Chapter 1
I’ve heard it said that Bob Dylan intended his ‘The Times, They Are A’ Changing’ to be a protest song. The first version I remember hearing was sung by Simon and Garfunkel, and it sounded more like a ‘progress’ song, when sung without the nasal whine. The first verse that relates to the water rising until you have to swim to survive must be a metaphor for the reality of growing up and making your own way in life.
I’m getting ahead of myself. It would be too easy to ramble on about the vagaries of childhood and how it made one feel. Me, I just did what the lyrics told me to do, stay afloat and get on with it.
My life was a mistake, or so my father always used to say. A celebration of some award that caught my mother unprepared. As such, I was the youngest child, by far. My parents, Robert, and Constance Strickland were the core of a small, local, paper. It was called the ‘Patcham Times’, and had been started by his grandfather, at a time when Patcham was a small collection of houses, north of Brighton. He had originally printed it on a hand press, in his garden shed, but the printing was now done behind the office, off Crowhurst Road. It was purely a local gossip paper but promoted the local businesses and attracted a good number of advertisers, ranging from Brighton and Worthing to an extent of some fifty miles east and west.
Being a weekly, it never worried about the current ‘news’ unless it impacted the local area. It was there to keep up with local events, sales, shows, and gossip, and, as such, sold well enough to be moderately profitable. Dad wrote the reports on the local events, spending a lot of time out and about, while Mum wrote a cooking and domestic column.
We lived in a modest house on Wilmington Way, just big enough for us, if we remained friendly. There was, in my younger days, my sister Harriet, a good twelve years older than me, and in High School when I was a baby. She left home when I was five, having to get married, which was a good thing for me, because I got to take over her bedroom. Prior to that, I was sharing with my two brothers; Robert (eleven years older), and John (ten years older.) They were happy to see me move, as it had been a bit cramped with a single and a double bunk in the one room. Of course, by the time I moved, they wanted somewhere quiet, so that they could talk about girls and sex.
Me? They named me Conway, and everyone called me Con, until I was in High School when that became Connie. I suppose it was inevitable, seeing that I was short and slim. I was the one in the family that followed my mother’s gene pool, which made her dote on ‘her baby’. Seeing that my father was a workaholic, later to become an alcoholic, I was definitely a ‘mother’s boy’. She was a fantastic cook, so she took it on herself to pass her knowledge on to a new generation. I was instructed, as a matter of daily living, in the art of cooking, cleaning, washing, sewing, and mending.
By the time I started High School, I could have breezed through the cooking and domestic sciences. Seeing that I was shunned by the boys as too puny to bother with, I did gravitate towards mixing with the girls, and my knowledge proved to be my entry into their world. I became the go-to person when they were having a problem in the domestic science class. What they didn’t know was, that by this time, I was a co-writer of the cooking column with my mother. The fact that we wrote as ‘Constance Morgan’ her maiden name, hid me within her folds.
My brothers both left home. One joined the Navy, simply to see the world, and was lost, overboard, in an Atlantic gale. The other had married, and quietly emigrated to New Zealand. I always thought that it had been my father’s driven ways that was the reason they all left. He had become quite the man-about-town, and there were rumours of a mistress that reached my ears from the girls in school.
He died from a fall from a window, when I was sixteen, and the ownership of the paper passed to my mother. The window in question just happened to be in the bedroom of the woman that it was rumoured he was seeing. Her husband had returned from a business trip a day early and had been going back to his car to get his suitcase when my father hit the lawn, headfirst, just a few feet to one side of him. The police did tell us that there was enough alcohol in his blood to flambee a steak.
My sister had married well, into a family where divorce was a definite no, with morality a defining mantra, so she had cut ties after my mother had a chance to cuddle her grandson, just the once in the hospital. She had, oddly, left quite a bit of her old wardrobe behind. I hadn’t bothered to change anything in her room and had now reached the same size as her when she left. My mother always spoke about not wasting, so I was regularly wearing my sisters' old jeans and tees around the house. Nothing that my father or brothers left would fit me, so it had all been bagged and sent to the local op-shop.
Once I left school, Mum sat me down and told me that I needed to get a proper trade, and that she had enrolled me in a cookery school, close enough for me to cycle to. She took over the running of the paper and I continued to write the column as Constance. The sub-editor was tasked with getting the stories that my father had been writing, and we found out that he hadn’t written a word, himself, for a few years, so his passing hardly caused a blip in the content. For a couple of months, we moved in our new direction – Mum to the office, and me to the cooking school. Then I made a fundamental error.
I had been a bit behind with my column for the next issue and had taken it with me to catch up during lunch. I had taken a sandwich into school, and was in the library, eating and writing, when one of the lecturers walked behind me and saw what I was working on. I had to tell him that I was working on the column for the next Patcham Times.
“So, you’re Constance Morgan?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been writing parts of this column for about six years, and now write it all, with my mother being editor, she doesn’t have the time to do it.”
“No wonder you’re so good in the practicals. I’ve noticed you helping some of the other students.”
“The girls were at High School with me, and I used to help them with cooking tips, so it’s natural that they look to me to help when they’re having trouble. I’m sorry, sir, but some of the teachers are a bit fierce, almost like head chefs.”
“That’s because we’re trying to get our students used to dealing with dictators, young Con. We don’t just teach cooking, we try to give them enough backbone to continue in the business, without burning out. The only way you can be safe from head chefs is to start your own restaurant.”
“I haven’t thought that far into the future, sir. At the moment, we’re just getting back on track after my father’s death. My mother taught me all she knew about cooking, but she’s now running The Times. She was hoping that this course would give me enough skills to get a good job, so I don’t end up working for the paper. I do love cooking, though, it’s something I experiment with, at home. I can admit that a few things I’ve concocted have been terrible, but I’m filling a notebook with recipes that are mine. Perhaps opening a restaurant of my own isn’t so far-fetched, after all.”
He went around the table and sat in front of me.
“Now, tell me. You write as Constance Morgan and you’re sitting there in a girl’s tee shirt and jeans. Are you trans?”
“No, sir. I’ve never thought of it. I suppose that I do come across as a bit of a girl, seeing that my mother has been teaching me girly things since I was little, with the cooking just being one part. The clothes are because my sister left a lot of things when she married, and I’ve reached a stage where they fit me. Lord knows, nothing my brothers left behind could do anything but hide me like I was wearing a tent. They took after my father. I’ve never considered trying on the skirts and dresses Harriet left behind.”
“What about the hair and complexion?”
“My mother, again. We’ve been close ever since I was able to reach the kitchen tabletop. She is a stickler for looking after your skin and hair. It’s long because I’ve grown to like it that way. I suppose it’s part of my camouflage, hiding the puny weakling that boys want to bully. It all came from High School, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid of what you are, Con. It’s what makes you the person you’ve become. The staff have been wondering why this particular class is so good, right from the start. The two guys are from restaurant owning families, but we usually get girls from High School who couldn’t toast bread, at first. Did you help all four of them??
“Yes, they were in my year. There’ll be a few in following years that I’ve helped. The older girls were too full of themselves to ask for help.”
“Would you be prepared to take part in a little experiment? It would only take up an extra lesson, about twice a week.”
“That depends, sir, on what you have in mind.”
“All right, I’ll level with you. Since the start of term, the practicals that your class have produced have been so outstanding, the Headmaster has been asked to try them. He’s been impressed with the quality, across the whole class. I can see that you don’t assist the girls, directly, and none of you assist the guys, but there is a level if talk between you that lifts everyone. The staff have been thinking about running an advanced course in experimental cooking, but, up to now, we haven’t had the quality of student to make it work. I want you to work, with me and a few others, to get the advance course off the ground. It would be all of your class, if they want to do it, and there are a few of the older students who could be able to keep up with you. It would mean you doing classroom study, once a week, on ingredients and ways to create a masterpiece. Then, the other lesson would be a practical, with you showing how to make things from your notebook.”
“So, if I get it correctly, we’ll be writing the course notes as we go?”
“That’s right. There’s just one other thing that we should discuss, before we see the Headmaster and get his approval. I think that it would help everyone if Constance Morgan was in charge of the practicals. Everyone, here, reads your column. It would give you a career as a teacher after you graduate, should you want it.”
“That’s a huge compliment, sir. I’ll talk it over with my mother, tonight. Will you be bringing it up with your class, this afternoon?”
“We’ll talk about the concept. It’ll be interesting, to both of us, to hear what the other girls think.”
He left me to finish what I was doing, which was slightly harder after he had said ‘other girls.’
