Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1
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It’s a ghost day. The time spent in bed half dozing has made little impact on the deep pit of tiredness that would get worse as the first night shift bit, but there was no choice. I get up, shock myself with a shower, and fumble something to eat.

Baked fish, some new potatoes, steamed foliage…..yawning already. Four nights to work, and my tits hurt. All my life I have slept on my front, and it’s only when I finally start becoming myself that it causes problems. Finagle lives, and is keeping a very personal eye on my well-being.

I have only a fortnight to work before the Big Weekend, but the previous week(ish) has been enough. A string of seven days on the trot had been preceded by two “rest days” that had been swallowed by court duties, resulting in nine days’ work without a break. Nine days of arseholes from both public and colleagues….meh.

One day I will have to fix the shower. I set the screens, walk back to the bedroom, turn it on, walk back to the bathroom, shower, etc., and back to the bedroom to turn it off, and I am doing my little bit of feminine faff by using two towels, one above my breasts and one around my hair. Observation, a wonderful thing, and the damp hair is held without spraying the walls as I walk back to the bedroom. Towel dry, hang them both on the radiators, and check my legs for foreigners. Nothing new there, not since the last waxing, anyway.

Then comes the ritual wrapping of the elastic bandage around the assets that, let’s face it, wouldn’t be noticeable if the uniform wasn’t so utterly unfit for purpose. Contract signed, first shirts delivered, company goes bust. Deep joy. If I wore any form of bra, even a T-shirt sports bra, it would show, so I wrap the elastic, compress my bosom, and then slip a vest over the lot, just in case.

I’m digressing…..those assets may be small, but ye gods they make the point. Points. I’m 34. For 34 years I have pretended to be someone I am not, and at some point I intend to be me. But not just yet. Not just now.

Into my commuting kit, the lycra not flattering me, bum too small and chest too flat, and I set the lights a-flashing and dice with the Friday night drunks to the airport. Lock the bike in its little space, change into the Tool of the Establishment uniform and head up into the terminal. This is my worrying time, that I will get picked for a random rub-down and some security drone will ask why I have my chest strapped. This is one of the times I want to cry. There are only so many times I can claim a rugby injury, and some day my luck will simply drain away.

Today is one of the good times, I escape with minimal attention, and head round to my station. I’m a Customs Officer, working to keep all sorts of nasties out of the country, from heroin to counterfeits, but I have no powers over bad dress, not even in the Season of the Flying Vermin, when the skiers flow through in a whining, whinging torrent. No, this is Summer, and the season of the muffin top, the bad tattoo and the stupid woolly hat. Listen, sonny, it’s in the nineties, you are wearing a woolly hat…..course it makes you look kewl.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I realise how much angst I throw out on strangers. I don’t know whether it is the years of deceit I have had to practice, or more simply if I have a low tolerance of people with a hazy grasp of reality when it comes to their appearance, but I find I am increasingly acerbic towards the externally-challenged. Of course, it doesn’t help that I am so worried about the weekend coming, the first weekend I plan to spend as myself. Will I be read? Of course I will. Will I care? Not unless someone takes me to task…the only place I will have issues is at the ceilidh. And that, of course, is utter bollocks. How could I not care? The options…of spending a whole weekend crying in my tent, or of cutting and running, or of finding the courage to dive in headfirst and try to swim with the sharks I am dreading.

Damn, Dave has been talking to me for some time. Get some control …we have a target at eleven off the Caracas, and I have been handed the back-up position. We head on down to passport control as soon as it chocks, and he stands out in the queue like a goat in a wolf pack. Up to the Channels, Dave takes him, the false bottom is found, and he runs.

I take him off at the knees, Sue and Dave right behind , but he still struggles. His elbow smacks me in the ear, but I punch him on the shoulder and his arm goes limp. I have the lock on, Dave has his legs, and Sue cuffs him as I present his wrist for the other bracelet. Dave says the words, and we get him to his feet and into the back office. Sue is talking as I hyperventilate.

“Shit, Steve, you are always bloody there, what would we do without you? You OK? He caught you a good one there!”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, the big hard man, the dependable tackle and backstop for the team. If you only knew.

“Aye, Sue, just a bit of a clout. Had worse, Dave will tell you that”

She laughed. “Yeah, mate, and given out one hell of a lot more!”

We booked him in, and went through the rigmarole of property list, photographs and handover of evidence that a job entails and by the time it was all done it was about time to go home. I had resolutions, I had ideals, and yet I still stopped off at the grocers on the way out and bought a litre of wine.

How else can I sleep?

CHAPTER 2
Finally that week’s work was over and I was ready for the festival. I was absolutely screwed; I mean, what does a girl take to a folk music weekend, especially when the girl is officially and mostly physically a bloke? I decided that I would simply take all the usual impedimenta apart from some bras. I don’t mean I wouldn’t take bras, I mean everything would be ‘the usual’ apart from the addition of a brassiere or two. Well, a brassiere, anyway. I only had the one.

I suppose it’s time I said hello properly. My name is Steve. Or Steph. I am male. Or not, depending on what evidence you believe; my birth certificate says “male”, my genitals say the same, but everything inside has always expressed a different opinion. If you don’t like it, go and read something else. This is my story, and I will tell it as it was, and is, rather than how people might wish. I spent all of my earliest life in a silent scream of “It’s not FAIR!”, until I settled into a sort of armed truce, an accommodation with my lack of fit, and slowly, but steadily, started to fall into smaller and smaller pieces. After far too long, I found an NHS shrink that appeared to understand my inner voice, and…

Work is the problem, I don’t have many friends outside, so there isn’t anyone else’s opinion to worry about. Work, though; a climate of machismo and banter, of real men and harder women, and it scared the real me half to death at the thought of how they would react. In the end, I looked elsewhere, and decided the festival was to be my big unveiling, hence the worry about what to take. So…..bra. Tent, bike, sleeping bag, fiddle and bra. And a Welsh rugby shirt, wrth gwrs…

I had real hopes for the weekend. No, not the great romance, not A Bloke; I was so screwed in my head that I had no idea what I was, which way I swang, because my hinges were seized, but I hoped for a chance to be me, to be a girl, to play music in my own little world of creativity, to dance–and yes, to be asked to dance and to dance as a girl. Ye gods, I had dreams, and in reality I knew the best I could expect would be staying in my tent to avoid the laughter that I knew would come my way.

Still I loaded my bike and set off for the station. Alea iacta est.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3
Oh you complete so and soes, what do you mean bus replacement service? This is the first bloody stop!

Bugger your sodding (insert obscenities at will as this comment goes on for rather a while). For the benefit of those unfamiliar with UK rail services, every so often there are Injuniring Werks on UK rail lines, and these involve the use of bus drivers to cover short lengths of rail. The idea of the drivers stretched out across the sleepers may be enticing, but unfortunately it ain’t the case. The usual reply to “Can I fit my bike on?” is simply “You can fuck right off, you’re not bringing that fucking thing on my bus!”

I decide to go by way of Clapham, ignoring the ticket restrictions, and of course the guard has a word.

“This ticket is not valid on this route”

“Your train wasn’t valid on the line cause it was a bus and the driver refused carriage”

“Er…oh. Change at Reading, then”

Off at Reading, change again at what they call Mordor Central, where the lifts were broken, and some five hours after setting off end up at Shrewsbury, the festival town. That is when I realise what I have forgotten.

It is in the nature of cycle touring that one always forgets something, and this time it is water bottles. The morning cuppa, the emergency pee bottle, all depend on the magic receptacle. Dammit. I hit the site intending to book in and go looking for bottles, and then I roll up to the ticket tent and the woman says “Ta, lass” and I want to die now, right now. If I can be seen as me, that easily, that early…dammit, once more, I will not be hiding in my tent. At least, not until the first laugh.

I ride round the site past the stables to the “quiet area” next to the dance tent, and pitch up. Straight onto the bike again, lighter this time, and I flash my wristband as I leave the site. Back past the station, up a little hill, and happy day, a bike shop. Two cheap bottles and a “Thanks, Miss” and I am almost delirious with excitement and gratification as I hurry back for my first cuppa as a domestic goddess.

I never fail to be astonished at the size of the tents you find here; I like enough room to sleep, some space to fit my luggage and mandolin or fiddle in, There is a real buzz in being able to lie in one’s bag and brew up looking out over the world, which I can now manage with my new receptacles. And thanks to a little grocery store I can have bacon sandwiches…..

There is a huge tunnel tent near me, with a super galaxy touring bike outside. The day continues to get better when the rider comes over to offer me a cuppa and call me “miss”

I am having a moment of revelation and self-doubt. I am a girl, but the world and my birth certificate say otherwise. If complete strangers are “fooled” on the strength of a bra…..or, is it getting dark?

Can I say “I am a girl” too many times, or will I be seen as obsessive? I AM obsessive; I have a dream, a desire that dominates my life. I sometimes…often…shit, all the time feel that if I cannot meet those needs, then I must die. I really thought that not long ago, but my shrink, my friend, Sally Flint, showed me that the world goes on and I must try to do the same...

I want to talk about NOW. My Jack Wolfskin tent is up, sleeping bag shook out, brew on, and I have changed out of the lycra. For the first time in public, I am in a dress. It is mid-calf, and I have a sweatshirt over the top, but it is a dress. I wonder, as I struggle out of my tent and it gets caught up under my knees, who the hell came up with such a silly garment, but then I stand up and feel the wind around my calves and look down to see the way the dress fits around my unstrapped breasts, and realise that it is now or never. There is a ceilidh at eight o’clock and…..

I wonder whether I should go back out to the supermarket. After all, if I get some booze I should be able to cope, or perhaps I could just stay in my tent and get wrecked. Best to avoid the public?

Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I jump a mile, as if he was charged. Apparently, he has been talking to me for a minute or so and I have ignored him. Bill is in the large tunnel tent, the one with the bike.

“Are you OK? We are feeding in a bit, then off to the dance, the Oysterband and then Dick Gaughan. If you would like to eat with us, we have plenty”

Ever had one of those moments? Ever felt your legs failing you? Ever found any doubts about your sexuality rendered null and void by a smile? Bill did that to me. I would say “full stop, end of story” except that, obviously, I am hoping that the story goes on a bit further. It was like stepping off the bottom of a staircase in the dark and finding out there was one more step than you thought. You fall freely for just a nanosecond, and then you hit the ground with a bigger thump than you intended. I wrote earlier that I wasn’t even thinking of A Bloke, just of being treated as I had dreamt of. I had no idea what I was, my hinges still seized, and suddenly that knowledge was pushed right into the front of my mind. If Bill was a man, then by god I liked men.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 4

WARNING: rather unpleasant childhood distress

I suppose I should take a step back from the here and now and give some background. Imagine this page doing a lap dissolve, with swirly distortion and tinkly music and clearing to reveal a short, skinny, auburn-haired lad astride an orange Raleigh Chopper.

That was the secret weapon of the UK cycle industry, an Easy Rider-styled monstrosity with a three-speed gear lever on what passed for the top tube, which is the real name for a bike’s crossbar. Brake too hard, slide forward off the banana seat, and say hello to sudden genital pain. Did I say secret weapon? That should be secret suicide device, as the Chopper handled so badly it put a whole generation off cycling for life.

I was an odd mix as a boy, tiny beyond belief till a growth spurt took me past average height in my mid-teens, so I had the twin devils to face of being firstly the short skinny kid that everyone beat up, and then the beanpole apparently fit for the same purpose. I had four passions in my life: music, reading, cycling and, oddly, rugby. No, not that one, the REAL one with 15 players each side. I may not have been big, but I was blindingly fast, and for a number of reasons I was willing to throw myself into tackles that shocked opponents. My favourite position was open side flanker, that home of psychotic speed merchants since the game was first formalised. I idolised such people as Neil Back, the small hard missiles that hunt the half-backs.

Cycling was my other active pastime, and it was never a club thing, unlike the rugby. It set me loose from the immediate streets of my childhood, allowing me time to settle into that near-Zen state of contemplation that comes when winding a steady cadence down the coast road or pulling up one of the long, long hills to the East. It let me sink into my own world, a chance to try and put some sort of order into my shipwreck of a soul.

I simply knew I was different. Not in the way the bullies shouted, not the “Puff!” that I was beaten so badly for that I twice tried suicide with pills filched from my mother. There, that was blunt, but how else to bring it up? I was found, washed out, and after the second attempt I decided to at least, at last have a go at living my own life. I just didn’t know what it would be.

This is the point where I am traditionally supposed to introduce tales of childhood cross-dressing, of dolls and make-up, but they never happened. I was too solitary in my habits to have suitable friends, and I was simply so introverted that my gender and sexuality only announced themselves even to me when I was pulled up by my housemaster for what was a true Freudian slip.

“Why did you say that, Stephen?”
“What, sir?”
“ ‘The other girls’ “
“Er, I meant ‘The other pupils’, sir”

That was the moment when it suddenly burst into my mind, the source of my confusion, the root of all that conflict in my life. I was 12, and I knew who I was for the first time. The signals picked up by the bullies were being misread; I was no pansy, no sissy, no nancy-boy poofter after a bumming that needed a proper kicking, but rather a girl with a problem. I had found myself, but I was unreachable.
That afternoon was my second suicide attempt.

My mother found me, forced me to drink salty water and called an ambulance. The tube down my throat was unpleasant beyond belief, and I spent a short while in hospital as a sullen, withdrawn little bundle. I read to keep the nurses from talking to me, and in one of the newspapers I found on the ward I first came across the story of a Bond girl who had been born with my own problem.

There was light at the end of the tunnel, and not from an oncoming train

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 5

College is a word I have always used to mean “University”, but there are folk out there with lower sights. It is a bit like the word “student”, in that it is applied in my opinion to the wrong group.

To me, a student is not “any school child” but someone who studies by choice or enthusiasm. There are child students just as there are notionally adult schoolboys. I was always a student, and when I moved up I did so to a University, not a school with a clever name. I studied French and linguistics, finally learning the mechanics behind the rhythm of authors who held me wrapped and rapt in their pages, as opposed to those who had better PR than prose. I took my fiddle with me, of course.

My degree fell apart in the final year as my inner conflict caused what was, in essence, a breakdown, and after a while on jobseeker’s allowance (what a weasel of a name) I drifted into public service and Customs. I don’t know who the uniform was made for, but it certainly wasn’t me. I soon had my first run in with The Management, in the form of the Surveyor.

“What does the uniform code say about hair length, Jones?”

“Nothing, sir, it merely specifies beard length. It says they must be neatly trimmed. Hair just has to be tied back, and mine is, as you can see”

“You know that is only in the case of women.”

“I don’t think so, sir. I know Andrea has a rather prominent moustache but as far as I know she never trims it”

“You know exactly what I mean”

“Yes sir, I do, and I would remind you in all politeness that discrimination based on gender is rather illegal. If my hair were dirty, or got in the way, I would do as you wish, but it isn’t, and it doesn’t, and the one prop forward who grabbed it got a smack in the mouth for his sins. Mind you, I did get my nose broken a little later in that game, so honours were probably even”

I won that exchange, and my reputation on the field in inter-regional games went a long way towards keeping the counterparts of my earlier bullies away. To me, rugby worked as a catharsis; in my hopelessness at my situation, I found myself doing more and more things that were frankly self-destructive. There had been no more suicide attempts, but I tackled like a Samoan*, probably as an alternative to more obvious self-harming rituals such as cutting.

For a while I had been a heavy drinker, for much the same reason, but I had controlled that with hard logic and sheer bloodymindedness. It was now twelve years since I had signed up, and that was my other sauce–I mean source–of strength. I was a member of a team.

That was what brought me back from the edge. In a rugby team, there are very well defined roles, positions of play, that need particular physical and mental attributes. Work was like that. We were all different, but we gelled as a team should, each having a forte, and we worked to keep the team running as an entity. I had moved three hundred miles from home with the job, and this was my surrogate family. Yes, I know it all seems a bit too easy, but that was the thing. My commitment to the team ended my engagement to the bottle. I still drank, and sometimes got drunk, but it was now a choice rather than a need.

I had also found, as with rugby, that I was good at it. Nothing earth-shattering, no Mentions in The House, but talented where it counted. Apart from my willingness to get physical when necessary, I found that I could usually avoid the rough stuff, or even a simple complaint, just by talking to the person involved. Perhaps as a by-product of my odd mental situation, I found it easier to empathise and persuade than some of my hairier-backed colleagues.

I was by this time seeing a lot of Sally. She was one of a tiny circle who knew who I was, all of them being involved in some way with my transition, for that was what I was finally working towards. I had been undergoing electrolysis bit by bit when I had enough time off to recover from the “sunburn”, and through Sally and my G.P. I was on a cocktail of medications that were slowly altering me. Not yet to the point of being obvious, as long as I kept my jumper on and my tits wrapped tight, but it was getting close to the point where it would become apparent that I was changed and changing.

I had been preparing for the real life test for some months, building up a simple wardrobe both of things that were decidedly feminine, such as my sports bras, as well as more unisex things that would serve me on both sides of the divide. My first foray outside as myself was a sort of inverse streak. Instead of stripping and running, I dressed and rode. Nothing spectacular; I simply wore mountain bike shorts instead of my usual lycra, a bra under an Oska the Aardvark top, and a pink scrunchy for my hair. With my deepest black shades and my highest heart rate, I did twenty quick miles on the Allez before diving in the back door.

I am still unsure as to whether I had maxed my heart rate through speed or through terror, but it became a ritual. I had found that the elastic bandages I was using to bind my chest were interfering with proper breathing, and without a bra my nipples hurt, particularly once I had worked up a decent sweat.

That sweat was also the way I got out of showering after rugby. I wore cycle shorts under my kit anyway, and by wearing my body-protector under my cycle top I was able to keep all my extras hidden away even when playing. I simply explained that as I was going to get sweaty on the bike, why shower twice?

One day, while going through a pre-training ritual of strapping myself away before hauling on the tight black top that served to keep studs from my skin, I had one of those little moments.

No, neither a sexual thrill, nor a hot flush, but a glimpse of the depth of the waters I was swimming in, and the realisation that I was now in a current stronger than me. It was a river in spate, and if I succeeded in swimming it I would be carried far down the other side. Everything would be new, all would change. So trite a thought, but it was the first time the beast Reality had turned to bite me in the bum. All the psych sessions, all the medical checks, none had really brought home to me the scale of my decision as much as the simple understanding that I would never be in the changing room with the team again. Or smell Dave’s pits after a game…..a win on points there, then.

*The Samoan team is renowned for its offensive tackling. They take their man so hard that it takes a special kind of courage, or insanity, to keep coming back for more. Search for Brian Lima, nicknamed “The Chiropractor”

When Wales lost a world cup match to what was then “Western Samoa” a spectator was heard to say “Bloody good job we weren’t playing the whole of Samoa”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 6

I suppose I should get back to what’s happening now before readers start to drift away or die in droves after losing the will to live. Perhaps that is my fate, to be found frail and starving behind a barricade of deceased lovers of literary fireworks.

Well, gentle but so far undeceased reader, you may remember that I had had a small moment of epiphany when someone called Bill had invited me to eat with them, and “them” consisted of his wife Jan, fourteen year old daughter Kelly and an empty chair. Apparently there was another for dinner, but information wasn’t being offered and I felt awkward enough just sitting there without probing.

Let us now be blunt, I’ve read all sorts of writing, some of it very good, on the transgender situation, but I don’t really click with it. All the fascination with jewellery, clothing, make-up, hair salons–it all leaves me cold. I want two things only: to be myself, and to be perceived as who I really am. I love to wear a dress or skirt because they are unconditionally tied to my true nature, but I don’t agonise over labels and colours, and if I could giggle successfully it would surely be over the idea of myself in some eighties seduction rig of heels and microskirt. The irony is that after all my agonising over identity, the girl I am is a tomboy. Okay, I was in a dress, and it was a rather pretty floral print from Laura Ashley, and it did show some of my sparse cleavage (if I took off my sweatshirt) but anyone expecting fantasies of lingerie and heels will be disappointed. Mary Janes and bare legs.

Speaking of legs and skirts, a fringe benefit of cycling was the ability to get my legs waxed without raised eyebrows.

Did I just say “benefit”? Ye gods it hurt! Raised more than my eyebrows, I can tell you.

Back to a tunnel tent the size of a tube train carriage, with its own dining room, I found myself doing a sort of split-screen mental trick. I was being the girl from the little tent next door in one frame, whilst simultaneously analysing everything from an outside view. The biggest difficulty was the fact that to all appearances I had not been read. I mean, I may be skinny and leggy, but I am a rugby forward with a twice-broken nose, for whatever’s sake. Surely even a fourteen year old can spot that one.

My schizoid mind shook hands on a deal pro tem, that for whatever reason they seemed to accept my presentation, and I suddenly started to tear up. It hit me hard, the realisation that this was like all my Christmases come at once. Whether these folk had read me or not, down to their teenage daughter they simply took me as I wanted to be taken. And as that rather unfortunate phrase went through my mind, the missing guest arrived.

Did I mention that I was disappointed to find out that Bill was a family man? At this point I should reveal that his family also contained his brother Geoff and…he walked in.

Remember my “little moment” earlier? This was another little moment, but it was now absolutely a case of the lusts.

He isn’t a big man, perhaps an inch shorter than me, and no six-packed centrefold stud, but he has a way of holding himself that says ”This world doesn’t scare me. It interests me…” He smiles, and the world’s dark places are illuminated and safe.

Oh dear…I have gone all present tense. That’s the narrative tension buggered then.

Everything around me became hyper real. The food was good, the wine (which I avoided) was well-chosen, the conversation was spirited and wide ranging, and the jokes (once Kelly went to change) were suitably filthy. I could tell some if you wanted, but that is not the point.

I know how the story traditionally goes. Young man disregards all the stigmata of a transgender girl, who is naturally slight, short, feminine….

I am 5’10’’, and a rugby player. Androgen blockers do diddly squat at my time of life. I have no hips, and though I was starting to get some adipose tissue (OK: fat) redistributed to my buttocks and general subcutaneous areas, I was still a bloke in a dress. I have some advantages left to me by my parents, though. Male pattern baldness does not run in the family, and we are redheads. Not ginger monsters, or ethereal pale ghosts like Tilda Swinton, but clear-skinned and freckled; we burn easily. My hair is that odd shade that looks lank and brown when dirty but once washed shines with red highlights. It’s naturally slightly wavy, and shoulder-blade long. I plait it for rides, one of my few feminine skills, and this enhances the wave. Add that to hazel eyes, which are in reality a blob of brown in the middle of a sea of green, and I have to admit any sister would have been a head-turner. I have always been more of a head-hunter.

Geoff was the owner of the Super Galaxy outside and had ridden up from Horsham over three easy days, leaving his brother’s family to cart his essentials, including a rather lovely bouzouki. He caught me staring at it.

“Do you play?”

“I have my fiddle with me, I’m looking forward to some sessions, especially the big one on Monday”

“Have you tried any mandolin style instruments? They’re tuned in fifths, just the same”

“I have a mandolin at home, but I must say I prefer the subtlety of fretless stuff. And I’ve been playing this one for 25 years, so…”

“Do you dance?”

Just like that. We’ve had the long introductory chat where we all admit our shameful occupations, and argued over who will be the highlight of the weekend, what bikes we have, where we’ve toured and he asks me to dance. Sort of. Oh shit.

The quiet section of the camp site was right next to the dance tent, and after a joint wash-up session we trooped off. Me, Geoff, Bill, Jan and a hyperactive teen now in an odd semi-flamenco outfit and running shoes. I had grabbed my fiddle as I saw Geoff grab his axe, and Bill and Jan both collected instruments. We had a Plan. The dance would occupy an hour, then 45 minutes each for the Oysters and Gaughan. For local politics reasons, the music was to end by 10 pm, but the bar was open till half past midnight and it was anticipated that there would be a session till we were thrown out. Notice how I was already assuming it was “we”

These were nice people. I had no idea what they thought I was, but they had opened their arms and hauled me in to simple family warmth. I knew it had to fall apart at some point, but for now I honestly felt I had not been happier since I caught that arrogant little tosser of a scrum half from the Marine College in possession. I popped a rib in that tackle, but I will always remember the look on his face when he realised how very much quicker I was than he had anticipated.

Ye gods, what an odd mix I am. I cry to the songs of Eric Bogle, I lose myself in a world of melody and rhythm when playing, I’m wearing a dress and fondly remembering inflicting serious pain on rugby opponents.. My untied hair hangs down to hide the blush that comes unbidden to my face. And then we are at the marquee*.

Chairs are lined up around a well-surfaced dance floor, a bar at one end facing the band across what seems to be four acres of space. Instruments are out ready; is that a double bassoon? And once again I have drifted into the present tense as my nerves rise and I almost feel sick with fear.

Steph, this is the rest of your life. This is what you have been working so hard with Sally towards. I leave my fiddle with them so they won’t run off and hide from me, excuse myself and head off towards the unisex (thank everything) portable toilets, and pull out my mobile phone. Sally answers on the second ring

“You are scared, aren’t you?”

“Bloody terrified.”

I give her a broad summary of events so far and she talks me down. She knows me, as she should considering how much the NHS** is paying her, and she comes up with what she feels is a game winner.

“Look, this is a weekend, you never have to see these people again, so just be yourself and no lasting harm can happen”

“Yeah but….Geoff only lives ten miles away from me”

“Geoff”

She simply says his name. No inflection, no hint of a question, ball in my court. I explain, and I can feel the heat from my cheeks in the small and smelly plastic cubicle. Sally lets out a quiet chuckle.

“My little girl is growing up then. Steph, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I knew your gender from the first session we had. I have never had doubts about that, but your sexuality is a much more complex thing. I can give no direction there, you have to find that out for yourself. I suspect, though, that you may just have done so. Do me a favour, though. I want pictures…..”

Back in the dance tent the band have tuned up and the caller asks for square sets. Bill has trotted off with Jan, and I look at Kelly and say “Shall we?” and Geoff humphs.

“God, I hate that. Us single blokes come to these dances, struggle to find a partner, and all the girls are dancing with each other. What’s a man supposed to do?”

I blush again and realise Kelly has vanished towards some spotty youth wearing one of those pillowcase woolly hats, and Geoff grins and holds out his hand.

“Shall we?”

Chapter 7

The first dance was the caller’s version of shock tactics. Talking to her afterwards, she explained that it was a way of sorting the dancers from the stumblers, so that those who wanted to have a proper swing could spot other skilled folk. The Cumberland Square Eights involves gallops, stars, circles and that peculiarly satisfying little movement the basket. In this, the men pass their arms behind the backs of the women and take a tight hold of each other’s hands. Right feet dip in and left push, rather like a swing, but the result is a rapidly-spinning huddle that often ends up with women losing their footing so that they are swung round with their legs in the air outside the basket. We were dancing opposite Bill and Jan as head couples, and when it came time for our basket I recognised the gleam in Bill’s eye as he closed the circle.

I was distracted though; I was in the arms of two men, and as we started the rhythmic dip and push I was on a real high. So much so I nearly missed the nod from Bill to Geoff, but I definitely felt the change in grip as they eased their arms higher up our backs and suddenly Jan and I were flying, my skirts flaring round my calves as we span. Jan squealed, and I grunted out a pithy comment about utter bastards. Said bastards laughed happily, and let us both down. That dance wound down with a promenade back to place, and the words “swing your partners”

I use a ceilidh grip that involves holding left hands and using the right to grasp the other’s left hip. It allows a fast swing without slamming into other couples, and really works best if both are of similar height and weight. We were ideal for this, and I found the rest of the world blurring as I looked at my partner.

Brown eyes. A small scar on his chin. Short dark hair gleaming with a few drops of sweat. A smile. And the dancing went on.

Geoff used the old excuse of saying that now he had found someone who could dance he would hang onto her. I did dance with other men, but it was back to the seats that we had commandeered that I returned each time. I also drank some BEER.

Is it time for another digression? Why not. There are a number of industrial compounds sold as beer. They are generally fizzy and the colour of stale urine, and in my opinion of much the same taste. No, the way and the truth is real ale, which is a living beast that must be handled with care and consideration. The active yeasts and other sediments are still in the cask, and it must be racked and allowed to breathe and settle before serving. It comes in a huge range of styles, some light and refreshing, others almost like a three-course meal in a glass.
But it makes me pee.

The dancing was over, and we headed off for the Oysters, one of my favourite groups of all time, and I was almost floating. I finally felt at home with this family, no question raised but that I would be with them for the evening at least if not the weekend. Kelly had left woollyhead behind, as well as some of her lipstick, and I was tingling with anticipation.

I knew exactly what was going to happen. I would gradually warm up, until I was as near the front as I could get, yelling along to the songs that I knew by heart, and so it happened. By the time “Hal an Tow” had moved into “Where the World Divides”, I was gone. Four pints of ale helped, but I was seriously in the groove, my sweatshirt left with the family and my hair flying free as I melded into their world of great tunes and lyrics about love and social justice. As the encore of “Coal not Dole/Bells of Rhymney” concluded with John’s passionate shout of “Bastards!” I felt myself shaking with release. This was what I had come for.

I rejoined the Woodruffs and we scuttled quickly to the other marquee for another socialist singer. This was to be no dancing frenzy, but a few moments of passion and wordplay, of anger and hatred of injustice and love for humanity.

I found myself wedged between Kelly and Geoff at the back of the tent, and as Gaughan took his seat she whispered in my ear.

“I think Geoff likes you”

Oh shit.

*I am not sure of US usage, but in the UK a marquee is a large tent of the sort used for outdoor functions rather than the entrance to a picture house

**National Health Service

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 8

Dick Gaughan is a man of passions that burn through a sparse, hard vocal style, and he knows the words that cut through your mind to the soul beneath and leave you in glorious pain. I always get emotional to his music, and now was no exception.

I found myself tearing up again at one song, and felt Kelly take my hand. I gave hers a squeeze back to say thank you, and Geoff nudged my arm. A tissue…where from, I don’t know, but there it was.

Finally, that was all we could have. The curfew was biting for the amplified music and it was time to hit the main bar. There were proper loos here, and the ale was working through me. Kelly saw my thinking and linked arms with me to walk over to the ladies’.

“It’s no biggy, it’s just other girls in there”

I stopped dead but my stomach kept going, and I looked at her. She knew.

Well, of course she knew. I’ve already said I am no fair flower of the West, but I had almost started to believe…to hope. Shitshitshitshit. I started to shake, and Kelly stepped forward to hold me tight as the tears filled my vision. I found myself digging my fingers hard into her back as a flood of incoherent complaint dropped stupidly from my mouth. She pulled my head into her shoulder, and softly murmured to me.

“It’s OK, it’s all OK. You don’t look bad at all, you know, and that can be made even better with a little work. We all knew as soon as we saw you, it was the way you couldn’t get out of your tent in a skirt”

She giggled, and so did I through the tears.

“Just listen. Do you think we really care what you were born as? I’ve been watching you, my parents have been watching you and Geoff…..Geoff has REALLY been watching you. You are a girl, there’s no doubt, I watched you during the Oysterband set, but we also think this is your first time out Are we right?”

“Mmmfyeah…”

“So stay near us and be safe. That is all I am going to say for now, but there’s no way you were ever a man. What you are is a woman who needs a pee and a face wash. Then we have some music to play”

“Mmmdbutyouain’tgotnoinstrument…”

“Watch and learn, Grasshopper!”

I will gloss over the toilets. One block of mobile toilets is much the same as any other, apart from urinals, and it was no cleaner than the male one, but it had running water and I cleaned the mess from my face.

“You don’t use make up, do you?”

“Nope, always been a step too far”

“Further than wearing a dress? Puhleeze! Hold still”

She had apparently decided that some mascara would hide the redness in my eyes, and over my objections the deed was done, with a veiled threat.

“Not waterproof. No more tears. OK?”

I was a subdued and quiet Steph as we rejoined the others and I collected my fiddle and sweatshirt. I hung my head to cover Kelly’s artwork, and so almost missed the nod she gave to her mother, who stepped forward and gave me a wordless hug, followed in turn by Bill and Geoff. Kelly whispered in my ear.

“Not waterproof…”

My world was bounded by gentle arms and what felt like genuine affection, from people I had not known existed until a very few hours ago. I was suddenly far more hopeful of what awaited me at work. This weekend was always meant as a trial run, with the eventual outcome an announcement to those that mattered and edge towards beginning my real life test. I was terrified, and Sally had struggled to help me understand the difference between my self-destructive delight in taking a risk that would harm me and my dread of the risk that could heal.

I kissed all four gently on the cheek, smiling my thanks and struggling womanfully to keep my eyes dry. N.W.

The bar was filling as the marquees emptied, and we found ourselves a small space where the boys set out five chairs in a horseshoe. Kelly had been lugging round what looked like an artwork portfolio, and when she took a pair of wood and leather clogs from her bag I realised what her “instrument” was. Bill pulled out a concertina, Jan a bodhran and Geoff the beautiful bouzouki. I tightened the nut of my bow, gave it a good coat of rosin and checked the tuning. We ran through a list of the pieces we had in common, and Bill said

“Jimmy Allen and then Salmon Tails? In G, Jan”

“Sod you, Woodruff!”

As we got used to each other’s style, driven on by Jan’s impeccable rhythm, we got adventurous. For the second run of Salmon tails, Bill dropped a fifth so that we had almost a bagpipe effect, and by the time we finished there were a variety of other stringed instruments twanging along. Another fiddler shouted “Stool of Repentance in A!” and we were off.

At one point Jan went to get more ale, and I borrowed her bodhran to spare my left-hand fingertips. Left hand stretching the skin, right hand loose at the wrist, my hair hanging down over the whole process as I lost myself in the rhythm and swing of music with spark and soul. My left leg was set under the drum and my right stretched out to the side, straining my skirt as my body wrapped up the sound. The fall of my hair hid everything but my flying right hand and I played in an auburn haze. Sharp ringing chords came from Geoff as Kelly’s feet struck out a rapid percussion and sweat flew everywhere. This was what I was born for.

And “time” was called at the bar. The second fiddler grinned over at me and said

“You can play with me any time, girl. Got a slow one to wind up with?”

“Road to the North and Maurice Ogg?”

“Got them. I’ll let you call the change, but we stand for this. Let them see who’s playing.”

We almost touched foreheads over the clogging sheet, in his smell of beer and tobacco and mine of who knew what, and I led into the first of the two beautiful tunes. The older guy was so much better than me, and as I soared up the E-string he was weaving improvised harmonies around my melody. The bar was absolutely still as the last note of “Air for Maurice Ogg” died with my bow, and I looked up to a round of applause and a grin from someone I immediately recognised.

“Bugger me, you’re Jimmy Kerr! I normally pay good money to hear you!”

“Aye, lass, but this is where the real fun is. Give us a call if you’re ever up my way and we’ll play some more”

He gave me a card. Me Him. One of the gods of the fiddle and he wanted to hear me. I almost forgot the situation with the Woodruffs in my delight. Geoff’s hand fell on my shoulder.

“Earth to Steph…..”

“Uh, yeah, um”

I have no false modesty about my musicianship. I’m good, though no genius, but more than adequate. I can usually get what I want from my fiddle, but clearly my vocal skills are not equal to that. Such eloquence.

With head torches we found our way back to the tents and stashed our instruments. A few awkward (for me) hugs and we were off to our respective beds.

I was just drifting off, the buzz finally gone, wrapped in big knickers, giant T-shirt and down sleeping bag, when I heard the zip opening on my fly sheet, then the one on the inner tent. In the dim light from the toilet blocks I saw Kelly.

“Budge over. You are not on your own tonight. For starters, you’ve probably not got the mascara off”

She efficiently cleaned my face, and slid a mat and sleeping bag next to me. As she curled around my back, she whispered

“You’re on brew duty in the morning. I’ve brought a mug.
And no snoring nor farting”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 9

Someone somewhere was playing a flute in that slippery seductive wail that I think of as Japanese. I waited an aeon for the first groan of my hangover to emerge before realising that I didn’t have one. That was a new experience, and rather a pleasant one. Brendan Behan could never understand teetotallers, he said. Imagine waking up in the morning and realising that was the best you would feel all day. I stretched out in my bag and heard a soft grunt. I had forgotten Kelly.

“White no suawwwwWWWger” she yawned and handed me a rather worn nylon mug.

“Morning to you too. What makes you think I have a stove?”

“Well, the teabags, the bread, the bacon to go in it, but most of all the large gas can and the stove next to it that I climbed over last night. Get brewing, I need a wee”

Off she went, and I got all domestic on the stove’s ass. Now, I am sure it has been observed before, but why does everything and everyone in America go around with a donkey for getting things on? Never mind; the simple act of brewing was helping me sort out my memories of the evening and my deeper reactions to what I still felt as profoundly harrowing events. I hadn’t drunk anywhere near enough to worry about ambush memories, but the situation I was now in left me deeply confused.

For starters, I, the me who was still legally and sort of physically a 34 year old man, had just spent the night in a tent cuddled up to a fourteen year old girl, presumably with her parents’ full knowledge. I was a law enforcement officer, which would make it look even worse. How did I feel about that?

Safe. Warm. Loved, even, if such a word could be used so soon, but that was the word that came to me. I had a moment of mental clarity and realised that that was the defining feature of the Woodruffs: they cared about others. It was nothing spectacular, apart from my own case that is, but all through the previous day there had been no points scoring or rancour, no catty remarks, no obvious criticism of others. The closest they had come was the cheeky musician’s joke Bill had made to Jan, but nothing worse. They just seemed to have acceptance without apathy. Had I walked into the Waltons via the Twilight Zone?

They had something that I needed to find.

Now, breathe, Steph, and get the tea sorted.

My tent has a door each side, so Kelly could get in and out without disturbing the tea making, and as she slid back in she said that we really needed a shower before facing civilisation. We drank the tea in silence till I saw Kelly looking at me through the steam.

“What?”

“You know, you really are striking. Your eyes are amazing, and I love the freckles, but we could really, really do something to show you off.”
“I don’t want to be shown off, I just want to be left alone to be me”

“You’ve already been shown off. Who was it last night stood up in the beer tent swapping licks with Jimmy Kerr? You don’t think people are going to forget that, do you?”

“Kelly, why are you all being so nice to me? You don’t know me from Adam”

“Eve”

“Whatever. Why?”

“Dad’s parents are weirdoes, all that hippy stuff, and a lot of it rubbed off on him, Mum says. Her parents are Quakers, though she doesn’t do that. I’ve been to some meetings, but it doesn’t speak to me. Mum and Dad talk to me a lot, it’s odd when people at school say they argue all the time with their oldies. Look, I’m fourteen, that’s all, so I don’t get what it is with them, but Dad keeps telling me that nothing is more important than people. I can do what I like–no, really–but it must always be with the question ‘will this hurt anyone?’”

Bollocks, I thought. It’s like Shangri La meets the Stepford Wives. Nobody can be that grounded, there must be a crack somewhere. I just hoped I wouldn’t be the one to open it up.

We finished our tea and made our way over to the Great Pavilion. Geoff’s bike was gone, and Jan was busy in the kitchen area of the tent. She came across and pulled me into a cheek-kissing hug.

“Shower, girls, then breakfast. Steph, sorry if I am being a bit forward…but is that your only dress? What are you, 14?”

“14 to 16, depending on label. Why do you ask?”

“Kelly, heel! Fetch!”

The girl grinned and ran into the tent. Thirty seconds later she was back with five or six hangers, and an even broader grin.

“Well? Get showered and you can see if something fits you. This morning will be a shopping morning, and do NOT look like that! I am talking about picking up some food for the weekend and some basics for you. You are NOT spending the weekend in a badly-fitted sports bra, for starters.”

She paused, looked down, then looked me straight in the eyes as she continued in a much softer tone.

“Listen, pet, we think we know what you are starting out on here. We are not trying to interfere, but what was said last night stands. This family is your comfort zone, your safe retreat, for as long as you need and want it. We’ve seen bad things and we don’t like them, stating the bloody obvious, and we do our best to keep others from them. One day you may be able to understand why, but not just now. Shower, both of you, before you get into my clothes!”

Kelly and I walked over to the shower blocks, passing through the race course loose boxes and as we did so. I looked to my right and just inside a stable door, on a clean pile of straw, was a pair of shocking pink knickers. We both started to giggle, Kelly wrapping both arms against my right and burying her face in my shoulder as she snorted.

“Someone got lucky last night” I said

“Losing THOSE knickers was lucky in itself!”

We wailed with laughter. It was one of those moments I had seen with teenage girls, where they keep bursting into hoots of laughter amidst whispered and fractured conversation, clinging onto each other as if they will fall down walking solo. My split mind was doing the looking-in bit again, but apart from one nagging question it seemed that “me” approved of all this.

The question was “How long can this go on?”

Showers. They have come a long way at festivals, but this one was doubly-blessed. Not only did the race course already have facilities, and good ones, for its jockeys, the organisers had enlisted the services of a particular mobile service who specialise in such things. No free advertising here, but they are well-made, clean and provided with lashings of really hot water. They come with queues, but we seemed to be up early enough to beat the bad ones, and I was not surprised to find myself in the queue for the female shower block.

I don’t know how well I can explain this, but almost with every minute that passed I was more and more able to be me. With Kelly hanging off my arm, we were just two girls waiting to get wet, and that was the least of it. Whenever I look in a mirror I see two overlaid images.

One is the Steph that I know and feel is me. She is a tall and slender girl, wiry rather than willowy. Not bad legs, if a little on the hard-edged side, but they please me. Broad but not excessively so shoulders and well-muscled arms, framing a soft bosom which is now about at a B-cup. Wavy auburn hair framing a face with sharp cheek bones, dusted in freckles and centred on a small but decidedly crooked nose. Unplucked light brows over what I do, in my vanity consider my best feature, those green/brown eyes I mentioned.

As I looked into the shower cubicle’s mirror I saw all that. Perky nipples too; I thought of Geoff and they perked some more, and I demonstrated to myself that when redheads blush, it is indeed a whole-body experience.

The overlay was still there, though. Steve was behind the façade in the tendons standing out on my hands and in the small scars on my torso. I ran my fingers down my sides, feeling the little bumps where ribs had been reset after being rucked out with the ball, or after some of my more Polynesian tackles. The eyes were the same, but there was hardness behind them. I watched as my jaw set slightly in thought and could still see the psycho flanker capable of really spoiling the day for a half back.

Most obviously, of course, was the maggot at the top of my legs. I had another attack of the giggles, thinking of the old joke epitaph for a virgin postmistress: “Returned unopened, Lord”

I imagined my testicles going back, “Not wanted on voyage. Shop-soiled but unused” and started to cry again.

I got under the shower and let the water wash away my sweat with my tears. This wasn’t the racking, painful sobs of last night, but a quiet weeping that was for so many things. My lost youth, wasted in pretence and play-acting. The friends I had found, that I could have already had if I had had more courage, and earlier, just to be me. The close calls I had had from alcohol and a wish to destroy myself rather than live as an alien. So much more…but I also wept with joy that I did indeed know who I was.

It was more, or less, than that. I had known what was wrong since that stay in the male surgical ward at the age of 12, old men with incontinence and dementia voiding their bladders on the floor in the middle of the night and calling out from old fears and current confusion.

A nurse had taken me to her heart and had brought me her son’s books once she learnt my taste for SF, and one of the titles suddenly clicked: Arthur C Clarke’s “Childhood’s End”.

No, this was not just knowing who I was but finally realising I was now free of Steve, that although I had picked up on a few sideways glances I wasn’t being seen as a bloke-in-a-dress but as “that skinny ginger bit who played the fiddle with Jimmy Kerr”

That, finally, was why I was weeping. I had open doors ahead of me. I had always had them, at least since my parents had gone, but it was the door behind me that was important. I could finally close it, lock it and throw away the key. I stood, head bowed, as the water ran down over my head and body, washing away sweat and tears, pain and a lifetime of shit.

