The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 2054 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

When we got home Phoebe went up to her room and I thought I heard crying when I went past a little later. I knocked and entered, she was sitting on the bed weeping. I sat beside her and put my arm round her.

“Why do people have to die?”

“Because it’s what happens–the body ages and eventually ceases to maintain vitality or something catastrophic happens beforehand and the life span is even shorter. Like everything we know, we have a beginning, a middle and an end.”

“Seeing those people in the accident reminded me of what had happened to Gloria.”

I said nothing but gently stroked her back.

“I mean she was too young to die, why did she have to die–especially with a young baby?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, I can only surmise that something was troubling her which she felt was overwhelming her and in her distorted view, she took what seemed a way of stopping it.”

“But it was such a horrid thing to do.”

“It was to us and anyone not involved, but to her it made some sort of sense. People don’t commit suicide for anything other than pressing reasons, that they might be confused or deluded, is always another possibility, but at the time they think it’s the right choice.”

“Have you ever thought of doing it?” she asked slicing through my platitudes like a rapier.

“Yes.”

“Oh–not recently, I hope?”

“No, it was some time ago and I actually tried it–I shouldn’t be here now but I was found despite my best efforts to avoid it–I was taken to hospital and sorted.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

“I’d been beaten up by my father–quite badly–and I decided to end it all.”

“What, Gramps beat you up?” she was horrified.

“No not Gramps, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. My real father, who’s now dead, he had problems with my gender dysphoria and when we argued one day he lost it and beat me black and blue.”

“But why would he beat his daughter? That’s dreadful.”

“He wanted a son and thought he had a son, when I failed to live up to his expectations he got upset and anything I did which showed my femininity drove him wild.”

“How could he see you as anything but a girl?”

“He did.”

“Silly man, was he prosecuted?”

“No but I refused contact with him for some time.”

“I’d never have spoken to him again–ever.”

“That was what I thought I wanted, then my mother died just after I’d transitioned.”

“Transitioned?” she looked askance at me.

“I was born a boy, not a very good one because my body didn’t recognise testosterone so it never masculinised, so I was bit girly but I tried to humour him and did my best but I was never comfortable trying to be something I wasn’t. Then Auntie Stella hit me off my bike brought me to her cottage saw I was as much girl as boy–I had breasts and my hips were spreading, plus my hair was long. She encouraged me to let her dress me and do my hair and makeup and I met Simon and he fancied me.”

“I can’t get my head around you being anything but a woman.”

“Well, in spirit I was always female but my body didn’t quite get the message until I took hormones and then it all happened. I was still living as boy but didn’t feel much like one. Then after the incident with Stella I found myself walking about in skirts and people accepted what they saw. I was a post graduate student then working under Gramps’ supervision and he saw me walking down the street being pestered by a couple of yobs from my student accommodation. He intervened and insisted I take tea with him and when he said he knew about me and wondered when he’d meet the real me I was gobsmacked. I never went back to pretending to be a boy.

“My mum died soon after with a heart attack and I went to the funeral in my new role–he’d seen me as a girl before–they made me act as Lady Macbeth in school and I had to wear dresses while it was being rehearsed and performed.”

“What on stage?”

“No round the school as well.”

“Was it a mixed school?”

“No, it was a boy’s school.”

“And you had to wear dresses?”

“For a month or so.”

“Boy, talk about standing out like a sore thumb.”

“The headmaster had issues with me, he couldn’t stand having someone he saw as queer messing up his perfect school, so he tried to pressure me into leaving.”

“Why did he see you as queer?”

“I was quite feminine with very long hair and looked more like a girl than a boy–quite deliberately.”

She chuckled, “They were all wrong weren’t they?”

“Yes, as it happens, they were.”

“I’m glad, I like having you as my second mum.” She put her arm around my waist and pulled me close to her. “Were you sad when your mum died?”

“Yes, I saw her moments before she died–she didn’t recognise me.”

“Because you were a girl?”

“She was dying and I suppose she couldn’t see the old me.”

“But your dad did?”

“He saw me and again at the funeral.”

“You went to the funeral as a girl?”

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t say anything?”

“He was a bit more amenable, I think he was glad to have me there in any shape or form–I think he suddenly realised I was all he had–then he had the stroke and his world was turned upside down. He had to accept me as I was because for the first time he needed me. I went to see him in hospital and he seemed to accept me–eventually we got on quite well, he even agreed to Simon marrying me.”

“Wow, that was big change.”

“We took him out to the pub in a wheelchair and he and Si got on quite well. Simon knew he’d hit me a few times and was prepared to stand up to him but he was too feeble to try anything. I hope he’d begun to understand, but I can’t be sure. You can never really tell what someone else is thinking, can you?”

She shook her head. “I’m so glad that sort of thing never happened to me. I’m just so glad to be an ordinary girl.”

“That was my ambition.”

“What–to be a girl?”

I nodded, my eyes filling with tears.

“But you are, Mummy, you’re a very pretty woman and everyone loves you. Don’t cry,” Now she was rubbing my back.

It’s ridiculous but no matter how successful we are in changing over–and I’ve been as successful as anyone I suspect–there’s always this void, which no matter how hard you try to fill it remains empty and proclaims loudly, but only to you, ‘you’re not real, you’re a fake a facsimile,’ and it still hurts.

Stella’s voice called down the landing, “Are you going to feed this baby, Cathy?” and my reminiscence ended.