A young teen boy in the U.K. is forced to live as a girl by a disbelieving doctor and his clueless parents after being bullied and pranked by his school mates.

Charlotte’s Tale

Part 1

by Angharad

 
Authors note: This story was originally posted on Sapphire’s Place. I have since re-edited/ rewritten much of it and with Erin’s Agreement, posted here. Thanks to Karen for her as-sister-ance.

It was commented on as being very contrived and weak, nothing new there then. I would ask you to hold judgement until you’ve read a couple or more episodes, because I think they actually show my writing at it’s best. It also contains a theme which some might consider depressing or sad, suicide is also mentioned on several occasions. There is some violence, but no sex.

I hope you enjoy.

Angharad.
 

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Part 1
 
Some people look back on their schooldays as periods of happiness and innocence, protected and encouraged to develop as themselves. Mine were different, dreadful and remembered even now with fear and loathing.

I went to a single sex grammar school, you know the sort of place where no one has a first name, not even to their closest friends. It was a horrid place more a military camp or a prison than a site dedicated to learning or developing young minds. It was a world which would not have been out of place in ancient Sparta, throwing their weakling babies over a cliff, or leaving them out on a hillside to die from exposure. Were such practices allowed, I’m sure my school would have embraced them, to create a world fit for heroes.

The heroes in question were the first teams in rugby, football, cricket and rowing. We had also some successes in martial arts, fencing and boxing. The cadet force was a real force, and at evenings and weekends the various grounds and outbuildings were populated by sinister bodies who were clad in camouflage uniforms, bearing guns and other items of military equipment. Most of this was designed to kill or injure others who had the misfortune to be at the business end.

The school was proud of its achievements: two generals, four rugby internationals, a soccer international and two rowing blues, plus an ABA runner up. So the pupils who had some potential to be an England cap, or the next world champion boxer, or even a Sandhurst graduate, would be encouraged and developed to be a winner. The rest of us, and there were quite a few, would be the cannon fodder for them to practice their antisocial if not homicidal tendencies, upon.

Amongst the under-classes, there was also a culture of predation, where the stronger would prey upon the weaker ones, down to the weakest of all. They would be universally discriminated against at everything except the academic subjects and even here, there would be some bias against them from all but the very rarest of masters. It was to the bottom of this disgusting pile I found myself descending.

There were three of us who were smaller than most of the others, and at fourteen were still awaiting puberty to visit. If I had any saving grace at all, it was my singing voice. A boy treble who could silence even a rowdy morning assembly simply by singing. Of course it got me snide comments as well, which got worse when a Welsh girl called Charlotte Church, began recording some of the hymns and anthems I regularly sang. I had the misfortune to share her surname, Church. So from then on, I was called ‘Charlotte’ or ‘Miss Church’. I tried not to let it get to me, but at times it was too much and I ended up in tears, especially when some of the teachers also called me Charlotte, much to the amusement of the rest of my class.

Being bullied means you either accept it, fight back or go to the teachers or your parents. The teachers were no help and my dad was already disappoint-ed that I wasn’t bigger or more sports oriented. He was proud of my singing, sort of, just not the high girlish voice. So I didn’t report the teasing to him or my mum either, I accepted it mostly.

Sometimes I did fight back, although anger and frustration were the causes, they didn’t always mean it was the wisest course of action. As it proved on that fateful day.

Watson was a huge barn door of a boy or youth, two years older than me and with muscles in places I didn’t even have places. Sadly, he was lacking in ‘little grey cells’ as Hercule Poirot would put it, and was so nick named the ‘Dinosaur’ by the underclass (huge body with pea sized brain). Very few were foolish enough to mix it with him, because of his immense strength. Even some of the teachers left him to roam without challenge. So it astonished several onlookers when I hit him.

What they didn’t know was that a group of barbarians who called themselves, ‘The Pride’, had been tormenting me for the previous hour. I had probably shortened my life expectancy by pointing out to them, that in any group of lions, there is only one adult male. Most of the others are either sub-adults or females. I simply asked who was the dominant male and who were the lionesses? It floated like a lead balloon and I got a thorough mauling from the big cats, including aspersions being cast upon my own manhood, and the pulling off my hair.

My hair was longish to distinguish me from the convict cut of the intellectually challenged inmates. I might have been small, but I fought my own corner in whatever way I could, whenever I could.

So when the Dinosaur began picking on me, having put up with the puerile jibes of the pride, I began to get very hot and bothered. Watson ignored my allusions to his gorilla type appearance, and that he should go and play with the other monkeys. His taunting increased and my rising temper missed the warning signs he was giving off.

“Is the little girly getting her knickers all twisted then?”

“Why don’t you go and eat some bamboo shoots you big ape?” I replied feeling myself growing suicidally angry.

“You gonna make me little Charlotte?”

At this point I lost all sense of anything but a desire to commit homicide. Suddenly everything disappeared in a red haze and I flew at him, when he again called me ‘Charlotte’. He was so surprised that I managed one blow on target, it was useless however, and he completely humiliated me by containing my fury without having to hit or kick me. He simply grabbed me in a bear hug and crushed me until the tears flowed. Of course a small crowd gathered to watch the David and Goliath spectacle, but it was only ever going to end in one way, my disgrace.

“Let me go you bastard. Let me go, I’ll kill you,” I was screaming and sobbing at him.

“Tell us what your name is then and I’ll let you go.” He responded squeezing me tighter until I could hardly breathe. I felt myself growing hotter and hotter as my rage at him and my impotence to do anything, drove me madder than ever. I wriggled and kicked but was unable to do anything which hurt him or helped me escape.

I screamed my name at him, my voice hoarse with fury. “Now Charlotte, tell us your proper name,” he insisted and continued squeezing to a point where it was really hurting me. Once more I screamed my surname at him, but he just laughed at my helplessness. “You even fight like a girl,” he taunted me, which was greeted by a roar of laughter from the growing audience. Word was getting around that, ‘Watson was killing Charlotte.’

As I ran out of breath and strength, I was reduced to a heap of sobbing rags in his arms. “Please Watson, let me go,” I whimpered.

“When you tell us all your name,” he continued squeezing.

Knowing I was soundly beaten, I whispered, “ Charlotte.”

“Come on girly, you can do better than that,”. He then whispered in my ear, “Tell ‘em you really are a girl and that you want them all to address you as Charlotte or Miss Church, from now on. Make sure they all hear it,” he hissed at me, then squeezed extra hard. I squeaked in pain as he hissed, “Do it.”

“Alright, I’ll do it,” I sobbed back at him and he put me down. My ribs were aching and between the crushing and my tears I had difficulty getting my breath. I felt his hand on my shoulder, and looking at the ground, said in a wavering voice, “I am really a girl and I want you all to call me Charlotte or Miss Church from now on.” The tears were streaming down my face like torrents of boiling water, and my face burned in shame.

There was a stunned silence and occasional nervous laughs, finally someone from the back said they couldn’t hear. Watson’s hand on my shoulder made me repeat what I had said. The reply came back, “So you want us to treat you like a girl from now on?”

Spurred on by Watson’s painful grip forcing me to reply, I said,” Yes, I want to be treated as a girl.” I continued to look at the ground.

“Give us a kiss then,” came back the reply which was followed by a roar of laughter.

The gathered throng parted as the duty master arrived on the scene and dispersed the crowd, which was now about half the school. He collared both Watson and me, and asked what had just happened. Knowing that I couldn’t win, I let Watson take the lead.

“I was just giving Charlotte a hug Sir, because she said that was what she wants us to call her from now on, Charlotte or Miss Church. She said she wants us all to know she is really a girl and wants us to treat her as one. I was just congratulating her on her courage for telling us all. That’s right innit Charlotte?”

“Well is it, Church?” asked Mr Merriman, one of the maths teachers.

“Yes Sir,” I tried desperately to look him in the eye as I spoke to get the ordeal over.

“Watson didn’t intimidate you or threaten you in any way?” Knowing that if I told the truth, I would be beaten to death at the first opportunity, I shook my head. “So do you want the staff to accord to your declaration, and call and treat you as a girl?”

With tears dripping down my cheeks, I answered, “Yes Sir.” Whereupon he put his arm around my shoulder and walked me back into the school. He called my home but my mother was out, so he left me in the medical room and told me when I went home lunchtime I was to speak to my parents and have them see the headmaster. He told me I should need to see a psychologist or doctor. He was actually quite tender with me and I don’t know if that was from pity or what, but that was all I remember from that time and my walk home.

I was in a daze as I walked home, I knew that I couldn’t go back to that place, I would have to take my own life. I was a dead man walking. I was preoccupied with my own thoughts of how I could face my parents, and decided that I couldn’t. I had brought shame on them by association with me, because I was small and had a voice like a girl. I decided I would write them a note explaining what happened, and asking them to forgive me. But I had to die, it was the only way I could rid myself of this torment.

My slow pace eventually brought me near the house, and I began to plan my demise. I would hang myself in the garage. I worked out where the spare tow rope was kept, a stool and throw the rope over the beam. Tie it around my neck, tie my hands so I couldn’t change my mind, and kick the stool away. Easy, ten minutes or so and all my troubles would be over. I felt much calmer as I walked towards the backdoor and popped my key in the lock, all I had to do now was write the note and do it.

I opened the door and bodies pushed past me, something like a bag was thrown over my head and secured and I was dragged into the house. I was so shocked that I had no idea what was going on. But I felt myself being dragged and carried and dumped on a bed. My clothes were pulled off and I was held by several pairs of hands, unable to move. I could barely breathe and began to feel faint.

Hands grabbed my genitals and suddenly a pain shot through me from my groin as first one and then the other of my testicles were forced up into my body. That was all I remember.

I came to, lying on my bed a tube of superglue in my hand. I tried to sit up and realised I was wearing a pink bra and panties set. My groin hurt and throbbed, and when I looked down inside the panties, I could only see a slit like a girl has, my genitals were gone. I screamed, I think, saw my computer was on and passed out again.

The next thing I recall was coming to again with my mother leaning over me, and calling me. I screamed again, this was all wrong, I should be dead. I passed out again.

The next time I awoke I was in a strange bed, with a drip in my arm and both my parents sitting next to me. I think I smiled at them and went off to sleep, I had something warm and cuddly with me and I held it firm, it gave me some comfort.

I learned it was several days later when I actually understood what was going on. I sort of worked out I was in hospital, because I saw people who looked like nurses and doctors, but I was out of it most of the time. They kept talking to Charlotte, and it took a little while to realise they were talking to me, and the source of my comfort was a large pink teddy bear, which my father apparently bought for me. I doubted he bought the pink nightdress I was wearing.

Too tired to be bothered with questions and trying to put the shame of the past behind me, I sought my own release in myself. I went into myself and slept as if I were dead, maybe if I did it long enough I would be.

Eventually, they woke me up and I was faced by a swarthy man, to whom I took an instant dislike . “Hello Charlotte, I’m Dr Cervantes, I’ve come to help you.”

“Go away.”

“Come on young lady, you can’t sleep your life away.”

“Only because you woke me up.”

“Well someone had to, and you refused to speak with your parents, why was that?”

“Piss off.” I tried to roll away from him but the teddy, my only supporter got in the way. He rolled me back. “Leave me alone,” I screamed and wrenched my arm from him.

I heard footsteps run in and a female voice ask if everything was all right. “Yes it is perfectly fine, perhaps you’d like to sit in on this while I try and talk to our young lady.

Why were they all calling me a girl or young woman for God’s sake, I was a boy, okay a small one, but I had blue booties like all the others.

“Charlotte, I need to talk with you so please listen even if you don’t feel like answering me. Okay?” he was going to continue whether I liked it or not.

“Charlotte, after they brought you in here, we realised you were wearing a bra and panties under your dressing gown. They apparently found some more in your room, plus instructions for sticking your boys genitals with glue, so they resembled a girls. It’s okay, they are still stuck like you want them to be, but we had a job getting a catheter into you, so I’m sorry if that made things sore for a bit. We did give you a sedative to help.

"Your parents are concerned that they didn’t know you wanted to be a girl. They and I spoke to your school and apparently you told a huge crowd of boys that this was what you wanted. You also told one of the staff the same story.

"That’s okay, if you want to be a girl, I can help you, but you need to talk to me. I need you to talk to me Charlotte, that’s what the school said you like to be called. I can understand that you feel upset, this strange urge to be a girl, trying to hide it from all your friends in school, perhaps feeling ashamed of it. Then suddenly, pow, it all comes to a head, because you can’t keep it in any more.

"The boy Watson said he thought he could feel you wearing a bra when he hugged you, and some other boys said they could see you were wearing a bra on a few occasions, but they didn’t like to speak to you about it. You were very lucky to have friends like this, most boys would have teased you or hit you.”

I lay there thinking I had died and had gone to hell and this was the chief devil, telling lies and spreading the poison even thicker than jam on a slice of bread. I wouldn’t allow him to torture me.

“Will you speak to me Charlotte?”

“Piss off.” Well I spoke to him, I hope it made him happy.

“Thank you Charlotte, I shall come and talk with you again.”

“Come on sweetie pie, we need to wash you,” some cold hands touched me, pulling back the bed clothes, “we need to change the bed as well.” I lay there and looked at the face of a pretty nurse wearing a blue and white overall or uniform.

“Hi, I’m Linda, can you help me to help you?” She smiled at me and I felt my mouth smiling back. “Come on, sit up for me,” with that she pulled and pushed me into a sitting position, and before I could slip back jerked the head rest up. “Pretty hair you have, would you like me to wash it for you?” entranced by this angelic creature, I agreed.

“How about, I help you into the bathroom and we have a little shower, make you feel much better?” Again I agreed. She practically lifted me into a wheeled commode chair and pushed me a few yards down a corridor to the bathroom, having hooked my drip on the back of the chair.

Off came my nightdress, and she helped me to a seat under the shower where she left me with a face cloth to wash my ‘girly’ bits. I rubbed frantically with my free arm, but despite the body wash, or that’s what it said on the bottle, nothing moved including the catheter. I washed my own hair, just in time for her to come back with another night dress, white this time with kittens on it. She helped me towel dry and then popped the nightgown over my head and took me back to the ward, well my private room. I supposed I was an embarrassment for them. Then she blow dried my hair, brushed and combed it and before I could stop her, she braided it into a single plait.

“There, that should feel better, and it’ll stay cleaner too.”

I wasn’t happy with what she had done, but I felt I had to thank her. “Thank you,” I whispered.

“You’re welcome,” she gave me a hug then helped me back into bed, “I changed it while you were in the shower.” I nodded. She looked at her watch, “If you promise me to drink something regularly, we can lose the drip.”

“Okay,” I croaked.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” I smiled at her, she was nice. I took the drink she handed me and sipped it through the straw, even that felt girlish.

She pottered about in my bedside locker. “Your mum is going to be here soon, how about we pretty you up a bit?”

I wasn’t sure I knew what she meant and looked strangely at her. I wanted to please her because she was nice to me.

“Your mum brought you in some smellies and some make up. How’s about, I help you put some on? It will let her see you’re feeling better.”

In some sort of trance I nodded and before a few minutes had elapsed, she’d painted my lips, put some stuff on my eyelids and some mascara stuff on my eyelashes. Then she got me to paint my fingernails a sparkly pink colour. Finally, she squirted some flowery smelling spray down my nightie, on my wrists and around my neck. She gave me back my teddy and I laid back on my bed. Thankfully the trance gave way to sleep.

“Hello darling,” I felt someone kiss my cheek. My eyes nearly stuck together and I wanted to rub them. “No, don’t do that, you’ll smudge your make up,” she said grabbing my hand.

“Hi Mum,” I croaked and she handed me the drink again.

“You look better today, did you do your own make up?”

“No, nurse did it why?”

“Well I brought it from home, it was obviously used and I just wondered if you’d done it yourself.”

Obviously used! Gee whiz, one of those bastards who nobbled me must have pinched his sisters or something and planted it in my room. I was stunned, they had bigger brains than I realised.

“Once you’re eating and drinking again, and able to wee, we can take you home. You look so pretty in your pussy cats. Give me a hug sweetheart.”

A little later I tried to explain that everyone had it all wrong, that I wasn’t a girl just a normal boy, but even my mother didn’t seem to believe me. I lay back in sorrow and shock and slept, refusing to allow her to feed me my lunch, which was why she had come in.

Drifting in and out of sleep, I heard voices talking just outside my door. It was my mother and a man. “He seems to be in total denial of what happened, pretending that it was a prank that went wrong. He says he didn’t glue up his genitals, but I found him with the glue in his hand and some of it was stuck to his fingers. He must have done it. He’d downloaded the instructions from some website, they were printed out and lying on the bed. Then the boys at the school said he’d been seen wearing a bra on several occasions, we found another set under his mattress, and the makeup. Honestly doctor, what do we do?”

“Give him what he thinks he wants, but is denying perhaps from shame.”

“What do you mean?” said my mother’s voice.

“Treat him like the girl he wants to be.”

“What collude with all this?”

“Yes, I think it’s what she really wants to be, and the amnesia and denial is like a psychotic event because of all the emotional tension. She just blew like a volcano.”

“What my little James has gone, forever?”

“I don’t know, possibly, but now you have a lovely daughter, humour her play along with her and see where she takes it.”

“If that’s what we need to do to make him, I mean her, better. That’s what we’ll do. Okay doctor, it’s Charlotte from now on. I’ll make sure her father understands too.”

I was kept in hospital for another week, mainly because I refused to cooperate with anyone but Linda the nurse. She didn’t work everyday, so my mother would come in and cajole me into doing what they wanted. The only saving grace was that Dr Cervantes didn’t believe I was psychotic any longer and declined to give me anything but a sedative and apparently some anti-androgens, whatever those were.

Eventually I went home and seemed to sleep for another week. I was so tired and fed up, it was the easy way to escape. My bedroom had been revamped and was now much more girlish, instead of pictures of planes and spacecraft, I had kittens and puppies. I now had a dressing table and there were frills on everything. I had nightdresses of all shapes and designs and a warm pink dressing gown and matching slippers.

My parents were really trying. Yeah really trying my patience! But I stopped protesting and meekly wore what my mother produced. I don’t think it was my idea of style either as a boy or a girl, except the jeans and tops I finally accepted to wear. They weren’t too bad, if I kept my eyes shut. The jeans fitted snugly everywhere much to my surprise, normally I’d worn the loose fitting ones that were popular with boys. Now they were tighter and embroidered with sequins and things, and the tops were either frilly or had embroidery on them. They also hung a bit loose around my chest. I didn’t care that much except one morning my mother made some extra demands.

“We have to go and see Dr Cervantes today.”

“I don’t want to see him.”

“I’m sorry Charlotte, but you have to.”

“Why?”

“Because you have to and that’s an end to it. Now you can either go looking like a boy wearing girls’ stuff or you can go looking like a proper young woman.”

“Why can’t I go as a boy?”

“We discussed this before and you agreed you would live as a girl for a month and see if it felt as you wanted it to.”

I shook my head, I still had over three weeks to go. “What have I got to do?”

“Well it would help if you’d let me style your hair instead of that ponytail all the time.”

“Okay.”

“And wear a little make up.”

“Lip gloss only.”

“How about lip gloss and mascara, you have lovely long lashes.”

“Okay, what else?”

“Your bra and something to pad it out.”

“Why do I have to wear a bra?”

“Because you need to have some sort of shape, girls your age are usually growing breasts. Trust me on this, it will make you look so much better and then no one will give you a second glance.”

I muttered and grumbled but acceded in the end. She hugged me. “I got you some special pads, just to give you a hint of a shape.”

“Can I take the nail varnish off then?”

“No sweetheart, we spent all afternoon yesterday getting your nails to look so nice, please leave it on, it’ll match your lip gloss too. It will also show Dr Cervantes that we’ve been looking after you properly.”

We finally left for the hospital, with me wearing the stretch jeans with sequins, a pink top with lace around the edges and capped sleeves, a short embroidered denim jacket and pink Reeboks. On my back I had one of those backpack type handbags with whatever my mother thought I should carry.

To be fair, the bag was shaped like a monkey clinging on to me, and made of furry stuff. I’d laughed at one of the girls we saw using one when Mum gave me a lift to school. She had remembered.

I tried to make myself invisible in the car, slumping down as far as I could, but the seat belt prevented it and my mother kept nagging me to sit up. We got to the hospital and so far no one seemed to be looking at me. How did I know, I was staring at the ground like there might be some special code which could get me out of this mess.

“Ah Charlotte,” beamed Cervantes, taking my hand in both of his, “you are looking positively radiant today.” He was a lying toad, I looked pasty and sick, as if I’d been suffering with consumption for six months. I could make self raising flour look colourful.

Instead of telling him what I felt, I told him what I thought he wanted to hear, within limits. The object was to get out of there as quickly as possible and to give away the minimum.

The interview passed, I spent half an hour giving monosyllabic answers to everything, except when I said, ‘alright or okay’. Then I had to sit outside while he spoke to my mum. She came out ten minutes later. No one saw me that I recognised, and I eventually calmed down when we got to the car.

We set off for home as I thought, but ended up in a car park in the town centre. Horrified that I would be recognised, I refused to get out of the car. Then Mum argued that anyone who knew me should be in school anyway, so I allowed her to drag me out of the car. I wasn’t convinced but couldn’t think of a counter argument, and so far she’d been right.

We went around the shops and after a bit, in order to look less self conscious, I began to look at the girls clothes. I could never enjoy looking at girls’ clothes but as long as I didn’t look too disinterested, I didn’t attract too much attention. It was pure role play, and I was beginning to get into it, even pretending to like some of the stuff we were looking at, this was a mistake, as I then had to try it on and that was terrifying for the first time.

To most fourteen year old boys, except those whose hormones and ultimately their dicks are dominating their thinking, the prospect of being abandoned in a girls’ changing room is horrifying. The look on my mother’s face showed she would brook no dissent, so I did as I was told and tried on a couple of dresses, and some skirts and tops. Each time my mother made cooing noises or told me how pretty they looked. I was ready to vomit, it was so totally nauseating. If that wasn’t bad enough, something worse happened.

I was just coming out of the changing room wearing a dress when I was spotted by Astley, a boy in the year above me, who was off with a broken arm and was dragging around the shops with his mother and sister. “Hey, it’s Church isn’t it?”

I froze hoping I’d just succumbed to an auditory hallucination. With luck, I was just becoming schizophrenic. Then I heard his voice again, “Church, how ya doin’, I heard they’d cut your goolies off and that you were really a girl now?”

Blushing like a beefsteak tomato, I tried to ignore him. There I was modelling a blue floral print dress for my mother’s enjoyment, and along comes Attila the Hun making more noise than a 747 with wind. Why did he have to be so bloody noisy and shout everything so the whole world could hear him? It was my genitals not my ears that had received the glue. True to my role, I gasped and ran back into the changing room, trying to replace my heart in its normal position, in my chest not my throat. I sat there sweating and gasping like a pig with apoplexy. What should I do?

My brain, now working at approximately four times the speed of light, made everything seem to happen in slow motion. I didn’t actually see my whole life go before me, but I ran through options which varied from sensible to insane.

The first of these was to ignore him, pretend he’d got the wrong transvestite, second was to sit tight until the shop closed or they sent an ambulance. Whichever happened sooner. Next was a kamikaze attack, where if I was lucky, I’d manage to break his other arm before they got me. I even wondered about the possibilities of calling upon some hitherto unknown race of aliens to adopt me and beam me up.

While these and even dafter thoughts passed through the void which had previously contained a functioning brain, fate took its own step. Astley’s sister, on the pretext of trying on a dress came into the changing rooms and saw me sitting in the foetal position on the floor of mine. “Hello,” she said, “I’m Jane, are you Charlotte?”

I sat there semi dazed and only half aware of her presence, I simply nodded. “Simon told me how horrible they had been to you in that pig sty they call a school. He said that some of the boys had said you were a girl, and others had attacked you and cut off your willie and balls. So now you are a girl, is that true?”

I sat rocking, terrified by even this young female, too traumatised to do much more than nod. Tears were forming in my eyes and a big blob of scalding water ran down my cheek and dripped onto my dress.

“Oh Charlotte, don’t cry,” she came and sat down beside me, pulling my head onto her shoulder and rubbing my back. “Don’t cry, they have been so awful to you, but don’t worry, I won’t let them hurt you anymore.”

With that, I lost it completely and was crying inconsolably when both mothers came in to see what was happening. I began to wish I’d killed myself weeks before. It couldn’t get any worse could it? I was about to find out.

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To Be Continued...

 
Charlotte gains a friend who helps her accept herself. But time moves on, and Charlotte has to prepare for the future. Where will she go to school? Poor girl, there is being at a loss, and then there is being Lost!

Charlotte’s Tale

Part 2

by Angharad

 
Authors note: This story was originally posted on Sapphire’s Place. I have since re-edited/ rewritten much of it and with Erin’s Agreement, posted here. Thanks to Karen for her as-sister-ance.

It was commented on as being very contrived and weak, nothing new there then. I would ask you to hold judgement until you’ve read a couple or more episodes, because I think they actually show my writing at it’s best. It also contains a theme which some might consider depressing or sad, suicide is also mentioned on several occasions. There is some violence, but no sex.

I hope you enjoy.

Angharad.
 

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Part 2
 
When Simon Astley returned to school, he of course related his story along with unverified facts and much embellishment of my unfortunate trauma in the changing rooms. It doubtless pleased the conspirators who had set up my downfall. Why had they done it? Presumably the same reason a dog licks his balls — because he can! It was huge prank for them, for me it could prove to be a long sentence.

How did I know of Simon’s narratives? Well I had a new friend, his sister Jane, who two years younger than him, was at thirteen turning into quite an attractive young woman. Had certain elements of my anatomy not been glued to my abdomen, they could have been experiencing growth spurts.

I don’t know why Jane had befriended me, pity, curiosity or any other reason, but I found her attention and openness refreshing. It was doing me more good than that idiot psychiatrist.

After the debacle in the changing rooms, the rescue by my mother who took me home and sent for the doctor, who zapped me with tranquillisers, Jane had written to me. She had sent me a card hoping that I was feeling better and that she would like to come and see me. My mother, who was at her wits end at what to do next with me, persuaded me to invite her over. I agreed simply because I felt too feeble to protest. It had been a bad week and I had spent much of it zonked out in bed, spaced out on the pills.

So I was barely cognizant of the fact that my mother had phoned her mum to invite them over, but not Simon for obvious reasons. My first inkling had been my mum’s insistence that I shower and wash my hair, using conditioner. Then, on returning to my bedroom discovered she had laid out a new pair of jeans and a top for me.

Fearing this meant another visit to the hospital, I almost cried with relief when I learned it wasn’t. I did however, begin to shake when I learned we were having visitors. I shook even more when I learned who they were. However, after another pill, I calmed down enough to allow her to help me dress and do my hair, even consenting to wear a little makeup.

Half asleep when the door bell rang, I didn’t do much to respond, besides which Mum was already at the door admitting our visitors. I rose upon shaky legs as they entered our sitting room. “Hello Mrs Astley, Jane.” Whereupon Jane rushed over and hugged me, presented me with a bunch of flowers and asked how I was, all in an instant. At least that was how it seemed, maybe it was my pills. I thanked her for the flowers expecting my mother to offer to put them in vase, but she didn’t.

Instead, “Charlotte darling, why don’t you and Jane put those lovely flowers in a vase, you know where they are.” I did, I’d got them out often enough for her, so I led Jane out to the kitchen.

“Wow, I love your kitchen!” exclaimed my new friend, and she proceeded to examine all the appliances and worktops. It was something I took for granted, my dad is a civil engineer who plans and builds roads and bridges and things. So anything in our house is planned with meticulous detail and then implemented in the same way. Sadly he spends much of his time away from home, so when he is here, he loves to do DIY. He designed and fitted our kitchen himself, I’d been there when he did it, so it was no big deal to me. But I suppose on reflection, it was one of the best anywhere on the planet, I know my mum thought so.

I gave Jane a tour of the kitchen and showed her all the gadgets, she was suitably impressed. “So do you get to do much cooking?” she asked me. Not an unnatural question given my apparent knowledge of the gadgetry.

“No, not very much. Mum is very protective of her domain and you know, two women in the same kitchen and all that stuff.” On the spur of the moment, I thought I had bullshitted my way out quite nicely.

“So how are you going to learn? I help my mum all the time and even do some meals myself. I just love cooking, it’s like, so creative.” She beamed at me and I was lost for words. She was relaxing with me as she would another girl, although my hormones were telling me that I was anything but, despite the pills I was taking.

“I’ve been a bit preoccupied with all the changes I’ve had to make, and I was going to ask her to let me start helping around the place a bit more, but I don’t want to make her feel threatened.”

Before she could reply, I found a vase and began to fill it with water. The flowers came with a sachet of plant food which I dissolved in the water, then cut off the ends of the stalks as it said on the sachet. Then I was on my own. Jane had sat on one of the stools swinging her legs back and fore watching me. I felt very nervous, I’d never arranged flowers before because no one had ever given them to me before. I laid them on the table and began to examine their length of stalk, then I put the longest in the middle and shorter in front, and so on. Before long, I had what I considered a reasonable effort in impromptu floristry.

“Has anyone given you flowers before, like a boyfriend or your dad?” she asked.

Blushing I replied, “Only in hospital, I’m a bit new at being a girl and I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“After what they did to you, I’m not surprised,” she said in a quite matter of fact way.

“Shall we take these through and show our mums?” I said quickly before we got back into discussing my recent experiences.

I placed the flowers in the fireplace where they looked both attractive and would remain cool. My mother asked me to make us all a pot of tea, so I left them all to talk about her kitchen, which Jane was positively crowing about. Making a pot of tea and finding a piece of cake and few bits of crockery were about the limits of my culinary ability. But it was something I could do and so I set about it my task quite happily. Halfway through setting up the tray and making the tea, they all three came into the kitchen as my mum showed Jane’s mum around.

The afternoon went by more pleasantly than any I’d had for several weeks, and when they left, we all hugged and kissed goodbye. Jane was told to come over anytime by my mum, and her mum said, ”I think you are a very brave young lady to cope with all you’ve been through.” I simply blushed by way of response and shrugged my shoulders.

It was ironic, I had at last got a girlfriend who was simply that, a friend who was a girl and who thought I was the same or wanted to be so. I felt even more confused, because part of me enjoyed not having to act like a boy around her, showing off and acting like a total plonker. I was actually beginning to relax in her company too, valuing it for her friendship alone. I badly needed some friends, I’d lost all of those who were supposedly mine at school, it seemed they were of the fair weather variety. Of all the people who knew me at school, only the music teacher and headmaster had enquired about my health, and I suspect only the music teacher was really interested. I was after all his star soloist and I missed my music, my singing. I hadn’t sung a note since that fateful day, part of me wanted to do so again — part of me was terrified.

I let myself out into the garden and just wandered about thinking whether I would ever sing again, if I had strained my throat in my contretemps with Watson or if the pills I was taking would affect it. I had to know, so I went into the garage and after doing some breathing exercises, did some warm up scales and exercises. So far so good. I then tried one or two simple songs and they seemed to be all right too. Finally I sang the twenty third psalm. It was something I had performed at the funeral of one of the school governors, some months ago. I felt pleased with the rendition in the uncertain acoustics of the garage, and it made me feel better too.

As I finished my mother walked in and with tears in her eyes declared, “That was simply beautiful sweetheart, I’m so glad you want to sing again. It was wonderful.” We hugged and both cried for a moment, I felt more loved than I had for years. For an instant, I felt as if I wanted to live again.

I had been pleased to discover my singing voice had survived, although I was uncertain what effect the pills and things would have on it in the longer term. In truth, I was uncertain what effect they would have on all of me, not just my voice. The anti-andro whatevers, sounded pretty horrible, making me a chemical eunuch. I could be the first castrato chorister for a hundred and fifty years!

After my ‘garage concert’ and Jane’s visit, my spirits had risen a little. I wasn’t sure that life was going to be worth living exactly, but at least it felt as if there may be a tiny bit of hope.