That afternoon, at the start of our class, he asked for everyone to gather round and asked who would be interested in an advanced course of experimental cooking, with both theory and practice. We all said that we would like to do it. I told my mother what had been said that evening, as we ate the dinner I had prepared.
“They want you to be a team leader, but as Constance?”
“It looks like it, Mum. The name carries some respect, thanks to the years that you were writing the column. Our lecturer said that the entire staff reads it, and that the Headmaster samples our practicals. He’s a three-hat chef and he’s trying our cooking!”
“I’m proud of you, Con. Some of the other mothers have spoken to me about how you helped their girls at school, and it just seemed a bit far-fetched. If the school thinks that you could have a future in teaching, it now looks as if they were all telling the truth. This extra work would be just two extra classes a week, then?”
“So far. We haven’t got the Headmaster’s approval, yet. I expect that he has been spoken to, this afternoon. We’ll be likely to know more, tomorrow. There’s just one thing that I haven’t been able to get my head around. That’s doing it as Constance. I know that I’ve been wearing Harriet’s jeans and tees, but I’ve never touched the rest of her things, and I’m worried that they’ll all laugh.”
“We’ll worry about that when the approval is given. Those girls in your class might be able to help, seeing that you’ve helped them so much. They would be better when looking at what you have to pick from, and what you may need. Don’t fret about money, if this goes forward, we can afford some serious shopping time. You’ve hardly cost us anything except for school outfits since you became a teenager.”
“Thanks, Mum, I think.”
She took the finished column with her, next morning, which left me a week to think up another one for next week. I looked, more carefully in the wardrobe, before I got dressed for the cooking school. We did have outfits supplied to wear when we cooked but could just go casual for theory classes. I decided that I would try something that I never would have ever thought of, before.
There was a pair of red leather jeans that I had always passed over as too girly, and I matched them with a black polyester top and a pair of short boots. I’d never tried the shoes, before, so was surprised when the boots fitted, although I did have to swap my socks for thin ones I found in a drawer. I loaded my satchel with my notebook and other things, then locked the house and rode to the school.
When I arrived, I made sure that I brushed my hair, after I took off my bike helmet. In the class, the girls looked at me, but didn’t say anything at the time. The four, Penny, Maria, Jane, and Brenda, were all good-looking and had been popular in High School. I often wondered what they thought of me, or if they had just been friendly because I had helped them. The two guys, Charles, and Pete were friendly enough, but seemed as wary of being around me as they did with the girls. Both of them were engaged.
That day, I discovered something that altered my path in life. We had gone into the room where we usually did the theory classes, and our teacher walked in with the Headmaster. The question was asked, once more. Were we prepared to spend an extra two classes, each week, to look at experimental cooking? It wouldn’t be marked towards our course results, but it would be added to the overall assessment. When we all said that this was what we wanted, the Headmaster asked to see my notebook.
We all sat, quietly, as he browsed through it, smiled a few times, frowned once, then put it on the desk.
“Con, what you’ve written here is amazing for someone so young. There are a couple of recipes that I have seen made, but with different methods. You others, Con is a very bright chef in the making. As such, he will be the team leader with the advanced course, with other teachers helping out, to make it all above board. I will taste every dish that you produce in the practicals, and I’m looking forward to it. Now, there’s something that I’m going to ask you all, and it has to be between us, as the public knowing it would not help a certain person’s future. Do you all swear to keep our little secret?”
All the others were wondering what it was all getting to, but all agreed to keep it secret.
“Thank you. Now, Con has been experimenting with his cooking for some time, by the number of entries I see in this notebook. The notebook will be the basis of the terms work, and, as I said before, Con will be the team leader and take you through the actual cooking. If anyone asks who is leading the course, you will tell them that the leader is Constance Morgan, because that’s who wrote these recipes.”
The guys looked stunned, and the girls gave a little squeal and came over to me and enveloped me in a group hug. Then the two guys also gave me careful hugs. I had never, ever, been subjected to that amount of contact. Mum would sometimes pat me on the head until I grew to be slightly taller than her, then she would sometimes pat my shoulder. Neither Dad, nor my brothers, had ever come close to being affectionate. At High School, none of the girls would give me a hug when I helped them, I suppose that was some sort of peer pressure in regard to a girly nerd not being huggable. My very first day in definite female attire, and I had received more affection than my previous sixteen and a bit years.
The Headmaster left the room, and we got down to our theory lesson. Later, that morning, all we did was chop carrots, in the approved chef style that looks so easy when you’ve mastered it but takes a lot of concentration to get right without chopping the end of your finger off. The trick is to start very slowly, until you create the muscle memory, then you speed it up over a period of months.
We all sat together at lunchtime and the one thing that was on the girl’s minds was why I was dressed in such a good outfit, and why I hadn’t dressed like this, before. Penny wanted to know where I had bought the retro-look clothes.
“They’re my sisters’.”
“Wow, she’s got taste. I’d like to shop for things like those.”
“You’ll have to invent a time machine, then. These are things she left in the wardrobe when she got married. That occurred when I was five, so these would be more than eleven years old. I’d heard about fashion going around in cycles, but never thought that I would be on the leading edge!”
“You mean to tell us that you have a wardrobe full of vintage outfits and you’ve never worn them? You need help, girl, if you’re going to be our Constance. I know the guys won’t help, but I’m sure that our team will have you looking like a genuine Constance, if you want us to.”
“To tell you the truth, Penny, I only wore her things because they were better fitting than my own, and because I’ve been too lazy to go shopping for my own things. I really don’t know all the things she left. Today was the first time I tried her boots on, because I thought the rest of the outfit needed them. I was surprised when they fitted, and I have to say I feel good in them, a bit sassy.”
That got a laugh, then Jane wanted to know when they could come around and check out the treasure trove. Brenda then wondered if they might be able to borrow anything, seeing that what I had on was good stuff, and she could see us starting a trend. I realised that, as they were talking, I could see the bones of future Constance Morgan columns in my mind. Vignettes of teenage experimentation and filtered reports of our next couple of years before we graduated. By that time, we may have found someone else to keep the column going.
The extra lessons would start the following Tuesday, with the practicals on Thursdays. The week seemed to fly by, with me wearing various things from the wardrobe. I found that my sister had amassed a collection of slacks and blouses that would enable me to mix and match for the foreseeable future. The four girls, however, had other ideas.
We had arranged for them to come around on Saturday morning, Mum was planning a lunch, with a shopping outing in the afternoon. I had no idea of where the right shops were, so I just doggy-paddled in the ebb and flow of events, expecting that I would be well advised by my four friends.
Friends? That was a new concept for me. I’d never had a true friend, just guys who had said hello, then waved as they moved on to someone more exciting. I had never had a birthday party, and just had to make do with looking on as my brothers filled the garden with their school buddies. Since the group hug, I was coming to realise just how alone my life had been.
On Saturday morning, my bedroom was invaded by a bevy of beautiful girls, all with the first thought of what I had to choose from, and the second being what I needed to move forward. My initial thought, that I would be a faint impression of Constance was tossed out within the first ten minutes, all with my mother’s approval. When all the drawers that I had never bothered to pull open were inspected, I found that my sister must have carried very little when she left. Even Mum was surprised at what we found.
“That girl must have needed a complete shop-up on her honeymoon. It looks like the only things she took away was her wedding dress and her going away outfit. There again, she would have needed maternity clothes, and her new husband wasn’t short of money.”
Brenda wondered whether that had been the plan, seeing that if a girl doesn’t want a baby, these days, there are several ways she could prevent it happening, even if the man was from a family that didn’t believe in contraception. I couldn’t add to the conversation, having hardly known my sister.
After an hour, I was told that I had enough underwear, stockings, tights, and accessories to be all right until I developed my own style. The girls had sorted out the dresses and skirts, the tops and blouses, the shoes, and boots, sometimes holding things up to themselves in front of the mirror, and sometimes holding them up to me. In the end, I was told that there was only one major range of things I needed. That was new cosmetics, as eleven years had rendered everything useless, with screw tops locked and tubes like solid cylinders.
That, and the actual making of Constance, was all there was to do. We stopped for an early lunch, and then I was told about each step as they would take me from Conway to Constance. Or, should I say, the first version of Constance, as I was told that I would evolve as I learned to live with my new life.
That was a worry, a new life. In the tidal flow of my existence, I suddenly knew that it wasn’t any good treading water anymore. These girls were going to teach me freestyle, with Mum happy to throw me into the deep end. This coming week was going to be sink or swim, with today being just learning how to do laps. Like the chopping, the girls assured me that it just took a little time to learn the muscle memory, and I’ll be walking and talking as if I had been born to the sisterhood before I knew it.