“Sorry, boys” I said to my dangly bits.

“Returned unopened”.

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I should emphasise here that all the descriptions of performances by real artists are just that: events I have been present at. They may not have been at the same festival, but for dramatic purposes they are enclosed in a single event. All descriptions of such performances are simply my own reactions to wonderful music, as filtered through the eyes of Steph.

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Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 10

The shower block even had hair driers! Kelly and I worked brush and drier on each other in turn and I decided to leave mine loose.

“This is gorgeous, Steph. Don’t you ever cut it off!”

I had pulled on some sweats and running shoes after the shower. I do like that dress, but it was simply minging after last night’s exertions. By the time we got back to base camp, Jan had a full English (campers’ edition) almost ready to serve. Bill had surfaced, his face marked by wrinkle lines where the folds of his pillow had imprinted the skin. Geoff was already at the table, in cycling kit and sweat. Jan grinned.

“You wouldn’t believe these two are brothers. One is up and out at sparrowfart, and the other thinks elevenses are an early breakfast.”

Geoff grinned back and said “Yeah, but he’s not the one looking to do PBP next time round”

I looked at Geoff with new respect and, to be honest, a little lust. I was having another ‘little moment’ just looking at him. He had doffed his shirt, and had the straps of his bib shorts rolled down to reveal a lightly-haired chest and thighs that…

Down, Steph. Not now. Be good. What would Sally say?

“I want pictures”, if I remembered correctly.

“You OK?” he asked, and I realised that if the smile I gave him back looked as good as it felt I was probably blinding him.

“You are an AUK* and I claim my five pounds! Paris-Brest-Paris, eh? Way beyond me, I stopped at a 300.”

“Well, I will need a crew for it. Can you fettle? Bill’s crap at it, and on that ride I won’t have anything spare for sorting mechanicals.

“Yeah, I have a reasonable tool kit and a stand, but no motor”

“Don’t worry, I have a van, as long as you can drive”

Did I just arrange to spend a weekend in France with a man? I looked back at my metaphorical door and put in a mental order for bricks and mortar. Steve died at that exact moment.

Breakfast was good, made even better by not having that hangover I mentioned. Kelly and Jan then took an arm each and I was hauled into the body of The Canvas Edifice. With some reluctance I peeled off the sweats to reveal my granny pants and elastic support.

“Not exactly trapping gear, is it? Never mind, we’ll get you fitted for a better one today. Can I be really, really personal, Steph?”

“Well, you have me in bra and knickers, and I think that’s pretty personal….”

“Are you still growing or is that all you are getting? Any plans for a bit of boosting? No, NO, LISTEN….the reason I ask is that if you are still growing there is no point in spending lots now, just get something that fits. It makes a difference, I can tell you…”

“Still growing…..” I mumbled.

“Right, here’s the plan. Our car is a four-seater. We are off into the town to get some groceries and wine and stuff, and to get you some clothes. You can borrow mine, but I have a sneaky feeling you may want to spread your own wings a bit. Geoff is going in on his bike, so you can ride with us or ride with him.”

Kelly snorted, muttered “ride” and dissolved into a fit of laughter. Jan put on a mother-stern face.

“You can wash your mind out right now, young lady” and then started to giggle herself. I just stood blushing. I have mentioned how much of my body that means, haven’t I?

I ended up borrowing a long Indian print skirt and a white “gypsy” blouse that Jan insisted should show some cleavage, and before my courage failed me shot back to my tent and got into my cycling kit. This time, I went with another of Oska’s products, a Welsh flag top over my mountain bike shorts. I love my lycra bib-shorts, but they would rather reveal some parts of me I’d prefer gone. No socks today, just the cleated shoes. I grabbed mitts and shades and as I came out of the tent pulled my mane back with a Wales flag Buff â„¢. Geoff was poised by his bike and I realised we had the same saddle, a Brooksâ„¢ Team Pro in that lovely honey brown. Oh dear, I’d be sniffing it soon if I went on like this. Get a grip!

I stuck a couple of locks into the saddle bag and we made our way through the site to the entrance. A steward put a sticker onto my top tube and we were off to the main road. It was a short ride to a T-junction at a pub, then right down a slight dip to a set of traffic lights and the railway station I had arrived at. A sharp little rise (ooh, a bike shop, remember that!) and we were at a semi-pedestrianised area. Some Sheffield stands** were nearby and we left the bikes secure and headed off for the department store Jan had decided on. As we turned down a side street, a small group of men passed us, two young boys in tow.

“Hey, you come from Wales, girl?”

“Yeah…”

“Well fuck off back there you sheep-shagging bitch!”

All my professional training left me as I simply stood open-mouthed as the group walked off laughing. I shouted “Cer i grafu!” *** and Geoff started forward, and I grabbed his arm.

“No, Geoff, too many, too drunk and you don’t know if they’re tooled up***”

He was shaking with rage, a side of him I had not yet seen. I pulled him round and took his shoulders.

“Thank you for caring, but do you think that was worse than I have already had? All I’d need for a full set of prejudice would be a missing leg and being gay. I can’t quite manage the single mother bit”

It broke the mood, he laughed, and we quickly kissed.

Just like that. I have sat and agonised over how to describe that simple, fleeting act. All sorts of long paragraphs about life changes, affirmation of identity, epiphanies of whatever, but it was all so much simpler. He leant forward, we gently pushed our lips together for about two seconds and we turned and went off to the shopping.

Holding hands.

Jan was a Tartar, a tyrant, a slavedriver, an Evil Woman, and I was shepherded quickly to a fitting room with a bundle of feminine frippery. We hadn’t ridden far enough to break into a sweat, but I sweated buckets as I was pushed and prodded by the two girls. Was this what I was joining? All the frank comments about cup size and nipple comfort and all I wanted was to stop any bouncing. Jan had insisted on a proper fitting, and I ended up buying five bras in two styles, one of which was rather abbreviated to my hypercritical eye, as well as two loose tops, another mid-calf skirt in a cotton print (predictable, me?) and then I saw something I really wanted.

It was in some sort of stretchy fabric that I knew nothing about, and I missed Jan’s explanation about laundry care because I was so taken with it. A light green with a speckled pattern of tiny flowers, it fitted closely to the hips before flaring out like one of Degas’ ballet dancers’ skirts. I thought of myself dancing in it, playing in it.

It was on sale, then it was sold.

“Jan, I will have one small problem. There isn’t a lot of room in my luggage, so does this material suffer if I roll it up tightly?”

“No problem. Geoff lives near you, we can always take your kit in the car and drop it off with his, and he can get it to you”

Such a raft of assumptions in that offer. I began to tear up again. What is it with me? Crying all the time….Jan hugged me yet again.

“Geoff told me about the racists. And more than that, did you think that holding hands is something I wouldn’t spot? Now, the music is starting in a couple of hours, we need to get some food in and get back to the site. We can’t be domestic goddesses without something to domesticate.”

The plaster was now drying over the brickwork my mind had laid over the doorway, and I took Geoff’s hand as we ht the supermarket. We ended up, somehow, in the aisle with all the nice real ales and everything was just so right for me. I had his left hand in my right, and something he said just tickled me. I leant in and took his upper arm with my other hand, and we kissed again. Not a full-on snog, just a smiling confirmation of affection and trust. I rested my head against his and then felt another hand on my shoulder.

“Steve…..?”

I looked around and Dave was standing there.
Shitshitshit.

*AUK: Audax United Kingdom, an association of extreme long distance cyclists. Is the way to qualify for the Paris Brest Paris endurance event. Look it up!
**Simple steel structures for locking bikes to by their frame. Just about perfect for the job.
*** “Go away and manually relieve your frustrations”
**** Armed.

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I suppose I should say the magic words: the author asserts their rights as owner of all linked sections of this work. In other words, copyright is asserted August 2010 in both the name "Cyclist" and the personal name held by the website managers. No copying, distribution or other dissemination without the author's express permission.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 11

I am sorry to post two chapters in such quick succession, but my muse has me gripped firmly by the soft parts and is insisting I move the story on. Some questions are answered here, many more are raised.

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He was looking embarrassed. I simply stood and wondered if this was how one usually felt when one’s world ended. He looked at Geoff, and I could see cogs turning.

“Hi, I’m Dave Williams. I work with this young lady at Gatwick, and you are?”

“Geoff Woodruff, I’m sort of her friend…”

Dave guffawed, his big prop’s body shaking with obvious tension. He looked me in the eyes and said, much more gently

“ ‘Sort of…’.oh dear. What do I call you?”

“Steph. Stephanie…”

“Nice and easy for us all then. We need to talk. Is now a good time?”

I looked at Geoff. I wanted him with me, and he saw that.

“I’ll grab Jan and tell them we’ll be back later. Meet you in the coffee shop over the road in a couple of minutes”

I walked over with Dave.

“Sodding hell, St…eph, what do we do? I’ve known you were getting odd for some time, but this is, this is, what is this?”

“Wait for Geoff, please. I want him to hear all of this as well.”

We took a seat in a quiet corner till Geoff arrived, and I sat and composed myself for a minute. I held my coffee cup in front of my mouth for protection and began.

“Geoff, Dave has worked with me for eight years. We are on the same team, both at work and for rugby. I trust him implicitly. Dave, I have only known Geoff a short while, but I feel the same trust in him as I do in you”

Geoff took one of my hands. Dave looked thoughtful.

“Put the cup down, Steph”

As I did so he took my other hand. I looked down and started my story from cold, a cold, miserable male surgical ward with piss on the floor and an old man screaming in the night for his pilot to “CORKSCREW LEFT!!!” and for his God.

By the time I had finished, all three of us were crying. Dave astonished me by picking up my hand and pressing it to his cheek.

“I was so shit scared for you mate. Thought you were going to die. Your play was insane, and your drinking…I wanted to say to you to get help, to see a shrink or AA, shit, anything but lose my best mate. Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

“Like I could just come out with that…”

“Well, it’s done now. What do you want to do?

“Well. I have to arrange a real life test, and then once Sally my shrink is happy-

“No, you silly tart, what do you want to do now? What about the team, work and all? No offence, but you look better now than you have for a long time, and I don’t see you going back into mufti. I don’t think those tits come off for starters.”

I could actually feel my thighs burning with that blush.

Dave was up visiting a cousin, and with a sudden failure of my courage I realised that if I wanted, he could take my stuff back for me rather than Bill and Geoff. I looked sideways at the latter, and realised how much I wanted to keep this man in my life. No, Dave could carry my stuff, but Geoff was getting my address whatever happened. I suggested to Dave that he arrange a team social for when my leave was up, but before we went back to work, and I would drop the bombshell there. Work in its official capacity could wait, but Dave insisted the team should know.

We took out leave, and Dave astonished me by wrapping me in a hug and kissing my cheek.

“Not shaving no more then…..”

He looked past me at Geoff and very quietly said

“Listen, mate, please don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t know you at all, and you seem like a decent chap. But you WILL not hurt her, understand?”

They shook hands, and Dave left, shaking his head. I caught Geoff looking across at me with a crinkle to his eyes.

“What?”

“Remember those long chats we had? How you don’t see how we as a family can be so open and supportive of someone like you? Can you see what’s just happened? One more ordinary human hears your story, and reacts just like we did. You have to start believing, Steph, not just in yourself but in people in general. Those arseholes we met earlier are very noticeable, but they are the minority. Trust your humanity, trust in people, and you’ll be right more often than not. Come over here…”

I cuddled into him and he held me for a while, wordless and still, then lifted my face for another kiss. This one was longer, gentle and so tender I started to cry yet again. He wiped my eyes with a napkin and we stood to leave, shades covering all four red-rimmed eyes. Perhaps as a reaction, the ride back was a lot quicker than the ride out, hitting 25 mph on several occasions, and Geoff was getting out of the saddle in what seemed like an attempt to test my ability. I needed another shower back at the site, and found myself dancing in the cubicle. Once dried, I changed into the green dress and, sod it, one of my new more minimalist bras. I rang Sally as I walked back, and filled her in on developments. She started to make deep panting sounds and croaked

“So, tell me what you’re wearing, bitch…”

before breaking up in raucous laughter.

“Steph, dear, you make me very unprofessional. I had suspected that this weekend may force or help you to face some issues, but this is amazing. Just promise me you will keep your mind in ‘Pause/think’ mode before anything rash. I will keep myself free for any problems this weekend, one way or another. I may have created a green-eyed monster, but she is new-born and vulnerable to nasties.”

We said our good byes and I continued back to the Edifice and Geoff. He wanted to talk, and I had to assure him that I trusted Dave as I would a brother, and he seemed to relax. I had a moment of overdue feminine intuition----the silly sod was jealous of Dave! I was almost shaking with happiness as I pulled him to me and asked him just that. He ducked his head.

“I’m not gay.”

My mood, all the euphoria, crashed, burned and slid down a drain. I very coldly said

“Neither am I, Geoff.”

“No, listen, I’m useless at this, don’t let me put my foot in it please. I meant you are so clearly a girl. I know you aren’t quite the way you should be but what I meant by that is that as far as I am concerned you are a girl and I fancy you cause you are lovely and not because I am gay and want extra bits and I just wanted you to know that you really are a lovely girl and nothing but a girl and your eyes make me want to die and I just want to hold you and touch you all the time and I am so glad you live so near to me and I hope you will let me come and see you or at least that you will come and see me and that we can see how it goes but I really hope it does go and…”

I think I have most of what he said down, but what with the stammering and the blushing, I may have missed some trifling compliments. I grasped what he was trying to tell me, that he wasn’t some oddity that wanted a she-male, that his interest in me was that of a man for a woman and nothing more. I realised that my reaction to his declaration of heterosexuality was perhaps a little premature, but decided that it would make a handy “control” for any future misbehaviour.

The corollary hit me a second later. This man had all but told me he loved me, and I was already thinking of a future together. I started to laugh. He looked a little puzzled.

“What’s tickled you?”

“You realise we are already looking a long way ahead? Think of the working title: Steph’n’Geoff. Sounds like a carpet cleaner!” I started to giggle (practice with Kelly was helping)

He kissed me. I kissed him back, hard.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 12

I am going to gloss over large parts of the weekend, dear reader, because a succession of descriptions of me shaking my bits to some band you’ve never heard of will leave you, well, leaving me.

So, here are the highlights. A whole series of fiddlers all using left hand pizzicato, spiccato bowing and  £200 carbon fibre bows. I tried one of them out, and it was fabby, but for 200 notes I could get something more immediately useful.

I entered the musicians’ competition . Eighteenth, out of nineteen. Bloody child prodigies.

Instrument workshops where we sat together to learn simple tunes ready for Monday.

Kelly watching in awe as Kerfuffle performed, Hannah James’ amazing clogging backed by the Sweeney brothers and Jamie Roberts.

Sobbing my heart out to Eric Bogle. What a lovely man, if ever the Woodruffs had a musical soundtrack, Eric would be the author.

Going off site when Bell*whead were on. They are good, and very popular, but too loud for me. The main benefit was the chance to meet Dave for a pint.

All of us were much more relaxed, and it was a given by now that wherever we went, Geoff and I were holding hands or otherwise touching. I had no complaints whatsoever on that score. My famous split screen mind had settled down into warm mush whenever he appeared, the only hangover being a perpetual tendency to imagine him as a scrum half.

At this point, gentle and refined readers, I will draw a veil over the images that filled my mind’s eye regarding me as a flanker “tackling” him as a scrum half.

I spent a lot of time on the phone to Sally, and after I enquired about the NHS bill she simply said

“Steph, you became a friend two years ago. I could never be dispassionate about so much pain. I haven’t raised a bill all weekend. I will do later, because otherwise my suggestions will be ignored. Got that?”

Never seeming to be out of physical contact with Geoff unless asleep.

Kisses.

Kelly was insufferable. She started calling me “Aunty Steffie” until I threatened to burn her clogs.

We played, as a family mostly, and Jan called me over when I first wore the Green Dress to go out. She was holding a pair of black three-quarter-length leggings to go under the dress, in case my dancing got too wild.

“I know you like that dress, but the way you get when you are in “the zone” your knickers will be on show”

Kelly just looked at me, said the word “Pink” and we corpsed. You know when you start laughing with someone, and it dies down, and you look up at them and you just can’t stop it bursting out again? Jan put on the Mum-voice again

“How old are you two, exactly?”

The pint we had with Dave was an important one. We called in at the Royal Oak, by Pig Trough, while the loud stuff was filling the marquee. Dave was looking good in a souvenir shirt from the ’03 World Cup in Australia, and we laughed over how we two Welsh supporters had prayed for a loss against England. We would never have beaten Australia, and that was all we wanted. None of this “I support two teams” silliness, just pragmatism, and Jonny Wilkinson delivered the goods with the very last kick in an injury time played after a very, very dubious penalty to Australia….oops.

That was part of what Dave wanted to discuss. We had turned up en famille, Geoff and Kelly in their now-familiar roles of blind- and open-side. I half expected to see Bill take point, with Jan walking backwards behind me scanning the bushes. This fitted in with the worries about managing my transition at work, the assurance that I would have support. The plan was to let the team know in a private meeting, and I had already decided my strategy for that.

“No, love, it’s this new department I am worried about. We both know that HM Customs and Excise* and then Revenue and Customs were big on the GLBT thing, but I am not sure about the Home Office. There are some right vindictive tossers on the other side, and I don’t know how they will play this. I think you should see Nigel the Union and let him in on things. How long you known him? I’ll book a room at the Norfolk Arms for when you get back, and if it’s OK with you I’ll drag him along”

I should mention at this point that Dave is not just a particularly destructive loosehead prop but also our team captain. He’s about 6’, weighs about eighteen and a half stone (220 lbs) and has the trademark right ear. Shaven head, scrubby beard, forearms like my thighs and no apparent bodily fat. The rugby shirt really set off his powerful…

Rewind.

For all of my life I have been celibate. All of a life lived trying simultaneously to be someone I never was and to destroy that person in any indirect way I could left very little room to be open to anyone else. I walked on eggshells all day, every day, except when I slumped in my armchair in the front room alone but for a three litre box of wine.. I noticed people as friends, I valued them as friends, I cultivated a very few as good friends and a few more as work mates, but I had no intimates apart from Sally, and that was not the same.

I realised now how skilled she had been from the first day I referred myself via my GP because of my drinking, and how subtle she had been at peeling the onion layers away to find the desperate girl hiding under the scars and fractures and binges. How lucky I had been to find a true physician, someone who looked beyond the symptom to the root of the illness. I also realised how much two days of company had allowed my wings to open, and in yet another rush of emotion exactly how very good a friend was my mate Dave.

I also realised exactly how I had been evaluating him, and how absolutely real was my declaration of my sexuality to Geoff. My life was moving further beyond my control with each minute I was with these people

Breathe…

Kelly was leaning in to me.

“You Ok? Gone all quiet.”

“Just getting a very confused weekend sorted in my mind. It’s not easy. I don’t know if I’m really up to playing tonight”

Geoff looked almost relieved. Had I worked him that hard? Dave smiled

“Dunno about you, butt, but I can see some empty glasses here.”

The three men went to fill our orders. Nice to see they knew their place; Kelly and I slipped off to the Ladies’ and as we sat in adjacent cubicles she called out to me.

“Spill the beans, Steffie. Have you snogged Uncle Geoff yet? Cause if you haven’t you should”

Sat with my skirt up, I could actually SEE my thighs blush I mumbled a non-committal reply, and Kelly laughed out loud, then giggled. In a little girl voice she said

“We gonna sort out Aunty Steffie make her all nice”

Oh shit.

Back at the table, we had a fresh round of drinks awaiting us. Mine was a pint of Tanglefoot ; as the late Linda Smith said, cursing “ladylike” measures, ‘Half a pint isn’t a drink, it’s homeopathy.’

Dave stood and held a hand up for silence.

“I’d just like to say a couple of things here. Firstly to you, four strangers at the moment, a really heartfelt thank you for what you have done for my best mate, someone I really thought I would be burying in the near future. Secondly, I’d like to propose a toast. To my old best mate, to my new best mate, to the beautiful girl I didn’t realise I knew, and the hardest bugger who ever put a shoulder to my arse.

“Steph. Live well, play well, love well”

They drank and yet again I cried.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Some years ago Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise were swallowed by the bean-counters to become HM Revenue and Customs. The Customs function was then hived off to the paper-pushers of the Home Office as the UK Border Agency, leaving a lot of hard-nosed law enforcement officers more than a little unhappy.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 13

A small warm thing had settled in my tent again and I kicked it awake to take its turn at the morning brew duties. I needed to dispose of some second hand beer. It was odd how my attitude to alcohol had changed; I always loved a good ale, but I had been using things like wine boxes as off-switches for my dreams.

The drinking had been a functional, industrial thing. I went through phases where I deliberately left my wallet in my locker so as to be unable to buy alcohol on the way home, and counting days when I didn’t drink. I wasn’t an alcoholic–yet---but I was using rather than enjoying it.

I wondered if the rebirth I felt had released me from that need. I was actually looking forward to a pint last night, a pint as a tasty drink and not so many units of alcohol. One more curse lifted.

As I sat in the cubicle I smiled as I realised how much deeper Dave’s waters ran than I had known. He seemed to take Steph in his stride, and I was stunned by his fierce protectiveness. That was a very, very direct threat to Geoff, but I had no issue with that; I knew exactly where he was coming from. I felt very hopeful about work, and I was already making plans. I knew how I would let the team know, and I was ticking off the list of managers to work out which one would best repay a quiet approach.

Kelly had obeyed her mistress and the tea was ready. I realised she had moved several of her bags over.

“You decided to move in then?”

“Well, it’s better than listening to the olds getting frisky…or would you prefer Geoff?”

“You little strumpet, I am going to get you for that one”

“Yeah, yeah, when you stop blushing. Just do me a big favour, and do your goodnight snogs away from the tent in future so I can get to bed, OK?”

Kelly squeals when she is tickled, I am sure well into the ultrasonic. Dogs all around were going “Pardon? You what?” to their masters in their new-found deafness.

There was another Full English planned, but Geoff insisted on dragging me out for a twenty —mile livener before we indulged. A Dawes Galaxy is not a racing bike, but we did OK, heading out on the road to Y Trallwng and the hills by Middletown before pulling a mini chain gang back to the site. I insisted at taking my own turns at the front. I might be a woman, but I’m fitter than most men.

Another fragment of the late Steve Jones died with that thought.

Breakfast was a pleasant interlude, and I noticed Bill and Jan exchanging glances and little touches. It seemed the olds had indeed been getting frisky, or might be doing so later…

“Bill, Jan, do you mind if we leave you to clear up? I want to do some shopping, and I need Kelly’s eye for the clothes stalls and Geoff’s for the music place”
I dropped a slow wink to Bill and he nudged Jan. It seems mums can blush too.

As we walked off, having collected our instruments, Geoff whispered “What was all that unspoken stuff?”

“They fancy some quality time”

“Eh?”

“They need a shag….”

Festival clothes stalls are always the same, a mixture of old hippy, modern Oz and cod-Native-American. I found a nice baggy pair of patchwork trousers, and Kelly a truly daft floppy hat, but it was the instruments I wanted to see. This was the place I had bought a mandolin at years before, and they sometimes had special offers. Failing that there was always sheet music.

Violin bows. Carbon fibre, and  £200 each. Nope. I was tempted by an octave mandolin in a lovely maple with a really bright tone, which would chime with Geoff’s bouzouki, and smiled to myself at the casual assumptions there. Kelly was trying out a small clarsach (harp) and it was clear the music genes were embedded in this family. Geoff tried out the octave mando, and loved the action as much as I did, but I couldn’t really justify the cost. He looked hard at me..

“We’re going halves on it.”

Before I could argue, his credit card was gone and the instrument, in a simple gig bag, was ours. What a simple and lovely word.

I tried it out at one of the tune sessions, and had to concentrate a little on my left hand, but it went well and the action really suited my attack. I got pointed to a few times, but it was obviously of the ginger-fiddler-with-JK bit rather than spot-the-pervert.

When we got back to the Edifice, Bill had his T-shirt on inside out, and Jan had a very warm and fuzzy look in her eyes. Kelly rolled hers. It seemed that while she found the idea of her uncle courting, the same activity for her parents was incomprehensible. How it is to be young.

Monday came along at last, the end of the festivities, the professional stuff finishing at six before we all repaired to the Long Bar for a mammoth beer-fuelled session. We had just finished a barbie cooked on a couple of disposables from the supermarket when a Geordie voice shouted “How, Ginger!”

It was Jim Kerr.

“How, lass, ah’ve spent aal day looking for yees lot. Just kept asking ferks if they’d seen a geet taal ginger bord wi’ a fiddle, and finally fund thee. Yez are gannin te the session? Ah’d like to play a bit wi’ thi family, if ye divvent mind”

“Er…in English?”

He grinned and took his cigarette from his mouth, and in an exaggeratedly slow voice said

“Ah cum heor for the playin’ and it’s like at the dance, when ye spot a canny group o’ dancers ye hang onte them. Thy young man theor, he plays smashin’ and the rest are aalmerst as canny”

We had a gig. Jimmy would keep a space for us, conveniently near to the bar, and we would no doubt be worked hard. I looked round, all nodded, and we set the wheels in motion. Green dress and leggings day….”Zip me up, Kell?”

I was zipped up, my hair eased to one side, and the nape of my neck kissed. I reached behind me to stroke his cheek, and he wrapped me in a hug.

This was life as it should be.

Jimmy was true to his word, and had even marked off a space for Kelly’s little platform. From somewhere, god knows where, he had found a side table for his pint and was tuning as we arrived. God bless electronic tuners! I was laden with mando and fiddle, Geoff and Bill had their axes and a cool bag of soft drinks so we wouldn’t get too stocious on beer. The girls had a bag of various whistles and some basic percussion pieces. From experience, there would be many people without instruments who would be glad of a chance to join in, any way they could.

And off we went. I switched from fiddle to mandolin and back through lots of old favourites beginning with “Because He Was a Bonny Lad”, and delighting with the ease the old master brought to it. A nod, a lift of an eyebrow, and we would switch keys and tunes, and those I didn’t know I felt happy improvising to on the mandolin. I can’t play many chords, as I learnt fiddle rather than guitar, but I think it worked.

Jan and Kelly played a lot of whistle, and that let me borrow the bodhran and get into that auburn-hazed zone again, just driving the rhythm and feeling the music in every part of me, legs wide apart and hands working together to find the subtle changes in tone.

I was brought out of it at about nine o’clock by an almighty clanging. The barman was banging a tin tray and shouting for quiet.

“Right, you lot, this is my fourth straight night feeding you miserable buggers with ale and I CANNOT BE ARSED ANY MORE!!! I am going to play. Help yourselves to the beer. It’s now free, and when it’s gone that’s it. And if there are any lager drinkers here who think tipping the barrel will get more out, DO NOT BE SO THICK!”

He grabbed a fiddle and launched into a very basic rendition of “Nellie the Elephant” to a chorus of cheers

That was our evening. It gradually wound down, till Jimmy said it was time for some slow ones. Did I know “Wild Hills o’ Wannie” or “Sair Fyel’d Hinny”?
“The first one yes, but I try to play it like Billy Pigg, so the rhythm and time change a lot”

“Ye start then, and ah’ll follow. Keep it AABB till ah tells yer te change then foller me in the other tune”

I did as he said, wailing slowly through parts and swooping others, Jimmy joining in once he had the feel for my timing. Suddenly, he was playing it as a round, and we made a couple of runs through before he joined me on the final long A of the B-part. He started straight into the other tune, and once I had it he stopped playing and started to sing. It turned out to be an old man’s lament for lost youth and abilities, and I realised that the room was silent but for some very quiet and gentle harmony playing. Jan was crying gently as she blew her accompaniment on a low whistle, and I wondered how I had ever missed such a great song.

“Reet me bonny lads and lasses, that’s yer lot! See yez aal next year!”

“SAIR FYEL'D HINNY

Chorus;- Sair fyel'd hinny,
Sair fyel'd noo;
Sair fyel'd hinny,
Sin' Aa ken'd thoo.

Aa wes young and lusty, Aa wes fair and clear,
Aa wes young and lusty, mony a lang year.

When Aa wes young and lusty, Aa could lowp a dyke,
But noo Aa'm aad and stiff, Aa can hardly step a syke.

When Aa wes five and twenty, Aa wes brave and bowld,
Noo at five and sixty, Aa'm baith stiff and cowld,

Thus said the owld man te the oak tree,
"Sair fyel'd is Aa, sin' Aa kenned thee".
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks to Puddin' for help with the pictures. That's MY fiddle there....

Something to Declare by Cyclist

CHAPTER 14

Dave turned up on time on Tuesday morning and I loaded almost all of my kit into his estate car. Geoff had insisted I keep custody of our instrument, so in it went, and Dave pointedly hinted he could take the bike (and me) as well.

“Thanks, mate, but I really want time to think on the way back. Thanks for being so very good a friend. Please take it the right way…but I really love you. See you in two days.”

It was the first time I ever saw Dave blush, and he hugged me hard before he set off, giving Geoff a nod and a raised eyebrow. Geoff and I returned to the family, where I said my goodbyes and made sure they had all of my details before they tactfully left the two of us alone.

“What are you doing in two days’ time, Geoff?”

“Holding your hand if you want me”

We kissed, and hugged, and held, and cradled, and….rode together to the station and did it some more, until my train left him on the platform and me to my thoughts.

The next two days hardly flew by, as I was back in Steve mode by basic necessity. I hated every moment, and when the time came for my appointment with Sally I wore a scooped top and one of the dinky bras under a windproof. Sally was all professional, going into great and incisive detail about the weekend’s events. I gave her my open/closed door analogy, and she nodded, looked up and grinned before coming to me and hugging me hard. I left her on cloud nine after we had spent some time looking at pictures; Geoff met with her approval, and she put first dibs on him if I ever dumped the poor man. Only one thing was a concern to me: Sally was worried that she had become too close to me as a friend to function properly in her capacity as an analyst, and now lacked the necessary distance. She was taking advice on that, and would let me know in due course.

That same evening was the planned meet up at the Norfolk. This was where the team would either pull with me or give me problems I could not see myself being able to deal with. I tied my hair back, wearing much the same as I had for Sally, and having arrived fashionably and deliberately late grabbed Geoff from the lounge and went upstairs carrying a pint of Red River each.

Eleven pairs of eyes met ours as we walked in and sat down next to Dave. He stood up, waited for silence, and said

“Right, Jonesy here has an announcement, but before that I want a promise from every one of you. What is said and done here tonight does not leave this room. If there is anyone who cannot promise that, you will leave now”

Nobody moved. Dave drew a deep breath and let out a long sigh.

“Now, boys and girls, we all know how worried we have been about this team mate here, how we felt they were about to crash and burn. Well, it turns out that there were very good reasons for our concern, and we are here tonight to show and pledge our support. Are we all agreed?”

There was a chorus of grunts and nods. Geoff squeezed my hand under the table; I had already untied my hair, and I stood up slowly and unzipped my windproof.

“Bugger me” said Long John.

The team were muttering and commenting to each other, themselves and, it seemed, their deity. I had chosen a top and bra combination that left no doubt that I had a chest, and the three-quarter-length sleeves were decidedly feminine. Sue stood up and walked straight to me, scanning me critically as she came.

“This explains a hell of a lot. Welcome to the club. It suits you, it really does, but what do we call you now?”

“Steph…”

“Thank fuck for that. As I get older my memory goes. Who are you again?”

She hauled me into a bonewrenching hug, and one by one the others did much the same, all apart from Nigel the Union.

“I can see now why I was ‘requested’ to attend this meeting. We need to talk at some length so that I know what route you intend to follow. For starters, do you intend to stay with the Department?”

“Bloody hell aye”

“Well, would it be easier for us to meet in private somewhere? “

We arranged for him to call at my house in two days’ time, and as I was being hugged by Tom the team leader, Little John piped up

“Two questions, Steph! Firstly, who the hell is that bloke in the lycra, and more importantly, what the hell are we going to do for an open-side in the regional final next month?”

“Nice priorities lad” said Geoff.

“Firstly, I’m what you would call her boyfriend. Secondly, we have spoken a lot about this. She feels that the team, the teams, have both been so supportive over the last few years that she owes them one last outing. Psycho Steve the Smiling Assassin will be coming to your ball, but unsurprisingly she won’t be sharing the showers”

All through this he was holding my hand, out in public. I could feel the muscle in my right thigh trembling, and I was near to tears yet again. I realised everyone in the room, in one way or another, was measuring my worth, looking for remnants of the late Steve, and coming to their own decision as to what they felt about what could hardly have sat well in such company. I was discarding my masculinity, after all, and even the women in the job had a necessarily hard edge.

Dave brought us all to order with a bang on the table.

“Boys and girls, I want a show of hands. If there is anyone here who has any problem at all with Steph, raise your hand now”

Proudly I saw that all hands stayed down.

No. Little John’s went up sharply. Shit.

“Well?” said Dave.

“It’s simple, really. She’s standing there in those baggy shorts, how are us arse men supposed to check her out?”

The dark shadows fled as a roar of laughter went up. I saw my chance.

“Geoff and I are off to get changed. Curry, and more beer, half an hour, the Light of India!”

I looked across at Little John, and he winked and blew me a kiss.

The Light is only a ten minute walk from my house, so when we got back I slipped into the trusty Laura Ashley number and a pair of ballet flats. Geoff was staying over, and I had already had another Little Moment on first seeing two teethbrushes in the bathroom. All I will say about the curry night is that we were merry, rather loud, and eventually in fine and superbly filthy vocal style. Dave’s rendition of “The Alphabet”, surely the filthiest rugby song in existence, was faultless, though some of the other patrons may not have agreed.

Geoff and I [veil drawn over canoodling] said our goodnights, and off he went to the spare bedroom. I slipped into a sleep shirt and

Woke up in a long, bare room. A row of grey iron bedsteads with blue blankets and white sheets stood against the far wall, and I realised I was in one of a similar row on this side of the ward, for that was what it was.

A pair of shambling figures was walking towards me, one moaning for a nurse as he tried to pull out what was clearly a catheter, the other dribbling in long strings and spraying piss about as he walked. A scream rose from behind them

“NIGHTFIGHTER! CORKSCREW LEFT!!! CORKSCREW LEFT!!! HE’S FIRING!!! FIRE!!! FIRE!! GET OUT oh god oh fuck they’re burning they’re dying…” trailing off into sobbing.

The first old man burst into flames with a soft ‘whump”, and I could smell him cook. Then the second…and a small fire started to burn right between my legs and I screamed and

Geoff was holding me and calling my name. I promptly vomited all over him.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 15

This wasn’t how I had envisaged getting intimate with Geoff.

He half carried me to the bathroom and with scant ceremony pulled my T-shirt off, followed by his own, and pulled me into the shower cubicle. The steaming hot water soon washed away the smell of my sickness, but I still had the taste in my mouth and the soft whooshing sound of igniting men in my ears. I was shaking almost too much to stand, and he simply wrapped his arms around me to hold me up as the tremors slowly eased to little bursts of aftershocks.

I was gradually starting to take note of my surroundings again, and realised that we were still wearing our undies, soaking wet, in a shower, as Geoff handed me my loaded toothbrush to try and get the taste to disappear.

“You ok?”

“No. I still feel sick, my throat hurts, my jaw hurts, I think I’ve bitten my tongue and I am almost naked in the shower with a man”

“So not all bad then” he teased. I started to laugh, which didn’t last long until it became sobbing. Geoff just stood patiently, waiting for my convulsions to die down. Once he was sure I was under some control he kissed me and stepped out of the shower, returning with a fluffy bath sheet fresh from the airing cupboard and then my dressing gown. When I stepped out, he wrapped me in warmth and towelled my head dry, but I wasn’t that far out of it that I didn’t notice him ogling my chest. It was done in a nice and subtle manner, but definitely an ogle.

He left me to cross the hall and turn off the shower (have to do something…) and after a little while I heard the sound of the washing machine starting up. Our T-shirts and my bed-linen, probably. A thought struck me: what would I do without this man? What could I have done over the last few days without him? I resolved to ring Sally as soon as it was a reasonable hour and see what she thought was up, Why did my jaw hurt?

I wrapped myself in my mountainous dressing gown and went to the kitchen. As the washer grumbled away, he was just finishing two mugs of green tea.

“Make yourself at home, then” I teased back, and he pulled me to him one-armed as he fished the bag out of the second cup. I told him all that I could remember of the dream, and he thought for a while.

“You know that dreams are often an attempt to sort things out in your head, or to explain something outside, like having a dream about a fire engine when you hear the alarm clock?”

“Yeah, I think we’ve all read that.”

“Well, you had a little fire between your legs, you say, but you were screaming ‘Mam’. What does that say?”

“My mother died two years ago. It was a year into my first sessions with Sally, and that hospital was a place she put me into after my…well, after that day when I was 12”

“Steph, while you know this is important to me, after our awkwardness at the festival, but I think you need to ask yourself…..are you planning surgery?”

That one stopped me dead. I realised that in all the chats with Sally, in all my hopes and daydreams, the reality of the actual procedure had never fully featured. To be honest, my cock and balls had never really featured in my life apart from being an irritant I could have done without, but my obsession, my need, was to be seen as myself rather than to “function” as a woman sexually. I simply knew who I was, and was adjusting the outside to reflect that so that I would be SEEN as I really was. My breasts, my dresses… I had never had any form of relationship, any courtship, romance, even lust until Steph was released. The concept of sex in my life was just not there, and the need for invasive surgery likewise. Just snip it all off, Mr surgeon, returned unopened.

Geoff had changed that. I was only then, at that moment as my nightmare faded and the chai soothed, realising that I had indeed begun thinking of possible futures. I imagined one without his smile or touch, and promptly filed that as far down in my mind’s dungeons as I could.

Was this what the books and films were all about? Was this falling in love? I knew what love meant; I had loved my parents, and I had now realised how much I loved Dave, but in my Steve days of drink, self-harm and, well, self-hate, such concepts as another person in my life might as well have been written in Chinese. Did I want this man in my car-crash of a life? Oh so much so that I could not say it without crying. Did this man deserve to have me inflicted on him? No.

But he seemed to want it. I realised that there were things untold about the Woodruffs, and there were demons in their lives–in his life. Were they as bad as mine? Time, and hopefully Geoff would tell.

As I pondered, the water heater turned itself on, and as the gas ignited I realised where that sound had come from.

We had been sitting in silence for rather a long time, but all things considered it was pleasant. I was curled up on the sofa next to him, his arm around my shoulder, my head on his chest listening to his heart, the slow, slow beat of a serious cyclist. It was about two thirty, and I roused myself to get some clean (and dry) knickers. When I came back he was spreading some blankets on the sofa. I took his hand, shaking my head, and led him back to the spare room.

Dropping my gown, I stood bare-breasted before him and pulled him to me for a kiss, the hairs of his chest tickling my nipples. We lay down and he spooned into me under the duvet, one hand cupping my left breast.

“I don’t want, I can’t face any more bad dreams, cariad. Just remember the rules…..”

“No snoring nor farting?”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 16

Now, I’ve read the fiction, and I know how it goes. After a three-asterisk ellipsis, I wake up sore in odd places, I spot his mammoth embonpoint, and wake him in a frenzy of lust and….

Ain’t gonna happen here, folks, and it certainly didn’t happen then.

I woke up disoriented in the wrong room, and found this lumpen thing sprawled on his chest, legs starfished out so that I was almost off the bed. His face turned towards me, he was gently drooling open-mouthed into MY pillow. As I watched him sleep he let out a small but distinct fart. So much for promises.

I slipped out and did my teeth again, wincing at the ache in the sides of my jaw and the wound in my tongue. I made a pint mug of tea with a bag and took my music chair to the bedroom. Wrapped in Mr. Fluffy I just sat and watched him sleep. I really could not remember being happier, no, not even that time with the number 9 I flattened. The night horrors were almost forgotten as I just sat and watched and smiled. The only real drawback was the smell of second hand curry he had distributed under the duvet. I had to open the window, but at least he didn’t snore.

A sudden rush of tears came to my eyes as I realised how easily I could get used to this. For the first time in my life, someone else wanted me, the real me. He had seen me in as bad a state as I could imagine, and not only stayed but did the laundry….I better empty the machine before it got all musty.

I was bent down before the machine when I felt a caress on my bum, and when I looked up the cheeky sod was drinking my tea.

“How are you feeling now, love?”

Well, I’d called him ‘cariad’ so honours were even.

“I think I know why your jaw hurts. Did you know you grind your teeth when you are asleep?”

Bruxism. I’d heard of it, largely in association with things like post-traumatic stress disorder. That certainly fitted, and explained the sore maxillaries.

“When do you have to be in work again?” I asked, in hope and hint.

“Eight tomorrow morning”

“Would you like to go up town for the day? We could have pancakes”

“What, London? Where are you thinking of?”

“Please don’t tell me I’m a nerd….but I was hoping to see the dinosaurs…..

“Until I am fully out I still have to be careful around here, but I want, I need people to see my man. I don’t care who they are, but I want them to be jealous because you are off the market”

Did I just come out with all that? Seems so. And he’s not run away yet.

Why do people take the Express, when for a much lower price they can get an all-day Travelcard? We had considered taking the bikes, but the restrictions at peak times made it far easier to go by train and tube. We got on at Horley and rode up to Victoria on a reasonably quick train. Geoff was in a rather spiffy polo-shirt and chinos rig, while I had gone for Jan’s leggings under a mid-thigh sundress I had bought in a rash moment and never had the nerve to wear. A small rucksack each carried my A-Z map book and a few odds and sods like a camera. We had a loose plan: up past Buck House to the Wellington Arch and a stroll through Hyde Park to the Albert Memorial and then down to the Natural History Museum. Tube across to Covent Garden for the buskers and a coffee, then up to Holborn for My Old Dutch the pancake house.

I was also looking to do some shopping, but had failed to mention that to Geoff. Years of only being Steph at home, or on furtive rides, had allowed me to cope with a limited wardrobe, but once I was out I would need far, far more. I resolved to speak to Jan; Kelly’s little game with make up seemed to have been taken OK, but I was never going to let myself be advised on that by a fourteen year old tentspace thief. Jan herself seemed to wear very little, but what she did with it was effective. Kelly was all panda eyes and pale face.

The sun was warm as we strolled through the park, and Geoff insisted on buying me an ice cream. When I say “me”, half of it seemed to go into his mouth as he snaffled bits when I was distracted.

“Look, a woodpecker…” lick

“Look, a cycle rickshaw” lick

“Look, Elvis riding a yeti” attempted lick. Instead, he caught the cone with his nose and a blob of the vanilla stuck to the tip. It was my turn to lick it off, and he turned a funny shade of pink. He groaned

“Steph, you have no idea what you do to me when you do stuff like that”

“Oh, from experience I make you hog the bed and fart…” he smacked my bum. Only gently, but what gave him the idea he has the right to do that? He can do it any time he likes as far as I am concerned, of course, but I am certainly not going to tell him so.

My happiness meter touched a new high.

Is it normal to find such pleasure in the company of another person? Remember, I am a novice at all this, and my “education” from certain TG sites seemed to involve a lot of messiness, whereas this was so, so simple. I did not want this man to move from my side. I knew that was impossible, but….I wanted a homing pigeon, to fly free but always, always to come home.

“Not waterproof” Keep thinking that.