I needed to get off the pills I was taking, they were making me so dopey I didn’t know what day it was half the time. However, until I did stop them, I knew I wouldn’t cope with any sort of schooling. That was another worry. Where could I go? Hardly back to Stalag Ten, which had been the place of my humiliation, so where else was there?

A girls school? Could I cope with such an environment, and would they accept me anyway? What about a mixed sex school? I think they call them co-eds in the US. I didn’t actually know of any in the area, but then I was so muddled much of the time, that I wouldn’t know my elbow from my ar.. !

I should talk to Mum about it, but then she would think I was ready to go somewhere, which would get back to Cervantes, and he’d think he was getting it right, which is wrong, but he doesn’t know it. Then he is a prat and I hate his rotten guts, and I feel quite dizzy and will sit down.

“A penny for them.” The voice came from nowhere, so lost was I in my thoughts, that I jumped visibly. It was a bit like sitting quietly in a train, just chugging along and an express comes past the other way. The sudden whoosh always makes me jump.

“I’m sorry Charlotte, I made you jump.” My mother had obviously come to see why I was so quiet.

“Yes you did Mum.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“If I could ever face going to school again.”

“You’ll have to one day, and the longer you put it off the worse it’ll be.” She paused and came over and hugged me. “Where would you like to go to school?”

“I don’t know, I don’t even know if I ever want to go again.”

“Well, young lady, I don’t think any of us have a choice in the fact that you have to, but we may just have some options as to where.”

“Anywhere round here will have heard about what happened, boys or girls.”

“They may well have forgotten by the time you get there. It’s a nine day wonder.”

“Except I have a rather noticeable name, thanks to that singer girl.”

“We can always change it. What do you fancy?”

For a moment I nearly said “James”, but decided against it. Instead I threw it back at my mother. “What would you have called me if I’d been born a girl?”

“Goodness, that takes me back a bit,” she paused to think. “It was a choice between Christine and Charlotte.”

“You’re joking!”

“No I’m not. I like the name Charlotte, although I appreciate it has some negative connotations for you.”

“Yeah,” I answered, “just a few.”

“Despite the nasty associations, I think it suits you, and I’m quite used to calling you Charlotte.”

“I suppose if it was going to get out it would anyway.” I philosophised, though inside my emotions didn’t feel anything like as calm about it. What was barely beneath the surface was sheer terror. Scratch me and watch it happen!

“I’m really pleased with you,” my mother beamed at me, “since Jane came around, you have really started to show some of your old self.”

“I wondered if it was worth getting some advice from Mr King, about schools.”

“What? Your old music teacher? That’s a wonderful idea, Charlotte.” With that she gave me a hug and we both smiled, although my terror was ready and waiting to surface. “I’ll give him ring and see if he’d be prepared to come and see us.”

She disappeared and I decided to allow my thoughts to drift back to Jane’s visit. I glanced at the flowers she had given me, they were very beautiful. I hoped that she liked me for myself, not just as a goodwill gesture to a freak.

I compared myself to her. She was vivacious and very pretty, with a figure that was developing into a shapely one like her mother. I was a year older, and straight up and down. I didn’t want to be a girl, but no one believed me. I wanted to be a boy, but had somehow failed the practical. What I wanted less than being a girl was being a nothing.

Effectively, I had no penis anymore, and I suspected my balls weren’t that good anyway otherwise my voice would have broken and I’d be covered in zits, like my contemporaries. So if I couldn’t be a boy anymore, then I think I’d prefer to look a bit more real as a girl. You know have boobs and things.

Oh God, what am I saying! Do I really want tits? I don’t know, I just know I don’t want to be a nothing, and there doesn’t seem to be much option otherwise. So I need to take hormones of some sort. That means I need to speak to Cervantes, old prat-face himself, but that will make him think I really am transsexual, and he will feel convinced in his own convictions of his diagnosis. The only convictions he should have are for being a prat!

“He will come and see us tomorrow after school.” Chirped my mother.

“Who will?” I enquired, lost in my own convoluted world.

“Mr King. He said he would love to see you and to help in anyway he can.”

That’ll teach me to keep my mouth shut, except for eating, I thought to myself, but my mouth said, “Okay.”

“Well you could sound more enthusiastic. He is putting himself out to help us.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure he is, I feel a bit frightened that’s all.”

“I’m sorry too baby,” she put her arm around me, “I keep forgetting how difficult this is for you.” We hugged for quite a few minutes before she said,

“I’ve got so used to you as my daughter, I forget that it’s so new for you and for others.” She held me tight as I shook and wept silent tears. The terror, like the magma in the sump of a volcano, moved closer to the surface.

The next day duly arrived, and I accepted that my mother wanted me to make a good impression on Mr King. So I was duly scrubbed and anointed with all sorts of scented unguents and creams, which if the truth were known, felt rather nice, although I wasn’t so sure about the smell. Standing downwind of myself would I considered, be like standing in a second rate florist shop.

I declined to wear a skirt, and would have preferred no make up, but settled for a lip gloss, a padded bra, my embroidered jeans and fitted tee shirt with lace at the neck and sleeves. My hair was, tied up in a pony tail, high on my head with a pink scrunchie. On my feet I wore my girly, pink Reeboks!

We agreed that my mother would let Mr King in and have a quick chat with him, then she would call me in when they were ready. He had seen me in the hospital, but I was hardly at my best then. I wanted him to feel comfortable before I entered like some alien from the planet Zog!

At the appointed time I heard the door bell ring and my mother answer it. I could hear two voices, my mother’s and a male one. It could well be Mr King. I couldn’t hear what was said, just the murmur of the voices. My heart rate increased and I could hear the pounding in my ears. I felt rather faint, and sat down.

I tried to think of something nice to take my mind off the impending ordeal. I thought about my dad. He was a lovely man, away in Germany at the moment building some motorway or some such thing. I missed him. He said he would be home at some point this month, but couldn’t be firm on his dates. I hoped it would be soon.

Thinking of my dad did the trick, I was lost in those thoughts when my mother came up and asked me to come down. With trembling body and legs of jelly, I made my way downstairs. Mum held my hand, and as we approached the sitting room, she gave it a squeeze. I looked up at her and she smiled at me.

“Ready?” she whispered, and I nodded my response.

“Mr King, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Charlotte.” She led me forward as we entered the room.

Old King jumped up, and stretched out his hand, “Hello Charlotte, I’m glad to meet the real you at last.”

I offered him my fingers, my palms were so sweaty it felt they would drip any moment. He took them, and instead of shaking them, he pulled me to him and gave me a hug.

I was astonished, but accepted this as a gesture of acceptance of some sort. “I can only do this while your mother is here.” He said quietly. “I have missed your nightingale voice, without it, the school choir is mediocre to say the least. I have hopes of young Wall, but he’s still a bit young and I don’t think he will have your talent.”

I didn’t know what to say. “I’ve missed you too, Mr King,” fell out of my mouth.

“Let me look at you,” he held me out at arms length, “I think this is an improvement on that scruffy, longhaired tearaway, I used to know.”

“I know where to come for a reference then.” I threw back at him.

My mother settled us down and went off to make some tea. We chatted about what was happening in the school choir. He mentioned names of boys I knew and one or two new ones. He told me what they were singing and about their forthcoming concert, although he was desperately short of soloists and may have to cancel.

I knew where this was leading and had no intention of taking the bait. There was no way I could go near that place again, except to burn it down! Surely he couldn’t really be trying to tempt me back.

My mother brought in a tray of tea and cakes. We had spent the morning baking them and I had actually enjoyed it, doing things with my mum again, like it was when I was little.

“I was just telling Charlotte, that we could do with her help at the next concert. I am so short of soloists, it’s untrue. The boy’s voices break so early these days, and when they’re so young, they don’t have the technical skills to sing very proficiently. They have very sweet voices but no technique. That’s where you were such a treasure, because you were a little older and much more mature in your technique. It’s such a shame you’re not singing any more. Such a waste!”

I was blushing to the roots of my hair, and I suspect through them. I looked at the floor, because I felt so embarrassed.

“You don’t seriously think Charlotte would sing at that school again, do you?” said my mother in an obviously, concerned voice.

“No, not after the stories I heard. But I can dream can’t I? This child has a voice which could charm the birds out of the trees, and given the right training could be even better. Depending on where she wanted to go with it, it could bring her fame and fortune.”

“I think I’ve had enough of that for the moment.” I piped from under the embarrassed scowl I was wearing.

“I’m sorry Charlotte, for all I know your voice has changed with all the hormones and things you presumably have to take. I think it’s such a loss all round.”

“As far as I know, it hasn’t changed yet.” I responded.

“Will you sing for me, just something simple, anything. Just let me hear that wonderful voice again, one last time.” He looked me in the eye, and I felt incredibly self-conscious, blushing even more, if it was possible.

My mother was about to intervene, but my glance stopped her. “Have a cup of tea first, while I go and do some warm ups, then I’ll sing for you.”

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed, “Simply wonderful.”

I left them to their tea, and wandered off to the garage, where once again I did some scales and other warm ups. I didn’t really know what to sing, it was so long since I had done anything, and I was out of practice. In the end I decided on the twenty third psalm again, because its wording spoke to me, and I hoped would fortify me in this ordeal. I ran through it in my mind, then sang it a couple of times, checking my breathing and general tempo. It felt okay, I can do this, I thought to myself.

And so I did. I walked calmly into our lounge, asked if they were ready, and upon their agreement, launched into my piece.

When I’d finished there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, my mother was sniffing back the tears and even old King had his hankie out, dabbing at his eyes. “That was simply splendid. Beautiful. As good as you have ever sung,” was all he said, before returning to his raptures.

Sniffing, my mother added, “That was lovely, darling. Mr King is right in some ways, you should keep up your singing even if you only do it for your own pleasure.”

The rest of the evening, we discussed my continuing education. Nothing was resolved but we did now have a better understanding of the options. Mr King tried again to inveigle me back to sing at their concert, but my mother wouldn’t hear of it. I was nearly tempted until I considered the consequences.

The thought of the ragging I would receive, made me shudder. It had been bad before, but now, all those who teased me would feel justified. They would have a field day. I missed the singing, especially to an audience, the buzz was something else. But it couldn’t compensate for the abuse I’d receive. If only I could wear some disguise! But what am I thinking about, they’d recognise me as soon as I opened my mouth, or would they?

I went to play on my computer, a few games of something would take my mind of these mad thoughts. However, I couldn’t settle to the task in hand, and gave up on my rally car driving.

I went to see my mum. I wasn’t sure about what I was going to say, but I needed to talk to her. “Mum, you know I’m not sure about this girl stuff?” She stopped reading the paper and looked at me, and nodded. “I’m not sure, but at the same time I don’t want to be a nothing.”

“You’re not a nothing, you’re my daughter.”

“But I am. If I take my clothes off, then I look like a boy without a dick. I don’t look like a girl, except between my legs. I’m fourteen. Most boys of my age have deep voices, hairy legs, muscles and spots. Most girls have boobs and broader hips, not to mention periods. I’m a nothing, neither one thing nor the other.”

“Well we can pad your bras out a bit more, and possibly get you some form of padded pants to make your bum look bigger.”

“If I go to school as a girl, it won’t fool anyone for long. What about games and things?”

“I hadn’t thought that far in advance. But even if you had hormones tomorrow, they would take months to work. No one grows breasts overnight, and you are far too young for implants.”

Those thoughts hadn’t even really crossed my mind, except perhaps for the hormones. Even there, I didn’t really want to commit myself to changes which couldn’t be undone, should I manage to make it back to manhood.

“What about some of these things they advertise on the internet?”

”What things do you mean?”

“There are places which sell false boobs, which can be stuck on and are supposed to look like real ones.”

“Are there?” she looked aghast for a moment, then said, “Show me.”

I had never actually visited one of these sites, so I put a few things into Google and eventually we found some. They were mainly American, but there were two British ones as well. She didn’t seem that impressed.

“I wonder if any of the surgical appliance places do anything like these?” She left me at the computer and went off. I didn’t know what she meant or how she had taken my query, so I left things for a bit.

The next morning, she didn’t call me to get up. I’d had a mixed night with some bad dreams and some better ones. I had dreamt that I had gone to my concert, disguised as a girl with dark hair and prominent breasts. Instead of abusing me, the boys were fighting each other to assist me or catch my eye. It was great fun, and none of them recognised my voice, so I was completely incognito to them. In another, I saw myself at a new school and it was hell. It was the girls who were tormenting me, asking why I didn’t have boobs or periods. I ended up crying with this one, and woke up wet from sweat and tears.

Eventually I got up, it was nearly ten. It was late for me. Since coming off the pills, I was trying to make my life as normal as I could. I went downstairs to get some breakfast and heard my mother talking to someone on the phone. “Yes, as I said, she seems very body conscious and aware that she is lacking breasts and wider hips.” She paused, then, “I thought I’d let you know. How old must she be before you can prescribe them, oh.” That sounded rather flat.

“Would that be wise, if it’s not under medical supervision? Oh I see, so it’s not hormones as such. We could try that I suppose, I’ll get some. ………..and you think the shop you mentioned may be able to help. Okay thank you doctor. ….yes I will. Good bye.”

She turned around and saw me standing behind her. “Ooh!” she said and started a little. “I was asking Dr Cervantes for some advice vis-á -vis our chat yesterday.”

“We chatted about all sorts of things yesterday Mum, what’s it to do with the creepy crawly doctor?”

“Now darling, he’s only trying to help you.”

“Help me what?”

“Now Charlotte, you know very well that he is doing his best, and he is quite fond of you.” At this I made gagging noises. “You silly girl, stop that!” I did as I was told. “He sends his regards.”

“Look Mum, if I had tits, he’d be on them!”

She looked blankly at me. “The expression, getting on my tits!”

“Oh I see. That’s very vulgar Charlotte.”

I considered myself told off. Boy, some days I wonder why I bother to open my gob at all! I went off to get some breakfast, pretending to be in high dudgeon.

I was half way through my orange juice when Mum told me to hurry up and get dressed, we had some shopping to do. Yuck!

“Get yourself washed and dressed, wash your hair, and put on a skirt and top. Don’t forget your bra.”

I began to protest, but she cut me short. “I don’t care what you think or want, we’re going to do it my way today. So please get a move on.”

I did as I was told, you don’t argue with Mum in this sort of mood. Not unless you want grief. I put on a white top and a pink skirt, with my white sandals. She nodded her approval, told me to use some of my cologne and to put on my watch and bracelet.

I returned as instructed. “Where’s your bag?”

“You didn’t tell me I needed my bag!” I stropped at her.

“Of course you need your bag, and make sure your purse is in it.”

I pouted at her but went to get it. “Purse?” I opened my bag to show her. “Good girl.” I just scowled.

We caught the train about eleven thirty, and were in London about an hour or so later. Then we set off for the underground. After a couple of changes of tube, we emerged in a street, and after a short walk went into a shop.

“Hello, I’m Mrs Church, I phoned this morning about my daughter.”

“Yes, I remember. This is the young lady?” my mother nodded. “How do you do?” was addressed to me.

“Fine thank you, how do you do?” I was pretending that I had been brought up rather than dragged up. I was conscious of my mother’s watchful eye. A boy would probably have wound her up, but I was supposed to be a girl, so I played it straight.

We were led into the back of the shop which was some sort of fitting room. I was told to remove my top and bra, and after some hesitation complied. My mother’s smile reassured me it was okay to show my flat chest.

The woman, who was serving us, and whose name badge read ‘Rita’, was about forty, so really quite old. Probably even older than my mum. She looked at me, and nodding her head, said, “I see what you mean, she is very underdeveloped. Still, I think we should be able to help. Today I’ll do a measuring and colour match, then we order them. How quickly do you want them?”

“How quickly can you do them?” asked Mum.

“Two weeks, but that would cost an extra hundred.”

“Yes, if it means two weeks. Can you guarantee that?”

“Usually. You’d have to come back for a fitting and for me to show how to fix them yourself, or for the young lady to do it herself.”

“Right, lets go for it then.”

I was then subjected to very careful measurement of the chest, and then to a equally precise match of skin tone against a series of charts, a bit like choosing paint. Then, I was asked to put on my bra. When it was on, she placed different bags of jelly stuff in it, until she and my mother were in accord. Then they asked me what I thought.

Not knowing much about such things, I accepted their judgement. I was then told I could keep the padding in my bra. It felt strange, cool and heavy compared to my simple foam pads. They bounced a bit when I walked, like real ones. I wasn’t sure what I felt about this, at the same time, I knew I had precipitated it.

After this shop we went to a big health food type shop and mum bought several items. I had a feeling I was going to be the beneficiary of at least some of it.

After a day or two of wearing the new breast forms, I was almost used to them. I was also taking some capsule thing three times a day, and another one twice. Apparently they weren’t really hormones, but may help start things growing a bit. I learned afterwards, they were phyto-oestrogens, and ginseng, the latter would also help me to get some energy.

Nothing seemed to happen, anyway, except perhaps I did feel a bit more energetic and went out once or twice on my own to the local shop for messages.

Dad came home for a weekend, and seemed pleased with my progress. He brought me some expensive eau de toilette, which I’d never heard of, called, Anais Anais. It smelt very nice, and I was told that as young woman I needed to develop my own sense of style and that included a scent. It wasn’t something I’d given much thought to, but I think I understood what he meant.

I enjoyed my father’s visit, and we did all sorts of things as a family, and just us together. We also had a heart to heart, and I began to understand how difficult this was for him. He had wanted a son, he’d got his wish. Sadly, his son was a bit small, but it was okay. Then he seemed to miss out on puberty, still sounding like a girl. True, a lovely singing voice was a small compensation, but why did it have to be so girlish?

Then the disaster of the ‘pseudo-castration’ and hospitalisation and Dad’s dreams were fast disappearing. He wondered if he’d cope with this poofy child who seemed to want to be a girl. He’d expressed his doubts to my mum, who’d understood but was very upset. Then when he’d seen me in hospital, it nearly broke his heart. But he still loved me, and was determined to do every thing he could to help me. It wasn’t going to be easy, but he would try.

We were both in tears, as I sat on his lap and we hugged each other. Realising how far he’d come to try and love me as a daughter, how could I betray that love. When he then said, that he wouldn’t be able to cope if after a while, I decided I wanted to be a boy again. I saw my future being written in tablets of stone.

How could I live without my dad, or my mum for that matter. They were both so important to me. While I could have argued that they should be supporting however I saw myself, I understood their difficulty, even if they were blind to mine. If I was going to be stuck as a girl, then I might as well go the whole hog and get bits added or removed as necessary. It did mean I’d get to wind up Dr Cervantes, which would make it almost worthwhile.

Officially, I was on sick leave from school and had been for two months. Not unexpectedly, the local education authority were becoming concerned that I wasn’t attending a school somewhere. They seemed to be reasonably sympathetic to my situation and once a week, a peripatetic teacher came in for a couple of hours and set me some work.

I suppose it was helping me get back to a routine which would mean I could return to school. It was the summer term, so at best, I’d be starting for the new academic year in September. Reluctantly, I went to the local girls school with Mum for an interview. They were pretty full but agreed they would accept me, however, I would have to resit the year unless I could prove I was up to the next standard. I didn’t want to have to resit a year, however, I wasn’t in a position to know if I was up to their standards. We would need to talk to the visiting teacher and see what she thought.

I was a little apprehensive about this part of my adventure, but it was far enough away not to worry me yet. Finding out if I was up to standard was the next worry, and sorting out my body, to get that up to standard as well.

The breast forms that we had ordered duly arrived and we went up to Town again to get them. They were very realistic, and matched my skin almost perfectly. The lady showed us how to attach them with the special glue, and also how to get them off again. I would have to let my skin recover in between attachments, so I couldn’t wear them stuck for longer than a week, then a couple of days without, and so on.

When they were stuck in place I became aware of them pulling on my chest skin, and they were cold too! But they soon warmed up and with my bra back on, didn’t feel too uncomfortable. She showed us how to apply a small amount of special make up to hide any seams, but the fit was amazing. They really did look real, but they did cost quite a lot of money. However, I was beginning to look more female. My hips were still narrow, but with realistic breasts, I could probably get away with being a girl with ‘boyish hips’.

I’d been taking the isoflavones (phytogens) for two weeks, and with the combined effect of the anti-androgens, I felt sure my waist was getting smaller and my bum bigger, although this was probably wishful thinking.

Certainly I felt more confident about being seen as a girl, and felt happier experimenting with my looks. Jane came round more often, and we spent ages playing with various hairstyles and makeup, and the wardrobe I had. Of course this led to us making several sorties into town for more clothes. I was never sure if my mum was pleased or concerned at the amount of money I seemed to be able to spend. However, I was building a wardrobe of clothes which I liked, so it was worthwhile. I was developing a sense of myself and of my own style, with Jane and Mum’s help. I thought it was coming on nicely, but then I would wouldn’t I?

The upshot of the school thing, was that my visiting teacher was in favour of my resitting the year. I asked if we could take the year tests and see how I did before deciding. She agreed, and also to getting me more work to stretch me a bit more. What I had been doing was too easy and I was ready to up the pressure a bit.

The pressure certainly rose. I would start the day by going for a run of a couple of miles. There was quite a difference between wearing the breast forms attached or simply held in the bra. When I got back, I would shower, breakfast and study hard for two hours. Then I’d spend half an hour doing singing exercises, which I found had the paradoxical effect of relaxing me while at the same time energising me. I’d do some reading for my schoolwork for another half an hour or so, then we’d have lunch.

The afternoon was two more hours of hard graft over my books, then I’d go for a walk before we had tea or dinner depending on whether Dad was home and what we’d had for lunch. Then, another two hours of schoolwork. If it was fine, Mum and I would go for another walk, then bed.

Weekends, if Jane was around we’d do girl things which I was beginning to quite enjoy. If we went out she would make comments about different boys we’d see which used to embarrass me at first. “He’s got a nice bum,” or, “I wonder what he looks like under those clothes. Those lips look quite kissable.” It was still a little embarrassing, but worse was when she suggested different boys were ‘clocking me’.

I had never seen myself as a sex object, and at fourteen, I should have been seeing girls as such if anything. So to have boys my own age or older making comments, some of which were quite vulgar, was nerve-racking. “Get the tits on that, or nice arse;” were amongst the more common. I also got used to men and boys talking to my chest or looking at my legs rather than my eyes when speaking to me. If I was feeling playful, I might flirt a little or on the other hand I might remind them that my face was higher up than they were looking.

On one such occasion, I’d had a very trying time with a maths problem and instead of going for my afternoon walk I went for a second run, in shorts and tee shirt. Some van driver stopped me, asking for directions to a road nearby. Fortunately, I knew where it was and as I was directing him, he was glancing at my chest all the time. Admittedly, I was breathing quite heavily after running up hill and I suppose my chest was heaving in the sports bra I had on. I was also aware that I was a bit sweaty, so my shirt was sticking to me a little.

He just began to stare at my chest, rather than where I was pointing. “Do you mind!” I snapped at him, “the place you want is up that way, not on my chest.”

“Pity,” he commented, then blushing, he thanked me for my directions before driving off in the wrong direction! I went back to my run, giggling as I went, which did not help my breathing.

One weekend, Jane and I bought some of those washable hair dyes, and we dyed our hair purple. My mother nearly had a fit, and so did hers! We looked so different, simply by changing our hair colour. The next week, at Jane’s house, I used a dark brown one, which with some different make up and some of Jane’s clothes I looked like someone else. To test my theory, I rang our door bell when I got home. My mother answered.
“Yes young lady.”

“ ‘scuse me Mrs Church, is James home?” I watched her blanch a little at my question. I had disguised my speaking voice slightly and it was obviously enough to fool her.

“I’m afraid he doesn’t live here anymore.” She was becoming agitated and I began to wish I hadn’t started it.

“Where is he then?” I piped.

“He died.” She answered, and I could see the tears beginning to form.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” I said and left. I watched her shut the door before I ran back to Jane’s house, tears forming in my eyes too.

I washed my hair back to normal colour and changed into my own clothes again. I told Jane what had happened.

“You did what?” she asked, “I’ll bet she was upset. How could you do it?”

“I didn’t mean to upset her, it just came into my mouth and fell out before I could stop it. I didn’t mean her to react like that.” Was what I said, but I wondered if part of me did want her to. Apart from my anger about how everyone had been so accepting of the trick which had been played upon me, which had robbed me of my identity as well as my sex, I wondered how she was dealing with my change of identity.

For what it was worth, I now knew. I felt a bit sad and not a little angry. I suddenly realised that I was also suffering the same bereavement, which thanks to my father’s attitude meant James was as good as dead. I began to understand that this was forever. I was going to be stuck as a girl for the rest of my life or lose my father if I tried to reassert my masculinity at some point in the future.

I had gone along with it all because it seemed the only thing to do. The evidence had been made to point to me as the guilty party. It had been accepted, and despite my efforts to protest, it had been seen as true. I was therefore a liar. Suddenly, I felt so angry that I could punch someone, hardly a feminine response.

I hurriedly left Jane’s house and went for a long walk. The jeans I was wearing felt hot, and the flared legs kept catching, making my temper even worse. I wanted to hurt someone, or myself. The bra felt tight and the breast forms were uncomfortable, but were stuck on today. I felt like ripping them off, but knew I couldn’t without taking large areas of skin with them.

I wanted to go somewhere I felt safe. I wanted to scream and shout and break things. I needed to do something physical or I was going to explode and do myself or somebody else some harm. On one hand I didn’t really care, but another part of me, did. It was the latter side which won.

I found myself walking along the river bank, and with a large stick I had picked up, was bashing and smashing everything in sight. Thankfully no one was around to observe this very incongruent behaviour from a ‘girl’.

Finally, I was empty of anger and energy. If I’d had the chance to sit and sleep, I would have done. I became aware of the time, it was six o clock. Heavens, my little prank had been at about eleven. I’d had no lunch, I realised I was hungry. I also realised I was lost.

I began to feel a little worried. Scared would have been too strong a description, but I was certainly uneasy. I began to walk faster, but none of the landmarks looked familiar. I stopped. I needed to find the river, because I could navigate from there. But where was it. I was aware of a man walking towards me, and I suddenly thought I would ask him, then I felt paranoid. I didn’t know him, if he thought I was a girl out here on my own……!

I began to walk confidently towards him, holding my head up high. I wished I kept the stick. I also wished I hadn’t left my bag at Jane’s, my mobile was in it. I only had my own stupidity to blame for the problem I was in. I would therefore find my own solution.

As I wandered towards I didn’t know where, it occurred to me that my mother might be worried about me. Now I felt guilty. This was crass of me to do such a silly and thoughtless thing. The anger had all gone now, and all I felt was sorrow. I was sorry I had acted as I had, I was sorry I had upset my mum, I was sorry I had stomped out of Jane’s house. I was still lost, and it was half past six.

Of course these days, there are no phone boxes because mobile phones have killed them off. Besides I had no money, so couldn’t call anyone. I wandered on some more, praying, “Please God, let me get home safe and apologise to my mother. Please let me do this and I’ll be a good girl from now on. I promise. Amen. P.S. If you help me, I’ll sing at the concert.”

I don’t know if it was the latter part which helped but, a few minutes later, I stumbled out onto a road and then a sign post. My town was five miles away. It was going to take me nearly two hours, but at least I now knew where I was going. “Thanks God.” I offered, “I will sing at Mr King’s concert, and I’ll do at least one religious song.” Happy that I’d settled my debt with the Creator, I walked as quickly as I could.

As I got closer to home, I began to recognise landmarks, each one of them made my heart gladden. By the time I was on the outskirts of town, I was almost crying with joy. My feet hurt, the shoes I had on were not really suitable for walking in the countryside, having a clumpy two inch heel, and these blessed jeans had rubbed me on my legs. Finally, I was on the last lap. I passed Jane’s house, and thought I’d better reclaim my bag.

I nervously rang the bell, her mum answered the door, “Charlotte! Where have you been? Your mother is very worried about you. Come in, I’ll call her to say you’re safe.”

Jane came up. “Where have you been, it’s nearly nine o clock.”

“I forgot my bag.” I replied.

“Here,” she said, “we were all worried about you, you stamped out of here like someone possessed. It looked as if you were capable of anything.”

“I had some stuff I needed to work through.”

“Goodness look at your hands.” She said. I did, they were all dirty and skinned where I’d been holding the stick. I accepted her offer to go and wash them. In the bathroom, I saw my dirty, tear stained face reflecting back at me. I washed my hands and then my face. I looked a bit more presentable afterwards, although my hair was scruffy and would need washing again. I combed it into some semblance of tidiness and tied it back with an elastic ring, I had in my bag.

Ten minutes later, after a glass of orange squash, my mother arrived. We embraced and with tears in everyone’s eyes, she took me home.

“I’m sorry Mum. I didn’t mean to worry you.” I sobbed to her.

She hugged me, “I thought I’d lost you as well. It was you earlier wasn’t it? Asking for James.”

“Yes Mum, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it would upset you. It was meant to be a joke.” I sniffed. “Then I got very angry, I don’t know why.”

“I do darling. It’s okay. I understand. I’m just so glad to have you back safely.”

“I got lost, and walked and walked.” I sobbed at her, “I got frightened I’d never get home again.”

“Come on, have something to eat, and up to bed.”

“Can I have a bath Mum?”

“Of course you can. Go on off you go, I’ll get you something to eat.”

I ate my food, wrapped up in a dressing gown and my nightdress. I had several blisters on my feet, which the bath had eased. I was absolutely shattered.

“I have to sing at Mr King’s concert.”

“What!”

“I have to sing at the concert.”

“Why?”

“I promised God I would.” I felt a little foolish saying this, but it was true.

“You did what?”

“When I was lost, I asked God for help and in return I promised I would sing at the concert.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I have to Mum. I promised.”

“But the boys will tease you.”

“Only if they recognise me.”

“What do you mean, of course they’ll recognise you, and your name.”

“I can call myself anything. You didn’t recognise me earlier did you?”

“No, I didn’t. It was Jane who told me it was you.”

“So if you didn’t recognise me, why should they?”

“They’ll know your voice, and the stuff you sing.”

“I’m sure I can change some of that. I need to speak to Mr King about it first, but I want to sing there Mum, and I intend to.”

 
As Charlotte becomes more comfortable in her new life she faces returning to her old school as guest soloist. Her desire to become something more than a nobody requires her to deal with two doctors, one caring and one not. What lengths will she go to in order to attain her goals?

Charlotte’s Tale

Part 3

by Angharad

 
Authors note: This story was originally posted on Sapphire’s Place. I have since re-edited/ rewritten much of it and with Erin’s Agreement, posted here. Thanks to Karen for her as-sister-ance.

It was commented on as being very contrived and weak, nothing new there then. I would ask you to hold judgement until you’ve read a couple or more episodes, because I think they actually show my writing at it’s best. It also contains a theme which some might consider depressing or sad, suicide is also mentioned on several occasions. There is some violence, but no sex.

I hope you enjoy.

Angharad.
 

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Part 3
 
I rang Mr King a day or so later and asked if I could sing in his concert. He went very quiet then said, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I thought you wanted me to,” I felt almost as if he were rejecting me. “Don’t you want me there?”

“I should love to have you sing for me again, but I need to be sure you want to do this. What does your mother think? Put her on will you.”

My mother duly came and talked with him, reassuring him that it was my decision, but she tactfully left out the bit about my ‘covenant with the Almighty’.

I talked with him again, “Okay, I’m convinced, though I suppose it won’t be quite like old times.”

“No Sir, it won’t.” I don’t know if I felt sad or relieved, it was the only part of my schooling I enjoyed.

“You realise it’s in less than a month,” I hadn’t. I’d have to work our a few things before then, it was a challenge and perhaps it was time to see how ready I was.

We discussed what I would sing. I’d do three songs. Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’, Handel’s ‘Ombra mai fu’, and ‘Summertime’, from Porgy and Bess by Gershwin. They would all need some practice, both by me and with Mr King and his accompanist Miss Daws. We decided that I would have to brave the school at some point, but that he would just tell everyone he had a young soprano who was going to guest at the concert. I would now have to make up an alias, which I thought I’d better agree with my mother, so arranged to get back to him.