Marianne Gregory © 2023
Chapter 2
I had kept up with the newspapers and wasn’t unaware of the reputation my hometown had as a gay center. I had read articles, both for and against, and was well aware of what I was about to embark on. As a writer, myself, the second verse of the song now had more meaning to me. I needed to keep my eyes wide, because this was the one chance to get it right and not become a laughingstock.
I forced myself to stay quiet, as the wheel spun. When it stopped would be the time to find out if I could make it work. The odd thing was, because of all the training that Mum had given me since I was little, this step didn’t seem too strange. What was strange was, after lunch, her being with me in the bathroom, with me naked and in a bath, while she supervised my shaving all over, and giving my hair a double wash and condition.
While this was happening, the girls were running riot in my bedroom, trying on things that caught their fancy. When I had been dried and dusted, I had one of my sister’s dressing gowns on when Mum led me back to the bedroom. All the girls, who had arrived in jeans, now wore skirts or dresses that they liked. I looked and thought that I would be unlikely to have worn any of them, as they didn’t suit my preferences. I was told that, today, I would be following their lead, and that it would be my first outing without trousers.
They had already picked out a plain light blue set of bra and panties, and I was allowed to pop back into the bathroom to put them on, with special instruction on how to minimise what little tackle I had. It was a struggle, both physically and intellectually, but I achieved what I had been asked to do and went back into the bedroom. Now, I had the gown taken away, and inserts put into the bra cups, to give me some shape. Obviously, my sister had thought she had needed help in that department, all those years ago.
It was a progression from then, with layers being added, then subtracted, and then replaced, until I stood there in a light blue dress with a flared skirt, sensible shoes with just a small heel, and a feeling that I should have done this years ago, if only to see if I looked stupid. I was sat at the dressing table, and, between my mother’s selection and what the girls had brought with them, I had my brows tweezered and my face made up. Then Brenda weaved a magic spell over my hair, giving me a very feminine look. I looked in the mirror and decided that I didn’t look stupid, after all.
The acid test, I was told, was to spend some quality time in the shops. Mum unlocked the Cruiser that Dad had bought to prove his manliness, and we all piled in for a short trip to the town centre and the shops. With the heeled shoes, I couldn’t help but copy the girls as we walked away from the car, with me now trying to copy their voices.
The first stop was a department store, which sold the go-to brand of cosmetics the girls all used, and I was sat on a seat, while all of the previous work was wiped off and a new layer applied. The brief was to find my palette, and I think the girl nailed it. Leaving there with a bag of their products and a handbook designed to help young girls learn how to do it for themselves, the next stop was the jewellery counter.
There, I bought a range of cheaper bracelets, necklaces, and rings that I liked, rather than what my sister had left. I found that I was a lot less flashy, and the girls nodded as I made my choices. Of course, the offer of free piercings if you bought earrings couldn’t be walked away from. We left there with me sporting my new studs. Mum took the bags and said she would take them back to the car and catch up with us in the Lanes. The girls nominated a shop which they thought would have things I would like, and she agreed to meet us there.
As I may have said, me and shopping were poles apart, so this new experience needed to be positive for me. Once I shed the notion that I was quickly buying something that would fit, and I would not dislike, I got into the ways the girls were teaching me. That shopping was fun, it didn’t need you to actually buy something, and you make mental notes on what pieces you liked, so that you could go back if you saw something that you knew would go with them.
The time flew, and by the time Mum caught up with us, we all had bags with our purchases in. We took time out, in one of the many cafes, to talk about what else I needed. My sister had, I was now coming to realise, been flashy to the point of trashy, and there would be things that the girls would help me clear out of my wardrobe. The sexy underwear would stay, as I was told that you feel good knowing that you had it on, but the very short skirts and plunging necklines were not my thing. One thing I was short on was decent shoes. So, we left Mum sitting with our bags as we raided a shoe shop.
Our final shop was lingerie, at my insistence. This morning, I had seen that my sister had loved baby doll nighties, while I had decided that something a bit longer, and less see-through, was my preference. When I had brought a selection, and paid for them, the girls declared that I was now my own woman, with my own likes and dislikes.
There was a group discussion on how well I had gone, and the consensus was that they all were now thinking of me as Connie, a slightly inexperienced girl, and that I would be all right with what we had in mind for next week. I was becoming happy with a lot of touching, hugging, and the occasional kiss on the cheek. The last was mainly from Maria, who had been quiet and a little withdrawn before we had embarked on our shopping trip with me in a dress.
She now endeavoured to be close, and to be helpful when I was dithering over my choices. She had been shooting off to bring back things which she thought may be what I was thinking of, and most times she was right. She was the one who would look me in the eyes as she spoke, which meant that I spent a lot of time gazing at her own baby blues. I don’t know what was happening, at the time, but, later that evening, she was the one in my thoughts once the girls had left, laden with their shopping and added bags of some things that they liked from my wardrobe.
This gave me room for my own choices. There was now a couple of bags for the op-shop, mainly the very trashy stuff that none of the girls would wear. Mum got me to wear one of my new dresses, with slightly higher heels, and she took me to a good restaurant for a celebratory dinner. I had found most people friendly, during the day, but being helped into my seat and called ‘miss’ was a whole new experience. The funny part was that it was the place that Pete’s family operated, and I saw him working in the kitchen. We had not been frequent diners, so it was interesting to be eating something cooked by a good chef.
That night, I was shown how to properly clean off the make-up, and to arrange my hair so that it would fall into place in the morning. I wore one of my new nighties for the first time, and had a good night of restful sleep, after the exertions of the day.
Sunday, Maria, and I had arranged to spend time together. It had been a sudden decision, based on a band that was playing in one of the parks. I hadn’t really considered it to be a date until I started to get ready. I started dithering about whether I should go with pants, a skirt, or a dress. I finally put together an outfit that was totally new, a straight skirt, with a plain top, new boots and, for the first time, tights. It took a while to do my make-up, but finally arrived at a point where I couldn’t see streaks. I put all my things in a backpack bag and left the house.
We were going to meet by the Pavilion, and the bus dropped me off not far away. Maria was waiting for me and greeted me with a strong hug and an air-kiss. She told me I looked nice, so I told her she looked fabulous, and we linked arms to walk towards the music we could hear. The whole time we were together, we didn’t talk about cooking, or my previous existence. It was about clothes, things we liked, comments on both the boys and girls that were all around us. It was as if we were a couple of girlfriends having a good time. It was then that I understood that it was just that, me having a good time with a girlfriend, but as an equal.
The band was good, and there was no seating, unless you sat on the grass, so we moved around, grooved to the music, and even danced with a couple of lads for a while. I wasn’t outed, made to feel uncomfortable, or even looked at unless it was from boys looking at girls in the way they do. It was a first, and I did, at times, feel like an exhibit. It was then that I understood a little of what drove my sister. It would only take a shorter skirt, more boob, and an attitude and you could own your position. As I looked around, I saw a few like that, so flashy that they were protected by the aura of power. I could see boys ogling them but afraid to approach.
I pointed this out to Maria, who told me that it was a very hard thing to maintain that powerful aura without ending up without friends. She said that a girl could go too far with the look, and end up attracting the wrong kind of guy, one who just wanted another notch on their bedhead. Today, I was learning a lot about life as a girl, and now knew that my brother-in-law had collected more than his notch.
We had hot dogs in the park, and then strolled back towards the Lanes. At a jewellers, we bought each other a friendship ring, then found a shelter on the Esplanade, and looked out towards the sea as we sat and talked. When it was time to go, I stood and held my hands out to help her up. As she stood, she put a hand behind my head and pulled me into a kiss. It was a momentous event, as far as I was concerned, my first kiss, ever, and the fact that we were both wearing lipstick wasn’t part of the equation. It was so nice, we did it again.
She looked me in the eyes and smiled.
“Connie, I’m glad you like me, and glad that we’ve had this day, together. I’ve been wanting to kiss you since yesterday afternoon, and didn’t get much sleep last night, thinking about you. To answer your first question, yes, I’m a lesbian, and I find the new you impossible to ignore. If it’s any consolation, this vindicates what you are doing and verifies that you really make a wonderful woman. Never stop believing in yourself. I’ll be by your side as long as you want me around.”
