It's been nearly a month since I've seen James, not that I haven't thought about him every day. We have spoken on the phone at least twice a week and that was pleasant, but nothing compares to being held in his arms of course.

I have been thinking a lot about where this relationship is going. There are still things I don't know about James – first his age, and then the fact that there is something in particular that he is keeping from me and I need to know what it is. That said, there is of course something I am keeping from him and may always keep from him. With John it was different. He knew everything about me, especially the fact that I didn't start out in life with the appearance that I have today. How would James react if I told him? Would he inevitably be always looking, consciously or unconsciously for some trace of hidden male attributes behind my obvious female exterior? He wouldn't find them of course, I'm quite sure of that, but if this happened it would inevitably sour our relationship. Dare I risk that? I'm sure I'm not the first person who has encountered this dilemma. I wish there was someone I could discuss it with, but there isn't. Well there's Tom of course, the only other person in Hey who knows, but I'm not sure if he's even told his wife Ellen. He might consider it a breach of confidence to do so. In any case I think he would feel uncomfortable if I broached the subject with him.

Dear Tom. He didn't look too well when I saw him at the dance, but he's one of those Aussies of the 'old school' who would put a brave face on things no matter how bad they are. I must ring Ellen and have a quiet word. I could hardly bear to lose my one remaining link from when I first arrived in Australia, but he is in his mid eighties now and he's lived a tough life out in the bush. I mustn't get morbid, maybe he was just tired on the night.

It's been a week since I last wrote about it, and I have been thinking further about whether I should eventually reveal my past to James and how much I would prefer to discuss the situation with someone who knows me, and it came to my mind that Dr Brentwell, my specialist when I was transitioning would be the ideal person to ask. He must be long retired by now, but a check of the Brisbane telephone book shows he is still there, so I've written him a letter, couched in discreet terms in case it falls into other hands, asking if he would mind if I called on him when I'm next in Brisbane. I decided on a letter rather than a telephone call to allow him time to consider his response. Now I have to wait and see if he replies.

Wednesday

“And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,” to quote from my favourite Australian poem 'Clancy of the Overflow'. It's been just over a week since I wrote to Dr Brentwell and at first I was surprised that he answered so quickly, but now I think I understand why. His writing, while not exactly 'written with a thumbnail dipped in tar', nevertheless was spidery and extremely uneven, and the lines wavered. I've heard all the old jokes about doctors' writing, but Dr Brentwell's script was always very neat, the exact opposite of how it appears now.

“Dear Lesley,” it began, “of course I remember you and your friend when you first started coming to see me all those years ago. I'm unable to go out much now, so you will find me home most days. Here is my phone number so that you can confirm that I am in before you call. I look forward to seeing you, and at the risk of sounding somewhat melodramatic, I suggest you come to see me as soon as is convenient for you.

David Brentwell”

I sat for a while looking down at the single sheet of notepaper. It's obvious from the writing that while not spelling it out, he's telling me that he is terminally ill and might not have long to live. It's strange how we always think that with doctors being so in control of other people's illness and being able to cure them, that they themselves will never get sick, but of course they are as human as anyone. Anyway I've decided to go to Brisbane in two day's time.

Friday

It's been something of an emotional day for me. I arrived in Brisbane last night and telephoned the number Dr Brentwell gave me. A woman's voice answered the phone and announced herself as Diane Brentwell.

“Mrs Brentwell, it's Lesley Brodie,” I began, “I received a letter from your husband in response to my request to see him and I'm now in Brisbane. I'm wondering if I visit tomorrow would that be convenient for you?”

“Mrs Brodie, how nice to hear from you. Yes, tomorrow will be fine. How about three o'clock, would that suit you?”

I dressed carefully for my visit to Dr Brentwell. We can do nothing about the passing of the years, but I wanted him to see me as still a reasonably attractive woman now in her late fifties. To this end I brought along a cream linen suit and a white silk blouse, and teamed it with stockings and three inch matching court shoes.