I also agreed that I would go to the school the following day to ‘meet’ with him and the accompanist. I felt a little shudder when we discussed this, but it was a demon I needed to face. I had made a promise to God, so would honour it whatever the possible price. I almost felt like Abraham, being asked to sacrifice his son Isaac, but a sheep turned up at the last minute and the boy was spared. Thankfully, my beliefs were definitely New Testament, and with the required religious song, perhaps the most beautiful I had ever sung, the Ave Maria, I would surely repay the debt to the ‘man upstairs’, as my dad called him.

I went to find my mother who was very unsure about my attending school even for a short time, but I insisted. We discussed aliases without much success, we thought of all sorts of clever ones and some funny ones. However, they all had that contrived feeling about them. What I needed was a simple, real sounding name. Nothing too fancy or memorable, just real. It was so difficult.

Eventually, I gave up and went to town to get some more of the washable hair colouring. I hoped it didn’t rain on the days I needed to use it. I also bought some new makeup, with darker shades to go with my new hair colour. I was feeling bold with my new breasts being almost undetectable, and I treated myself to a new bra and scoop necked top, a mini skirt and some black, ruched, suede boots. I was going to have some fun with my former schoolmates.

Mum was horrified with my ensemble when I modelled it for her. “Is this wise?” She asked, “Parading yourself like some tart in front of two or three hundred testosterone fuelled boys.”

“If I time it right, it could be more like six hundred,” I swaggered back, the smirk on my face stretching right across it.

“I am not sure I approve of this and I don’t think Mr King will either.”

“Old Kingy will probably cream himself in his pants,” I laughed at the very thought of this.

“Charlotte, that sort of attitude will get you into trouble, besides, Mr King is a very nice man. It would be wrong to tease him.”

“I’m only joking Mum.” This was an out and out lie. I knew I looked foxy in this outfit, and was going to have some fun from it. “But I have to make sure there are no questions raised over what or who I am.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you, especially, exactly what you are, as in my opinion you look a bit like a common prostitute.” She blushed as she spoke. “If your father were here, he wouldn’t allow you to flaunt yourself like that.”

There was a pause, and I agreed to wear a thin shirt over the top, like a jacket. I buttoned it up for Mum’s eye, but would loosen a few buttons when I got to school.

“We still have to find you a name.”

“How about using your maiden name?”

“Okay, so you have a surname, what’s your first name going to be?”

“Christine?” I ventured.

“Christine Monk. Yes, why not?”

It was a family joke that my mother was the only monk who’d gone into a church instead of a monastery. So it was agreed, I would be Christine Monk for the purposes of the concert, and I thought, any such things again. After all, someone got to ‘Charlotte’ Church before me, and to be fair she was born with it, I’d had it forced upon me.

After doing some warm ups, I began to practice the Schubert, I used a tape recorder, so was able to gauge a bit of how I sounded when I played it back. It was going to need some work, so was the Handel. Thankfully, the Gershwin wasn’t too bad.

I had a play with the makeup. Jane was better at it than I, but I kept plugging away and before long, I managed to make myself look different without appearing too sluttish. As I refined the look I was creating, I began to think I was starting to look quite pretty in a sultry sort of way. Surely no one would recognise me, a real babe, as ‘one time loser’ Church. I practised altering my voice a little as well, trying lisps or accents. In the end I just raised it a fraction in pitch and made it more breathy. Even I didn’t recognise myself then! This was going to be very exciting and potentially a good laugh at my tormentors. I could well enjoy this.

I had difficulty sleeping that night. Dreams in which I made the whole thing a wonderful revenge were interspersed with one in which they guessed who I was and attacked me. I woke up in a real sweat after that one.

Consequently, the next morning I awoke feeling tired and less than confident about the whole thing. I was on the verge of asking Mum to phone Mr King and say I wasn’t well, when I remembered I had promised someone else I would do the concert. It was a commitment I had to keep. In return I asked for help to fulfil the obligation without mishap. That made me feel better, with the Almighty on my side, I began to regain some confidence.

After breakfast I began my metamorphosis, showering and adding the hair colorant. By itself it made me look quite different. When I did my makeup, added the balcony bra and scoop neck pink jumper and the black mini skirt and boots, I looked very different. I practised my new breathy speaking voice, and was one hot chick. Well if nothing else, flaunting my cleavage should sell a few more tickets to boys who were more familiar with sherbet than Schubert, and to whom Handel, was something on a broom or door. But they might just turn up to watch me perform. Part of me hoped they did, part also hoped that they didn’t recognise my voice. The songs were ones I hadn’t sung in school although I had elsewhere in competitions. None of my brethren were at those, so I hoped I was safe.

I sat about for the afternoon, unable to settle to do anything. I had homework to do but couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t read or watch television. I was tempted to listen to Renee Fleming who had sung all the songs I was going to do, but that would be like watching Picasso before painting the kitchen.
Eventually it was time to go. Mum drove me to the school, dropping me at the gate. On wobbly legs I wandered into the building which was filled with so many unhappy memories for me. My resolve to tease the boys was fast disappearing. It was all I could do to keep back the tears.

“Can I help you?” The voice came from slightly behind, to my side and above me. I hadn’t seen it’s originator and jumped visibly. I couldn’t believe who it was. It was Watson the dinosaur, my old nemesis! Oh shit, what do I do now, he’ll kill me if he finds out who I am?

“Must keep calm,” I repeated to myself without much effect. How on earth could I miss something the size of a small gorilla? I could certainly smell him now. I didn’t suppose he had washed since he’d last beaten me up.

Instead of all these things which were flashing through my brain on an adrenalin surge greater than Lewis Hamilton gets from a formula one car, I said, “Ooh! You made me jump.” My voice was breathy alright, I was astonished I could say anything, I was so frightened.

“Sorry Miss,” he blushed. The dinosaur blushed. I had made him blush. Oh joy! I began to realise he was as frightened of me as I was of him. As a boy he could tear me apart in moments, as a girl he was much more wary of me. I was beginning to think this could work, and if I keep the initiative then it could be fun because he will be more frightened of me than I am of him. I would have to be very clever because if he rumbles me, I am very dead. If he doesn’t, hee hee!

“That’s okay,” breathed back at him, “I’m here to see Mr King your music teacher.”

“Oh, Old King Cole, I’ll show you where he hangs out,” he smiled at me, his eyes fixed on the place where my shirt parted and cleavage intermittently displayed itself.

I pretended to find his joke funny, or that’s what he thought. I was actually nearly wetting myself with success in my perfidy. This was payback time.

“Is he giving you singing lessons?” asked my small brained companion.

“No, I’m helping him out. I believe he lost his soloist, so I’m going to sing in his concert.”

“Oh yes, Charlotte. Yes he left a while ago,” he added an embarrassed laugh.

“You had a boy called Charlotte here?” I asked in mock surprise, all the time wanting to knock his teeth out one by one.

“That was his nick name, bit of a fairy, but he could sing a bit.” As he spoke I wanted to shout back at him, ‘I’ll show you who’s a fairy you big ape!’ but managed to control myself. Then the thought arose, if I had done that, it would have proved his point. I told myself, to keep detached or it won’t work. If it doesn’t work I shall upset the Almighty too, then anything could happen. So keep calm.

“I’m sure you’ll be a very welcome replacement. I might even come and look at you, erm, I mean listen to you, I erm, like mean come to the concert myself.”

I tittered at his gaffe, but it proved my point. His brain was very small and probably lodged in his scrotum! My evidence, he couldn’t walk and talk while looking down my top at the same time, especially with the growing bulge that was displaying itself in his trousers. Still I suppose for Watson, an erection while walking could be considered multi-tasking.

Before I could wind him up some more, we were outside the music room. He mumbled something and I thanked him and smiled looking directly at his crotch, he caught my eye and I thought for a moment he was going to faint. He blushed to the point where, so much of his blood was in the superficial vessels of his skin that there can’t have been much elsewhere, save that pumping up his genitals. He suddenly realised he was tenting his trousers and I was smiling at it. He turned and fled the field of battle without offering combat. This was becoming good fun.

As I knocked on the door, I had the wicked thought that had I managed to brush past his front with my bag, he’d have creamed his pants. Oh well, a wasted opportunity, but there would be others, I had just decided.

Mr King opened the door himself, “Can I help you?” He obviously didn’t recognise me, but using the same chat up line as Watson cost him points.

“It’s Christine Monk, your replacement for James Church,” I offered.

“Charlotte?” he whispered. I nodded back. “I didn’t recognise you.”

“That was the intention.”

“Of course,” he agreed opening the door, “Do come in and meet Miss Daws our accompanist.” I entered the room which was so familiar to me, but pretended it was all new. I knew Phyllis Daws too, she had played for me several times. If she recognised my voice, we’d have to let her in on the secret, but I wasn’t going to so otherwise.

We were introduced, “Where do you go to school?” she asked me.

“St Margaret’s,” I replied, which was true, well I would be next term and I was registered as a pupil with them for next year.

“Are they not doing anything?”

“I’m new there, we only just came to this area, so I haven’t got involved with their music department yet.”

“Had much experience?” she was grilling me and I felt some hostility which had never been there before, but I played along, testing my disguise and role play.

I looked at Mr King to rescue me, but he was more concerned with examining my legs than listening to the conversation. “I sang at my previous school and in one or two competitions.”

“Which ones were they?”

I decided that as little James I would have been close to tears by now. Instead, as ‘Christine,’ I felt more than a little irritated. I also decided that as I was the soloist, I would turn things round a little. What I felt like saying was, “You just play and I’ll sing,” but I made it a little more polite than a full frontal. “Do you have much experience in accompanying singers?”

She went very red, then white, then red again. The look she gave me, nearly burned my clothes off. Then she frowned and I realised I had perhaps been a little over the top. Finally, Mr King intervened, “Ladies please, let’s not get off on the wrong foot. Miss Daws is an accomplished accompanist and I am led to believe, that you Miss Monk are a talented soloist. Shall we combine our talents and see where it takes us?”

It took a while for the atmosphere to calm, but it did as we let the music talk for us. We did one of the toughest warm ups I had ever had, Mr King getting his own back for my cheek with his colleague, plus old Daws was going to test me all the way, and I was determined to stay with it. Which I did. I was only just realising the difference there was in interacting with other women, especially when they feel threatened. Me, threaten anyone? This was all so new.

“You have a very sweet voice for a girl. Reminds me a bit of our previous soloist, a boy. They say he died.” She looked straight at me, but in a whistful way.

“Thank you. I’m sorry to hear about my predecessor.”

“You are possibly even more accomplished than he was. I’m sorry if I sounded hostile at the beginning.” She smiled at me, I had passed her test.

I blushed, and looking at the piano rather than her replied, “Thanks, you’re probably the best accompanist I’ve sung with. That was one hell of a session.”

Mr King smiled at both of us, no he beamed, his face lighting up like the sun. “Christine, that was delicious, we still have some work to do to polish things up just a little, but it’s going to be great. Phyl, that was great as always. So what d’ya think, will she do?” He put his arm around me as he spoke.

“Oh yes, she’ll do alright. Sadly the finer points of Schubert and Handel will be lost on the morons here and their imbecile families, but,” she smiled directly at me, “with the right display of your other assets, we may sell a few more tickets than usual.”

At this we all laughed. However, it reminded me that I would need something semi- formal to wear on the night. I had nothing of that sort in my wardrobe. If I was going t play the part of the ‘femme fatale’, I might need to add quite a few things to my wardrobe. Part of me was quite enjoying the prospect, part of me knew I’d have to work hard on my mother as keeper of the purse strings, and another part of me was terrified.

“You look amazing Char…. I mean Christine,” Said Mr King patting my knee a he dropped me home after our practice. “I really would never have recognised you from the other week, let alone your previous incarnation. Your voice is just as remarkable young lady. I look forward to seeing you on Friday.”

“Miss Daws doesn’t know does she?”

“I haven’t told anyone, including her. I don’t think she recognised you judging by her testiness earlier, although I thought she nearly did at one point.” I felt myself blush. “I think she likes you anyway once you got the competition bit over, it’s probably a bit of ‘girls sticking together’ in the bastion of maleness. She’ll be okay now she knows how good you are. My problem will be remembering to call you Christine, not Charlotte.”

“I know the feeling,” I replied.

“I like the monk bit, a play on church isn’t it?”

“No it’s my mum’s maiden name.”

“Oops! Another clanger,” blushing he drove off and I walked down the drive to the front door.

“Well Miss Monk, how did it go?” demanded my mother as I went in. I reported the proceedings as a success and my affect upon Watson.

“You be careful my girl, if ever he finds out he’s been having masturbatory fantasies about a boy, he will be less than pleased.”

I felt disappointed, no, hurt by her use of the word ‘boy’, and I told her so. “I am sorry Charlotte, I didn’t mean it like that.”

The tears came, probably more as an anticlimax to the afternoon’s stress than her wording. “I thought I was a girl now, your daughter, not a boy.”

“Oh baby,” she said, “I’m so sorry.” She hugged me and I let go all the repressed emotion I had felt for days. I was really beginning to see myself as a girl and all the complications that entailed, interacting with other girls and boys. Some of me was enjoying it, some was not, perhaps frightened by where it might go, or trying to hang onto the last vestiges of boyhood.

Either way, the future was going to be girl shaped, and I had to live with it and the consequences.

The next day we had to see Dr Cervantes. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, but I suppose it had to be done. I continued to have this dilemma, part of me was ambivalent about the whole thing, while part of me was becoming increasingly girly.

However, Dr Cervantes had no such problems with ambivalence or dichotomy, he took one look at me and his smile was so wide he was in danger of cutting his face in half. “Wow! Charlotte, you look amazing.” He was suitably impressed. Mind you I had got Mum to wash out the top and bra from last night, and I wore them again today. “The prosthetics look very realistic, don’t they?”

“They’re alright I suppose, but they won’t pass scrutiny at a girls’ school,” I retorted, partly because I meant it and partly because I wanted to wind him up.

“Does that mean you want to grow your own breasts?”

“It has to be more comfortable than these things,” I threw at him poking myself in the silicone and latex replicas.

“Are they uncomfortable then?” he asked with eyes wide.

“Why don’t you try them for a week and see how it feels?”

“Ouch! Why are you so angry with me?”

“Who said I was angry?” I snapped back. In reality the sight of him made me irritable, his stupid questions made it worse.

“I did,” he countered, “You have been quite aggressive with all your comments so far. Are you not happy?”

“Would you be in my position?”

“I don’t know,” he allowed, “but perhaps you can tell me why you are unhappy.”

“I am a nothing,” I slumped in the chair.

“A nothing? In what way are you a nothing?”

“I am neither a boy nor a girl.”

“From where I am sitting, you appear to be a very attractive young woman.”

“But it isn’t real is it? My bobs are rubber and my fanny is a sham, made of superglue and skin”

“Do you wish these things were real, like a natural female?”

“If they were, at least I wouldn’t be a nothing, would I?”

“I suppose not,” he agreed. “What can we do about it?”

“You could prescribe me hormones, to make me more real.”

“So some magic pills would make you more real, would they?”

“I think so.”

“Well you are entitled to your opinion. How old are you Charlotte?”

“You know how old I am.”

“Yes I do, I just wanted to ask you.”

“Fourteen.”

“I can’t prescribe hormones until you are at least sixteen, and surgery is not allowed until you are eighteen.”

“If I was girl having problems, you could prescribe hormones then couldn’t you?”

“A hormonal problem such as you suggest would be seen by a GP or gynaecologist, even a paediatrician rather than a psychiatrist. So it wouldn’t come to me.”

“Perhaps I should see one of them instead then, because this is a waste of time.”

“I’m a waste of time, am I?”

“If you must know, yes.” I was becoming more than irritated now.

“Why is that?”

“Because all you do is ask stupid questions, you don’t actually do anything and you say you can’t do what I ask you to do. So that makes you a waste of time, and I’m not coming here again.”

“You’re not coming here again?”

“That’s what I said, why do you just repeat everything I say. This is stupid,” I said and got up to walk out.

“James, sit down please.” His comment nearly stopped me in my tracks.

“James is dead, ask my mother. My name is Charlotte.”

“I’m so sorry. Is that why you are angry?”

“No it’s because I have to waste my time coming here?”

“Perhaps you’d better go then.”

Without even a goodbye, I stormed out of his office. He followed me and called to my mother. “Let’s go Mum, this is a waste of time.”

“Can I just see Dr Cervantes for a moment?”

“Can’t we just go, he’s useless?”

“Charlotte, that’s not very nice.”

“Neither is he, can we go now?”

“Here are the car keys, go and sit in the car. I’ll be no longer than ten minutes.” She proffered the keys which I declined to accept.

“Sorry Mum, if you believe him rather than me, I’d prefer to walk home.” With that I strode out the door.

I don’t know how long it was before she found me. I was by then quite upset, the tears streaming down my face. “Get in,” was the greeting I got. I chose to ignore it and walked on, turning up a one-way street, which she couldn’t in the car.

She drove off to apprehend me at the other end, except I had done an about turn and walked back out onto the main road. I just kept walking.

I had no idea of what the time was, I was in something of a trance. I had switched my mobile off, when she had tried calling me on that. I didn’t want to talk, I’d done enough of that with that smart arsed trick cyclist. What good did talking do?

If I could no longer be a boy, and my father had said as much, then I wanted to be as much a proper girl as I could. That meant having a girl’s body not a stupid boy’s one. I would not be a nothing, I’d rather be dead than a nothing. I knew I should have finished the job that day in the garage, except those stupid bastards stopped me, and then caused all this mess. Why couldn’t they let me just finish the job. There’d be no need for all this stupid talking, stupid words. How can that stupid man have any idea of how I feel? All he does is repeat things back to me or ask stupid questions. A parrot could do his job!

I imagined Cervantes being replaced by a scarlet macaw parrot, I began to laugh hysterically, which was when I wet myself, and replaced the laughter with more tears.

I was eventually ‘found’ despite not being lost, by a friendly policewoman. “Excuse me love, are you Charlotte Church?” Fed up and programmed to tell the truth to policemen and women, I nodded. “Come on love, hop in the car, let’s get you home.” I complied because I didn’t know what else to do.

When I got home, I was made to thank the policewoman who’d given me the lift, which I did. She gave me a hug, and I burst into tears again. I ignored my mother and went straight to my room, shutting the door and jamming a chair behind it.

As expected, she came and knocked and pleaded, but I just put my headphones on and turned up the volume. She would be able to see me from the keyhole if she thought of it. I wasn’t hiding, just not wanting to speak to her. I felt she had betrayed me, talking with the enemy.

I wished Dad were here, he’d sort it out. Except he probably wouldn’t and he’d have broken the door down. In fact he’d have come up the one-way street after me. He wouldn’t be too pleased would he, but then he’ll be even more upset when I do kill myself. I can’t do it until I get rid of the old woman. I thought about what I had in my room, but there was nothing I could use unless I electrocuted myself, and that would make a mess of the electrics all through the house. Besides, it didn’t appeal, I was going to hang myself, like I planned in the beginning. I had made my mind up.

As I was saying this to myself, I suddenly remembered I had an obligation to fulfil. If I killed myself before the concert, then God would really be pissed off and I’d be sent to hell, if there was such a place. Possibly I was there already. Damn! I thought, then smiled at my own unconscious humour, I would be damned wouldn’t I?

I wanted to bargain with God again. “Dear God,” I said, “I can’t stand being a nothing, I’d rather be dead. But I know that to kill myself is a sin, and I don’t want to upset you. If I break my promise to you that is another sin. So please help me to be a girl, to have a girl’s body, a proper girl’s body with breasts and things and I will sing better than ever at the concert. Thank you, amen.”

What I didn’t know was that standing outside my door were stood my mother and our family doctor, Dr Phillips. They both heard my conversation with the Almighty, my mother had tears in her eyes and apparently the doc had a lump in his throat.

“Charlotte, Dr Phillips is here to see you. Will you let him in? Please hurry up, you know how busy he is.”
I sheepishly opened the door, “Hello kiddo, can we talk for a minute?” asked the doctor. A tall gangly man with bright blue eyes and a smile that could melt bricks. All the girls fancied him, although his dark hair was beginning to recede slightly, and he was happily married with two children and a spaniel.

“I wasn’t prying, but I overheard you talking to God.” My shocked response made him look a little uncomfortable. “I wasn’t listening, but you were talking quite loudly.” I supposed with the earphones on, I might have been.

“Can we talk about it, just for a minute?” I nodded. “Good, now I know if you’ve been telling God something, it must be true. Am I right so far?” I nodded again. I felt ashamed that I had been overheard and tears were rolling down my face in hot streams.

“Did I hear you tell God that if he didn’t make you a girl, you might do something drastic?” I nodded again, too choked to speak. “So if I help you achieve that, then will you promise me that you won’t do anything like you were saying you might. You know what I mean. I mean kill yourself. Do we have a deal?”

I nodded. He held out his hand and we shook on the deal. “Good, we have a deal. Now I shall keep my part and I expect you to keep yours.” He produced his prescription pad and began to write on it. “This is a prescription for female hormones. Take just one a day.”

“Dr Cervantes told me I couldn’t have hormones.”

“I’m not Dr Cervantes, Charlotte, so I can’t answer for him. What I can say, is that I don’t think drug protocols are much use if the person they are meant to protect has been dead for two years because they were so unhappy.”

“You won’t get into trouble, will you?” I asked nervously clutching my priceless piece of paper.

“Nah,” he replied with his magical smile, “Give us a quick hug then.”

I jumped off the bed and threw my arms around him. “Can I come and see you instead of Dr Cervantes?”

“I suppose so, but I’ll have to speak to him about it.” He paused, then said, “Yeah, course you can.” The putting a finger under my chin, he lifted my face up to look at his. “As one of my special girls, you can come and see me any time, but don’t tell my wife, okay?”

“ ‘Kay,” I replied, smiling back at him. I think in that moment I began to see why the other girls fancied him, and I thought I might be falling in love too.

After he went, Mum and I had a long and tearful embrace. Neither of us said anything for half an hour. Then she asked me if I’d like to go and get my prescription. I nodded and cried some more. It took me ages to get my eyes to cool down, and despite my desperation for the pills, I wasn’t going out with red eyes.

I started the hormone pills that evening, with my mother’s agreement.

The headmaster walked over, so I pretended I was just mingling with my mother, walking away as he approached. “Christine, thank you for your help in making the concert a success.” He led me away from the main crowd. “You’re at St Margaret’s?”

“Yes.”

“I phoned this afternoon and spoke to Mrs Edmonds, their headmistress, to thank her for loaning you to us.” I felt my heart sinking. “She didn’t recognise your name.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was originally posted on Sapphire's Place but is now offered here as the largely rewritten and enlarged edition.

.........................................................

Charlotte’s Tale.
Part 4.
by,
Angharad.

I knew it would be months before the pills did very much, if anything, but just taking them made me feel that I was doing something towards some form of resolution. They also seemed to calm me down, although after just one, I suspect it was more wishful thinking than anything else.

The next day it was back to rehearsal for the concert, and this went on twice a week for three weeks, then in the final week it was every night. I met the school choir, none of whom recognised me. But then why should they equate me, a mini skirted vixen, with a small bullied boy. I only needed to show a bit of leg or cleavage and they would do anything for me. I used to watch several of them dashing off to the toilets during breaks, to deal with their stiffies. It made me smile, at times almost laughing out loud. It also increased my sense of confidence and contentment with myself.

Maybe the pills were working. I knew my nipples were bigger and more sensitive, sometimes itching like mad under the breastforms. But I coped, it was self-inflicted, so I coped.

I saw Dr Phillips a week or before the concert. I was his last patient of the surgery, so he could have some time to talk with me. “Well you look better than last time I saw you,” he declared.

“I feel better, thank you.”

“No more thoughts about killing yourself?”

“No none.”

“Good, any effects from the pills, sickness, things like that?”

“My nipples have been itchy, but that’s all.”

“Well I have to say this, you make a cracking girl. Any regrets?”

“No,” I lied because it wasn’t entirely true, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Anything else?” he smiled.

“Yes Doctor, can I give you these?” I handed him two tickets for the concert.

“You’re doing a concert at the old school is that wise?”

“It’s okay, I disguise myself and no one has twigged yet. In fact it’s quite fun getting all the boys worked up, even if it is with a flash of silicone. They can’t tell the difference.”

“Just be careful, okay?”

“Yes Doctor, I will be.”

“So you’re Christine Monk?” he said reading the ticket.

“For this concert, yes.”

“Well thank you ‘Christine,’ I’ll ask my wife if she’d like to come.”

“I hope you both can.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

For the concert, I wore a black mini dress with a scoop neck, black tights and a pair of black court shoes with three inch heels. I’d spent much of the week before walking about in them, to practice for the concert. They did get more comfortable as time went on.

The concert was an unqualified success. I managed to stay on key for all my stuff and so did Miss Daws. The applause was loud enough. It wasn’t quite a sell out, but there weren’t too many empty seats. Mum sat with Dr Phillips and his wife, they were all suitably impressed. At the end both Miss Daws and I received a bouquet of flowers. Much to my amusement, mine were presented by Dinosaur Watson, to whom I gave a peck on the cheek. At least he smelt a little fresher than before.

There was a small buffet afterwards, with wine for the adults and fruit juice or sodas for the kids. There weren’t many other girls there, so I had the boys hovering around me like flies round a muck heap. I managed to avoid giving any of them a direct answer when they asked me for dates, including Godzilla himself. He looked absolutely heart broken, which served him right. Perhaps James had been avenged at long last.

Old blue eyes and his wife came to speak to me. “Christine, this is my wife Mary. She’d like to ask you a favour. That was absolutely brilliant. I didn’t appreciate you were so talented. Perhaps you should think about it on a semi-pro or even professional level.”

“That’s what Mr King says.” I felt myself glowing with pride.

“Well he might have a point. Anyway, I’m off to get some wine, red or white, Mary?”

“White please. Sorry Christine, I’m putting together a charity show, would you be prepared to do a song or two?”
“I’d be pleased to help. Anything in particular, you’d like me to sing?”

“Summertime, plus something else of your choosing.”

“I’ll speak to Mr King, have you met him?” She shook her head, so I dragged her off to meet him.

“Christine, that was absolutely wonderful,” he kissed me on the cheek and I blushed.

“Thank you Mr King. This is Mrs Phillips, she’s putting together a charity concert and has asked me to sing, perhaps you’d like to discuss it briefly.”

I left them locked in deep discussion, avoiding Godzilla, I sidled up to Dr Phillips and my mother. “Hello, I’m just trying to avoid being chatted up by that mountain of flesh.” I indicated with my eyes. Dr Phillips was sipping some wine at that moment and nearly choked himself. Even my mother had to smile.

The headmaster walked over, so I pretended I was just mingling with my mother, walking away as he approached. “Christine, thank you for your help in making the concert a success.” He led me away from the main crowd. “You’re at St Margaret’s?”

“Yes.”

“I phoned this afternoon and spoke to Mrs Edmonds, their headmistress, to thank her for loaning you to us.” I felt my heart sinking. “She didn’t recognise your name.”

“No she wouldn’t, I don’t actually start there till next term.”

“Oh, well that would explain it. I must say you have a lovely voice, it reminds me of a chorister we once had here. You’re not related are you, sister and brother maybe?”

“I might be,” I bluffed.

“It’s okay Charlotte, I won’t say anything, other than to thank you for you time. Are you happier now than you were?”

“Yes Sir, I am. Life here was hell.”

“Which makes me wonder why you came back to help us out?”

“Loyalty to Mr King. As the only teacher who had any time for me, I thought I’d repay the favour.”

“I have to admire your courage Charlotte.”

“It’s Christine, Sir.”

“Of course it is. Well thank you again, good luck at St Margaret’s.”

He left and my mother and Dr Phillips walked up, “Everything alright Christine?” asked my favourite doctor.

“Yeah, he twigged and had to demonstrate his cleverness.”

“But you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, but ready to go home now.”

My mother nodded and went to get the car. I said my goodbyes to Mr King, who insisted on kissing me again! I collected my bouquet, waved goodbye to all and sundry, with two boys pushing their phone numbers at me as I left.

I slept soundly that night, although I do recollect one dream. I was dancing with Dr Phillips. It was lovely too. When I woke up afterwards, my knickers were damp and I hadn’t peed myself! Oh dear I thought, am I becoming gay? Then I reconciled myself with the fact that I was now a girl, taking girly pills, so what could I expect?

But that last dance, he had his hands on my back, my breasts, my bum, while I was clinging to him like a limpet on heat, and my hands brushed against his bum more than once! I must try and dream that one again, like now!

The next few days were a blur. The concert had proven several things to me, and all of them were positive. Firstly, I could still sing well enough to please me and others. It was important because it may be the only talent I ever have. Secondly, I had fulfilled my deal with God, so now wouldn’t go to hell. I wasn’t sure I believed in it anyway, or in fact, if I actually believed in God. However, I decided if there was one it might be useful to keep in his good books, if there wasn’t it didn’t matter. That was my reasoning, and so far it had worked for me.

Completing on my promise to God meant I was released from that one, but I entered into one with Dr Phillips, my yummy GP! Oops, I shouldn’t say things like that should I? Officially, I’m still a boy, so does that make me gay? I asked this before but nobody gave me an answer. I’ll have to ask Dr Phillips ‘cos it looks like a medical question to me.

Anyway, he is a wonderful man. I’m sure he took some risks to give me those pills. I have them locked away so no one can get them back. No one will ever find them without my help, and I wouldn’t give it for anything. Okay, anything might be a bit vague, but I certainly wouldn’t give it to just anybody, they’d have to be like threatening to kill my mum or my dad, or Dr Phillips. Then I’d probably help them.

We had a letter from Dr Cervantes telling us that Dr Phillips would be supervising my transition in future. What transition is he on about. The man is a total dweeb! I am walking around in skirts with my rubber tits poking out like Jordan, and he’s on about transitioning! Transitioning into what? I’m already there — well nearly. My nipples have grown and they itch, and that dark bit around them, the harriola or whatever they call it, is quite a bit bigger.

‘nuff about transitioning, I am a total boy magnet! I need to speak to Dr Phillips about this, ‘cos it seems to be entering my head more and more. This was the other thing that happened at the concert, or the lead up to it.

I knew anything with tits would make an impact at my old school. Let’s face it the headmaster’s mother visited one year and several boys fancied her! Yuck! So you can see what I mean. Then when I like, turn up with tits ‘n’ bum on display, I got noticed.

It still makes me laugh that only a couple of months before they wanted to see Watson kill me. They encouraged him to call me names and humiliate me in public, to declare myself a girl with the same name as the Welsh singer girl. It still hurts, I’ll have to stop and think of something else, ‘cos it will make my mascara run.

That’s better. Maybe I should thank whoever it was who attacked me that day, and glued up my goolies. I can laugh about it now, because of who I am today. Then, I was widdle James, the loser with the nice singing voice. Now I am Charlotte (or Christine) with tits and a lovely voice!

Then people avoided me like I had some awful disease, now they can’t get close enough. I went shopping with Jane the other day, and in the crush a couple of boys actually brushed against me, quite deliberately, copping a quick feel of my bum, then they went past again and brushed past my chest. Jane got similar treatment.

When we saw them again, we deliberately allowed them to come close, then a quick swing of our handbags at groin level, and we ran off like mad. I thought I was going to wet myself it was so funny, especially as they copped a feel of silicone.

My friend Jane, has taught me lots about being a girl. I seem to do most things automatically, like sitting with knees together when wearing a skirt. But with makeup and hair, I learned lots. She’s helped me with clothes too. She is a year younger than me, but I suppose, she has been doing girl things a bit longer, so she knows more.

She is a good friend, and she goes to St Margaret’s too, so I’ll have someone there that I know. In fact if I screw up the assessment, I could even end up in the same year as her. But then everyone will think I’m stupid. (Maybe I am to be going to a girls’ school, or was it even dumber to put me in a boys’ one before?).