“Maria, sweet thing, I, too, spent a lot of last night thinking about you. Today has been wonderful, for me, as well. This is the first time I’ve felt strong feelings towards anyone, and I don’t know how I’ll be, as time goes on. You’ll always be my friend, and that’s something you shouldn’t take lightly, as you are the first true friend I’ve ever had. Yesterday, for me, was like emerging from a lonely egg to find myself surrounded by beautiful swans who considered me one of the flock. To answer a question of your own, I’ve never had sex, nor have I masturbated, so I don’t know if I could satisfy your needs. If you want to go further, you’ll have to teach me what I have to do.”
“Wow, all this and experimental sex thrown in. I think I could be in love.”
That’s when I held her close and initiated our next kiss. Of course, we needed to repair our lipstick, then we held hands as we strolled along the promenade, just another pair of gay girls in the gay center of the south coast. Before we parted, we now talked about the coming week at the school. She was there to be able to find a job in a restaurant and had expected to be spending several years as an underling, before getting to actually cook.
“Maria, you’re better than that. The reason that we’re being considered for the trial course is because the whole class has attracted attention through our dishes. I can’t see any of us needing to spend years being a drudge to a domineering chef. Forget what you’ve seen on the television. Real restaurants, those who have good reputations, look after bright people and nurture good cooks. Our teacher told me that the best way to make your mark is to open your own place. That’s not too far-fetched, and it might be something we can all think about, we have a couple of years before we need to move.”
We parted at the bus stop, hugging and air-kissing. There was no need for blatant posturing, now we were sure of ourselves. I rode home, thinking about what had happened. It wasn’t something that I was going to share with Mum, a genuine first time I’ve kept anything from her. I was sure that she’ll figure it out, eventually. That thought was blown out of the water as soon as I walked in.
“Connie, you look flushed, is it that Maria? I saw her, yesterday, making puppy eyes at you, and wondered if she’d finished snaring you at the park. She’s a nice girl, in fact, they’re all nice girls. Sometimes I wonder where I went wrong with Harriet. I think it may have been your father’s influence and genes. You never knew her, properly. She was a wild one and determined to get her man. His family are very well off, with a chain of supermarkets along the coast. I’m still not sure if there was any love there, but that’s something she’ll have to work out for herself. Her son came into our office, last week, to see if he could get a part-time job, after school. He’s in first year at High School, and very good on the computer, so I think we may have him around. It was hard to stay clear. I wonder if she had told him that it’s his granny in charge.”
“I’ve been thinking about Harriet a lot in the last couple of days. I’ve been imagining her in those trashy outfits. I saw a couple of similar girls, today, and have decided that she got what she was after, but I wonder if she ever found love, or even any joy.”
“Suddenly, my child has started to think about more than cooking. I’m beginning to like this new daughter of mine more than ever. I gather that you and Maria are an item?”
“Yes, Mum. Being with her has made me realise what I’ve missed, all these years. Did you and Harriet cook, together? Did you hug and talk about boys and make-up?”
She sat and looked at me and I could see tears form in her eyes.
“You’re right, Connie. Your father and I were determined to make the paper a success, and I think that Harriet may have been left to her own devices as she grew up. And then there was your brothers to look after. They were all within a few years of each other, so she was never able to develop any maternal feelings by being the big sister. I now realise that I’ve neglected you, as well. Yes, we’ve spent time together, but it hasn’t been a loving relationship. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course, I forgive you. Today has been a revelation, and I have had more actual contact with other people than I had in my previous existence. Would you be upset if I hug you?”
She had a look of wonder as I went to her and put my arms around her, squeezing for all I was worth. Then, the dam broke, and we were both crying tears of joy. She kept on telling me she was sorry, and I kept on telling her that it was all right, that she had nothing to be sorry for. When we calmed down, I told her that I wanted to see if Harriet’s old bike was in the shed, because I would need to use it if I was going to ride to classes in a skirt. We both went our rooms to repair our faces and for me to change into jeans,
I opened up the shed and turned on the light. It was quite large, with my grandfather’s old hand press in one corner, salvaged when the original house had been demolished. It was the one thing that had allowed me to spend time with my father, when he showed me how it worked. I produced playbills for a school play, in my latter year in primary.
There was a good workbench and all the type for the press. Mum joined me and sat on the stool while I pulled the covers off the bicycles. You could tell that we never threw anything away, as there was the bike that I had used for primary, a hand-me-down from brother Robert, as was the bike I was currently using. Then there was the racer that John had spent a fortune on. At the back was Harriet’s bike, dusty but looking all right. I lifted the others away and pulled it out.
Mum had joined me and looked on as I hoisted the bike over and rested it on the saddle and handlebars. As expected, the tyres were flat, but the outer was still flexible. As I took the wheels out and worked on replacing the inner tubes, she started talking. I listened, without comment, as she unburdened her guilt.
“There are things that you haven’t been told, Connie. I think that you should know them now. I knew that Harriet wasn’t taking her pills and was aiming to get pregnant. She thought it was the one way of getting away from us without having to work. A fat lot of good that did for her. I’ve been told that she runs the supermarket at Worthing, and has been known to be on the check-out, at times. She didn’t get on with her father, thought that he was a drunken womaniser. She got that right. I knew the woman he was seeing; we had gone to school together. We still have odd meetings to talk about life.”
“Wow, Mum. That’s something I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“She was at his funeral. Your sister wasn’t there because her husband wouldn’t let her come. His family thought that your father was a drunk, an adulterer, and not a person that they would acknowledge. She didn’t come to your brothers’ service, either. I know that you were told that he was lost, overboard, in a storm. The lie was that there was no storm involved. He had taken after his father and screwed anything he could, in every port they called into. The official cause of death was suicide, after the ship’s doctor had informed him that he was full of sexually transmitted diseases and would be in hospital for an extended period as soon as they could get him ashore. That night, he threw himself over the bow-rail, a certain death as the propellors would leave nothing to recover. The night watch saw him go over.”
I stopped what I was doing and went to hug her as she sobbed, quietly. Nothing was needed to be said, and I went back to repairing the tyres as I absorbed what I had been told. Talk about my life being tipped over!
“John couldn’t stay in the area after that. He had married, had his first son, and a good job in engineering. The move to New Zealand was the best thing he could have done. I get the odd letter; he wrote after I sent him a letter with your father’s death notice in. He’s done well for himself and runs a workshop in Wellington. He asks after you, I think that he feels a bit guilty about how distant he had been when you were small. Robert would lead him in his wild ways, and it took him a while to become his own man. That only happened when Robert went to sea. If you ever get the chance, I’m sure that he would appreciate a letter from you.”
I carried on fixing the tyres in a comfortable silence. She had stopped sobbing and had dried her eyes. She looked at the old printing press.
“You know, I think it would be good with your experiments to provide a printed recipe. Not something off a computer, but something with a bit of taste. I’ll bring home some fresh ink for the press, tomorrow. If you still remember how it works, you’ll be able to produce something in time for Thursday. It would only need a dozen copies.”
I went to her and hugged her again, giving her a kiss on the forehead.
“I love you, Mum. That’s a brilliant idea. I think the bike’s almost ready. How about you start dinner and I’ll help when I get in. Thank you for telling me the truth. Somehow, it makes everything fall into place and I can gauge my family in a new light. We are all, in the end, ordinary people with ordinary wants and dislikes. I can’t see why I was so different unless it’s your genes at work. The others were all like Dad.”
She smiled.
“You, dear one, were out of the box. For that, I’m eternally grateful.”
She left me to finish off. I pumped up the tyres, made sure I couldn’t hear a leak, put it back on its wheels and gave it a good clean and oiling. I put my usual bike with the others and covered them up. Then I cleaned the printing press and sprayed the working parts with a penetrating oil, so that it would move when I tried using it.
As I worked, I thought about my life, in relation to what I’d just been told. The song lyrics came to mind, and the second verse that says, ‘the loser now will be later to win’. I had been a loser all my life, it was time for that to change. It was time for me to be a winner. If it took me to do it wearing skirts, then bring it on!
Marianne Gregory © 2023
Chapter 3
Going back into the house, I helped with the dinner, and we sat to enjoy the meal. Mum had found a bottle of white wine which had been in the fridge, and we had a glass, each. It wasn’t bad. I had baked a cake, during the week, so we each had a slice, covered in custard out of a carton.
She went off to watch some television, while I washed up and put the things away. Then, I sat at the kitchen table and looked through my special recipe book, for something not too difficult for the class to try on Thursday. If Mum brought home some ink, I would print it tomorrow evening so that I could hand it round on Tuesday. I went back out to the shed to check what paper we had and found a box with some good pages of what looked like parchment. There was a good few hundred sheets, so that would work for a while.