Today a taxi took me to their house in one of the best parts of Brisbane. Their house is quite new in appearance and I imagine they might have bought it at the time Dr Brentwell retired, no doubt expecting that he many years ahead of him. His wife answered the door, a lady I'd judge to be in her mid-seventies, with grey hair and a pleasant face.

“Mrs Brodie, do come in,” she said.

“Mrs Brentwell, thank you for letting me come at such short notice,” I replied. “I have a small gift which I hope might be of use to you,”

I handed her a small foam Esky which I had carefully packed with choice cuts of beef, while explaining about its contents.

“I know it's an unusual gift to bring,” I said, “but I live on a cattle station, and judging by Dr Brentwell's letter I understand he is not well, so I thought some steaks might appeal to him, and you too of course.”

“Thank you so much, my dear, that's very thoughtful of you,” she replied. “David is waiting for you in the study. I'll show you where that is and then leave you alone to talk.”

She led me down the central corridor and stopped at a room halfway down. Opening the door she said “David, Mrs Brodie is here to see you.”

I walked into the book-lined study and tried my best not to show on my face the shock I felt upon seeing David Brentwell. He was sitting in a large armchair and the tall handsome man I had known thirty years ago had shrunk seemingly to half his original size and had obviously lost a lot of weight since his clothes seemed to hang off him. It was obvious to me that here was someone not long for this world.

He smiled and said “Mrs Brodie, welcome, please sit down,” and he indicated a second armchair placed at an angle and near to his own chair.

I sat down and began to talk. “Dr Brentwell, please call me Lesley. It's so good to see you again. I should have called before, but I know how busy doctors always are and I wasn't even sure you had retired.”

He managed a smile at that, although the lines on his pallid face suggested constant pain.

“I've only been retired three years,” he said, “and Diane and I had made many plans, but it appears that they are not going to come to fruition. Anyway, enough of that, what can I do for you?”

“Well I have a problem and could think of no-one else with whom I could discuss it. You are probably not aware, but my husband John died about three years ago, and my dear friend Jenny who came with me to Brisbane when I was seeing you, died a few years before that. They were the only ones who knew my background apart from Jenny's husband Tom, and I don't think he would wish me to discuss this matter with him.”

“I'm sorry to hear about your husband and your friend,” replied Dr Brentwell “and after all this time I think you might call me David, don't you?”

“Very well....David,” I responded. It felt strange to address him this way but he did request it. “The fact is that I have met a man with whom I think I might develop a long-lasting relationship, and I believe that couples should not keep secrets from each other. John and I had few if any, and of course he knew all about my transitioning. What I am wondering is, if James, this new man in my life, should be made aware of my past? Do I owe it to him to do so or is it better to 'let sleeping dogs lie' as they say? I'm sure you must have encountered this problem with some of your patients and I'm wondering what you might have advised them?”

David Brentwell was silent for a moment and then responded. “I can recall two cases where a similar thing happened. It will hardly help you when I say that in one case the man was quite accepting, and they have been together for many years as far as I know. In the other case, the man could not accept what he was told, and the relationship broke up soon afterwards. When discussing it with me later, the young woman concerned said she bitterly regretted her honesty as everything had been going fine until her revelation, and the man hadn't the slightest idea that she had started life as a male.”

I decided to press him since this is so important to me “But what would you advise me to do Dr..... er David?”

“The choice is yours of course, but since you ask, my advice is to say nothing. In my view, from the time you were born you were a female, you just happened to be born into the wrong body. I and my fellow specialists were able to help you match your body to your mind, that is all. However, there is one proviso to my advice; if you say nothing and at some future time James somehow finds out about your past, his response might well be far more negative than if you tell him now. If you do tell him then the best time would be before your relationship develops into intimacy, if there is still time for that.”

So there it was. There are pro's and con's to both courses of action, and I have to make up my mind which path to take.