I have yet to finish my SATs, the tests to assess my educational abilities. I think I shall be okay, I’ve done so much more work. Mr King has given me good marks for music and my visiting teacher, Miss Parsons, has been encouraging once she saw I was serious about passing them. She spends longer than she is supposed to with me. I gave her some flowers last week and I have managed to discover her favourite perfume. My dad is going to bring some back duty free when he next comes home.

I am getting so sneaky, just like a girl! I wanted to know which perfume Miss Parsons wore. If I asked her outright, she’d have been suspicious, unless I’d have done the, “You smell nice, what is it?” routine, and that doesn’t have enough subtlety, not for this babe! (There I go again).

What happened was, I asked her for some advice. I mean, she knows all about me, so it seemed quite a good strategy.

“Miss Parsons,” I said, putting down my books, “can I ask you something personal?”

“That depends on what it is.”

“Well you know all about me. My past I mean.” I didn’t have to use method acting here, I was genuinely embarrassed.

“You know I do Charlotte, and it’s not a problem.” She had a gorgeous smile with lovely, even, white teeth; very small teeth.

“Thank you.” I smiled back, looking at the floor. This is a bit embarrassing, we haven’t talked about any of this for some time.

“That’s okay,” she smiled again, while I blushing like a Christmas tree, felt so stupid. Perhaps this was a mistake.

“I wanted to ask you about perfumes.”

“Perfumes! Gosh! I don’t know much about them either.” Now she was blushing. Oh boy! This was a big mistake, it would definitely have been easier to have asked her outright.

“You must know more than I do.”

“Not much.”

“Well you always smell nice.”

“Thank you, but it’s only some old stuff from the Body shop.”

Oh bugger! So much for plan B! “What would you use if you were going on a date?” I asked sneaking a look at her. She was still smiling and blushing.

“I don’t know. I have two or three, I don’t know which one I’d use. It might depend on the date or the occasion.”

Subtlety is obviously wasted on my elders and betters, just go for it. “So which one is your favourite?”

“I don’t know, I like them all.”

Gee- whiz, I thought to myself, try an oblique tack again. “Which one would you suggest for someone like me?”

“You going on a date, how lovely for you.”

Oh man, where is this going? “Not especially, I just thought I ought to be prepared in case I did.”

“Well there’s nothing like forward planning, young lady. Perhaps you should join the Girl Guides.”

The relevance of this remark sailed over my head, and it showed. She blushed again, very beautifully, then said, “You know, be prepared…..Girl Guides…..forward planning.”

She saw the light switch on as I got it. However, I still didn’t know about her perfume. Which was completely aborted when she told me to try some in Boots or Debenhams, “they have testers there.”

Oh boy! I know they have testers there, Jane and I were using them on Saturday, we came out smelling like French Whores, according to Jane’s mum. I thought she said, ‘horses’ first. Jane had to explain it to me, ‘cos I couldn’t see what French horses had to do with us smelling like a perfume shop.

About the perfume, in the end we settled for Chanel No.5, that was Mum’s decision because she said most women love it. I know I do when she wears it. As for me, I’ll stick with my Anais anais, which isn’t as heavy as the Chanel.

Jane gave me some cheapo stuff for everyday wear, from the Bodyshop, I think. It smells okay to me, and I have matching shower gel and body lotion.

I was at Jane’s the next day, telling her about the episode with the perfume and Miss Parsons. She thought it was hilarious, but agreed with my mum, that No.5 was a good choice. Her mum has some too.

We were sat in her room listening to some CDs and talking generally. Then we finally got around to boys. Despite what I said just now about the topic, I am still quite anxious about the species. I feel so different to how I assume they are.

Being in school with them was like living in a zoo, where I seemed to be the main exhibit. When they got fed up, just tease Church, that was always good for a laugh. So I hardly know what normal boys are like. I mean, is there such a thing as normal boys?

I thought I was one, but obviously not. How could a normal boy enjoy looking and acting like a girl? How could a normal boy, be sat in a girl’s bedroom talking about other boys? Like talking about their bums and things, like I mean, is that normal?

Does that make me gay? I don’t know. I don’t know what I feel I am apart from Charlotte. I have become Charlotte whether or not I like it. The problem is, in making the best of a bad job, I appear to have come to like it, increasingly so. Here I am, besporting breasts, whilst growing my own underneath, my boy stick hidden and effectively neutralised under what looks like a fanny. If it hardly makes me feel or look like a boy, can I be gay if I am not really a boy anymore?

Jane doesn’t care, she seems to have forgotten I was ever a boy. Her mother either doesn’t know or chooses not to consider that she is up in her room with a biological male. They both assume I am now a girl, so unless I am a gay girl or lesbian, she is safe.

Now there’s a thought, me a lesbian. I am laughing at that, because while my initial reaction to my meeting with Jane was surprise at being almost intimate with a girl, and although my equipment was glued inside me, I was so frightened of everyone and everything, my todger couldn’t have done anything anyway!

Lets face it, I was outed by Astley at Debenhams while trying on dresses, having just come from that cretin Dr Cervantes, and the less said about him the better. I was in a state of anxiety and depression, in which, only weeks before I had wanted to kill myself. So I wasn’t my normal sweet natured self. And as we all know, it was during this crisis that I met Jane, me cowering in the fitting room, her rushing to my assistance. She was a compassionate friend then, she has become a good one ever since.

So do I fancy her? No, neither do I fancy Simon her brother. He’s all right I suppose, but too many memories of that zoo. I don’t recall him directly tormenting me, but neither do I remember him coming to my assistance.

Do I fancy boys? I have started dreaming about them, but in real life while I see myself as a girl, and enjoy their attention, no make that, I love their attention, I don’t know what I am feeling, other than scared.

I suspect Jane is much the same. She is thirteen, and I know some girls are sexually active at that age, she isn’t one of them any more than I am, at age fourteen. It’s all rather scary, yet fascinating. Boys are like playing with snakes, safe while you are in control, dangerous if you are not, and very dangerous if they assume it.

So do we date? Not really, we hang out with some other girls, meet in town do shopping, watch the boys watching us. A lot of it is being seen, and being seen in the right gear, with the right people. Nothing much has changed over hundreds of years if not thousands, just look at the pages of Hello. These magazines are bought by wannabes, who else could care what Tom Cruise’s bathroom looks like or Victoria Beckham’s garden? I ask you, it’s hardly serious social comment. It’s about envy and greed.

We are quite lucky, we are comfortable because my dad has a good job, so I don’t want for anything, except a proper girl body. I’m sure if he could organise it, he would. So maybe I can be less materialist about things. Before my little accident with the superglue, we had a debate in class about materialism.

In this I and another boy, Alan Smith, spoke against the motion, ‘This house believes materialism makes us all happier.’ They went on about failed communism and the triumph of the market forces of capitalism. They quoted economists and philosophers. Alan responded to all that, global warming, Bhopal, third world poverty and all the other well reported stuff. He did very well. I did the girly bit. I hadn’t thought of it as such until just now, oops! I spoke from the heart. I asked them,” What was the most important thing in their lives.”

Of course they derided me, calling out things like, ‘Chelsea wining the cup’, or ‘getting a date with Jasmine Smart’, ‘winning the lottery’ was another. So I asked them, “Okay, so you win the lottery, or date Jasmine or see Chelsea win the cup; then your Dad dies. Would you give up your winnings to bring him back?” With a few exceptions, they all said they would.

So I asked them again, “Does money or material things make us happy, or is it the special people in our lives. Is it better to win the lottery and go blind, or to stay poor and see the sun rise?”

That was a silly question, I got shouts of, all sorts about staying in bed rather than see the sun rise, or ‘If I won the lottery, I could get someone to fix my eyes. What happens if you’re poor and go blind?”

It probably didn’t help, when I told them, “You are morally and spiritually dead.” I got the response, “That’s better than being like you, girlyboy.” At this point I was nearly in tears.

We lost comprehensively. It seems that money is more important than anything else to most of us, even though we can’t eat it. Gold is a metal which has certain properties including its colour and its softness. You can’t eat it, but people often kill for it.

Why do we hunt animals for fun, killing things we can’t eat. It can never be justified to me, it’s abhorrent. But men pay thousands to kill as many grouse or pheasants as they can. Why?

So back to hanging out with the others. Why do we do it, because it’s fun or safety in numbers? I don’t know, but we do sometimes. When I go to St Margaret’s and make more friends, I expect I shall do it even more. It’s expected of me and until I am big enough to do what I want, I have to do what others want or expect of me.

Some of the girls we see, smoke. I think they are stupid, they think they are cool! But pressure is on to conform. Why did I want breasts? To conform. I was scared of being a nothing, which was pretty well what happened in the boys school. It’s frightening when I sit here and think about it.

I’m getting far too rapt in my own thoughts, as Jane told me. “Hey you, the Jordan look-alike.”

I blushed, “I can’t help being who I am, I’m a celebrity get me in there!” I laughed mocking a recent reality television programme.

“Drop you in the jungle?” mocked Jane, “the girl who gets lost in her own bathroom.”

“It’s not my fault the bathroom is so big, and is full of houseplants.” I pouted back at her. “Do you know, Miss Smartarse, that when it’s dark we can hear the crickets calling.”

“Oh yeah, what do they call, LBW or ‘owzat?” retorted my companion.

“As long as it’s nothing about ‘bowling a maiden over’, I don’t care.” We both giggled then sat listening to the music, having exhausted our knowledge of the fine game of cricket, and our stock of jokes.

(For those not having been processed by an English boys school, LBW means leg before wicket, and is a way of getting the batsman out, owzat is a corruption of how is that, called by a bowler when he thinks he has got the batsman out, and a maiden over, is an over completed without any runs being conceded).

“A little birdie tells me you were kissed by the Dinosaur.” Stated my friend with a knowing look. “Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

“Who’s been telling tales then? And getting it wrong, too.”

“So you don’t deny it then?” continued my accuser.

“I do.” I humphed back at her. “He didn’t kiss me, I kissed him.”

At this Jane shrieked and nearly fell off the bed. “Ugh, how could you? According to Simon, who’s in his year, he never changes his underwear and smells like a pigsty.”

“I had little choice.” I pouted again.

“I thought we all had a choice about kissing, obviously I am mistaken!”

I looked at my friend, she looked good as always, in her tee shirt and jeans, her long hair in a pony tail. For my sins I was in a skirt and top, and my hair, nearly as long as Jane’s was up. She had done it for me, when I got to her house. In return I had painted her toenails in some new colour I had bought.

“He presented me with a bouquet after the concert. It’s customary to kiss the presenter.”

“Did you kiss him when you were a boy?”

That hit me like an arrow, straight in the heart, or it might have been the throat from my inability to reply. I felt my eyes well up, and a tear escaped, rolling down my cheek.

Jane must have seen the effect this had on me and came rushing over and hugged me. “I’m sorry Charlotte, that was horrible of me.” Within moments we were both crying and holding each other. She kept saying, “I’m sorry.” It still hurt.

Later when I tried to understand why she had hurt me, I could only think it was some form of power thing, ‘I’m the real girl, you aren’t.’ I didn’t know if I could trust her after that, although I needed her. Without her, I was friendless. The other girls with whom we hung out occasionally, weren’t friends just acquaintances. So I needed Jane, what I didn’t know was how much she needed me.

We parted on good terms but it left me feeling very vulnerable, the problem with having such a massive secret is, it is always just waiting to be revealed. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to go to the same school as Jane, but that was pretty well set now. Mum would go ballistic after she bought me their uniform and everything.

I could of course reveal it myself at the first opportunity, and take the consequences, which would be unknown, but probably awful. The alternative, is to have two types of people, those in the know, and those who aren’t. This is where I am, with Jane’s family and one or two others being in the know, and six billion others who aren’t!

All of this began simply because we were talking about boys. I’m never going to speak to one again, I decided as I walked down the drive from Jane’s house. I had just turned through the gate on to the pavement, when I bumped into Simon, her brother.

“Charlotte, just the person I want to see.” He was smiling awkwardly at me, as if he wanted to borrow some money, or an had equally improbable request.

It had taken me two months to stop calling him ‘Astley’, and to use his first name. He on the other hand, like most of the inmates of the zoo, had been calling me Charlotte for some time.

“Er, hello Simon.” I replied looking down at his new trainers. “Nice shoes.”

“Yeah, thanks. Got ‘em last week.” This was probably true, they were still white and the maker’s name was still visible alongside the three lines of their logo.

“Look Charlotte, can we talk a mo?” He looked increasingly agitated about what he wanted to say.

“I have to get back for my lunch, can we talk as we walk?” I thought, whatever it was, the closer I was to home the better, especially when I said, no!

“Course,” he replied. We walked in silence while he obviously searched his small boy’s brain for the exact words. Actually that was unfair, Astley, was a capable student and had won several prizes for English. However, my feelings towards his clan were a little jaundiced at this minute.
“I need to ask you a favour, a big one.” I looked in his eyes as he said it and I could swear he was really nervous, verging on terrified.

We had stopped at this revelation, and he was practically shaking with nerves. My animosity changed to pity, at least until I heard him out. What could he want that caused him such discomfort?

I quickly scanned my hormone riddled brain and all that came up was, ‘he wants a date!’ But he knew who I was, so what else could it be? I was nearly as apprehensive as he was. Goodness, what did he want?

A second or two later, I found out.

I had said nothing, except to offer silent support. Then he spluttered, “This is difficult.”

I continued my silence, but was agreeing with my eyes. This time he had trouble maintaining eye contact. His pain was almost physical.

“Oh shit! Iwantyoutocometotheendofermdancewithme.” This came out at such speed, I had no idea what he had said.

“Can you repeat that in English?” I said to him smiling with sympathy.

“Oh fuck!” he blushed, “Oh shit! I didn’t mean to say that.” He was digging a pit for himself nicely, and I could have found it amusing except that, I could feel his pain. I had tried to decode what he had said, but mumbled at speed, it had defeated my ears.

I put my hand on his shoulder and to my surprise I could feel him trembling. “Simon, you are shaking, are you okay?”

“Y…yes, I…I’m fine.” He nervously responded.

I took his hand and walked him over to some seats near a bus stop. Thankfully, they were deserted. “Come and sit down, and tell me again.”

He accepted my offer, and taking a deep breath, he began. I hadn’t noticed but I was still holding his hand, rubbing the back of it with my thumb.

“Can I take you to the end of term dance?” He spluttered in a monotone in a single breath. Then he sheepishly looked away.

“Are you taking the piss Astley?” I snapped withdrawing my hand quickly, and standing up to emphasise the point.

“N.no, honest. I want you to come with me.” He was finding this hard, but so was I.

“There are hundreds of girls in this town, why have you asked me?” The unsaid, was understood by both of us.

“I needed someone to take, and I thought you might like to go.”

“That’s not good enough? There’s something else isn’t there?”

“I knew you’d see through it. You bloody girls are all the same.” He was sat on the bench talking to the pavement.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped back at him.

He glared at me, then back at the ground.

“Alright, I’ll tell you. The place is full of the mystery soprano who sang at the school concert. I just thought it would be nice for her to turn up with me.”

“Oh I get it, lots of point scoring involved is there?”

“Something like that.”

“So your status goes up, for getting the mystery bimbo to come with you.”

“Yeah.” He paused, “No not that, at all.”

“I don’t believe you.” I said, and began to walk away. He was lost in his thoughts for a moment before he realised I’d gone.

“Charlotte, please wait,” he called running after me.

“I might look like a bimbo, but I’m not one.”

“I know that,” he said, almost running to keep up with my increased pace.

“If you’d told me the truth in the beginning, I might have said yes.”

“I’ve told you the truth now.”

“It’s too late now.”

“Oh come on Charlotte, I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

I reached my own gateway, and stepping through closing it against him, I said, “It’s too late Astley.” Then to really turn the knife I said, “I might go with Watson.”

“He said he’d win the bet. Jammy bastard.”

“What bet? Astley tell me about this bet.” I paused while he was shaking his head in disbelief. “Astley, tell me about this bet now!” I repeated my exhortation with increased volume.

Looking more sheepish than ever, he began, but before he could say anything the fates interrupted, my mother opened the door. “Your lunch is ready Charlotte. Oh hello Simon, did you want some?”

“No thanks Mrs Church,” he called back, then quietly to me,” Can we talk about this later? Please.” Now he had puppy-dog eyes. I must be going soft in the head because I didn’t actually tell him to get lost.

Checking that my mother had gone back in, I said, “Maybe.”

“Great.” He said, turned on his heel and left.

I spent the whole afternoon in turmoil. I started to watch the film on telly, but couldn’t concentrate. Surely, Astley didn’t expect me to accompany him, not to that place. I had had my fun watching them all get stiffies from my fake cleavage, however, I was the only girl there. While I quite fancied the attention, this time it would be against competition. There would be lots of real girls there showing real tits. I could be in real danger of exposure.

At the same time, part of me craved the attention. I had never been so in demand, except as a punch bag. Then they were in control, now I was and I liked it. This was becoming perilous and while normally, I’d be alert to it, my seeming addiction to the attention was blinding me.

“Are you alright Charlotte?” asked my mum, noticing my listlessness. “Nothing to do with Simon, is it?” She had put two and two together, but I didn’t want her to know.

“Not really. It’s Jane, we had a disagreement, and he was trying to patch things up.” It was an outrageous lie, at such short notice.

“Oh dear. Why don’t you phone her up and make it up with her?”

“It’s okay Mum, don’t worry about it.”

“Well you can’t afford to lose her.”

“I know that Mum, it’s okay I tell you.” Before she could say anything else I went upstairs to my room, shutting the door noisily.

The night was awful, I tossed and turned. How did I get in such a mucking fuddle?

On one hand I was so angry with him. How dare he, bet on me, or on his ability to charm me to do his bidding. On the other, apart from a thumb and four fingers, was the danger of entering the enemy camp again, the attention I craved, and the chance to put one over on Watson, again!

“I’d have to buy a new dress.” I said out loud to myself. “Hang on,” said the first hand, “not if you’re not going. It’s insane.”

“Yes,” said the second hand,” that’s part of the fun, watching all those stupid boys who used to beat you up, drooling over you.”

“You are not a sex object, you are a decent and proper young woman,” argued the first hand.

“Yeah, and look where that’s got you. Absolutely nowhere. Astley is only the beginning, you could meet someone really nice at the dance and….”

“Really, at that place you called a zoo, if one remembers correctly. In which pen would they be?”

My mind continued this stupid conversation most of the night. I felt like I was schizo-what-ever-they call it. Listening to the voices. It was like a bad edition of The Archers*, going on and on without anything ever happening. *(A radio soap opera which has been running about 40 years, in which plenty happens but not of interest to a fourteen year old!)

The result was I overslept big time. “Darling, Simon Astley is on the phone.”

“Huh? Wha? Who?” I grumbled something of this order as my sleep was disturbed.

“I said, Simon Astley is on the phone.”

“What does he want?” I mumbled sleepily.

“I could go and ask him, but I suspect he would prefer to talk to you, as he was asking for you.”

“Oh bugger!” I grumped as I lifted my sheets and put on my slippers.

“And we’ll have none of that language if you please, young lady.”

“Yes Mum, ”I wearily conceded, adding, “no Mum, three bags bloody full Mum.”

“I heard that, Charlotte Church.”

“Yes Mum, sorry Mum.”

I eventually got to the phone, it’s actually a cordless one, so she could have brought it up with her, instead of having me sit on the stairs in my nightie. “Yes.” I said as I pressed the little green button.

“Charlotte?” asked a nervous young male voice.

“No it’s Hannibal the cannibal, do you want to be beaten or eaten?”

“Either if you’ll come to the dance with me, first of course.”

“So you can win your lousy bet?”

“Yeah. But after what he did to you, I’d have thought you’d like to get one over on Watson.”

“That was a long time ago, I’m different now.”

“I had noticed, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“I don’t know.” Now I was really confused about what I wanted. I looked at the hand which wasn’t holding the phone. Staring at the long thin fingers with their manicured nails, painted a pale, pearlised mauve. It clashed with the colour of my nightdress, which was bright pink.

“What don’t you know, darling?” Quipped my mother as she brought the washing down the stairs.

“This is a private conversation, if you don’t mind.” I retorted, grasping the phone to my chest.

“Oh, like that is it?” she muttered as she went past.

“Sorry about that, my mother just came past, she has ears specially designed for eavesdropping.”

“I heard that,” came from the utility room.

“Yeah, mine’s the same. Look just say yes and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I’ll split the winnings with you, fifty fifty.”

“How much are we talking about.” I tried to sound hard nosed, but in a pink nightie it was difficult.

“Half of fifty quid.”

“What, twenty five quid?”

“Nothing wrong with your brain. Spot on.”

“You bet Dinosaur Watson, fifty quid that you’d get me to come to the dance?”

“That’s about the meat of it.”

“How dare you!”

“It was easy really, I know where you live. He doesn’t.”

“No, I mean how dare you bet on me.”

“We’ll bet on anything, so don’t take it personally.”

I was just about to say, “You bastard!”, when my mother reappeared. Instead I put down the receiver. Actually, I pushed the little button again, then put it down. Huffing as I went back upstairs, “The nerve of some people.”

I was tempted to go back to bed, but it was nearly ten, so went for a shower instead. I was still in there when my mother, shouted something.”

“Can’t hear you.” I called back.

“Switch off the water.” I did as she instructed. “Simon and Jane are downstairs, what is going on?”

“I don’t know.” I answered as innocently as I could shrugging my shoulders for increased effect.

“Why don’t I believe you.”

“You are so hurtful at times, mother-o-mine.” I then pretended to be in deep grief.

“Get some clothes on you fool.” She said throwing a towel at me.

I quickly dried myself, threw on some knickers and shrugged on my towelling gown, wrapped a towel around my hair, and after donning slippers, went downstairs.

Mum provided us with some drinks and biscuits, then left us to it. “What d’you guys want?”

“I think you know that,” replied Simon.

“I know what you want Simon Astley, what’s Robin doing here?”

Jane flounced uncomfortably. “Can’t do his own dirty work, eh?” I continued, and she nodded uncomfortably. I looked at him, “Don’t tell me, if I don’t accede to your demands, the goil gets it?” I said this in my best Bronx accent, although I suspect it may have sounded rather sad to a real New Yorker.

Taking his cue from me, Simon said, “You’ve had your chance Patsy Malone, marry me or da broad gets it.”

At this point we all fell about laughing, made worse by the towel falling off my wet hair, reducing Jane and me to giggling wrecks. My mother looked in to see what the commotion was all about. When she asked if, ‘everything was alright,’ it set us off again. Adolescent girls will giggle at anything, so will some boys, as Simon demonstrated.

It probably took about quarter of an hour for the hysterics to calm down. Simon took his leave, me assuming Jane was now going to try the persuasion.

“I can’t think why Simon wants to ask you to go, but then he never did have any taste.” Thankfully, I saw the wink before she started the sentence.

“What about me? Being seen with anyone related to you is bound to affect my credibility.”

“Look here Miss hoity-toity, I’ll have you know my grandfather fought the war for people like you.”

“That’s nothing,” I responded, “my grandmother flew bombers in the war for people like you.”

“She didn’t ,did she?” asked Jane, incredulous.

“No, but it sounded good.” Which set off another fit of giggling.

“So are you going with him?”

“Dunno. Why?”

“I think you must be mad to even consider it.”

“Who said I was?”

“Simon seemed to think you were.”

“Simon is a boy. They have funny thoughts.”

“So are you saying no?”

“Why?”

“I just wanted to know. He’ll have to ask someone else, won’t he.”

“But then he won’t win his bet.”

“What bet?”. Jane appeared to be unaware of Simon’s ulterior motive, so I filled in the details. “The rat!” she snorted, “you wait till I get home.”

I went up and dressed, and Jane came up and styled my hair. We redid each other’s fingernails, this time I went for a metallic blue colour, primarily because my mother hates it. Well, I can’t be good all the time.

We chatted and played some music, then, it was time for lunch and she went home. As I was eating my lunch, unbeknownst to me, Jane and Simon were having theirs and a conversation. “So, is she coming?”

“Not yet, but she will, assuming you pay up.”

“I am a man of my word,” said Simon, “you get twenty quid if she comes. But it has to be in the babe outfit she wore to the concert.”

“Don’t worry,” my ‘friend’ replied, “I know how to push her buttons.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Comments are appreciated if you have energy left after working through this.

So there I was sailing along, with my return ticket on the Titanic, totally unaware of such things as the existence of icebergs, let alone my impending impact. It seemed, I had all the mental acuity of ‘Homer Simpson’, at times anyway.

Charlotte’s Tale.
Part 5.
by,
Angharad.

I was blissfully unaware that the Astleys were scheming to manipulate me, which naturally made it that much easier. It seemed that Cinderella was going to the ball whether or not she wanted to, Prince Charming and the Fairy Godmother had decided. Or should that be Prince Charmless and his Ugly Sister!

The event in question was two weeks away, which Jane considered was plenty of time to convince me to go. Although I hadn’t actually described my enjoyment of the attention of boys, she had worked it out for herself, from observation and subtle questioning. If I thought I was sneaky, Jane could give master classes in the subject.

So there I was sailing along, with my return ticket on the Titanic, totally unaware of such things as the existence of icebergs, let alone my impending impact. It seemed, I had all the mental acuity of ‘Homer Simpson’, at times anyway.

Jane decided on a two pronged attack, she inveigled my mother into assisting her, in her pecuniary pursuit. Apparently, she was selling me out for twenty pieces of silver, well twenty quid to be precise. Sadly she didn’t know I had been promised a fiver more, and I didn’t know she was involved other than for her brother’s sake. Certainly, I was oblivious to her potential gain.

I am not sure if this is like the overview of a Whitehall farce or a more sinister spy thriller, in which each of us unaware of the motives of the other. I did not trust Simon, who was using me for his personal ends, and I suppose after my recent emotional battering by Jane, was not entirely happy with her either. What was really sneaky, was the involvement of my mother.

How it came about was like this, Jane was with me on the Sunday morning, doing our usual girl thing up in my bedroom. We had played with each other’s hair style, and under her tutelage, I was doing quite well. We had also done the finger and toenails bit, filing and painting them. Then we moved on to listening to music and talking.

All right, we’re school girls and we chatter incessantly, but it only becomes serious when it’s about boys, or who is doing what with whom! Jane checked out her hunch. “I’ve noticed you when there are boys around, becoming quite the little flirt aren’t we?”

Speechless for a moment, I managed to respond with, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh yes you do, they were all dancing attendance on you, as you flashed your cleavage and bum at them.” She was making comments about my recent enjoyment at the discovery of girl power, which is simply by appearing slightly alluring to boys. At fourteen, this means appearing to have tits and a bum with a possible prospect of them copping a feel at some point, or perhaps a good necking session.

Being somewhat unsure of myself, I suppose I was something of a cock-tease, because I granted no favours, although I did enjoy the attention.

“So I enjoy the attention, and it’s all a game anyway. You play it too.”

“Course I do. But it’s the way you have suddenly become such a player, when a month or so ago, you weren’t interested.”

“So, we all learn new things.” I replied.

“Yeah, but not at the rate you do.”

“It’s alright for you, you’ve had all your life to understand being a girl, I’m still learning the ropes.”

“Which is why you need to go to that dance with Simon.”

“Don’t you start….” At this moment my mother called that lunch was ready. We got up and went down stairs, deeply involved in our discussion. We were still talking when we sat at the table and Jane played her master stroke, well series of them.

“That’s right isn’t it Mrs Church?” she said to my mum who was dishing up the meal from the serving dishes.

“What’s that Jane?”

“Simon has asked Charlotte to go to the school dance.”

“Is that wise?”

“Well we think so.”

“But Charlotte was so unhappy there.”

“Yes but if she goes as Christine, she will be okay. After all Simon knows all about her, so is going to look after her without trying it on, like any other boy would with a pretty girl. It would give her a chance to experience a dance as a girl in relative safety. Then if someone asks her on a later occasion, she’ll have some experience, and know a bit more about being a girl.”

“It has some advantages for Charlotte, what does Simon get out of it?”

At this point, I nearly exposed his bet, but Jane chipped in quickly with a total fabrication of the truth as far as I knew. “Oh that’s easy to tell you. Simon’s previous girlfriend chucked him for another boy, telling him he’d never get another girl to go with him, in time for the dance.”

“So Simon wants Charlotte to go to get back at her.” I knew my mum would be against me becoming involved in such a squabble.

“Not really, He just wants to show that Karen leaving him was less important than she thought. She thought he’d fall apart, he hasn’t, but he hasn’t had any chance to find another girl.”

“I’d have thought Simon would have no problem finding another girl.”

“Normally, I’d agree, but Karen and her new boyfriend planned this to try and make Simon look bad. They either expect he’ll turn up by himself or not go. Either way he would lose lots of face.”

“What’s all this got to do with Charlotte?” asked my mother, and I was sat there with arms folded nodding my agreement.

“Well I think, it would be good experience for her.”

“That doesn’t answer my question Jane. It might well be a good experience for her, but why now, when he could find another girl?”

“Well, there is another reason for asking Christine rather than Charlotte or any other girl. After her rehearsals and the concert, half the boys in the school fancied her, including Karen’s new boyfriend. So Simon turning up with Christine, would stop him looking the fool that Karen and Richard were hoping for.”

“Let me get this straight,” said my mum, “Karen dumped Simon just before the dance to make him look a fool to his friends, because he won’t be able to get as high status a girl friend as she was? Enter Charlotte as Christine, who has a little celebrity status, with Simon, and he turns the tables on Karen and, was it, Richard?”

“Yes, Richard Matthews, you know him don’t you Charlotte?”

“Ugh! Yes I do, he bullied me many times.”

“Apparently he now fancies you. How things change.” She threw this at me with such a beaming smile, I was nearly sick.

“Tough! Yuck.” I pretended to be spitting after kissing such a vile body.

“I’m still not sure that Charlotte or Christine should be involved. How do we know there won’t be any fights or other nastiness?”

“I think that’s very unlikely. Simon sees fighting as very ‘uncool’, and Richard only likes bullying weaker boys. He wouldn’t fight someone his own size in case he got beaten. I’m sure Christine would like to get some of her own back on Richard, wouldn’t you?”

Unfortunately, I was far away, thinking about the last time Matthews beat the crap out of me, or threatened to unless I gave him my lunch money. I was therefore not really listening to Jane’s question.

“Sorry, I was miles away.”

“I said, you’d probably like to get some revenge on Richard Matthews.”

“Yes, I would like that.” At that moment I felt a need to go to the toilet, so missed the rest of the conversation, but it seems in those few minutes, Jane convinced my mother to give her assent. From thence, it was a fait accompli.

The next day, Monday, I went to see my dishy doctor. I dressed as sexily as I could, my mother throwing up her hands in horror. “Charlotte, you look like a tart.”

“I do not.”

“I don’t know what Dr Phillips will think.”

“I do,” I said to myself, feeling a definite fluttering in my heart area.

Thankfully, I go into the doctor on my own these days. Again it was his last appointment slot.

“Hello young lady, how are you?”

“I’m fine thank you doctor.” I said this making eye contact then looking down at the ground, before sneaking peeps back at him. I was flirting unashamedly and he knew it. He also knew he could stop it in an instant.

We chatted on for a few minutes, before red faced, I asked him a question. “Dr Phillips, can I ask you about boys?”

“Course you can,” he smiled back at me. I could die for that smile.

“I don’t know how to say this………..I like being treated as a girl by boys…and I think I like it when they………..like, fancy me.”

“Do you fancy them?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been dreaming about them recently, nice dreams.”

“Do you mean sexy dreams?”
Red as a tomato, I nodded.

“Are you a boy or a girl in these dreams?”

“A girl.” I blushed back, goodness it was hot in here. “Am I gay?”

“I don’t think so Charlotte, I think you’re a perfectly normal adolescent girl, except for a few minor physical anomalies. But hey who’s perfect?”

“Are you sure?”

“Did you dream about boys before?”

“I don’t think so?”