The dinosaurs were as they always are, laid out on two levels with lots of things to play with for small hands, or big hands with memories. The queue to the animated scene was as horrendous as ever, though, and as we snaked past the pack of hissing raptors and their moaning prey I remembered reading of a proposal to add motion sensors to the robotic puppets so that they would react to anyone leaning over the rail. The idea was dropped; I wonder if that was in reaction to the thought of the poor cleaners having to clean up pools of six-year-olds’ wee…..

We finished out little return to childhood and I dragged Geoff off to Kensington High Street, where I knew there were several “outdoors activity” shops.

Put your mind away, I am talking about hiking, camping and so on. Specifically, I was after a rucksack, but some tops, fleece and so on were on my list. Since starting to wear Jan’s choice in bra, I was a little more forward than previously, and found the chest strap on my 40 litre day pack rather uncomfortable. My massive 80/90 litre sack has a sliding one, so I could adjust it for comfort, but it was not something I could ever wear on the bike for commuting.

There, once again, I was making assumptions about the future. That I would be commuting as myself soon and not as a strapped-up man. Geoff caught me smiling, and showed me a pair of Scarpaâ„¢ rock climbing shoes in a rather nice grey-green.

“Have you ever had go at climbing?”

I got such a fit of the guffaws he looked worried.

“What did I say?”

“Geoff, I lead E2 on grit, or I used to when I still had a motor and could lug all the gear as well as the camping kit. I stopped after I started to see Sally, as it was something that could be fatal with very little thought on my part, and, well, you know what my state of mind has been….” I trailed off and he hugged me.

“I only ever managed Hard Severe, you sod”

“Who’s outdoing whom, here? Who is it that can ride my legs off and is going for the PBP?

“We have to talk about that. I am serious. There are some things I really need to sort out before next year. Let’s pay for this lot–no, I don’t need the shoes, I’ll show you when we get back. And I want coffee.”

Covent Garden is a lovely spot, a cobbled piazza with the old market buildings as a centrepiece and all sorts of odd shops and outdoor seating for food. I always look for the twisty bridge to the Royal Opera House, as it is so odd it makes my eyes hurt. We took our place in the early September sun with our coffees and Geoff said “PBP?”

“Yes. And other things, important things I have to discuss, so just sit and listen, please. If I don’t get this out in one go, I will clam up, and things have to be said. So…..

“Last night was very, very important to me. You saw me at my very worst, and you coped. Not only did you cope, but you stayed. Not only did you stay, but you smiled at me in the morning. I can forgive the farting”

“I didn’t…”

“Shush. The essence of what I have to say is that I have realised that you are someone I want to keep around, whatever happens. Even if you find a real woman and fall for her, I will understand. “

He went to interrupt me again, and I put my fingers to his lips, and he took my hand.

“These are very early days, but you have done so much for me I could never, ever repay you other than to be whatever you need of me. I can see a future now, and I can see it as part of a couple. At this moment, I see it as being with you. I have never, ever imagined I could say that to someone before. It really came home to me when you tried to talk me into going climbing. That lifted another cloud, that I can look at doing things like that without all the self-destructiveness associated with them. I know this is not eloquent, but real folk don’t talk like film scripts. So listen…

“I want to do PBP with you, as support that is. Which is the problem. I have a passport, but there is no way I will be able to make changes before the event. So I will either have to travel as Steve, or see if I can pull in any favours at the port. Do you see what I am saying?”

“Could you cope with me in drag?”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 17

“Of course I can. Could you cope with me in fancy dress?

"That’s all it is. You remain you, whatever you wear. I’m actually looking forward to seeing you in your rugby kit, you know…I like short-shorts….”

We headed off past the street performers for our pancakes. That may sound a little premature, so soon after coffee, but I intended a few diversions en route. Jan’s leggings had solved a few problems for me, and were turning into a preferred clothing item. They were one symptom of my swiftly-changing outlook.

To me, being myself at home was a matter of being clearly female, reinforcing my body sense of who and what I was. That meant dresses and skirts, things that shouted “woman” rather than “Hmmm. Not sure” Even with my ongoing physical changes, it was not until the Festival that I was presented with the fact that I did indeed not just pass, but easily. I put that down to a human tendency to see what they expect, and as I was seen as “the skinny ginger bit with the fiddle”, that is what they saw.

So, today’s shopping would be for practical stuff, shoes in particular. I just hoped the shops all had Husband Chairs. I am sorry if I am boring you, dear readers, but there will be no litany of colours and materials, no dropping of labels and makes. I just bought a pile of stuff that I realised I needed for daily wear.

Then we had pancakes.

The pancake house serves a very odd dish, which is essentially a pizza-style confection using a pancake as a base. We both went for the Red Hot Dutch (yes, thank you, stop sniggering at the back) and an early pint of Heineken. I don’t normally touch lager, but it does have its place, even if that is usually poured down the sink. Replete, we caught the tube back to Victoria and the Brighton train. I grabbed a cab back to the house, and while he sorted kettle and pot I started to make up my bed, so quickly stripped last night.

“Are you riding home tonight?”

“I have a confession to make…….I have my working clothes in the saddle bag. I sort of hoped to make as much of our time off as I could. Would you mind if I stayed tonight?”

“I’d mind if you didn’t”

I could not hold back another full-body blush. I mumbled something very, very quietly as my face burned and my heart rate ramped up so high I felt dizzy.

“Sorry?” said Geoff

I looked up at the ceiling and clenched my fists at my sides. Deep breaths.

“This question has never come up for me before, for obvious reasons.”

Breathe again.

“Which side do you sleep?”

I don’t have a television. There is almost nothing broadcast I would want to watch and I have other and better things to do than sit and vegetate, things that I would use to fill my mind other than with despair. I have a silly number of books, an even sillier number of CDs and, of course, my instruments.

I mean, of course, “our instruments”. The octave mandolin was on a stand next to my normal one, Dave having dropped off all my kit. I have a mandolin, the fiddle, a small bodhran of my own with THE perfect beater, and a harmonica I could never get to work for me. I can play stringy things and bangy things, but all those squeezy and blowy things just confuse me. My singing is atrocious, too. Yes, I know, a West Walian without a voice, tell Llais y Sais* to hold the front page!

I put on a Kathryn Tickell disc and lost myself in her playing for a little while as Geoff sorted his stuff for the morning. Once he was done, I led him to the box room and revealed my rather large store of climbing kit. I had another Little Moment as a thought crossed my mind. If he stays around, we will have the time to do so much together. I knew that I had just crossed a Rubicon of my own, and I now knew in my heart that the full surgery was my goal. I started to tear up, and of course he noticed, and of course we ended up in a kiss, and this time I made it so hard we finished by banging into the wall. I let him breathe for a second, and he asked me what I was thinking as he idly teased my left nipple.

Hang on, how exactly did we get to that point? I rewound the last few minutes, of kissing him, and pushing him against the wall, my elbows either side of his head while I shoved my thigh between his legs…

Oh. That’s how.

It was very, very nice, and not just because the sensations were pleasurable, and oh yes they were, but because it was just so normal. I knew that if I explained exactly what thoughts I was having, it would surely kill the moment and the mood. I had felt his erection, and that left me more than a little nervous. I mean, I knew there were things we could do, but THAT was out of the question.

A lifetime of celibacy and suddenly I am wanting and needing, and not knowing quite what it is I want and need. It was nine o’clock, we would soon be off to bed, the same bed, and I had no idea of what I should do. Should I do something to help get rid of it? Would he expect that again at other times if I did? I touched him, just there, and he groaned again.

“What should I do, love?”

“I can use the bathroom for five minutes…”

I knew what he meant, of course, and some twisted part of my mind felt flattered at the thought of this man masturbating because of me. Another, even sicker part wanted to watch…..but most of me simply wished we could go the whole of the way together.

“No. Not ever”

I unfastened his trousers and slipped my hand in as confirmation, and the rest is private.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 18

The alarm went off at his side of the bed, but it was me that had to turn the bloody thing off properly; he just hit the snooze button.

I pulled on a sleepshirt and then Mr Fluffy and my slippers and wandered down yawning to the kitchen, hair all over the place. I put the kettle on and then attended to my morning pressures while it heated. Geoff had about fifteen miles to ride to work, so I put a couple of bananananas to one side and dragged out the toaster.

Some day Mr T Pratchett will get his reward for that ear worm, his character who “knew how to start spelling banana but not how to stop”

I took a mug of tea up, but he was already doing his teeth and in the lycra for the run to work. I was going in myself later, to my own workplace, that is, as Nigel had arranged an appointment with the Human Resources Surveyor and the Assistant Director. I didn’t know what strings he had pulled to get her there, but if this was going to work in a way that suited my own needs and hopes, she was the one.

I sent one very nice man off to work with a kiss, standing at the front door in a dressing gown like some sitcom housewife. Life was good. A bowl of cereal, kettle on again, check the mail…there was a knock at the door, and without thinking I answered it.

My next-door neighbour Mrs Woods was standing there. Her eyes widened for an instant, then she smiled.

“You’ve done it, then”

I didn’t remember her being in the bedroom last night….

“Shall I come in, dear?”

I led her into the kitchen in a state of some apprehension. This was such a small village.

“What do we call you then, dear?”

“Stephanie…Steph…”

“We were wondering when you would finally come out from under that disguise. If you are going to hang out your laundry indoors, can I suggest you don’t do it in the conservatory? Same for playing your violin in that Laura Ashley frock. And did you really think nobody has seen you out on the bicycle?”

I did the only thing possible, and offered her a cuppa.

“Thank you dear, now…..is this going to be a long story, and are there any juicy bits? He looks a yummy young man, your chap!”

I gave Mrs Woods–Naomi---an abridged version of things, and she sat through it with no more than a few short questions until I had finished. Then she said, simply and sadly

“Bron would have been so proud of you. If only she had been able to see…”

She dabbed away some tears and then hugged me. The thought of what my mother would have felt shook me. I had assumed that she would have been appalled by my problem, and here was one of her best friends telling me different.

“Now, I need cheering up, and am sure you have lots of pictures to show me from your musical event. I think we need chocolate biccies for this as a special treat, and as you are a girl you will know already of the magical powers of the Brown Stuff! I have some rather nice ones at home, so you get dressed and I will be back in an hour with them. Albert is going to be so pleased!”

Off she went, the quintessential Home Counties retired lady who seemed to take a transsexual appearing next door in her tweed-skirted stride. I showered, under a cap, and dressed in my borrowed skirt and blouse. I would have to see about returning stuff to Jan some day; warm thoughts, could they spare time to come here?

Before Naomi’s return I quickly downloaded the memory cards from camera to computer, selecting “load new” from the menu and returning to the kitchen. By the time she came into the living room I had a tray of tea prepared, cups rather than mugs in deference to my visitor. The biscuits were indeed rather nice ones, and I was able to indulge my taste for white chocolate. I set up the PC for the photos, and talked our way through the scenes. After a while I realised that there were rather more pictures there than I had taken, and that one or more of the others had been borrowing my camera.

The first one was of me gyrating to the Oysters, and then there were several of me playing at the sessions, sweaty and intense, as well as some of me and Geoff being affectionate. I was, of course, blushing, and Naomi was smirking.

“You do know, of course, how proud Bron was of your playing? She often said it was the only time you ever seemed to be other than unhappy. That was her phrase, you know. Never ‘happy’, always that negative slant. That is no longer the case, I see. Stephanie, you should have spoken to your mother, told her what the problem was. One way or another things could have been dealt with.

“You know, apart from the obvious things, you do so remind me of her. Your colouring is exactly the same, but she had rather fewer scars on her legs. And speaking of that, what will you do about the rugby? Not exactly for young ladies now, is it?”

“One last game, Naomi, and my duties and dues are all up to date”

“I see. Well, I must go, but do remember that the village will know at some point. Better to do it on your terms, d’ya hear?”

I saw her out and got changed into my stuff for the meeting with the AD. I was going to use the same tactic I had done with the team as it seemed to be a winning formula. After a short ride on the Spesh road bike I was at work and it was locked away. I pushed my shades onto the top of my head and clopped along to the AD’s office. Her receptionist waved me straight in. Nigel and Mr Kumar were already there, a pot of coffee and a tray of yet more biscuits on a low table. Not as nice as Naomi’s, though.

I was buoyant. So far, everyone who I had told had supported me, without exception. I didn’t know if this was because I was well-liked, or if it was simply a reflection of the Woodruff Conjecture, that people are nice. I felt unworried about this meeting, and after the introductory remarks, and as Nigel covered up by taking a sip of coffee, I took off my jacket. Mr Kumar reacted first, then Vanessa (call me ‘Vanessa’ ) Urquhart the AD

“Bloody fucking god in heaven!”

“Ah.”

Just that? She caught me looking.

“Ms Jones, for I assume that is what this is leading up to, I do not see the need for profanity, nor the need to pass comment without possessing adequate information, but what the sodding hell did you expect Dilip to say?”

We got the basics out of the way, and then settled back to thrash out our tactics. Nigel had come prepared with all the books of instruction regarding diversity at work, the current term for “not hating your colleague because of unimportant things”, but Vanessa waved them away.

“I want to concentrate on practicalities, Nigel. Regardless of my personal viewpoint, and I must say I am not a great lover of the idea that men can or should become women–there, that’s said, we can move on–there are very basic things to sort out here. Locker room, lavatories, and timing.”

“I’ve earmarked one of the small training rooms for Steph to use as a locker and changing room. It has a lock, and paper over the window. She will use the single cubicle toilet in Custody, and I believe we have no firm start date for her transition yet”

“Er, Nigel, I have a suggestion for that last one. I want Geoff at the game, and I would like to take him to the post-match dinner. And if I do that it will not be in drag.”

The meeting wound down, and Vanessa asked me if we could have a personal chat. Nigel looked sharply at me, but I waved him away and Vanessa shut the door as the other two left.

“This s my personal opinion, and not official, and it will in no way influence my treatment of you. Rules are rules. But you are not and never will be a woman. We are born, we suffer daily because we are not men, we have to work twice as hard to go the same distance. You have not been one all your life so you will never truly be one now even if you mutilate yourself surgically”

“No? Well, I was born and suffered daily and was beaten on a daily basis because of what I am. I have lived my entire life thus far in a cell. I know who and what I am, I am going to make that a reality now and with all due respect, I don’t actually give a fuck for your personal opinion”

“Fair point, fairly made”

Suddenly she grinned.

“I always did like you, Steph. Welcome to the world of mindless bigotry”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 19

I left the office floating, after first zipping up so as not to frighten the receptionist/PA/secretary/officially known as a “Messenger”

Elaine was a sweet old woman, but she did rather inhabit the “Middle England” dreamworld of certain quite strident newspapers, and an attack of the vapours on her part would have Vanessa demanding my head.

And that was that. I had opened the box at last and unless I had a radical change of heart there was no way back. I sniggered to myself… change of heart? All pigs fuelled and ready for take off. I had two weeks before the match, and that gave me a little time to settle into my new life before the big outing. I knew what I was going to do, and it was so simple I wondered why it had not occurred to me earlier.

Steve would play, then Geoff would escort Stephanie to the post-match dinner. I was surprising myself with my confidence. After all the support I had found thus far, I was actively enjoying the shock I created with just a bit of cleavage. The look on Dilip Kumar’s face….I started to chortle, and once I had brought myself back to Earth I gave Geoff a ring to let him know the score. He was due round that evening, oddly, and without telling him, I had cleared some wardrobe space for his use. I had realised that waking up next to him was something I wanted to get used to, even if he did fart, but if we went easy on the jalfrezis and dhansaks it might help.

I had a number of specific things to get in hand, including four training sessions, the return to work as Steve for now, and a gown for the dinner. I had decided that Geoff was going to get me at the best I could manage, and I planned to see if Naomi and Jan were up for it.

Ye gods, this is starting to read like one of the poorer bits of fiction I read on the net. “TS goes shopping for sixteen hours”

Unfortunately, there was an element of that to be faced. I knew the sort of gown I wanted, in general terms, but that would mean matching shoes, and ones with heels. I believe I have explained already that while I am a woman I do lack certain urges, the main one being the need to play with flouncy things. I love elegance, I adore floaty skirts, but I could never be a gurly gurl. So I would not only need to find the shoes, but learn to walk in them. Speak to Naomi…..

I started to snigger again, as an image came to me: strapless gown, impeccable make up, and a black eye. That would be just my luck. I rode back deep in thought, only to be jerked awake as the car passenger shouted

“Get on the fucking cycle path, bitch!”

I am sure you will understand that even that bit of typical British venom pleased me. I was going to have to be very, very careful at work.

I called round on Naomi to pick her brains about shopping. Specifically, where I could find a larger pair of shoes, and she reached for her cardigan.

“Chop chop now, and get changed. I’m taking you to a place I know and I will not be accompanied by some odd avatar of Superman…girl…you know what I mean. Chop chop, now!”

She dug out her car keys, and to general reader’s astonishment it was neither a Bentley nor a Tudor, as my father used to call Morris Travellers, because they were half-timbered….but a modern Toyota estate car. More comfortable than a van, and room for bikes…what were her plans for PBP?

No, silly clothing first. We set off to Crawley and its shops. Not exactly the big city, but they had a branch of a shop with the same name as a chain of bike shops that specialised in the larger lad y(no, not a bike shop that specialised...oh, you know what I mean…), as well as a Long Tall Wotsits that did a similar job. Now, I am no landbound sperm whale (stop it) but I have size 8 feet, pretty average for a chap but not the commonest available size for a woman. Catch-22, of course; how do I get used to walking in the damned things without having some in the right size to start with?

As I wondered whether we could actually fit in a visit to the aforementioned Bike shop, I was given a Look.

“Young lady, don’t even think about bicycle retailers. We have a job to be done!”

Naomi led me to Debenham’s for starters, a chain of large department stores for those unfamiliar with the United Kingdom. No, I don’t mean they only sell things to foreign tourists–oh, you still know what I mean.

Did I mention I was happy?

Confused, apprehensive, mental wheels spinning rapidly, terrified of being spotted for what I was and of dropping myself in it with some stupid mistake, but happy.

And with all those thoughts, there was the dress. It was like the Green Dress all over again, I just knew it was right. A ball gown, strapless, with a sort of doubled-over top over a boned bodice (there, I DID know one word!) it was in lilac with a sort of lavender….

OK, to my eye it was in a mix of pale bluish purply shades. Give me a break. The outer skirt covered a several of net layers that made it stand out in an A-line and it was just gorgeous. Naomi took charge, making sure there was one in my size and length, but after a quick shudder at the prices of the shoes on sale we left it reserved and sought the footwear.

“You are not someone I see as a natural for heels, so I have a small suggestion. We buy a cheap pair if we can, you use them to practise in and for the dinner, and then if you never wear such things again, nothing has been wasted”

We ended up at Shoe Land. With the efficiency of a cheetah splitting off a young antelope from the herd, she led me past a succession of truly monstrous items involving platforms, appliqué flowers and retina-piercing colours. There they were, plain court shoes in basic shades with heels I thought I might manage. Prey sighted, chased, cornered and consumed. But was that the shoes or me? We managed to get a discount on the dress on the basis of Naomi’s store card; it fitted rather well, but she insisted there were other things we —I–needed.

“What hosiery d’ya wear, girl? And you will need a bandeau.”

So, I was brought further into the world of tights (pantyhose) and other legwear, and was fitted for a strapless bra that Naomi called a bandeau. I tried it on with the dress and found my frontal aspect rather pronounced….no room for doubts there!

Naomi then insisted on her reward before we began what she called “my regime”, and we ended up in the Viennese coffee shop. For coffees, of course.

And chocolate.

Geoff was round shortly before seven that evening, and I showed him the gown, and of course…..by the time I had put it all away again, the Thai green curry I had in the oven was ready. Yes, I know, but I love curry, and I am sure that I fart too, so that’s just tough. The next morning was to be my first day back at work, and it would be as Steve. I wanted Geoff to help me get ready for that, on the logic that if he saw my preparations, and thus knew the underpinning over the Steph beneath, he would be less likely to freak.

That was a genuine concern. He had never seen me other than as myself, and I wanted him to be involved hands on so as to show him exactly how much was illusion. Of course, I just wanted him hands-on anyway, but that’s another matter.

No, you are not getting any bedroom anecdotes, so tough luck. Let me just say that we slept well until the alarm at 0545 hours (welcome to my world, Geoffrey Woodruff) and after a quick breakfast we began preparations. No changing in a toilet cubicle today, I now had my own little space thanks to Nigel. I allowed Geoff to apply the sticking plaster I used over my nipples, and then he wrapped me up with the elastic strapping. It took a couple of goes before he got the tension right, and I was grateful that I had no hills to climb on my commute. I left before him, and as I did so, I said

“You know my work can mean odd times coming home, staying on late and so on? Well, these will be useful for times like that. These are yours”

I kissed him, and sprinted off to work before he could react to the spare set of house keys I had given him.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 20

Off with the lycra, on with black cargo pants, heavy boots, white shirt with the badges and the clip-on tie.

Tool of the establishment, indeed, but they had just promised to protect me. On with the motley, then. I grabbed my batbelt, loaded with knife, multitool with two blades, handcuffs, spike and torch, and passed through the security search where they looked for things such as knives, multitools with..etc.

I was actually feeling frightened as well as disoriented. Coming back to Steve after all that had happened felt not just wrong, but disturbingly so. Whereas Steph is a person of natural movement, such as her rather graceless but enthusiastic dancing, Steve had been beaten and bullied over his childhood into a directness, an abrupt way of reaching, gesturing; a stiffness of posture, legs wide apart.

Is this at all normal, referring to oneself in the third person not once but twice? The split screen was back, but ye gods was it getting convoluted. Pause, breathe, into the back office and the team.

And a round of applause, hugs, kisses, thank god no strangers were present. They even had a birthday card for me, with the usual silly comments, and I understood the sentiment because someone less than subtle had altered it to read “Re-Birthday”

Remember, Steves don’t cry.

The day proceeded, nothing special, no drama, just me and the team and the punters, with a short visit by Nigel and Dilip to check how it was going. Dilip was curious.

“How the buggery bollocks do you hide your puppies, woman?”

“Rather a lot of elastic bandage, Dil. Want to see?”

He started to stammer. Oh dear, I’m a cockteaser! I giggled, and Sue snapped out a warning

“Careful, Steph, don’t spoil it now”

“Sorry, Sue, but he was gagging for it.”

“And you aren’t? All over that Geoff bloke you were…..oh deary me, it’s a stop sign! How far down does that blush go?”

She turned serious.

“You have a lot to learn, little sister, and you need to do it quickly and safely. Dave and the boys will beat the crap out of anyone that tries anything-“

“I can fight my own fights, thank you”

“Don’t we bloody know it. I’m not talking about that. There are threats other than the physical. Just promise me you will come to me if you need me. “

She paused.

“You know, I always thought you might be gay…”

“Well, I am not!”

“Oh, I know that now! Tell me….

“How big’s his cock?”

I did mention that the women in the job have a bit of a hard edge, didn’t I?

The days settled back into a routine. I worked my shifts, nothing seemed to be noticed by other staff, the training sessions went as they always did, though I did suspect that some of the tackle drills were a little lighter on me than they would normally have been, and apart from when I was on a set of night shifts Geoff seemed to have permanently extended his commute. I was being drilled mercilessly by Naomi and Albert, and I was told off quite sharply when I ventured that walking with a book on one’s head was from fiction rather than Roedean.

She was right, though. I did get the hang of the heels, but their sound on a hard floor was just like that of my cycling shoes. How odd….I imagined a group of shoe fetishists being disappointed when the clicking heels they heard approaching turned out to be a cyclist in SPDs.

They made the dress work, though. That was the thing. When Steph came out to the wider world, I wanted there to be no doubts at all. Full throttle ginger bit.

The weekend before the final, I was on earlies, and we–

Little Moment. Sorry. We, Geoff and I, invited the threesome down for a couple of days. Bill, being self-employed, arranged a free Monday, and term didn’t start for either Kelly or Jan until the Tuesday, so we had A Plan. Early turn Sunday would be followed by a trip out to Geoff’s local folk club for a badly-needed fix of string-related exercise.

You know, I can’t remember who we paid to see. I DO remember an elderly woman with the most amazing voice who sang “Bugeilio’r Gwenith Gwyn” in Welsh with us. I did have four pints of Red River, though. And being out as me, as us, distracted the hell out of me.

Jan and I went through the wardrobe for the dinner, as well as giving me the rather odd experience of being used as a make up palette. The match was to be in Coventry, and was being held at a local rugby club. When I say “post-match dinner”, do not get the idea of some gala presentation, nor of the more usual post-match affair of beer and pie floaters.

No, we would have a set meal, with the two finalist teams at a central table, the presentation of such things as the trophy, individual medals and “Man of the Match” award, to be chosen by the three match officials. Extra tables were set around, and guest tickets sold to raise funds for the Sports and Social Club. The programme was: beer, speeches and presentations, meal with beer, beer and then general socialising with a disco in the back room for those who had had enough beer.
Jan and Bill had booked rooms at a nearby motel for us all, and Jan had laughingly confirmed that she had assumed Geoff and I were already sharing and booked accordingly. Kell would, to her disgust, have to share with “the olds”

She had arrived with a squeal of “Aunty Steffy” until I threatened a spanking, and we were once more like two teenagers as we caught up. Certain bedroom events, and my nightmare, were obviously off limits, but the rest was delightful.

Geoff had surprised me by not only preparing a full roast dinner, but inviting Naomi and Albert around for it. Talk about getting his feet under the table! Albert astonished me, just like his wife, in taking everything with complete aplomb. No wonder my mother had been so fond of the duo, a thought that teared me up a little, or maybe that was the wine, a rather meaty Rioja.

Roast lamb. Roast tatws. Cauli. Carrots. Peas. Mint sauce………mmmmmmmmm. A sticky toffee pudding to finish, provided by the neighbours, with real custard. Cheeses including a particularly mature goat’s thing from France that walked onto the crackers by itself. I could get used to this.

And so it went, day by day, and when Geoff was near, kiss by kiss. I had 34 years of wasted time to make up for, and only a few days before I was out of gaol. It was all spoilt a little on the Tuesday.

Junior had a nasty little (well, quite big, really) cigarette smuggler and his gunter* of a wife, and when he said the words he was simply punched in the side of the head, with the muttered words “fucking seize that you black bastard”

Dave was over the other side of the channels, I was nearer, and took his legs away with a shin strike to the calves followed by a straight-arm take down as he stumbled. Dave was there immediately, quickly followed by others. To a litany of abuse from him and his obese wife I cuffed him, formally arrested him, cautioned him and then-

STUPID! STUPID!

On autopilot I did the PCEA 84**strip search post arrest, up to the point where I was about to tell him to get them off, and Dave….

Breathe.

Dave got me out of the room, ostensibly to write up my notebook, and got Long John in to be witness to the search.

Steve Jones, just fuck off and die will you.

Sue found me, crying ,in the Ladies’, of course.

“Steph, you OK?”

“Course not. Just got within a second of what might have been deemed an indecent assault on a prisoner”

“But that’s the thing. Within a second is not a problem. Dave sorted it, you just need to be ready for Custody when we get the tosser down there. Any injuries? I’ve called the Port Health quack over for Junior, he got a right wallop.

“Look, racially aggravated assault as well as good old-fashioned section 16, he’s buggered. Just get your face sorted and then Custody, and the CPS*** can sort all the charging crap out.”

She hugged me.

“You’ve found gossip central, then, Steph!”

Down to Custody, interviewed (such as it was: no nigger tells me what to do etc; can you speak up for the tape, please?) and down to the nick for charging.

I spent an awful lot of that night crying over Geoff. He spent what seemed like all of it holding me. When I quietened down, he got some rather fragrant oils he had sneaked in and I was given the back rub from…

Where would a good back rub come from? Wherever it was, it’s welcome back (sorry) any time.

Yup. Love that man. Really do.

*Gunter. Not a nice word at all.
**PCEA 84: Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984,also known as “PACE”
***CPS. Crown Prosecution Service. Now deals with criminal prosecutions for Customs as well as police. Known to them as the “Criminal Protection Service”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 21

Warning: this episode may contain traces of rugby

A small digression for those who are unfamiliar with the great game. Not “The Great Game”, that was something about international power politics around Victorian Injah, but the great game of Rugby, and Union, naturally.

A rugby team is divided into two bits. There are eight forwards (1-8), and seven backs (9-15). The forwards, known as the pack, contest scrums and other set pieces, and they link with the backs via the scrum half (9) and the fly half (10). So those of you from climes less blessá¨d than Wales can think of the fly half as a sort of quarterback, the main playmaker.

The front row of the scrum consists, left to right, of loosehead prop, hooker (I have already told you lot at the back), and tighthead prop, There are then two locks, generally the biggest men on the field, and a number 8. Imaginatively known as a “Number 8”. Hanging off each lock, with a shoulder under the buttocks of a prop, is a flanker. The soft parts of each prop are protected by the fact that they have a lock’s arm coming between their legs and holding onto the front waistband of their shorts. The locks’ heads are between the hips (polite word) of the front row; the Number 8 is in a similar position with the locks.

Two sets of forwards interlock the front rows’ heads and then everyone pushes. Two sets of eight very big men, averaging over 200 pounds apiece, all that pressure taken by the shoulders, backs and necks of the props…..

You should now have some idea of exactly how big a man Dave really is.

Classically, the scrum half feeds the ball in past his loosehead for the hooker to heel back into the scrum, emerging at the feet of the No 8, where the scrum half collects it and feeds it to the fly. As soon as the ball is out, people can leave the scrum. The blindside flanker is there to stop anyone coming down, well, the blind (narrow) side. Both flankers have a role winning ball under great heaps of struggling men, but the open side flanker has a special role of his very own.

He is there to terrify the opposition half backs, and if possible tackle them out of the game. Hence my nicknames, Psycho, and The Smiling Assassin. I was very, very fast, and if the number 9 was at all slow I would flatten him, and they knew it. Cue lots of dive-passes away from the base of the scrum, and fly halves presented with a rather fast-moving and difficult ball swiftly followed by me. The dream situation for any flanker, catching the fly half in possession.

It was an evenly-matched game, 13 all, and I had to prod Dave a couple of times to remind him that he was captain in a team game, and not involved in a personal duel with his opposite tighthead.

I was watching for little cracks in their defence, and I noticed that each time the full back had to catch a long kick, his wingers weren’t dropping back in support. I pointed this out to Dave and Darren, and we started to fire off some Garryowens.

The Garryowen, named after the rugby club in Ireland, is a tactic aimed at full backs in particular. The ball is kicked as high as it can be, the idea being that when the ball arrives like a bomb for the fullback so too do a number of opposition players. And so it transpired. As he yelled “Mark!!” for the first ball, I hit him just above hip level and smashed man and ball to the ground. I made a point of smiling at him as I got up and trotted back for the drop-out. He kicked a long one down the touchline but Long John got to it before it went dead and hoofed it back up, to be passed by the Brighton Express, Ed Loveridge, and he pressurised the fullback so much that he made a really poor kick infield. Darren gathered it, I dropped onside behind him, and up it went.

This was how I had earned my nickname. “Mark!”---wallop. He wasn’t up as quick this time, but his drop out was better, taken by one of their centres. Ade, our blindside, caught him in midfield and beautifully turned the player’s back to his own side and I ripped the ball off and span it out to Little John. He hit it up so high I expected ice, ran past me to put me on side, and this time the full back didn’t get up for nearly a minute. When he did, I smiled at him.

His kick this time was so bad it went straight up and the poor sod had to catch it himself. Needless to say, we met again and the ball bounced forwards towards us as I hit him. Ed picked it up one handed and ran round behind the posts. A simple kick, seven points and the end of the scoring.

The game was on for eighty minutes, plus copious injury time, but that was it in a rather large nutshell. We were clapped off the pitch by the losing Central Region team, then returned the favour, and I sneaked away to where the Woodruffs had secreted their car. Geoff looked dazed.

“Remind me never, ever to upset you, love”

What utter bliss it was to get out of the body protector and then---oh joy–the strapping. Fly free, little breasts! I stood and soaked in the shower until I felt a presence. I really, really didn’t want this…I had no knickers on, being in the shower, and it was not something that felt comfortable to me around Geoff. He could obviously feel my tension as he soaped my back, and stepped out for a second to throw my cycle shorts in. I hauled them on, and whilst they made no real difference, I at least felt that I could face him.

It’s very nice having a man wash your back. It’s even nicer when they do your front as well. Would you all mind going away for a little bit?

Geoff joined Bill to get all suited and booted while Kell and Jan fussed around me. I have no idea what it was they were doing to me, but I ended up with my hair sort of piled up on top of my head, with tendrils of it coming down around my face. Jan had had a number of disagreements with Kelly, who seemed to want to use what can only be termed a “broad and very, very full brush” approach to the make up, and I was rather relieved when Jan won the day. It would have been nice if they had actually spoken TO me rather than OVER ME, but never mind. Eventually, I was done; powdered, perfumed, painted, and they revealed me to myself in a wardrobe mirror, and, well, oh.

Ooh. Ah. Oh god, just keep thinking “not waterproof”

The effect was slightly spoilt by the stud mark on my left cheek, though. The girls were not going to my extremes of gown and general primping, and when the taxi arrived we were all, rather amazingly, on time.

My cunning plan was to stay out of sight until the awards were given and we were called for our winners’ medals, so while Jan and Bill secured their table, Kelly and Geoff waited with me at the bar by the disco. And the speeches started….and continued…and carried on for some more. It was the Director Central, and he did seem to love his own voice. Eventually, though, he wound down and Dave stepped up, in blazer, tie and black eye, to be presented with the Inter Region Shield.

The Director drew breath again.

“Now, before we present the finalists with their medals we have the Match Officials’ choice of Man of the Match. This is what they had to say on the matter:

“We had a number of players in mind for this award. We were particularly impressed by the competition between the visitors’ loosehead and the home tighthead. They had a magnificent personal contest, but neither allowed their personal duel to overshadow their responsibilities to the team as a whole.

“The kicking from hand by both sets of half backs was exemplary, but it was the result of that kicking that allowed the visitors’ openside flanker to demonstrate his extremely destructive tackling ability. Elsewhere, his ground work at the tackle was excellent, but it is a not often that we have seen any player taken out of a game as comprehensively yet fully in compliance with the laws of the game”

The Director put down his piece of paper and picked up a small cup.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for the Man of the Match, South’s Number 7, Miss Stephanie Jones”

WHAT THE HELL?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I walked into the hall in a daze, Geoff on my arm, Kelly slipping off to her parents. All I could hear was the click of my heels ,and then there were a few mutters of “Fuck me!” one of which came from the opposition full back. I stopped, and looked at him and gave him The Smile.

“I rather think I did…..”

There was a roar of laughter, and my team stood and applauded, quickly followed by the losers. I got up on stage, the Director shook my hand and very quietly said

“Vanessa thought she’d get her own back, and that you would understand”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 22

There are dark places here. Bring light with you.

It wasn’t all smooth sailing. Far from it.
We drank wine for once, rather than beer, because it was included with the meal. Later, there would be a more traditional session on the ale when the disco got going. I didn’t really fancy flinging it about, for a number of reasons. Firstly, I was in heels. Secondly, I was now “out” to work and that would mean more of a quiz night than an evening out. Thirdly, what exactly did you think that tackling like that does to the tackler him- or herself? I ached all over. I had been rucked out with the ball a few times, and even with the body protector it hurt.

I even had a bruise on my left tit, the one that Geoff normally fell asleep cupping. We’d have to swap sides tonight.

The team dynamics were different here. By definition, there were no women (weeeell….) and humour was robust. Both teams were soon mixed up in banter, and I did perceive a few hostile looks as my true status sank in. I began to realise that apart from the old friends of my team, I no longer truly fitted in with this crowd, and I remembered that Little Moment from what seemed like an age ago.

No more smelling Dave’s pits. Speaking of which, the disco was just starting up when the man himself marched up to me, threw me over his shoulder, and shouted “Droit de Capitaine! First dance!” Someone had clearly bribed the DJ, and as we entered he stuck on Bachman Turner Overdrive and “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet!”

Sod. Lovable great hairy lump of a sod. I gyrated as best I could and then broke off to join the Woodruffs before I fell off my heels. I wanted, in all honesty, to escape before some arsehole managed to find a certain Aerosmith track, or that one by Lou Reed. Geoff, though, had other ideas, and when the first slow one was slipped into the mix he pulled me onto the floor. With one hand resting possessively on my bum, he steered me round until snatching a soft snog as we swayed somewhat aimlessly and randomly. There was a round of applause from the team, and we were soon the centre of a throng of congratulatory hugs for us both.

That, I decided, was the end of the evening. I was picking up little hints of unpleasantness from one or two of the opposition, and decided that we should move on.

“Taxi for Woodruff!”

Back to the motel, and for my first but, if I could help it, definitely not last time, my man freed me from my ballgown.

And that, gentle reader, was how I came to be released into the wild, no longer an endangered species. There was still a lot to do, and I had the day to day of work to confront, but apart from some soft tissue Steve Jones was now just about extinct.

I had, as I have already hinted, an almost permanent house guest, but I still had a spare room or two, and I wasn’t washing any more bed linen than before. I have also stressed that what ways we found of showing affection will remain private. There were surprises, for example being pleased that a razor and shaving gel had returned to my bathroom cabinet, and boxers to the laundry basket.

We had a sort out of the wardrobes. Whatever happens, even though my backside is a bit bigger than it was and my chest is, er, a chest now, I will never be built in the same proportions that a born woman is. Bicycles, for example, decent ones of course, are built with different geometry for women than for men. Not the silly dropped top tube that everyone associates with women, which might just as well be for a Dutch fisherman, but relative back and limb length, hand size for levers, leg length for cranks.

For the same reason, I had loads of stuff that was going to stay because it still had a use, such as cycling kit, walking trousers and boots, waterproof jacket and so on. Other items such as ordinary shoes, suits, ties….if no good for Geoff or Albert, we packed them up for a kidney patient charity, chosen in memory of my mother. My uniform being effectively unisex, I had simply ordered a set of women’s shirts and a neck loop thing. Bye bye ties!

Yet another boundary was crossed when I came home and found he had bought me a present of some rather nice underwear. No (you lot at the back are getting worse), not suspender belts and string knickers, but good quality stuff that fitted and felt nice. After some gentle enquiry (OK, I twisted his arm) he admitted he had been taking advice from Jan, but the thought was there and the result was appreciated.

And that was that. My home life was becoming more than I had ever hoped for, and it was “my home life” where every one of those three words meant something special. There was the simple aspect of having someone to wake up with, to fall asleep with and to kick when tea needed brewing, or just to have breathing in the same room while we read.

Work was different, though. I had a certain notoriety among airport staff due to my rugby, and there were one or two of the baggage handlers in particular who made some nasty remarks, but the first time I heard “Well, I wouldn’t climb over her to get to you” it all began to drop off my radar.

I think I’ve made it as plain as I can: for me, once I started to present properly as female, and what an awful phrase that is for “to be myself”, people saw what they expected. The only thing I had to withdraw from with passenger traffic was any search of person.

I won’t pretend it all went smoothly with my colleagues, either. There were a few sharp remarks, especially from the other women, and when I cleared my locker out I had to have an escort into the men’s room. Shortly after that, I tried my electronic key on the door. Cancelled. Out of curiosity, I did the same at the door of the ladies’ locker room. No joy. That’s me in limbo, then. I had my own little space, though, and as with the baggage handlers, it seemed to get easier week by week as I settled into being Steph full time.

This sounds like some sort of easy ride. Far from it. There were times when I got back home after some nasty remark or other, and due to shift patterns Geoff was elsewhere, and I would have to do my crying alone, which is never nice. I had Naomi, of course, and Jan at the end of the phone, but there is only so much pain you can rightfully offload onto others. I also gathered that Geoff had been having some troubles of his own, and what surprised me was that while mine were down to what can be described as transphobia, his were exclusively homophobic. I heard from a couple of his (now “our”, sweet word) friends that there were graffiti in the company toilets, as well as some spiteful photocopied posters. I cornered him one evening while he showered, by threatening to flush the toilet unless he talked. He retaliated by threatening to detune one of my fiddle strings and not tell me which one. Vicious…

I offered to let Steve return for a few days, but he simply asked “Steve who?” and that was that idea gone, thank god. So we hatched a sort of a plan…

The more I settled into my life, the more unsurprisingly natural it became. Where a bra had once, as you may remember, carried a whole freight of meanings for me, now it was merely something that supported my breasts and gave Geoff difficulties in getting off. I wore skirts and dresses away from work and bike largely because I still had my little guests down below, and because I like them, no longer as a shout against my birth.

Oh yes, unwanted guests indeed. I spoke to Sally.

“No, and when I pass your case over your new shrink will say ‘no’ as well”

“It’s a small operation….”

“No it isn’t. Two things: how long have you been aware of your sexuality? Is it something that you know by your reaction to men, or to A man? You have known Geoff for a matter of weeks, and you are 34. No previous relationships. Secondly, and importantly, what if you ever wanted a child?

“Steph, love, you have come so far in such a short time. Now is your time to take a breath, to look around and consolidate what you have gained. And as this is all about you and Geoff, what does he have to say about it?”

Shit. She was, of course, absolutely right. If Geoff and I really were a partnership, then it was a joint decision. I had not thought of the possibility of kids; when your every waking moment seems filled with the urge to self-terminate, it isn’t a natural consideration. I resolved to talk to him. What a conversation that would be…

“Hi honey, I’m home. I’m going to get castrated, but what do you think of getting some random woman knocked up beforehand?”

The plans for dealing with the bigots at his workplace were more important, anyway. Neither of us is a devious sod, so we simply decided to go on and be ourselves and see what crawled out from under the carpet. I was concerned about Geoff, there was something in the abuse that struck a deeply wrong note with him, and I wanted to know what it was that had hurt my man so badly. When the trio were down one weekend, I decided to ask Bill directly. We were in the kitchen alone, Geoff showering after a training ride and Jan and Kelly on their knees in the living room rifling my CD collection. I outlined my worries, and Bill sighed deeply.

“I suppose you better know, though please let him tell you himself. Agreed?”

“Agreed. “

“Well, you know I am the eldest?”

“Elder” I corrected automatically

“No, eldest.”

I could feel a darkness in the room, and I had a horrible suspicion as to what it was.

“How…?”

Bill took some slow breaths, then in a monotone so dull I had to stifle an urge to check his pulse, looked past me into some awful place and spoke.

“Beachy Head. They found Tony’s car near the top, but he was found down the coast. He was 20. Fell for someone at college, it seems, and it turns out he got the wrong end of the stick. When Tony confessed his feelings, the boy told him to….well, to go away, and that is what Tony did. Fell big time….”

Bill started to cry then, big racking sobs, and for once it was my turn to hold someone else till they eased. He caught his breath, bit by bit.

“He rang home from a pay phone just before…..Just before, and we were all out, and he left a message and it was Geoff who first heard it, AND HE DIED SO TERRIBLY ALONE…”

He was off again, and as I managed to bring him back, Jan looked in. She looked so very, very tired then, and simply said “Now you know. Welcome to what is left of our family”

She called into the living room “Kell, can you just run down to the corner and buy two pints of whole for the rice pud? Money’s in my purse”

As soon as the door slammed, she cuddled Bill and soothed him like a small child.

“This family carries so much guilt that they cannot let go. I try, we all try, and we are looking all the time for expiation, to make up for Tony’s death, but for the boys it is never enough. Tell me, is Geoff getting any trouble at work?”

I quickly brought her up to speed while the two of them clung together, and Jan asked “What are you going to do about it?”