I sat on the stool and looked at the bike I was going to use. It had a front carrier, which would take my satchel, as well as a back platform with a big spung loop, that would be good for oddments that I may carry, like a handbag. This girl thing just kept throwing up new wrinkles. The last thing that Mum had said, before she went back to the house, echoed in my mind. What did she mean by saying that I had ‘been out of the box’? One thing, for sure, she was in no state to be pushed, just now. Perhaps she’ll enlarge on that statement, some other time. Then I thought about my nephew. Would I be his Aunt Connie? He would, I guessed, be about eleven, and a real go-getter if he was looking for part-time work.
The more I thought, the odder it seemed. I went back into the house and spoke to Mum, during an ad break.
“Mum, you said that your grandson had come in looking for work. Surely Harriet lives down in Worthing? He wouldn’t be cycling this far for a couple of hours.”
“That never occurred to me. The school is in this area as well. I’ll ask him, tomorrow, when I see him. I might be a little late home. I’ve written a reminder to get the ink, so you can get the typeface together before I get home. I’ll bring a take-away to give you plenty of time to do the printing.”
The next morning, I made sure that I had a skirt which would be all right on the bike. It had a cover on the back wheel, so I wouldn’t catch anything in the spokes. I showered, checked for any new hairs, and dressed conservatively. The skirt was a new one, just above the knee, and the top was one I already had. A new pair of what I had been told were Mary Janes nearly finalised the outfit, but I did put on a pink puffer jacket that had caught my eye on Saturday. Mum had already gone to work, so I locked up and rode to the school, making sure that I wasn’t flashing my panties on the way. I got hugs when I arrived, and Pete looked at me and then his eyes went wide.
“You were in our restaurant on Saturday evening, with an older woman. Was it your mother?”
“Yes, we were there. I did see you working in the kitchen but didn’t want to bother you as you were busy. It was a very nice meal, well produced and very tasty. If I was a food critic, I would give you eight out of ten.”
“Only eight! We aim for ten, every time.”
“Well, no-one is perfect. In fact, many people in the world consider perfection as an insult to God. The other point was off because you’re located in Brighton, rather than London, always a minus for high society.”
We all had a laugh and the day passed very pleasantly, My chopping had improved, as has my interest in normal meals made from normal ingredients. At lunch, the girls said that I had been totally female, so far, and Maria told them, in no uncertain terms, that I couldn’t be anything else but a girl. That caused a couple of the others to exchange looks.
I had told our teacher what ingredients went into the first dish, and he had looked through the recipe. He agreed that it was a good start, as not being very far from the usual sort of thing. It was really how it was put together that made it difficult.
The afternoon went slowly, but it finally ended. Outside the school Maria and I kissed and then I cycled home. In the shed, I started to assemble the type into blocks for the press and was engrossed in that when the door opened and Mum came in, followed by a young lad.
“Connie, this is Henry, your nephew. He’s had a bit of a shock, today, when he found out who I was, so I’ve brought him home to meet his family. The computerised typesetting will just have to work without him for a day.”
“Hello, Henry. I’m Connie, and your mother is my sister.”
“Mum said that she only had brothers.”
“That’s right, this time, last week, I was still her brother, Conway. Today is my first week of being Connie, her new sister, that she doesn’t know about.”
His eyes went wide and then he smiled.
“Cool, at least I know that it runs in the family.”
“What does?”
“Being queer. That’s the reason I’m not living at home. I’ve been sent to my Aunt Betty to live, because my parents caught me looking at she-male sites on my laptop. They were outraged and called me all sorts of nasty names. I’ve never felt ‘right’ since I was about seven but couldn’t figure out why. It’s only since I’ve had time on the computer that I realised that I should have been a girl.”
“It doesn’t mean that you’re queer, Henry, just different. I still have my boy bits and have a lesbian girlfriend. Does that make me hetero or homo? Yesterday, we were at the park and danced with boys, does that make us both normal? It’s a very wide world when you’re different, and you can be anything you like until you settle. One day, you may find that you want to be a boy and like other boys; or you may lose your boy bits and still like girls. There’s so many combinations lie in your possible futures.”
“Wow. You’re so with it, Connie. You’re the light in my darkness.”
“Nice words, young man, did you excel at English as well as computer studies?
“Along with science and maths. My teachers tell me that I’m bright, with a good future. How can that happen when I don’t know what I am?”
Mum decided to intervene.
“I’m sure that you’ll work it out, Henry. Does your Aunt Betty know why you were sent to her?”
“Oh, yes. My Dad said that she was the black sheep of the family so a perfect place for a deviant queer. He has banned me from going to church, thank God, and Aunt Betty has a lot to say about her own parents and their fixed ways, I can tell you!”
“So, your parents have thrown you out! How unchristian is that!”
“Yes, everything I have is now with Aunt Betty. I suppose that she’s now my guardian.”
“Connie, I completely forgot to get the take-away, so let’s get dinner for the three of us, then I think that we have to see Betty and work out how we’re going to help Henry, and make sure he continues his schooling, along with exploring his desires. We will have to have Betty as support. I remember her from the wedding, she was not part of the bridal group, and now we know why. You can finish your printing when you get back.”
“Can we do that before we leave, Gran? This press is a museum piece and I’d love to see how it works.”
“All right, we’d better see about an early dinner, then.”
So, I left what I was doing, and we went into the house. Mum busied herself with dinner, while I showed Henry my room, and my clothes, and told him that a lot of them had belonged to his mother when she got married.
“So, some of these are older than me? That’s wild. Do you have anything that would fit me, I’d love to see how I’d look.”
The bags for the op-shop were still there, so we rummaged through them to find the things that had been too small for me. He was quite a small lad, for his age, and we did find a dress that Harriet must have worn as an early teenager. He stripped down to his pants and put it over his head. I have to say that he looked the part. I combed his hair with a center parting, and he looked in the mirror and laughed out loud, then turned to me to hug me, saying “Thank you” over and over.
We didn’t have any shoes for him, so he went, barefoot, down to the kitchen. Mum almost dropped a saucepan when she saw us come in, told me to take over and then hurried into the lounge to find a photo album. When she came back, she showed us a picture of Harriet wearing that dress.
“This was taken when Harriet was twelve. It was a birthday party for one of her school friends. She loved that dress and could never part with it when she outgrew it. Look, she had her hair parted in the middle, and, except for the fact that her hair was longer, you look like her twin sister, Henry.”
“Wearing this, Gran, please call me Henrietta. Or Henny, for short.”
“All right, Henny. Whatever you want. That meal should be close, can you serve, Connie, while I show Henny pictures of his mother at the same age.”
We had our dinner, with a lot of smiles and laughter, and Henny emerged, fully formed, if only for a little while. When we had cleared everything away, Mum told us to go to the shed and get the printing done, while she was going to call Betty on the number that Henny had given her. Before we left, she took some pictures of us, individually and together.
The two of us went out to the shed and it didn’t take long to finish the type blocks and set up the press. I let Henny print the first page and she was like a kid with a new toy. We allowed that page to dry, so she could take it with her, while we did another dozen copies, pegging them to a stringline to dry. Wiping off the excess ink, we removed the type blocks and put all the letters back into the storage box. We shut the press and covered it, made sure our hands were clean, then went into the house.
Henny was sad to be returned to Henry but was bright enough to know that it wasn’t the end of being dressed. We had talked while we had been working and discussed the likely future. A lot depended on what Betty had to say, and if she did, indeed, have guardianship paperwork.
We went to see Betty, not that far away, and were welcomed in. Mum had spoken to her, on the phone, and they had worked out a lot of things. We met Betty’s husband, Jerry, and he was very nice. They made tea and we sat in their kitchen and made plans. They did have all the paperwork that made them guardians, as Henry’s parents had completely disowned him. That made what we planned a lot easier, and his parents would have to go through the court to stop it, which Betty said they would never do, as it would highlight why they needed to call a halt to proceedings.
The plan was for Henry to work at the printers, in the evenings, on the setting up of the weekly paper. On Friday, his bike be put in the back of the Cruiser, and he would come home with his Gran, to spend the weekend as Henny, with us. Mum told them that she would fund any clothes, and that we would set up my brother’s old bedroom for her. She would be returned to them, as Henry, on Sunday evening. Betty and Jerry were good people, already the parents of a lesbian daughter, now in university, so fitted Harriet’s ideal of guardians for deviant queers.
As for Henry, he was radiant as the prospect sunk in. He was bright enough to know that he couldn’t go to school as Henny, and that anything we did would have to be totally reversed by Sunday evening. The idea of spending two days a week as Henny was enough to satisfy his desires for the time being.