“I think if you were gay, that going to this extreme just to go out with boys, would be unlikely. It’s true that many drag queens are gay, but they parody females. You haven’t, you have become one and so rapidly, I suspect it was always there just waiting to be found. I hate to sound clichéd, but I think you may be the classic transsexual, the girl, and a very lovely one at that, in a boy’s body.”

“So I’m not gay?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“’cos I want to be a normal girl, not a queer boy.”

“Well that’s what I’d say you were.” He paused, “How are you getting on with the hormones?”

“Fine thanks.”

“Right next time you come, I want to do a couple of blood tests and want to see what effects they are having on you physically, so you’ll have to undo your breast thingies. Better have your mother in then too. Anything else?”

“Just one thing, I’ve been asked by my best friend’s brother to go to the school dance with him, as Christine. Do you think I should.”

“I take it he knows the score.”

“Yes he does.”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s okay, I suppose.”

“Will anyone recognise you?”

“Not from before, but they will from the concert.”

“Do you want to go?”

“Yes and no.”

“Why no?”

“I think he may be using me to get back at his old girlfriend.”

“Rather than liking you?”

“He says he likes me.”

“Well it could be a good chance to see if you do like boys, and to get a bit more experience in learning how to deal with them. It will also give you a chance to learn about the rivalry that happens between girls too.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I suspect from the way they were trying to catch your eye, after the concert, that you enjoyed the attention of boys who previously regarded you with contempt.” I nodded my agreement. “Which is all very well when you are the only pretty young thing there. However, when there are dozens of them, they can be just as pushy as boys, to get the boy they want. So watch out for the girls too, and guard your back.”

“I’m glad I asked you now.”

“After every big social occasion, I get boys and girls in here asking for help to cope with their miseries, because someone’s girl/boyfriend went off with someone else’s. Or some friend stabbed them in the back, by betraying them in front of an enemy or whatever. It’s just like a big soap opera out there, and they expect doctors to sort out the mess.”

I left him musing on my new insight. Was Jane going to the dance, if so, then watch her like a hawk, although, she wouldn’t be a rival for Simon, but what about this Karen girl? Could she get funny? Oh boy, this is so complicated.

My mother was sat reading in the waiting room, with lots of other people and I decided I would have some fun. I walked up to her and in a loud whisper said, “He wants to see you as well next time, I have to have some blood tests to check the baby is alright.” It would have been better had I been in school uniform, however, a dozen pairs of eyes glared at me in disapprobation.

Mum is usually quick on the uptake, and having shot me a glance which read, “I am going to kill you as soon as we get back to the car”, she followed it up with, “We’d better get back, you’ll need to feed little Sophie. Will you have enough milk?”

This took me by surprise, but I nodded nonetheless. She took my arm and we walked out, trying not to laugh until we got outside.

“Your face was a picture,” I said to my mum.

“My face, did you see those a disapproving looks in the waiting room? They all think you’re a teen mum.”

“With your help, they’re convinced I’m a one woman population explosion.” With this we fell about laughing.

“So what did the good doctor tell you.”

I filled her in on the detail as we walked back to the car. “So we don’t need to look for maternity wear?”

“No way!”

“A new dress for the dance?”

“I don’t know if I’m going yet?” I looked out the window of the car, feeling very circumspect.

“You’re going to have to make your mind up very soon.” My mother said firmly. “You’re also going to have to put that boy out of his misery, one way or another.”

“It’ll do him good to wait.” I pouted, continuing to stare out the window.

“Charlotte, that is not a very nice thing to say. I’ve tried to bring you up in a decent manner, but you wouldn’t know it to hear you. I am disappointed.”

“He’s not taking me for my sake. It’s all for his own advantage.”

“He did have the decency to tell you about it.”

“He only told me part of it, Jane told us the rest, and I’m not sure how much I believe it all.”

“I thought Jane was your best friend.”

“So did I.”

“I feel there is an, ‘and’ or a ‘but’ coming.” Said my mother as she carefully steered the car through the traffic into the car park.
“No,” I sighed and continued looking out the window. I had never realised how interesting car parks were. I mean, did you know they are full of parked cars, which is probably where they get their names from.

“Charlotte, are you coming then?”

“Where?” I said, knowing full well where we were.

“To look at a dress for this blessed dance, just in case you go.”

“I don’t know.” I continued examining the car parked next to us.

“Oh for goodness sake, stop messing me about and get out of the car this minute.”

My mother rarely spoke to me like this, so I realised I had pushed her far enough. I didn’t know why I felt so ambivalent about the dance, or was it what Dr Phillips had said, about watching my back with the other girls.

“Can we go for a drink.” I asked Mum, wondering whether it might be a good idea to check out what Dr Phillips had said.

“Surely,” she replied. “It looks quiet in there, shall we go?”

We entered the small café and Mum ordered two coffees. I like the frothy milky stuff they tend to serve there, Mum had a cappuccino.

“What do you need to talk about? This dance I suppose.” She said quietly, blowing on her coffee.

“It was something Dr Phillips said.”

“What did he say?”

“He warned me to be wary of the boys, but also to be wary of the girls because they could stab me in the back.”

“Girls can be catty to each other when in competition over boys, in the same way boys fight over girls. There could be a risk of that if what Jane said was true about Karen. But it’s something you’ll have to learn to deal with. If you don’t, then life in a girl’s school is going to be tough.”

“I’ve always got on better with girls.” I said hoping everyone was wrong.

“That was in a previous life, they probably saw you as non-threatening.”

“You mean, irrelevant.”

“Oh Charlotte, that’s all in the past. Jane is right, this dance could be a real opportunity to leave all that stuff behind and start anew, a bit like the concert was. I think you ought to give it a try.”

I couldn’t tell her about the bet, or my share in the winnings so she would never know the full story, she did have a point. I needed to learn how to interact better, dealing with both boys and girls.

We looked at all the boutiques and chain stores and while we saw lots of nice things, nothing appealed enough for me to want to buy it. Except the lacy tights. I had those.

Finally after two hours we gave up and did the supermarket shop.

When we got home, there was a letter from the education people saying I had passed sufficiently high enough to stay in my age group for the coming year. In some ways I felt relieved. My recent suspicions of Jane had not diminished, so not being too close may be an advantage. However, I couldn’t wait to phone her and tell her later that evening.

She was remarkably effusive in her congratulations, telling me I had done really well, and she was sure I’d like St Margaret’s once I settled in. Then the sixty four dollar question.

“What ‘ya wearing to the dance then?”

“I haven’t said I’m going yet.”

“This is me, Jane, you’re talking to, not Simon or another boy.”

“Yes,” I thought, “That’s part of the problem”

“I can’t go, I haven’t anything to wear.” I used the oldest cliché in the book.

“Yes you have.”

“What then, Miss Smartypants?” I sniped back.

“Who’s been pinching your candy?” came her response.

“Whatd’ya mean?” I demanded.

“You are being so aggressive to me. It’s like talking to a boy.”

This was the second time she had cut me to the quick, and with tears welling up inside me, I put the phone down and ran up to my room.

Mum came up a short while later. “What’s the matter darling?” she put her arm around me and I sobbed on her shoulder. “What ever is the matter?”

“N….no….nothing,” I sobbed.

“Come on, you can tell me. I promise it won’t go any further.”

I sobbed for a few more minutes, before saying, “Jane called me a boy.”

“Did she now. That would explain why she’s phoned twice for you. I wasn’t sure where you were. I expect she wants to apologise.” She hugged me for a little longer, then said, “Come on, dry your eyes and come and help me get the dinner.”

Why that cheered me up, I don’t know, but it did. Doing something with my mum, I suppose. A sort of reversion to infantile comfort states, perhaps, yet it works, or it did for me.

We chatted about anything and every thing, except the recent trauma. She told me that I should learn more about cooking, as I might need it later when I either went to university or got a place of my own. Consequently, that night I learned how to make shepherd’s pie with minced lamb and potatoes and onions.

I had got to the age of fourteen without having peeled an onion, let alone chopping it into minute pieces. I ruined what was left of my mascara and any other make up. I knew onions irritated the eyes but had never experienced it for myself. Mum waited for me to finish before telling me, “If you peel them under water, it doesn’t happen.”

“Now you tell me!” I said laughing with her. “Doesn’t it make it difficult to see what you’re doing?”

“No more than trying to see through the tears, and it doesn’t mess up your makeup.” She hugged me, then wiped away some of the mess with a soft tissue.

“I quite enjoy these mother daughter times.” She said as she hugged me again.

“Me too.” I said as I hugged her back.

Just then the door bell rang. “Who is that I wonder?” said Mum.

“Do you want me to answer it?” I offered.

“No I’ll go. You run up to the bathroom and wash your face. You still look a mess.”

I did as instructed, coming down three or four minutes later. Mum met me in the hall. “Jane is in the sitting room, she tells me she has to apologise to you for something. She has come on her own initiative, I think it best if you go and speak to her. Whether you accept her apology is up to you. Politeness would say you should, however, life sometimes happens outside these courtesies.”

My goodness! Mum allowing me to make my own decision about something. Hell, what do I say to Jane. “Go away, I never want to see you or your stupid brother again.” That was what I felt like saying. She had stabbed me twice now, and that was without any competition for boys, but just to assert her superiority. I knew I couldn’t let her get away with that, privately or publicly at school. My life would be an absolute misery.

Mum had gone back to the kitchen, this was just between Jane and me. I walked into the room. She was sitting on the sofa looking very circumspect.

“Hello,” was all I said.

“I’ve brought you some flowers, and an apology.” She handed me bunch of dahlias obviously from their garden. They were lovely, all colours of the rainbow, some multicoloured.

“Thank you, they’re beautiful.” I said accepting the flowers, “do you usually give flowers to boys?” I quipped.

She blushed, and looking at the floor, she said, “I am sorry Charlotte. I don’t think you are a boy at all.”

“It’s the second time you’ve called me one recently.”

“Is it?, I didn’t realise. I don’t mean to upset you. Will you forgive me?” By now there were tears running down her face and my heart was breaking. “Can we still be friends? Best friends, you know how much I like you.”

“On one condition.” This was difficult, my eyes were not far from filling up themselves.

“What’s that?”

“You never, ever call me a boy again. James is gone. I am Charlotte, a girl.”

“You are my best girlfriend, Charlotte. I agree to your condition.” She then launched herself at me to hug.

“Watch it,” I said, “You’re squashing me dahlias!” With that we started to giggle and two minutes later we were nearly wetting ourselves in a real schoolgirl giggle-fit.

Something I learned that day, just in case it hadn’t already been noted was, life had been very difficult as a small, sensitive boy in a hostile environment. Being a girl, was no easier. At times it seemed much harder. I had no option but to keep trying, however, I was committed to this course of action no matter what. Charlotte was here to stay, that was certain.
The next day Mum phoned St Margaret’s and told them the results of my SATs test. She had quite a conversation with the headmistress, then came to speak to me about it.

“Charlotte, we have to change your name officially.”

“What do you mean? I am officially Charlotte aren’t I?”

“You are effectively, but we have to change your name and documents so the school can get their paper work in order.”

“What does that mean?”

“We have to go and see the solicitor and do a statutory declaration of change of name, and contact some government department to get a change of birth certificate form, which will probably need Dr Phillips to sign.”

“When do we do it?” I shrugged my shoulders, it was no big deal.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this, because once we do this it all becomes difficult to undo. It isn’t as final as surgical change, but it’s the next thing to it. So you need to be sure.”

“I am.” I said.

“Please think about what I’m saying. This is important.”

“I have. I am a girl, my name is Charlotte. I can’t go back to being a boy.”

“You could if you really wanted too, but not if we do all this. That’s why you need to be sure.”

“I am sure, besides Dad said he couldn’t cope with me being a boy again, so I have to stay being a girl.”

“When did he say that?” she held me gently at the tops of my arms, looking directly into my eyes.

“Some while ago, we had a long chat. He said it then.”

“Well it’s not true. If you want to go back to being a boy, you can. It won’t be easy, but it is possible.”

“But Dad said….”

“I don’t care what your father said, he was wrong. Now do you want to think about this?” she was still holding me and looking me in the eye. I got the distinct impression she was very uptight about all this official stuff.

“My name is Charlotte, it always will be Charlotte and I am happy that I am your daughter. When do we see the solicitor?”

She hugged me, and there were tears in her eyes. “I’m happy for you to be my daughter too. I am so proud of you, you are such a brave young woman.”

This was just too much for my teenage sensibilities and within moments we were both in tears, though quite why we were crying was a mystery. My dad always blamed everything about my mother on, “hormones”. “It’s her hormones,” he would moan. Maybe it was my hormones too, or the little pills that I got from Dr Phillips, I had cried more since taking them, than I remember before.

“Can I be Charlotte Christine?” I asked my mother.

“You can be anything you want, my darling.” Replied my tearful but smiling mother.

“That would make my initials CCC. Like Chester Cricket Club.” I laughed.

“Or cycling club, or croquet.” She added laughing.

“Croquet, didn’t we used to have a set for that to play in the garden?”

“Gosh that was years ago, I wonder what your father did with that, it could be in the shed or the garage. We’ll have a look later.”

She wiped her tears, looked in the mirror, wiped a bit more then went off to ring the family solicitors, Williams, Barnes and Hardy. “I’ve done it now.” I thought, “I’m going to be officially me. What a load of rubbish, who else can I be? Kylie Minogue? What a load of crap! Who really cares apart from my mother?” I went off to listen to some music.

My dad had a thing about Eva Cassidy, so had some of her CDs. I liked listening to them and singing along with some of them. Fields of Gold, is probably my favourite, though I like, Penny To My Name despite it being essentially a country song, and one that is fast growing on me is Anniversary Song.

So there I was, being Eva Cassidy, playing my tennis racquet as I sang along, when my mother walked in. Apparently she watched me for a few minutes before she interrupted, I was so into the music, that I was oblivious to her presence.

“I’ve spoken to Mr Barnes, who was really helpful. We are going to see him tomorrow, he said he’ll have drawn up the declaration by then. So from tomorrow, you will be Charlotte Christine, officially.”

“Yeah, cool.” I wasn’t that concerned, so what was the big deal?

“Oh,” said my mother, and left me to my tennis guitar.

The meeting with Mr Barnes was okay. He asked me if I was cognizant of what was happening. I told him that I didn’t understand what he was on about, so he rephrased it into English, and I understood. Which apparently, is what he’d asked before, only in Latin or something.

He had actually helped someone do this before, though they were adult, so it was slightly different. We went through the process and I made the declaration before his partner, Mr Hardy, supported by my mum ‘cos I’m a minor. Then he gave us the address we had to write to, to change my birth certificate. Apparently, that’s quite a recent thing and involves the Department of Constitutional Affairs. Dr Phillips told me I have a strong constitution, so it should be alright.

Both the lawyers didn’t believe I’d ever been a boy, which cheered me up a bit. I’ll bet it cost Mum a fortune to see them. Maybe I’ll become a lawyer, I’d like to earn lots of money for doing nothing.

After this we went to the shops again, it was now only a couple of days to the dance and I, as yet, had nothing to wear. We spent three hours looking but it was no better than before. “I might as well wear that black one I wore to the concert.” I told my mum.

“You can’t do that Charlotte, they’ve all seen it before.”

“So what?” I thought, and said, but concluded it with the thought, “yeah, and they liked it!”

“Well, girls can’t wear the same thing twice so close together. It makes you look as if you haven’t got anything else.”

“I haven’t.”

“You know that, and I know it, but no one else does.”

“Oh boy!”

“But only a few of them actually came to the concert, so most of them won’t have seen it. I’ve got some new tights, and I can wear some different jewellery or something.”

“All right, I give in,” said Mum, “let’s go and look at some costume jewellery.”

We ended up in a local boutique, where I got a pile of thin silver bangles, some long earrings, and a couple of silver rings and a long silver and black necklace. I needed to get my ears pierced, but not today, they wouldn’t heal in time for the dance, so the earrings I bought were clip on.

I was happy enough with my bag of swag, and so was Mum. She’d only spent about twenty pounds, a new dress could cost three or four times that, or even more.

“Have you actually told Simon you are going with him yet?” asked my mum.

“No I haven’t. Let him stew a bit longer.”

“What are you going to do if he has found someone else?”

“Send her my sympathies.”

“Charlotte, you are becoming quite nasty at times, despite the efforts we have made to bring you up properly. I’m very disappointed in you. Going to this dance with Simon as a first date was perhaps a better idea than I originally thought. At least he’ll behave himself, unlike many of the others.”

“Only ‘cos he knows about me.” I pouted back at her.

“I think he seems quite a nice boy, and quite good looking too. You could do worse you know.”

“I know him better than you.” I retorted, then realised I could be in danger of saying too much, and losing my twenty five quid as well. If I had to go to this bloody thing, then he could pay me my share of his winnings.

“What does that mean? Is there something I should know?” Mum looked quite concerned. “He doesn’t do drugs, does he?”

“Not as far as I know. I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just you seem to think that Jane and Simon are saints, simply because they don’t run away from your two headed, freaky daughter! They aren’t saints, by a long way.”

“Oh Charlotte, I don’t mean it like that, and I think you know that as well. But you could do a lot worse for a first date. Find yourself with some spotty youth, who seems to be a cross between a gorilla and an octopus, trying to put his hairy mitts all over you.”

“Oh you mean Watson?”

“Wasn’t that the boy at the concert?”

“He seemed nice enough.”

“Oh Mum, he beat me up in front of the whole school and ridiculed me. I’m only going, to make him lose his bet.” “Oh bugger, now I’ve spilled the beans.” I thought to myself.

“What bet would that be?”

I decided to be ‘economical with the truth’ like that politician bloke who wrote those diary things they made into a series on telly. I can’t think of his name, but I used his technique.

“I think Simon was bemoaning his loss of Karen, and he told Watson he had asked me. Watson thought he had no chance, and he bet him a pound he couldn’t.”

“I’d have thought you were worth more than a pound,” chirped my mother, “perhaps you should get them to raise the ante.”

“Raise the what?”

“The ante, the thing they agree to bet.”

“Oh is that what they call it. I thought you were against gambling after what granddad did.”

“I am, but I thought my daughter was worth more than a pound.” At this we both laughed. “I suppose it’s the principle of the thing, is it?”

“It’s a boy thing, I guess.” This was rapidly becoming my answer for any behaviour I didn’t understand. The problem was, the more I said it, the more I believed it. I wondered if boys went round saying, “It’s a girl thing.” I suppose they do, after all they would only say it to me if they were being sarcastic, or I might reply to a question in the same vane. Yes, any irrational behaviour I made from now on, I could excuse as ‘a girl thing’, while equally condemning anything boys did as, ‘a boy thing’. I was glad I got that sorted out.

When we got home, my mother insisted I call Simon. I did, he came to the phone.

“Hello.”

“Hello Simon, it’s Christine.”

“Christine? Christine who?” he sounded puzzled.

“Christine Monk.”

“I don’t know a Christine Monk, do I? Are you good looking?”

“I’m told I am.”

“Well I’d love to meet you some time. You’re not free tomorrow night are you, only I’ve got a spare ticket for a dance, my previous date stood me up.”

“I could be, where is it?” I decided to play along. I half thought he was winding me up.

“At my school. It’s an approved one.”

“What the school or the dance?”

“Either or both.” He began to laugh.

“How do you know me?” It sounded as if he was confused about this.

“I know your sister.”

“You’re not in her class or anything are you?”

“No, Why?”

“Well she’s younger than me and I hate to say it, but if you look too young, then I lose brownie points with the gang, if you know what I mean.”

“Gang, you’re not in a gang are you?”

“Why don’t you like gangs?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been out with a gang member. Jane didn’t mention a gang.”

“Didn’t she? Oh I’m the leader.”

I had to move the phone from my mouth in case he heard me laughing at him.

“So are you a big, tough guy, then?” I asked innocently.

“Yeah, course.”

“Oh good, I like my men to be proper men.” I smarmed back at him, all the time nearly giving the game away, by wanting to laugh.

“Hurry up Charlotte your tea is ready.” Shouted my mother.

“Charlotte? Who the hell is Charlotte? Oh it’s you is it, Charlotte bloody Church. I might have known. Why are you taking the piss?”

“I thought you wanted to take Christine to the dance.”

“Who is Christine? It was you I asked.”

“Christine is the name I used for the concert, remember?”

“Oh, of course. Was it?” he paused, his mind must have turned to more mush than I previously thought. “Are you coming then?”

“Do you still want me to?”
“I s’pose.”

“Aw thanks for nothing!” I said and put the phone down. I stamped into the dining room. The phone began to ring.

“Can you get that Charlotte?” asked my mother.

“It’s only someone trying to sell something.” I replied.

“How can you possibly know that?”

“They always ring at meal times.”

“Please go and check, it might be your father.”

“It isn’t.”

The phone continued to ring, and in frustration she went herself, huffing and puffing. It rang off just before she got to it. I thought to myself, “Saved by the bell.” It was premature, she did a one four seven one, and obviously pressed three. “Hello, it’s Mrs Church here, did you just call?”

I could only hear half the conversation. “About the dance, yes. Yes, I think so. I’m sure she is. Hang on I’ll just check.” I heard her walking back towards me. “Look darling, are you going to this dance or not? I thought you were.”

“If he asks me nicely, I might.” I pouted.

“After the way you have behaved madam, be thankful he’s still asking you at all!” She snapped at me.

I recoiled in astonishment, it was he who was messing me about. But it’s my fault isn’t it. They always blame the girl, I thought.

“Here, take the phone, tell him you are going. Though why I should let you after the way you’ve messed him about, goodness only knows.”

Speechless, I took the phone from her. “Hello Simon.”

“I think I got my answer from your mother, you naughty girl.” Now he was making full use of my temporary embarrassment. I was not amused.

“Just cut the crap, Astley.” I interrupted.

“Less of that sort of language young lady.” Scolded my mother.

“Gee bloody whiz” I thought to myself. “Somedays, you just can’t win.”

When he managed to finish laughing, he said, “I’ll pick you up at seven, look as good as you did for the concert. Bye.”

“The nerve of the man! Man ha! What a slip of the tongue,” I thought, “next door’s cat is more of a man than he’ll ever be, and he [the cat] has lost his nuts to the vet and a sharp knife.”

Tea that night was a very quiet affair with neither Mum nor I saying anything more than was absolutely necessary. She huffed and puffed and I sulked, big time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Comments please, what am I doing right or wrong? Do you like it or not? Do you want me to send Bonzi round - well add a comment!

I was dancing with Simon and one of the other girls walked up behind me and pulled down the zipper on my dress. Of course my boobs were displayed which was embarrassing enough, but then the glue came unstuck and they fell on the floor, exposing me as a fake. Astley was furious, and hit me across the face. Everyone else was stood around laughing, to make matters worse, I felt myself peeing with humiliation and fright.

Charlotte’s Tale.
Part 6.
by Angharad.

It looked as if I was going to this blessed dance thing with Prince Charmless, whatever I thought about it. Astley, what a dipstick for an escort! I suppose, he would be safe, at least he isn’t likely to try anything on, is he. Or is he?

I mean he’s familiar with me as I now am, and as I was. Okay, so he may think I’ve had surgery, he may think that my chest is real, he may also think the moon is made of green cheese for all I know!

At the moment, he has the initiative. I need to get some of it back, then I shall feel a bit safer. Quite how I shall do that, I don’t yet know. I just hope he isn’t aware that it will be happening. If I don’t take some initiative, then he will call all the shots, and I will simply be his puppet. That fills me with dread. Actually, the whole thing fills me with dread. I don’t really want to go, but twenty five quid, is twenty five quid. I could use the money.

After dinner, I checked out the dress I’d worn to the concert. It was clean, and still fitted me. In fact, in donning it, I recaptured some of the sense of self, I’d had at the concert. Without wearing any makeup and with my hair in a pony tail, I still looked a babe, with the rest of the disguise, I would look a hot one!

I had to. My only chance of holding my own with Astley, meant I had to be an equal. He was bigger and stronger than me, he was also older which gave him the advantage. However, I was far more visually attractive than him, and if used carefully, could level things enough for me to make some things go the way I wanted, not just be a puppet.

I recalled the fun I had with the boys at the rehearsals and the concert. I felt in total control then. It was true that the competition was going to be stiff, or should that apply to the boys? Anyway, I felt I had as much chance as any of the other girls, all I had to do was be aware of them, not seem too much of a threat if possible, at the same time not allow any intimidation. A tough assignment.

Astley has no idea how difficult this is going to be for me. He just wants a bimbo on his arm, to show off to his peer group and rivals. I want some fun and a share in the profits. Looking like I did before, I might just pull it off.

I went to bed, but sleep was difficult. I tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, plotting and scheming, then rehashing and starting again. Eventually, I suppose I fell asleep. I must have done, ‘cos I remember waking up in a horrible dream.

I was dancing with Simon and one of the other girls walked up behind me and pulled down the zipper on my dress. Of course my boobs were displayed which was embarrassing enough, but then the glue came unstuck and they fell on the floor, exposing me as a fake. Astley was furious, and hit me across the face. Everyone else was stood around laughing, to make matters worse, I felt myself peeing with humiliation and fright.

When I woke up, I was wetting the bed, something I haven’t done since I was
about two or three. I was crying with shame with fear and everything else that accompanies them. It was awful.

Thankfully, the bed wasn’t too wet, so I just shoved a towel over things and after changing my nightdress, I went back to bed, still upset, but so tired that I fell asleep.

More dreams followed, in one Jane called me “Charlotte”, which gave the game away and soon everyone knew who I was. In another, Astley and Watson had a fight over me, and Watson was winning when I woke up in fright.

I did go back to sleep, and tried to think positive thoughts about tomorrow, but it was difficult. Fatigue or exhaustion eventually set in and I did finally sleep awaking late the next morning. Mum let me sleep in, because she knew I was tired and that I’d be having a relatively late night.

I very shamefacedly told her about wetting the bed, and too my surprise, she was very understanding. However, she made me strip it, turn the mattress after wiping it and spraying it with one of those fabric fresheners, then remaking it. I also had to put my dirty linen in the washing machine, and when ready hang it on the line.

I had done it before when helping around the house, but not very often. Mum simply said, “All girls and most boys should learn how to do the washing. One never knows when circumstances will require such expertise.”

“Expertise,” I thought, it hardly takes a brain surgeon to drive a washing machine. Sometimes Mum can seem awfully pompous! In principle she was probably right, everyone should know how to do the washing or at least use the machine, like they should be able to cook a basic meal or vacuum the house. Even my dad can do most of it, although he prefers to act stupid and let Mum do it.

I know in days gone by, most men could hardly boil an egg or make a cup of tea. My grandfather, was apparently like that, helpless in the house, whilst Grandma was not allowed to do much in the garden or to the fabric of the house. Apparently, Grandpa was a dab hand at DIY, which is where my dad gets it from, I s’pose.

While the washing was going round and round, I went off and began my preparations for the evening. My heart was pounding just thinking about it. Was I making a huge mistake?

I’m not sure what set off the teenage tantrum, forgetting to put my dirty nightie in the wash or dropping the hair dye, but I really went off on one. On reflection I know it was stress, the worry about the dance, but the air turned blue as I stamped around, shouting and swearing at the top of my voice.

My mother came up to remonstrate with me and to ascertain the cause of the minor nuclear detonation. She overheard me using rather unlady like words, and I don’t mean gosh or golly, which she insisted I desist from using immediately. I told her to, “piss off”, not something I would normally want to say or dare to say to her. Her reaction was rapid.

“That does it young lady, you can go to bed, now! Cinderella will not go to any ball. How dare you speak to me like that!”

Already in tears of frustration and anger, I burst into a heavy sobbing session, apologising profusely, that I hadn’t meant to say it, it had just slipped out. But I went off to my room, and got into the bed. Astonishingly, I was asleep within minutes, as if the effort of the tantrum had depleted me of all my energy.

I didn’t notice the time when I went to bed, so didn’t know how long I’d been there when my mother awoke me. I had slept through lunch and it was now about three in the afternoon.

“How do you feel now?” she asked me.

“Much better,” I replied yawning. “I’m sorry I was rude to you.”

“I should think so too. However, you need to be punished. I think I shall stop you going to the dance tonight.”

“Okay.” I said feeling a deep sense of relief.

“You don’t sound very upset about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You’d better phone Simon and tell him.”

“Oh dear! I was kinda hoping you would do that as you were stopping me from going.”

“Indeed I won’t. You can do it as part of your punishment.”

“You realise he will kill me the next time he sees me, and Jane will suddenly stop seeing me.”

“Should have thought of that before you were rude to me.”

“I know Mum, and I did say I was sorry, or weren’t you listening?”

“Charlotte, you are doing it again.”

“Doing what, for God’s sake!”

“And again. How dare you speak to me like that!”

“I’m not doing anything.” I shouted, tears running down my face as I pulled the bed clothes over my head and lay down on the bed.

I felt my mother get up off the bed and heard her footsteps walk across the bedroom floor. I lay there listening for some while until I fell asleep again.

An hour later, Mum woke me again. “If you are going to behave, we might be able to negotiate some way out of this impasse.”

I lay there without saying anything.

“I have spoken to Simon, and he was very upset to hear what had happened, agreeing that you should be punished. However, it would also greatly inconvenience him for you not to go.”

“I don’t care Mum, I’ll stay home if you want.”

“Please don’t interrupt Charlotte. I have decided that you will go as Simon’s escort, and you will act the part.”

“I think you were right the first time Mum, I’ll stay home this evening as a punishment.”

“Don’t you want to go then?”

“Not really.”

“Why ever not?”

“Can’t be bothered. He only wants me to go to act as his bimbo.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t.”

No, I thought, he wants me to go to win his bet.

“Anyway, I told him that you would be ready for seven, and as it’s now after four, I think you’d better get up and get yourself ready.”

“No, I’ll stay in and finish my punishment.”

“Didn’t you hear me Charlotte? I distinctly said you’d be going, so you had better get up and get ready. Don’t you have to dye your hair again?”

Reluctantly, I got out of the bed and went towards the shower. I really didn’t want to go anymore. The idea of fun had receded and I was now more fearful of coping with the other girls, or of being discovered. It would only take one slip of Astley’s great gob and him to call me Charlotte, and I could be identified, and then vilified.

However, I also gave my mother great respect, so if she told me to do something, and reinforced it, she meant it. She had also been duped into giving her word to that polecat Astley, so I had to honour that promise. It didn’t, however, mean that he wouldn’t pay for it, when I got the chance to avenge his duplicity.

I dyed my hair dark again and dried it, my mother helping me to style it in a slightly more ambitious manner than we had for the concert. I checked out the breast form. It was stuck on securely, and I applied the necessary covering make up. I could hardly see a join in the bright light of the bathroom, and I knew where to look.

Then, my sexy underwear, even though no one would see it, and my patterned tights. Finally the dress, my cleavage displayed enough to whet most of the boy’s appetites.

I did my makeup, heavier than for the concert, emphasising my eyes with dark lines above and below, and my eyebrows became much darker to match my hair. Finally, a pink lipstick and matching nail varnish. On with my shoes, a squirt of Anais anais, some jewellery and my watch to finish. I was ready. It was six forty five.

I checked out myself in the mirror, once more I was a hot chick. Up to now I had been so busy with my preparation, I’d had no time to feel apprehensive. Now I had time, and the butterflies in my tum were turning into eagle sized objects. Nevertheless, the effect I had of seeing myself as the finished ‘babe’ seemed to calm the anxiety to manageable levels. A little was good, it would keep me on my toes.

I thought I looked better than ever, Astley would blow a fuse when he saw me and hopefully mess his pants, the dirty rat. If I got the chance to brush against his little woody, then I would. To have him make a mess in the front of his trousers would be reasonable revenge. Things were becoming better by the minute.

The door bell disturbed my musings, he was here! Oh bugger. I suddenly felt the shadow of the grave fall across me and all my confidence left me. My mother came to get me, and led me silently down the stairs.

“Simon, may I present Miss Christine Monk.”

Astley was stood with his back to us watching the telly, he spun around as my mother spoke and his mouth dropped open.

“Jeez, is that you Charlotte?” he asked, his voice squeaking a little as he said it.