“Well, the Christmas Dinner is coming up at his office. I intend a full-on Green-eyed Goddess, with your help. Tits out, hair up. See what they say then and see if I can spot the instigator”

“What then?”

I looked into my own grim, dark place.

“One way or the other, hurt him very, very badly”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 23

We had other things to do, of course, such as keep Geoff’s legs turning. He had been pushing me for some time to try a 300 or 400 together, blithely ignoring the fact that 300 was the most I had ever done.

The idea of Audax riding is not of speed, but of consistency and self-reliance. Route directions are given as a description (L sp Bosherston 200m, R at RAB sp St Petrox, and so on) but most importantly the ride is timed. Controls, which may be manned or done through such things as getting a dated and timed till receipt, are often timed. If you get there late, you fail. If early, you have to wait. The aim is to keep up an average speed throughout the ride including eating, sleeping, map reading and stopping for wild moments of unbridled passion at the roadside. The UK equivalent of the PBP is the LEL, London-Edinburgh-London, 1,426 km, in the 93 hours allowed for the elite riders.

For elite rider, read “raving lunatic”

Geoff had around nine months from then to prepare for the French original, and naturally wanted my company for as much of the time as he could. Having sorted out two things, I was able to do the pick ups and drop offs for him in his van when he was riding some of the sillier distances. The second thing was to place me on the insurance for the vehicle as a named driver. But the first thing….

Oh, the first thing was a visit to a local solicitor, then a photo booth, then the Post Office…and a little while later, it arrived. Puzzled? No big thing (I lie); just a deed poll to change my name and then a new driving licence.

I became, for all legal purposes, Stephanie Bronwen Jones.

We had lots of other legwork to do, of course, such as making the rounds of the banks, utility companies, local council and so on, but it was another boost to my sense of identity. I took Geoff around to see Mam and Dad, and we left a few flowers there.

He is good to have around when I get weepy, and not only then. There are many other times I appreciate him. But not after curry.

So….about three months together now, if I count the start as being the festival. We’d found out a few things we didn’t exactly like about each other, which, to be honest were hangovers of our previous bachelor lifestyles. I worked hard, for example, to wean him from his disgusting habit of drinking fruit juice straight from the carton and then putting the rest back into the fridge, I succeeded in getting him to put the toilet seat back down, but that was helped by his incredibly tactless remark “But surely you don’t need…”

For a ten mile radius around Churchwood global warming reconsidered its plans after my silent glare. Yup, still got the old mojo! He slept in the spare room that night. Well, until I gave up and slipped in at about two in the morning.

For his part, he objected to my clogging his razor with hair from my pts and my insistence on eating at the table rather than slumped on the sofa. On the other hand, watching DVDs without a TV meant snuggling together, usually in bed, with a laptop.

I was used to sleeping with him by now; we were back in my room after that dreadful night, and the bed is bigger; I found that when we separated in our sleep, I would wake to discover myself with a leg stretched out to touch him, just to know he was there. Oddly, he often slept on his side with one hand covering his privates. I knew that because I still woke up every so often with bad dreams. They were nowhere near as bad as the ward, but they would catch me every so often, and I would lie for a while watching him sleep, drooling into his pillow.

He’d also stopped wearing anything at all to bed, which was more than fine by me, though I, of course, stuck to my granny knickers. You see, I would sneak peeks at those times just to remind myself that this beautiful man was mine.

Back to the Audax. There was a 300 coming up, the Preseli Pootle, and we had our route sheets in good time. I had chosen the ride as it would be around my home area, and if things went wrong I would be able to organise an escape route. The average speed was quite low, due to the large amount of Scenery (AUKish for “hills”) on the route, and we were looking at just under a 24 hour time limit. I also wanted to take some time to show him some of the prettier bits of Pembrokeshire, one in particular, and revisit some old haunts. Scraping some extra time off, we set out for the M4 one Thursday evening, tent, mats and bags mixed in with our two audax bikes. I watched Geoff’s face surreptitiously as he spotted the first of the motorway and A-road signs with the small extra square riveted over them. I may explain if I am in the mood….he thought it hilarious.

I had arranged a spot at the campsite at St Petrox, which lies in the South of the County, on a low ridge that separates the Cleddau (Milford Haven) from the Bristol Channel. The campsite is set around an old church, and the tower can be climbed to give magical views out to sea and over the Castle Martin tank gunnery ranges to the isle of Lundy. We had the whole of Friday, therefore, to explore, and I took him down to Bosherston for his Surprise.

Imagine the greenest, freshest wood there could ever be. A trident of thin finger lakes covered in water lilies, surrounded by wild flower-clad banks and visited by swans and kingfishers. We took our time ambling hand in hand amid the birdsong and the gentle hiss of the wind in the trees, until I brought Geoff to the little dam that stopped the stream and formed the “lily ponds” as they are known.

And we stepped onto a beach of golden sand, vertical cliffs to either side and a huge sea stack before us;: Broad Haven. The contrast is amazing, emerging suddenly into a world of surf and seabirds, fresh to salt. Auks (the other sort) and chough wheel around you, and a different flavour of freshness feeds your lungs.

We had a meal in “Ç·e Olde Worlde Cafe”. I know they spell it “Ye” but as a linguist (dropped out…) I insist on the use of the original letter. A night of snuggling in the tent, a yawning arrival at the control, and a silent queue for the brevet cards. AUKs are traditionally a silent breed. The route ran out across the Cleddau and up towards Treffgarne, before heading over to Ty Ddewi Sant, back over the Preseli hills towards Aberteifi, and then round for another crossing of the Scenery in the direction of Caerfyrddin before our 300 kilometres were up back at the start. I could go into details of the ride, though the day and into the evening, of sleep snatched cuddled together at the roadside in a bus shelter, and food from an all-night petrol station shop, but it would mean little to most of you and I have some more to write later…maybe.

Suffice it to say we made it in plenty of time. Geoff’s experience, and my natural fitness, kept us on track, especially when the controls were devious ones. We ate the breakfast that was provided by the organisers…and headed straight off to the tent for a mammoth second one, a gentle cuddle and some sleep. I really, really couldn’t see myself doing a 600.

That evening, having slept for most of the morning and eased our aches with an amble out to Barafundle, we rode down to the Govan pub and did that thing with wood and wire we enjoy, as well as that other thing with glasses and ale. It had been our first proper ride out together, and I realised that it was actually our first ever trip away as a couple without the support, or interference, of the family. And we were still talking.

The next day was time for a longer walk, and it was out by Huntsman’s Leap to the Green Bridge of Wales. I had chosen the Green Bridge deliberately, because of the revelation from Bill, and I was hoping it might allow Geoff to open up about Tony. I could see the slow roil of his grief as we stood by the great natural arch, and he made comments about how eye-watering the wind was, but I knew his were watering for a different reason. Stupidly, I lost patience and tried deceit.

“Geoff…. I saw some of your old family photos when we were last up at Oxford.”

He looked up sharply, as a chough yowled overhead. There was a strange flatness to his voice I had never heard before.

“Who told you about Tony? That’s what this walk is all about, isn’t it? Get Geoff to open up, do some therapy. Take him to some cliffs and see if he talks, or would you prefer me to jump?”

I opened my mouth to reply, the wind lashing my hair across my face and when I reached up to push it away he was back in full swing.

“You think we are all weak, don’t you? That we’re all ready to top ourselves when it gets tough, like you and Tony. Well you’re wrong, so wrong, some of us won’t do that, we have to carry on. Who would be left to pick up the mess otherwise?”

He was shouting now, and I was crying, and he was right, everything was so wrong. He started to head off towards some old wreck of a tank just off the path, and I stood, and I wept as my new world foundered and sank before my eyes. I watched him walk out of my life.

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http://www.naturalarches.org/gallery-Wales-GreenBridge.htm
http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/113060

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 24

It’s a long walk back along the cliffs to Bosherston, The wind was at my back and my hair was streaming out, showing me the way home. I could get a lot of my bits and pieces onto the bike, and it was only a short ride back to Pembroke railway station.

Who had I been kidding, really? Obviously not Sally; her advice was clearly based on a sounder judgement than I possessed, and I was glad she had held back my wilder ideas. What was I, exactly? A man in women’s clothing, to all intents and purposes, legally and otherwise. So I had a new name; so what? I had closed the door to Steve; perhaps it was time to start pulling to the other doors, none of them led to Summer.

I was sobbing, in those jerking, limping gasps where you can neither talk nor breathe properly, and my eyes filled with salt and pain. I stumbled over a rock on the path, and a hand grabbed my elbow.

“No”, he said, “If we are walking away from each other we will make damned sure we know what we are walking away from”

There was a ramp of rock sloping down parallel to the grass, and he led me down there, out of the wind and the noise of all but the surf and the birds, and the occasional odd moan from a blowhole.

“We are among ghosts here” he said, “and you have raised some more. What were you trying to do?”

I could hardly talk. All my hopes had dropped off the edge like the jackdaws, and I wondered who this haggard, haunted-looking man really was. I had lost all subtlety, all guile. My split screen appeared again, and I watched a ragged and torn woman try and string something, anything coherent together.

“I just wanted to help!” she wailed

“You were, you idiot!” he shouted, throwing a chunk of limestone off the cliff. He watched it sail out into the void and curve down to the sea. I remembered a poem by Ed Drummond, and shuddered. I was no Syrett, but what about Geoff? My sobs were dying down and I looked at him, really looked at him. My beautiful man looked emptied out, the life gone from those eyes. I wondered what they were seeing, and he looked down, closed me off from his soul, and started to talk.

“I was his little brother, I was the one he cared for and looked after. Bill was always there for us but just a little too old, a little too beyond our grasp; Tony and I were the biz, the real thing. If I had problems at school, he was the one who would turn up for me, have a word with the bully, help with the home work. He always brought light to my world, and when we were both old enough to realise that there were people outside the family who could become at least as important he was the one to wipe my tears when the girl with the red hair told me I was too short for her”

He looked at me, then, and I shuddered at how bleak his attempt at a smile was.

“Yes, even then I had a thing about redheads. It took me a little while to pick up on how different Tony was…”

He trailed off again, staring out towards Lundy and hurled another stone into space.

“You know when you see a friend, and realise they fancy someone? And you don’t know, or know only slightly, this other? You don’t know what they are like, but you know your friend…your brother, he fancies them to bits, so you push them along, you boost their ego, you urge them to go for it because you love the thought of them being in love, no matter who with, it’s exciting and wonderful and it can’t go wrong, can it, because he is your big brother and how could anyone say no to someone as wondrous as him?”

Geoff was crying now. I sat on the hard ground, too frightened by his mood swing to change position at all. My backside was going to sleep, and I was worried that if he did decide to leap I would be unable to move fast enough to stop him.

“He said about this boy on his course, how the light caught his hair, the line of his mouth when he smiled, the curve of his throat when he laughed, and I knew that Tony was irresistible because he was my big brother and that was how it worked, and I PUSHED and PUSHED for him to ask him out and he said, all right, he would when term started, and that was what he did, and this boy said ‘I never realised you were such a fucking shirtlifting twat’, that was what Tony said, and then ‘Fuck off and die you fucking queer, you make me want to puke’, and Tony got into his Corsa and drove out of Brighton till he got to the Seven Sisters. He rang home, and I know he just wanted someone to say they loved him and come home, but nobody was there, so he put it all on the answering machine and then he jumped and fell over 500 feet till the rocks and the water tore my beautiful brother into shit and if I had been home he would still be here”

I slowly reached out a hand for his, and he looked at me with his head cocked.

“And then there’s you….I saw you that first day, so frightened I thought you were going to die when we spoke to you, but you stayed, and then you played and I saw the life that was behind the terror, and you reminded me so much of him then.”

He took my hand and I said “I’m not him, cariad”

“I know, but I thought if I could make you happy I might feel I had done something for Tony, but then it all went wrong”

“How?”

“I fell in love, and that means I’ll fail you……”

“Geoff Woodruff, you have never failed me. You even stood by when I puked on you!”

That raised a wan smile. “It was the first warm meal you gave me…”

A joke. A shit one, but it was better than what had preceded it.

“Geoff, you gave me more than that. You gave me more than I could ever thank you for, you gave me my life. Even if this is the end for us, I still have that. Remember that card from work, ‘Happy Re-Birthday’? That’s your doing. Tony went because of fate, or bad timing, or homophobia, or all sorts of things, but not because of you, or Bill, or Jan, or any other innocent bystander. The fact that you are so torn up inside shows that you cared, proves your love was real, just like mine is for you”

We were both crying again. I moved over and held him as tightly as I could without snuffing what life was left in my hurting man.

“We are both damaged goods, my darling, but will you try for a while and see if we can’t put some of those ghosts to rest?”

“I do love you so very much…” he murmured as I helped him up. We stumbled off down the coast path towards the tent, my hair whipping round our heads in the wind, too scared of falling apart to let go of each other, and left the clifftop turf to the rabbits and the ravens.

Next time, we must bring sleeping bags that zip together.

John Syrett was a talented rock climber, born in 1950, and the subject of a heartbreaking poem by Ed Drummond. He suffered great fits of depression, and in 1985, possibly while drunk, he climbed to the top of the great Yorkshire limestone cliff of Malham Cove and, it would appear, jumped to his death.
Ed Drummond’s poem talks of Earth as the mother, the nurturer, and finishes with the lines
“He jumped;
She snatched him back”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 25

This chapter may be said no longer to have any content at all....

We had continued to talk properly after our mutual fright, and I noticed that where Geoff had always seemed the strong and unfazeable sort he was now offering me evidence of vulnerability and doubt, and I took that as the proof that I had finally broken through to the inner man.

I do not mean doubt about us; that seemed to be impossible. For my part, there were no doubts. This was my man; all I had had were fears, and that is a very different thing. If anyone had told me ten or twelve months ago that I would have been just about living, and sleeping, with anyone, I would have laughed. If they had said it would be with a man, I would have been intrigued, I suppose. Back then I didn’t know what I was, apart from being a woman, of course.

We had a new openness, and even more simple affection and comfort just from each other’s presence. Of course, I can only speak for my own feelings, but trust me, I felt the same love coming from my dear man. I was just worried that the problems he was having might push him over the edg….perhaps I should change the metaphor.

It was heading towards Christmas now, and I needed to find just the right way to draw out and punish Geoff’s little friend at work. I resolved to have a chat with Naomi and Albert.

Time for a little background, I think. We won’t go through the shimmery lap-dissolve-fade-whatever, just straight to the meat. My father died of cancer when I was 16, my mother of much the same in 2008. In between there were a lot of changes.

My father had risen rather rapidly as an engineer with our local water board, and while I was quite young had already become rather high-up in their infrastructure maintenance (leak fixing) wing. We moved to Surrey when he was head hunted by Thames Water, and a year later he was dying slowly in front of me. My problems with bullying were made worse, of course, by being Welsh in such a quintessentially English area, and once he had gone I begged Mam to go home.

Unfortunately for my hopes, she wouldn’t. The long and dreadful business of losing the most important man in our lives had left us both rather sullen and withdrawn, and she claimed that her own business interests meant staying where we were. After all, I wanted a good education/prospects/comfortable life, didn’t I?

I begged off, and finally managed to persuade her to let me go back to Pembroke and stay with my Dad’s brother, Uncle Alun and his wife my Aunty Lizzie. A-levels, then off to University in England, and the rest you know.

I couldn’t face living with Mam as such an obvious failure, so returned home, and, well, my life continued to go even further downhill as a drunk took out both Alun and Lizzie. They weren’t even in a car, but walking not far from the dock wall by the Flying Boat pub when someone who had refreshed themselves excessively on the Rosslare ferry went looking for another drink. He found the pub, but decided to park a little in front of it. The bull bars on the front of his 4x4…

No, that’s all you need to know there. I moved once more to Surrey in 2002, on a “swap” transfer at my own cost that I am still astonished the Department granted, and then life got shitty again. My mother was diagnosed with a tumour in her left kidney, and by the time they found it, metastasis had set in. Liver, the other kidney, then a few other places. For the second time, I watched a parent die, eaten from inside by their own body.

It was six years after my move that she finally went. I had moved around two countries looking for a home, finally come back to my mother, and she was gone. If it wasn’t for the fact that I had started seeing Sally a year or so before, I would most probably have finished the job I had tried to do quickly years before, and was now doing slowly with alcohol. Once my mother was no longer there to force me to moderate my more obvious drinking at home, I would have been lost.

Mam had set up a rather nice little business based on her passion for photography, a little camera shop in Horley, which was sold on just before she died. She simply had to find a buyer with the same love of light and colour, rather than someone who just wanted stock and a shop.
She had got into video work quite early, and for a Welsh “housewife” she showed a fine instinct for technology and its possibilities. What really changed her life, and her bank balance, was the meeting of minds she had with Albert and Naomi. To give them their full titles, Detective Inspector N. and Detective Sergeant A. Woods (retired) of the Metropolitan Police.

Half the local businesses seemed to have taken on A and N Security as their CCTV and patrol provider, and it was Mam who supplied the cameras and other kit. It was all rather lucrative, and that is how I ended up living in a detached house in a Surrey village rather than a dire bed-sit in Crawley or Brighton.

You will see now why I decided to confide in Naomi about Geoff’s stalker. If anyone could find a way either to find him, or to draw him out, it would be her. As she had a particularly devious mind, I also thought she might be able to find an appropriately devious way to fulfil my promise to myself, and hurt him. Very, very badly. But legally. And there was another bonus ball in play.

A&N had the contract for Geoff’s office. We started to plan.

There was no question of putting a camera into the gents’ toilets. If that had been discovered, the lawsuits, especially from people “in the business” as the employees obviously were, would have been awe-inspiring. Instead, under the guise of a series of night supervision visits, and a carefully-dropped proposal to the Office Manager about catching stationery thieves, one or two rather small cameras were sited around Geoff’s desk, as well as the third-floor notice board where the majority of the abusive posters had appeared, and the nearest photocopier. Discs of the resulting images were filed neatly away by Naomi and Albert until we got the word that another poster had appeared. That’s when the hard work started. Working back from the time the poster was first seen, we checked our recordings for the moment when the item appeared.

Naomi had set up the link (“I learned an awful lot from your mother, you know…”) so that instead of hours and hours of video we had a slightly smaller quantity of stop-motion images, which she fed through a variable-speed reader and….there it was. Clumsy, as we should have suspected from such a small mind, but it had still been effective in rattling my dear man. We watched him make a number of copies of an A4 sheet of paper, place one on Geoff’s desk, another on the notice board and then move off camera carrying the rest. I was rising to a slow boil as I watched.

I may not have wanted my own balls, but by god I wanted his.

A and N presented the disc’s selected images to the Manager, and gave him The Talk about harassment, hate crimes, how dreadful if the victim were to sue, but we are sure you have adequate liability insurance, being —oh–an insurance company. A name was forthcoming, and the plan was underway. I visited a chemist…

Christmas was nearly upon us, and it would be spent in Oxford with the rest of the family. I very nearly wrote “our” there, because that is how it felt now, but presumption usually comes before huge disappointment. We had all agreed to limit our gift purchases to smaller values while still making them really personal, as there is always a temptation with new friends to overspend. First, though, would be the Christmas Dinner at Geoff’s office. And before we took that on, I confronted him.

You know those discussions? The ones where you tell someone something and refuse to let them speak until you are done and they have apologised? It was one of them. In short, I told him that I knew it was still going on, that he would never hide such things from me again, that I loved him, and that it was going to be sorted. And he was going to let me sort it.

“How do you plan to do that?” he asked. I told him.

When he had stopped laughing, he apologised in a very nice way.

The Lavender Excess would get another airing for that one, and I had spent some time with the girls practising getting my face Just So. I could see how it worked, and I did like the result (and so did Geoff, it seems) but it was all so much of a faff. I was no Vicky Pendleton, racing at the Olympics while looking ever so carefully prepared; I was just a girl who did things that made her sweat a lot. That night, though, I had to be ultra-feminine.

We had worked out that although he had heard of me, and had some idea of my situation, he had met neither me nor Jan. We arranged for an unattached good friend of Geoff’s (ours! ) to squire myself to the dance, while Jan went as me. I am sure you can work that one out, but for us it was all a bit confusing, having to keep remembering that I was her and she was me and I was this and he was that and…we got there in the end. Naomi helped with the make up this time, conjuring up just a little five o’clock shadow for Jan. It was very disturbing to see a woman who was now one of my very closest friends looking like an almost passable drag queen, but it would be worth it.

The night of the dinner-dance came along, and Iain, the friend, came to pick me up while Jan and her beard rode in with Geoff. Naomi had gone to town on the make up, not only with the stubble but also with very thick foundation and, crowning glory, blue eye shadow. I mean royal blue, and thickly outlined lips. By the time Iain and I arrived, Geoff and Jan were the centre of attention, as we had intended. I spotted our target and a little after the meal drifted over as he grabbed a drink. He had been in a circle of differently-groomed younger men, laughing loudly and making gestures towards Jan, who was frightening me just by the way she walked.

“What’s the joke?” I did my best to purr, arching my back just a little to lift the girls into view. As he was only about 5’8”and I was in heels, this was a bit unfair to him.

“Oh, d’ya not see the ladyboy over there with Woodpuff the shirtlifter?”

This lad really had been blessed by the muse of poetry. With such a chat up line, I relaxed. I had almost (almost) been feeling guilty about what I hoped to do to him, but that vanished in a little cloud of Brut 33. Or was it Old Spice? Don’t ask me, I stopped shaving as soon as I could. Except for…and of course…
Back on track, Steph.

“I came in with Iain, but he’s being really boring tonight. You seem like more fun”

“Oh….” He perked up, ”D’ya wanna drink?”

“White wine….why not get a bottle?”

And so it went, onto our second bottle, and he started to get a little flushed. When he went to the gents’ I gave Jan the nod. She trotted off to the ladies’, and thank everything available she dropped that walk; I have seen more feminine Marine Commandos. In uniform. In a few minutes my suitor had returned, and was knocking back the wine I handed him, when Jan re-entered the hall.

Gone were the stubble and foundation, gone was the John Wayne stride. She was back to her usual elegant, ladylike self. Lover boy looked astonished. There was a rumble from his stomach.

“What the fuck (urp) happened to the ladyboy?”

“Oh, she’s no ladyboy. She’s Geoff’s sister in law” I gave him The Smile, with as cold a pair of eyes as I could manage. I leaned in a little bit and said, still Smiling

“I’m the ladyboy. And your wine is actually picolax”

He nearly made it out of the hall before his bowels let go. It was extremely messy. Thank god we had already eaten.

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For those of you devoid of taste and sensitivity, the following link is to a blog describing the effects of “agent picolax”
Not for the faint-hearted and definitely in extremely bad taste. But funny.
http://www.madcaow.com/blog/random/agent-picolax/

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 26

There was fallout from the prank, of course. But nowhere near as spectacular as the fallout we all witnessed that night.

We heard he had to spend the night in the medical room as he was unable to move far from a toilet for rather a long time. Geoff reminded me of what he had said after the match, about upsetting me, and affirmed that he was glad I was on his side. Male humour being what it is, the young hangers-on of Mr Whoopsy were so impressed by my actions that I became a sort of mascot to them, and Geoff a minor celebrity in the office. Apparently, everyone had always disliked the idiot.

Apparently.

There was also, it seems, a similar reaction to Geoff’s: “Not to be messed with” was the new feeling around the workforce, especially among those who lived some distance from a dry cleaner.

Geoff said thank you to me that night in ways that we both enjoyed, after we had managed to escape both Jan, and Naomi, who had stayed up awaiting our return. I swear the latter is channelling the spirit of Benny Hill with her sense of humour, but I am fully in harmony with her fierce protectiveness.

Nobody messes with my man. Ever. Except me, of course.

I realised the intensity of the fall-out from the clifftop when I first woke from one of my nightmares to find Geoff awake from one of his own. This will sound perverse, but I felt far better knowing that it wasn’t just me suffering doubts and fears, in the sense that I finally realised that it wasn’t all one way. I was actually doing something for my partner…and another word came to my mind as I pondered mutual care, mutual support, love.

That word was “mate”. Not in the sense that Dave often used it, but in the older sense of life partner. Man and his mate, that was us. I almost sniggered at the thought of mating, fnaar, fnaar, but for some reason tears were never far away when I watched him sleep. My life had changed so much because of this man, and, yes, I go on and on about it, but it is so important to me I cannot say it enough.

This man and his love validated me. He gave me strength to bite back at the sexist bitches at work, the homophobes (why the hell pick on me, you thick tossers? I’m straight!) and transphobes who still occasionally read me. Without him, I would probably still be sitting here committing slow suicide by bottle.

But I digress: it was getting around to Christmas, and we had to decide on where we would spend it. As I said, we had planned to go up to Oxford, but I ended up rostered to work an early shift on Christmas Day. So…

I know this may seem premature, but I couldn’t imagine spending it without what was becoming more and more my own family. Naomi and Albert had their own family visiting, and I wanted mine; the thought of driving all the way to Oxford after work did not appeal, and I had plenty of room. Even for Kelly’s new ….friend.

Please, please, don’t let him be one of those who wear a woolly hat all year!

Geoff’s folk club (I keep doing this; OUR folk club) had a song and dance night arranged for Christmas Eve, and so we ordered a delivery of Woodruffs in time to get down there and play. Some dancing might occur, too, but we were overdue a bit of hair-loosening. It turned out that Kell’s friend was completely and utterly unmusical. What was she thinking of? We needed a bass section, so couldn’t he just…

Apparently no, he couldn’t. He made that very clear in the first dance, when he demonstrated a complete lack of any sense of rhythm. Damn.

I should explain for non-dancers that there are people on the traditional scene who insist everything must be done JUST SO, JAWOHL!!!! They are known as ceilidh Nazis. There are those who suggest that there are no rules as long as fun is had. They are known as idiots.

Then there are those who realise that most people want to “get it right”, and that a little bit of help and listening for the music to tell when to move go a long way. Dancing is a social event; help your neighbour, and have more fun yourself.

Once more, a diversion. Just a short one. Is it possible to relax into a new perceived gender so completely in such a short time or does it need a Geoff? I haven’t t said anything about him for at least, oh, a paragraph. Don’t mind me, carry on. But it was so evident that he was now relaxing into our relationship rather than working at it, and that touched me deeply. When a couple is newly formed, they walk on eggshells around each other to avoid upsetting the semi-stranger next to them. It’s a bit like the mating rituals of some birds–look, I’m turning my sharp pointy beak away, I’m not here to hurt you.

No, there is a difference between a man who tries not to fart because he’s scared you might get up and leave, and a man who tries not to fart simply because he knows you don’t like it and he sees your happiness as important to him. It’s the difference between fear and love.

He still farts, though, but usually when sleeping.

Anyway, Jamie, Kelly’s beau, didn’t seem too bad a lad, although he admitted to me that he felt not only out of his depth but a little inadequate, excluded even, when we settled into that groove as we played. I know I am intense and fully absorbed when I play, but it isn’t meant to keep people out; that’s what sessions are all about. I resolved to do some digging, and see what little gems Jamie had in his own bag of tricks. Find out what he’s good at, and give him his own opportunity to dazzle.

I was straight to bed when we got in, ready for my early turn, and didn’t notice Geoff when he slipped in beside me at some unknown hour. The house was dark and silent as I tiptoed out to avoid my cleats ticking away on the kitchen floor, and I really needed the fleecy hat in the raw morning wind. Half an hour of empty roads later I was changing in my little room and heading off to the Channels. It often surprises people that the place is open on Christmas Day, but there is always almost a full list of flights, and the planes aren’t empty. Traditionally, the staff on duty bring in nibbles and treats, and make as much of the day as they can, but it is still work. My Christmases had always been worked, as I could never face the prospect of an empty house and an equally empty soul. This was the first time I had ever wanted to be elsewhere, and I was counting the minutes until the relief arrived. I sorted some e-mails, and helped one of the others bag up a load of cigarettes seized from yet another knuckle dragger. I noticed the smuggler staring at me quite a bit as we worked, and I assumed he was just another bigot trying to work out what I was.

Changed again, back out into the sun, not yet having seen it that day, and I was soon spinning up the road to home, where I was fully expecting a gigantic Christmas dinner, and half-expecting something else. I wasn’t disappointed.

The house had been fully decorated while I was at work, and from somewhere Bill had produced a tree. I had a vision of him sneaking out to Buchan Park with a saw…nah, not my Bill. Kelly, maybe.

And there were presents under said tree, including the one I had wrapped for Geoff, which was a new Brooks Swift saddle, in honey, with copper rivets, and I am drooling as I think back to it. He had been riding on a B17 for years, and I thought that this, once broken in, would offer an alternative. We had plenty of time before PBP; they can take 200 miles to break in properly, but to Geoff that was a single ride.

Geoff presented me with a little package that turned out to hold a small silver locket. When I popped it open, I realised that he had been working with Bill on my present. They had obviously taken a scan of one of the photographs in the house, and they had sized it to fit in the locket. There, wrapped, was a picture of my parents taken on a walk out by Poll Carn, smiling into the sun as I took the picture. My dad, tall, dark-haired, squinting slightly in a cheap checked shirt I remembered buying him from a discount outdoors shop, and Mam in one she’d bought herself so she could match her husband. I realised what Naomi meant about our colouring, our hair…what a truly inspired present

Gifts are best appreciated when they show thought, as that shows care, or even love for the recipient. The boys had obviously put a lot of all of those into my gift. The cost was irrelevant, this time, it really was the thought that was there in front of me.

Of course, that got them both a kiss, and then I went off to shower and change.

The dinner was the opportunity I had been waiting for. Jamie had done rather a lot of it, including making stuffing from scratch to his mother’s recipe, and he seemed to have a real knack for cookery. I made sure that he was given the appropriate boost to his ego, and resolved to let him loose in the kitchen again if he came back. After all, Kelly was still only fourteen, and their passions can be fleeting.

At about seven thirty, the Woods came around with their son and his family, and as the children (including Kelly and Jamie) squealed over new delights, we “olds” shared some wine. I realised Geoff was looking a little on edge, and when he went for another bottle I cornered him in the kitchen.

“Anything up, love?” I asked him

“No, not at all, but I have another present I want to be sure is welcome before I offer you it”

“Do tell….”

“Well…..I was wondering…if keeping my flat in Horsham really makes sense….”

“Geoff Woodruff, are you asking to live with me?”

“Er…yes….”

I kissed him as an answer, but I made him repeat The Promise first. I’m not daft.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 27

And so it went, week by week, as my life went on. Real life, that is, in two senses. Firstly, this was my real life, at last, as the work re-birthday card had declared. Secondly, real life is not like a cliffhanger film plot, or cheap novel.

Things happen all the time, but they are not dramas, nor crises. Just simple things, “everyday” as well as every day. Things such as going to the shops, having a meal together, training ride, a night shift at work.

Just life.

Geoff had moved in fully, and the garage was filled with bikes and his van. We had a new shed set up in the garden, and objects migrated there to allow room for the important stuff, as well as the van. I really can’t say anything more exciting than I have. I had noticed that we seemed to spend hours not talking to each other, and that may sound bad, but it wasn’t. We could share a room, a bed, listen to music, read, cook a meal, whatever, and there was no need felt to fill the empty spaces, for there were none. Just peace, contentment in our own company.

We were always touching, though. That was something I could never imagine having too much of, and from the way Geoff acted he felt the same way.

I was now, of course, completely out of my cage and permanently living as myself, and it got easier and easier. Even when I got a probing look from someone in a shop or on the street, staring at my hands or trying to spot some odd feature in my face or voice, I would remind myself who would be in my bed later, and ask myself if I really gave a shit for the opinion of some random stranger.

My dress sense was also becoming more adventurous. I was still restricted, of course, by the presence of unwelcome guests, damn you Sally, but I was now trying to dress for the occasion rather than just to say “woman”. Now I was trying for “woman shopping”, “woman on business” and so on. I actually owned more than one pair of heels now, as well as two suits and several pairs of tights. Yes, I know a certain number of stories go on and on about other legwear, but stockings and suspenders don’t really work with a set of male genitalia.

Well, they might with some folk, but you know exactly what I mean. I was simply putting together a normal wardrobe for a normal woman, and that was as far as my ambition extended. Literally, a very prosaic dream on its way to reality. “Just life” was a good life.

As we had regular visitors, I was able to get advice on some of my shopping trips. Jan has an excellent sense of colour and coordination, when not impersonating a man dressed as a woman, of course, but the real surprise was Kelly. Despite a taste for some truly outlandish and, to my eyes, simply ugly teenaged fashion items, she shared her mother’s sense of style. If clothes can be said to flow smoothly, the two girls knew where to put the oil.

Kell was down on her own quite often, taking the bus that goes direct from Oxford to the airport, and when we went out I felt more like another teenager than someone literally old enough to be her mother. There is yet another cliché in the fiction I had read, that of the adult who was never allowed to be a girl suddenly making up for it in later life. Clichés have many sources, but surely a major one is the simple fact that they are truths. We went out, we ate junk food, we giggled, and we ogled men’s arses.

Sally had finally kicked me out, as she considered herself unable to maintain a professional distance. I was now under the care of Dr Rajasekaran (“call me Raj”) Chandrasekhar, which allowed Sally to loosen up considerably in the conversations we now had over a meal or a pint. She was not quite as direct as Sue “how’s he hung?” Ward at work, but she had her moments. Talking to her could be very frustrating, though, for as soon as we moved onto any subject that could be deemed clinical, she would simply say “Talk to Raj”

When she met Geoff for the first time, at a local pub, she waited till he went off to the gents’ and said “If you ever kick him out, give him my number”

Cheeky cow!

Raj, for his part, seemed much more amenable to some of the things I was seeking than Sally had been, and I realised that she had been absolutely right in dropping out from my care. I now understood exactly how protective she felt of me, and I had another non-Geoff-related Little Moment. This woman knew all about me, she had seen me at my worst, talked me through my self-harming and alcoholism, and yet she still cared.

That little moment was further recognition by me that if so many people cared for me, and were so protective, I must be worth something, and living must similarly be worthwhile. Perhaps I’m rambling here, but I was having so many revelations in quick succession my head was spinning. I decided to take a gamble, and one afternoon after a session with Raj, I asked him again about castration.

“It’s a simple process, Steph. Would you want a penectomy as well?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Do you want your cock cut off at the same time. I mean, it ‘s your cock that spoils the line of your clothes more than your nads, isn’t it?”

And I thought Sally was tough….

“No, I want to keep that bit, for now”

“Why?”

That was Raj’s method. Sally had been fond of saying things flatly, no intonation or stress, just to see how I would respond to something left hanging. Raj liked short, sharp, awkward questions that I had to answer right off the mark.

“I need to keep it”

“What for, peeing competitions?”
“No….I need the tissue, don’t I?”

“What for?”

We had danced, on my part, around all the reasons I wanted surgery, and Raj had countered each one with suggestions of a cosmetic touch-up that would allow me to pass unclothed. He had stressed how non-invasive such a procedure was compared to a full vaginoplasty, but he kept pushing me.

“To make a fanny out of so I can make love properly to my man!” I finally snapped.

“Better, Steph. Listen, this is not an examination. I am not here for you to give me the ‘right’ answer, I just want YOUR answer. You need to be absolutely clear in your head what this entails and why you want it, rather than trying to second-guess me to persuade me to put you forward. Now, here’s the real deal.

“You have been presenting exclusively as female now for about four and a half months. That is not that long a period, but it is clear to me that you are definitely at home as Steph rather than having to live in Steve. So, what I am going to do is refer you to a surgeon”

“When can it be done?” I interrupted

“Slow down, girl. I am not referring you for surgery, but to be assessed for it and, more importantly, to allow the gentleman to talk you through exactly what you are risking. Steph, I am not here to tick boxes, and if you go for this you will do so with eyes open and aware of the dangers. Is that a deal?”

What a very silly question.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You will, of course, dear readers, have worked out already that as the perversity of the Universe tends to a maximum, there was something lurking nastily ahead, and so it proved. A week after Valentine’s Day (smile at fluffy memories and go mmmmmm) Dilip called me over to his desk and asked for a quiet chat. We went off to an empty interview room.

“Steph, we have a bit of a problem. Do you remember the assault on Junior Cavendish?”

“Just a bit. He was a nasty piece of work, we had a job to take him down. The trial should be coming up soon, shouldn’t it?”

“It’s been adjourned at the request of his counsel. You see, he has made a complaint, and it’s against you.”

“What, that I hit him too hard, or what? The damage he could have done to Junior…”

“No, Steph, it’s a complaint of indecent assault”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 28

That was indeed a bombshell, and it took me a while to work out what was going on.

I was given the usual copy of the complaint, and informed that Internal Governance would be in touch to arrange an interview once I had had time to digest it and send them a reply via Tom and Dilip.

I was shaking when I got home, and of course he picked upon that straight away, I explained, and before I realised what he was up to Naomi was in the sitting room with some more biscuits.

“Right, girl, have you ever worked with a police witness statement taker?”

“No, we just do our own and the boss checks them against notebooks et cetera”

“Well, it is a real art, they lead you through your memories and you’d be surprised what comes up. More detail than you thought you knew! Albert used to do it, and I think you need to have a little session with him”

That evening Albert and Naomi came for dinner, and as we ate, he teased out the story of Junior’s assault, the fight, the arrest and my eviction from the search of person. The complaint was a pretty basic one, as such things go, that I had not only grabbed him by the soft parts when taking him down, but had let my hand linger there and gave him some squeezes. When we were in the search room, I had then slipped my hand down the front of his trousers….etc

“What sort of trousers did he have on?”

“I don’t remember, but the CCTV should show it.”

“Firstly, that footage should show where your hands were during the arrest. Secondly, you say he was rather obese?”

“Not as big as his gunter of a wife, but large, yes”

“’Gunter’” asked Naomi.

I explained. We both blushed.

“Well” said Albert, ”Consider this. A large man, with a very tight belt because his trousers are below his belly and need that belt to keep them up. There would be obvious difficulty, if not impossibility, in sliding a hand down past his waistband. That is your starting point for a defence. “

“We have another angle, dear” said Naomi. “He says in the complaint that you were obviously some ‘tranny’ or some such ‘pervert’ but I do believe that you were certainly not out in public when this assault took place. As you managed to persuade the entire Central Region rugby team that you were male, I find it rather unlikely that he could have spotted your true nature. That means he has been informed of it by some other source. Now think”

I ran over events in my head, and as Naomi had promised, Albert’s quiet but steady technique was bringing back memories, and the one that was shouting in my ear was Christmas Day. One particular piece of pond life who had stared at me very hard as I counted the shift down to my wonderful afternoon and evening with my family. I knew my first course of action back at work would be to check who he was, and whether he was associated with Billy James Anstey, the man we arrested.

There’s another fall out from work, right there, the habit of using full names, as if reading a charge in Court or chastising a child. I would see exactly who this other person was when I got back to work.

It was odd, but when Geoff had been on the receiving end, I found a hardness inside me that stemmed from my feelings for him. As I have already said, nobody messes with him... Now it was me, I lost that inner steel. I had always been frightened of coming out as myself because I would have had to fight alone, and there I was again. Naomi looked hard at me.

“Don’t you dare, girl! I’ve seen that look before: ‘poor little me, all alone in the big bad world, never cope, run away now’. Well, I suggest that before you go all soppy and stupid you look round this room, and when you go to work tomorrow you look around your team, and then you grow up. Just you think how many other girls like you have to do this all on their own, and then lose that fucking self pity!”

Both Albert and Geoff looked up. Geoff looked absolutely shocked, but Albert just smiled fondly and murmured “Ah, that’s the girl I married!”

She slammed the complaint file down on the coffee table. “We will have this little turd and he will be skinned alive in Court, and before that your disciplinary people will tell him to go and stick his head up his arse and inhale sharply. Are we agreed?”

We all nodded, two of us in shock, two others holding hands while one smiled happily. Ye gods, what must she have been like in uniform? I shuddered, but it was a happy shudder. She was absolutely right–my transition so far had been the stuff of dreams.

Of course, I started to cry, and we had a group hug, and all that stuff that comes from having true friends in a crisis. I am so very, very lucky.

The next day at work I got into the seizure records, and there he was, Alfie John Smith. Alfie and Billy, if they weren’t connected I was Arnold Schwarzenegger. They both lived in Belvedere in Kent, a place with some truly…charming areas, and that would seem to be my source. Billy gets taken down by bloke with long red ponytail, Alfie sees woman with ditto, a few questions around the airport…

Fuck them both. Naomi was right, absolutely so. I had right on my side, for starters, but I also had the team, my new family, my neighbours, and when I stopped to think about it, probably the management from Vanessa down.. Why exactly was I feeling so sorry for myself?

I gave myself a little Smile.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 29

The internal Governance people were due the next day, and I had been coached by Naomi for hours in how to answer them.

The interview would be on tape ,and I would be provided with a transcript afterwards. I was allowed a “companion” in the interview, whose role would be to act as a witness on my side and a general observer. Nigel was the man for that, as he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the disciplinary codes.

Both Jan and Naomi were insistent that I be as feminine as possible, so I borrowed a skirt from Sue, and Jan spent quite a while doing my face and hair, which she plaited in an odd sort of backwards manner she called “French”; I really am not girly at all, but I am slowly getting there. I spent a serious length of time with the iron, and the morning of the interview I could have been the cover girl of “How to Wear Your Uniform”, the highly patronising (and usually seriously defaced) poster they had issued. White shirt, badges just so, neck loop, black skirt, low-heeled black court shoes and black tights. Naomi had given me a tiny woman’s watch to wear instead of my usual chunky diver’s affair, and the only times I could remember looking more femme had involved the Lavender Excess.

The morning of my ordeal, Naomi drove me in to avoid creasing or crumpling anything, and I grabbed a coffee with Nigel for a quick run through beforehand. He seemed oddly confidant.

“I’ve got the CCTV discs ready” he said, “and guess what? Jeans on, so tight I’m surprised he could breathe.”

That was a start. I had my notebook ready, with all the Officer Safety additional notes I had made at the time, with the impact factors (size, behavioural indicators, verbals and so on) stressed. That notebook would be my main protection in there, that and the fact that he was a lying bastard. In we went.

There were two of them. One was a classic Suit, all pink shirt with white collar and cuffs, and one of those cartoon-character ties that they think makes them a little bit edgy, dangerous, out there and individualistic, but merely makes them look just like every other corporate clone. The other was a woman, and I have never seen harder eyes in my life. She turned out to be Glaswegian, with a soft but very distinct accent. It’s a way of speaking that to my ear makes even an expression of kind affection sound like an invitation to a fight. Oh joy.

“Good morning, Mr Jones. I am Andrew Wilkinson, you will have received my e-mails. This is Anne McMaster, who will be sitting in on the interview. I see you have brought your own friend for the process. May I ask who you are?”

“My name is Nigel Rawlings, the PCS union representative, and may I ask why you are not addressing my colleague by her correct name?”

“According to staff records I am here to interview a Mister Steven Jones. I have seen no evidence to suggest anything otherwise.”

Oh you bastard. Where exactly do they breed you lot, in vats? Fortunately, Naomi had suspected they might go along that route, but I doubt even she could have guessed exactly how blunt the knife would be. I handed over a copy of the deed poll I had sworn to change my name.

“I think this will show that the staff records are a little out of date. I can also produce records to show that date that I submitted this to Headquarters. If you insist on addressing me in the manner you have just done I will be making my own formal complaint. Is that clear to all?”

We entered the room, a Spartan affair with seats fixed to the floor, two facing two across a small table. Wilkinson went through the ritual of unsealing three tapes, one to be sealed as a master copy ,one for me and one for him. Click-click-click the tapes were inserted, the machine made its noise, and he began.