Mum had sent Betty one of the photos of the two of us, with another she had taken of Harriet in the album. Betty was amazed at how alike the three of us were, with me looking like the Harriet she first met.
“Not like the harridan bitch she now is!”
With Henry’s bike taken out of the back of the Cruiser, we went home again, with Mum over the moon to be now so close to her grandson, or granddaughter when she was with us. This last few days had changed both of our lives, making them a lot more interesting, if busier. Back home, I took the dry papers down and slid them into a folder, which went into my satchel. Then I thought a bit more, and rummaged around until I found a large shoulder bag and transferred the contents of my satchel into that, another link with the past snipped away.
I sorted through my wardrobe for something more business-like for tomorrow, and found a grey skirt suit that Harriet must have brought for the short time that she worked in an accountants office. It was these accountants that did the books for the supermarkets, so she had seen the numbers before she saw the eligible son. I looked, and I mean really looked, through the drawers for suitable underwear. If I kept the jacket buttoned, I could get away with an item that I now knew was a camisole, or else I could go with a blouse. There again, I could go with both and leave the blouse unbuttoned down to the artificial boobs.
I hung these on the hook on the back of the door and then went through my, now becoming second nature, evening make-up removal and hydration regime. I stretched out, in bed, and thought through the weird day. I now have a nephew who wants to be a girl, something I’d never considered for myself, until Saturday. I tried to think of members of the family that could have been similar. They would have to be down my mother’s line, I thought.
In the morning, I asked her if there were any ‘black sheep’ among her ancestors.
“I’m not sure, Connie. There were a couple in my grandmothers generation that they knew about, but never talked about. Maybe, we should do a family tree and see if oddness pops up. There’s a guy, in the office, that does research and an occasional column; I’ll ask him to see where I came from. He did one on your father and found several generations of thieves and bullies. There was one that was on Cromwell’s side who was hanged for burning down a farmhouse with fifteen royalists in. They made allowances, at that time, but this was too much to be hidden under the carpet.”
That day, at school, I was complimented on my outfit. When we finished the normal things, we were joined by four of the older students. Our teacher opened the lesson by saying that this was for skills advancement only and would not bolster any poor performance in normal lessons. Then he passed to me. I was glad that I had printed a dozen sheets, as there was ten in the class, and a copy each for me and the teacher. I would have to do more, next week.
We had a lesson that touched on things that had been tried by television chefs, and discussed ingredients by their main taste, and how you can alter that taste with additions of herbs and spices, or other ingredients. Then I we got to what we would do on Thursday.
“If you look through the recipe, you’ll see that the ingredients are pretty simple. The bulk of the dessert is blitzed fruit of your choice, with a layer of cut fruit in sour cream. If we were on a cooking show, each layer of blitzed fruit would be frozen in a quick chiller. The trick, here is to make a sugar layer, as thin as you can, which will be placed over the first layer of smoothie, and then under the second layer of smoothie. It calls for extreme attention to detail. Too big and you’ll have unsightly gaps, too small and you’ll have migration of the smoothie into the middle layer. You’ll use these glasses that have been chosen for you, and you will make three desserts – one to taste, one to take home, and one for the Headmaster to try. Remember, the sugar layer has to be thin enough to be broken though with a spoon. Too thick and you’ll need a hammer and chisel. Try it out at home if you want. Bring the recipe with you on Thursday. We’ll all be making the dish.”
The teacher gave me an old-fashioned look.
Wednesday and most of Thursday passed without any real drama, and then we arrived at our practical. We were still ten strong. Luckily, everyone had brought their recipe. We were all in our cooking outfits. I nodded towards the three boxes of a dozen dessert glasses and pulled out my three. There was a whine of motors as the various pieces of fruit were blitzed. I knew that this was the time to be adventurous with your choice and could see the older students picking some odd combinations. For me, the first thing was to make my sugar layers, so they could be set by the time I needed them. A few saw what I was doing and twigged. This was the time for working by intuition and an attention to the detail of each layer. The smoothies would settle, if left, and the cut fruit could be done when needed. The fruits chosen needed to be sour enough to offset the pure sugar layer, but not so sour to add to the sour cream.
I worked next to the teacher, and I could see him glancing at what I was doing. Everyone could watch, if they wanted to, so I didn’t mind. I put some sugar into a saucepan and heated it up, until it was liquid, the chose two cake cutters, which I checked in the dessert glasses. I put them on the chilling stone and poured a careful amount of sugar mix into each one, being very careful not to add too much. Leaving that to set, I picked my fruit mix and blitzed some, and chopped the rest into small pieces. By this time, the sugar had set, so I made up a second batch. As we moved on, I could see my group getting with what I was doing, but the four, older, ones were doing their own thing.
When my third batch of sugar was set, I made sure that they were thin enough. The I put the smallest cake cutter into each dish, making sure it was level, and made a texta dot, followed by doing the same with the larger one. It was time to assemble the desserts. I carefully poured the smoothie into the dessert glass until it was just shy of the dot, then carefully placed a sugar layer on top. The smoothie would grow slightly when it was frozen, and the small amount of air would be pushed into the middle layer. The middle layer of cut fruit in sour cream followed, then the second sugar layer, with the poured smoothie on top. When you came down to it, it wasn’t the most adventurous dessert you could do, but it was one that could be done in the home. There was plenty of time to get more technical. We had sticky labels, and each dessert had one with our names on. When everybody had finished, the desserts were put on trays and slid into the fridge. They would be ready to be tasted in the morning.
The teacher had said that we would have a short get-together, in the morning, for the tasting, and that there would be ice cream or cream to add to the top. Everybody had done different fruits, so every trio of glasses were different colours. We spent a bit of time going over what had been done, with questions asked and advice offered. I told them to keep the recipe and try it again, at home, with different fruits.
When we changed back into our normal outfits, with me doing this with the girls as a matter of course, now. As everyone left, I stood outside with Maria, and then we kissed a couple of times before we got our bikes. She wanted to know what we were doing on the weekend, so I told her that we would be doing a little shopping with my niece. She would be needing almost everything. I said that we would go into town, in the morning, and have lunch there, so, she should come to my home about ten, to meet my niece.
Mum had made note of Henny’s sizes, and had purchased some underwear, tights, and trainers that would fit, as well as a denim skirt and top. In the evenings we had been working on the bedroom, leaving the single in place and taking the remaining bunk out to the shed and stacking it with its mate. There was a spare wardrobe from Mum’s room, and a couple of chairs from odd places in the house. We wouldn’t do any painting or decorating so that Henny could choose for herself. The only thing we did do was to make up the bed with new sheets in lilac and add a few plush toys from the top shelf of the wardrobe in my room. While I was about it, I pulled down a teddy bear and put it on my own bed.
Friday morning, we gathered in the classroom and sampled the finished desserts. We all had a small spoonful of every one of the twelve results. To me, the range of tastes were amazing, and everyone had done well. It would be up to the Headmaster to decide which ones he approved of. There were a few that had some of the smoothie migrating to the middle layer. These were the ones we chose to taste, so leaving better ones for the Headmaster, but, overall, I think that we had all done what was required. We each had one to take home on Friday afternoon and were told to wash the glass and bring it back on Monday.
Friday, after dinner, Mum and Henny tried a portion, each, and Henny thought that is was the most wonderful thing she had tasted. With her, sitting there in her new outfit, even with tiny bumps from the padded bra, everything was great as far as she was concerned. That evening, she changed into her own nightie and gown, and sat with us watching television until we all decided to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a big day.
Marianne Gregory © 2023
Chapter 4
Saturday morning, Henny was beside herself with excitement. I had to get her to slow down, or else she wouldn’t last the morning, let alone the day. We had breakfast in our nighties and gowns and then worked on showers and dressing. I was ready by the time the doorbell went, to find Maria and Penny on the step. From my own experience, I knew Penny couldn’t resist a shopping day.
Over breakfast, I had told Henny that she would get a lot of help today, so to listen and learn. Also, that whoever would be with us didn’t know that she was anything but a girl, maybe a bit awkward, but a girl, nevertheless. It was all right to tell them that she was bright, as that would be a camouflage for the fact that she didn’t have a lot of little girl stories to tell. Mum would take us down, again, but had other things to do, so would pick us up later. Before we left, she gave me an envelope.
“Betty sent some money with Henny yesterday. She wants you to get her some nighties, and a gown, to take home on Sunday, so that she can be herself every night. I’ve added some of my own and will top up your credit card if need be.”
Saturday morning was all about Henny and she loved every moment. The third verse of the song could have been a description of our progress through the shops. The lines ‘Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall’ came to mind as Penny led our little band from place to place. I discovered that she had a younger sister about a similar age, so knew all the pre-teen shops, and she promised to bring her along if we did this again.