“No, I’m Christine, if you can’t get my name right now, how are you going to cope all evening. There’s no point in going with him, he’s a prat!” I pouted and folded my arms across my chest.

“She does have a point Simon.” Chipped in my mother.

“I’m sorry about that,” started Simon, “I was so knocked out by your appearance.” I could almost see the pound signs whirring in his brain. “I think I can manage to remember, you do look quite different, actually, you look fantastic. If I didn’t know better, I think you were a girl.”

“Astley, you dip stick, I am a girl.” This was becoming evermore farcical.

“Yeah, you know what I mean.” His stare was drawn to my chest. It was not an unusual experience, but it was irritating unless I wanted something.

“Christine is a young woman, and I expect you to take good care of her, young man. I want her back safe and sound before midnight. Do I make myself clear?” said my mother in a firm voice which nearly took his attention away from my chest.

“Simon!”

“Yes Mrs Church.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes Mrs Church, I’ll take great care of Char….I mean Christine.”

I pouted and protested but to no avail, she ushered us through the door, handing me my small handbag as we went. The sound of a taxi outside, reminded me, we were only minutes away from disaster. “Oh hell!” I thought to myself, as we boarded the cab and were driven off to the school. As we drove, I noticed the cab driver was glancing frequently in his mirror, and I knew he wasn’t looking out the rear window.

We were dropped by the taxi, in the school car park. It was a warm evening, yet I was shivering with fearful anticipation, no, make that dread. There were boys and girls milling about outside, some in groups some in pairs or even singles. The assortment of fashions on parade varied from simple jeans and tee shirts to complex collections of zips and straps sported by the Goths.

Simon was wearing a pair of K K, grey trousers and a grey and white striped designer shirt. He had a thin gold chain around his neck and a gold men’s bracelet on his right wrist. He looked tidy and casual. He had his arm around me as we waited in the queue to enter the dance, I could feel the warmth of his hand on my back.

I thought about placing my arm around his waist, but wondered what his reaction would be, and would it be encouraging him to do things I wasn’t sure about?

Would he see me as a boy or girl. The bulge in his pants tended to suggest the latter, but I wasn’t sure enough yet to do anything too affectionate, or if I would do anything which might be described that way.

The girl in front, with her hand around her boy’s waist was wriggling and laughing as he fondled her bum. She gave me an up and down stare, checking out the opposition, saw Simon’s hand on my shoulder and half smiled at me. She was wearing a gypsy skirt with cami top, and a fringed shawl. She had high heeled boots on. I liked her boots.

“Hey Astley, dig de bitch, how come she wit a clown like you?” Called a large black lad called Oskar Medigo. He had been another of my tormentors. “Hey bitch, if he ain’t big enough in de trouser department, you know where to come.” He laughed at me, showing enormous white teeth.

My response was to feel intimidated, and to shrink back against Simon, who wrapped his arm around me in a proprietorial cum protective gesture. He spoke quietly to me, “Don’t worry about him Chrissie, he’s all wind and piss.” This relieved my tension and I laughed almost hysterically, nearly wetting myself in the process.

“Hi Simon.” The greeting came from a pleasant faced young man, red haired and freckled. He was wearing a denim shirt and jeans. It was a boy called, Sam. I couldn’t recall his other name. “So you got her to come then?”

“Yeah, piece of cake wasn’t it babe? She’s crazy about me aren’t you?” I blushed and looked at the floor.

“Don’t you mean, crazy to be with you?” Joked Sam.

“Where’s Louise then?” asked my escort of his chum.

“Just gonna go find her. She’ll be late I ‘spect, she usually is.” They laughed together and Simon rubbed his hand up and down my arm.

I really wasn’t sure what his signals meant. He seemed to have forgotten my past, but was all this just for show? He hadn’t tried to kiss me yet, would he? If he did, how would I respond? Serious questions, so far no answers.

We queued for about ten minutes, moving slowly towards the gymnasium where they held such events. During this time, several other boys spoke to Astley, they only spoke to me in mockery of him, or as if I was an extension of him. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

I reasoned that, I’m supposed to be a stranger here, whereas Simon was on his home territory. Lots of people knew him, few if any knew me.

I overheard two boys talking about me. “That babe in the black, the one with Astley, yeah with the tits. Wasn’t she the singer from the concert? Something monkey?” They laughed at their joke. I pretended not to hear. “How did he manage to pull her? Nice tits, bum’s a bit small but okay.”

I decided eavesdropping was not a good idea. Mum always says, “Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.” To be seen as a sex object both pleased and disgusted me. I was having a minor impact.

As we got closer to the doors, so the noise from within grew louder. I knew there was a disco, what was unknown to me, was the karaoke, which would become a feature of the evening.

Jimi Hendrix, was blasting ‘Voodoo Chile’, as we eventually managed to get into the gym. There was a basic lights show, with strobes and occasional coloured lasers flashing. It was difficult to hear anything anyone said.

I found us some seats, Simon went off to get us some Cokes. While he was gone, three or four boys attempted to pick me up. I waved them away, all the time feeling far more vulnerable than the imperiousness my gesture conveyed. I spotted Watson on the far side of the room, I hoped and prayed Simon would be back before he saw me.

I followed his progress as the boy-mountain weaved between the dancers on the far side of the gym, at the same time trying to make myself look inconspicuous. This is quite difficult when one has spent much of the afternoon trying to achieve the opposite in one’s appearance.

Just as Watson saw me, Simon cut across the dance area and beat him to the spare seat. “Hi Watson,” he cheerfully greeted his rival. “I think we have some business to conclude.”

“Hi Astley, tomorrow okay?” Then looking me in the eye, he said, “Hello Christine, remember me from the concert?”

I pretended to blank for a moment, then smiling replied, “Oh yes, you gave me those lovely flowers.”

Upon my recognition, his face lit up like a flash bulb, it was that sudden. “It was my pleasure. You have a fantastic voice.” It wasn’t my vocal cords he was looking at however, but the down the front of my dress.

“Glad you liked it.” I smiled back at him, making Simon distinctly twitchy. I caught his angry glances a couple of times, but continued my flirting with the dinosaur.

Finally, Astley lost his patience with me, and dragged me onto the dance floor. “I hope you dance as well as you flirt, you slut.” He growled in my ear.

I had no idea, I had never danced as a girl except at home, where I often mixed it with playing air guitar.

I simply copied what other girls were doing to the bouncy beat of a record I’d not heard before. No one seemed to take any notice of me, so I presumed it was acceptable, jiggling my boobs and bum in time to the music, like the other girls.

It certainly had an effect on Simon, there was something decidedly friendly in the way he pulled me to him for the slow dance. Something in his trousers was also, apparently pleased to meet me. I smiled to myself.

We did the slow shuffle around in small circles, me resting my head on his shoulder, while he held me close around the waist, his hand occasionally slipping to caress my bottom. The pressure from his groin, was increasing as he rubbed himself against me. He obviously had greater self control than I thought!

Once I relaxed, I actually began to enjoy myself, despite his hot, sweaty hands on different parts of my body. He was quite a bit taller than me, and not surprisingly broader as well. He was still smaller than Watson, but so was Mount Blanc. I was about the same size as most of the girls there, who covered quite a range. I spotted one or two, who must be close to six feet tall, and possibly a couple who were well shorter than me.

We went and sat down, someone came up with a digital camera and we got snapped, along with many others. Talking was impossible, save in short clipped and shouted sentences. The most common one was, “I can’t hear you,” frequently preceded by, “What?”

Simon shouted in my ear,” Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I’m okay.” I replied.

We danced some more.

Eventually, it had to happen, we were confronted by Richard Matthews and Karen Brown, Simon’s ex-girlfriend and the usurper. “You found someone then?” said Karen, almost with a sneer. She looked me up and down contemptuously.

Not quite sure how to handle the situation, I took my lead from Simon who had his arm around my waist and was pulling me closer to him. Matthews stood behind his girlfriend, seemingly as unsure as I was.

Simon and Karen stood glaring at each other, Karen kept sneaking her nasty glances at me, which began to irk me. As a boy, I tried to fight back but always got flattened because they were all bigger than me, as a girl, the match was more even. I felt my irritation rising, as she continued to look me up and down, only this time I caught her eyes and held the stare, “Do I pass the inspection or do you want to do a medical as well?” I asked loudly over the noise of the music.

“I’d be frightened I’d catch something!” she sneered back.

“As you were with Simon first, I think I’m more at risk than you.” Half a dozen girls beside us heard the exchange and began to laugh.

Karen went bright red, and snapped at Matthews, “Come along Richard, there’s a nasty smell in here.” They bustled away from the laughter.

I found myself shaking slightly, and Simon asked if I was alright. I was of course, it was just the comedown from the adrenaline rush of my first skirmish with another girl. I hoped it was over, but I couldn’t be sure. I might have to be careful near the toilets. Thinking of it, I decided, I would go now. I excused myself and made my way to the ladies.

I had just finished and was about to pull the flush, when I heard Karen’s voice. “Who’s the bimbo with Simon Astley?”

“Dunno,” said her friend, “I heard tell she thinks she can sing a bit.”

“Well, we’ll have to get her into the karaoke then won’t we.”

“What, up against you? Think she’s suicidal do you?”

“Anything you can do, I can do better….” She began to sing. I was tempted to sing back but thought better of it. Her friend was laughing. I waited for them to go. So it looked like songs at ten paces. I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea or not. I had never sung karaoke, and wondered if the sort of stuff I usually did, was suitable. My only advantage was in knowing what they were going to do, what I was going to do, was still news to me!

“Where have you been?” asked an agitated Simon, “we thought you’d fallen down the bog.”

“Can we go somewhere quieter, I need to talk to you.”

He shrugged his shoulders and led us outside. We walked away from the small groups or couples, several of whom were kissing.

“I overheard Karen in the toilets. She is going to challenge me to a duel at the karaoke.”

“What?” said Simon, showing that the ‘simple’ adjective which often accompanies the name, was not always inappropriate.

I explained again, what I had overheard. He just laughed, “Well that’s okay, you’re a singer aren’t you?”

“Not of the sort of stuff I believe they do for karaoke. Have you heard her sing?”

“Yeah, she’s quite good.”

“Maybe you’d better take me home.”

“What, and lose face. No way. You’ll have to face her and win.”

“But I have never sung karaoke before, she has. She could well win.”

“If she does you can kiss goodbye to your twenty five quid.”

“Simon, you promised.”

“Yeah, well you gotta earn it.”

“But I have, coming here with you tonight and standing up to Karen. I’ve more than earned it.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Simon Astley, you are a toad, and I am going home now. You can stuff your money and your contest, right where a monkey sticks his nuts!”

I stormed off towards the gates.

He came running after me. “Look Chrissie, I didn’t mean that about the money. Please, do this for me.”

“Go away.” I snapped as I continued walking.

His response took me completely by surprise. He reached out and grabbed my wrist, pulling me back to him, then he held me tightly and kissed me, forcing his tongue into my mouth.

I was in a state of shock, and began to push him away. He was far stronger than I, and just continued kissing me. I stopped pushing and started enjoying, although I wasn’t going to tell him that. I heard what sounded like applause. We broke the embrace, and a group of Astley’s friends and their girls were stood in a circle around us clapping.

I don’t know which of us were more embarrassed, especially as we had apparently missed the photograph that was taken of the event.

Simon took the initiative, shrugged his shoulders and kissed me again. This time I let him.
From the noise inside the gym, the karaoke was beginning. My stomach turned over. In a choral competition, I’d win hands down. This was her territory, and I was anxious, very anxious.

“Come on,” said Simon, his arm around me, “go and tidy up your make up and show ‘em what singing’s all about.”

I went off to the ladies with one or two of the other girls, who seemed to form my supporter’s club. My hand was shaking as I repaired my lipstick. “Oh boy!” I thought to myself.

“What the hell could I sing. I wasn’t much into pop or rock. Then I had a thought. Fields of Gold, I could sing that, not as well as Eva Cassidy, who had a wonderful voice, but I could give it a go. If not then it would have to be, Summertime. Did the karaoke machines have such songs?”

I talked with the girls on the way back, they seemed to think, either of those would be okay. The battle of the ballads, was about to begin.

We stood around for about half an hour, while the minnows of this competition showed how karaoke shouldn’t be done. They sang off key, off tune, off words and performed all forms of musical mayhem. The audience was sympathetic but seemed to be tolerating it only until the main protagonists got themselves ready.

Karen appeared from somewhere at the back of the room. The audience parted to let her through, applauding and shouting encouragement. She was obviously known to them.

To my surprise she opted to sing an old Dusty Springfield standard, Son of a Preacher Man. And she did it some justice. I forgot we were in a competition, and clapped at the end of her song. She was good.

I let another contestant have a go while I assessed my chances, they weren’t that good.

The boy who was singing was awful. I knew I could do better than him.

“Come on Chrissie,” shouted one of Astley’s mates. “We want Chrissie.” He began to chant and so did half the room. I had no chance of escaping now. Simon gently pushed me forward.

I spoke to the man operating the machine, he assured me it would do Fields of Gold. I took the microphone, my hand was shaking and I felt sick. The chanting stopped. I nodded to the man, and the music started.

“Ooooh, You’ll remember me when the west wind moves….” I was in key and my timing was okay. Thankfully I was used to singing with accompaniment. I also managed to shut out the rest of the room, singing from memory rather than reading the words.

I bowed at the end, to a silence which quickly became a noisy applause. I took a deep breath and gave the mike back to the man.

“Was that okay?” I asked Simon.

“That was brilliant,” he said, “you really can sing.” He hugged me and kissed me.

“What happens next?” I asked.

“The top three or four have to sing again.”

“The same song, or a different one.”

“A different one, have you got one?”

“I have dozens of songs, but they are hardly suitable for here.”

The top six were asked to sing again, in the same order. Two others had some idea of what singing was about, the remaining two were the best of a poor remainder. It was obvious that there were only two serious competitors, and the place was buzzing when Karen came back for a second turn.

Her supporters were boisterous and noisily clapped her back to the microphone. She chose her song, another old one, Lennon and McCartney’s, Yesterday.

I felt a little put out as it was one that I had considered for myself, having sung it before.

Once more the noise stopped as soon as the music began, and once more Karen gave a good rendition of the song. The applause was rapturous, and I began to think she may just win.

I chose the Gershwin classic, Summertime. It was a song I knew backwards, although what the machine would do with it, was another thing. Silence descended over the crowd as before, I took a deep breath, and off we went. Then the music stopped a few bars in, I carried on singing. I heard a murmur run through the crowd, but it stopped. I carried on singing, now unaccompanied and feeling very alone. I slowed it down, and elaborated on the words and tune. This was a party piece of mine, and I was giving it what for, in no uncertain terms.

It was probably one of the longest four minutes in my life, but I think it was worth it. When I finished, the place was silent and stayed so for a few seconds. At first, I wondered if it was a negative sign, perhaps they didn’t like it.

Then, the noise was deafening as the applause nearly knocked me over. I bowed my appreciation and gave the microphone back to the man.
We waited a few minutes while the judges conferred. “That was amazing!” exclaimed Simon. “Where did you learn to sing like that?” I could have told him, right here at this school, but decided against it.

Lots of kids came up and patted me on the back. They had made their decision, now we had a verdict from the judges.

“In what has been a close fought contest, where all the finalists were so good.” Said the chairman of the judges, to a calls of derision from the floor. “However, we can only have one winner, and we felt that in view of the machine failing during her performance, and her brave continuation, which might have been even better as a consequence, we have to award the prize to Christine.”

There was a general agreement, I shook hands with Karen, who much to my surprise, gave me a hug. The prize was a twenty pound book token.

I seemed to have won my first skirmish in the competitive world of young women. However, I have to remember that I did have some experience in the skills used this time. Next time, it would probably be very different, and I could well end up as a casualty. Fitting in the hierarchy of my new school worried me, and I wondered how many of these girls attended St Margaret’s. But that was for another day, tonight I was the winner, and I was enjoying the feeling.

I looked at my watch, it was nearly eleven and the disco would operate for another twenty minutes or so. I wanted to dance, to celebrate my moment of victory at this place of so many bad memories. It might seem premature, but being a girl in a boy’s school didn’t seem so bad, and infinitely preferable to being a boy.

They played, Radio, by the Corrs. I bounced around with more abandon than before and Simon seemed to be enjoying himself more, too. This was really good fun. The dance floor seemed to have more space, and we began our version of the jive. I had seen my parents do it, and had danced it once or twice with my mother, which when I thought about it, I danced the girl’s part. Further thoughts seemed to remind me this was only because I was too small for her to go under my arm, but I was small enough to pass under hers, so I did. At the time, I didn’t think any more about it.

I was so high with endorphins and adrenaline, that I was bouncing about like a thing possessed. I could feel the sweat running down my back and under the breast form. Momentarily, I recalled the scary dream, then thought it couldn’t happen tonight.

Thankfully, the Fates of such events, looked kindly upon me and there was no untoward episode, unless I count Astley’s fumbling in the taxi, on the way home. But by then, my euphoria was beginning to ebb, and while I let him kiss me, I kept removing his hands from my chest and the top of my legs.
I was beginning to get the hang of this kissing lark, it was okay. Well, all right, it was better than okay, but that’s all I’m going to say about it for now. It was a pleasant surprise, which had I been asked about it before would have been ambivalent at best, possibly antagonistic at worst. However, experience of that first kiss, when Simon grabbed me and well, you know, brought me out in goose-bumps, which still seemed to happen when I thought about it. It had obviously made an impression on me, and a good one.

I was home at ten to midnight, my mother watched while Simon thanked me and kissed me. I blushed to the roots of my dyed hair. I don’t know what she thought about it, because nothing was said, except to ask if I had a good time.

“Good time? I’ve had a wonderful time,” I thought, the words of Andrea Corr playing in my head, “thoughts of you swimming forever in my head.” It felt appropriate, yes, very much so.

I think I floated up to bed, and after cleaning up and changing into my nightdress, fell asleep humming the words of, ‘Radio’ to a sequence of wonderful dreams, all of them starring a certain young man, who shall remain nameless

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” I screamed, and fell to the floor sobbing. “I’m not a real girl, I don’t know……..I don’t know.” I wanted to die, there and then. I felt so miserable, so awful. The confidence I had been building up after years of living miserably had been shattered. Shattered by the one person I thought I could always trust. I felt the knife twisting inside me, ripping out my guts and my heart. I was a nothing.

`Charlotte’s Tale.
by Angharad.

I woke early the next morning. This in itself was unusual, especially after a late night. I felt full of energy, I got up and felt a spring in my step that hadn’t been there for a long time.

The sun was shining, both outside the window and inside me. It was a strange sense of happiness which pervaded me and everything to do with me. Although I hadn’t been up more than a few minutes, I knew I would smile or laugh at anything today. I felt bubbly like a bottle of fizzy drink.

“You know it’s Saturday?” asked my mother.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because it’s only eight o’clock, and you aren’t normally awake for at least another hour, let alone up and eating breakfast. That’s why!”

Inside, my mind said, “I don’t care.” Sadly my mouth said, “Whatever I do is wrong, isn’t it?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” came back the response.

“That’s right, use big words to beat me. This was a lovely day, I only wanted some breakfast, why did you have to spoil it?” I almost screamed the last part, before bursting into tears and rushing up to my room.

I thought my mother loved me, so why did she pick on me? I hate her!

“Right young lady, what is your problem?” demanded my mum sitting on the edge of the bed.

I pulled the bedclothes over my face and continued sobbing. I didn’t want to talk to her, except to tell her that, I hated her.

“Come on Charlotte,” she tried to coax me, “tell me what the problem is, why have you chucked a dummy?”

I stayed silent, just sobbing. I was not going to talk to this horrible woman, even if she was my mother.

She started to stroke the top of my head. Normally, I found this very soothing and nice. Today it only made me worse. I turned over on my side, away from her.

“Charlotte please don’t turn away from me, it’s very rude.”

“Good.” I heard my treacherous mouth say back.

“If that’s the way you want to play it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Pity. I thought that as you seemed to be dating, I was going to take you to find some new clothes, maybe get your ears pierced. …..but as you only want to be rude to me.” I felt her rise from the bed.

My mind was calculating the loss. I’d like some new threads, and get my ears done. I spun around in the bed, “I’m sorry Mu… where’s she gone?”

She was nowhere to be seen. “Oh damn!”

“I heard that Charlotte. I’ve asked you not to swear.”

“I’m sorry Mum,” I followed her voice. It was coming from her bedroom.

She was changing her bed. I thought some subtlety was required. “Do you need some help?”

“That’s very kind.” She smiled back at me, “my, Charlotte, you seem to have some awful mood swings. Are you sure you’re not having periods?”

“Course not. I only wish I could.” I replied wistfully.

“I don’t know girl, you could end up with the best of both worlds. Periods are not desirable. Speak to any woman, and she’ll tell you there is nothing good about them, pain, mess, cramps, sore boobs, feeling bloated, mood swings. Yes sir, a real hit list of wanna haves. Would you really want all those?”

“Not really.” I said as I thought about it. There wasn’t much to be said in favour of them.

“I mean would you really want to have the gruesome pleasure of wearing a sanitary towel or tampon? They get hot and smelly, especially in warm weather. If you have a heavy period, they don’t always absorb all the flow, then the blood marks your clothes or your bedding. It’s obviously a turn off to your partner or husband. It’s quite literally a bloody nuisance.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I said, “I knew girls got periods, but no one had ever really told me about them.”

“No, I don’t suppose they did.” She paused. “Come on let’s get this bed finished and have some real girly fun.”

I felt confused by this last statement and said so. “What d’you mean, Mum?”

“What, real girly fun?”
“Yeah.”

“I thought it was blondes who had the reputation for being dim, but since you dyed your hair dark, it seems to have darkened your brain as well.”

I felt myself blushing, she was pulling my leg, I knew that, but it seemed rather cruel to me. I wasn’t enjoying it one bit.

“Come on Charlotte, what do all girls enjoy doing?”

My blush intensified and my skin, especially on my face felt as if it was on fire. My mind was a complete blank. “What do girls enjoy doing? I don’t know.” I thought to myself, “does that mean I’m not really a girl?”

“I don’t know, dancing, kissing boys. I don’t know.” I felt frustration welling up inside me.

“Can’t you do better than that?” she smiled at me, but I felt threatened. Was she insinuating that I wasn’t really a girl?

“Wearing nice clothes?” My face was now, I was sure, giving off megawatts of heat energy. “Putting on make-up, looking nice?”

She stood shaking her head at me. The smile was condemning me. I wasn’t a real girl. I should know the answer and I didn’t, so I can’t be real.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” I screamed, and fell to the floor sobbing. “I’m not a real girl, I don’t know……..I don’t know.” I wanted to die, there and then. I felt so miserable, so awful. The confidence I had been building up after years of living miserably had been shattered. Shattered by the one person I thought I could always trust. I felt the knife twisting inside me, ripping out my guts and my heart. I was a nothing.

“Oh my pet, my little lamb,” cooed my mother, “don’t be upset. Of course you’re a girl, my favourite girl. My baby girl.” She was now caressing and rocking me in her arms. We were sat on the floor, she was crying too.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was only a joke. It wasn’t a serious question or test. It was meant to be a bit of fun, mother and daughter stuff. I’m sorry if you think I meant to hurt you. I love you, you silly thing. I love you to bits.” She continued to rock and hold me, rubbing my back and neck.

I continued to weep copiously, enjoying the attention and the intimacy but unable to make sense of it or myself any more. Nothing made sense any more. Life was ugly and unpredictable. I got up this morning feeling like I could walk on air, now I want to die. What happened?

“You sssaid…..” I sobbed and hiccoughed at her, “…..I’m….not….a proper girl.”

“No I didn’t Charlotte. I didn’t say that, you misunderstood.”

“You did, you did, you did!” I screeched, “’cos I can’t have periods, ‘cos I don’t know what girls do for fun, I’m not a real girl. I hate you, I……..(sob), hate…. you. (sob.)” Despite saying this, I held her tighter. I didn’t really hate her, I just wanted to hurt her back.

“Oh my lamb, I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t trying to belittle you. I was trying to tell you how lucky you were. I didn’t mean it like that, I honestly didn’t.” She hugged me tighter too, and I could feel her tears dripping on to my shoulder.

“You’re quite right to hate me. I didn’t realise I was hurting you. I wouldn’t do that for the world, you know that. I love you my lamb, my baby. I love you. Will you forgive me?” she hugged me tightly, “Please.”

We sat for some time, holding each other, me still snorting and hiccoughing, Mum, weeping silently, her cheek upon the top of my head. It was nice, yet very sad. I didn’t want to die, well not for the moment, but I still didn’t know what real girls did for fun. The curiosity was eating away at me.

“Mum,” I croaked in between snorts.

“Yes my baby.”

“What do real girls do for fun?”

“The answer is, shopping. Like I said, it was a joke.”

“Shopping?”

“Yes dear.”

“So if I like shopping, that makes me a real girl?”

“Yes dear, boys can’t stand it.”

“Oh.” I said. “That’s silly!”

“I know dear. I did say it was a joke.”

“No, Mum. Why don’t boys like shopping? It’s really good fun.” I looked up at my mother, she was shaking her head.

“You really are a proper girl, Charlotte, and don’t let anyone tell you different.” She laughed, I laughed then giggled then became hysterical and wet myself again. The day was not improving!

We spent some more time together. I didn’t really hate her, only sometimes. Like I sometimes hate Jane, when she pisses me off, and she does that regularly. I’m still not sure why she wanted me to go to the dance with Simon, but I’m glad I did.

It’s funny how a few hours can completely change my perspective on somebody, or at least on a particular body. If I’m fancying Simon Astley does that mean I’m gay or a girl? The doctor said he thought I was a girl, my mum seems to think I’m a girl, and one who’s dating. So she must have seen Simon kiss me, she must know I like him. So either she thinks I’m a girl or that I’m gay. She can’t think I’m gay, because she told me I’m a girl. I must be a girl, because I like shopping. Do gay boys like shopping? I hadn’t thought of that, oh dear. Now I am confused. I don’t know any gay boys or men, but then if I did, would that tar me with the same brush? It’s all so confusing.

I was busy turning my brain inside out with this dilemma when the phone rang. “Can you get that poppet?” called my mother.

I picked up the phone. A foreign accented voice said, “I need to speak mit Mrs Church. It is important, Ja.”

“Hold on, I'll get her,” I ran towards the bathroom from where I thought mum had called. “Mum, there’s some bloke on the phone wants to speak to you, he sounds foreign.”

“Alright darling, I’ll pick up the extension in the bedroom.”

I went back to the hall. Why? I had the phone in my hand, it’s cordless. Habit I suppose. I heard her come on the line and I clicked off the button. I was tempted to listen in, but that would betray a trust. Mum would never, ever listen in to one of my calls, so I don’t hers.

I went back to my dilemma, then a thought popped into my head. Foreign accent, could this be something about dad? Is he on his way home? That would be a lovely surprise.

Just then the door bell rang. Who’s that ? I thought, could it be Simon. Goodness look at me, I’m a mess. The bell rang again. Insistent aren’t they! I slouched off to the door. If it was Astley, he could wait for a few seconds.

I could see a tall dark figure through the glass. It could be Simon, but I didn’t realise he was that tall. I opened the door to come face to chest with a large policeman.

“Hello young lady.” He said, “Can I speak to your mum?”

“She’s on the phone, I’ll go and tell her.” He smiled back at me. I ran off to find Mum. She was sat on the bed, she was crying but still on the phone. I went into the room but she put up her hand to hush me. Something bad was happening. Why was she crying? Who was this man on the phone, who’d upset her? What did the copper at the door want? Were they connected?

Three times I tried to speak to her, three times she repelled me. I ran back to the policeman. “She’s still on the phone, she’s crying.”

The look on his face was no longer happy. “Oh.” Was all he said.

“She wouldn’t let me talk to her. Can I borrow your hat a moment?”

“What for?”

“To wave in front of her, then she may get off the phone.”

“Show her this instead.” He drew his warrant card from his pocket. ‘PC Alec Sheppard’ it said.

Once more I ran to Mum’s bedroom. She was still on the phone. I waved the card under her nose. She tried to send me away again, but I persisted and finally she read it. “Excuse me,” she said to the phone. “Where is he?” she said to me.

“In the hall.”

“Ask him in and offer him a cuppa. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

I ran back to the copper, invited him into the lounge and offered him a cuppa as instructed.

“What a great idea.” He said, “Do you need any help?”

“No, I can manage.” I flirted back. It still didn’t occur to me what could have happened to make Mum cry and have this rather dishy, young copper knock our door.

Mum arrived as I brought in a tray of tea and biscuits. The copper stood up as she came in. He’s polite, I thought. “I think I know why you’re here,” said my mum.

“They phoned from Holland?”

“Yes.”

“Well you probably know more than I do.”

“I’ve just had it in full chapter and verse.”

I put the tray down gently. They were talking in some form of code. I thought only teenagers did that!

“I have to make sure that you are aware of the full implication of the news, and make sure the news you had is the same I was bringing.”

This sounds like something mega bad. I waited by the small table, pretending I was invisible, although in full view.

“I understand.” Said my mum.

“There’s been an nasty accident.”

“It is the same.” Said my mum.

“Your husband has been badly injured.”

“He has since died.”

“I am very sorry, Mrs Church. Is there anything I can do?”

I watched these two adults playing this game, someone has died. Who? It’s a man. My dad?

My dad! My dad? Is he dead? Why isn’t anyone telling me anything?

“Has something happened to Dad?” I asked of either of them.

“I’m afraid so.” Replied the young copper.

“Is he, like dead?” I asked, my eyes welling with tears.

He nodded at me, “I’m afraid so. I am so sorry.”

I don’t know why, but I threw myself at him and buried my face in his chest. I was crying noisily and with body quivering sobs. He put his arms around me and hugged me, saying nothing, just being there.

My father was dead! How could this happen? Why did it happen? How could God let this happen? It was a bad dream! I shall wake up in a moment. Until then I howled, and to give him credit, the young policeman held me the whole time.

I still don’t know why I went to him rather than my mother. Perhaps I just needed to be held by someone strong, or by a man or whatever. He was wonderful, and so patient with me. He told me a little later, that he had a daughter, she was six months old. I offered to babysit. What a thing to say!

Eventually, I stopped howling and got some control of myself. My mother was sat with quiet dignity, silently weeping. She had poured some teas. She and the policeman had a cup, I declined. Eventually he left, he was so nice. I asked Mum to write a letter of thanks to him, she agreed.

Then Mum and I just sat together and we held each other, and we cried and we cried, and we cried. It was early evening when the door bell rang again. We had been sat crying for several hours. My mum had fallen asleep, so I eased myself away to go to the door.

I answered the door, it was Simon. “God you look awful, have you been crying?”

“My dad has been killed.”

“Oh fuck! I am sorry Charlotte. Look here’s your share of the winnings. I’d better go. If I can do anything, let me know.”

“There is something, Simon.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Hold me and give me a kiss.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He duly obliged, on both counts. Once more I felt the strength in a man’s embrace. It felt good. Sadly I reflected, I would never feel my father’s muscular arms around me again. That was too painful to think about.

“Thank you.” I said to him, “I needed that.”

“If there’s anything me, Jane or Mum can do, let us know. Okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

He left. I shut the door. I had twenty five pounds in my hand. That would have normally made me feel good. Today, it was just money.

As I went up to my room, I reflected on the day. I thought the day I’d been betrayed by the world, and my schoolmates in particular, was the worst I could ever experience. I was wrong. It had been an awful day, and I had wanted to die, to rid myself of the sense of failure and social pariah status.

Today, someone very close to me had died. I found it hard to believe. How could I believe that my dad, my big strong dad, was dead. It was stupid. But he was, it was no joke or mistake. Inside me I felt an ache, like a giant toothache, it centred on a deep hole inside me. There was an emptiness, like some vacuum deep in my heart. The ache was all I could feel, the rest of me was too numb to register anything.

