CHAPTER 4: AN UNWRITTEN BOOK

The worst is not, so long as we can say ‘this is the worst’.

For once Shakespeare didn’t put it quite as eloquently as he might have. But that statement is as perceptive as anything he wrote.

You never recognise the low-water mark of your fortunes until you’ve passed it.

I’m not sure what I expected that Saturday afternoon when aunt Rachel and I began the short walk from Everard Street to Ashleigh Close. Sitting on the stairs with my head in my hands, listening to dad shouting and mum crying, hadn’t been high on the list.

And that was only a prelude to the flood of counter-accusations that followed, most of them from my father.

“You never had kids of your own, did you? And we all know why, don’t we?”

“You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you?”

“There you go again, assuming you know what’s best for him. It was the same with our Jeanette, wasn’t it Sheila?”

My aunt stood her ground. She waited for the storm to blow itself out, then told them about the agreement the Porters had reached with the drug company. She explained the advantages of settling now, before the scandal went public and thousands of other families came forward to claim damages. She gave them the number of the solicitor she’d engaged and urged dad to call him first thing on Monday morning.

I suspect that her parting words were intended for me as much as my parents.

“That lad’s got a lot more character than you give ‘im credit for. He’ll come through this with flyin’ colours, you just watch. And I’ll tell you somethin’ else for free, when he does become your daughter she’ll be one you can be proud of.”

But that wasn’t the turning point.

When aunt Rachel had gone I ran up to my room, preferring the scant comfort of the electric fire to the frosty stillness her departure had draped over the rest of the house. After an hour of leafing through old copies of TV21 I wandered over to the window. Dad was raking up leaves from the lawn, a job he’d normally have dumped on my doorstep while he attended to the more important business of turning over the flower beds. Mum was in the kitchen by the sound of it, probably performing some completely unnecessary chore in an effort to take her mind off the altercation that had upset her so badly.

Now was as good a time as any to try and break the ice.

I found mum pouring currants and sultanas into a huge bowl of cake mixture.

“I don’t really know what to say,” I began, which was true enough.

“Best to keep it buttoned then,” she chuntered, handing me a long wooden spoon. “Since you’re here you might as well make yourself useful.”

This was unbelievable. It was as if she’d just found out I was spending my dinner money on kali.

As I stirred the fruit into the buttery goo I watched her crouch to open the compartment at the bottom of the oven and lift out three baking trays. She placed them on the work surface next to the sink, then took a packet of lard from the fridge and tore off a strip of the wrapping paper so she could grease them without getting her fingers covered in fat.

“Are these for the shop?” I asked.

“It wasn’t just you,” she said. “We have to decide what to tell Jeanette. Then there’s your nana and grandpa.”

I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.

“Who cares what they think?” I complained. “I’m the one whose life is about to be turned upside down. Anyway, that can’t have been the only reason.”

“Your father…”

“I should’ve known. It had to be about him, didn’t it? He’s always got to be in control. I can’t even put the clock right without you telling me to let my dad see to it. So what did our lord and master decree this time?”

“He wanted to wait.”

“What for? Until I staggered into the front bedroom one morning with my pyjamas around my ankles and blood running down my legs?”

“Don’t be silly. He thought that first you might change in…well, in other ways.”

“Other ways? What are you talking about?”

“He assumed that because you weren’t built like a normal boy you’d eventually…what I mean is, you might…well, you might start acting like…”

“Oh I get it! Be a lot easier to break the news to me if I was a poof, wouldn’t it?”

“Peter!”

“Sorry, but that’s what it boils down to.”

She continued smearing lard into the trays. Her eyes were filling with tears.

“All we’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy,” she sniffed.

“Then make things easier for me. Call that solicitor. Tell the school I’m not coming back. Talk to Mr & Mrs Porter. Invite them round for tea or something. I’ll do it if you like.”

She nodded her head, but still couldn’t bring herself to look directly at me.

So that wasn’t the turning point either.

Nor did it arrive the following Wednesday, after our gruelling interrogation at the hands of Michael Sandwell in the dingy Adelaide Street chambers belonging to Sandwell, Rokeby & Brougham.

How did you learn of this drug, Mrs Stokes?

What literature was made available to you prior to the consultations?

You say that you’d suffered four previous miscarriages. What opinions did your GP put forward as to their probable cause?

Did you take any other medication during your pregnancy?

At what point did you become aware that Testranol may have had side effects that resulted in the misidentification of Peter’s sex?

What course of action did you decide upon, and why?

Or even at the end of the intrusive, humiliating medical examination I was subjected to a week later as a pre-condition for Sandwell agreeing to take the case on.

Looking back, the most likely candidate was the time I glanced down at the lavatory bowl and saw the reddish-brown spots that had dripped from my crotch. I didn’t panic; Dr Ainsley had made sure I knew what they heralded, and how I was to proceed once they appeared. But I still wanted to be sick after I’d flushed them away.

