CHAPTER 3: LIFTING THE VEIL

I tried to say something to my parents that night. I really did. But the right moment never came. This was an evening in 21 Ashleigh Close, not an episode of The Partridge Family.

I went to bed early, and lay there with the light on staring at the ceiling. I’d never given much thought to the future; now my mind was filled with nothing else.

Your first menstrual period will most likely arrive between the ages of 9 and 16…

Pansy wasn’t sixteen until March. I’d passed that landmark last month.

I’d been living on borrowed time. I could have started having periods any day — and apart from the bleeding I didn’t have the faintest idea what to expect.

How long did they last? Was there much pain? Would it hurt to piss, like it had when I’d contracted that bladder infection the year before last? Was that why some women became grumpy once a month?

Once a month? Jesus…

I came to a decision. This was my body, and I wanted to know everything about it. If my parents wouldn’t tell me, I’d have to find the information myself.

Pansy’s having a period! Pansy’s having a period!

No way on God’s green earth was that ever going to happen to me.

I had to act. I had to take control of the situation, and soon.

But how?

Who should I talk to, and how much would it be wise to tell them?

It was then that I began to realise that keeping quiet about the discoveries I’d made had been the right thing to do. I wanted to say goodbye to my boyhood in my own leisurely way; once the ball started rolling my old life would quickly come to an end, and I’d have enough trouble adjusting to my new one without wishing I’d made the most of what little time I had left as Peter Stokes.

I switched off the light, and spent what I’d later learn was a fruitless hour or so trying to envision the changes my body would eventually undergo. I ran my hands down my chest, wondering how large my breasts might grow. I touched my genitals, imagining the day when they weren’t there to impede my fingers as they moved from the sparse hair at the base of my abdomen to the gap between my thighs. I stroked my upper arms, thinking of how soft and silky my skin was going to feel.

All that I reckoned I could handle. What kept me from sleep was the baggage that went with being female, so much of it stashed away in the plastic bags on the other side of the bedroom wall. It was one thing to picture myself as a girl climbing naked into the bath, quite another to put myself in the place of the same girl painting her face or stepping into a skirt.

Although I eventually drifted off, I rose next morning feeling tired and irritable. The usual Saturday breakfast noises floated up from the kitchen — the clunk of pans being lifted from their shelves, the screech of a kettle coming to the boil, the jaunty theme music introducing Radio 4’s travel show — and I resented every decibel. What right did they have to sound the way they’d always done? Who told the universe it was fine to carry on as if nothing had happened?

I stood at the window for a while, watching the frail autumn sunshine colour the farmland on the far side of the allotments. The fields climbed steadily towards the limestone ridge topped by Harton Mill, from where a narrow stream marked by a long line of trees snaked north-east towards Warren Sands and the sea. Suddenly I had the urge to be out there, exploring that little valley like I’d done when I was a youngster, gathering stones and pebbles to make dams, or tossing twigs into the water to race against one another — a child once again with nothing to worry about but what his mother would say when she saw the mud caked to his plimsolls.

I put on my jeans and a grandad vest, then hunted through the old shirts and trousers strewn at the bottom of the wardrobe for my toughest pair of boots and the thick knitted socks that went with them. I now needed to lay my hands on the khaki bush hat I’d bought at the start of the summer. When I finally dug it out from beneath the jumpers and T-shirts stuffed inside the chest of drawers I made sure I removed the Newburn Town badge from the front; if I wandered any further than Crimdon Dene I’d be straying perilously close to pit yacker country, and it would be leaving the path of wisdom to broadcast where I was from.

Downstairs, I found my father in the dining room eating lukewarm porridge while he read the sports section of the Daily Express. Ray Stokes was tall, slim-built and possessed a full head of dark brown hair. A time-served bricklayer, he had exchanged a world of trowels and plumb lines for a more sedentary but to my mind equally unexciting one of actuarial tables and surrender values when he finally emerged from night school with the qualifications he needed to enter the insurance business. He was a practical, no-nonsense kind of fellow in other ways too: he had little enthusiasm for literature other than Dickens, none whatsoever for fine art or music.