We ended up getting Henny some more tops and skirts, two short dresses, and a range of shoes. Henny just loved shoes. In the lingerie store, she picked out some nighties and a gown to take home, and another couple of nighties for when she was with us. The ones to take were mainly night shirts with flowers and bunnies on them, while the ones for her time with us were much more adult, and very like the ones I had bought for myself. It was a good start of her own wardrobe. At the department store cosmetic department, she had a pre-teen make-up. And left with a small bag of cosmetics, and a bottle of cleanser.
Penny and Maria chatted to her as we strolled the shops, with Penny helping her pick things out. Henny showed me that she must have excelled in English, especially in essay writing, as the stories she made up of an earlier life were so believable. I just hope that she had a good memory, as it wouldn’t do to contradict herself in the retelling, especially if it was with Penny’s sister.
We had a light lunch and then went to the Aquarium, storing our bags in their cloakroom. We wandered around and looked at the fish, with Henny smiling as she could see our reflections in the glass. Today, she was a little girl, out with three teenage girls, having a good time. I think that this day helped her forget any bad feelings about her parents. What they had done, in the end, had freed her to be herself.
We met Mum at the designated spot, loading the back with our bags. She took us home, via a fish and chip shop, and we emptied our tea from the wrapping paper onto plates in our kitchen, while a kettle was started. It was nice and easy going, with Mum brought up to date on what we had bought. After tea, Penny said she had to go, as she had a date, while I sat with Maria, cuddling, and Henny sat next to her Gran, as we watched some television.
As it was now dark, I got my bike and accompanied Maria on her trip home. We did stop in a small park and had some passionate kissing on the way. When I got back, the house was quiet, so I sat, for a while, looking for next week’s lesson in my notebook as well as making notes for the next column, based on our trip to the Aquarium.
Sunday, we drove a little way north, to the historic Bluebell Railway, and had a steam train ride, catering to the little boy in two of us. That’s when I found out that most of the stories Henny had told, the day before, had been true, but related from a girl’s viewpoint. She really did have a younger brother called Tony, which shocked my mother. She said that she had loved her brother, who would have cried when he found out that he was now alone. She did say that he now had her train set to play with.
Then we had a quiet stroll in the grounds of Sheffield Park. Our evening meal was in the Fountain Inn, in Plumpton Green, a place my sister and her family would never have stepped inside. I discovered that it’s LGBTQ friendly, and the atmosphere was easy-going. The meal was good, and I determined that it would be a great place to bring Maria, once I had four wheels. The only thing that I thought of as odd was how Mum knew it was there.
Back at home, Henny stripped off and had a shower. Instead of putting on the clothes she had arrived in, she was dressed for bed, in a new cotton nightie with a bunny on the front, matching her new bunny slippers. With the new dressing gown wrapped around her, a very sleepy Henny was taken home, along with the bag of her other nighties and her Henry clothes. Betty and Jerry welcomed us in, and Henny was put to bed. It had been a big weekend for her.
We sat and had a cup of tea, and Betty asked us if we could pick them up, next Saturday, and go to her sister’s house, in the outskirts of Peacehaven, off a lane called The Lookout. This sister was also on the outer, and hadn’t been to the wedding, or anything else to do with her parents, for twenty years. Betty had kept in touch, and her sister had been horrified at what their brother had done.
On Monday, our class was visited by the Headmaster, who congratulated everyone on a job well done. That week, we did another pair of advanced cooking lessons with me also working on my column. Come Friday, Mum came home with Henry, who went straight to the bedroom to emerge as Henny.
On Saturday morning, we all dressed nicely to visit someone new. Henny was incredulous at the number of relatives she had that she hadn’t known about. Her Aunt Betty and Uncle Jerry, on her father’s side, her grandmother and Aunt on her mother’s side, and now a new Aunt Trudy, and Uncle Jack on her father’s side. I helped her with her minimal make-up, and we set off to pick up Betty and Jerry. They sat, in the back, with Henny in the middle, and we talked about things as we went along. Peacehaven isn’t that far but I had never been anywhere near The Lookout. It really was on the outskirts, a small farm with some sheep wandering in a few acres.
When we arrived, the two sisters embraced and then the rest of us were introduced, with Henny getting a big hug from both her Aunt and Uncle. Inside, with the pot on the kitchen table, and home-made biscuits, the sisters caught up with events, and then it came to who we were. Betty showed Trudy the pictures of Henny in Harriet’s dress, and then the picture of Harriet wearing it. Mum was revealed as the owner of the Times, while I was revealed as the writer of the Constance Morgan column. That created a bit of a stir.
We found out that Trudy had been thrown out of the family, some twenty-five years before, and had nothing to do with them since. From what was said, I think that she may have had a lesbian fling. Betty admitted that she had only pulled away from them when she got married to someone not from the church. Mum floored them when she said that, before the time that Henry had turned up at the printers, she had only held Henny as a baby, just the once, and until last weekend had never been told about Tony, her other grandson. Everyone tut-tutted at what the brother had become.
It was a pleasant visit, with us being shown the farm, and Henny stroking the farmyard cats. She told us that her ‘old’ family didn’t believe in pets, and she had to make do with neighbours cats, but wasn’t allowed to feed them. Trudy had made a big pot of stew, lamb, of course, and we tucked into a great meal. When the matter of my father was raised, they had all read about his exploits. Not in the Times, as that was just an obituary, but in the county paper, which took great glee to report on his landing on his head in the front garden, along with the other events that led up to it. I had read what they said but couldn’t relate those stories to the Dad I knew but was hardly ever home.
When we left, we took Betty and Jerry back to our house, where they were shown Henny’s room, and Henny insisted that we show them the printing press. I made up a mock notice of their visit and Henny printed off a copy for them. Mum and I put together a light meal, and she took them home. I sat with Henny, talking about his expanding family. That made me think about the family tree that Mum said she would organise. When she got back, I asked her about it and she said that she had asked for it to be done, but that these things take a long time, if you want to do it right.
On Sunday, I fired up my laptop and got Henny to show me how I could look up family histories. She showed me several sites that were at the front of the market. She showed me the website for her father’s supermarket chain. Then she showed me the website for the cooking school. I clicked on the Headmaster’s image and got a potted history of his career. I knew that he had achieved the three hats in Paris, but some of his earlier work was in England. For a period, he had been the chef at the Fountain Inn, Plumpton. That was weird!
Auguste Mollinaire had only been there for a couple of years and had then moved to a good place in London, before being headhunted by the Paris restaurant. He had gone into teaching in a school in Paris, before joining the school in Brighton. That was only four years ago.
On the website for family trees, there was a link to get a DNA kit, so I filled in the form and paid the fee. If nothing else, I may find out where my father had originated from, the family tree that the guy at the Times had done only went back about ten generations. There had to be more.
I asked Henny what she looked at now and was told that one of the things she couldn’t take with her was her laptop. She was now limited to the ones at school. Her father had instructed Betty that one wasn’t allowed, with a warning that he would sue, should he find out that one had been supplied for home use. I went and told Mum about this. She exclaimed that the warning didn’t apply to us, so we asked Henny what she would like, as long as it stayed with us, for at least a number of months. Henny told us what was needed, and Mum organised one, through the Times, at a discount, to be in her room the following weekend.
That set the tone for the immediate future. Henny spent a lot of time on her computer, doing schoolwork. Now she was working while wearing a skirt or a dress, the shemale websites weren’t needed, but we did, together, explore some of the more informative sites as we both learned a lot about what we were both starting. She also helped me find cooking sites and showed me some simple ways of searching for experimental cooking. It wasn’t something I’d been able to do before, not being a total computer geek.
The weeks moved on. We both became more comfortable in our clothing, and had several outings with some, or all, of the girls. One time, when Henny asked us, we took the bus to Worthing and went into the supermarket to get a few things. Harriet was on the check-out, looking a lot more than twelve years older than me, and didn’t recognise either of us. Penny declared that we were now total girls, as even our own mother and sister didn’t recognise us, at a distance of two feet. Henny wasn’t sure whether she was sad at seeing her mother or elated at getting away with it.
I had done the DNA test and had sent it off. The advert said that it may take a few weeks, so I forgot about it. My relationship with Maria was moving ahead, with her coming home with me on a few weekday afternoons when we would explore each other before Mum got home. With one session, she got me to ejaculate for the first, and last time, in my life. That’s when it was decided that I needed to talk to a doctor, as much of what came out was blood.