“This is an interview of Mister Stephanie Bronwen Jones. We are in an interview room at Stanwick Airport. The date is April the third, the time is ten fourteen by my watch. I am Andrew Wilkinson, UKBA Internal Governance. Also present is…”

“Anne McMaster, Internal Governance”

“Nigel Rawlings, PCS union local steward”

“MISS Stephanie Bronwen Jones, UKBA”

He looked at me across the table. Flat, appraising eyes told me I needed to be very careful in this room, but I was buggered if I would let him do that to me. He continued after a bit of staring.

“You are not under arrest, nor are you under caution as this is a disciplinary interview and not a criminal one. Be aware, though, that the terms of your employment require you to take part in this process, and if you refuse you may be dismissed. Also, if evidence of criminality should emerge during the interview, the records may be passed to the CPS for consideration as to possible prosecution. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand”

And we were off. I was led through my notebook, with only occasional questions to make sure my account was as clear as possible, from my initial view of the punch up to my leaving the search room at Dave’s insistence.

“Why did you leave the search room, Mr Jones?”

Bastard.

“Because I am a woman, and a search requires officers of the same gender.”

“But you are not a woman, MISTER Jones. You have, no doubt, the word ‘boy’ on your birth certificate”

“Yes I do, but I am a transsexual, and as such am entitled to be referred to as a woman under the Department’s diversity policy”

“Have you yet received a certificate from your medical practitioner regarding your change in status? No? Then I will continue to refer to you as you really are.”

All through this, the other one, the poison dwarf, was staring at me. What the hell went on behind those dead eyes? I bit my tongue, and forced calm on myself. Don’t let him get to you, it’s what he wants. We moved on to more particulars, and I managed to get in the belt and trousers evidence. I also pointed out that he had made no complaint whatsoever until Alfie had been knocked off on Christmas Day, certainly not at the time of his arrest. Then he hit me with a question from nowhere.

“Does touching a man’s penis excite you, Mr Jones?”

Fuck you. “Yes, it does, but he isn’t the man in question”

“Explain?”

“My partner is the man in question”

“And you wouldn’t want to get a thrill by a quick feel of another man’s?”

I was white with rage, I could feel it in my face, and as Nigel put a hand on my knee as a hint to calm down, I snarled:

“No I wouldn’t, I love Geoff” I spotted a wedding ring, and asked “Do you grope other women when your wife isn’t around?”

“So you did not touch Mr Anstey’s penis?”

“I wouldn’t touch his, I know where it’s been”

“Explain, please”

“I’ve met his wife”

Was that a hint of a smile on the Dwarf? Wilkinson brought the interview to an end, the tapes were sealed, and the two Suits looked at each other. Wilkinson spoke, still amazingly calm.

“Some useful provable lies in there, Anne.”

Oh shit. The Dwarf looked down at her notes.

“Aye. I think we can stitch the dirty fat cunt up for this one.”

What the hell? She was looking at me, and there was a new hint of softness to her flinty stare.

“ Miss Jones, Steph isn’t it? We are not here to nail people for the sake of it .If we ever thought you were in the wrong, I would bring the spade for your burial myself. Andrew here is the same. We want you off balance, we want to see the real person, and I am pretty sure we did there”

They both started to chuckle, and Wilkinson snorted “I’ve met his wife! Classic!”

We finished off the paperwork, and Nigel said “I think I need to go and lie down”

Both Suits shook my hand on departure, wishing me well, and to my astonishment Wilkinson made a point of kissing my cheek.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 30

Being without a bike, I took a taxi home. Vanessa had given me the rest of the day off after calling me to her office for a debrief. She has a very raucous laugh, and when Nigel mentioned the “I know where it’s been” comment, she brayed.

“Do yourself, and us, a big favour, Steph. Don’t ever, EVER, try a comment like that in Court. I shall await the report from IG with interest, but you will remember I did mention bigotry last year. I do believe you are learning what that means. I hear you had another incident a couple of days ago.”

I did know what she meant. A flight in from Tel Aviv had brought a group of Hasidic Jews, and when I went to examine the luggage of one man he had objected, on the grounds that I might be unclean. By that, of course, he meant menstruating. I am sure he thought I was mad when I grinned happily and called Stinky Pete over to do the bag search (and seize 4,000 cigarettes)

“If you can understand my reasoning, I took it as a compliment. You may not consider me to be a woman, Vanessa, but he did!”

Vanessa looked at me for a little while, then said softly “Prove me wrong then, Ms Jones. Prove me wrong. But for now, well done with IG and just go home and wash the stink of that scrote off you. As long as my staff do no wrong, I look after them, and you know that. See you back here tomorrow. Sign for the full day.”

As I stood up to go, she astonished me by hugging me tightly.

“I value you here, we all do, more than you seem to realise. You just carry on being yourself and there WILL be no problems”

“Being myself is all I ever wanted, Vanessa”

Once home I made a simple sandwich and then busied myself doing a few bits of housework, but my mind was still spinning, so went out into the conservatory with my fiddle and started to play. Every now and then, my right arm would brush my breast and remind me of Vanessa’s words, and those of the old Hasid. In just under a fortnight I would be 35, half of my Biblical “allotted span” and I jokingly wondered if I could have a refund for the first half.

I flashed through the “Mooncoin Jig”, then tried to remember Peter Knight’s “Robbery with Violins” but that needed a lot more work, so I dug out the Northumbrian Pipers’ Association tune book, and Bewick’s, and just went through those sight reading for an hour, or so I thought.

A fingertip drawn slowly down my spine brought me back to Earth, and I lowered my fiddle to kiss him home.

“What would you like to do for your birthday, love?”

I had thought about this, and really, really wanted to go away somewhere, and not Sá®r Benfro again. It may sound odd, but I also did not want bikes there. Geoff’s training for PBP was getting intense, and most weekends he was doing either a 400 or a 600, and that meant nights away from our bed. I also wanted to do some climbing, or at least hill walking, if possible. April….Peak District or North Wales? Many more short routes in the Peak, but proper mountains in Wales. So, watch the weather forecast, pack the camping kit and rock gear, and hope.

I cooked a tartiflette for our evening meal, with, of course, a salade savoyarde, and Naomi had found from who knows where a couple of bottles of Apremont, so everything was very Alpine. I had to go through the interview in detail, and then fetch a towel for Geoff when I got to the bit about knowing the wife. I should have let him swallow first, I suppose. We finished with a pavlova from Naomi, just to break the food chain, and then we were off to our beds, Geoff being very friendly. Hmmmm. Camping means tents, tents have no soundproofing.

Before we went away, I was due my appraisal meeting with the surgeon, so it was going to be a busy fortnight. The next morning I passed Geoff the Ogwen Valley guide book and suggested he look up a few routes that might interest him. Easter was going to be a late one, so we would be up there before the holiday madness started, and could fit in almost a week away.

I was early for my appointment. To say I was nervous would be more than an understatement. This was going to be worse than the IG Suits, as I could always have found another job, but getting another life tends to be difficult. They are in short supply, only one to a customer, and I had already had a couple of near-total-loss moments. I don’t know how well I can explain it, but meeting this man was like being a prisoner on death row and seeing the pardon arrive, and wondering if it would get to the death cell in time. That may sound like a rather dire simile, but I already considered Steve dead, and the longer I lived after rebirth the more I realised how close I had really come to losing it all. Death row was fitting. I had lingered there for years and years, just waiting for recklessness or alcohol to throw the switch.

Now, you know I don’t talk about certain aspects of my life, and I certainly will not be going into details about our discussion. Suffice it to say that I had enough of the necessary tissue to form what was needed and wanted, and he went into a rather long and gory explanation of the risks, which he seemed to enjoy detailing. I have always wondered how many surgeons actually relish the whittling, loving the fact that they get to slice and dice real people and get paid for it.

Put those thoughts away, Steph, not really the sort of thing to be considering pre-operation. He did give me one boost, though, which was to agree that as soon as Raj signed me off he would be “delighted” (his word) to remove what Raj called my “nads”

Apparently, that would give me something to look forward to at Christmas….

The van was packed, after a last argument about “just one bike, please” and we were off around the M25 to the M40 and Wales. The forecast was mixed, and while I love climbing on gritstone, places like Stanage are miserable in the wet, whereas at least Eryri would offer serious hillwalking whatever the weather. Geoff had also done very little multi-pitch stuff, and there are some lovely low-grade long routes in the Ogwen to try him on. I wanted to see what his balance was like, so I thought we might hit some thin slabs rather than just jug-pulling. Failing good weather, I would take him along Crib Goch and see how his head for heights was.

The M40 is, oddly, a motorway I enjoy, but for one very good reason. As you pass High Wycombe and head for the big rock cutting seen on the opening credits of the comedy series “Vicar of Dibley, you are in kite country. Red kites, Milvus milvus, a bird of prey once extinct in England and only just clinging on in mid-Wales. They have been reintroduced in a few places around Britain, and along the M40 they are thriving. I once counted 15 in the air at one go from a coach at 70mph.

No, I wasn’t driving at the time. I was, er, misbehaving. There is a way of relieving one’s bladder on climbing club trips by coach that involves donning a sit-harness, clipping some slings and karabiners onto the stairwell rails and getting the driver to open the door while moving….

Please forget I told you that one….

Apart from the usual crap around Birmingham, it was a smooth trip, just a stop at Oswestry services on the A5 to stretch our legs and change drivers so I could do the twisty bits I know so well after Geoff had done all the motorway work.

We did, however, pull over before then, as we were both having a major Little Moment passing the place where we first met, and we needed some form of open display of affection, and didn’t feel that road safety was best served by full-on French kissing at 60mph.

After Oswestry there is the countdown of junctions to the bridge at Yr Waun, and the border. Croeso I Gymru, yn wir, ac yn iach i ti, hiraeth. I decided to take the old road rather than the new bridge, so we could look up at one of the two canal aqueducts in the area, and soon we were climbing the long hill from Llangollen with Dinas Bran and the Eglwyseg to our right. I had a favourite spot to treat Geoff to, if the weather was clear, and it was. After Cerrigydrudion and the long undulating straight, I pulled over by the Geeler Arms and showed him how the whole of what the English call Snowdonia is laid out in a panorama from that bend in the A5. We could even see where we were going to be camping, almost.

After Pentrefoelas the hills close in and there is some twisty narrow stuff by a river gorge, until Y Ffynnon Arian and the descent to Betws y Coed. Over the Waterloo Bridge, past the tourist tat shops, swoop the bend by Rhaeadr Wennol, the zigzag over the bridge by Ty Hyll, the pubs at Capel Curig, which I noticed Geoff filing away for future reference, and then the great and classic view of Yr Wyddfa and Cwm Dyli.

I think the view in the Ogwen is finer, though, and as we passed under Pen yr Helgi Du and Gallt yr Ogof, the pure visual drama of Tryfan came into view, towering over Arthur’s lake. I turned into Gwern Gof Uchaf , we pitched the tent, had a brew, and then just sat drinking in the beauty of the place. As well as our tea, of course. Afterwards, we stretched our legs properly by a walk down the road caught between the foot of Tryfan’s North Ridge and Llyn Ogwen, home of the Lady of the Lake. I pointed out some of the routes on the Milestone Buttress and Bochlwyd we would try, and then we arrived at the Idwal car park, where we grabbed another brew.

“Dau te, Dafydd, heb siwgr, os gwelwch yn dda”

“Dwi’n eich nabod chi?”

“Dwi’n Steph, Dai, Steve….?”

“Duw! Rwyt ti’n ferch rwan?”

“Merch o hyd, merch am byth, dwi’n gobeithio”

“Bugger….heb siwgr, na?”

And that was it. A paying and regular customer remains exactly that to a businessman. We took our teas and I led Geoff out of the car park to the viewpoint overlooking the waterfall. I had a secret place to show him; we crossed to the North side of the road, where a small slate stile let us cross the wall and come back under the bridge built by Telford on Roman foundations. Tucked inside the modern road bridge is an old packhorse bridge of jammed slabs. We sat with our tea, as the water thundered and foamed underneath, watching a dipper working the outflow of the lake just above.

Even in my worst moments as Steve, how could I have left all this?

The sun was low as we walked back and cooked up some pasta and meat stew to dump on top, and, as it was too early in the year for midges, left the tent open to allow us to watch the light change over Y Garn and Foel Goch to the West. We had eschewed sleeping bags this time, as we had the van, so our bed became a wonderful softness of duvets over a couple of sleeping mats. At this point, dear reader, I will draw another veil over the sight of two happy people snuggled up together. And pray for no rain.

Translation:
Two teas, David, no sugar, please
Do I know you?
I’m Steph, Davy, Steve…?
Ye gods! You’re a girl now?
A girl always, and a girl forever, I hope
Bugger. Without sugar, you said?

http://www.sandrock.org.uk/Images/tryfan.jpg is the view from Gwern Gof Uchaf campsite.

http://www.heartofsnowdonia.co.uk/gwernuchafcamp.htm

http://www.regweb.co.uk/HTdocs/Packhorse%20bridge%20Lyn%20Og... the packhorse bridge

http://www.livefortheoutdoors.com/upload/461198/images/Crib%... the classic view of the start of Crib Goch, Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon, 3,561’) in the background

http://www.terracirca.com/Walesweb/Ed%20Crib%20Goch%201.jpg the narrow part of the ridge

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 31

I kicked him to make the tea. Why keep a dog and bark yourself?

This morning I wanted to see how he was on the rock. One of the other delights of the camp site is its position right below one of the finest beginners’ crags in the country, Tryfan Fach, a sweep of wrinkly slab up to 200 feet high and offering easy but exposed climbing on lovely rough, sound rock with lots of protection. I normally warm up for the day with a an unroped solo on big holds up the left hand side, across the top and a walk back down from the right, but I did not want to freak Geoff out. I ran through the commands to make sure Geoff wasn’t just a gym climber, and off I went. Hard Severe, eh? I wanted to get a feel for his strengths so I sprinted up a thin crack to a stance on a big flake which I KNEW was too big for an eight-foot sling…which is why I made my own nine-footer some years ago. I brought Geoff up, tied him on and as soon as he had me on belay I was off again.

There are cracks all over the slab, but the angle eases as you go up, and I fancied some gibboning, so I went straight up on little ripples and sharp edges, just the odd runner to keep Geoff happy. He seemed OK so far, but I think he was feeling the height a bit.

I had chosen slab climbing to ease him away from thoughts of Tony, and I felt that the horrible day at Castle Martin had opened him up a lot, so that he could see things in their own right at last, rather than as associations shrouded in pain. He was actually joking as he climbed, and seemed to be enjoying it. We topped out, off down the right side and traversed down the face a few feet off the ground just for the hell of it. We did a couple more routes, then I told him we were off to the real stuff, loaded the van and went back down the road to the Idwal Cottage again. Of course, that meant another cuppa from Dafydd.

The walk up to Idwal Slabs is one of the nicest I know, with the vista opening wider with each step. Clogwyn y Tarw, with its mix of routes, fronts the Gribin ridge on the left, while the stark hollow of Y Garn looms to the right. The well-surfaced path goes through a gate, with an information board on which the writer has juxtaposed the heights of the two lakes, Bochlwyd and Idwal, and then past that second lake. Twll Du, the Devil’s Kitchen, slashes through the headwall of the cwm, and Castell y Gwynt can be seen on the skyline. I told Geoff the legend of the drowned prince, and how as a result no birds fly over the water, and at that point a common sandpiper did exactly that, its alarm call echoing from the cliffs.

Dear, patient reader, you will by now have realised that I know and love this place well and deeply, but there was more than that. With each step I was realising what I had so nearly lost, as I had known at the bridge the night before, and was doing it with this lovely man, who was even carrying the rope as well as his own sack. Not only that, but in a couple of days the rest of the clan would join us for a birthday celebration; I made a mental note to pick up a copy of the Herald Gymraeg to see if there was any chance of some live music locally.

The Idwal Slabs are just like Little Tryfan, apart from being bigger, steeper, thinner (fewer holds) and a lot harder. They also have a sting in the tail, but I wasn’t going to tell Geoff that….yet. We were going to do Hope, and maybe Tennis Shoe afterwards.

I usually string the first two pitches of Hope together, and this time I suggested Geoff take the first lead,

“See how you get on as far as the ledge, and if you feel OK do the second.”

“OK love, ready to climb”

“Climb when ready”

“Climbing”

“OK”

He made short work of the easy first slab, and grinned down at me. “Piece of piss, this!”

I couldn’t resist it, and said “I’ve reversed that carrying a lamb!”

He muttered something, then set off around the little bulge that starts the official second pitch. He spent a little while working it out, but the protection is good and he was quickly onto the next slab.

“Stop at the next stance, it gets tricky after that”

Indeed it does. The Twin Cracks bracket a rectangular flake which forms s huge jug-handle at the top, but is so polished by decades of climbers that it is a slippery little sod. All you have to do is move up five feet and you have huge holds…I all but jumped it, and set off up the mass of pockets that rise above it and to the left until I tied on at the foot of the long final corner. Two extra large nuts behind some flakes, and a cam into the corner, but I could only see part of Geoff.

“On belay!”

“OK!”

After a while, his voice came again, “Take in!”

“Taking in!”

I pulled the rope in until I heard his call of “That’s me!” and threaded the rope into the belay plate. “Climb when ready”

A pause, then “Climbing!”

The next few minutes brought a slackening of the rope ,a subsequent jerk, an obscenity, repeat…..six times. Finally I heard “Got you, you bastard!” and from then on he moved a lot more easily over the pocketed slab. Soon he was at the little ledge at the foot of the long corner, breathing hard and with skinned knuckles. I smiled

“Bit of a shock for a V Diff, isn’t it, that bit?”
He just shook his head. “What’s next?”

“My favourite bit. First, though, just look around and enjoy the view. This route is about 400 feet in length, so you are quite a way up now. The next bit makes you feel really out there but it is very, very easy, so just enjoy the exposure and don’t lose any of my gear” which I followed with a kiss.

Once we had rearranged everything, I floated up the corner, just enjoying the position, the knowledge that only a climber would ever be able to enjoy this exact place, and still the mantra running through my mind of how very nearly I could have lost it. I realised, to my surprise, that I could recall no time when I had ever been happier. Not Christmas, not playing with the family, and knew without doubt that it was all due to the skinny man who kept falling off the crux of a V Diff. A raven kronked as it went overhead, to be drowned out by the roar of an RAF jet trainer flashing down to Má´n.

I brought Geoff up to the final ledge, and we sat for a while having a cereal bar each.

“Steph, thank you so much for showing me this, it’s so different to the little crags in Sussex. Which way is the walk off?”

I pointed at the tumbled slabs above the ledge.

“Two or three hundred feet up there and then back down to the left.”

“You are taking the piss, woman!”

“Nope. Want me to carry the rope?”

And off we went. Up, up, to the perched boulder, then down some steep stuff to the path back to the lake. I won’t bore you with more long descriptions of rock, but we did Charity, and then Tennis Shoe, with its huge central expanse of easy but featureless slab. I talked him through the crux on that one, telling him where to find the hidden two-finger pocket that just keeps you from sliding off the slippery foot hold on the final exposed tower.

He had done well, so that night I went teetotal so that we could drive down to the Bryn Tyrch pub in Capel Curig and have a decent meal, picking up a bottle of wine to share when we got back.

Life is good. Being alive is better.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 32

The Friday was spent on the Horseshoe, that classic circuit of Yr Wyddfa that takes in Crib Goch, Y Garnedd Ugain, the top of “Snowdon”, and Y Lliwedd before returning to the Pen y Pass car park.

I won’t bother you with details, but with the traverse of a knife-edge on Crib Goch and the 1,000 foot cliff that forms Lliwedd I felt we were continuing the work of laying Tony’s spirit to rest. One day, I hoped to find Geoff in a state of mind that would allow us to visit Beachy Head and pay our respects to the poor dead boy, but for now it was all about the delight of moving across huge drops on good holds, even though Geoff did quail a bit at the start of Crib Goch, and the step across to last pinnacle had him a little twitchy. We broke for the obligatory sandwich and cuppa in the station café at the top. Late snow still covered the track above the Halfway House, and only a few of the more hardy train passengers were walking the last bit. Mind you, more sensible footwear might have helped some of them

We drove down past Dinas Y Cromlech to the road across behind the slate quarries (no, Steph, that would REALLY freak him out) and into Bethesda to look for live music . Before we even saw a paper shop we spotted the sign outside the Spotted Cow, “Live music Ffolk club tonight” and with a carload of family due, we had our evening planned.

They duly arrived with their portable hangar, the first I knew of it being a squeal of “Aunty Steffie!” and a violent tackle and hug. I do love that girl, but I will have to get rid of the “Aunty Steffie” bit, even if I have to feed her to the new lambs running everywhere. Bill was straight to the point.

“Live music tonight, in Bethesda, according to the web. Who’s driving?”

Jan volunteered n the basis that it was my birthday treat, Groff had to sleep with someone beer-snoring/farting….and Bill would complain if he didn’t get a pint.

I am writing this looking back over the years, and I can see every blade of grass, every smile and gesture as if t were yesterday. My love for this family is boundless, but every so often it surges up and takes me by surprise. I know your demons, Woodruffs, as you know mine, and I love you none the less.

Once the Edifice was up we headed off for Bethesda, dining on a Chinese takeaway from Dwr y Mynydd before finding some seats n the Cow. It was the usual set up for a folk club, as I have described before, and we ended up getting a floor spot before the paid act came on for their set.

Geoff went to the bar for a couple of pints, and an obese local leant forward, smiled and said “Cnycha ffwrdd i Lloegr’”

Geoff smiled back and waited for his beer. I stepped forward as the barman brought the beer and asked “Faint yw’nna?”

“Pedair tri hugain”

“Dyna fo”

I paid and turned to the fat turd who had spoken, Smiled and said “Ie, dwi’n Cymres a dwi’n siarad Gymraeg. A ti, cnycha bant yn nawr, na?”

There was a real look of shock on the lard bucket’s face, but the barman nodded at me and said, for Geoff’s benefit, “You heard her. You’re barred”
All this with a wink to me.

I had no idea of who was booked to play, but we had a superb family set before they were due on, Geoff on the beautiful bouzouki, Bill on melodeon and the girls on bodhran and whistle. Oh, yes, I played as well. We sat down, and the presenter stood up.

“Thanks for some excellent floor spots, but now we move on to the paid guest. Put your hands together for Jimmy Kerr!”

The whole family was grinning, and I realised this was my birthday present. On came the little Geordie maestro, and I spent half an hour ghost-fingering to his playing while simultaneously trying to work out what exactly it was he did to make it so good. So I missed it when he said

“There’s a lass in the audience that can play aaalmerst as well as me. Aalmerst, ah’m still better of course. How, Steph, howay up here and let’s hear thee.”

As I rose, he started to play “Happy Birthday”. What a set-up!

He murmured “’Ah’ll stay with stuff thoo knaas for a bit, hinny” and we were off into the “Hesleyside Reel”, and as that wound down he shouted “Cock up thy Beaver”

You at the back should really wash out your minds, you know. The fact that he followed it with “Fairly Shot on Her” will just make you worse.

I thought that though I do love the Northumbrian tunes with their quirky leaps and jumps, it was time for some local stuff, so took Jimmy through “Bachgen Bach o Dincer” which he played Shetland style, all double stops and sharp attack with the bow, and then “Marwnad yr Ehedydd”. I was in the zone again; all I could register was the fiddle under my chin, the flick of the bow and the bite of the strings on my left fingertips. Jimmy had moved closer, and once again, as at the festival, we were in a private world of hair, sweat and music.

Jimmy shouted “Out!” and we swept to a finish. I came back to Bethesda with a roar of applause, and a hug from Jimmy. “How’s aboot a sang, then?” he called, and then started out on “A Miner’s Life” with its chorus “Keep your hand upon your wages, and your eye upon the scales”.

In an old mining town such as this, the choice was inspired and the volume impressive. I took my seat again, passing through a sea of people who all seemed to want to shake my hand or pat my back, and collared the crew.

“How the hell did you set this up?”

Bill grinned. “Well, you know he gave you his card? We let him know where you would be, and that it was your birthday, and he said...I think…that he fancied returning to the local scene and playing somewhere small”

There was a smell of cigarettes. “Aye, lass, so Ah rings them and sez, can ye fit us in, and they sez oh yes please, so Happy Birthday, lass! Why, it’s a canny place here in the hills like. Ah, here he comes”

The landlord was heading towards us with, of all things, a cake with candles on it. The icing read “Penblwydd Hapus Steff”

I couldn’t help it. I began to cry. Geoff kissed me.

“Happy birthday, my love”

Translation:
Fuck off to England
How much is that?
Four sixty
There you are
Yes, I am a Welsh girl and I speak Welsh. And you, you fuck off now, OK?

There are North/South and courtesy subtleties in it I won’t go into.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 33

And life carried on. I needed new bras by now, as I was steadily expanding my attributes. Not hugely so, at 35, but they still pleased me, and Geoff seemed to like them.

My arse was getting a little rounder, but I would never need a ladies’ saddle as my pelvis would obviously remain male. He seemed to like that as well, though, but I can’t see it myself. Well, not without a mirror, of course. Weekends were getting frustrating, though, as he was ramping up the mileage now. I rode with him when I could, but most times it meant sticking a tent up somewhere and waiting with something warm for him to eat before getting a too-short time under the covers together. So much of the laundry now consisted of lycra it was getting silly.

The Court case came up, and to my astonishment went almost without incident and certainly without any mention of the alleged groping, and I suspected there had been more than a little horse trading between the barristers.

“Hello Rupert, fancy swapping an indecent assault for a conspiracy to pervert the course of justice?”

“Not at all, Piers. How’re Jocasta and Gaylord?”

We all returned to the court after our evidence to hear the verdict, as Anstey had, of course, opted for trial by jury. As it was racially-aggravated, and this in effect was South London, there were more than a few people on the jury who would be described best as “not his type”. Eighteen months. It turned out he had just been sentenced to three years for sticking a bottle in someone’s face, and the very nice judge ordered that the new sentence not start till he had finished the old one. Mrs Anstey spat on me as we left the court, which was a very silly thing to do in such a place, and she was arrested before she could do the same to Junior. Not the sharpest tool in the box, but I was glad that she had hit my uniform and not my face. The police cleaned it off with a “spit kit” for DNA evidence, gave us all a cuppa, and we grabbed a pint n the Porter and Sorter before the train back.

Have I mentioned recently how nice it is to be able to enjoy a drink rather than need one?

May 4th would have been Tony’s birthday, and I felt that now might be the time to bring a suitable kind of peace to his horrible death. Geoff was pensive when I suggested it to him, but admitted I was right.

“I am so lucky to have you, love. You have seen me at my very worst, and you still stay with me. No man could ever ask for more”

“Many women could give you more than I can, cariad, but what I can give is all yours”

“I don’t want many women, there’s not enough room in the house”

Dear reader, go away for a little while please.

The family came with us, of course, including Big Bill, the boys’ dad, Jan’s mother Angela, and Roland, Big Bill’s brother. Both Bill and Roland were lecturers at St Catherine’s, and surprisingly it was the first time I had met either. We all gathered in Eastbourne and then made a silent drive up to the lighthouse viewpoint. We’d brought a wreath each, and my fiddle. As the flowers went over the edge I played an edited version of Vaughan Williams’ “Fantasia on a Theme by Tallis”, the notes blown by the wind and muffled by the ripping sound of our jackets’ fluttering. As I played, Geoff stood behind me holding my hips, and I felt the warmth of his tears on my neck. As I finished, he kissed me there, and hugged me close to his warmth. I looked up, and there was an elderly couple a few yards away, with their own wreath. The woman was crying quietly in her husband’s arms ; he looked over at me, nodded, and mouthed “thank you”.

Sleep well, Tony. I wish I could have known you.

We went back down to Eastbourne for a family lunch, after spending some time finding a restaurant that did decent vegetarian food.. Part way through the meal Big Bill looked at me, not unkindly, and said “Helen would have wanted more grandchildren, you know”

I knew the boys had told him all about me, but I was unsure of his next move. He didn’t disappoint.

“Karma is a funny thing. The Buddha says we should simply be excellent to one another, and watching you today I can see why these people love you. For they do love you, Stephanie, and it pleases me that they have chosen someone so worthy of that love. My faith always helped me to realise that Tony had simply moved on…”

Angela nodded at this point. “None of that silly Catholic mortal sin nonsense. He is in a better place than we can ever imagine”

“You know I cannot agree with you there, Angela” smiled Big Bill, “But we can agree on one thing. The family is now moving on, and while we can never forget Tony, we will remember him as he was, his smile, his vitality.”

We picked up our various drinks and toasted the memory of the poor lad.

“Bill”, I sad, “you do know that this is not all one way? I am sure the boys have indeed told you about me, and my problems. It is no exaggeration to say I might not be here without your family”

“Our family. That includes you, dear. So let us have another toast, this time to being excellent”

And so we did. Angela also surprised me, with her quiet declaration to me that I was not to listen to idiots, as God had clearly intended me to be a woman and I was merely fulfilling His Purpose. I didn’t exactly agree with her, but I could definitely see where the rest got their attitude from. I resolved to start playing the National Lottery…with luck like this, we would be multimillionaires in no time.

We headed back to Churchwood almost happy, if you can understand that. I had a dinner planned for the family and had the big dining table opened up in the conservatory. This time it would be a Chinese meal, cheating by using supermarket starters, but with my very own summer pudding for afters. What a simple dish, but so very nice. A bowl lined with sliced bread, then filled with red berries, pressed and chilled. The main meal was egg fried rice n soy sauce, with chicken in plum sauce with cashew nuts, mushroom chop suey in oyster sauce, and beef, green peppers and noodles in black bean sauce. A lazy Susan gave us the atmosphere of sharing that should prevail at a Chinese banquet. Kelly had even got herself up in a cheongsam and secured her hair with chopsticks, but I drew the line at Chinese music and set Sibelius’ symphonies 3 to 5 running quietly on the stereo. I only had three bedrooms, but Naomi was putting up Roland and Angela, so I returned the favour by setting places for her and Albert, and she made sure to bring some crockery. I couldn’t remember the house ever being as full.

The conversation sparkled, Naomi delighting in retelling the details of my interview, while Geoff recounted the rugby match. The Christmas Dinner episode had Kelly demanding that the two “even olders” get a chance to see John Wayne in drag, and so Naomi waddled off, overfull with summer pod, to get her stuff. A while in the kitchen with Jan, and out she came, with her Royal Marine Commando walk, but this time made sure people had put their drinks down first. I explained how I had led on the little idiot.

“I’m never going to be a pretty girl” I said, “but someone like him never lifts his eyes from a woman’s cleavage, so it was easy”

“Never pretty, Steph? You are just so full of life, and I wish had your eyes!” said Jan. Kelly muttered something about giving me some make up hints, and Jan simply gave her a Mother look and asked if she remembered her first time trying to put it on. Kelly just blushed…ah, gotcha!

That was something Sue had hinted at, one day in the ladies’ at work. The team had seen me head off to Custody for a wee once, and I was told in no uncertain terms that I was not to be so silly when it was just the team about. Some women were still bitching, but they were all on other teams. To be honest, they always would bitch, and that’s tough for them. They are the ones who wake up with that meanness of spirit each morning, not me.

Sue had pointed out that although I had always had a sharp sense of humour, I was now smiling far more often, and as for my movement…

“Did you realise you dance all the time now? I don’t mean skipping everywhere, but you have a float to you, a happy bounce. He’s being good to you, isn’t he?”

“Sue, if you only knew how good. And no false modesty, it’s all of you. It’s life and being alive”

I blushed, “And it’s being in love for the first time. You being so old you might not be able to remember what that’s like”

She went to slap me, laughing, and turned it into a hug.

“Speaking of which, are you up for Donna’s hen night next week? I haven’t had a chance to get stocious for a while, and there’s supposed to be a group of Full Monty-alikes on at the Bar Two club. What do you think?”

So…let me get this straight. Me, as I am, nads still in place, being invited to an all-girl drinking session followed by a bunch of male strippers.

“Sounds good to me!”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 34

And Sue was indeed stocious, as a rat. We had formed up in one of the Crawley bars that sold more bottles of coloured liquid than real ale, the sort of drink known as “tart fuel”, and that was exactly what it was like.

High heels, short skirts, lots of skin on show, all tanks filled and ready for action. I often wonder what the prospective spouse would say if confronted by their intended in full stag or hen party mode; THIS s what I will be marrying?

We went from bar to bar, and the mood got sillier. One or two of the girls had given me a funny look at the start, and I was pretty sure I heard “what’s he doing here?”, but as the alcohol bit it became more of the “your my beshtest mate ever y’are!” sort of thing. Sue ran cover for me every time I went to the ladies, tottering in like any other slapper on a night out, all tiny dress and silly (for me) shoes, but it all went far better than I had ever expected. I was more than a little merry before we ended up in the club, and my attention had wandered a bit, when suddenly there were all these men on stage, and then they took their clothes off.

All the way. Oh dear. More than a handful is a waste, they say, and these boys were…

No. I crossed my legs and thought of Geoff, and was grateful for small mercies. I mean, WHERE? HOW? I must have spoken aloud, because Donna laughed, in that way, and said “Well, if I can get a baby out, I’m sure I can get one of them in, and it will be a lot more fun! Hey, girls?”

That is a particular sound of laughter that can only ever come from really drunk women. I heard it a lot that evening, There were lots of those conversations where people keep interrupting, shouting “Listen, listen…”, but this particular place could only ever be summed up by other senses, such as “Look! Look!” and “Touch! Touch!”

Thank all the little powers that be that we never moved on to the remaining senses.

By this time, we were outside, and I knew I was drunk because I had a doner kebab in my hands. There are some catering products (I nearly said ‘food’) that are only edible when drunk. Not only that, they are irresistible when fully-fuelled. I was also wobbling on my heels–yes, I know, but t would have been rude not to–and we were drawing the attentions of several spotty yoofs who seemed to think we were easy meat. Well, mine still comes with two veg, sonny.

Sue laid her arm over my shoulder. “Well, kid, that is one rite of passage out of the way. You really are one of the girls now, and the way you fought for that stripper’s knickers….oh deary me. But think this is where your beloved comes and gets you...here, let me”

She dialled “Hello Geoff? Want to come and collect her? How bad? Well, she’s halfway through a large doner with pickled chillies…yeah, she is, she did, got some bloke’s knickers in her handbag, Yup, dancing round it with all the other girls. I’ll warn you now, she’s feeling very frisky. Outside the Post Office. See you in a bit then”

I sort of remember some tearful farewells at a taxi rank, expressions of undying friendship, and so on, and there was Geoff. You have to imagine me, in a too-short dress, two-inch heels I am still unused to, chilli sauce on my chin and clinging to another woman. Sue murmured n my ear.

“You do realise that you have done more for your acceptance in one piss-up than in months of work?” She kissed my cheek and slithered into the drop seat in the van for a lift home. And I fell asleep halfway there.

Geoff woke me, took me upstairs, undressed me, put me to bed and got in beside me. Before he did, he opened the window and dug out a pair of foam ear plugs. He clearly didn’t think I would be keeping the Promise that night.

Oh gods morning. Put it on hold for a bit. The bed was empty, but his side was still warm, so I hadn’t fart-snored him out of the room. Did I REALLY go out in that dress? Did I really LET Donna and Sue put make up on me in the ladies’? Geoff came in with a mug of tea and some toast. I smiled wanly at him, as another ambush memory surfaced, of something large, turgid and….warm in my hand.

Oh god. Geoff grinned.

“Ambush memory?”

I nodded, in mild horror at what the other girls had got me to do, and dimly recalled a camera flash or sixteen. Geoff started to chuckle.

“Did you…interact with one of the strippers, then?”

I just nodded, open-mouthed. How could he have guessed…I could still feel it in my hand, so HUGE. “How did you guess?”

“Sue told me, when you fell asleep on the sofa before I put you to bed. Showed me the photos too.”

Shitshitshit. All that stuff I said to the suits, and there I am in pictures with some monster…organ in my hand. Oh dear. Mind you, the more the memories came back, the more I still wondered how many internal organs one would have to lose to fit such an item in. Nope, Geoff’s attributes were more to my taste. And I have told you lot already.

It took me a while to get moving that morning, and I simply busied myself with laundry and gentle tidying. The little dress had chilli sauce down the front, and I had found a small piece of onion stuck between my breasts as I showered. I was well used to the excesses of rugby club nights out, but this was an eye-opener. Never let anyone tell you about what delicate creatures women are; some Bacardi Breezers… a group of mates to egg each other on, and they are just like men; worse, maybe. No, definitely worse.

The next day, I was back at work on a late turn. Donna’s team were just going off, and Shelley, her best mate, after the expected remarks about the “great night”, said

“Two things, Steph. Firstly, after Saturday night, I don’t think anyone’s going to bat an eyelid about you using the ladies’ with all the other girls. Secondly, there is something on the notice board for you”

How odd, I had just been handed the exact opposite of the key to the executive toilets, and it felt very, very nice. My transition was becoming day by day less of a battle, and more of a steady process of acceptance. I resolved to have a word with Raj again about my “nads” and their departure. First, though, that notice board.

It was covered in photos, photos of the hen night. They had all been modified in some way by overlaying certain attributes with a variety of objects, so that where I stared, pop-eyed and grinning open-mouthed, I appeared to be holding a tube train carriage. There were cucumbers, Apollo rockets, the Post Office Tower, a trombone, a stick of rock….whether Blackpool or Brighton I couldn’t see.

The wonderful thing was what it wasn’t. I could have been faced with a sea of pictures of myself, with hurtful intent, but instead it was just a wall of pictures of Donna and the girls on her hen night, and I was just one among many. It was just what I had always wanted; not to be special, not to stand out, but just to be another of the girls. I felt my eyes start to moisten. Such a little thing, such a great, wonderful thing.

Sue was behind me, with Dave and Stinky Pete. As the boys worked through the photos with ribaldry and what they thought was wit, Sue said

“I hear you’ve been invited to join Gossip Central. Well done, kid”

A couple of days later, Raj agreed to what he called my “denadsification” which he seemed to find funny, if nobody else dd. It looked as if I would be travelling to Paris with what he called “an empty sack” and rang Sally to say thank you, and she insisted we went round for dinner. I felt secure enough now to wear some slacks, my hair in a loose plait and Geoff looking tasty in a nice polo shirt and jeans. I don’t think he really appreciated our rather graphic conversation over the table, until Sally asked the big question.

“Do you like breasts, Geoff?”

He blushed, looking at mine and mumbling “Well, yeah”

“Have you heard of gynecomastia, Geoff?”

“What, man or boy-boobs? Yes”

“So if you had it you would be happy?”

“Not at all, when I say I like breasts I mean on a woman….. I mean on Steph, I like Steph’s breasts”

“So what would happen if you grew some of your own? Let me put it another way; Steph, how do you feel about balls”

I blushed and said nothing. Sally continued.

“See, Geoff, she rather likes bollocks as long as they are attached to someone else, and that means you. You would want a bilateral mastectomy if you grew your own breasts, just think of Steph as being in a similar boat”

She looked across at me and said “How nice are his balls then, Steph?”

Who needs a patio heater when they have a shrink like Sally?

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 35

Time was moving faster than I could manage. I was being lined up for surgery almost before knew it, PBP was looming, I still hadn’t sorted a way of getting back across the Channel with my passport and official gender as they were, and my conversation months ago with Geoff was something I truly wanted to ignore. There was no way on Earth I was ever going back in that cage, no way I would ever pretend again.

Geoff and all the others had tapped a hidden well of courage in me. I had always been seen as having balls (yeah, very funny) and now, just to let you have your little laugh, it was about time I found some of the metaphorical kind before my physical ones went to the incinerator. Everyone assumed I was courageous; they never understood or guessed how it was actually my long, lingering, incomplete suicide.

Raj had asked if I wanted to keep them, perhaps in a jar of formalin, but let’s just say I gave him a short answer. He also pointed out that the longer I kept them, the more spare tissue the surgeon would have to play with for the final SRS.

It’s time for a confession. Every other TG story I had ever read seemed to dwell on delicate, short, slightly built chaps who fitted straight into a dress and passed with no effort at all. Having met some of the other girls that Sally and Raj helped, I knew that wasn’t often true. Fate seemed to take a delight in putting as female a soul as could ever exist into a body better suited for a doorman at a rough pub, or, of course a rugby forward. While I now passed very easily, and was actually comfortable in my own skin for the first time in my life, I was not a naturally feminine boy. In fact…

I will simply have to come straight to the point, and admit that if I had been a boy I might have been very popular with the ladies. Despite the atrophy caused by three years of gradually adjusted medication, I was…

Sod it, Geoff was smaller than me. Let’s leave it at that, but unless I was planning on dumping him for one of those waxed monstrosities I had held at the club, I had enough to be going on with. Or should that be going in with?

This was the truly odd thing about my discussions with Raj; there am I talking about castration and vaginoplasty, blood and pain, and even comparing cock size with my beloved makes me realise how I can now never imagine life without him. I discuss surgery and it makes me drift off into fluffy clouds of affection.

No, forget “fluffy”. I love that man, deeply, viscerally. I’ve said it already, “mated”. All through the long, long process of finding myself there has always been that little voice in the back of my mind. I am sure anyone else cursed like me has the same thing going on: you KNOW who you are, but some little avatar of a parent or conscience whispers quietly n your ear, like the slave at a Roman General’s Triumph, “Are you really sure? What would mam/dad/people think? Can you cope with the changes? Do you have the balls?”

As the slave says, “Remember, you are only a man.”

Bastard. As I write this, I admit I am crying. All those years wasted, but then, without my Geoff, would I have ever been able to face those crowds? There is a huge difference between being “A bloke in a dress” and “His bloke in a dress”, and that is purely my description. Never his.

He had even persuaded me finally to be naked with him. He was a little uncomfortable with those extras, and never touched them, but he told me that he loved me, all of me, and he wasn’t going to pretend they weren’t there. That meant we could shower and bath together properly. There is intimacy in the simplest of actions, from washing your partner’s hair to not caring who is drinking out of which cup, that goes far beyond any form of sex. We had that intimacy, that comfort in each other’s presence, that true affection brings.

Yes, Sue, he is being very, very good to and for me. There are moments, like now, where a great surge of emotion comes up and I just KNOW how right this all is.

So. Deep breaths, and sort a date for some weight loss.

The assessment at the local hospital was hilarious, in its little way. When I walked in, wrapped in sweaty lycra, they asked me where I had parked. So, there I am, ostentatiously examining the cycle gloves on my hand and gently tapping an SPD cleat against the floor. Funnily enough, they found that I had no blood pressure or obesity problems. That’s what happens when you cycle everywhere….and when you are being constantly checked for blood chemistry as part of a hormone regime.

I have not yet said how I feel about needles, but just in case you were wondering, I HATE HATE HATE THEM!!!!!
There. That’s better. And once again the speed was catching me out. I found out that both Raj and Sally had found a few strings to pull, and I was booked in for the following week.

Geoff and I had talked about this at length. Sally’s comments about children had led to some soul-searching, but in the end it came down, for me, to the fact that any child of mine would have to be another woman’s, and I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t deal with the idea of a stranger’s child, and a fanciful suggestion about Jan I dismissed immediately. Take away the child of someone we loved? Never. Adoption looked like a strong possibility, though, and once again the simple assumptions behind the conversation showed how much my world had flowered for me. So…is this a knife I see before me?

And there we were. Why is it that hospitals insist on wheeling you along the corridors in a wheel chair when you are more than capable of walking? Where do they get the crap artwork on the walls from? What happens in all the poor countries that we deprive of their trained nurses because we won’t pay our own a reasonable wage?