At least I wouldn’t have to drink any more of that revolting herbal tea.

There were other nadirs, not all of them a direct consequence of my first brush with the menstrual cycle and the changes it set in motion. Although it was disconcerting to wake up each morning and find that the appendage I continued to think of as my penis — subconsciously, at any rate — had shrunk a little bit more, the real reason for my restlessness lay elsewhere. Nearly a fortnight had elapsed since I’d failed to return to school; I could only guess at the rumours that must have been circulating.

Always said there was summat queer about ‘im…

Aye, first Pansy Porter, then Shirt-Lifter Stokes…

Best mates once, weren’ they?

I dunno if ‘mates’ is the right way to describe it…

And with no word as yet from Sandwell, Rokeby & Brougham, my misery was compounded when Pansy rang me to announce that he’d been awarded a place at Lowdales Hall, one of the special schools set up to help Testranol children through the early stages of their adjustment.

--Isn’t that the most brilliant news?

“Yeah…”

--They called yesterday to say that the prospectus was on its way.

“Did they?”

--Mmm. Apparently it’s only a few miles from Scarborough. Sounds like weekends might be fun!

“Yeah, it does.”

--They suggested I start the Monday after next. Four weeks and I’ll be back home for Crimbo! Couldn’t have worked out better!

“I suppose you’re right.”

To give him his due, he contained his excitement long enough to ask how I was getting on. The trouble was, apart from my meat and two veg getting smaller I had nothing to report. If the female hormones hurtling through my bloodstream were turning me into someone else, they were doing it invisibly.

It didn’t occur to me that becoming a girl was about more than growing a pair of tits and losing what was hanging between my legs. The person who taught me this most priceless of lessons was Lisa.

It was one of those grey, blustery November afternoons that blow whatever’s left of autumn from the atmosphere and reduce its mellow fruitfulness to a fading memory. I trudged past the Odeon cinema on Durham Road, hands stuffed into the pockets of my anorak as I made my way towards the town centre, the wind whipping my hair into my eyes and even my mouth. Overhead those harbingers of winter, the Christmas lights, shone weakly in the gloom. The seasons were in transition, neither one thing nor the other.

Just like me.

But I didn’t let the weather bring me down. In a few minutes I’d arrive at Victoria Square, the large open space between the Town Hall and the new shopping precinct, and the steps in front of the cenotaph where I’d arranged to meet Lisa Middleton at a quarter to four. A blizzard might have raged in from the sea, borne by a north-easterly that had been sharpening its fangs all the way from the Arctic Circle, and it wouldn’t have lowered my spirits one little bit.

I spotted her at ten to, weaving through the crowded plaza that separated Woolworth’s from Ingram’s department store, a ring binder protruding from the bag she carried on her right shoulder. Lisa was studying Hotel and Catering Management at the College of Further Education, for no other reason than that she believed it would help her realise her ambition to work in London. She had no wish, she’d told me the last time we talked at Pansy’s, to spend her life in a place where she’d have to hide her sexuality away or risk becoming a social leper.

Food for thought? Not yet, because I didn’t actually fancy anyone. Then again, medically speaking I’d only just entered puberty…

Lisa’s smile couldn’t part the clouds and treat the town to a glorious sunset, but it ignited a flame in my innermost being I knew would keep me warm for the rest of the day.

“How’s tricks?” she asked brightly.

“Oh, you know…same as ever.”

“Manage to wheedle much out of your folks?”

“Mum gave me two quid. I didn’t say anything to dad.”

“That should be more than enough.” She glanced back at the entrance to the precinct. “Where shall we start?”

“How would I know? You’re the expert.”

“Only compared to you. Come on, Ingram’s is nearest so we’ll try there first.”

The object of the exercise was simple and straightforward. I had to choose an item of feminine attire and pay for it myself. Nothing too racy — a jumper or a T-shirt would fit the bill — as long as it came from the women’s section.

Easy.

Except that I had visions of everyone in the store bursting into hysterical laughter the moment I took my purchase to the counter.

Lisa led me through the door, past the perfume displays, the shelves stacked with handbags and the glass cabinets filled with rings, necklaces and watches to the open-plan area where stood racks of dresses, skirts, overcoats, blouses and jackets, the merchandise organised in no logical sequence that I could discern. The ‘tops’, as my guide through this foreign country called them, were at the far end, uncomfortably close to the staircase going up to the menswear department. She stopped beside a rail labelled with numbers that meant nothing to me until she explained the rationale behind the concept of sizing.

“You must have heard the phrase ‘vital statistics’. 36-24-36 and all that? The first number is your bust, so it’s obviously the one that matters when you’re buying a top. Now these are all either 6 or 8, which means they’re suitable for busts of 32 or thereabouts.”