Inside my head, was a yearning to escape from this emptiness. But I didn’t know how. I had to help my mum, she would need me more than ever. We’d also need money. Mum didn’t work, Dad earned all the dosh. How would we cope without him? Suddenly, I felt very alone in a large and hostile world. It wasn’t a new feeling. In one sense I had survived some time like it at school. In others, it was a new sensation. Even at my depths, I had never felt an emptiness like this, like my heart had been ripped out of me. Life could never be the same, I knew that well enough. What I didn’t know, was how different it would become, without a father. That was scary, and I shivered as I contemplated it.

Moments, or maybe aeons later, I awoke from my daydream and went to comfort my mother. At least, it was something I could do, or did I want her to comfort me.

She woke as I brought in a fresh tray of tea and biscuits. She smiled a sad smile at me, and we hugged. The tears came again and we stayed hugging for some moments. Time seemed irrelevant, everything was in dream time rather than GMT.

Eventually, we parted and over a cup of tea, my mum said, “I shall have to contact the solicitors to sort out your father’s will. I might have to go over to Holland. If I do, do you want to come too?”

“If you want me too.” I answered, unsure of what she wanted me to say.

“We’d have to get you a new passport, which would mean a trip to London to sort it out.” She gave me a long searching stare. “Well with your father gone, you don’t have to stay as Charlotte if you don’t want to. You could become the man of the house if you want.”

I hadn’t even considered this effect of my dad’s demise. But it was true, I could theoretically return to being James again. I felt I was walking on quicksand. I didn’t know what I wanted or what to do.

“What do you want me to do?” I threw back to my mother, after a pause.

She smiled at me, with that same sadness she had shown before. “I really don’t mind. I love you as my child, which means it’s without any conditions. I love you just as much as James or Charlotte, what I want isn’t so important as who you feel you are. That really is important, because it will affect the rest of your life.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “I feel like everything’s upside down and nothing makes sense any more.” I felt a tear run down my face. “Besides, didn’t we decide all this with that solicitor man, when I changed my name. Wasn’t that official?”

“Yes it was, although we could change it back if you really wanted to.”

“I don’t know what I want, except I want my daddy to be alive again.” I lost it at this stage and my mother somehow picked me up and engulfed me in a hug that squeezed the breath out of me, yet gave me an enormous sense of protection and love.

I knew I was small for my age, but she just scooped me up and swallowed me in her arms. It was delicious. A purely sensual experience, which while not filling the void in my heart, held the pain. It was extraordinary.

The next few days went by in a sort of daze. We were still in dream time rather than reality. It meant on occasion, that time seemed to drag whilst on others, it simply flew. It also seemed that everything happened to other people and that I was watching it all through a thick glass, as if none of it was happening to me. When I did do things, I felt like I do when I have a heavy cold and my head feels thick. My body feels as if it isn’t really all connected together, and I either cry a lot or have no emotion at all. Getting through each day rather than living them.

We didn’t have to go to Holland, an investigation showed that the driver of the other car was to blame. Our lawyer in Amsterdam, was going to sue him. It also appeared that Daddy was well insured, and when it paid up, Mum would eventually receive enough to enable us to live as well as we currently did. That was a relief, I could continue with school without worrying about working to help pay our way.

Mum organised the funeral at the crematorium, and asked me if I would sing the twenty third psalm. I wasn’t sure I could, but I knew Daddy would have liked me to, so I said, “yes.”

When, that awful day came, I struggled to distance myself from the knowledge that just behind me, in a large wooden box, lay the remains of someone I loved very much and would never see again. I stood for some moments taking deep breaths, tears running down my face, looking at the congregation who packed the chapel. I didn’t appreciate we knew so many people.

I wore a plain black dress and jacket. I had no make up on, crying would have destroyed it anyway. My hair was done in a plait, and I wore the perfume my dad had given me. I took another deep breath and began to sing.

“The Lord’s my shepherd……..” When singing, I tend not to think about anything other than what I’m singing. I am totally focused on it, so although I was nominally stood watching the congregation, I didn’t see any of them once I began to sing.

It was just as well, because within a few moments there was hardly a dry eye in the place. My mother, apparently, cried buckets. Even the men were crying, so I’m told. I shall never forget that day. The pain I felt was greater than anything I had ever felt before. It felt like a physical pain, my heart literally hurt with every pump it made of my blood. I cried lots, but then I did that every day. I felt very distant from much of it, as if I was above my body looking down on everything and everybody. It was a strange feeling.

I remember being with my mother and the local priest, who thanked every one for coming. People, some of whom I recognised, some I’d never seen before shook my hand or hugged me or patted my shoulder. They did the same with my mother, and shook the vicar’s hand. We went to a local restaurant and had food and drink. I was congratulated on my singing. There were more hugs and pats.

Eventually, we went back to our house. Then I knew, it was just me and Mum and that’s all it would ever be. That’s when I went hysterical and screamed and I don’t remember any more except the doctor came. He was lovely, and I knew I was safe then. He gave me a hug and I went to sleep in his arms. I wanted to ask him to be my dad, but I knew it was silly. So I went to sleep instead.

I felt as if the world had become a deep, deep pit. I was at the bottom of it, it was dark and the sides were smooth. There were no lights nor ladders. Each day an angel in the form of my mother would come and make me eat and hold me. I would cry and cling to her. I had no energy, no hope, no anything.

Charlotte’s Tale.
Part 8.
by Angharad

‘Life’s a bitch and then you die’. I had no idea who said it, but they were so right, at least if applied to my life. What had I done to cause this degree of misery? If there was a God, I really began to think that I hated him. How could he take my father away, just like that? How dare he? My dad was a good man who looked after us and did lots of good things for other people. He built roads and bridges all over the world, and they were good roads and bridges. He was an honest man, so why did he have to die?

Each morning started this way, me trying to bargain with God to rerun time to before my dad’s accident, so he’d be saved. It didn’t work did it, it never does. God doesn’t listen, at least not to me.

Maybe he thinks I’m some sort of freak, or perhaps I’m an abomination in his sight. That’s how they talk in the Bible, everything’s an abomination or beloved of God. I think I must be an abomination. Well, I’d get my own back, I wouldn’t sing anything religious ever again. God could go take a running jump, preferably off a very high, short pier, into shark infested water!

When I saw this in my mind’s eye, an old man in a white robe running and jumping off the pier, and the fins of the sharks circling below, I laughed. God was dead, like my dad, only this time it felt good.

I tried to think about the future. Mum encouraged me to think about something nice to do. Jane came down once or twice, and so did Simon, but I wouldn’t come out of my room. With Dad dead, and now God gone too, I had no future except pain. Hope had died with them, and so had my heart. Oh it still pumped blood around, I suppose, but there was no feeling there for anything.

Mum would come and sit with me each day. I felt like I did when I was in hospital. She would coax me to eat a little. I didn’t want to. I had lost weight, but so had she. I was so rapt in my grief, I couldn’t see how I was hurting her.

She was now the most precious thing in my life, if anything happened to her I would die, I would just die. My heart would stop, it would be completely broken, like it was made of glass.

I felt as if the world had become a deep, deep pit. I was at the bottom of it, it was dark and the sides were smooth. There were no lights nor ladders. Each day an angel in the form of my mother would come and make me eat and hold me. I would cry and cling to her. I had no energy, no hope, no anything.

Some days it felt as if it was all a horrible dream, a nightmare. Then I’d remember it wasn’t, I was in hell and I must have been very wicked. I was, I had killed God, had him eaten by sharks and I laughed, how I laughed. Then the doctor came again and gave me a shot of something.

He spoke to me as he was doing it, but I couldn’t understand. I wasn’t in my body anymore, I was outside it somewhere. I wanted him to cuddle me, but he didn’t, of course he didn’t, after all, I was wicked, evil. I had killed God. Evil people don’t get hugs, except from their mothers.

Everything went into slow motion and I began to feel myself falling, then blackness. As the light disappeared I felt my muddled mind trying to stay alive or awake, then I realised the doctor was sending me to hell, because I really was evil, I must be, then the blackness……

I awoke. I felt strange, my body felt strange, the room felt strange. I tried to concentrate to understand or at least to work out what was happening. I failed. Over and over again I tried to concentrate, but I’d either fall asleep or into some dreamy state.

How had I got here? Where was here? Who was I? I didn’t know. To say I felt confused was the understatement of the century. I couldn’t remember anything. The problem is, that without a past, the present or the future have no relevance. I didn’t think this exactly, I just experienced its effect, total disorientation.

I was lying in a bed, in what I assumed was a girl’s room. It was full of the stuff associated with young women, pictures of kittens, lots of pink things, a dressing table with makeup and perfume. I was wearing some sort of nightdress. It felt comfortable. Was it mine, was the room mine, was I a girl? I didn’t know and my mind refused to tell me, perhaps because it didn’t know or was jammed in some way like the hard disc in a computer. Some sort of virus or electromagnetic incident had jammed the hard disc of my mind.

How did I know this? I don’t know, but I did. I just lay there watching and waiting for something to happen. At times I felt anxious, what would happen if I stayed this way? Was I dying or even dead? It was certainly hellish. Well as I don’t actually know what hell is like, this might be it or somewhere similar.

I tried to move an arm or leg, they seemed no longer to be connected to me. That was weird! I had no recollection of ever moving them, yet knew at the same time that they had worked before, but before what? That was the bit I couldn’t recall. Was I paralysed? God, I hoped not.

Where did God come from? Who’s he when he’s at home? Words came into my mind, but their context seemed to have gone. This was beginning to frighten me. I slipped into the void again…..

This confused pattern was repeated several more times, like Groundhog Day, where did that come from? Somewhere in the recesses of my mind or memory, things were trying to work.

A woman came to see me. “Hello Charlotte, how are you sweetheart?” she asked as she kissed me on the cheek. She knew me, so I probably knew her, but I couldn’t recall who or from where. “Aren’t you going to talk to your old mum today?” she continued.

So this was my mother and I must be a girl with a name like Charlotte, some things were relatively easy to work out. So this was probably my room, in presumably our house. I was starting to orient myself, I hoped.

“Well you could say, ‘hello’ or something.” She said to me.

My mouth responded, “Hello.” It worked, now was that because she told me to or because I wanted to say it?

“Well is that all you have to say to me? I’ve brought you some breakfast.”

I just lay there, unable to move or speak.

“Are you al right girl?”

I just lay there.

“Oh my darling, what is wrong? They said just to let you sleep for a day or two, can you move or say something?”

I just lay there.

She put the tray down and kissed me, then hugged me, I felt the wetness of her cheeks from her tears. “I’m going to phone the doctor, don’t you worry, he’ll make you well again.”

I lay there some more, I could smell the tea and the cereal on the tray. I felt hungry. I wanted to eat, but couldn’t move.

My mother came back, “He’ll come as soon as he can.” She stroked my cheek. “Can you sit up?”

I sat up. She stepped back in astonishment. Then after a moment’s pause she said,” Get out of bed and go to the toilet, pull your nightdress up, sit on the toilet seat, have a wee, wipe yourself, pull the flush, wash your hands then come back here.”

I did as I was told like a robot, returning to the bedroom. She told me to get back into bed and to sit up. She told me to eat the cereal, which I did, then to drink the tea. I did that as well. Then lay down after she told me to, and drifted into an uneasy sort of dream.

The doctor arrived. I heard voices. He came and examined me, giving me instructions which I obeyed. I felt as if I was watching these things rather than doing them, almost as if someone else was controlling my body. It was weird.

He told me to relax, then after lots of things I didn’t understand, he said, ”In a few moments, I am going to count from one to three, when I get to three and clap, you will awake and return to your normal self, able to speak, move and think as you did before. You will also remember everything you knew before. One, two, three.” This was followed by a loud clap, which jolted me. I felt like I was falling, then I jumped, felt my whole body shudder and I could open my eyes.

I screamed. He hugged me and so did my mother. I began to cry and so did Mum. The doctor rubbed my back, and it felt nice. After an age, he said to me, “How do you feel?”

“Strange, what happened?”

“I’m not sure. I think you were in a state of catalepsy. It’s like a hypnotic trance, you were safe and would probably have come out by yourself, but I’m glad my effort worked.”

“So am I doctor. It was horrible, I didn’t know who I was, or where I was or anything. I couldn’t move or speak.”

“It certainly sounds horrible, but you feel okay now?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you.”

“You remember about your dad?”

“He’s dead isn’t he? I sang at the funeral.”

“You did, and most beautifully.”

“I killed God.” I said, tears starting to drip down my cheeks.

“How did you manage that?” he asked.

“I made Him jump in the sea and be torn apart by sharks. It was horrible. Am I evil?”

“No of course not, and I think you’ll find that God is a bit harder to kill than that. Many bigger people than you have tried, and failed.”

“Will He forgive me?”

“I’m not the best person to ask about that, but I suspect He already has. The question is, Do you forgive yourself?”

“I don’t know. It was an awful thing to do. I was angry because He let my dad die, He could have saved him. I wanted to hurt Him.”

“I think God will understand. Try not to worry about it, I’m sure it will be alright.”

“I hope so.” I said at this reassurance. Effectively, this wonderful man could have told me anything and I would have believed it. I loved him.

“Well if there’s nothing else, I have to go and heal the sick.” He winked at me as he said it.

“Dr Phillips, there is something else.” I felt myself blush as I spoke.

“What’s that Charlotte?” he smiled back at me.

“Will you be my father?” I felt tears roll down my face, burning my cheeks as they cascaded down onto the bed.

“Wow!” he said. He paused to think for a moment. “Hey don’t cry.” he added rubbing my hair. “I knew your dad and liked him very much. I don’t think anyone could ever take his place, and I wouldn’t like to try. So I can’t be your father, but, when you need to talk to someone about things you’d have discussed with your dad, you come and see me. Is that okay?”

I nodded my assent. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I understood what he was saying, and it would have to do. I just wanted someone to plug the hole in my heart and he seemed like a good choice. Sadly, it wasn’t to be.

He left and my mother went to see him off, I lay back on the bed and feeling exhausted fell into a deep sleep.

The doctors would say I was suffering from a reactive depression, I would describe it as feeling so low, that being in a cellar would give me altitude sickness. My mood and my activity levels were comparable to a deep mine, way down on my norms.

For the next week I sat about and when I wasn’t actually asleep, I felt like I wanted to go to sleep. Escapism, yeah I know, but that’s how I felt. I felt so low that I didn’t even have the energy to dream.

Without an appetite, I lost some more weight. This meant that without the falsies, I had no bust at all, what had been growing had disappeared. My nipples and areolas were still larger than a boys, but that was about all. It didn’t bother me too much, it was just one more thing and I wasn’t seeing any visitors.

Jane came several times and I refused to see her, the same with Simon. The last thing I wanted was to dress up and look good when inside I felt so bad. My mother was very worried about me, and Dr Phillips came a couple of times to try and encourage me to feel better.

If you aren’t hungry, it’s difficult to force food down simply for the sake of it. I heard my mum mention ‘eating disorder’ and ‘anorexia’ to the doctor, but he disagreed. However, I did hear the word ‘psychiatrist’ mentioned, and I said loudly, “I won’t see a psychiatrist ever again. They’re all crazier than me!”

Laughing, Dr Phillips said, “All doctors are a bit crazy, but you’re right, psychiatrists are a bit madder than most.” Then he put on his serious face, although to me, it was still a kindly, handsome one. “Look here young lady, if you don’t start to feel better soon, I’m going to have to refer you to someone because it appears I can’t help you.”

A sudden fear cut through me. Was Dr Phillips going to abandon me too. I couldn’t bear to lose him as well. If that meant getting better, I’d have to try harder, although I felt everything was outside my control anyway.

“How will I know I’m getting better?” I asked him.

“Your appetite will begin to come back, and you’ll start socialising again and making yourself look pretty. You know, starting to get back to normal before all this happened.”

“Will my boobs grow again?” I asked him.

“They’ve shrunk have they?” he asked, and indicated for me to show him. He very gently felt around my chest, my nipples immediately swelling under his touch. I think he blushed and quickly moved his hand away. “Hmmm,” he said, “I think that’s just reabsorption of fat, it’ll come back when you put some weight back on. Are you still taking the pills?”

I nodded my answer.

“I’m off now Charlotte, try and have a little walk each day, the fresh air and exercise will do you good, and try and eat a bit more unless you want to be flat chested.”

An hour later, Mum and I walked around the block and had an ice cream.

The next week, I walked each day, twice a day. I managed to avoid any contact with the Astleys, I wasn’t ready for them yet. Sometimes I thought company would be nice, but chickened as soon as I got near the phone. I was able to watch some telly without falling asleep and I read the odd magazine. Eating was a chore, but Mum was encouraging me with all sorts of treats and I think it probably gave me a bit more energy.

The following week I bumped into Jane on my twice daily perambulation. “Charlotte, how are you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Would you like to come round this afters.”
“I don’t know. I tend to fall asleep so easily.”

“Do come round, I’ll show you my I-pod. It’s really cool.”

“I don’t know, I…., I have to….”

“Go on, it’ll be good to have a chat. Say you will.”

“I don….”

“Pretty please.” She insisted, and I felt her greater energy and strength overwhelm me. I couldn’t resist any more so agreed to her invitation.

We hugged as we parted and my body felt weak and feeble against hers. I was also very aware of the difference in our body shapes. She was becoming quite curvaceous like her mum, I was like a stick insect. My encounter did nothing for my self esteem.

When I got home I felt exhausted. Mum didn’t take long to discover what had happened. “You don’t have to go.” She assured me.

“I know I don’t, but Dr Phillips did say he wanted me to go out a bit more. I just feel so ugly compared to Jane.”

“You are easily as pretty as she is.”

“ ‘Cept she’s got tits and I haven’t.”

“You could wear your false ones.”

“I don’t know, can’t be bothered.”

“Or we could nip into town and get you some skinny clothes, make it look as if you were deliberately being thin, like the super models are. If Kate Moss stands sideways, you can’t see her, but she always looks good in whatever she wears.”

The thought of shopping made me feel awful, but the cuppa and biscuit did give me an energy boost. I can never out girlie Jane, she’s too practised at the art, but being very thin may give me some advantage. As they say, ‘If you’ve got it flaunt it, if you haven’t flaunt that too.’

I allowed Mum to steer me around the shops and we bought a pink and black lycra top and some black stretch jeans. They were a size smaller than my usual one. She also managed to find me a bra which fitted and yet boosted my lack of bust, just enough to stay with the skinny look. Then I got my hair cut and blow dried, only a tidy up, but it was enough to make it much more shiny and the conditioner also gave it a little more body. While I was at it, I got a French manicure, which made my nails look much smarter, but they also felt very strange.

This morning Jane invited a rather scruffy malnourished girlfriend over to her house, this afternoon, a slim but tidy friend will visit. It will nearly kill me, but I’m blowed if she will gloat at my expense. I felt something return to me, a sense of self or something. I know I shouldn’t be so competitive with a friend, but this is serious, we’re girls.

“Goodness child, you aren’t usually that quick. Got to do this…..wait for that… I forgot to do whatever…. You are never ready this quickly, have you got everything?”

“Yes Mummy, can we hurry?”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Not wearing any lip gloss today, then?”

“Ohhhh!” I squealed and licked my lips, she was right. “I’ll be back in a tick,” I said scampering off to my room.

Charlotte’s Tale.
Part 9.
by Angharad.

After a brief and light lunch, I finished my primping with quickie makeup job, mascara, lippy and blusher. Then, it was round to Jane’s house. When I got there, I was surprised to see I wasn’t the only visitor. This immediately made me feel twitchy.

“Hi Charlotte, have you met Karen, “ to my horror, she introduced me to Karen Brown, whom I’d met before over the karaoke competition. Then I was in my alias, of Christine Monk, I was dark haired and buxom, now I was blonde and paper thin.

Jane gave me the once over, “Well, you’ve certainly changed since this morning. You looked like a refugee from a charity shop then, now it’s little miss glamour puss. Crikey, what size are you now?”

I muttered back, “Six.”

“Jeez Charlotte, I was bigger than that two years ago. You make me sick.” And she proceeded to put her finger down her throat, as if to make her vomit. I would have enjoyed the experience of winding her up, had I not felt anxious about Karen. Did she recognise me?

“Have we met?” asked Karen, looking suspiciously at me, “you look kind of familiar.”

“Don’t think so.” I lied, well it was only a part lie, because I wasn’t myself on the previous occasion.

“You do look familiar.” She repeated.

“You might have seen me round the shops, it’s one of my favourite haunts.”

“Yeah maybe, like the outfit.”

“Thanks.” I said blushing, and looking at the floor.

“Well Jane, I’ve gotta go, I’ll ring you later. Give my love to Simon, won’t you? Bye Charlotte.” I replied in similar fashion.

Jane saw her out, and upon returning, met the full force of my irritation. “What’s she doing here?” I snapped.

“She came around to see my I-pod, why? It’s a free country, so what’s it to you?”

“She was at the dance, with Richard Matthews. I beat her in the karaoke.”

“No Christine beat her in the karaoke, the bimbo who Simon fancies. You’re my friend Charlotte. So if you are worried she might recognise you, forget it. You look so different, I hardly recognise you and I saw you this morning. How come the change?”

“It was prearranged,” I lied, “that’s what I was trying to tell you earlier, that I had to go out with Mum, and I wasn’t sure we’d be back in time.” This time I managed to look her in the eye. I was getting better at this lying lark.

“Where’d you get the threads?” she enquired, not challenging my story.

“In that boutique opposite Next.”

“I know, they get some good stuff in there from time to time. Got your nails done too, very posh.” I held out my hands for her to see more easily, gloating for a few moments while she examined them. “That’s a pro job.”

“Yep,” I replied, feeling as smug as is possible without actually exploding, “Mum’s treat.”

“My mother never treats me to a French manicure. So how come yours does?”

“For helping around the place and being generally wonderful.”

“Ha, the last time I saw you Charlotte Church, you were sat in the dark sucking your thumb, while making whimpering noises.” This hit me below the belt, and I seriously wondered why I called this girl, ‘my friend’. She was a regular psychopath.

“Well I’m not now. You try having your father killed in a car smash and see how you feel.” I felt angry as I snapped at her.

She looked a bit sheepish, and without a direct glance at me, she muttered, “Yeah, sorry, I was out of order.”

“S’kay.” I replied, but it was another lie, it had hurt but I wasn’t going to let her know just how much. “Where’s this pea pod then?”

“I-pod, you daft cow.” She laughed at my deliberate mistake, then proceeded to show me it in great detail. I have an ordinary MP3 player, and it is quite good, the I-pod was better. A point I admitted to Jane, but again it was a ploy. If she was going to play games, so would I.

We spent the rest of the afternoon playing music and gossiping. She brought me up to date with who was going with whom and who wasn’t. I wanted to know about Simon, but wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction by asking. He had made all the running so far, it was up to him if he wanted to continue our ‘friendship’. Now I was back to my former image, he might not want to bother.

An hour later, I was able to discover this for myself, when in walked the aforementioned boy. “Jane, have you got that tenner you owe me?” he said walking unceremoniously into the room. “Is that you Charlotte? By Christ you look thinner, but you look better than last time I saw you. How y’keepin’?”

“I’m okay, Simon, I’m getting there.”

“Yeah, you look pretty good. Doin’ anythin’ tomorrow?”

“What time?” I asked, my confidence feeling a bit stronger.

“Say, eleven, grab some lunch in town, do a film. That’s of course if my pipsqueak little sister here hands over the money she owes me.”

“Here you big baboon.” She retorted slapping it into his hand. “I don’t know what you see in that big ape!” she said to me.

“See ya tomorrow then, eleven. Wear that outfit, it looks good.” With that rejoinder, he was gone.

“They ought to make older brothers illegal.” Humphed Jane as we sat down and listened to her music some more. We had a cuppa as well with a few chocolate biscuits, then it was time to go. I wasn’t sorry. Having Jane as friend was a mixed blessing, she could be as nice as pie one minute, then as nasty as they come, the next. However, I was rather short of girlfriends, so I needed her for now. The connection with Karen was something of a puzzle, and I don’t like puzzles.

I had got what I wanted, contact with Simon, who still seemed interested in me. So my walk home was with a much greater spring in my step than had been there in my earlier encounter with Jane.

Mum noticed. “You saw Simon then?”

How did she do that? Reading my mind before I had half crossed the threshold of the house. I just nodded, but I was smiling rather smugly.

“Well, aren’t you going to tell me?”

“Course.” I replied, “he popped in while I was with Jane.”

“And?” prompted my mother.

“He asked me out tomorrow.” I was trying not to beam too widely in case my face cracked.

“What time?”

“Eleven.”

“Right then, early to bed tonight, I want you up by nine tomorrow if we are going to have you looking smart for lover-boy.”

“Muuuuum!” I wailed, “don’t call him that. He’s just a friend.”

“Of course he is.” She smiled back at me as I blushed furiously. Then we both laughed and hugged. “I’m glad to have my daughter back.” She said to me as we hugged.

“I’m glad to be back.” I said, as she squeezed me tightly.

After supper I watched some television, nothing in particular, just vegetated for a bit and then went to bed. I was looking forward to seeing Simon but I was also worried about what would happen.

When I got to bed, I worried about Jane meeting with Karen. To me, it made no sense; why would she go just to look at an I-pod? They were common enough and she could have seen one in almost any electrical retailers. I decided she must be after Simon again. That worried me, as she had something against which I couldn’t compete, namely, a real female body. However, I knew at fourteen, I shouldn’t be having sex anyway; although that wouldn’t necessarily stop anyone who was determined or careless. Besides, Simon was a nice boy, surely he wouldn’t want to, you know; would he? Then again, he was a boy and all they think about is girls and football. I tossed and turned some more.

One worry was out of the way, my choice of clothing. Simon had requested I wear the same stuff again. I wasn’t sure about it, but I wouldn’t have enough time to go shopping for anything else. I still had my twenty five quid, but I didn’t especially want to spend it for the moment. Then Karen came back into mind and I felt anxious again.

I must have still been anxious when I went to sleep because I dreamt of her. In my dream she recognised me and she asked me what I was doing with her boyfriend. I argued that he was my boyfriend, and she told me she’d see about that, then Jane seemed to be hovering in the background and I felt suspicious of her.

I think I fell asleep properly because I woke up to the sound of rain lashing against my bedroom window. That was all I needed. Now I’d have to wear a coat as well or risk getting soaked. I knew Mum would insist I took my coat, so I resigned myself to my fate. I looked at the clock, it was a little after seven. I turned over to go back to sleep only instead of doing so all my fears and worries returned. I tossed and turned but couldn’t sleep again, so I got up and sneaked downstairs.

If I couldn’t sleep, then I could make some breakfast for my mum. I put the kettle on and popped some bread in the toaster, then I opened the orange juice and poured us both a glass. I drank mine while I waited for the toast to brown. Five minutes later I was knocking on her bedroom door with a tray of toast and coffee.

She looked at me with bleary eyes, “Goodness, what time is it?” she asked rubbing her eyes.

“About half past seven,” I replied smiling at her; “I thought you might like some brekkies.”

“That’s very nice of you dear,” she said taking the tray and pecking me on the cheek.

“You’ve been so good to me, I thought I ought to do something for you.” I felt very guilty saying this because she had been so kind to me and all I did was cause her problems.

“Well, that’s what mums are for isn’t it, looking after their favourite daughters,” she said smiling.

“How many have you got then?” I asked looking a little perplexed.

“That was a figure of speech darling. I have just the one, which is probably just as well given how much she costs me to look after.”

I felt a little chided by this remark. “No one forced you to spend anything on me,” I said pouting at her.

“No indeed they didn’t, I chose to spend what we did yesterday; but if I had two daughters, I’d have had to spend twice as much.”

The penny dropped and I stopped feeling resentful; two girls would be very expensive to keep, and I accepted her comment. I sat on the bed while she consumed her breakfast. She seemed to enjoy it, or said she did. “I think you’ll be able to get away without washing your hair if you comb it carefully,” she said looking at me carefully.

“I was going to shower,” I said in reply.

“I bought you a shower cap, so you don’t have to get it wet if you don’t want to.” I hadn’t even thought of that, so maybe she was right, after all, my hair always looked better after it had been brushed and blow dried by a professional. We sat and talked about anything and nothing for about half an hour, then I went to the bathroom and stripped for the shower. I dug about in the bathroom cupboard and found the plastic pack which contained my shower cap. This was going to be a new experience.

I could have simply lowered the shower on the stand and it wouldn’t have sprayed over my hair, but the idea of a shower cap was novel. I tore open the packet and pulled it on my head pushing my hair carefully under its elastic-ated edges. It felt really strange and not terribly comfortable, like a plastic bag on my head with a rubber band or something holding it in place. However, my hair was covered, so I gingerly got in the shower cabinet and started the water running. It felt really strange having the water sounding like it was bouncing off a plastic bag and then running over my body, but at the end my hair was dry and my body was clean.

As I dried myself, I could just make myself out in the steamed up mirror, I looked like a bean pole. My boobs were like two fried eggs, although I thought my hips looked slightly wider than they used to. A few months ago, I had all the curves of a straight line, now I wondered if that was changing at last. I hoped so. I dried and rubbed myself all over with the body lotion Jane had given me. I hadn’t used it for weeks. I felt a bit better for the self massage and after wrapping myself in a towel I slipped back to my room.

I picked up a rather nice pair of silky knickers when as I bent down to put my foot in them, I felt something strange happen in my groin. I felt a funny sort of discomfort and my erstwhile dangly bits emerged. I was horrified and screamed.

“What’s the matter?” called my mother as she rushed into my room, then she saw me and my shrivelled but intact genitals. “Oh!” was all she said. Then she helped me to the bed and we sat hugging for a few minutes.

“What am I going to do?” I sobbed, hugging her tightly.

“I’m not sure sweetheart, but let’s try to think of this constructively. I’m sure that just wearing a pair of tight panties would suffice, or even two pairs.”

“I can’t do that, they’ll show through my jeans,” I sobbed.

“Could we push them back whence they came?” she offered.

“I don’t know, last time it hurt.”

“Yes darling, but I mean they been up there quite some time, so maybe it would be easier.”

“I don’t know, I wish I could cut them off,” I sobbed again.

“That could be a little messy dear, do you want me to phone Dr Phillips?”

“Why could he cut them off?”

“If he did, you might not feel much like going on your date.”

“Oh Mummy, what am I going to do?” I wept and wailed.

She got me to lay back on the bed while she examined the offending bits of skin. She disappeared, returning with a flannel and began rubbing them, it hurt and I said so.
“Sorry dear, but I have get all this yucky stuff off. Remember, they haven’t seen the light of day for a couple of months or more.” She continued her assault and I lay there groaning. It stopped and I looked around and she had gone. I hadn’t noticed.

She was back two minutes later, pushing me back on the bed. She had apparently kept the papers that my original attackers had used to reshape my groin. She read them then suddenly, she pushed and pulled and I felt a sharp pain, then something cold was put on me and I was pushed a again. The pain was horrible and I squealed and wanted to writhe about.

“Hold still Charlotte or this won’t work,” she barked at me, and I froze. It throbbed like nothing on earth, but ten minutes later she let go my skin and my previously feminine contour had returned.

I stood up very carefully, it hurt a bit but I could cope. “Wow Mummy, you’ve done it.” I hugged her with delight and some discomfort.

“I think you’d better see if you can pee,” she said, looking a little anxious. I agreed and found to my delight I could, although it did tend to wash my bum when I did, but I could live with that for a bit.

I pulled on my knickers and jeans, it was very uncomfortable and when I sat down it was unbearable. There was no way I could wear them for my date. I wanted to cry again, life was so unfair.

“What am I going to do Mummy? I can’t wear these jeans, they’re killing me.”

“You have plenty of clothes, wear something else,” she said helpfully.

“But I don’t.” It was true to an extent, since I’d lost weight, my togs didn’t fit and whilst I could have reattached my breast forms, the sudden gain in bust size would have been noticed, even by Simple Simon. There would also have been the matter of my chest being out of synch with my hips, which were also smaller with my weight loss.