And what am I doing lying on a table awake while some masked man applies NEEDLES to my soft parts? At least I had a hand to hold…and crush when the pointy spiky things were produced.

A friend once told me of his vasectomy, how his wife had come along to watch, and give a running commentary. Geoff didn’t do that, He looked away. After all, what man really wants to see a knife applied to that particular area? More than a little close to home; I hoped he wouldn’t have nightmares later.

There was some discomfort, but nothing too bad, but at one point there was a really weird feeling, a dull ache as if a string were being pulled attached to somewhere near my liver. Very odd, and quite unpleasant.

Bye, bye little bags of poison. Hello John Wayne walk for a few days. What a curse, indeed; I suffer all those female breast-related worries, and now I have a pain in the balls. Even though they are…No. I am not going into the Dead Parrot Sketch, I’m just happy.

Geoff saw me home, with what felt like a small nappy between my thighs. The surgeon recommended I wear tight-fitting knickers for a while, to stop my penis from waving around and tearing the stitches. Waving them goodbye, perhaps, or should that be “see you boys later?”

No riding for a while, girl. But think of the excuses to get him to do nice things.

Life is good!

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 36

This is the last one for a few days. I am off to dance and play and drink ALE.

What’s to tell about the Summer? It became a nice steady routine as we counted down to August 21st. Each weekend, Geoff would be off doing some monstrous distance, and if I was off shift I would pitch up somewhere on route. If there was a festival on, Geoff would try and find an audax or a perm* nearby and there we would be, the Woodruff clan, tired and shagged out (oops, Dead Parrot, I promised) after a long dancing and playing session, sitting around at 2 am waiting to serve him pasta and rice pudding. What really pleased me were the festival organisers; almost to a woman/man they understood what was going on and let him in without a ticket.

I used up a lot of my leave to get extra time off at weekends. With no Summer holiday really possible due to PBP, I made the most of what I could get off. Often, would end up in the strangest of places. Stainsby Festival, for example, in a field looking across to Hardwick Hall, and a long drag up from the scruffy town of Chesterfield, overlooked, of all things, the M1 Motorway, which seemed to be humming along to the music with the sound of the car tyres.

I even got chatted up a few times by some very nice men, as well as by some consummate tossers, but it all added to my still-growing confidence and confirmation in my new role. Work continued along the same route, with the only limitation placed on me being that of not being allowed to do searches of person. The other girls had moved from an often hostile stance to a viciously protective one after the hen night, and then just eased into banality. In my circumstances, that was wonderful. Even Vanessa seemed to be forgetting my origins, ether tactfully or because I was just seen as another female Officer, which was quite a leap of perception for such a fan of Greer.

Geoff was pushing me to ride along with him on something a little further than the Friday Night Ride to the Coast we did once from Hyde Park out to Bognor, and I agreed to do the Dun Run that July with him. The Dunwich Dynamo is an overnight event run from Hackney in East London to the coastal village of Dunwich in Suffolk, 120 miles away and conveniently near the Adnams brewery in Southwold. Dunwich was a major town in the Middle Ages, till a Great Storm (it needs the capitals) washed most of it away in a night. Now, as the cliffs erode back, graves are exposed one by one and drop out into the open air like some old horror film.

I found an internet group who were organising a coach back to London with a lorry to carry bikes, and booked my place. The alternative would have been to carry full camping gear for 120 miles on the tourer….not this time. Geoff, of course, intended to ride home. So, one Saturday evening in July we made our way out by train and crowded metropolitan street to London Fields, where we took on some carbohydrates and plenty of liquid (from a pub) and wandered round the park looking at all sorts of bikes, tandems, trikes as well as all sorts of people, from crusties to lycra-clad racing snakes. People started drifting away at about eight o’clock, as the slower or less confident took an early bite at the route. I slipped away to the ladies’ and smeared a certain babies’ nappy** rash cream all over my rear, collected Geoff and headed North-East.

The first part of the ride is through East London, which a climbing guide book would call “interesting”, or perhaps “amusing”, which are both synonyms for terrifying. Clapton is not a place I would ever want to live, and here we were riding through it on a Saturday evening. Heads down, ignore the pedestrians, dodge the drivers, swear at the cabbies….we were still in a solid mass of bikes, so it didn’t feel quite as bad as it could have done.

Out of London and into Epping Forest, and the Barry Boys were out in their tiny underpowered cars with the wide wheels and oversize exhaust pipes, sitting outside garishly lit pubs that all seemed to be re-enacting the hen party. It was darkening now, and starting to get cooler. Both Geoff and I had our Carradice saddle bags, with extra clothes, batteries and food, and I slipped on a light top against the chill as we rode through what were now small villages and the odd dormitory town. I had read of the ribbon of light, and here it was, a snake of red flashing rear lights leading us on to the coast.

And then the first of what I had been looking around for, the small glass jars every so often along the side of the road, each with a little candle burning inside. You are not lost, you are not alone, here in a tunnel of blinking and flickering light with the land around invisible in the gloom.

There were feeding stations, church halls and similar, where Geoff and I clocked around in our shoes trying not to blink too much in the sudden burst of brightness, and to avoid eating too much or too little. Getting back out into an astonishingly cold night was hard, but on with a hat and the long gloves, taking a while for the body to accept that it still has miles to go.

We were eventually in Suffolk. It may be flat, but there were watercourses across the route and each demanded a steep but short little climb that broke our rhythm and left us unsettled, and then another, and another. The horizon was glowing, and light was slowly leaching greyly into the world. Soon I could read the road signs. There was a bit of a head wind and, without a word, for I at least was beyond that, we settled into a miniature chain gang, taking turns at the front to take its bite and give the other a rest. There were strangers riding with us again, people whose faces we were only now seeing, and they started taking their own turns at pulling us along.

Single digits on the road signs, and the pace was getting quick. There were now many doing the odd head shake where a drop of sweat hangs irritatingly off the end of the nose and you can’t spare a hand to wipe it away, and then we were in Dunwich

There s a car park, and a shingle beach, and a salty meadow heading off towards Southwold and Adnams. It was six o’clock n the morning. Various support vehicles from friends had turned up, and there looked like a huge group in club shirts surrounding a tiny brunette with an impressive array of food. Next year, we set Jan and Kelly the job, was our thought, but this year we made the best of it and attempted to eat the café out of food.

One tradition is apparently the swim, and I was determined I was going public in my new costume. I had already found, post-nads, that I could now tuck Mr Floppy away so as to look reasonably normal down there. I changed in the ladies, ran over the shingle in the sandals I had packed and foolishly dived headfirst into a wave.

I thought my heart was going to stop, it was unbelievably cold. At first. As I swam frantically, breathing like a train, the shock eased and I began to enjoy the surge and lift of the waves, as well as the simple pleasure of no longer having my arse welded to a small piece of unsprung leather. Others were swimming, some running in wearing their cycling clothes, some not.

By that, I mean “not wearing their cycling clothes” and by that I mean “anything at all”

There is something consummately absurd about a running naked man, the way it flops and shakes, slaps and bangs, and I was forced to avert my eyes to stifle a fit of the giggles. In the end, I had to get out as I was losing feeling in my extremities, and Geoff had to head back. I dried off and piled on all my warm stuff, we packed my bike, I kissed him goodbye and I settled into my seat for the journey back. I would have time to sleep for a bit then a pig out meal of Nice Things when he arrived, a bottle of wine ,a bath together (if he wasn’t already asleep) and then into our bed.

Bliss.

*perm: permanent, a set route for an audax ride. Riders present timed evidence for control points on the way, such as timed and dated receipts, and they can be ridden at any time rather than as part of an event

** nappy: diaper.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 37

I have already said more than once that real life is not like a film, dramas don’t happen every five minutes and there aren’t plot devices to unravel. Real life also doesn’t stop with a “and they all lived….” like a fairytale. It just carries on from day to day, and it is no less valuable for that.

In essence, I had arrived. Apart from minor things I was living the dream I had never really dared have. We went to work, we shopped, we sorted the house out, we visited family, he went off and rode 400 miles every so often….

Except for the obvious changes enforced by my shift working, the weeks had settled into a pattern. On Sunday evenings, for example, if we were able we would ride out to the folk club and catch a late train back. Every so often as the roster allowed the team would meet up for some beers, or maybe a barbie at someone’s house. Geoff was at my side, and it is hard to put into words what that meant. Not just my feelings towards my man, which are simple, and complex at the same time. I have explained so many times here how much he means to me, and there can be no doubt in my dear reader’s mind on that score. No, the thing that went straight to my heart, the thing that woke me in the small hours simply so that I could smile again, was how the team treated me. Their wives, husbands, partners, their kids, it was almost as if Steve had never existed. There were still moments of well-meant advice, sometimes rather unwelcome in their assumptions (it is amazing exactly what sexual diversity exists in suburbia) but all in all we went about as a normal, heterosexual couple. Simple domesticity.

This is the point, of course, where the stories I had read veer off with some sort of odd twist. I would come home unexpectedly, and find Geoff cavorting with a woman, or a man, or some unspecified form of mammal; or, worse, my arrival would coincide with a time when he just HAD to wear my clothes and stand in front of a mirror, and I would enter the bedroom and he would look at me and ask “Do my thighs look big in this?”

Well, dear reader, that is exactly what happened. There he was, in my clothes, asking my opinion.

Of course, they were clothes I had given him when my life changed, so technically they were his now, and the items in question were a pair of skinny-fit jeans that his cyclist’s thighs were straining a bit, so shame on you for your unkind and deviant thoughts.

Geoff was actually affecting my new wardrobe, in that he would take an interest in what I wore, and every now and then, in a totally abnormal-for-males way he would venture an opinion. I was wearing shorter skirts than before, as he said he liked my legs, and I was even buying things that could be described as “pretty”. Then again, as I was shopping properly now instead of doing it online or furtively in charity shops it was a lot easier.

I had made a series of visits to the local charity shops when Steve was alive, each time browsing the books with one eye whilst scanning the rails with the other. I only ever made one clothing purchase in each shop as “we’re having a drag night party” can only really work once. So, after each purchase I would find another shop to play the same game with. I sincerely hope there is no trade body where they swap stories of weird customers.

The most awkward purchase ever was my famous sports bra. I had prepared for it with copious internet research, but there always remains the terrifying fact of walking into a major chain of sports shops and asking for one for “the girlfriend”

I had to guess the size, for a start, and having had, at that stage, a decent amount of electrolysis done on my face, I didn’t have the option of going all moody and unshaven butch rugby player. And you know now exactly what a blush means to me. I suppose that I got away with it largely because any half-serious transvestite, in the minds of the shop assistants, would have been drooling over some lace and froth confection and not a name-brand plain white female jock strap. Then again, I did once find a gentleman (professionally, that is) with a magazine that depicted women in interesting garments made of rubber. I assume they were women; there was no visible flesh at all under the fishing waders, Sou’Wester hat and rubber coat.

And gas mask. It really does take all sorts.

I came up with some story about a sponsored run for charity, and as I grew and changed, that was my sole support until I managed to find a couple of alternatives on line. Same problem.

“Please enter the name of the cardholder as it appears on the card”

Now, I know that nobody is really going to go through the records looking for suspicious cross-dressing Welshmen, but you have to understand the fear that lived in me. I was so sure of who I was, who I am, and yet so scared of what the world would say. I have already made all the jokes about balls that are needed, but any girl who has gone through transition knows what it was and is like.

It was that beach at Dunwich, with the icy sea awaiting me. Do I walk in, feeling the cold work its way up my body inch by inch, until I am finally in? Or do I plunge head first and hope my heart doesn’t stop with shock? That was my dilemma, until the Woodruffs, but I had been worse. Like the child who has asked for, and received, all the toys to play in the sea, the face mask, the snorkel, but won’t even put a toe in, that was me. Sally was getting me my toys, but I didn’t dare take them out to play.

I remember when I really was a child, on the beach at Barafundle or Traeth Mawr, with the sun glinting on the waves and the rocks, and my father would watch me hesitant just beyond the reach of the dying waves, and without warning seize me from behind. Holding me across his chest he would charge out into the sea, thrills of cold water splashing my back from his pumping legs, as he ran, laughing, to dive full length holding me, so that the choice of going in, that risk, the need to face down the fear and make a bloody decision to do what I already knew I wanted to do, all those were taken away and I got the gift of being handed something I already had.

I miss my father, I miss him dreadfully and constantly. I was old enough when he died to understand that he loved me, but not old enough to truly understand how he loved me, and why, and the depth of the love a parent has for their child.

Naomi speaks to me of my mother, and she is sure that she would not have loved me more, for that is not conceivable, but that she may well have loved me differently. Neither better nor worse, but as my father had loved me as a son, as any father loves the little man he has to follow him, perhaps she would have seen me in a similar light.

When I think of Big Bill, and Tony, I am seized by the deep belief that a child should never, ever predecease their parent. I can feel his loss through the lens of my own, but without Bill and Geoff, and now Kelly, I am sure he must needs have felt the future was dead before it started. For me, it is so different. I have been swept up, in strong arms, and carried full tilt into the wide ocean.

But how I wish they were here to share it with me.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 38

We now had two events thundering down the track towards us. One was PBP, and the other was our anniversary.

That is how we thought of the festival; Geoff was also, only half-jokingly, referring to it as my birth day, with the gap between the words emphasised. We planned a mass family descent on the event, with extra silliness, but first we had to get through the French Ride.

My worry was still my passport. I was fully immersed in my new life now, and despite my suggestion to Geoff I could not only not face going in drag, but I now felt that I wouldn’t be able to pull it off. Without my lost baggage, I was naturally becoming more and more feminine in my appearance, but I was also developing kinetic reflexes, body memories, based on my altered shape. I had breasts, they stuck out, I worked around them. So did Geoff, of course, but once more that is a private matter. How I sat, how slept, even how I drove wearing a seatbelt, all was adjusted to fit.

Not just that, but how I moved when with Geoff .would have had to change. I had slipped into a habit with him, where I would come up behind him when he was looking at something and rest my cheek against his, hugging him from behind, and he would do much the same to me. Two men, doing that on a cross-Channel ferry full of lorry drivers and tightly-zipped Daily Hate readers didn’t bear thinking about. I decided to have a word with call-me-Vanessa and see what, if any, my options were. She was straight to the point.

“You know, I had almost forgotten what you are, you pass yourself off that well”

“Vanessa, there is no ‘passing myself off” here, I am merely being myself. If I were to drag myself up as a bloke, THAT would be passing myself off as something I have never been, but I know we can never agree on that one. No, my worry is that even in men’s clothes I would look wrong. Look at my choices: go as me, and have some snotty Immigration Officer get shirty because it says “M” in my passport, or go as Steve and get pulled aside as an imposter.”

“You do realise that if I make a phone call to Portsmouth you will simply end up with the entire station turning out to stare at the freak?”

“If I can walk into a rugby dinner in heels and long frock I think I can put up with that. I’ll be looking at getting the five o’clock boat back, so it will be ten thirty or later before we come through. I will also be with Geoff, and I can face an awful lot more with him than I ever could alone.”

“You seem awfully fond of this chap. Does it cause him problems with his family, him being gay?”

I could now go into a long account of a conversation I have had far too many times, and am sure I will continue to have for decades to come, but you already know it by heart. How is it possible, after all the years, the reams of paper, the “diversity awareness courses”, that such a senior manager is still unable to separate such concepts as gender, sex, sexuality and love? I touched my locket to remind me that some people were so much more aware, and I was lucky enough to live with one. In the end, c-m-V agreed to make the calls and drop a few subtle hints to those rostered on the car lanes that night. The drawbacks I could see included the likelihood that once they realised I was a colleague they would feel free to ask questions far more personal than they would of other passengers, and not feel they were being too personal. What deep joy.

We booked the tickets on Brittany Ferries’ sailing to Ouistreham, just north of Caen in Normandy, which would allow us a pretty direct route to St Quentin en Yvelines, near Paris, the start of the ride. The plan was an exercise in Woodruff planning: Geoff and I would drive to the start from Caen where we had booked a room. I would then leapfrog Geoff from feeding station to station to Fougá¨res, where the rest of the clan would await us with an erect Edifice. As much sleep as we could fit in would be grabbed, in both directions, thus avoiding the potentially noisy dormitories provided by the organisers. Once we had passed through on the way back, the trio would head off to St Quentin for the finish. It isn’t like the Tour de France, where support vehicles share the road with the bikes; I would be driving a separate, approved route and only seeing him at the “ravitaillement” controls..

The days counted down, and then we were driving in a two vehicle convoy down the A3 to Portsmouth, to join the shambolic queue that stretches from the roundabout near the Admiral Drake pub to the allocation lanes for the ferry. As the event starts in the late evening, at eight o’clock in Geoff’s case, we took the night ferry for an early morning drive to the start, and then into our room for as much sleep through the day as we could manage. Sometimes, shift work has its advantages, one in this case being that I am used to sleeping at very odd times of day and night.

We eventually boarded in a chaotic mass, the ticket clerk merely glancing at my passport, and sent Kelly on a search and occupy mission. There are horseshoe-shaped banks of sofas set around tables, and three people can sleep under said table. Take mats, bags and ear plugs and the night passes much more quickly. We followed the unguided missile laden with the necessaries and found her facing down a group of boys who couldn’t see why there was no room for them as well. I could smell the testosterone in the air, perhaps because I have become more sensitive to it since I began resorting to Geoff for my own supply. Teen wolves sent packing, we made our beds and sent an adult scouting party up to the bar as, at quarter to eleven, twenty seven and a half thousand tons of ferry began to back out of Portsmouth harbour.

There was quite a queue, allsorts of folk looking for a sleeping draught before whatever long drive lay ahead of them. There were also a couple of musician types setting up, a guitarist and a man with a small set of keyboards. As the people ahead of us thinned and the press increased behind, they started to play. I noticed Bill’s head nodding to the rhythm of a cover of “All Right Now” by Free. Not bad, nice crisp riffing, with electronic percussion from the keyboards. Might be worth staying for a bit. Just as the pints and wine were served, the guitarist launched into the solo.

No. Stop it right now!

He quite simply was making no attempt to play anything coherent. It was a stream of random wails and trills that were not even in the same bloody KEY! You have to imagine an aging man with an open shirt, showing some chest hair, a frizzy mullet of a haircut, a moustache and, of course, a medallion. The only saving grace was that he was not wearing leather trousers, but he was gurning and writhing in true cock-rock poses as his, er, solo was cranked out, to be followed by his workmanlike take on the riff as the song ran its course.

Have you ever watched a truly poor musician, blissfully unaware of their lack of ability, and felt embarrassed for them? So embarrassed you find yourself blushing? That was me. Bill had the drinks, and just as we turned to leave the bar they started to disembowel some Hendrix. Bill winced.

“Dear gods, I think if we get any more drinks we send the other two for them before my ears resign their commission. They get paid for that?”

We arrived back at the seats just as it occurred to me that we had just witnessed the ferry’s main engines at full power. Clearly, Paul Kossoff and Jimi Hendrix were interred below decks, and as the performance upstairs triggered their rapid spinning, so the ship was driven forward. As the first strains of “Hey Jude” drifted down the stairs, I knew I was right.

The night passed fitfully, and towards the end I stood out on deck as we passed through the vast Bay of the Seine and the Invasion Coast of Normandy lay ahead. Soon, we were queuing for the French passport controls, my first real test. The PAF * man was a classic of his type, with a soup-strainer moustache under a surprisingly small nose. He riffled through the passports and paused at mine. Shit.

 « Vous est anglaise depuis quand?  »

 « Naissance, et c’est galloise  »

 « Et ben, hein ? Comme mon frá¨re, qui est maintenant normande….  »

He sighed, then grinned.

 « J’ai perdu un frá¨re, mais j’ai gagné une sÅ“ur qui me plaá®t vachement bien.  »

He handed back my passport, and smiled with genuine warmth.

 «C’est ton copain?  »

 « Il est mon homme bien aimé  »

 « T’as eu de la chance, mam’selle. Et bon courage, t’en auras besoin  »

Another melting smile, and he waved us on. I could see Geoff, a bit of a monoglot, struggling with the conversation.

“I’ll tell you later, cariad, but for now just be grateful that he was a very, very nice man.”

We stopped to hug the trio so long as they set off for Fougá¨res, and then fought the queue of traffic out of the port. The rest of the drive was pretty uneventful, apart from those little moments that come when you realise that even though the other driver is on the wrong side of the road it is actually the right side, and we were soon pulling up at a Campanile hotel with a room for us that held all sorts of things that could be ignored, all centred round a great, big, real BED. We set the alarm for four o’clock. We would get up, eat as much as possible (in Geoff’s case, that was), go back to bed with a bottle of wine and be friendly. The following evening I would be alone.

I hoped our PAF man had been an omen for the future, and silently wished him and his new sister the best of all things. I already had that, dribbling into my pillow.

*PAF: French air and frontier police---immigration control

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 39

And then we were there, with hundreds of other cyclists, going through the rigmarole of registering riders and support vehicles.

Some very odd-looking people were there, and for some reason nobody seemed to be talking to anyone else. Geoff looked remarkably out of place, his arm around my waist and his hand slipping down to my bum every so often, but he explained that AUKs were solitary birds…..

Brevet stamped. I waved him off behind the initial escort of cars and motorbikes, and then busied myself in getting ready for the dawdle along the approved route to the first control. There would be 15 stages, over 80 hours, and the earliest start for Geoff was at five pm on the Sunday, so he had to be back by one am on Thursday morning to be successful. So, some time in the small hours of Tuesday he should be in Brest, only to wave at the sea and turn around.

The next few days are a blur. I seemed to do nothing but drive, sleep fitfully until the alarm went off, cook pasta and brew coffee, and swallow packet after packet of those wonderful little friends, chocolate-covered coffee beans. I don’t remember Brest at all, and to be honest, I don’t think Geoff really remembers anything after his first stop at Fougá¨res. We grabbed a too-short cuddle in the Edifice that time, but on the way back he was running near to the edge of his permitted time, and all we could do was snuggle together as he fed himself.

I had seen many people simply lie down at the side of the road and give up, to be covered over by a blanket and left to sleep, or in two cases collected by ambulance. Even though the ride was taking place around the clock, it always seemed to be dark, riders coming in with obscenely bright lighting rigs hiding hollow eyes and grey skin. I began to see the odd person with head straps, reaching from the back of the helmet to their spine so as to hold their heads up even when so incredibly tired. There was also the confusion, and crowding, in the controls on the return stages as outgoing riders crossed those heading back to Paris. Fortunately, Jan had taken Kelly and their car back to St Quentin and Bill was with me to spell me at the wheel. I found myself having conversations where Bill told me I was falling asleep in the middle of a sentence, only to resume it after a minute or two.

At the last control, at Dreux, Geoff was only quarter of an hour within the allotted time. It had been raining for some time, and a nasty little headwind had sprung up. It was heartbreaking to see a man I thought of as being able to ride endlessly now almost grovelling after over 1,100 kilometres of pain. I fed him, massaged his legs, refilled all his bottles and sent him off with a kiss. There was nothing more I was allowed to do, and he now only had 66 km left, just about41 miles. Bill and I packed it all up, and I slumped in the passenger seat for the short drive to the finish.

Three and a third days. 1,225 kilometres. Rain, wind, hills, three flat tyres, countless bowls of carbohydrate-loaded food, four pairs of shorts; Eighty hours were allowed for Geoff’s group, and four of us standing in a crowd of what seemed to consist largely of Brits were getting worried. There was only an hour and a half left, and the rain was slicing though the air like grinding powder, turning our cheeks pink and numb. Riders were stumbling in, some looking obscenely unruffled while others were weaving and swerving as they tried to keep legs turning that had bonked several villages ago.
And there he was, yellow waterproof zipped up to the chin, fleece hat under a helmet with a waterproof cover, front LED lights almost dead while the dynamo continued to burn.

He was in, and after the formalities of brevet card and frame number we loaded up the vehicles and headed back to our hotel, Bill driving Geoff and myself riding with the other girls. I busied myself with sorting some things for the next day while Geoff hit the shower, and when I went into the bathroom to wash his back I found him sitting on the floor under the warm spray, fast asleep. It took me a little while to stir him, dry him off and get him into bed, and just after I crawled under the covers with him I realised it was full daylight. I couldn’t even remember pulling the covers over me.

We wandered down to the little dining area after calling up the trio, and had the rather unsatisfying snack that French chain hotels call breakfast. Bill seemed terribly smug, and the girls kept giggling. I noticed two suitcases next to the table. What exactly was going on?

“Come on, Bill, stop smirking, what are you up to?”

“Well, I still have Geoff’s van keys and I have no intention of giving them back”

“Woodruff senior, it is only ten o’clock and you cannot have been on the juice already. What are you talking about?”

He smiled, and said “Does Geoff have his house keys with him? I will need them”

He laid two envelopes down on the table. I picked them up, and he just smiled.

“Happy rebirth day, in advance”

The envelopes were a pair of air tickets for three days’ time, from Paris to my own airport, and a hotel booking for three nights near Montmartre. Geoff looked on open-mouthed as our family sat doing an impression of the Three Wise Monkeys. Jan laughed, and said

“If you only knew the trouble I had keeping this one’s mouth shut! You two go and enjoy, we will take the van back and leave it in Churchwood, as long as you don’t mind us being in there when you are away”

For the first time in a while, I started to cry.

“Why would I ever mind having my family in my home?”

I looked at Geoff, and took his hand. “I mean our home, of course”

**********************************************************

We took the RER train up into the city that afternoon after waving off the troublemakers, and I was consumed with the excitement always felt arriving there, looking for the first sight of La Tour. It is amazing how it can be seen from a great distance away and yet be invisible from close to, but there it was as we wound up the Seine. Our hotel was definitely French; the floors sagged and creaked, the pipes groaned and gurgled, and on a metal rod in the bathroom a cake of hard soap was impaled, not far from the bidet, which gave rise to all sorts of odd visions. The pillows were hidden in the top of the wardrobe, as a French bolster was in place on the bed. Horrible things, designed to leave your neck with a permanent tilt to one side. No wonder the French shrug all the time, they are trying to ease their seized cervical vertebrae.

The landlady was an elderly husk of a woman with a smoker’s dry rasp of a voice and a taste in breakfast coffee that could restart a heart, or more likely stop one. I had an argument with her over breakfast, trying to explain how tea is not made with water from the hot tap. She took the kettle away, so I stuck with coffee.

The second morning she left the first rose on my breakfast plate. She had obviously been watching us; obviously not such a dried up husk. I kissed her cheek in thanks, and nearly choked on the smell of stale Gitanes.

I do like France, but they could do with a little less smoking.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 40

And so it was two full days in Paris, in a small hotel near Guy Moquet. This was real Paris, not a swanky hotel by the river or a tourist convenience seemingly built out of Lego, but a proper family-run place with character, quirks, inconveniences and incredibly thin towels.

Breakfast was a jug of coffee, some “toast”, a croissant, jam and butter, plus yoghurt, orange juice and fruit. The first morning we hopped on the metro at Guy Moquet to Les Champs Elysées Clémenceau, looking back up the long avenue to L’Arc de Triomphe and then walking down to the Concorde and its Egyptian needle. The weather was so different to that of the ride, the vicious front having blown through, leaving deep blue skies and delightful warmth. To take matters full circle, I was actually wearing the sundress I mentioned nearly a year ago, the one I had been too timid to go out in.

So, picture the scene, dear and patient reader. The camera slowly zooms in on a young(ish) couple strolling hand in hand through the Tuileries. He is wearing an open-necked pale blue shirt and a pair of well-worn and comfortable-looking jeans over a pair of tan deck shoes. He is lean and very fit-looking, with short dark-brown hair, a nose perhaps a little too big under warm brown eyes and a dancer’s grace to his walk.

She is an inch or so taller in her flat sandals, with dark-red-varnished toenails. Long legs lead up to a dark-blue mid-thigh sun dress that has spaghetti shoulder straps that show the pale blue of those of her bra. She has long auburn hair, held by a scrunchy fitted at the base of her neck so her head is in a cloud of russet. Small freckles dot her bare arms and the slope of her breasts, and a small, skewed nose. Eyes flash green among more freckles, as they flit regularly to the side to look at her companion.

They are both constantly beaming quick smiles at each other, and his hands are in a flow of motion as they walk, and pause, and peer at the sights. He holds her hand, or slips an arm around her waist, moves away to avoid an obstacle and then pauses, hand held ready for hers to take again. They stop, and his hand moves to her shoulder, or he trails a thumb gently down her spine, and she shivers, taking his wrist as he finishes by squeezing a buttock.

They laugh, quietly but constantly, and the distance between them is never more than a foot. It is hard to tell whether she is more fascinated by the tourist delights around them, or by her man’s face. When they stand still again, she slips a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and leans her head against his. Everything says “Paris is for lovers”

That was us. I knew I was being a hypocrite by moving his hand off my bum while I was fondling his, but that’s just tough. I also know that all of the above is just one long cliché, but once more, I don’t care. That morning was pure delight for me, and I do believe Geoff felt exactly as I dd. I was in a beautiful place (apart from all the trinket sellers) with a beautiful man, and I was in love.

Love is a funny thing. I never thought it would pick on me, and as a “boy” I had no real idea what form it might take. I mean, I knew I was a girl, but there was neither face nor gender in any of the vague dreams of my teenage years, just a feeling of being held and comforted, warmed and made safe. I had no inkling of how I might find it, as especially in my early teens boys were mainly the source of beatings and girls were subjects of my deep, deep envy.

That was my surprise, initially. Whether it was a by product of the stress of really coming out for the first time that festival weekend, my soul seemed to know exactly what completed it. I looked at Bill, and I lusted. I looked at Geoff, and my knees failed me. More than that, I was left with no doubts at all as to who and what I was. Years of hiding will always sow doubt in the deepest conviction; was I deluded, an attention-seeker, mentally ill? Geoff wiped all that away with one smile and a dance.

We stopped for a while by the Louvre pyramid, but the thought of fighting hordes of foreign tourists (the French were all away on the South Coast) for a glimpse of some Italian woman’s picture didn’t appeal. Instead, we crossed the Pont Neuf past the miniature Statue of Liberty to the ÈŠle de la Cité and, of course, Notre Dame, where Geoff ran around shouting “Esmerelda!” and “Molten metal!”

Men. Train spotters for film quotes, like students and Monty Python.

We took a light lunch from a sandwicherie and started a stroll back along past the Hotel de Ville to the Chá¢telet metro for a ride up to Chá¢teau Rouge and the walk across to the onion domes of the Sacré Coeur. In one loop we had ticked off a lot of the more gorgeous sights of the city, but I still wanted to see one in particular.

“Later…..I want to catch it around sunset. Find a decent meal, arrive at a suitable time, watch the sun go down, have a snog…and a beer or two”

You old romantic you.

Dinner was nice, though, in one of those side-street bistros where the waiters have ankle-length aprons, and even the bottle of cheap cider ordered at the next table came in an ice bucket covered by a serviette. We pigged out, with a salade de gésiers and soupe á  la Sá¨toise followed by l’assiette de fruits de mer. By the time we had dismembered and devoured the heap of crustaceans and molluscs, I was ready for a light dessert. We skipped the cheese plate, and I asked for a tiramisu.

 « Mam’selle, le tiramisu n’est pas de la maison, c’est industriel. Peut-áªtre notre mousse au chocolat…  » *

And so it was, and it was very nice indeed. We finished our wine, had a couple of espressos, and headed out for our destination.

There is a series of lifts, at a variety of angles, and there is a bar with surprisingly reasonable prices, and eventually a railed platform around a towering antenna at 896 feet above the city. The sun was just setting, an orange glow to the West, and the various illuminations were coming out. I had a small cardigan with me against the chill, but Geoff was warm and I was happy. Of course, as he had suggested, there was more than a little snogging, but each time I came back to the world I could see several other couples doing just what we were. Holding each other, pointing out the best bits of the view, cuddling and kissing.

We were late back to the hotel, and very late getting to sleep.

That was the pattern for the following day as well. Strolling, grazing at food stands (“Six penn’orth of snails, mistah, an’ none of your slugs neither”) and just being together. Each morning I had a rose on my breakfast plate, and I have to ask, will you laugh if I admit I pressed them in a guide book and kept them as truly precious souvenirs?

There was a piquancy to the last morning, for while I knew our little break was over, I would still be waking up net to my man for the foreseeable future, and that similar trips awaited us. As we headed out to Charles de Gaulle airport for our return home, I was in a warm fuzz of happiness. The world was, for once, fluffy, and my nightmares were being steadily laid to rest. Geoff’s own horrors had abated, and I really felt that Tony’s spirit had found release. He had haunted Geoff, and his family, for so long that it seemed in some areas they had lost the power of rational thought. I mean, Geoff seemed to love me, and that was hardly a rational decision

The check-in queue was much shorter than I had dreaded, and we were soon free of our bags and ready to pass through the security process. Boarding cards presented, shuffle forward step by step, pick up the plastic tray and fill it with anything that might annoy the metal-detector, Geoff through the arch and collecting his stuff, I stepped through and the alarm went off. A woman security guard stepped forward.

 «Vous áªtes anglaise, non ?  »*

 « Galloise….  » I sighed

 « Il faut que je vous visite le corps. I ‘ave to search you  »

Shitshitshit.

She was thorough, pushing her fingers up under my breasts to feel the bra, and then running her hands up my thighs. I felt the back of one hand brush my penis where it was tucked back, and she immediately snatched at it.

 «Qu’est-ce que c’est ?  »

 « C’est ma bite.  »

*********************************************************************

*Translations :
"Miss, the tramisu is not made here, it's commercial. Perhaps our chocolate mousse?"
“You’re an Englishwoman, no?”
“Welshwoman…”
“ I have to search you”
“What is that?”
“It’s my cock”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 41

This was it, the moment I had dreaded. Her hand stayed where it was for far too long, and she glared at me with what seemed like real hatred.

 « Chef! Il dit qu’il est un travesti! Qu’est-ce que je doive faire ?  »*

A wannabe de Gaulle, or maybe Clouseau, came across, and looked me up and down as if he was contemplating something unpleasant laid by a dog. Geoff came to my side.

“What’s going on, love?”

“They’ve just found my extras and she doesn’t like me”

Nose and hat was speaking to his harpy.

 «Faut qu’on le fouille.  »

He called across to two of his other security guards, and needless to say they were both men. I realised exactly what he intended as I caught parts of a muttered conversation, in which the French words and phrases most prominent were those for “search”, “queer” and “strip”. He called across another couple of knuckledraggers, and as they cornered Geoff, the first pair pushed me over to a small room past the smirking bitch. The door shut behind me, and the taller of the two bluntly said as he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves

 «Déshabille-toi »

I just stood and wept. All of the delight of the last few days drained from me with my tears. I began undoing the buttons of my blouse with hands trembling so much I just couldn’t manage the second. I felt ready to collapse on the floor and curl up, I just wanted Geoff there, or to die, or both. The other guard spoke.

 « Alain, arráªte. ဠton avis, vraiment, celle-ci est un travesti ? Ni un terroriste, non, moi je dirais. Laisse-la tranquille, tu sais quelle espá¨ce de salope est Hélá¨ne, et Lebel n’est qu’un fils de pute, et la chose la plus importante, cette fouille est illégal. Putain de bordel de merde, laisse la dame tranquille !  »

He turned to me.

“You are English, non?”

I couldn’t be bothered to argue, and just nodded. I was starting to be hopeful that this might yet turn my way.

“I am sorry that this is happened. The man, Lebel, he is shit, and woman we don’t think get any sex, and she like nobody ever. I must work here, I must do what he say me to do, but I will not be stood before a magistrate, vous m’avez compris? We go back now, and we say you have had searching, and Alain, he says nothing, la ferme, hein, Alain? Then I speak with syndicat, with union, non? And with big chef and Lebel he gets problem. Lebel, he is not all French men, you know, he is just salaud. We go now speak to your copain, you fly your home and we say sorry for this bad thing”

I couldn’t help it, I hugged him, and kissed his cheek, and the bald little man blushed bright red. Alain started to chuckle at that, and I just looked at him and quoted “Toi?”

He looked away, and I did up my button before making an effort to wipe my face on a roll of blue paper towel on a shelf in the corner. Marc, as the bald man turned out to be called, led me out of the room straight to a toilet, which to my great relief was marked with a skirted silhouette.

Once more I seemed to be finding proof of my deeply-held belief that while the world is indeed full of turds, they are greatly outnumbered by the bulk of people who are just normal, decent, caring human beings. The thought of having to stand naked in front of those two men…I shuddered, and decided that whatever happened I would have Lebel’s balls in a jar.

My two rather ugly knights delivered me back to Geoff after I had washed my face. He was slumped in a corner and had clearly been crying. There were two policemen there as well, and Lebel was holding a red-stained tissue to his nose. I rushed to Geoff, who held me wordlessly. I whispered in his ear

“What happened here?”

“I decked the fucker”

I just held my man. Marc was talking to the two flics, and one of them chuckled as I caught the words “Crime passionel” A man in a suit turned up, and after listening to Marc and the copper, he spoke to Lebel. It started quietly, but steadily got more heated. I caught the odd phrase, and the gist seemed to be a rather forceful discussion about lawsuits for indecent assault.

And then Suit reached out to Bleeding Nose and took a laminated pass from his shirt breast, pointed to the outside world and said “Mon bureau, demain, á  neuf heures. Va t’en”

Suit came across as Lebel scuttled away.

“Miss Jones, is it? I wish to extend our apologies for my employee’s totally unacceptable behaviour. There is no excuse I can properly offer, beyond my hope that you can understand that he is not typical of my staff, and it is likely that he will no longer be working here after the inquiry I intend to hold”

He looked across at the harpy, and I got the feeling that Lebel wasn’t the only one with storms ahead.

“I have also spoken to the police and they understand that your husband only punched him to protect you from an assault, so no charges are to be brought against him. C’est vrai, Georges?”
One of the policeman grinned,

 «Il y a deux qui vous protá¨gent, Madame, le bon Dieu, et son droit ! C’était un bon coup, Monsieur !  »

Being France, there was then a round of handshakes, and I noticed Geoff wincing as he did so. It later turned out he had fractured a bone in his hand punching Lebel. We were treated to some coffee and nibbles before our plane left, but by then all I wanted was to be home and in my own bathroom so I could wash off the feel of her hand and the stains I felt had been left on me by his eyes.

The flight was on time for once, and we were soon standing by the baggage belts awaiting our cases. I wandered over to the channels for a word with Donna, whose team were on, and she noticed my red-rimmed eyes.

“What the hell has he done to you, girl?”

I explained that he had done things for me, and not to me, and Donna called over her team to hear the story. There were various obscenities and tightened lips, but when I got to the bit about Geoff decking the security team leader there was a quiet cheer. Donna looked up at the board.

“You’ve got a belt, and fancy a beer tomorrow night? Litten Tree at seven? You’ll be starved of curry after a week in Frogland”

We quickly agreed the time and place, and I trotted off back to Geoff to get the cases.

When we came back to the Blue Channel we found the team lined up, giving Geoff a round of applause as we passed through.

The world is full of wonderful people, but all too often you don’t realise it until the bad ones make you see.

* “Boss! He says he’s a tranny ! What should I do?”
“He’ll have to be searched.”
“Get undressed (very rude form of address)”
“Alain, stop. Do you really think that this one (female sense) is a tranny? Nor a terrorist, no, I’d say. Leave her in peace, you know what a bitch Helen is, and Lebel is no more than a whoreson, and the most important thing, this search is illegal. For fuck’s sake [lit: whore from a shit brothel] leave the lady alone!”
“Crime of passion”
“My office, tomorrow at nine. Get out”
“You have two looking after you madam, the Good Lord, and his right hand. That was a good punch, sir!”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 42

We returned home by taxi, and I am afraid I left Geoff to put things away and make tea. I had to wash. All over.

I stood under the shower head bowed as the water ran down over my breasts and streamed from the ends of my hair. It was also pouring off the end of my penis, and after that day, if there had been a knife to hand I would have used it. Ever since my realisation of exactly why I felt so out of place and wrong I had seen my body as something incorrect, a little like a shirt the wrong size or shoes that pinched. They were things that could be exchanged for others that fitted better, as I had discovered in that newspaper so many years ago. I had never truly hated parts of my body; they were just there temporarily until I could get the tailor in for an adjustment. Even Raj referred to it as my “nip and tuck”, and for years I had patiently gone through the hoops to get the surgery. Two things had changed me, though.

Geoff was the first. I have used the word “validate” to describe how he made me feel so completely myself, but that other word is better. Complete. Geoff Woodruff completed me, and now I wanted more than ever to be complete for him, for us. He accepted that I wasn’t quite right down there, but he still clearly found it awkward at times. I knew he loved me, my poor broken-handed protector, but Mr Floppy still intruded.

The other thing that was making me hate myself that evening was Lebel. With people like him around, I could not travel, I could not live a normal life where things could be done casually on the spur of the moment without advance planning. All because of a piece of flesh. Even after the operation, and a steady flow of hormones, I was still a big “boy”, the irony being almost painful. Men paid vast sums for everything from vacuum pumps to radical surgery to make their Bruce* bigger, and here was I …it was enough to make me cry, and I did, and then Geoff was in the shower, wordless again, just letting his body and his arms speak his love for me.

He soaped my back and then washed my hair properly, kissing the back of my neck every so often, still awkward with his right hand. He’d have to drive to work till it healed, or take the train, as he couldn’t ride with the injury.

I suddenly realised what had happened. I was lost in a morass of self-pity and loathing, and then he appeared and I was instantly switched over to domesticity. He touches me, and I am whole, freed of doubt, as happy as a woman can be whose life partner has just injured himself protecting her from the night terrors and the day hyenas. Because I know how vulnerable he is it makes me feel stronger, feel the need to be strong for him. We weren’t made for each other, because we didn’t ft together correctly, but a little trimming would sort that.

If ever any doubt was hiding in some cobwebbed corner of my mind, it vanished silently and without trace. As soon as Raj signed me off, and a place on the waiting list was found, I would have the final adjustment made.

********************************************************
The following evening we met Donna and her new husband Alan at the Tree for a couple of beers and then continued round to the Star of India for a Ruby Murray. I wanted to make a good impression an Alan, so I wore my hair in a French plait that Kelly had taught me, as well as a little bit of make-up. Geoff was wearing one of my rugby shirts, which fitted him quite nicely to my eye, and his comfy jeans, but I had gone for a burgundy knitted dress that reached to my knees. The logic of the colour was that Tandoori spills might not show up….although turmeric would. A pair of low-heeled court shoes completed my look, and also attracted Geoff’s own looks.

“Do you realise exactly how tightly that stretchy stuff fits round your bum, love?”

“It’s ‘hips’, dear, not ‘bum’”

“As if I cared what you call it. Just make sure you stay in front of me so I can watch”

Donna is a comfortably-built girl, and Alan was a couple of years older and what seemed like a foot taller. When he reached out to shake Geoff’s hand on arrival I winced in anticipation, but he pulled his hand back immediately.

“Sorry, mate, nearly forgot. Donna tells me you twatted someone with it and did a bit of damage to yourself”

Geoff looked up at Alan, and I swear his eyes glinted red.

“I didn’t hit the bastard hard enough. I think I felt his nose go, but they grabbed me before I could get another one in. I had a kick at his balls, but they jerked me back and I missed”

THIS was my gentle man? THIS was the man worried that I might hurt him after he saw me play rugby? Still waters indeed! I interrupted quickly before the account gathered speed.