But most of all he was a creature of habit. At weekends in particular you could have set your watch by him. Every Saturday morning at half-past nine he’d change his cardigan for a sports jacket, climb into his maroon Morris Minor and drive the short distance to the ‘fish house’ on Middleton Quay. By the time he returned, mum would be ready to accompany him on the weekly trip to the new Hintons at Portrack on the edge of Stockton-on-Tees. They’d be back just as Grandstand was about to begin, meaning I’d miss a big chunk of Sam Leitch’s football preview because it was my job to bring in all the carriers and cardboard boxes and unpack them. After that I could look forward to the nauseating stench of steamed cod percolating from the kitchen for the next three-quarters of an hour.

Well, today I was having none of it.

I used the bathroom before I sat down to help myself to a piece of toast from the rack in the centre of the table. I wasn’t risking my life if I tried to eat before I’d washed, but I had four limbs in full working order and valued all of them.

“Be a good match at St James’s this aftie, won’t it?” dad said from behind his newspaper, referring to the game at Newcastle where league leaders Manchester United were the visitors.

“Yeah, I suppose it will,” I muttered as I struggled to scrape a thin slice of butter from a rock-hard pat that had only been taken out of the fridge at the last moment.

“Man United are in a false position, don’t you think so?”

This was how he made conversation, ending every statement by turning it into a rhetorical question you felt obliged to agree with or else risk the exchange degenerating into a quarrel neither party had looked for.

“You could say the same about a few other teams. Derby, Sheffield United, Man City…”

I was careful not to mention Leeds. They had long been a bone of contention between us.

“Long way to go yet though, isn’t there?”

“I’m a girl!” I screamed at him. “I’m not interested in football!”

Or I should have done. It was what he deserved to hear.

“I thought I’d go for a walk,” I said instead. “Take advantage of the weather before winter sets in.”

“Will you be here for your dinner?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Better put yourself some bait up then, hadn’t you?”

He turned the page, having never once met my eyes.

You fucking coward, I thought.

But this wasn’t the time to provoke a family row.

I shrugged my shoulders and dipped a knife into the runny marmalade.

Throston Beck reached the sea through a deep defile fringed with marram grass and thistles. Thanks to yesterday’s downpour the channel was full, and had eroded a meandering course across the sands complete with miniature bluffs, slip-off slopes and all the other features I remembered from Geography lessons.

I stood on the top of a low dune and watched a dog splash through the water in search of a stick. It picked it up with its teeth before trotting back to its owner, a woman who from this distance appeared to be about the same age as mum. I frowned at her headsquare, her quilted jacket and shapeless skirt, determined that whatever became of me I wasn’t going to end up like her.

Who then?

I had no idea. How could I, when every second of my upbringing had conditioned me into believing I’d grow into a man?

Just like my father…

Now it began to add up. Dads wanted their sons to be chips off the old block, to tread in their footsteps, to share the attitudes and values they held dear. Anything else and they considered themselves to be failures.

As for mum, it was her reproductive system that had consistently proved incapable of carrying a second child for the full nine months. It was her womb that had nurtured a baby girl who turned out to be so deformed she was brought up as a boy.

My parents hadn’t told me the truth because they were ashamed.

This insight only lasted a few seconds. I still detested them for not having been open and honest with me. As I headed away from the beach, following the stream through the brick archway that took it under the railway embankment, I dreamed up ways to ensure that they suffered for it. I’d wave the bra in front of their faces and demand to know what it was doing in the spare room. I’d make all manner of snide remarks about men being chauvinist pigs, just to see how they reacted. I’d buy a copy of Jackie and leave it in a conspicuous place.

A mischievous smile curled my lips as I realised that the girl I’d soon become had a good chance of turning out to be a bit of a bitch.

It soon vanished. After I crossed the Coast Road I swiftly came to that part of the valley where it swung abruptly to the left and the land rose on either side, blocking out any indication that you were less than a mile from the edge of an industrial town that was home to seventy-five thousand people. The only sounds came from the beck as it burbled over a series of tiny waterfalls, the wholesome melody of nature’s never-ending hydrological cycle.

But the magic had gone. I was too caught up in the momentous events I knew would befall me to enjoy what I was starting to see as my boyhood’s last hurrah. Even the chocolate biscuit I munched as I found a stony ledge to study the eddies and whirlpools seemed to have lost its flavour.

I pictured myself on the Croft End terrace next Saturday at the Aldershot game, standing next to Plug and Gash.

“We don’t want owt to do with you,” their expressions appeared to say.

“What’s she doin’ ‘ere, a lass on ‘er own?” someone called out from the back of the crowd as the boys I’d once considered to be my friends sidled away from me.