Mum organised a visit to our doctor, who sent me to a radiologist for an ultrasound and X-Rays. I was still in the radiologist’s office when they told me that they were organising a bed in the local hospital for me. The prognosis was that I had a lot of trouble with my prostate, and that an immediate operation was needed. That operation changed my life.
I had a month away from the cooking school, but I was visited by a lot of people, from the four girls, my mother, Betty, and Trudy with Henny, and, oddly, Auguste, the Headmaster, who had taken over the advanced courses, with my notebook as his guide. The girls all told me that he was a lovely man, once you got to know him, and that he had regaled them with stories of his times in different restaurants.
When he visited me, he told me that my place in the cooking school was safe, and that he was getting the records changed to reflect my new status. The name was now Constance Strickland, seeing that when they operated, they had to take my shrivelled testicles, my cancerous prostate, as well as so much more – enough for them to invert my miniscule penis and create a vagina. My surgeon told me that it had been the only sensible option and that Mum had approved the operation. My bloods had shown virtually no production of any hormones, either way, and I was now on hormone replacement therapy to boost the oestrogen levels.
When I went home, skirts and dresses were now a necessity, not just a whim. On top of that, my breast area was starting to feel odd. I was to have another two weeks before going back to the cooking school, but that coincided with the end of term. I had a message that, if I went in, when I could, and caught up with the practicals, I would pass the term, and I would get a copy of the theory notes to catch up before the next term. I took my time at home as a chance to get some walking done and was taking the bus into Brighton and walking the esplanade. It allowed me to think about my life, and what I was going to do with it.
The idea of my own restaurant started to creep into my mind, and, as I walked around the town, I looked at all the places we now had. Almost every cuisine was presented, in some form or another, and there just didn’t seem to be anything we didn’t have. Then it struck me. There were gay bars, gay pubs, but no gay restaurants. Some were gay friendly, but nowhere advertised itself as straight unfriendly. As I walked, I looked in real estate offices for an empty shop which could be converted.
As I improved, I got Mum to drop me off at the school and I spent three day doing practicals, with Mum picking me up to bring me home. On the last day, there was a large envelope waiting for me in the days post when we got home. I waited until we had finished dinner before I opened it, as we were sitting with our cups of tea. I read what it said, and looked at the charts, and the coloured map that was included. Then I looked at Mum.
“What is it, dear, you look surprised?”
“This is the results of a DNA test I sent off, Mum. It’s a bit odd.”
“Why is that, Connie?”
“Well, I expected to find that I was descended from some Vikings, or Goths on my father’s side. But the results tell me that my ancestors were from Norman stock, from an area around Chartres. It also tells me that I have strong links to a family that is descended from a Viscount de Mollinaire. What’s weird is that it’s the surname of the Headmaster at the cooking school.”
“Auguste, he’s in Brighton?”
“Yes, that’s his name, how did you know?”
Instead of answering, she got up, went to the drinks cabinet, and poured herself a brandy, slugged it back then poured another before coming back and sitting down.
“Connie, you have no idea what that news means to me. I need to tell you a story, one that I’ve kept secret for so long, I’ve almost forgotten it. That meal we had at the Fountain Inn brought some of it back, although it’s changed a lot since the last time I was there. The story begins some months before you were born. Robert and I had been at each other’s throats for some time, and he was spending a lot of time away. I got friendly with a woman, my age, at the local market, and, before I fully understood what I was doing, we had ended up in her bed. It was wonderful and we met, at her place, several times. She started to get possessive, telling me that my marriage was over and that I should leave Robert.”
“Wow, Mum! So, you had a lesbian lover, as well. I wasn’t the first one in the family.”
“Quite so. Well, we met, one evening, at the Fountain Inn, and had a blazing row over dinner. She ended up throwing a glass of wine in my face and stormed out. I never saw her, again. Of course, that scene was enough to attract the notice of the staff and the chef came out to see whether it had been because of his wonderful food. He comforted me, then led me back to the private quarters where I could take off my dress and rinse out the wine. He was beautiful, and I was vulnerable, so we ended up in his bed. It was, I can tell you, the best sex I had ever had. When my dress was good enough to wear, I put it on, and we kissed before I came home. Two days later, Robert came home, drunk as a skunk, and proceeded to almost rape me. When it was evident that I was expecting, I visited the Fountain Inn, only to find that Auguste had gone to London.”
“You’re telling me that I’m the child of Auguste Mollinaire, a three hat Paris chef?”
“Well, you’ve never been the child of Robert Strickland, the alcoholic bully and womaniser, have you?”
“Now that you say it that way, I suppose I wasn’t. So, mother dear, what are we going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. On the one hand, I’d love to see Auguste again, but I’m worried that he might not want to see me, or worse, that he doesn’t remember our time together. What do you think?”
“The term doesn’t finish until next Friday. I could get an appointment to see him and show him this DNA result. That will see if he’s dismissive, or whether he does remember. He wouldn’t know that I had been born, so it will be a shock for him. If he wants to meet you, I’ll give you a call, at work. I can’t think of any other way to work this through.”
I think we both had a sleepless night. I heard Mum walking around at about two and went down and brewed us both some hot chocolate. We sat and sipped without the need to talk, and it must have worked, because we both had a few hours of sleep. When Mum went to work, she was dressed nicely, just in case. She was still a good-looking woman, and I hoped that when I was in my late forties, I would be as good. I rang the school and arranged a meeting with the Headmaster for later in the morning.
I was up to being able to cycle, again, and it felt strange when I sat on the saddle. At the school, I was ushered into the Headmaster’s rooms, and he welcomed me, telling me straightaway that my practicals had passed with flying colours, if that’s what I wanted to talk about.
“No, sir. What I came for is to show you this and see what you make of it.”
I took the results out of the envelope and gave them to him. He sat back, read some, frowned, read some more, and smiled.
“That’s a result from one of my family, Connie, how did you get hold of it?”
“If you read the name on the top, sir, you’ll see that it’s my results.”
“How on earth can you be related to…. Mon Dieu, you are the child of Constance. How could that be. We only made love the once and then I was in London.”
“They tell me that it only takes once, sir, if you do it at the right time.”
He came around the desk, I stood, and we hugged.
“Your mother, she is well?”
“Oh, yes, and waiting for me to call her. That’s if you want to meet, again. After all, she’s worried that you may have forgotten all about her after seventeen years.”
“Make your call, Connie, daughter of mine. I’ll clear my decks for the rest of the day.”
I made my call, and Mum told me to tell him the café where they could meet, for lunch. He told his secretary to clear his day and, when I told him where he was to meet Mum, he hugged me again and told me that he knew that I had French blood in me, because of the dishes I had created.
I cycled home, smiling all the way. I was reading the theory notes when two cars pulled up, outside. Mum and Auguste were like two kids with new toys when they came in and both hugged me.
The song has lines about the slow one now will later be fast, and that the order is rapidly fading. It was so true, from that moment on. I had started this story as a loner boy, with good cooking skills, a fractured family, and an alcoholic father. I came out the other end as a popular girl, with inherited good cooking skills, and a new, and wonderful, father – with three hats! I now call him Dad, with a sense of pride, as they had married. He gave up his apartment and came to live at home, becoming granddad to Henny in the process. We had some wonderful weekends, and then Henny came to live with us, full-time. Betty was happy that her niece could live with her grandmother. Henny thrived in the happy environment and ended up going to university, as Henrietta, after her own operation.
Nobody said anything to Harriet, and I don’t think that she cared who looked after Henny, as long as it wasn’t her. I passed my driving test and got a small car. I also finished the cooking courses, with honours, and joined my father as one of the teaching staff, running a ‘Creative Cuisine’ course. My four girlfriends got themselves good jobs, Penny and Jane joining Pete in his family’s restaurant, as specialist dessert chefs, making speciality dishes that cost a fortune and tasted like heaven,
Maria and Brenda became an item and went to work with Charles in his family restaurant. They were in charge of creating new ideas and had developed a range of dishes which became themed ‘Foreign Food Months’. I went to one of the Hungarian times came away with a very full stomach.
My body filled out, with the hormones, and I looked as female as I now felt. I still see Maria, but only as a friend, as I’m now dating a boy who makes me shiver when I think of him and makes my toes curl when we kiss.
The newspaper was a little different as well. Auguste now writes a column with high class dishes that any woman could create in her own home. Mum employed a guy from the gay community, something Robert could never have contemplated. They had a column dedicated to gay happenings around town, as well as the usual straight events. Sales increased by fifty percent inside a month.
Even The Patcham Times had changed!
Marianne Gregory © 2023