“Why don’t they just put that?”

“Because with dresses you have to consider the waist and hips as well. It’s a lot easier to have one number instead of three.”

“So what size would you say I was?”

“Towards the lower end, definitely.” Her eyes acquired a mischievous glint. “I know, why don’t we get you measured up?”

“What with?”

“The tape measure I carry with me at all times, just for occasions like these.”

“Do you? Really?”

“Of course not!” she laughed. “Wait there, I’ll go and ask an assistant for one.”

As she headed over to the smartly dressed young woman standing by the fitting rooms, I saw three lads in their late teens coming down the staircase. One of them looked at Lisa, then at me. I wanted to run out onto the street, and had I done so my face had gone such a vivid shade of red it would have brought the traffic to a standstill.

It went the temperature of molten lava when Lisa dragged me behind the curtain, unzipped my anorak, pulled it from my shoulders, made me press my hands against the back of my head and reached behind me to wrap the tape measure tightly around my upper torso.

“What’s the point?” I grumbled. “I haven’t got a bust yet.”

“Who are you trying to fool? I’ll admit they’re not a patch on Paula’s, but–“

“Pansy’s got breasts?”

“That’s why she was wearing a bra the other day.”

“Was he…I mean she?”

Lisa sighed and shook her head.

“She warned me I’d have my work cut out with you. Next time I’ll listen to her.”

“Hang on a sec,” I said. “I take a good look at myself every morning. I’m no different now than when I first started bleeding.”

“Is that what you reckon?”

“Well yeah…”

To my astonishment she undid the top three buttons of my shirt, slid her hand inside and rested her palm upon my left nipple.

Her voice became sultry and inviting.

“Think again, sweetheart. I know a tit when I feel one.”

I couldn’t tell which was making my brain hurt more, the fact that I was growing breasts or realising that Lisa — Lisa! — was physically attracted to me.

Not that this was destined to be the overture to a lovers’ duet. No doubt Lisa could rattle off a passable tune, but I’d just picked up my instrument and was still wondering which way round to hold it.

It’s the only excuse I can give to the countless trillions of air molecules that made up our audience, every one of them screaming at me to kiss her.

The moment slipped by, to be transformed instantly into a memory. Lisa’s fingers withdrew from my chest. Her expression lost its sparkle, became more banal. I fastened my shirt and put my anorak back on. I shook off the sense of an opportunity gone begging, preferring to think of possibilities waiting to be explored.

Such are the follies of youth.

We returned to the world of jumpers, blouses and T-shirts. Lisa introduced me to a new vocabulary that included terms like ‘scoop neck’ and ‘wing sleeves’, ‘jacquard’ and ‘broderie anglaise’. She showed me what pastel colours were, and did her best to help me distinguish mauve from lavender, cerise from crimson, fawn from butterscotch.

“Well?” she said after we’d lifted almost every garment from the rail. “Anything catch your eye?”

I held up a white fairisle sweater. It cost nearly  £3, which meant I’d have to dig into my own money, but it was the least effeminate article I could lay my hands on.

“I don’t mind this,” I said truthfully.

She took hold of the material, rubbed it between her thumb and index finger.

“Not bad…”

“That’s settled then.”

I managed one step in the direction of the counter before she moved to block my path.

“Put it back,” she insisted.

“Why, what’s the matter with it?”

“Nothing. But if you buy that now, we’ve wasted our time coming here.”

“What? I thought–“

“I didn’t meet you this afternoon just to help you choose a new jumper. It was to encourage you to start thinking like a girl.” She pointed at the staircase. “Ever asked yourself why the women’s section is always on the ground floor?”

“They sometimes have toddlers with them?”

“When a bloke walks into a store like this he usually knows exactly what he wants: a few pairs of socks, a shirt, a jacket or whatever. He doesn’t mess about, he’s got a job to do and the quicker it’s over with the better.

“Women are more picky. We want value for money. Take that jumper. What is it,  £2.99? There’ll be one somewhere else just the same, and at maybe half the price. But you won’t find it unless you shop around.”

“And the last thing you need when you’ve already been in half a dozen places is a flight of stairs?” I ventured.

“There you are, you’re learning already!”

I won’t pretend the next hour and a half was easy. I couldn’t avoid the feeling that everyone was staring at me; it didn’t matter whether they saw me as a boy or a girl, as far as I was concerned I couldn’t pass muster as either. And it would have been just my luck to bump into Plug or Gash — or worse still Kendo. If Lisa hadn’t been with me I’d have given up and gone home straight away. It didn’t bode well for the many future expeditions I’d have to make as my shape changed and I was forced to adapt my wardrobe accordingly.