The tears came then, the reluctant kind that smarted and stung. They were no relief at all. The accumulated anxieties that had been building for the last forty-eight hours weren’t about to be dispelled that easily.

“Fuck it!” I sobbed, and pounded my fist into the ground so many times my knuckles were grazed raw. “Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it!”

That brought back memories of Rafferty’s weaselly face, closely pursued by the pitiless glare Kendo had given me when he’d realised who was ultimately responsible for him getting the whack from Oscar. He wasn’t the type to forgive and forget either; on Monday week I’d have to confront more than the mere knowledge that my days as a pupil at Newburn Grammar School were numbered.

It was too much to ask of anyone.

“Bollocks,” I said out loud. “I’m finished with that fucking place.”

I dried my eyes and clambered to my feet. I was wasting my time here; I had nine days to construct a future that didn’t involve an insurmountable sense of alienation and a good knacking into the bargain.

And there was only one person who could help me do that.

Just as I’d done the day before, I hesitated before ringing the Porters’ bell. I had no real evidence to back me up; short of dropping my pants and exposing my private parts, there was no way I could prove to Pansy that I was in the same position as him. He’d likely think I was insane — or worse, that I was taking the piss.

His mother put an end to my prevarication. One moment she was standing at the living-room window, the next she was opening the door and beckoning me into the hallway.

Mrs Porter was an attractive woman with a trim figure, though her neatly bobbed hair was more thickly flecked with grey than I remembered.

“Have you talked to them yet?” she asked me, smoothing the front of her pleated tartan skirt.

“Uh…talked to who?”

“Your parents, of course.” She opened her handbag and checked its contents. “You’ll have to, you know. Things won’t move along until you do.”

I was too shocked to do more than mumble a few incoherent syllables. That Mrs Porter was aware of my condition — never mind that what she’d said removed any lingering doubts as to its existence! — meant that Pansy must have repeated what I’d told him yesterday afternoon. The one person to whom I felt I could speak freely, and already he’d betrayed me.

“Don’t blame Paul,” Mrs Porter went on. “He was only doing what he thought was best for you. And it’s not as if I found out anything new.”

This was even more outrageous. She’d known all along! How many other people had collaborated to hide the truth from me?

“Who…?” I managed to breathe.

“Your aunt Rachel. She doesn’t think that your parents are dealing with this in the right way. When she discovered that Paul had been misidentified, she came to us for advice.”

“But how did she…?”

Mrs Porter looked at her watch.

“It’s a long story, and as we’re running a bit late this morning it’s one I haven’t got time to tell you in full. All I’ll say is that Rachel and Paul have a mutual acquaintance. In fact she’s here now. Why don’t you go up and say hello?”

I’m not sure how I was able to lift one foot off the floor, let alone climb the stairs. But climb them I did, and it was when I reached the landing and looked through the open door to my left that I saw something that expelled the last remaining traces of air from my lungs.

Pansy Porter, wearing nothing but his dressing gown, sat before the mirror applying mascara to his lashes. The girl in the white T-shirt and flared jeans taking a keen interest in his progress was none other than Lisa Middleton.

“Well don’t just stand there like a lemon,” she said, without turning to look at me.

“Is that who I think it is?” muttered Pansy.

“Afraid so.”

Voices, one of them male, carried up from the hallway. They faded, then I heard the front door close.

“Thank goodness for that,” said Pansy, still concentrating on his eyes. “We can have some music at long last. Do the honours, would you Peter?”

I walked over to the record player in the corner. If it hadn’t belonged to someone else I would have put my foot straight through the bloody thing.

Afraid so.

That simple phrase had sliced my soul to ribbons. For the very first time I was actually in the same room as the girl of my dreams, and this was how she’d reacted to my arrival. It didn’t matter that there could never be anything between us, all I’d wanted was for her to say something nice to me so I could cherish it through the difficult weeks and months to come.

I pulled a Fairport Convention album from the rack, but only because the sleeve was protruding more than the rest. I didn’t care what we listened to. I didn’t care about anything.

When the introduction to ‘Angel Delight’ began leaking through the speakers I turned to see Pansy putting down his brush.

Lisa examined his handiwork, murmuring words of tentative approval. I watched her take what appeared to be a pencil and use it to embellish his eyes yet further while they chattered about people — mainly girls — whose names were unfamiliar to me. I felt like an intruder who’d wandered in by mistake, one who was desperate to leave but hadn’t the courage to do so.