“It was thanks to one decent Frenchman that I walked out of there still sane, but I was more than pleased to see what my hero here did to our unpleasant friend. But….it was not nice, and I want a beer, and its friends, and a curry and a laugh, and we are going to talk about nice things tonight, or at least salacious ones. Got me?”

And so it went. We drank ale, we ate naan and poppadums and lime pickle. I had dhansak and a brinjal bhaji. We talked about whether Little John would ever get anywhere with the hostie he had been chatting up for at least a year, and Alan filled us in about their new house. Donna, of course, had to trot out stories of the hen night, especially my reaction to the Organs of Destruction I had been forced to handle. I blushed.

“I’ve never seen one that big….”

Donna just smiled happily.

“Oh, I have…” she said, as Alan coughed, and she continued.

“Steph, you were never a bloke, were you? “

“My birth certificate and my parents would disagree with that one, Donna”

“Oh, sod that. You were always a bit odd, and the last couple of years when you’ve always had your woolly on whatever the weather. You know, there were times you were just so sweaty…..let’s just say it’s a good job you are always so clean. No, it was more than that. I used to catch you looking at women, but it wasn’t like the other lads, you just looked wistful, and I never saw you PFP**.”

“Well, if I ever had, it might have confused you even more. I gather you all thought I might be gay”

“Oh god yeah, I thought that but then I never saw you check out any blokes either”

“Well, as you can see I didn’t need to, he checked me out first”

Geoff muttered something about that not being true. I shushed him.

“Remember what Kelly told me? ’I think Geoff likes you’! Who dragged whom up to dance? Besides which, I fancied your brother”

He looked startled. “You fancy Bill?”

“Only until I saw you, cariad”, and then I kissed the palm of his hand. Now, that made him blush, and Donna was giggling, and there were rumblings of some sort coming from the huge man across the table. This was exactly what I needed to bring the light back, and I made a mental note to prod Raj about a date.

We said good night to the newly weds and took a taxi back to our house. In a week’s time we would be off to “our” festival, celebrating a full year together, but just for no reason other than that I loved him I had resolved to be especially nice to my man and so, dear reader, I will leave you at the bedroom door.

*Bruce: a gentleman friend from down under
**PFP: unfair allegation made whenever an Officer stops an attractive member of the opposite sex. Pull For Pleasure.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 43

I despair of my colleagues, sometimes. Donna, being on a different team, works a different slot on the roster, so where she had a late shift after a night on the beer I had an early turn.

It was apparent from the reactions of some of the passengers I stopped that despite a serious regime of mouthwash and toothbrush there was still more than a hint of garlic clinging to me, perhaps exacerbated by a week in France. I tried hot tea, I tried eating two packets of extra-strong mints, but I still got that wince whenever I spoke. When a couple eats garlic, it becomes neutralised between them, so they don’t notice it. When someone else is involved, though, it can be a bit like gas warfare. Little John made the point, preceding me into the Channels swinging an imaginary bell and calling out “Unclean! Unclean!”

I had an appointment with Raj arranged for four, contingent as usual on not getting a job, and of course that is exactly what happened. Sue pulled a nervous little man off one of the morning West African arrivals and, not to give too much away, he was just screaming “swallower”, which was a bonus for me. As a woman, I was certainly not going to the Frosty to watch a man shit out packages, and as a transitoning woman I was safe from having to do the same for any females we might catch. Win-win!

I had heard horror stores from the older staff about how swallowers used to be dealt with, where they did their business into a cardboard bowl for Officers to poke through with a pair of plastic tongs and a colander to sift the produce with. Now, there is a glass and stainless-steel throne, the Frost cabinet, for them to drop their load. It comes down a chute, you wash it off with built in sprays and somebody else’s toothbrush, and then bag and freeze the packages.

It still involves someone else’s excrement though, and it still smells. You didn’t want to know any of that, did you?

The client was protesting his innocence, as ever, despite a very clear X-ray image, and I put my oar in.

“Do you know what is the most important thing here? That you don’t die. If you keep these inside you, they will start opening. If they open, you die, and we don’t want that. You understand?”

“Of course I understand you, but I am a good Christian and I swear to God that I have not swallowed any of these packages you are talking about”

I showed him the X-ray, pointing out the packages clearly visible inside him.

“Look, there is no way you are leaving us until we have these things out of you. The last person to die here was only 22. We do not want another death. How many have you swallowed?”

He looked down and away, breaking eye contact.

“One hundred and six”

“I will remind you that you are under caution. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the caution?”

“Yes I do”

“How many packages have you swallowed?”

“One hundred and six”

“What is in the packages?”

“They tell me it is cocaine”

We whipped him off to Custody, and apart from my notebook I wasn’t needed after the property was listed. As he did his first dump, and I heard the first packages (26 in one go!) rattle down the chute, I got the nod to shoot off to see Raj. I made it with five minutes to spare, but I had rung his receptionist in advance to let her know I was en route. He was already changed to go to the gym, and it felt rather odd with him n a tracksuit instead of his normal pin-sharp and formal dress. While Raj was irreverent in his speech, he was almost anal in the way he presented himself and his office. I was straight to the point, filling him in on the trauma in France and how I felt my life was being lived in a corner. He looked thoughtful, steepling his fingers and looking at me under raised brows. His voice was very measured, quietly picking his words.

“So, you are fully decided now, Stephanie? You are clear that you wish to become a woman?”

I nearly snapped at that. I had been sweating for days over this, and the pain of my French ordeal was still sharp and eager to hurt in the small hours of the night, and here he was playing word games.

“Raj, you are a devious curmudgeon and you are not going to wind me up. You know exactly what I am, and you know that I do too. I don’t want to ‘become’ anything other than what I always have been. I just want a refit.”

He grinned, which in his dark face was always startling, and he actually looked rather sweet and avuncular at that point. It was odd, but while he was forever making jokes and awful puns, I had always seen that as his stage persona, his own professional way of drawing out a patient. I had never, till now I realised, seen the real man, and there he was, in a badly-fitting Adidas tracksuit behind a geometrically-tidied desk.

“How long have you been on the open sea now, Stephanie?”

“About eleven months, in public”

“Do you know why I used that metaphor? There are two things you can do in a boat. One is to drift, with a risk of being wrecked, while the other is to make a purposeful voyage. Which do you think you are doing, yourself?”

I could see his point, and I realised that this was it, this was his final question, the clincher. I ordered my thoughts.

“I am on a voyage, Raj, to somewhere I need to be. People have tried to wreck me, and I did drift, I admit that, but that is over.”

“Where are you going, Stephanie?” he asked in his measured quiet voice, leading me on.

“You know, Raj, I think I have no idea where I will finally end up, but I have a dream that I think is realistic. I just want to live a normal life, get married if it is possible, to Geoff if he will have me; no big dreams, no dramatic wishes, just to be able to live as myself”

“You see yourself in the full meringue, the big white dress, the bridesmaids and all that?”

I laughed out loud at the image. “No, Raj, just whatever ceremony is necessary to let the world know who we are, and to give us a say legally in each other’s lives. Signing a piece of paper will do, as long as it gives us that legality and normality”

He smiled again, and I blessed Sally for her choice in whom to hand her baton to.

“Stephanie, neither Sally nor myself have ever had any doubts about you. You have a month before your year is up, but I suggest you start putting your affairs in order. Let my receptionist have a list of any engagements you can’t get out of, for the next twelve months if possible, and I will speak to your friend the denadsifier”

He rose, and came round the desk to kiss my cheek.

“That was totally unprofessional, and unethical, and didn’t happen. Congratulations, dear girl, and take my very best wishes for the future for you and your fianc锝

“My fiancé?”

“Perhaps I missed something, but did you not use the m-word a few times?”

Bloody hell. I supposed that I better let people know. Geoff for starters.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 44

Thursday night and we were off. Driving past London on a Bank Holiday Friday is not my idea of fun, so Geoff and I were meeting up with the rest of the clan at Oxford before spending the Thursday night in a motel near Telford.

There was no camping allowed that night, so we would be in pole position for a good spot on Friday. Travelling by van also allowed us to take two road bikes rather than heavy tourers, and rather a lot of musical instruments.

Most importantly, duvets. I had got too used to touching and being touched at night to squeeze into a sleeping bag, so we packed my base camp tent, the duvets and some real pillows and set off for the motorway. We had planned a rendezvous at Cherwell services on the M40, and I had assigned the first part of the driving to Geoff so that as we hit Vicar of Dibley land I could safely scan for red kites.

We were early at the services, and grabbed an overpriced coffee inside. Fortunately for my blouse I wasn’t holding the cup when the Kelly missile hit me. Hugs, squeals, “Aunty Steffie!”, various stunned dogs whimpering in cars for a four mile radius, and Jan frowned at me.

“What’s this I hear about you fancying my husband?”

I couldn’t hold the blush back, nor could she her giggles. We fell into a hug, and as happens every time I see these people I blessed my luck in being found by them. Raj’s open seas metaphor was so apt here.

Kelly was off getting a greaseburger and counting the zits on the face of the boy who served her, while Jan scattered ham sandwiches around. A sharp whiff caught my nose, and I looked across to see what Bill was eating.

“What? I happen to like boiled egg and spring onion sandwiches!”

Jan nodded. “Yes, but there is no way I ever let him eat them last thing at night. Worse than garlic”

I thought back to that morning at work…

Kelly was back with some pile of cotton wool, chemical sludge and processed udders that she seemed quite happy to eat. “We’ve brought the barbie!”

Hmmmm. Men and their fire rituals; I resolved to get some pictures of Geoff and Bill while they still had eyebrows. Refuelled, and glad Bill’s onion breath was elsewhere, we set off up the M40 to loop round Birmingham for the road west. After the obligatory stop-go-stop on the M6 we were on slightly quieter roads and approaching the bulk of the Wrekin. Our motel was one of a chain, attached to a similarly-run “restaurant”

This particular chain is famous for doing huge breakfasts, which involve fried eggs. When a journalist visited and asked for an omelette, to be told that there were none left, he not unreasonably pointed out that if they had eggs to fry, then surely they could make one.
They apparently come frozen. The “chef” didn’t know how to make an omelette. Oh dear.

The morning was fine and sunny, and the promise was of generally good weather but with some squalls passing through. We worked our way into the town to find the site and join the queue that was already rather long even at this early hour, and when we pulled up to the gate we got the welcome instruction, after out tickets were checked, to go and pitch up and only then come back to register and get our wristbands fitted. All very civilised! We had already done a supermarket run, so had all the necessary stuff for a day or two, and there was plenty of space for our tents and vehicles. Kelly was whispering urgently, “Did you bring it?” so I admitted that, yes, I had indeed brought my two-man tent from last year.

I couldn’t quite follow her logic. She wanted to be in another tent so that she wouldn’t have to listen to “the olds” getting frisky, but in the end it was only four thicknesses of nylon between them and hardly soundproof. I suppose, at fifteen, she really just wanted a bit of independence, and her own tent gave her that illusion, while still being close enough to be safe in both her eyes and those of her family.

We were soon pitched, bedding laid out to air and loft, and of course a cuppa inside us. We wandered down to the box office tent, received our wristbands and obtained a programme. The steward looked at me.

“You’re back again, then, and I hope you’ve brought your fiddle! Didn’t you come by bike last---oh, I see!”

He had clocked the gathering of the clan, and slipped me a cheeky wink. Soon we were sat in the food tent with a “cup of Yorkshire tea” each, planning our weekend around the acts. I wondered where this “Yorkshire tea” was grown. Perhaps on the slopes of Ingleborough?

Jimmy was here again, with his band this time, so I hoped to get a chance to say hello if not play with him. Another fiddler I enjoy, Lisa Knapp, was here, as well as another chance to hear a certain brass-heavy band, preferably from a few miles away, and many others I hoped to see. There were practice sessions for beginners and improvers to help people build confidence to play in the sessions, which was a nice touch, and they had even produced a tune book for them.

And there was dancing, lots of it. We collected our instruments from the tent while Jan kept our seats, and after a lunch of rather nice pie and mash from a nearby catering stand we started making some noise. I had deliberately brought down the tune book, and we worked our way through a few of the simpler ones to get ourselves in the right mood. Partway through one tune, a young lad with a ponytail from the musical instrument stall joined us on fiddle, and we played around a bit on tunes like “Winster Gallop” and “Rakes of Kildare”, simple and fun tunes to bring a smile. Then there was the twang of a banjo, and a couple of melodeons, and…..

This was living.

There was an early evening ceilidh before the first act we actively wanted to see, a young Welsh group called Calan, so we returned to the edifice for a meal to fill the tanks. Jan did a very nice “risotto” consisting of rice and vegetables simmered in fish stock while some salmon cuts poached on top, and the local supermarket had provided some chocolate mousse for afters. There was such a difference between camping with a small tent and a lightweight stove, and camping with the Edifice. Being able to eat sat at a table, for one. I collared Kelly and asked about the lad she had brought round earlier.

“He ran away” she said.

“Ran away? What for?”

“He sad that we were all scary musical people and he couldn’t compete”

“But he can cook! Seriously, Kell, did you want him to stay?”

“He was fun, Steph, but I think he was right. I don’t know if it’s just because of the olds, and I know it will sound nasty, but I just can’t see myself ever without music, or committed to someone who can’t feel it. Am I odd, Steph?”

“No, love, you just have a soul that needs feeding. I am the same.”

“Rubbish! You were drooling over Uncle Geoff as soon as you saw him!”

Blushes. Hate’em. I decided I had to tell her.

“Kelly, do you know how much I love Geoff?”

She came over to me, wrapped me in a hug, and whispered in my ear.

“I think I know how much he loves you, and if you have half the feeling he has you would die rather than lose him. And do you know how much we all love our poor shy girl in her first dress?”

I couldn’t help it, I started to cry. She carried on, wise beyond her years.

“I love my uncle, and I know how much my other uncle’s….”

She leant away from me, and I felt her breathing catch.

“Do you really, really understand what you did for us in May? Grandad said it, being excellent and that, but you went and did it. You broke the circle, you let people breathe. For god’s sake, I’m only fifteen, but I have lived with this all my life. I don’t care if you vanish tomorrow, you healed my family”

She paused. “Steph, that was wrong. I really do care if you vanish tomorrow, I love you, and never want to lose you. Will you please, please marry my uncle so I can keep you?”

Mixed tears. Can you think of a more evocative expression of love?

We cleaned ourselves up and rejoined the clan in time for the first ceilidh, and in a burst of nostalgia I wore the Laura Ashley dress from last year. We trooped off to the dance with our instruments and a bag full of water bottles, which puzzled me as I intended to drink BEER, and found ourselves some seats. The band was tuning up, but for some reason the clan were smirking. Geoff came over to me and asked if he could have a word.

“Of course, love”

He took a deep breath, and dropped to one knee, pulling out a little box. Almost hyperventilating, he looked at the ground, then raised his eyes and visibly gathered his strength.

“Stephanie Bronwen Jones, will you marry me?”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6n2f8EnwfY Not Jimmy, but…..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndeY9R1fiMY&feature=related Lisa Knapp. I was actually in the audience at that performance.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 45

Of course, as I have said so many times, life isn’t like a story.

Many years ago, I had broken that finger, and the little lump of knitted bone stopped the ring from sliding up. We would have to get it re-sized. For the moment, I slipped it onto the chain that held my locket.
My answer to Geoff? Do I REALLY have to tell you that? Anyone that needs me to spell out my feelings has not been listening to anything I have said, but I did have to laugh. There was Raj, talking of my fiancé, and there was Kelly, talking about….

Hang on. She must have known beforehand; was she trying to push the issue in her own devious way?

“You knew, didn’t you?”

Her head dropped, and she looked away, miming a nonchalant whistle.

“You little vixen. You will suffer, you know. Maybe not now, but some time in the future, when you think it’s all forgotten…”

I looked at the other two.

“You all knew, didn’t you? This family’s like the mafia!”

Jan hugged me, followed by Bill, who kissed me gently on the lips.

“Welcome to our crazy little band”

We were interrupted by a fanfare from the band. The caller stepped up to the mike.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my spies inform me that we have just had a proposal of marriage in here! I think we should all be told what the answer is!”

I took Geoff’s hand and led him out into the middle of the dance floor.

“For the benefit of the single lades here, as well as any who would like to be single again, hands off! This lovely man is now officially all mine!”

I kissed him hard, and he kissed me back, and the crowd applauded and cheered, and the band slipped into a waltz just for us, and…..I had thought playing together had been living, but this was so much more. When we sat down again, when my feet touched the floor again, I started the phone calls.

“Sally. Want to be a bridesmaid?”

“Naomi, can you ask Albert if he would like to give me away?”

“Sue, I need some help planning a hen night”

In the end I had to use the dance as an excuse to cut short the calls. I was at a ceilidh, after all, with my man, and I intended to shake my stuff in style. I rather think we did, even though every new set involved a round of congratulations.

One life, recovered, all thanks to one man, one open-hearted, open-minded, lovely man. One who was all mine.

I collared him later. That brings up a number of images, one of which is that I let him get any distance away from me, but I wanted to know how and why such an endearingly shy man had made such a public proclamation.

“Steph, this is our anniversary, isn’t it? If I did it, I had to do it here”

“Yes, love, but why so public? Did the others push you into it?”

“They were involved, yes, but there was no pushing. I honestly, in my heart, knew you would say yes, but I didn’t know if I could do it. I asked Kelly to sound you out…”

“I know that!”

“No, it was all me, I just couldn’t see myself ever getting the balls to just ask, I had to put myself in a sort of script, a little situation that would make me go through with it. So, Jan spoke to the caller, and if I hadn’t got round to it they would have announced that I was going to ask you. You know how lousy I am at thismmmmmff”

That was when I kissed him to shut him up. My man, worried that he wasn’t brave enough when he risked a French prison to protect me. That was all it was, a man so damaged and painfully shy that he needed to be frogmarched to do what we both wanted. I put on my best Mum-voice.

“Geoff Woodruff, just to let you know where you stand, if you had NOT asked me this weekend I was going to ask you!”

He looked up, and suddenly the smile was back, that wonderful smile that I first saw a year ago. I continued in a softer tone, stroking his cheek.

“My love, I can no longer imagine life without you beside me. We both have huge problems, but it seems that we work through them so well when we do it together. I’ve cried on you, thrown up on you, got your hand broken, had Dave threaten you, how could I not love you?”

That smile. Those eyes. How could anyone not love him.

And so we danced; the water bottles were emptied, and therefore we had to go to the beer tent where we played, and drank beer, and went back to the tents and there, once more, I will leave you overnight.

A full breakfast. It would have been nice in bed, but Geoff was back on song, his fracture stable enough to let him ride, and the sod kicked me out of bed with a shout of “Up and at ‘em, fiancée!”, into the lycra and out for a thirty mile “livener” before I was allowed anywhere near more than a cup of tea. The posh showers people were back, and after sitting down to feed in our cycling kit I wandered over for a wash. So different from last year, when I needed Kelly’s support for almost everything that now seemed so natural. I had come so far in such a short time I was almost dizzy with the speed, but I had absolutely no doubts any more.

You know, it isn’t fair? We sat down to breakfast, on a lovely August morning, and Geoff was able to pull off his shirt and roll down his shoulder straps while I had to keep it all on! Tits, who’d have’em?

Well, me of course. I smiled to myself; and Geoff, by proxy. He still went to sleep with one hand cupping me, which is nice beyond words.

Showered, dressed in a cornflower blue summer dress and some flat sandals, I returned to the tents and pulled out one of the rugs we had brought. As Geoff read the Saturday paper, I lay on my back with my head in his lap and dozed in the sun. A skylark was shouting its joy to the world, and various tuning-up noises were coming from the main concert area. I lay in the warmth and for the first time I could ever remember I felt totally at peace. Bottle this day, keep it for sipping in later years, this was all that I needed. . In a half hour or so we would wander back over to the beer tent for a session, supposedly of Irish tunes, and then drift around the various stages until tea time and then do it all over again. For now, though, I was more than content just to lie back on a warm man and catch some rays..

The cold shock to my nose brought me bolt upright. Kelly had sneaked up to me and dropped a blob of sun cream there, and was now standing smirking.

“You being a ginge should use this more!” she giggled. I thought to myself: what the hell.

“You two, stay there!”

I stood up and dropped the shoulder straps of my dress, pushing the bodice down so that I was only clad above the waist in my bra. I lay down on my front on the rug.

“Cream me up, Scotty!”

Having the sunscreen rubbed into my bare back by Geoff was delightful. Having a large and cold dollop dropped onto me by Kelly wasn’t. Her time will come.

And the weekend carried on like that, with music, and love and laughter. The weather stayed mostly fine, the sharp showers blowing through almost as soon as they arrived. We got to see Lisa Knapp with her fey vocals and quirky fiddle, and Jimmy as a formal act with a small supporting band. His jokes were the same, though, and when the audience started joining in with the punch lines he just grinned, walked to the edge of the stage and held out his violin and bow.

“How, if ye knaa the jokes se well, hoo’s aboot coming up here te de the playin’ while Ah gan fer a pint?”

He had a new album out, with the obligatory signing session at the music stall, and we wandered round to say hello. I was wearing my locket with the ring outside my dress, and he spotted the diamond right away, his face lighting up. He said a few things, and kissed and hugged me, and I managed to decode his Geordie enough to understand that I apparently know how to make old men happy. Then he looked at Geoff’s grin and added “Aye, an’ young’uns tee!”

He held up a hand to silence the crowd.

“Hoo many o yez are ganna be here Monda’ neet? Cause Ah’m playin’ a supportin’ gig, fer this bonny lass here, so Ah’ll see yez aal in the session!”

Even more music, more dancing, good beer and the company of my family worked a rare treat on me: work vanished from my mind. My job is so involved, so consuming and often intense, that it takes over lives. For the first time I could remember, I went two days without a thought of it. We just had so much to do, even if large parts of it involved lying almost topless and topping up my freckles. I resolved to get a decent (‘indecent’?) two-piece swimming costume at some point, as I seemed to have stabilised in the lumpy-jumper area, and sun on bare skin was something I had almost forgotten due to my changing and changed shape. Kelly had said that I should undo my strap and lie face down to avoid tan lines. I pointed out that I already had rather prominent tan lines as a cyclist, but didn’t mention that I was actually hoping for some more, those of a “bikini top”

Women’s tan lines. Does that sound odd, or silly? I don’t think so; just another affirmation of my gender. I still wasn’t slathering myself in make up, and extreme girliness would never be my thing, but the quiet, simple trappings of femininity still held that little touch of delight, of confirmation of self, that I had been unable to find for most of my life. Many years ago, I saw a documentary about deafness in which a cochlear implant or some such medical device let a deaf person hear for the very first time; their delight at what we take for granted was immense , and that was how I felt.

There are such walls between the sexes in this world, unconscious divisions that most people don’t register unless they are caught like I was on the wrong side. If I had been cursed the other way, a ‘girl’ who was struggling to be male, I might have found joy in something as trivial as being able to fart in public. Being as I am, I took simple delight in the pattern of my suntan.

I would leave the farting to Geoff.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 46

So the circle is completed. We have danced till we dripped, drank till we were happy, sang till we croaked and played till we needed a cloth to hold a cup of tea.

We even went back into what they insist on calling the “Open Mic” competition, which always sounds to me like a friendly Irishman. MIKE for god’s sake!

We entered as a family, and lost out to another bunch of precocious little sods who must have started at the breast, but we consoled ourselves with the fact that we were old enough to drink smoke and shag. Well, except for Kelly, of course. And then none of us smoke. And I couldn’t actually shag, yet; but you know what I am trying to say.

We let down the tyres on their prams before we left.

It is one of the great things about the folk scene at the moment, the great wash of young talent coming through. I had made a point of hearing Calan , a young Welsh five-piece, who played on the “Village Stage” with a wind strong enough to make the harp strings sing on their own, and it wasn’t just the skill they brought, it was the fact that they genuinely seemed to be having fun as they played. I was different, much more intense, almost out of my body as I played, and as it was now Monday, we had a deal of playing to do. I needed to be at my best so as not to let Jimmy down. I dug out my lovely Green Dress.

We arrived early at the long bar to grab a good spot, and set up around a large circular table. There was an old man stretched out on the grass outside, cigarette in hand, pint beside him and cap over his eyes. Jimmy was relaxing in his own way, and I couldn’t blame him. The previous year, the session had gone on for four hours. Admittedly, the free beer for the latter part had helped ease the pain, though.

It was nice to see people I had been watching at the beginners’ sessions turning up to play, and I smiled at the memory of one of the “Irish” sessions at lunchtime. As two lads were screwing together the odd plumbing of a pair of uillean pipes, two members of a rather well-known morris side had started a tune on sax and trombone, and it was “Rule Britannia”

I don’t think the two pipers were impressed, but everyone else laughed.

We had come laden down with bags and boxes. I had my fiddle and mando, Geoff the bouzouki and octave, Bill both an English and an Anglo, Kell her clogs and whistles and Jan her bag of stuff and bodhran. I’d filched a copy of the tune book the festival had compiled, so that I would be able to lead some of the less confident for a while till I zoned out into that world of mine.

We got two drinks in each before the crush. I may have all sorts of personal problems, but stupid I am not! There seemed to be an inordinate amount of fiddlers, a lot of squeeze boxes, and two people with suitcases. Those proved to be almost full-sized harps, and later a girl with a ‘cello was to sit behind me and a man with a trombone in front.

I’d started by improvising on the mandolin to a group of American singer/guitarists, which was fun, and then one of the “beginner/improvers” took the plunge with “Winster Gallop”, possibly the simplest tune in the festival’s book. Slowly but inexorably the room split into two sessions, the other half seeming to have rather a lot of drummers. Now, the bodhran is actually a rather sophisticated instrument to play, despite being so simple in construction. It is an open-backed drum about three inches deep, and it is played upright on the knee. A right-handed person puts their left hand inside and flat against the skin, while their right holds a beater, usually double ended, rather in the manner of a pen. The beating technique, either double like mine or single ended, has both hands moving around the drum to get different sounds. Not just rim shots; the left hand can completely change the sound of the drum and make it “talk” The skill is to keep up a knife-sharp rhythm, emphasising the beat and pulse of the music, while letting the drum speak around the melody instruments.

Unfortunately, because it looks so simple, people buy them, and bang them, who have no discernible rhythm sense at all. Kelly talked of how she has the music in her soul, of how the dance lives in her hands and feet, and that can be magical. Give a drum to a more earthbound soul and….

I had duetted on bodhran in one of the lunchtime sessions with a left-handed woman who loved to syncopate, and we were exploring the different sonorities and tones of our drums to our mutual delight, when we were joined by a young lad with an amazingly complex beater technique. Unfortunately, he was one of the rhythmically-challenged. Oh dear.

Music is like a folk dance; it speaks to you, tells you what to do and when to do it, makes your feet want to move and your body sway, but only if you speak the same language. I am so very lucky, not just in the fact that can understand it, but that my whole family is the same. There is a joy in making melody that expands to some power of the number involved, and I have to be brutal and say that you either feel it, or you don’t.

The tunes got more complex as the younger folk drifted off to bed and the older ones came over for the serious playing, and there was a waft of stale cigarettes behind me as Jimmy slipped in.

“Let’s get it movin’ then, pet. We’ll de the Bottle Bank set”

And off we went into the “Marquis of Waterford”, “Bottle Bank” and “The Hawk”, all written by James Hill. Now stop me if I have told you this already, but Hill was an alcoholic, and the three tunes must be played in that order. Both of the end tunes were pubs, and Bottle Bank is the steep street between them. Once drunk in the Marquis, the only way was down….and they are nice quick tunes, with a lot of quirkiness, all triplets and double stopping. Good fun, and nicely absorbing. The ‘cello and trombone were giving us a nice bottom, someone had a melodeon with a brass effect, Jimmy was even managing triple stops and while Jan kept the beat all the more challenged drummers were either silent or elsewhere.

We finished on a flourish, and Jimmy handed a fiddle case to me as someone else took up “the Blackthorn Stick” and “Holey Ha’penny”. I opened the case to find something I had only ever heard of, and never actually touched: a Hardanger fiddle.

“D’ye fancy a gan on this, lass? Ah’ve given it concert tunin’”

It’s a Norwegian peculiarity; not only is it flatter than a normal fiddle, and so easier to triple stop, but it has eight strings. Four of them aren’t bowed, but lie under the fingerboard and resonate with those you actually play. Oooooooh!

It was weird, and my fingers fell oddly on the strings at first, but after a few minutes I launched off into “Fenwick o’ Bywell” and “Sir Sidney Smith’s March”, and wanted to keep it forever.

And I looked up from my ginger haze, and the beer had gone down to a pound a pint, it was twelve twenty-five and the whole evening was winding down. Jimmy suggested a slow one to close off with, and I knew which one would work with the exotic beast I had in my hands. I hit the first G-F sharp-E of ”Wild Hills”, triple stopping the first note just because I could, Jimmy danced round me as before, and the trombone and ‘cello laid down a neat pedal bass and….

I must have gone through the tune six times before Jimmy called out. The ornamentation possibilities were amazing, and I found myself gushing to him about how lovely it was to play, and…he grinned.

“Aye, lass. Noo gizz it back!”

There was laughter, and Kelly suddenly yawned, and that really was it.

Till next year. Next year with another piece of jewellery on my finger if I had my way.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJshThjqpJ0 Angharad, Patrick, Chris, Llinos and Bethan of Calan.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 47

Geoff was off to work early on Wednesday morning, after our trip back from the festival.

He seemed to be rejoicing in being back on his bike after his hand injury, and the sod was already muttering about LEL–London-Edinburgh-London, the UK equivalent of PBP. I was turning into a cycling marathon widow before I had even got married.

Smiles. Big ones. I was on a late shift, so I had time to pop into town and have the ring resized, by the remarkably simple process, it appeared, of sticking it onto a cone and hitting it with a hammer. Subtly done, but it was till rather worrying. It fitted, though, and I decided that I would wear it to work even though Geoff hadn’t actually slipped it onto my hand. I could always pretend that night, though.

Clean uniform in the saddle bags I went in early, so I could pop into the general office and catch up on any mail drops. I changed in my little room and swiped into the office, to come face to face with c-m-V. Her eyes narrowed.

“Stephanie, my office if you please”

What the hell now? She led the way in and stood by her desk.

“Shut the door.”

I did, wondering what I could possibly have done, and turned back to be greeted with a tremendously warm hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“There is no way I don’t get to be the first to congratulate you! Managers have their privileges. Now, I want all the gory details before you go anywhere else today, my girl!”

And so I told her.

When I entered the Channels, I had my jacket over my left arm, quite deliberately. I had called Sue, of course, but begged her to keep it a secret until I got back to work, and she immediately made an excuse to sneak off to the ladies’ with me. Yet again, I was smothered in affection and congratulation.

“Remember what we said last year at the pub? How we thought you were going off the rails? How wrong could we be?”

“You were dead right, Sue”

I flashed my ring. “This is the man who saved my life. I would never have had the courage to live without him, and I never WANT to live without him, so keep your eyes and your hands off, girl!”

Of course, there were a few tears, and some more hugs, and we wandered back out to the team, trying to be nonchalant. Dave, of course, was the first to spot it. He stayed very, very quiet, just walking over to me and doing his best to crush my ribs while he kissed me on the lips. I swear his eyes were moist, and it hit me again how far I had come n the last year. This was a man I had once regularly showered with, someone I had bled with, fought alongside and got very, very, disgustingly drunk with. The rest of the team took note of this, and he simply held my left hand out, and they mobbed me.

I have two families, you know.

Ali and Jackie asked the obvious questions, as in when, where, how for the engagement, followed by the same questions for the wedding. Junior started laughing.

“What’s up, Valentine?”

He hates his name.

“Just a thought, Steph, but just make sure the next time you punch a scrote you use your right!”

Fair point, fairly made, to quote c-m-V. As ever, it was Little John who caught the mood best, with a call for a piss-up. Not that he ever needs an excuse for one, but none the less it was something we had already thought of, and in a fortnight’s time we had a Friday early followed by a Saturday late, and Geoff and I had started preparations.

“Chaps, and fellow lumpy chaps, my place, a fortnight this Friday, seven o’clock, bring alcohol.”

There was another reason for celebration, one I wasn’t going to shout about even here. No, not the fact that I was now automatically including myself, and being included, as one of the lumpy chaps. Raj had made it clear that as far as he was concerned I had been living full time as me for a year, and I was now on the list for what he called the final plumber’s visit. All I had to do was wait my turn, and then the road was clear for the administrative change that would let me marry my beautiful man.

I did not give a flying fart about “long/short engagements”. We had been through such experiences, shared such joys and agonies, that neither of us, nor our family, could have any doubts whatsoever that we fitted together, and as soon as I or my surgeon could make that fit physical I wanted it official. I still had a dreadful moment every now and again when he was slightly late from work, and I worried about idiot drivers, and knew I had absolutely no claim if ever he was hurt. We could’ve gone for a civil partnership, but neither of us wanted that, we just wanted to be normal, to be a married, heterosexual couple. That sounds like a put down for gay couples; far from it. I am a straight woman, and Geoff, as he so sweetly tried to explain, is a straight man. Any partial or “special” union would undermine those facts in the eyes of the bigots who still surfaced every now and again.

I know these distinctions may seem artificial, or perhaps trivial, but the thing I had fought for so long was simply my womanhood. If none of that makes sense to you, or offends you, I am sorry, but it is our life and nobody else’s. Too many women like me have been vilified and treated as lepers for me to ever feel complacent, so let me state it simply.
I am a woman. That is a fact. Your opinion is not relevant.

Sorry for the rant, but it was a hang over from a session with Raj, who had as much as suggested the CP route. I nearly lost it with him before I saw his smile. Bastard, but a sweet one. After all, he signed me off that afternoon.

The party was a good one. The trio were down, and Kelly brought another young man. I caught him on his knees in the front room…

It never ceases to amaze me exactly how filthy your minds are. He was working through my CD collection, and when I came in he grinned and said “Great! I love Tri Yann! And you’ve got the Bonzos* as well!”

I decided that Kelly may have a keeper, but we needed to find out if he could play as well as listen. We Woodruffs have standards, you know. It turned out he was a flutist. Damn. We needed some bottom to the mix. That trombonist was only about forty…..if we waited a few years…..

Nobody got REALLY drunk, but there were some serious declarations of Manly Lurve and Sisterly Affection from both of my families, and I caught Albert smiling happily.

“Do you know how many Public Order offences this lot would be liable for in a pub? Anyway, we need to chat. I hear I am to give you away, and that will mean a speech. Who is Geoff having as best man?”

To my astonishment, and immense gratification, Geoff had decided that Dave would stand beside him at the wedding. When I asked him why, he had simply said that apart from himself and Bill he couldn’t think of any man who loved me more.

Have I mentioned recently how much this man means to me? I pushed Dave and Albert into a corner, and left them to reminisce, though I did worry a little when I caught the words “When her mother…”

Around eleven o’clock, just as people were starting to get even sillier than normal, the bell rang. I opened the door to find Sally standing there looking pale faced and more than a little grim. She handed me a bottle.

“I know I’m late, but things have happened. We really need to talk”

I took her to the kitchen, and she burst into tears.

*The Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band. G*ogle them. “Do you like soul music?”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 48

This is not a pleasant episode. There is strong language and particular nastiness.

I immediately called Geoff and Jan in, and we managed to calm her down. I had never imagined Sally could fall apart like that, and I was profoundly shocked. Jan just held her tight until the sobbing eased. Geoff offered her a cuppa.

“No, vodka. I want to get pissed tonight”

Dave brought her a glass. She looked up at me from red eyes. “All those times I talked you out of drinking as a solution to your problems…..”

Her voice trailed off. She sat unnaturally still, tears rolling down her face. Suddenly she spasmed, and threw her glass at the wall.

“Fucking cunts!” she screamed, and this time she really collapsed into her sobbing. Jan and I wrapped her up; rocked her, kissing her cheek, as she almost silently screamed in truly awful distress. It was twenty minutes before she was stable enough to start talking, and I had a horrible flashback to Geoff on a Pembrokeshire clifftop. She had that same dead delivery, the same thousand yard stare past me.

“This is going to be a massive breach of confidence, but it doesn’t fucking matter any more. I have more than one client, that’s fucking obvious, and you know I have a thing for helping people like you, Steph…”

Her voice trailed off, but eventually she got the story out. Another client, another girl like me, but whereas I could just about pass this girl was eighteen stone and six foot four. After years of treatment, both psychiatric and medical, she had embarked on her real life test, despite being disowned by family and ‘friends’ and abused by her neighbours. As Sally told it, with immense courage she had pushed ahead with her need to become the person she knew she really was, despite the way life had screwed her body beyond any conventional idea of femininity.

Finally, she had been given her date for surgery, and that night she had gone out to celebrate. The wrong pub, the wrong clientele, a beating in a back alley, the nightmare made real.

“She rang me from a bridge over the M23……”

Four cars and an articulated lorry went over her body before the traffic stopped.

I couldn’t help agreeing with Sally. Fucking cunts. At that moment I could have killed. Geoff broke the mood.

“Sally, what family does she have available to arrange a proper send off?”

Sally looked at him, and my skin crawled at her expression, and her delivery when she said “I rang the family, and told them, and they said ‘Who?’”

There are moments when my problems evaporate in the light of those who really suffer. This time it was Jan who broke the mood.

“Then we need to sort it.”

I put Sally to bed in the box room. She was completely drained, and there was no way I was letting her go home. I pay my debts. The mood of the party quickly soured as the word got around, and some now almost sober people said their good nights and left their wishes for me at the door. I bedded the teens down on mats in the living room, with a promise of good behaviour that I actually trusted Kelly to keep, and seven of us, that is the family with Albert, Naomi and Dave, settled at the dining table. I was still trembling with anger. Albert spoke softly.

“There’s a strong possibility that we will have some clients near the pub. When Sally is a little stronger, I’ll get the details and we will see if we can’t get any CCTV footage. This is not something I want to let rest”

“I’ll have a word at the local station” said Naomi, “If we can find out where the body has been taken, I’ll let them know the score and we will go from there. I want blood”

It was agreed in an unsurprisingly short time that we would arrange a funeral between us, if there was no claim from what passed for her family. I felt that after all of my incredible good fortune I did indeed have debts to pay, and something like this could not be left below the public horizon. People sometimes need to have their faces rubbed in what they can achieve with simple bigotry.

‘Simple’. It’s never ‘simple’, not in the repercussions for its targets. They learn to live with a perpetual eye over their shoulder for the next slight, the coming attack. A walk down a street has to be a planned event, as my early bike rides as myself were, and despite my best efforts it seemed they had been spotted by every curtain-twitcher in the village.

We wound up about one thirty, leaving the party debris for later, with the beginnings of a plan. I wanted to be held that night, and Geoff obliged. Both of us slept badly, but each time I awoke he was there to soothe me back down. I realised once more how lost I would be without him.

Sally spent a long time in the shower that morning. I had lent her a nightie and a dressing gown, and as the seven of us sat down to a simple breakfast I explained what had been decided at the council of war. She had an idea which pub had been involved, and later I passed the word next door. Thankfully, the pub itself was a customer, as were the kebab, video and shoe shops opposite. Naomi was off like a rat up a drainpipe.

Poor, poor Sally. She had always seemed so utterly in control, but now I understood why she had felt the need to take a step back from my case. She was clearly one of those people who are not just a professional person, but who see that profession as a vocation. Simply, she cared. I had picked that up years before, and when our ways parted I had done my level best to keep her as a friend. I had been absolutely right in my faith in her, it seemed, and now it was my turn.

“I was on my way here when I got the call” she said, “and I ended up at the police station instead. They want me at the hospital today to see what I can do to identify the body”.

I shuddered. Four cars and a lorry.

Tom was good to me, asking no questions beyond how much time I wanted off and then catching himself with a “Sod that, take what you need”

I took the van to run Sally up to the hospital while Geoff and the family attacked the party debris, and took a seat in the Hospital Friends’ café with a cuppa, until she returned about half an hour later. She looked green, and was shaking. I got her a tea without asking.

“It was her. Recognised a couple of tattoos, and she had left her handbag on the bridge when she jumped. Please don’t ask any more.”

She was silent for a while.

“Steph, I know this s a lot to ask, and you already have a house full, but could I please stay a few days? I don’t think I can do this on my own. I need some good people around me, but I’ll understand if you can’t…”

I just hugged her. I think she already knew my answer.

We went back by way of the supermarket, just to inject a hint of normality into the day, and sorted some bits and pieces for a buffet lunch. Something delivered would do for the evening, but I wanted to try and busy her in the kitchen just now. We were just washing and chopping some salad bits when I heard Naomi pull into the drive, and she came in clutching a number of CDs.

“We have pictures. We have faces. We have working copies here, and the originals have been sealed and deposited with a statement from me and the various shop owners at the nick, and I have given that cunt of a landlord notice of termination of contract.”

I still get a shock when she speaks like that, but then remember that despite her Surrey Lady chic she was once a senior detective dealing with some particularly unpleasant crimes. I asked about the pub.

“He said that he didn’t care what happened to a bender, and I couldn’t have the footage. I pointed out that the cameras and discs are rented from us and that he would either let me take them or I would rearrange his face. Can’t be arsed with idiots today, we want those responsible while they still think they are clear and free and before any forensics disappear.

“Sally, you don’t have to watch this, but it would be useful if you can stand it. Want to see if anyone familiar is in this”

Naomi had already vetted the discs, and cut straight to the relevant footage. From each of the shops we got a slightly different angle, but they all showed the same jerky sequence.

A large girl in a far-too-small skirt almost running out of the pub and turning sharply into an alley. Four men in T-shirts following, spreading out. One entering the alley, coming back out and waving. All four then entering, and five minutes later coming back out, this time with one of them holding his ribs and another his eye.

There was something about one of them.

“Now, girls, this s the footage I had to fight for.”

A view from above and behind the glass racks. The back of a barman’s head, and a big, masculine woman in a cheap wig. Two customers behind her. One of them pushes her, and I recognise the T-shirt from the street. He grabs her collar, and pulls her down to snarl something into her ear. I say snarl, and snarl it is, all teeth and narrowed eyes. The barman turns away and I see two of the faces.

One of them is Alfie Smith.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 49

We went straight to the police station. This was the sort of thing where clothes would get disposed of, if we didn’t act quickly, and unless Smith and his friends were even stupider than we thought they would have heard the news.

Naomi used a lot of clout to get us heard, and within a very short time we were asked to give statements. It also appeared that there was at least one council-operated camera in the street, and an officer was sent to secure the relevant recordings. I sat in while the duty Inspector spoke to his opposite number in the Met*

“They are on their way as we speak with a number of dog handlers and the big key ** to see who is at home. This does not happen on my patch without consequences. I‘m running a check with H.M. Prison service; I have a sneaky suspicion as to who one of the other three might be. Now, I don’t want to be rude, but as potential witnesses, would you all like to go home and keep quiet about this? I trust we have your contact details. Naomi, please give my best to Albert”

I realised what he was getting at, and Naomi and I went through the recordings again, and yes, there he was. Anstey, who was supposed to be banged away in Lewes Prison. Something had gone wrong and the animal was out on the streets.

Well, things were in motion and all we could do was wait. It seemed strange at first to feel such concern over the fate of a complete stranger, but it did feel almost as if I had known her. The images of Smith’s abuse of her at the bar made me feel physically sick, and I really did not know how Sally could have faced identifying what was left of her.

A couple of days later, after Sally had found the strength to go home, the police let us know a little more. They had found Anstey at home with his wife, where he was on a home visit due to an “illness” she had contracted. He had two broken ribs, apparently from a kick which he claimed to have received from a horse, but which mysteriously seemed to have been wearing a high heel. In the shed behind his place was a bag of his clothes with splashes of blood.

