honestly felt I had not been happier since I caught that arrogant little tosser of a scrum half from the Marine College in possession. I popped a rib in that tackle, but I will always remember the look on his face when he realised how very much quicker I was than he had anticipated.

Ye gods, what an odd mix I am. I cry to the songs of Eric Bogle, I lose myself in a world of melody and rhythm when playing, I’m wearing a dress and fondly remembering inflicting serious pain on rugby opponents.. My untied hair hangs down to hide the blush that comes unbidden to my face. And then we are at the marquee*.

Chairs are lined up around a well-surfaced dance floor, a bar at one end facing the band across what seems to be four acres of space. Instruments are out ready; is that a double bassoon? And once again I have drifted into the present tense as my nerves rise and I almost feel sick with fear.

Steph, this is the rest of your life. This is what you have been working so hard with Sally towards. I leave my fiddle with them so they won’t run off and hide from me, excuse myself and head off towards the unisex (thank everything) portable toilets, and pull out my mobile phone. Sally answers on the second ring

“You are scared, aren’t you?”

“Bloody terrified.”

I give her a broad summary of events so far and she talks me down. She knows me, as she should considering how much the NHS** is paying her, and she comes up with what she feels is a game winner.

“Look, this is a weekend, you never have to see these people again, so just be yourself and no lasting harm can happen”

“Yeah but….Geoff only lives ten miles away from me”

“Geoff”

She simply says his name. No inflection, no hint of a question, ball in my court. I explain, and I can feel the heat from my cheeks in the small and smelly plastic cubicle. Sally lets out a quiet chuckle.

“My little girl is growing up then. Steph, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I knew your gender from the first session we had. I have never had doubts about that, but your sexuality is a much more complex thing. I can give no direction there, you have to find that out for yourself. I suspect, though, that you may just have done so. Do me a favour, though. I want pictures…..”

Back in the dance tent the band have tuned up and the caller asks for square sets. Bill has trotted off with Jan, and I look at Kelly and say “Shall we?” and Geoff humphs.

“God, I hate that. Us single blokes come to these dances, struggle to find a partner, and all the girls are dancing with each other. What’s a man supposed to do?”

I blush again and realise Kelly has vanished towards some spotty youth wearing one of those pillowcase woolly hats, and Geoff grins and holds out his hand.

“Shall we?”

Chapter 7

The first dance was the caller’s version of shock tactics. Talking to her afterwards, she explained that it was a way of sorting the dancers from the stumblers, so that those who wanted to have a proper swing could spot other skilled folk. The Cumberland Square Eights involves gallops, stars, circles and that peculiarly satisfying little movement the basket. In this, the men pass their arms behind the backs of the women and take a tight hold of each other’s hands. Right feet dip in and left push, rather like a swing, but the result is a rapidly-spinning huddle that often ends up with women losing their footing so that they are swung round with their legs in the air outside the basket. We were dancing opposite Bill and Jan as head couples, and when it came time for our basket I recognised the gleam in Bill’s eye as he closed the circle.

I was distracted though; I was in the arms of two men, and as we started the rhythmic dip and push I was on a real high. So much so I nearly missed the nod from Bill to Geoff, but I definitely felt the change in grip as they eased their arms higher up our backs and suddenly Jan and I were flying, my skirts flaring round my calves as we span. Jan squealed, and I grunted out a pithy comment about utter bastards. Said bastards laughed happily, and let us both down. That dance wound down with a promenade back to place, and the words “swing your partners”

I use a ceilidh grip that involves holding left hands and using the right to grasp the other’s left hip. It allows a fast swing without slamming into other couples, and really works best if both are of similar height and weight. We were ideal for this, and I found the rest of the world blurring as I looked at my partner.

Brown eyes. A small scar on his chin. Short dark hair gleaming with a few drops of sweat. A smile. And the dancing went on.

Geoff used the old excuse of saying that now he had found someone who could dance he would hang onto her. I did dance with other men, but it was back to the seats that we had commandeered that I returned each time. I also drank some BEER.

Is it time for another digression? Why not. There are a number of industrial compounds sold as beer. They are generally fizzy and the colour of stale urine, and in my opinion of much the same taste. No, the way and the truth is real ale, which is a living beast that must be handled with care and consideration. The active yeasts and other sediments are still in the cask, and it must be racked and allowed to breathe and settle before serving. It comes in a huge range of styles, some light and refreshing, others almost like a three-course meal in a glass.
But it makes me pee.

The dancing was over, and we headed off for the Oysters, one of my favourite groups of all time, and I was almost floating. I finally felt at home with this family, no question raised but that I would be with them for the evening at least if not the weekend. Kelly had left woollyhead behind, as well as some of her lipstick, and I was tingling with anticipation.

I knew exactly what was going to happen. I would gradually warm up, until I was as near the front as I could get, yelling along to the songs that I knew by heart, and so it happened. By the time “Hal an Tow” had moved into “Where the World Divides”, I was gone. Four pints of ale helped, but I was seriously in the groove, my sweatshirt left with the family and my hair flying free as I melded into their world of great tunes and lyrics about love and social justice. As the encore of “Coal not Dole/Bells of Rhymney” concluded with John’s passionate shout of “Bastards!” I felt myself shaking with release. This was what I had come for.

I rejoined the Woodruffs and we scuttled quickly to the other marquee for another socialist singer. This was to be no dancing frenzy, but a few moments of passion and wordplay, of anger and hatred of injustice and love for humanity.

I found myself wedged between Kelly and Geoff at the back of the tent, and as Gaughan took his seat she whispered in my ear.

“I think Geoff likes you”

Oh shit.

*I am not sure of US usage, but in the UK a marquee is a large tent of the sort used for outdoor functions rather than the entrance to a picture house

**National Health Service