I said goodbye to her on the corner of Everard Street and Jessamine Road. I’d suggested that I call on aunt Rachel and show her what I’d bought — it was a chunky white sweater from Richard Shops, and had only set me back  £1.79 — just so I could be by her side for another couple of minutes, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

“The people you need to impress are your parents. You’ve got to let them know that Peter’s gone so they have a chance to love the girl who’s taken his place.”

“Yeah, but how? Even I haven’t a clue who she is yet.”

“Carolyn.”

“Come again?”

“She’ll need a name. It’s something you can build her around.”

“Why Carolyn?”

“Sounds nice. Carolyn Stokes — rolls right off the tongue.” She squeezed my forearm. “To tell you the truth, in some ways I envy you. If you think of your life as a book, you can just tear out the pages that have been written so far and start the story all over again. I wish that option was available to me.”

She left before I could ask her what she meant. I was convinced that she wanted me to, or why say anything at all?

Less than five minutes later, events had taken a turn that pushed those words from my mind for a very long time.

The message was taped to the front-room door. It was in my mother’s handwriting.

“Are yer all right, son?”

I looked round to see our neighbour, Mrs Manuel. She had a glass in her hand — not the first she’d poured herself that day, judging by the way the old woman was slurring.

“Looks like bad news,” I said.

“Yer mam wanted us to keep an eye on things, seein’ as ‘ow yer didn’ ‘ave a key an’ she ‘ad to leave the ‘ouse unlocked.”

“When did they leave?”

“I dunno…half-four, mebbes.” She looked at the name on the bag I was holding, her eyes narrowing as I swept my hair back from my forehead. “Are yer sure there’s nowt up? Yer look different somehow. Yer voice ‘as changed an’ all.”

“I might be coming down with a cold,” I lied.

“Aye, there’s a fair few of ‘em goin’ round. Liquids, that’s what yer need. Me mother always said ‘feed a cold an’ starve a fever’, but yer can’t beat ‘ot drinks. Germs ‘ave to come out through the kidneys, this feller in the paper reckons. Now if yer talkin’ about the ‘flu–“

The telephone rang.

“That’ll be mum!” I shouted, and ran inside to answer it.

“Newburn 4525…”

--Good evening. I’d like to speak to Mr Raymond Stokes if I may. My name’s Clare Corrigan, vice principal of Lowdales Hall. I’m sorry to disturb you so late in the day, but I’ve been trying to get through for the last two hours without success.

I froze. How I made my vocal cords vibrate I’ll never know.

“Mr & Mrs Stokes, they er…they aren’t in. It’s like a…well, a sort of family emergency.”

--Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that.

“My grandad’s poorly. They’ve gone down south to visit him.”

--Am I talking to Peter?

“Er, yeah…”

--Good. Listen carefully, Peter. I want you to take down this number and ask your father to call me the moment it’s convenient. It’s Scarborough — that’s 0273 — 61952. Have you got that?

Luckily we kept a notepad on the telephone table. I only dropped the pencil twice.

“Clare Corrigan on 0273 61952.”

--That’s right. You understand why I need him to get in touch with me, don’t you?

“Is it about me going to your school?”

--Would you like to?

“If I could, yeah.”

--Then I don’t forsee any difficulties. But I must talk to your parents first.

“Okay, I’ll tell them that.”

I put the receiver down, then lit the gas fire and flopped onto the sofa. For a while all I could do was study the wallpaper; I found it impossible to concentrate on anything more complicated than those simple repeating patterns. Then the implications of what I’d just heard began to strike home.

If you think of your life as a book, you can just tear out the pages that have been written so far and start the story all over again.

That phone call was the preface. The rest of the pages were blank, and it was up to me how I filled them.

And if the author referred to herself as Carolyn instead of Peter?

Come on, what was in a name?

Mum rang at a quarter past seven from a service station somewhere on the M1. She told me that grandpa had suffered a severe stroke, and wasn’t expected to recover. I waited until I was sure she’d finished talking, expressed my concern as sincerely as I knew how — I only saw my grandparents once a year, so it was difficult to feel close to them — and passed on Clare Corrigan’s message. The first paragraph was complete.

I took my new sweater up to my parents’ room, where I found a pair of scissors I could use to snip off the price tag. Removing my shirt, I stood in front of the dressing-table mirror and examined my bare chest from various angles in an attempt to detect the breasts Lisa had assured me I was developing. I twisted from side to side, bent my neck forward and even jumped up and down, but nothing drooped, swayed or jiggled. Only when I pulled the sweater over my head and tucked the bottom into my jeans could I make out two very shallow curves when I was at a particular angle to the glass. Carolyn wasn’t going to be a busty sexpot, whatever else she might eventually become.

Right now she was hungry. I decided there and then that she’d never be the type of girl who turned her nose up at the thought of tucking into fritter and chips — out of the newspaper with her fingers, just like Peter did.

Licking my lips, I put my anorak back on and ran downstairs.