For a long time I just stared at the two of them, wondering what I could possibly do to break the spell I was under.

“Has it sunk in yet?” Pansy asked me, as if he’d only just remembered I was here.

I couldn’t answer. I tried to shake my head, but that was beyond me as well.

“Obviously not,” grinned Lisa.

She knew what he was talking about. She knew I was female. How much more of my world was going to fall apart?

Pansy fired more questions at me. All met with the same response — or lack of it.

“What’s the verdict?” he said to Lisa.

“Looks like delayed reaction to me.” She toyed with the bright red hair covering her left ear. “Any chance of using your phone?”

“Help yourself.”

“Who are you ringing?” I blurted out as the thought of her calling for an ambulance removed my tongue from its restraints.

“Someone who’s been waiting for this to happen for a while, Peter.”

She marched from the room, leaving me alone with Pansy.

“I’ll be straight with you, the next few days aren’t going to be easy,” he warned me. “You have to get away from the idea that you’ll be turning into a girl and accept that you already are one. It’s just that your body’s been fooled into thinking it was male by the nasty trick Testranol played on it.”

That was easy enough for him to say. He had parents who’d possessed the foresight to prepare him for the rocky road we would both be travelling.

I glanced down at my crotch.

“This thing I’ve got instead of a, you know…what exactly is it again?”

“A clitoris. And what you think of as your scrotum is really the tissue that will become your vaginal…you haven’t a clue what I’m on about, do you?” He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not the one to give you a sex-ed lesson. I’ll leave that to the professionals. If everything goes to plan, and there’s every reason to think that it will, we–“

“What d’you mean, ‘goes to plan’?”

“I don’t want to go through this alone, Peter. And I’m bloody sure you won’t be able to — if you’ll pardon my French. It hasn’t hit you yet, the number of changes you’ll have to make to your life. I don’t mean putting on make-up or knowing how to fasten a bra, it’s deeper than that. It’s about attitudes, behaviour, all sorts of stuff. But we’ll have time to talk later on. First let’s get your folks sorted out.”

Before I could reply Lisa popped her head through the door.

“We’re green for go,” she told Pansy. “I’ll take over from here. See you in a bit, Paula.”

She led me downstairs by the hand — Lisa Middleton was holding my hand! — and a few seconds later we were standing together on the pavement outside the front gate.

“Paula?” I mouthed at her.

“Why not? It seems like the logical choice. You’ll have to come up with a new name for yourself, I hope you realise. I’d suggest Petra, but that’s what they call the Blue Peter dog!”

She slipped her arm through mine. I forced my brain to focus on weightier matters than the thrill that surged through it.

“So where are we off?” I asked.

“To Rachel’s. She’s got everything in hand. Has had for months.”

“What like?”

“She’s hired a decent solicitor, for a start.”

“I don’t understand. Why would she say anything to you?”

Lisa’s brows did everything but fly from her face and attach themselves to the nearest lamp post.

“You really know how to sweep a girl from her feet, don’t you?”

“I wasn’t being cheeky. I–“

“I know you weren’t. God, how can I put this? Rachel and I became close because we both share the same tastes in…well, the kind of people we fancy.”

I sensed my mouth opening and closing. After a few geological eras had passed, sounds emanated from it.

“You’re a…”

“Yes, and I’ve a feeling that you are too.” Her fingers tightened their grip. “I’ve noticed the way you look at me every time we pass each other on the street. It’s okay, I don’t mind. In fact I’ll go so far as to say you’ll be quite a catch once you’ve been taught how to take care of your appearance.”

“But what about when I start having periods?” I protested. “Won’t the hormones turn me the other way?”

“I doubt it. I was first struck by the curse more than six years ago and it hasn’t made any difference to me.”

We started walking towards Harton Lane. Ten short minutes from now we’d be at my aunt’s, and the point of no return would have been passed — if it had ever existed to begin with.

“You shouldn’t be too hard on your mam and dad,” Lisa said as we came to the corner. “Don’t ever forget that when you were born they looked on you as the son they’d always hoped for. They’ll have to give him up now. And they can never replace him.”

Did that excuse all the secrecy? I was damned if I knew.

But the veil was being lifted. If the future was a cracked, uneven path, at least I’d be following it with a clear line of sight.

I smiled at Lisa. She smiled back. It compensated for a lot.

I almost dared to hope that things might be looking up.