At Smith’s they found Alfie and his two sons, one of whom had a badly blackened eye with the mark of a fine ring on it. I remembered Junior’s comment about my engagement ring, and realised that Melanie, for that was her name, had gone down fighting hard.

Apparently, the older boy had received a dog bite during the arrest. What a tragedy.

I rang Geoff at work to let him know the score and asked if he could look into any advice his house lawyers could give about the rights of Melanie’s so-called family to be involved in the funeral, and then I rang Raj, who had just returned from holiday.

“Ah, Stephanie. I was hoping to speak to you; how are you for a date in May? My system says a slot has just come up and the surgeon can fit you in”

I felt sick. I realised that he hadn’t had a chance to speak to Sally, as she had been with me, and I had a nauseating suspicion that the “slot” was Melanie’s. I could have my surgery, but it would be at the ultimate expense of one dead girl. I quietly filled him in on events to total silence at his end, and then asked a favour.

“Raj, I need you to do a couple of things. Please speak to Sally and make sure she is all right, and it would also be useful if the local support group got involved”

I took a deep breath, and then made my admissions.

“I don’t know if I could sleep easily getting my turn this way, and I also don’t know if I can organise something like this. I would want to make it an event to draw real attention to the hatred that is out there, but really, I haven’t the slightest idea of how to do it”

Raj promised to help; my head was spinning. What a choice to be given, literally dead girl’s shoes. I decided I would leave it till the evening before asking my gentle man.

Geoff was patient with me, as ever, as I explained my doubts. He thought for a minute or two, then picked up the phone.

“Dad will have the best way of looking at this, if you are able to go through this all again”

He passed me the handset and Big Bill answered with an audible smile and the words “Hello, daughter-of-mine-to-be!”

I went through the pattern I had already developed, the apology, the warning, the flat statement of facts, the second apology and the pause. He was quiet for a short while, then in his gentle way he began.

“Steph, trouble seems to follow you around, but that is an illusion. You have these events in your life because you care. Karma brings them to you because it makes you a better person, that person who can never pass by on the other side as in Angela’s book. For whatever reason, you now have your chance to become, to surpass what you have been thus far. You must take it. You are a healing person, you bring harmony and light. This is to let you bring harmony to yourself.

“Melanie has moved on, and she did it fighting almost to the end. If she had known someone like you, perhaps she may still have been fighting today, but she had nobody except Sally. Think of Sally, now, in her grief and sense of failure. You can be the one she got right, and help heal her fractures. And think of the drivers of four or more vehicles, who will only now be realising what they hit.

“Steph, my beloved daughter, for that is who you are to be, you must make this a focus for others. Angela and I will help with the arrangements, I am sure she will when I tell her, and you will not have forgotten that we have experience in such things. Here is what you must do…”

Ten minutes after we hung up, she rang, and for a Quaker she was remarkably robust in her condemnation of the foursome. I asked her how that could be.

“These four are still vermin, despite being human beings. They can be saved , they can be brought back from their degradation, but only if they are shown they are doing evil. That will take time, and much to my shame I hope the time it takes involves throwing away the key. The rest of the world also needs protection from them until they have grown up.”

“You’re a realist, aren’t you, Angela?”

“I know that God loves all of His world, and that is as real as it can get, but that we have a responsibility to make it a better place. The boys are not too old to save, but they must be removed from the depravity of their parents until they can be redeemed.”

So we had a plan, it seemed, and Geoff brought up a rather cogent fact as we listened to the BBC news on radio 4. Were we looking for a sombre affair, with black suits and sad hymns, or a sending off with colour and laughter. We got a little silly in our suggestions, particularly when Geoff proposed six towering drag queens as pall-bearers, but that was our way of breaking our own cycle of horror. I gave my veto to the drag queens, though. I just didn’t think that it was what we wanted to say about Melanie; let people come as they wanted to be, but stress that it would be a celebration of the life of just one more woman.

Perhaps that would make a bigger impact on public perception. Dream on, Steph. The newsreader spoke.

“Three men and a youth have been charged in connection with the death of a 50 year old woman, on Friday evening. Melanie Stevens fell onto the northbound carriageway of the M23 at Worth near Crawley and was struck by at least five vehicles. Police have asked the drivers to come forward to help with the investigation. The four men, Billy James Anstey, Alfie John Smith, Billy Boy Smith and a seventeen year old who cannot be named, all of Belvedere in Kent, have been charged with a number of offences including assault occasioning grievous bodily harm, and the spokesman for Sussex Constabulary has stressed that this is being treated as a hate crime. Three other people have been charged with perverting and attempting to pervert the course of justice”

Sally came round the next evening with a rather short, bearded man, who introduced himself as Jerry Summers, the coordinator of the local transgender support group. He caught my look, and sighed.

“Yes, it was once Geraldine. Easier to get along if you don’t have to keep remembering a new name, if you can understand that”

“Yup. That’s why I changed from Steve”

Sally giggled at his reaction, beamed at me and said “I still keep patient confidence, girl!”

Her smile faltered again, and we hugged. Jerry sighed again. It was obviously his little quirk.

“If only it was so simple for all of us. I would be lost without my wife, and I can see where your strength is. Now, how do we get that across to other boys and girls?”

Geoff and I filled him in on our thoughts, and he snorted at the thoughts of the drag queen pall bearers.

“Yet again we have to educate people about the difference between gender and sexuality, you’d think they’d know by now. Anyway, this is not the first of these events i have had to suffer, so here’s my take. Sally tells me that Melanie was a devout atheist–no, Sally, those were her words, you said---so we are looking at a humanist ceremony, a ‘Speaker for the Dead’ sort of thing. We put the word out to all the various groups and clubs, perhaps the London and Brighton Pride organisers, and we have as much colour as we can, but as a centrepiece we have a dark core to emphasise that this is not a party for the sake of it.”

I nodded. He had hit the nail squarely. Sally looked up again, her face more relaxed than it had been for days.

“Will you play for her, Steph?” she asked softly. Geoff replied for me.

“I think we can do better than that”

*Met: Metropolitan Police, London’s constabulary.
**Big key: sledgehammer or other device for smashing down doors.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 50

Arrangements went smoothly as Geoff called in a few favours, only to be told in most cases that the “favours” were not required.

As the story of Melanie’s death became more widely known, there seemed to be a groundswell of revulsion. People were comparing it to a case where school bullies had chased a child until they jumped to their death, and another where bystanders had urged a suicidal man to jump, and then filmed it on their mobile phones. Despite a few nasties surfacing on the local newspaper letters pages, there was a consensus of shame in the community, that someone could be hounded for nothing, hounded till they cracked, just when their new life was opening up.

Some people pointed out that the men weren’t local, and that was meant as a defence, as if bigotry was extinct on the Surrey-Sussex border. Yes, dear, of course it is.

I went round to St Nick’s, the local Anglican church, to beg a favour of my own from the vicar, Simon. He was aware of the incident, of course, and was more than willing to lend us the attached hall and nearby grounds for Geoff’s idea.

“Stephanie, I can do more, you know. I am aware of her views on religion, but if it would be helpful, you can have the use of the church itself. Think of it as a community space. If your speakers don’t mind a few religious trappings around them, I don’t mind a humanist ceremony, and I can also lay my hands on some other things you will need. This is a chance to show the world that evil must be faced, and life celebrated. I can even manage a eulogy with minimal mention of our Saviour, if you wish, as long as you understand that He will be in my heart all the time I am speaking…”

He trailed off.

“No, I am not going to give you platitudes and reassurance in eternal life to come. She died horribly, and she died alone, and we will let the world see that nobody is truly outside humanity”

Another pause. “No, not even those four. That would be wrong of me. I will pray for them, but will also pray that they never get out of prison. The Lord does indeed love them, but I am having a very hard time of it.

“Can we meet up tomorrow to confirm a few things? I am, in an odd way, looking forward to this funeral, if you take my meaning. Shout at the Devil, and all that”

Things moved on very quickly after that. The local press were ready to rip our hands off to secure such a huge story , as well as several nationals. The Beeb were even sending a camera crew. Geoff’s idea had exploded into life, and after a few funny looks, everyone agreed that it was a wonderful way of affirming that life would go on.

Shout at the Devil, indeed.

The cars arrived for us that Friday morning. I was in a dark grey suit with a white blouse and black cravat, black court shoes and a simple Spanish-style brimmed hat. I had my fiddle with me, as well as a small bag. The family looked elegantly superb, Kelly in particular looking beautiful in the first formal clothes I had ever seen her wear. I made sure I had a copious supply of tissues, and together with Sally we stepped out to meet the funeral director, elegant in her riding hat and hairnet. Two horses tossed black plumes n front of a beautifully polished ebony and glass hearse, and buried amid a mountain of flowers and under a Union flag lay Melanie. After the post mortem, and as an obvious result of the massive injuries inflicted, there had been no possibility of an open-coffin affair, and so the last sight Sally had had of her patient had been in the hospital morgue.

She was trembling, and I kept her close. It was only a short ride to St Nick’s, the horses clopping along in front, their trappings leaving no doubt what their errand was. As we passed an older gent working as a school crossing lollipop man he stood rigidly to attention and doffed his hat. Traffic parted for us.

We turned into St Nick’s and I was shocked. There were loudspeakers set up on the grass, and a huge crowd was gathered either side of the lych gate. The director walked to the back of the hearse and bowed to the occupant, and the pallbearers slid the very large coffin out and with smooth precision lifted it to their shoulders, turning an odd pirouette to face the gate.

Madam Director bowed again, and then with measured pace led the cortege into the church. Simon was waiting at the door, in civvies, to greet the people we thought of as the core of the proceedings. As we followed Melanie in, I heard a song playing. Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”

Thank you, Simon.

The church filled rapidly, with all sorts of people. A few drag queens had indeed come, in their version of mourning dress, and there were a fair few very obvious transgender people, their friends, their partners, their fellow humans. A small group of men in what looked like army uniform were sat to one side, as well as a group of older men with medals who were stood by the pulpit holding British Legion* banners. It seemed Melanie still had a few surprises for me. Despite the arrangements for the funeral, I knew very little of her background.

Melanie was placed on the trestles at the front of the church and Simon ascended the pulpit.

“Brothers, sisters, this is an unusual event for me. I am in my house, the house of God, but as always it is also your house. I am going to ask Him to be so kind as to remain an observer here, as we celebrate the life of, and say goodbye to Melanie Stevens, who died because of blindness and ignorance. Let us see if we can make a difference today, let light into the world and rejoice that we were privileged to know this person, if we did, and if not that we live in a world that she made richer.

“Melanie was born fifty years ago, and as a result of a genetic disorder was forced to live most of her life as someone she never felt she truly was. Many of you here understand that pain intimately, but she bore it for most of her life with dignity and good humour, until after half a century she was ready to be reborn. That rebirth was tragically not to be allowed, but that is not what we are here to celebrate. I have a number of friends here who wish to speak of her, and we will start with Sergeant Stewart McDuff of the Royal Marines”

A spare and wiry man stepped up to replace Simon, in uniform and dark green stable belt. He had more than a few medal ribbons, and I wondered what the connection was.

“Ladies, gentlemen, fellow Marines, Mike Stevens was one of the bravest men I ever knew. We did our basic training together, we drank together, we fought pongos and pussers together, we were bootnecks. I remember days at Bosigran in the sun on warm granite, I remember days in pouring rain at Warcop and on Dartmoor. I particularly remember being next to him as we cleared an Argentine trench with bayonets while friends died around us.

“I never knew his problem, her problem, sorry. It is so new to me, I have to remember the man who kept me alive was fighting her own private war at the same time. She never told me, and after we left the service she dropped out of sight. Mike, Melanie, I can only assume you thought we would feel betrayed by your need, but that was never going to be the case. You are one of us, one of the Corps, and we never forget. I hear you showed four scum what fighting a bootneck is all about, too, and I take pride in that. So I say this: there are people in this world with tiny closed minds, and they are the poorer for it. You met four of them. The rest of us can see, and hear, and think, and we pay our debts. If there are any more Melanies out there, needing support, feeling alone, wanting to finish it, we are here. We are the majority. Fuck the rest of them!

“Sorry, vicar, am I allowed to say fuck in here?”

He finished with a few absolutely shocking anecdotes about her capacity for beer, and roadkill stew, and sharp sense of humour. Sally followed, crying gently as she gave the other side of what seemed a huge personality. She spoke of the gentleness in the giant frame, of her joy in the news of her upcoming surgery, and of her own shock that terrible Friday night.

Jerry said a few words as well, not platitudes exactly, but a reaffirmation of the fact that there was a community around us, and that we should never feel alone, nor ignore those who did,. Big Bill spoke about karma, and being excellent to each other, with an easy grace and his gentle smile.

Simon managed to get in some religion, with the parable of the Good Samaritan, and then asked me forward. I had to doff my hat, and as the Legion men lowered their banners I played a section of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherezade to occasional sobs.

Madam Director and her team reappeared to take Melanie outside as Eric Idle’s voice sang “Always Look on the Bright Side”, and preceded by the banner men she made her journey to the graveside. As they lowered her in, under a soft breeze and warm Autumn sun, a bugler played the last post. It was done.

Geoff stepped up. “If people would like to make their way round to the recreation ground next door…” he called.

We filed round, and everything was warmed up and ready to go. A figure stepped up to the microphone.

“Lades and gentlemen, four couple square sets for La Russe”

*British Legion: charity for ex-service personnel and their families.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 50

And so a car park and a recreation ground filled with dancing couples, couples of all sorts and shapes.

I even saw two of the Marines dancing together, and the band played, and food was shared, tea and juice flowed. There was laughter, and music, and squeals from those caught out in the baskets. One picnic table was covered in extreme examples of the shoemaker’s art while their owners danced barefoot on the grass, and the old bugler jammed along with the ceilidh band as well as his instrument allowed, until the double bassoon player handed him a trumpet and he let rip properly.

There were two film crews, and reporters doing bits to camera, but I answered every attempt at an interview with a warning that I would not prejudice the upcoming trial of her killers, for that was how I saw them.

As I rested from Waves of Tory with a cuppa, I noticed Sgt McDuff talking to a young couple with a child, whom I had seen at the rear of the church, and realised he kept indicating me. He caught my eye, and raised an eyebrow in a quizzical way, and I nodded. He brought them over.

“Hi, I’m Stewart” he offered with his hand. I shook it warmly; this was a good man, I felt.

“Steph”

“You arranged all this?”

“With Sally, and Jerry, and my family, plus a few friends and neighbours”

“I’d like to thank you, then. Nobody knew where Mike had gone, and it was only by chance we caught the news about this. With more time, I would have arranged a proper military send-off for him, but this is more than adequate. Thank you for all you have done”

“Her. It was ‘her’ “

He looked down. After a pause, he murmured

“Yes. You are right, but please remember what memories I have of…Melanie. It is difficult to change gear quite as quickly as you would like me to, but I promise I will try. Practicalities…have you arranged a headstone?”

“Not yet, it needs some thought. We have to get just the right words.”

“Well, I will be having a word with the Benevolent Fund. Once a Marine….can I please have a contact number for those who knew her, so we can find those right words together?”

He kept looking away.

“What is up?”

“It’s just a Marine thing. I need to kill four men.”

He drew a deep breath.

“Don’t worry, we will let the law take its course, but we will be at the trial and we will be in uniform, and those turds will know whom they have offended, and even if they never meet some future accident, they will be looking over their shoulders till the day they fucking die, Trust me on that”

Two more Marines had joined us, and as they nodded in agreement I realised that I was indeed looking into the eyes of killers. Something awaited Billy and Alfie and the others, and even if t was not a cliché of vigilante retribution, that fear would haunt them for the rest of their lives. I did not envy them.

The young couple, the woman very pregnant, was standing by with a little girl, perhaps five years old. Sgt McDuff waved them over.

“This is another Melanie, and her husband Darren, and the little one is Ashley, if I remember your name right, darling”

Clinging to her mother’s hand, the tiny girl nodded and asked “Are you the lady what played the nice music?”

I bent down to smile at her. “Yes, love, I am. And who are you?”

The woman blushed, and said “Melanie Stevens’ great niece. I’m her brother’s daughter.”

I felt the anger rise. “And where were you when she needed you? When Sally rang to pass the news, what was it you said? ‘Who?’ Why are you here now? She had nothing to leave to you, no money, no house”

Melanie 2 burst into tears, Ashley hugging her legs and howling at her mother’s distress. Darren cleared his throat.

“Blame my in-laws, her grandparents, her dad. They kept all of this from us, we are just like Stewart here, we only found our by chance. “

“So where are they now?”

“My wife’s grandparents are at home, and we will not be going there again. I think her dad’s probably in casualty at the moment”

He showed me the knuckles of his right hand, scabbed with dried blood, and continued.

“My wife’s name was his, her suggestion when she was born, and now we understand why. Please believe we have been kept from contact with her for so long, we had no idea what was happening. If we had….my wife loved her Uncle Mike, and love should not be negotiable. It either is or it isn’t.”
I hugged him, and then Melanie, and as I said sorry to Ashley Sally joined us, glowing from the dance. I made the introductions, and left them to share their loss. I needed my own man for my own comfort. I had just found three more people to hate, and that was not how I wanted to feel on a day like this. I wanted to dance.

That evening, when all was said, and done, and the promises of continuing contact and support exchanged, the family sat in the Woods’ front room to watch the news report. There were several interviews; I had declined, but Simon was clear in his message about tolerance and shared humanity, Jerry in condemnation of prejudice and hope that police action would be proportionate and not cursory, that it wouldn’t be buried as “just another pervert getting a slapping”

Then Stewart McDuff gave a brief account of Mike/Melanie’s service life. It was rather clever; in a speech devoid of any obvious threat, he left no doubt in my mind that the safest course of action for our friends would be a new life in, say, North Korea.

We had invited the Grahams, Darren, Melanie and Ashley, that is, as well as Stewart, back to the houses, and Stewart had produced a bottle of Pusser’s Rum for a toast, which led Albert to dig out his malt collection, and I sent Bill and Geoff to the off licence for some ales, as Big Bill pleaded for some fruit juice and Angela harrumphed about a nice cup of tea. Jan, Naomi, Kelly and I hit the supermarket and cornered the world market in finger food, just in time to return to the kitchen for a bit of a surprise. Naomi had stopped at the back door, and holding a finger to her lips she waved us quietly forward. Through the open window we could see one Marine, and one shrink, and one rather close embrace.

It seemed that life was moving on rather quickly for two of us!

It wasn’t us that broke the mood, but Ashley, who suddenly appeared n the kitchen door, and we could hear her squeal through the open window.

“Wotchoo doin’?”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 52

EXTREMELY UNPLEASANT MATERIAL BELOW.
I was not required as a witness, as my “evidence” was simply the initial recognition of Alfie Smith’s face. Naomi, however, was called, and when the day of the trial came up we made a party of five for the trip up to Croydon Crown Court, us, Naomi and Albert, and Sally.

The scum had all pleaded not guilty at their Plea and Direction Hearing, and been put on remand in Lewes, except of course, for Anstey, who was simply returned to continue his existing sentence.

Prisoners awaiting trial on remand, as opposed to convicts, serve “soft time” with extra privileges, and time on remand counts double towards time sentenced. We left Sally and Naomi outside, as witnesses, and sat in the public gallery, which was packed. Several clearly transgendered people were there, both men and women, as well as at least a dozen Royal Marines in uniform. The usher stepped forward.

“All rise!”

The judge took his seat, and we settled down. I noticed that when the accused foursome appeared, the Marines’ heads turned as one, and I felt the temperature in the courtroom drop. The clerk stood, they stood, and he read out the charge, that they, on, at, were accused of, in breach of, and in pursuit of prejudice based on sexual orientation, contrary to, and so on. Oddly, the charges included murder and manslaughter. There was something else here I didn’t know.

“How do you plead?”

“Not guilty”, four times over.

We had sat next to Sally’s new fancy man’s friends, of course, as Stewart had been called as a witness and as one caught me looking at Smith senior, who had an arm in a sling and a very badly-bruised face, he passed me a note. “Not all bootnecks stay out of trouble after they retire. There was one in Lewes”

Counsel for the defence rose. “Your Honour, I wish to make a representation. Would it be possible to have the public gallery cleared, as the presence of so many persons in uniform is intimidating to my clients”

“I do not see how the presence of public servants can possibly be seen as improper, Additionally, from my knowledge of the deceased’s circumstances I would submit that these men are here effectively as the lady’s family, and I would exclude such parties only in extreme cases. Request denied.”

And so we began the dance. There are certain very specific tactics used by defence barristers, apart from simply trying to deny or disprove the facts. One is called “smoke and mirrors”, in which the lawyer tries to confuse the jury. Another is simple mudslinging.

The proved to be the tactic. The prosecution case was laid out clearly and in painful detail. The four accused had driven to the pub n two large vans laden with illicitly imported beer, which the landlord sold off-record (I resolved to look up the files later, and if necessary make a phone call). They had stayed for a drink, and then poor Melanie had come in to celebrate her upcoming surgery.

The video and other evidence introduced from the witness box by Naomi showed them approach her, and follow her as she left. The footage we already knew by heart was rehearsed yet again, and then the man from the Forensic Science Service followed the arresting police officers into the box. The blood from poor Melanie in the alley, on the brick and iron bar they had used on her. The DNA from the two boys on said brick and bar, the woman’s blood on Anstey’s hidden stash of clothing.

The examining doctor from the post mortem described the injuries she had suffered, including the marks of a ring from punches to her face, marks which matched a ring on Anstey’s right hand at the time of arrest. He mentioned the brick dust on the stumps of her teeth, and I left at that point to be sick in the ladies’. Several jurors were also looking ill, and the judge adjourned for lunch.

The evidence continued, with the Force Medical Examiner testifying to the match between the heel mark on Anstey and her shoe, and the similar match between her ring and Smith junior’s facial injury.

Sally gave her own account of that awful night, breaking down in the witness box as she did so.

Witness statements from the various poor drivers were taken as read.

The defence finished their cross-examinations, and then put Alfie on the stand, followed by the other three, and we got a different story, of a predatory pervert touching up a seventeen year old boy n a pub and then dragging him into the alley for sex as he left the pub and, well, you have to protect your kids, doncher?

Prosecution then called Stewart, who gave a passionate eulogy posing as evidence n respect of Melanie’s service career, courage and honesty and, to be blunt, lack of misbehaviour in the showers. His response to the cross-examination was monosyllabic and controlled, summed up by the word “no”

Our man then called Sally back.

“Ms Flint, you were Miss Stevens’ psychiatrist, you have told us. Would it be fair to say that you knew her well?”

“I would agree, as that was my job. Yes, I probably knew her better than almost anyone”

“What were her sexual proclivities? Did she like little boys?”

“Certainly not!”

“What about teenaged boys?”

I wondered what the hell was going on. This man was supposed to be on our side…then Sally gave her answer.

“ I really don’t see where this is going. You can specify the ages as much as you like, but Melanie was a confirmed lesbian.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from several of the jurors, and I saw Anstey’s head sink into his hands. The defence lawyer visibly wilted, and I could read his mind, wondering whether he had any chance of dropping out of the case for fear of “professional embarrassment”

At that point, I knew I was seeing a beaten man.

“No further questions, your honour”

The closing speeches were a complete mismatch, the defence still maintaining the thugs’ lies, but with no real conviction. The judge began his summing up, and it was clear, and very direct indeed. The thing we learnt during the trial had changed everything, hence the charges. It had turned out that there was more to the case than any of us had realised; the CCTV cameras at the footbridge where Melanie had finally surrendered showed the accused there near her. This wasn’t just a beating, it was a hounding to the death.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you have a choice of verdicts here, and I will ask that you strive for unanimity in said verdict. If you believe that Ms Stevens tragically leapt to her death as a result of her depressed mental state, then you can only convict for assault and an appropriate level of bodily harm. The accused have admitted that they did indeed assault the deceased

“If you believe that the actions of the accused on the bridge caused her to become apprehensive of further injury, but that the accused were not desirous of her death then you must convict the accused of manslaughter. The thing that you must determine is their intent, whether as individuals or in concert. Be sure of what you believe that intent to have been,

“Finally, if you find that the actions of the accused at that point were intended to make her leap to her death, then you have no alternative but to find them guilty of murder. Will you please now retire and consider your verdict”

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 53

We left the court and went off to the noodle bar in the next street, I really needed something strongly flavoured to clear my mouth of the bad taste left both by my illness and the facts that had come out in the trial.

I had material for nightmares for eternity, and I pitied the jury. They had been presented with several files of photographs….I shuddered.

All witnesses now dismissed, we formed quite a group, with the solid mass of Commandos around us, Sally wrapped round one of her very own. Albert had volunteered to stay at the court just in case the verdict arrived that day, but I had my doubts. This was a heavy case for a jury, and the judge’s instructions had been very clear: what was their intent, were they trying to make her jump, or just gloating as she did?

All I had heard of Melanie Senior’s character made me regret deeply that we had never met, and I realised yet again my luck. That could so easily have been me…Geoff felt my shudder, and pulled me close.

No, Simon, Stewart, all had been right. We were the majority, the ones who cared, and we far outnumbered the Ansteys and Smiths of this world, even the rest of the Stevens family and their ilk. It was like the job; so many arseholes abuse you, you click over very early in your career to realise it is them who have the problem, not yourself, and then it becomes hard not to laugh out loud at their posturing.

No, what happens is that every so often you meet real people, and understand yet again why you do the job pompously referred to as “protecting society”, because there IS a society out there, a solid majority of good folk who deserve better than being left to the likes of our four friends.

My phone rang, and the rest started, but it was Simon.

“Hi Steph, how has it gone?”

“Jury has retired, Simon. To be truthful, it was awful. I don’t envy them at all. Once we get a verdict I will let you know immediately”

“I am sure, thank you. I just had something to run past you, well, two things, really. This has hit my parishioners hard, you know, to have such an obscenity happen in their safe little world, and they have made a number of suggestions.”

“And….?”

“I have spoken to Jerry already, and we are making our office facilities available for his group’s use rent-free from now on. They will have to provide their own stationery and that, of course, but there s a room they can use for counselling and so on.”

“How will that sit with your more….traditional parishioners, Simon?”

“I think I have enough bits in His book to remind them of the unconditional love He has for all of His children, Steph. It is my job…and I have another request you may be able to help with. That was a very unusual funeral, Geoff’s idea being a superb way to celebrate life. What do you think of the idea of making something like that an annual event?”

That made perfect sense to me. It would indeed be shouting at the Devil, and there are very, very few things more joyful than music and dance. I told Simon that I would make the calls, and returned to the physical group around me.

Ashley had been left with a child minder, and I felt real warmth in thinking about the hope she represented. This was the granddaughter and great granddaughter of bigots, and yet her parents had come out of it as human and humane. The Smith boys were probably a lost cause, but Ashley showed that things could change. She brightened the world, and I giggled at the memory of her irruption into the bootneck-shrink snogging event.

“So, Sal, when’s the wedding?”

“Sod you, Jones!”

“Just remember…” I said, putting on an awful imitation of her Sarf Lahndun accent,

“We wants pitchers!”

There was a roar from the rest of us, and Sally herself blushed.

Albert rang as we were having coffees just up the road, and it turned out that the jury had been very, very quick in their verdict, as well as unanimous. The judge had instructed them to return in the morning to deliver the verdict, and having already received all the reports he would be able to sentence, or release, as necessary. I had a feeling that the sexual assault lie may just have turned them, and wondered if those four had any other ideas in their heads apart from “unnatural” sex.

I couldn’t help it, and started to roar with laughter at a vision of Anstey in my Lavender Excess. Geoff asked me what was so funny, and when I explained Sally snorted coffee all down her blouse.

Laughter. It keeps us sane, and puts the night horrors in their place.

We arranged to meet outside the court the next day, and Albert said that he had “asked very nicely” that the ushers reserve a family space n the gallery for us.

The next morning was grey and damp, but I didn’t care. Today, hopefully, Melanie would be given peace. The usher had fulfilled her promise, and we made a solid block of intimidation for the foursome when they arrived in the dock. There were several large and tattoo-ridden men elsewhere in the gallery, and I recognised Anstey’s Gunter of a wife, who very, very clearly recognised me. There were also rather a number of uniformed police around.

There is a quirk I have often seen with juries in contested trials, in which when a guilty verdict is delivered the foreman looks away from the accused as he or she does so. It is a big thing to deprive someone of their good name and liberty, and most people find it very hard to do. The jury were in, and I noticed several of them look at the accused with real and obvious distaste, disgust almost.

“All rise!”

The judge entered, and the clerk stood.

“Have you elected a foreman?”

A middle-aged woman stood. “Yes, we have, your honour”

“There are a number of charges against the accused. They stand or fall depending on the verdict in respect of the most serious charge, which is that of murder. Have you reached a verdict in respect of that charge, and in respect of all defendants?”

“Yes we have, your honour”

“In respect of Billy James Anstey on the charge of murder, what is your verdict?”

The foreman looked away from Anstey.

“Guilty”

“Is that the verdict of you all?”

“Yes”

“In respect of Alfie John Smith on the charge of murder, what is your verdict?”

“Guilty.”

And so it went. All four were condemned. Gunter Anstey began screaming abuse, and the judge had her forcibly removed. Once silence had been restored, he began his address.

“ I have had the misfortune to preside over a number of unpleasant trials, but this has been one of the most revolting examples of inhumanity I have ever encountered. A family have been deprived of the love of a woman who was just about to start a new and exciting life. Service colleagues have been left with nothing but the memory of a comrade who saved their lives under the fire of the enemies of the country you live in. The world itself has been deprived of an individual who, by all the accounts we have received in this courtroom, was of great credit to the humanity that you seem to have discarded.

“Not only did you attack this person, best her and hound her to her death, but you did it as a pack. You did it for no other reason than that she was different to you. I have examined your antecedents, and it will, I am sure, come as no surprise to the good and honest people of the jury that neither of those words could ever be applied to any of you. Your history is one of violence, intimidation, dishonesty and predation upon those weaker or more vulnerable than you, and your depraved and inhuman attack on Melanie Stevens simply follows the pattern you have chosen for what passes for your lives. You selected what you thought was a defenceless individual. Having discovered that you were unable to subdue her in what could be called a fair fight, a term I use with reservations here, you resorted to the tactics of hyenas.

“When caught, you constructed an edifice of lies with no foundation, lies intended to blacken the memory of the brave soldier you so brutally and inhumanly beat and then murdered, even so far as to claim that she was a paedophile.

“Alfie John Smith, Billy James Anstey, stand. Life imprisonment, with a minimum period of detention of not less than twenty five years.

“Billy Boy Smith, Alfie Obie Smith, stand. Detention at Her Majesty’s pleasure in a young offenders’ institute, your detention to be reviewed periodically.

“Take them down and out of my sight”

Alfie junior was crying for his mother as they took them away. No sympathy, none at all.

There was still another trial to go, that of the Gunter, her sister and Smith’s wife for the conspiracy, but I had had enough. We left the court and walked straight into them n the public area, along with the collections of tattoos I had noticed and, yes, they were really that stupid. She launched herself at me, followed by the rest, and I felt myself jerked backwards as a fist flew past my head and struck her in the face.

Sally has a surprisingly good right. The rest was very, very quick, as twelve Royal Marine Commandos did what they do very well, but what made me almost giggle was the behaviour of two coppers nearby.

As one started forward to intervene, the other pulled him back. Only after the rather rapid Marine response did they step forward, and I got a very clear wink.

Ah well, I suppose we would have to come here again. I just wished it could all be over.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 54

It was finally over, the women getting three years each for the conspiracy and the Marines declining to press charges for the assault, although their assailants did get a few hundred hours Community Service for affray.

The newspapers covered the full details in varying degree, from subtle hints to “exclusive” and sick computer generated images of what their slimy little minds thought her injuries would have looked like.

Finis, time to let Melanie rest and move on with our own lives. The family continued as ever, and the Grahams seemed to have adopted Naomi and Albert as surrogate grandparents. I really hoped that their biological family could come around to understand what they had done, but as a realist I wasn’t holding my breath.

Stewart had been true to his word, and a headstone was produced to the pattern of those of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. It bore the Corps badge, and the dedication “To the memory of Sgt Melanie ‘Mike’ Stevens, Royal Marine Commando. Comrade, Friend, Beloved Aunt and Great Aunt. Invicta est.” We had a small military ceremony at its installation.

From being a loner in an inherited house I now seemed to be forever surrounded by genuine friends and family. The Grahams were regulars, and Sally seemed grafted to her new bootneck friend, but I was having little moments of fear. May was approaching, and an urbane man with a nice smile would be taking a very sharp knife to me.

Both Raj and Sally were helping, of course, but it was my family who were there for me at all hours as the nerves began to niggle. I had another reason to be nervous.

The publicity over Melanie’s death had done no harm. There was much more evidence of a true commitment to support the transgendered locally, and my MP had contacted me directly and asked, very bluntly, if and when I wanted my official change of gender. He promised to push it ahead, and Geoff asked a very simple question: would it be possible to have it done by the third weekend in August, assuming my surgery went ahead as planned.

The sneaky little AUK.

“What have you arranged, oh man of mine?”

After a few threats relating to spare bedrooms and unwashed cycle kit, he broke under interrogation.

“I spoke to Simon, love. He has a space the weekend before our festival, and as you will be official and you already said ‘yes’ to me…”

Time for yet another moment of privacy, dear reader.

May arrived and, not to put too fine a point on it, I was shitting myself. There were so many risks to this, and although I wanted so much to be complete I was wavering and havering. After all, we had managed a sort of sex life together for well over a year, and Geoff hadn’t complained. No, strike that, we didn’t have ‘sex’.

I have never had ‘sex’ and never will. I had by now made love rather a lot, and the distinction is intensely important to me. Geoff had never complained about the limits we…worked under, he simply took me as I was. I owed him.

So, one day in May, an outie walked into the hospital, and the next day woke as an innie on a bed.

Once again, dear readers, I am afraid I will not be going down the route of certain tales I have read. To be very, very blunt, just as I felt no compulsion to indulge in anal sex to make me “feel like a woman” (how would that work, exactly?) I also feel no need to go into a litany about drips, catheters, stents, surgeons discussing their embroidery, and so on. If you have stuck with me this far you must remember exactly what hospitals mean to me, even when brought up to date with more privacy and gentler regimes.

I still get occasional night visitors, old men screaming for their burning comrades, and the mere smell of a ward terrifies me, so I am sorry I cannot supply chapter and verse of something I could only endure until Geoff was able to take me home. The staff were lovely, the surgeon was funny, his work, in hindsight, was spectacular, but I am simply traumatised by hospitals.

Recuperation was a long job, but astonishingly and thankfully the Home Office puts no limit on sick leave for gender reassignment, so I had no worries about work. Jan and Kelly were staying, it being school holiday time, and so I was pampered and loved and…I can’t think of a better word. Both girls insisted on a visual inspection, of course, and told me in my complete inexperience of girly bits that I was most definitely now in the club.

No, they did not help with the dilation. I have my limits, and so should you.

I fucking HURT, though. For a long while.

I returned to work towards the end of June, and reported in to c-m-Vanessa, who asked how it had gone. After all too many rather personal questions, she hugged me again and presented me with a small envelope.

“What’s this for?”

“It’s your new electronic key card. I rather assumed you would want to be able to get into your locker room and toilets now you are back. There’s also a locker key. Welcome back”

And yes, the team were waiting, and the girls wanted a look, and Little John asked for one, and I cried of course. There was serious business to sort, though. I called the team together.

“Right, the third weekend in August we are on long weekend. Keep the Saturday free, if you can, I have an appointment at St Nicholas’ church”

Little John was on form that day. “Bollocks, Steph, he can’t do that. There’s no way anyone could ever make an honest woman out of you!”

“Well, my surgeon’s had a bloody good try!”

Dave held up his hands for silence.

“Earlies tomorrow, back late Wednesday. Shall we get pissed, boys and girls?”

The motion was carried unanimously. And we dd.

I will gloss over certain events. Some of them, you will have guessed. I had a fitting for a simple but rather elegant strapless white gown, which made me cry when I saw my reflection. Sue, Ali, and Jackie from the team, together with Donna and Kelly, were asked to be bridesmaids. Sally was matron of honour, while Jan held her brother’s side together and Naomi and Albert stood as surrogate parents.

I modelled my dress for the Woods, and for the first and only time since I buried my mother I saw Naomi cry.

“You are so like Bron, you know, and I miss her dreadfully. Shit, you are ruining my fucking eyes”

I cried myself, long and hard, and happily, when Geoff and I were first, and at last, able to make love properly, and that is all you need to know.

Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 55

The final part of my tale.

It was a glorious summer morning in August, and I was rushing. Those of you who have regularly worn proper stockings will laugh at my discomfort, but I was determined to be as feminine under my gown as I could manage outside it. This was my thank-you to the most wonderful man I knew, and my entry to a world I had once seen only through a cracked window and from afar.

I wore the bandeau, as an old item, white satin court shoes with a modest heel as the new. My locket was around my neck, and some blue knickers mismatched the rest of my clothes for obvious reasons. A bracelet of small pearls was on my right wrist, borrowed from Naomi to complete the rhyme. Jan, Kelly and Naomi had spent all morning working on my face and hands, putting my hair up in a style similar to that I had worn at the rugby dinner, centuries ago. I had a veil pinned to the top of what seemed like an awful lot of hair, and I smiled at the memory of Kelly’s demand that I never cut it

It had turned out that Stewart, in his retirement from the Corps, ran a specialist car hire company and had managed to source an antique Rolls Royce for the day. I smiled at the memory of him returning Geoff the morning after the stag night, grey-green in the face and not appreciating my offer of a Full Welsh breakfast with bara lawr a chocos, as for some reason the thought of a plateful of seaweed and shellfish seemed to cause him distress. Poor lamb.

Mind you, my own hen night was pretty much a mystery to me the next day, until the ambush memories started kicking in. By far the worst was of a whole string of friends and colleagues, and colleague-friends, INCLUDING c-m-V, lining up to inspect the surgeon’s work n the ladies’ at Bar Two. Oh dear. And the pink furry cowboy hat and learner driver L-plates I found next to the bed, and the fact that my bra was with my knickers in my handbag.

Extreme blushing, even for me. Naomi called me to let me know the car was ready, and that my life was ending. How fortunate was I, then, to have a new one ready and waiting for me a short ride away. I had a thought about Melanie, and how she had lost everything, but I couldn’t help a smile as I realised that she would literally be at my wedding.

Sleep well, girl

Sally, Naomi and Albert rode with me, the two girls fussing over me the whole journey, and we arrived at the same gate we had carried poor Melanie through. I was helped out by my entourage, all in matching lilac gowns and looking gorgeous. Kelly was almost dancing in excitement, and before she could speak I held out a manicured, if wiry, hand to silence her.

“If you say ‘Aunty Steffy’ just once today I will find them and burn them. And don’t pout, you’ll spoil your lips”

Naomi confirmed all was ready, and Albert, in a spiffy morning suit, took my arm and dropped my veil.

Deep breaths, girl. Walk tall, walk smoothly, imagine the book on your head, and whatever you do don’t fart.

As we entered, the organist made a valiant attempt at the Widor toccata from his fifth organ symphony. Not bad; I had asked for anything other than the usual dirge about coming brides, and the Mendelssohn was a little hackneyed.

The church was packed. Geoff was at the altar with Dave, both fully and formally attired in the same style as Albert. As I passed down the aisle I saw colleagues and friends, many in the OLD uniform rather than the new rubbish, a phalanx of bootnecks, several coppers I knew from work, the Grahams with little Ashley in a really extreme party dress, Jerry and his wife, a seemingly unlimited number of Chandrasekhars around Raj, and the family.

My family. My joy and my delight, my saviours and my life and my amazing good fortune.

I looked to the other side, and there was Naomi, crying happily. Geoff turned to look at me, and that smile hit me like a warm breeze, the smile I had first seen nearly two years before. I remember what I said, about how he makes the world’s dark places illuminated with that smile.

I took my place, and Simon’s smile almost rivalled that of my beautiful man.

“Dearly beloved…..”

“Do you, Stephanie Bronwen Jones, take this man…”

“ Is there anyone here who knows of any just…”

“I now pronounce you man and wife. Kiss her, Geoff”

The organist played “Jesu, Joy” as we walked arm in arm out through double lines of uniforms to begin the round of photographs and bride kissing, and it came to the point where I had to hurl my bouquet to the ladies.

Do you know, I swear I saw Sally stick an elbow in Sue’s ribs as she took the flowers. Stewart had a very appraising look on his face as she grinned at him, and then cracked a smile.

“What the hell, neither of us is getting any younger. Shall we?”

I rather think my proposal was a touch more romantic, but from the way Sally tackled him I don’t think she cared. They were so obviously good for each other I felt painfully happy.

“Penny for them, Mrs Woodruff?”

“Just remembering trying to get out of a tent in a dress two years ago, husband of mine”

“ I would prefer to think of getting you out of that dress, wife!”

We adjourned to the church hall, where Dave made his speech as best man.

“Ladies, gentlemen, cussers, bootnecks, rozzers, trick cyclists, sky pilots and stray punters looking for the toilets. Thank you all for coming here to share with my best friend and her new husband the joy and delight of their nuptials. I find myself in an odd position here, as the stories I should be telling about the groom are actually more applicable to the bride!”

After a roar of laughter, he continued.

“Besides which, despite Steph’s earlier medical issues, I doubt my wife would be too happy to hear some of the better ones. Perhaps, when we have lubricated our tongues and minds I may be able to deliver the goods in private sessions. My fees are reasonable, but not negotiable, unless that involves a decent single malt”

More laughter.

“The journey to this wonderful day has been long and hard, especially for the happy couple themselves, but we are now here, the past is the past, and the future is unlimited. Ladies, gentleman, tools of the fascist oppressors, please raise your glasses. I give you that fabulous rhyming pair, the bride and groom, Steph and Geoff Woodruff!”

A roar went up: “Steph and Geoff!”

Albert and Big Bill said their bits, and I saw Naomi and Angela cuddling and crying again, and when the music started I got to do my “backwards in heels” thing. The various bridesmaids made bee lines to selected uniforms, jackets and ties were discarded and food was inhaled. I had come a long, long way and fully intended to keep going, and with this man beside me I could see nothing ahead that could frighten me.

I passed from partner to partner, Dave, Albert, both Johns, Stewart, even Raj and Simon, till I was back with my darling, fe fyddwn i dy garu di am byth, fy nghariad, am byth..

We left in the van, with walking gear, bikes and rock kit, and headed off for our hotel, a rather comfortable one in Llanberis. I took my wedding and engagement rings off several times, but only so as not to damage them on the long routes we did at Cyrn Las and Gogarth in gorgeous late Summer sun, the joy of balance and grace at height above watching seals followed by more Earthbound pursuits back at the hotel. We shared a hot flask in the shelter on Foel Grach, and a passing walker took our picture on the Cantilever rock on Glyder Fach.

We made memories and took photos, and we even went to a local indoor swimming complex where I got to try out the minute bikini I had sneaked along without telling Geoff, and it pleased him so much on me that he had to try it off me that evening, and it was all very, very newly-wed. Even now, as I write this, my eyes look into the distance and I smile at the memories.

And then….and then we were back at the festival, our third together, meeting up with our family. The woman who issued the wristbands recognised us, and I let her see my left hand, and she squealed. Bill laughed, and said

“We have five tickets booked. A junior for Miss K Woodruff, two adults for Mr and Mrs W Woodruff, and two adults for Mr and Mrs G Woodruff”

And we danced.