“I'm really sorry that I cannot be more help Lesley, but that's how I see it. Now is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, thank you, David,” I replied, “I've pretty much made up my mind which way to go, but it has really helped me to talk it through with someone else.”

“Well now, how about some tea?” he said, and clearly he thought there was no more to be said on the matter, so when I nodded, he pushed a button on the small table next to his chair.

“I apologise for making it look like I'm summoning the maid,” he said, managing a smile, “but since I'm no longer very mobile, Diane and I worked out this is the best way for me to let her know that I'd like to talk to her, or in this case to bring in the tea.”

A few minutes later, Diane Brentwell called from outside the door, and I got up and opened it for her. She was carrying a tray which looked quite heavy, laden down with crockery, and plates of sandwiches and small cakes.

“Please let me take that for you,” I said, and she gratefully handed it over.

“Thank you my dear. I'll just go and get the teapot,” she said.

There was a small wooden table in the room, and at Dr Brentwell's indication, I put the tray down there. A few minutes later his wife appeared with the teapot and proceeded to pour us all cups of tea, while I handed Dr Brentwell a plate and he made a selection from the sandwiches, and then I did the same for Mrs Brentwell.

The conversation then turned to general topics. They asked about my life now, and I described how after John had died, I had taken over the running of the station, and they seemed quite impressed with that. I must confess that running the enterprise doesn't seem that impressive to me, but perhaps that's because I've been involved with it for so many years. They also seemed surprised that I fly an aircraft, but I explained that it's the most practical way of travelling to and from Brisbane and other places with the long distances involved.

It was a very pleasant time chatting with the two of them, and no further reference was made to Dr Brentwell's health. Eventually I could see that he was tiring, so I said that I must be going, and thanked them for their hospitality. Dr Brentwell held out his hand for me to shake. It was cold and the skin looked tissue-thin. On impulse, I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, saying as I did so “Thank you so much for all you did for me. I will never forget it.”

He smiled and said “The privilege has been mine to make a difference to so many lives.”

Diane Brentwell showed me to the front door, and when we were out of earshot of her husband, she said. “Thank you so much for coming to see David. You can see that he is not at all well, but I know he really enjoyed seeing you.”

“It was good to see him again too,” I replied, “He has done so much for people like myself over the years, and we are all so grateful to him.”

“He knows that, my dear,” replied Mrs Brentwell as she forced a smile, “I know that over the years you have made a contribution to the costs of some of his patients who might otherwise not be able to achieve their goals, and he is very grateful for that.”

“It was the least I could do, to repay him in some small measure,” I replied.

This time it was she who leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek “Goodbye my dear, and thank you again,” she said.

Monday

My visit happened just over a week ago, and this evening I received a telephone call from Diane Brentwell.

“Lesley, I just wanted you to know that David passed away yesterday. All the family were there and it was very peaceful,” she said.

The tears started in my eyes as I replied “I'm so sorry Mrs Brentwell. I could see that he was unwell, but I didn't realise just how sick he was.”

“It was cancer of course,” she replied, “and fortunately he did not suffer long. We wanted you to know that we are having a private funeral. Because of his speciality we want to keep it low key. The last thing David would want is for some tabloid journalist to put out some crass headline, and it's for that reason that we think it unwise for any of David's former patients to attend the funeral.”

“I understand,” I replied, “Unfortunately the world is still not ready to accept people like me as just ordinary human beings.”

“Thank you my dear, I was sure you'd appreciate our concern. When you are next in Brisbane, please call by. David spent the last month or so writing short letters to his former patients, and I'd like to hand one over to you personally.”

When I put the phone down I'm not ashamed to say that the tears spilled over as I cried for that lovely man who had done so much for me all those years ago. I thought of Jenny too and how she had been a tower of strength and support for me, and the tears flowed even faster. How fortunate we are as women that we can let go of our emotions rather than bottle them up as men tend to do, and in doing so it makes us feel better.

To be continued

Image credit: Australian cattle station by Harris Walker reproduced under Creative Commons licence with attribution.