“Look, it’s half past eight, if we hurry, I’m sure we can find you a nice skirt or something to match your top.” Now my mother was being helpful and I always try to be gracious when she offers me something. “Charlotte, where are you?”

“Here Mummy, by the car.”

“Goodness child, you aren’t usually that quick. Got to do this…..wait for that… I forgot to do whatever…. You are never ready this quickly, have you got everything?”

“Yes Mummy, can we hurry?”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Not wearing any lip gloss today, then?”

“Ohhhh!” I squealed and licked my lips, she was right. “I’ll be back in a tick,” I said scampering off to my room.

After an age we found a parking space and rushed to the boutique where I’d bought the stuff the day before. Unsurprisingly, the woman who owned it remembered us, we had spent quite a bit, so she was eager to help.

“I’d like a skirt to match Charlotte’s top, if you have something suitable,” said mum.

“Is there a problem with the jeans; they looked lovely yesterday? Asked the shop owner.

Mum walked closer to her, “If you recall they are rather tight fitting, and well, she’s just started her…”

Giving her a knowing look, the shopkeeper started hunting through racks of skirts. I wanted to know what I’d started, but I thought I’d better keep quiet rather than say anything. The shopkeeper produced three skirts, “I think these may do the trick,” she said, then as I thanked her and took them, she added, “Do you get bloating or cramps, because I find starflower oil helps, or evening primrose.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, baked beans sometimes made me feel bloated but cramps, what was she on about? However, trying to avoid looking stupid, I just shook my head and told her I was okay at the moment. “If you need to change your pad, you can use my loo out the back.”

Pad, what was she on about? Then it dawned on me, pad — panty variety, periods, for the use of! Oops, that’s what Mum was on about. Thinking as quickly as I could, I replied, “No, I’m okay for the moment, thanks anyway.” Now I had to make sure she didn’t see me in my knickers, she’d notice I wasn’t wearing one.

I tried on the first skirt, it was black with a pink floral pattern, short and flared. I’d have to be careful in any sort of breeze or I’d be showing my knickers. I popped out to show Mum. Then back into the changing cubicle, the next skirt was a pleated black skirt with some sequins around the waistband and the hem. I didn’t like it either, but I duly modelled it for my mum. Finally, an above knee straight corduroy skirt with beadwork making a swirly pattern all around it. It also had a deep waistband with big belt loops and I had seen a belt I really liked.

I stepped out of the cubicle and gave them a twirl, the expressions were approving but nothing special. I went over to the belts and pulled down a shiny wide leather one with beading similar to the skirt. “Can I try this as well?” I asked before threading it through the belt loops. The woman shop-keeper saw where I was going with this and came to help me.
“That looks really special,” she said fussing with the belt; “They only came in yesterday, I hadn’t really put them with those skirts but they are made for each other.”

Mum asked how much and upon being told nearly had apoplexy, however, I was just about to offer to pay for the belt when the owner of the shop said, “You must have them both, so I’ll throw in the belt for nothing, but don’t tell anyone else or I’ll be broke by the evening.”

“Thank you so much,” I said hugging her, then rushed off to change.

“Is it alright of she keeps the skirt on, she’s seeing her boyfriend in half an hour? Asked my mum, and came to tell me, taking my old skirt to be bagged up instead. So, instead of jeans and a top, I was in my pink and black skinny top, my new skirt and belt and my black suede slouch boots. I had my little black suede bag on my shoulder and my coat, reluctantly, folded over my arm when I left my mother and walked to my rendezvous with Simon. I felt really tidy, perhaps even better than I would have done in my jeans and I know Mum was proud of me, the gleam in her eye as we parted, said it all. “Your dad would have been pleased with the way you turned out, young lady,” she said bringing a lump to both our throats.

I wasn’t quite so sure, I mean, how would he have coped with me dating boys? He wanted a son who played rugby or football, who he could take off fishing or hiking. Instead he got me, all I could do was sing. My feel-good factor dropped significantly as I thought of this, and I felt my shoulders drooping a little. I did manage to hold back the tears and avoid smudging my mascara and eyeliner; but it was a real effort of will. In the end, I decided that I was on the path I needed to walk and all I could do for Daddy, was to make the best of it that I could. He might not have wished for this to happen, but I was sure he would have helped me as best he could. I would never know that now for certain, yet deep inside me in the damaged void I called my heart, I was as sure as ever I could be.

I saw Simon waiting for me through the blur of tears which despite my best intentions to stop, came anyway. He smiled at me, told me I looked ‘awesome’ and hugged me. Feeling a little raw, I held on to the hug and asked him to hold me. In a moment of sensitivity which was unexpected from him, he asked quietly, “Missing someone?” I nodded my response and the dam broke. To his credit, he held me for five or six minutes while I sobbed on his shoulder and then helped me to a nearby café where he ordered some diet colas while I tried to repair the damage to my makeup. I thought he was nice before, now I thought he was wonderful. I hoped no one would take him away from me and determined to fight back if they tried.

The date was something of a disaster, my misery which my mother had inadvertently started, continued for the rest of the day. We had a snack and went to see some film or other, Superman, I think. Yes, I’m sure it was, I remember some of the music now, my dad liked the John Williams’ music from the original films. So once I heard that, I was off again. I’m surprised Simon’s clothes didn’t shrink I cried over them so much. He walked me home but didn’t ask me for another date. He was so nice and all I could do was cry. Then when I went home, I couldn’t face my mother. She opened the door with this beaming smile and I rushed past her and shut myself in my room. I mean how could I tell her that it was partly her fault that I wrecked my first attempt at a relationship.

She came into my room and sat on the bed, but I refused to speak to her. I loved her and hated her so much at that moment I couldn’t trust myself not to say anything horrible, and while part of me wanted to hurt her back, part of me didn’t and that prevailed. Instead, I retreated inside again, like I always do. I’m good at that being inside myself, it’s safe there.

“Neither do I sweetheart, but we must eat. If you don’t, you’ll lose even more of your bust and the pills won’t do their magic, will they?”

“I suppose not.” I allowed her to cajole me out of bed. My skirt was all creased and the belt had rubbed red marks around my small waist. She got me to strip off and put on my jammies and a dressing gown, and to wash my face and hands. When I’d done so, I padded down the stairs in my slippers, to the kitchen. My mother was standing with her back to me doing something at one of the work tops. I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her and said, “I love you and I’m sorry I made you cry.”

She turned around and hugged me, “You didn’t, I’m just sad all the time at the moment.”

Charlotte’s Tale 10.
by
Angharad.

I lay drifting in and out of sleep, aware that my mother had entered and watched me several times. I knew my behaviour was becoming erratic and possibly impulsive. It was up and down like a switch-back ride. First thing this morning I had felt so good, but my body let me down, then Mummy tried to help me by sticking it all back again. The throb there had gone away, I wished the pain in my heart would do the same.

“Why are you hurting me?” asked my mother as she sat on the edge of my bed.

I lay there without answering, there was no point in pretending I was asleep because she knew I wasn’t.

“Charlotte, I am trying to help you, but I can’t unless you let me. I know you are hurting deep inside for your daddy, so am I. We need to help each other not fight and hurt each other.”

My response was to lie quite still and feel the scalding tears run from my eyes down my cheeks onto the pillow.

“I’m sorry that your date with Simon didn’t seem to go well. From your attitude, you are blaming me. I don’t know what I did, but I am really sorry. I want you to be happy and I do my best to make it so. But I can’t do it on my own, you have to help me.” She began to cry as well.

Coping with my own pain was as much as I could manage, to cope with hers as well was too much. I couldn’t stand to see her cry, it felt like a knife in my heart. I reached for her hand and squeezed it.

“I’m sorry Mummy, I forget it’s your pain too.”

She leant over and we hugged as only bereft women can, crying in unison until there seemed to be no more tears to cry. My eyes hurt and my head ached and I wished I was dead, because that way the pain would stop. My pain would, but I knew my mother’s would be even greater if I weren’t here with her.

“Come on sweetheart, let’s go and have a cuppa and something to eat.”

“I don’t feel very hungry Mummy,” I said weakly.

“Neither do I sweetheart, but we must eat. If you don’t, you’ll lose even more of your bust and the pills won’t do their magic, will they?”

“I suppose not.” I allowed her to cajole me out of bed. My skirt was all creased and the belt had rubbed red marks around my small waist. She got me to strip off and put on my jammies and a dressing gown, and to wash my face and hands. When I’d done so, I padded down the stairs in my slippers, to the kitchen. My mother was standing with her back to me doing something at one of the work tops. I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her and said, “I love you and I’m sorry I made you cry.”

She turned around and hugged me, “You didn’t, I’m just sad all the time at the moment.”

“I know, I am too.”

“Come on, we have to be brave and get on with life, Daddy would have wanted us to. I’ve made us some sandwiches and some tea, you take the plate over to the table and I’ll bring the tea.”

I helped as she requested and we ate silently. After drinking some tea, she gave me some ice cream, and then an apple. It was as much as I could do to force it all down. I seemed to have lost the habit of eating very much and felt so full.

“How does it feel down below now?”

“It’s better than it was, the throbbing has gone, just feels tender.”

“You can wee, can’t you?”

“Yes, that’s okay.”

“Perhaps try your jeans again tomorrow.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

After watching television, for an hour. I couldn’t tell you what the programme was because I wasn’t concentrating on it. The phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” said my mother and went out to the hallway. “It’s for you Charlotte, it’s Mrs Phillips.”

“What does she want?” I mouthed as I went out to the hall. “Hello Mrs Phillips.”

“Hello Charlotte, I wondered how you were.”

“I’m okay,” I said without enthusiasm.

“I understand, my Daddy died when I was about your age, so I know what it feels like.”

How could she know? I accepted her experience was similar, but it was a long time ago.
“I wondered if you remembered I asked you to help with a concert?”

I hadn’t, but then I had problems recalling my name at the present. “Yes I remember now, but I had forgotten. When is it?”

“In two weeks.”

“Oh dear, I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it then. I need to rehearse, we hadn’t even decided what I was going to sing.”

“I heard about the karaoke competition, and I love ‘Fields of Gold’, could you sing that?”

“Who is going to accompany me?”

“I’ve spoken to Mr King, he’s going to ask the lady who did it with you before.”

“What else?”

“The Gershwin and the Schubert. Would that be all right?”

“I’ll need to speak with Mr King to sort out access to a piano.”

“I understand. When will you know, because we’re hoping to organise the tickets and posters in a day or so?”

“Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Of course you can dear.”

“What’s the charity involved?”

“It’s for the people of Darfur, through the Disasters and Emergency Committee.”

“Is that Africa?”

“Yes, it’s a very sad place where all sorts of awful things have happened with civil war and other nastiness, plus famine and drought.”

“Okay, who else is appearing?”

“We have a Welsh male voice choir coming over and I’m hoping that Sir Cliff Richard, might help us. His agent is calling me tomorrow.”

“Cool, he’s old but he’s cute,” I chirped, thinking about being on a bill with Cliff Richard, wow!

“Well he’s in the country at the moment, and I’ve got my fingers crossed.”

“I’ll keep mine crossed too,” I offered. “I know my mum likes him.”

“Lots of older ladies do.”

“Where are you holding it?”

“In the church.”

“That’s okay, I’ve sung there before.”

“Have you?”

I suddenly thought when that was, a carol service with a couple of other schools. I was the best one there, the others were mediocre although, there was a girl from somewhere else who was quite good too, I wonder if she still sings?

“Yeah, it was like a year or two ago.”

“Well I won’t keep you Charlotte. Bryan sends his regards.”

He must be fed up with the sight of me, I thought as I walked back to the lounge and snuggled up to my mother.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I promised to do a concert for her at the other one.”

“Oh yes, so you did. Are you going to do it?”

“I have to.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“Yes I do, I gave my word. I have to do it.”

“That’s different if it was a promise.”

“I’ll have to ring old Kingy up tomorrow and sort out some practice time.”

“I’m sure Mr King will do all he can to help.”

“I hope so. Otherwise I’m stuffed.”

“I don’t think he’ll let that happen.”

We had just got comfy when the phone rang again. “Aw bum!” I said without thinking.

“Don’t be vulgar, Charlotte.” She went to rise to answer it, but I jumped down instead.

“I’ll get it, it’s probably her again to tell me that Take That are coming as well.”

“I thought you liked them?”

“They’re okay, I guess.” I walked to the phone, “Hello?”

“Hi Charlotte.”

“Hi Simon.” My mood upped about three storeys.

“I wondered how you were.”

“I’m better now thanks.”

“That’s good to know, wanna get together tomorrow?”

“Are you gonna wear something waterproof?”

“Will I need to?”

“Only if it rains,” I laughed.

“I think you shrank my shirt this afternoon.”

“Yeah sorry about that.”

“It’s okay, I’m gonna keep it, then when you’re rich and famous I can sell it.”

“Gee thanks, who said I’m gonna be rich and famous?”

“You did.”

“Did I? I don’t remember that. Anyway, the chances are Jane will get it and blackmail me.”

“That about sums up my sister.”

“She was showing her I-pod to me and Karen Brown.”

“When?”

“The other day when you saw me at your house.”

“What was Karen doing here?”

“I dunno, you’ll have to ask Jane?”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Hey, I’m supposed to be doing another concert.”

“Are you, when’s that?”

“I’ll get the date tomorrow, you’ll never guess who’s supposed to be singing as well?”

“I dunno, Rihanna?”

“Don’t be daft, she’s American.”

“Well I don’t know do I, jus’ tell me.”

“Ooh get you, crabby pants.”

“Well are you gonna like tell me, or not?” He sounded irritated, so I back pedalled a little.

“Okay, it’s Cliff Richard.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“Well he is like a big star,” I gushed.

“Yeah for old ladies, he’s like a bit of Jesus freak inn’e?”

“So?”

“Nuthin’ I just thought he was, that’s all. Look I gotta go, what time tomorrow?”

“After lunch, ‘bout two?”

“Yeah ‘kay, where?”

“You wanna collect me from here?”

“ ‘Kay, see ya.” The phone went dead and I stood enjoying the memory of the sound of his voice.

The phone rang again, it made me jump. I picked it up hesitantly in case it was Simon telling me he couldn’t make it.

“He-llo?” I twittered.

“Hello Charlotte it’s Mr King.”

“Hi Mr King, I was going to call you tomorrow.”

“Mrs Phillips rang, can we meet tomorrow afternoon about two?”

I couldn’t believe it. “I can’t Mr King, I have an appointment.” My heart was thumping like a compressor.

“Oh dear, Miss Daws is available then, what about later, say sixish?”

“I could probably do that.” Then I thought, Miss Daws will be expecting to see Chrissie Monk. Damn, I’ll have to fly back from Simon and dye my hair again, unless I do it before then. I’ll also have to use the breast forms. I wondered if we had any glue.

“Okay then sweetheart, see you tomorrow?”

“Where?” I managed to gasp.

“Oh at the school, is that alright?”

“Yeah, I s’pose so.” I put the phone down and felt like unplugging the socket; if anyone else calls tonight, I’m not going to answer it.

Nobody called and I went to bed a little worried about my timetable tomorrow. It was going to be tight unless I met Simon already in disguise, then went on the school afterwards. He was sitting exams, his GCSE ones and he only had to attend when he had an exam. The rest of the time he was supposed to be revising. Which was how he was able to meet me tomorrow.

I eventually slept because I woke up, it was daylight and the clock said seven fifteen. I went to the toilet, the radio was on downstairs so my mother was up and when I crept down the stairs, I could hear the washing machine too. She always seemed to get up early when she was upset.

She was doing something at the sink and I snuck up and wrapped my arms around her, “Love you.”

She jumped and squeaked, “Oh! Oh Charlotte, you made me jump. I love you too. Look I’ve cut my hand, can you get me a plaster from the drawer?”

I ran over to the drawer and brought the box of plasters with me. She was rinsing the cut under the cold tap. I realised I had probably caused her to nick herself. I felt ashamed and began to cry.

“I’m sorry Mummy, that was my fault.”

“It’s alright darling, just help me get a plaster on it.” She dried the area with a piece of kitchen roll and I put a plaster on it. “That’s better.”

“Right do you want to finish the potatoes while I get you some breakfast?”

“Yes okay,” I didn’t have a lot of choice, as it was my fault she couldn’t continue. So I stood and scraped away at the remaining unpeeled spuds. Not my favourite occupation and it can make your hands all dry and yucky.

After finishing them and putting them in a saucepan of cold water, I cleaned out the mess, putting the skins in our compost bucket outside the back door. That gets taken down to the compost bin when it’s full. Usually takes about a week, by which time it pongs a bit. It’s funny when I was James, it didn’t worry me to empty it as one of my chores. Now I don’t really like it, but my mum is busy enough.

I ate my breakfast, and then told her that I had to see Simon and was also going to do a practice at the school at six.

“So are you going straight from Simon to the school?” asked my mother.

“I think I’ll have to, won’t have time to come and change.”

“So you’re going to dye your hair again.”

“I have to, or they’ll recognise me.”

“You’ll have people thinking, Simon is going out with two different girls.”

“So let them think what they like.”

“There is no need to be cheeky, I’m only making an observation dear.”

“Alright, I wasn’t being cheeky, I don’t care what people think.” It wasn’t true. But if I pretended it was, it made me tougher.

I finished my toast and went to shower and transform into the brunette bimbo. I should have warned Simon, I suppose, but didn’t have time. He was doing an exam in the morning, I hoped it went well for him.

I dried my now brown hair, and stuck on the breast forms, concealing their seams as I’d been taught, they looked quite good and part of me felt happy to look this female. I was going to wear my jeans, but instead opted for a denim mini, a white lacy top which had a vee neck and showed some of my charms. To finish I pulled on my ruched boots.

It was a little while since I’d done the makeup, so it took me a time to get it right again. I finished with the long lasting, lip plumping, kiss-proof, waterproof, bullet-proof, non-scaling, boy-magnet, moisturising, sunscreen —UVA & B, insect repelling, lip gloss. Putting on two coats, just to make sure everything worked.

It was pretty well lunchtime by the time I’d finished and I went to help Mum with the meal. She decided as I would be out until after seven, to have our main meal lunch time. She had a chop and I had a quiche with some vegetables. The smell of her chop was quite appetising, but I was determined not to eat meat for a while and see how I got on. It was going to be hard.

We had just finished washing up, when Simon came. My mother answered the door, and inviting him in, said, “Christine will be right down.”

“Who?” he stuttered.

“Hi Si,” I called walking down the stairs.

“Oh it’s back to the future is it?” He smirked.

I pecked him on the cheek and we went off, with I’m sure my mother watching us, I could feel her beady eyes boring into the back of my head, as I held his hand.

“How do you do that?” he asked, “You know the mmm, you know?” He was making hand movements suggesting an expansion in the boob department.

“It’s just the difference different bras can have.”

“I’ll say, yesterday you were like a rake and today, well today, phwoar!”

“What exactly does phwoar mean?”

“It’s a boy word, I can’t translate it into girl terms.” He blushed, but I thought he side stepped it nicely.

“You mean like, you have a cute bum?”

“I do?,” he blushed profusely, “Yeah whatever that means.”

I snorted in response.

He gave me a dirty look, then said, “Sometimes I wonder why I go out with girls?”

“For the phwoar factor, I expect, and….” I grabbed him and kissed him, “it beats kissing boys.”

He grabbed me and kissed me back, “Yeah, it probably does.”

We went to the local park and watched the mothers with young babies, some splashing about in the paddling pool. The sun got quite warm and we sheltered under a tree, the only part of me that was not going to burn were my lips, and that protection had been kissed off earlier. Certainly the boy-magnet worked.

“Do you ever like think, you’d like to have kids?” he said to me, watching some young harassed mother go past with two noxious toddlers.
“I’m only fourteen Si, give me a chance will ya?”

“Yeah, but would you like to be a mother?”

“Dunno, it’s supposed to hurt a lot when they’re born.”

“Yeah but it can’t be that bad, I mean like, some of them have two or three kids.”

“My mum says, that if boys had babies the human race would have become extinct with Adam”

“Ha!” said Simon, “Besides, if boys had babies, they’d be girls, wouldn’t they?”

“Can we talk about something else? I don’t see myself in maternity clothes just yet.” I knew that unless some miracle happened, I wasn’t likely to either. But according to the telly, stem cell research was creating new organs in laboratories, so maybe one day they might be able to implant some ovaries in me and the rest of the baby making equipment. Until then I was going to try not to worry about it.

“Glad you could make it Charlotte, I mean Christine,” said Mr King looking at his watch. Miss Daws looked at him and then at me in a very funny way, then she nodded.

“It is Charlotte, isn’t it?” she said.

“No, I’m Christine,” I felt myself visibly shrinking under her scrutiny.

Charlotte’s Tale 11.
by Angharad.

The rest of the afternoon seemed to fly past and too soon it was after five. I bought hot dog and a drink for us from the stall in the park, as Simon had paid for the cinema the other day. We ate and drank and Simon agreed to walk me to the school.

I had now been there several times since my ‘conversion’ and it still filled me with a sort of horror. I held on to his arm and he walked me down the corridor. The only people about were one or two kids attending after school clubs, one or two staff and the cleaners.

We bumped into the headmaster, who nodded curtly at us and looked as if he wanted to say something about us holding each other. I suspected Simon would be ‘spoken to’ at some point in the future.

“What are you going to do when he calls you into his office?” I asked Simon.

“What for?” he looked blankly at me.

“For dating a boy.” I blushed.

“Where? I can’t see any boys here I fancy, so it’s just as well you came.”

I squeezed his arm. “I like you Simon Astley.”

“That is quite a useful quality in a date.”

I looked up and down the corridor. “Gi’s a kiss,” and he did, until the loud coughs sounded down the corridor.

“Put her down Astley,” was one of the cat calls.

“If he’s too small, I’m ready and willin’ darlin’,” came another. The sweaty jockstrap brigade had just finished their work out.

“Kiss me as sexily as you can,” I whispered to Simon.

“What, in front of this lot?”

“Yeah, it will enhance your reputation no end.”

He was about to say, ‘Are you mad?’ when I pulled him to me and attacked his lips with mine. He joined in the spirit of it, and I began rubbing my body against his. He followed my lead.

“Oh wow! Let me get some of that!” said one of the jocks as they got closer.

“If I want somebody all sweaty, I’d rather they work out with me than chase around a gym after a ball like some demented puppy.”

“It increases stamina darlin’, you should try it sometime.” Said the Jock too thick to realise offence.

“Except in the one muscle I have an interest in.” I went back to kissing Simon, who was feeling very nervous with all these larger boys around. I felt okay, I’d have preferred not to be involved in verbal sparring with older boys, but I thought it would enhance Simon’s reputation and also show them I was not available.

Fortunately, the rest of the athletes mocked their friend, enjoying my put down of him and walked on, messing about, hitting and joking with each other as they went.

We walked on to the music room, “This is it, sugar I’m late, thanks for walking me here, gotta dash,” I said looking at my watch. I pecked him on the cheek and rushed through the door.

**********************************************************************

“Ah Mister Astley,” said the headmaster, “how are the exams going?”

“Dunno, Sir, alright I suppose.”

“You’re a friend of Charlotte’s are you?”

“That was Christine, Sir.”

“Yes, very well, you are a friend of Christine?”

“Yes Sir.”

“You know who Christine is, don’t you, Astley?”

“Yes, Sir, Christine Monk, she goes to St Margaret’s with my sister.”

“Please don’t play games with me Astley, I didn’t appreciate you were into boys.”

“I’m not Sir, Christine is a girl, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ll ignore your insubordination this once Astley, but don’t get too cocky.”

“Sir, if you had done your job more effectively maybe Christine’s life here would have been more comfortable. If you want to make an issue of it, carry on, but I suspect her mother would have something very interesting to say to the school governors.”

“Are you threatening me, Astley?” the headmaster’s face darkened.

“No Sir, I’m stating facts. Here’s another one, I’m no more gay than you are stupid. Good evening, Sir.”

The headmaster was left spitting feathers as Simon walked quickly past him and disappeared around a corner, where upon he punched the air and said, “Yes, eat my shorts!”

********************************************************************

“Glad you could make it Charlotte, I mean Christine,” said Mr King looking at his watch. Miss Daws looked at him and then at me in a very funny way, then she nodded.

“It is Charlotte, isn’t it?” she said.

“No, I’m Christine,” I felt myself visibly shrinking under her scrutiny.

“Please don’t treat me as if I am stupid, I accept you’re no longer James, although I knew I recognised your voice. It has changed though, become more soprano.”

“The pills I expect.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?” Mr King went to intervene but Miss Daws, waved him away.

“I don’t know, I suppose I was too embarrassed.” Like I was now, my skin was on fire.

“James was scared of his own shadow, you have a bit more about you. You also seem more whole as a girl, does that make sense?”

“Uh huh,” I said nodding.

“When I first met the new you, I gave you a hard time, you had me pretty well fooled except the voice wasn’t quite right for a girl, too sweet. It changed during the practice because you fought back and I managed to pull another dimension out of you. You really can sing now.”

“You’re so right Miss Daws, my singing has changed. Did they tell you I won the karaoke competition here a couple of weeks ago, at the dance.”

“Oh that was you was it? I heard two girls slugged it out, the boys coming no where. So what did you sing?”

“Fields of Gold and Summertime.”

“I believe, we have them tonight don’t we?”

“We should do, I’m singing them in this concert. Plus the Schubert, that’s my favourite, it is sublime.”

“It is indeed Charlotte, do you mind me calling you that?” she asked me, Mr King stood watching us shaking his head.

“It’s my name now, officially I mean, Mummy and I changed it with her solicitor.”

“So you really are a girl now then, not that I didn’t think you were one the last time we worked together.” Now she was blushing.

“Yes, doomed to a lifetime of shopping and salons,” I exaggeratedly swept my hair back and she nearly fell off her piano stool.

“I think there might be just a little more to being female than that Charlotte.” She was still chuckling when Mr King did join the proceedings.

“Ladies, now we have no more secrets, and I am sure that Miss Daws will respect your confidence, can we please get on and do some music practice it is now half past six.”

That was it, we got straight into it, Miss Daws giving me a hard time for the quickest warm up I’d ever had, but my voice felt okay.

I got Mr King to drop me at Simon’s house, I wanted to know if the headmaster had waited for him, because I suspected he would.

“Yeah the bastard was waiting for me just outside.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked me if I knew who I was escorting. I told him yeah, so we argued about that. Then he asked me if I was int’a like boys, ‘n I told him to mind his own fuckin’ business, dozy twat!”

“I hope I haven’t got you into trouble Si,” I felt my eyes fill up.

“Nah, no prob, hey don’t cry.”

“Miss Daws guessed who I was tonight. Old Kingy, called me Charlotte.”

“Senile ol’ git,” he said putting his arm around me.

“No he’s not, he’s the only one in the school who cared about me.”

“Probably an old woofter.”

“Simon, he isn’t, his eyes nearly came out on stalks the first time he met Christine, and there was a bulge in his pants, so he isn’t gay.”

“So what did the piano woman say?”

“She was alright, told me I seemed more rounded as a person, she said she liked me more as a girl, because I seemed more real.”

“I won’t argue with that girl, gi’s a kiss.”

I spent blissful hour with Simon on his sofa before his mother wondered if I should be going home as my mother would be worried. She could have let me use the phone, but I took the hint.

“Is that Christine?” she asked Simon.

“Yes, that’s Christine,” he gave her a shit eating grin.

“I thought you were going out with Charlotte?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Isn’t that a bit unfair, going out with two girls?”

“Ah not really.”

“Well I think it is.”

“Well we’re not engaged or anything.”

“No but there is such a thing as courtesy and decency.”

“Oh yeah, I’m decent to both of them, and polite, open doors that sort of thing.”

“What happens if one of them finds out about the other, I don’t want them banging on the door making scenes here, Simon Astley.”

“I guarantee that won’t happen Mum.”

“It had better not young man, or you will be in deep trouble.” She walked off and he ran up to his bedroom and threw himself on the bed and laughed until he was nearly sick.

“You’re late Charlotte, I was beginning to worry about you,” my mother gave me a huge hug. “I’ve saved you some tuna sandwiches.”

“Oh wow, thanks Mummy.” I pecked her on the cheek, I love tuna except Mum won’t buy it too often she worries about the dolphins being caught in the nets and also the mercury which is supposed to be in some sea fish.

I sat down in the kitchen and found the sandwiches covered up on the table, Mum poured me a glass of milk.

“So where have you been?” she sat opposite me.
“I called into to see Simon,” I said in between munching the sandwich, it had salad too, yummy.

“You spent the whole afternoon with Simon.”

“Yeah, he walked me to school…” I took a bite of sandwich, “…and we bumped into Old Fart Face.”

“Don’t be crude, Charlotte, young ladies are supposed to exercise a little decorum. Who is ‘Old Fart Face’?”

I was drinking some milk when she asked that and I snorted it all over the table. That made both of us laugh. Mum wiped down the table with some paper towel.

“Well who is it?” she asked again.

“The headmaster, he nabbed Simon after and asked him if he was gay?”

“Why should he do that?”

“ ‘S obvious, ‘cos he was like, with me.”

“But you’re a girl?”

“Yeah, but old Fart Face doesn’t seem to recognise what one of those looks like. I think he’s been with boys too long.”

“I have a good mind to phone him up and give him a piece of my mind,” my mother’s face went quite red and I decided it was better to stay quiet for the moment.”

I finished my sandwich and said, “Simon told him to mind his own ff..lippin’ business,” Mum gave me an old fashioned look and I smiled at her, “ he also said that we could tell the school governors some interesting tales. Apparently Ol’ F.F. went pale at that.”

“Simon will have to watch his step and so will you. Officially, you’re not a pupil there any more, so you are a guest, please act like one. Your old headmaster will not like being threatened and may well try to get his own back, so be very careful.”

“What can he do, I’m a visitor?” I asked puzzled, thinking the old fart was just a bag of wind.

“He could make it difficult for you to go there, withdraw facilities or put pressure on Mr King or Miss Daws. He could talk to your new head teacher and make things awkward. He could also make things exceedingly difficult for Simon.”

“If he does then I will speak to the Governors.” I was in combative mood if someone was threatening my Simon.

“I think somehow, the Governors would be more inclined to listen to the headmaster than you.”

I felt gutted by this, life was so unfair. “Yeah, but they’d listen to you Mummy.”

“As I know two of them quite well, I suspect they might.” She winked at me, “If he gives Simon a hard time, get Simon to document it, chapter and verse and I’ll have a word with someone.”

“Wooo ooh! My mum, the avenger!”

“I think not Charlotte, shall we say, your parent and guardian.”

I hugged her, “My guardian angel,” I said and she hugged me back.

“We have to look after each other now, young lady."

“I wonder what St Margaret’s will be like,” I was thinking out loud.

“According to Jane, she’s the nicest one at Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts!” I squealed and giggled.

“Yeah, apparently they call the PE teacher, Hagrid and the headmistress is Voldemort,” he laughed.

Charlotte’s Tale .
by Angharad.
Part 12.

Things seemed to be improving, I felt more energy and wasn’t quite so given to moping about the house sucking my thumb. There were still reminders of my dad everywhere, but the rawness that I’d felt when seeing them, had eased. Mum seemed to be happier too.

I was still doing my home schooling with the tutor, and seemed to be doing alright. Certainly, I had improved in several subjects because she had the time to encourage me to do more or better and then praised me for it when I did. I was going to find regular schooling quite an issue when it happened again. Thankfully, I had the last few weeks of the summer term to continue at home, then the summer holidays, and finally I was I going to be dropped in at the deep end at St Margaret’s.

I hadn’t been in school with girls since junior school, so had forgotten what it was like. I knew they had reputations for high academic achievement, which might pose a challenge, as might games, but otherwise I thought I’d give it a go — not that I had much choice. I couldn’t go back to the ‘Thug’s Academy’ I’d just left, so St Margaret’s was the only viable option. Had I remained a boy, I don’t know quite what I’d have done.

I day dreamed as I stood looking down the garden at next door’s cat stalking a bird. The bird had seen it and wasn’t playing, so ‘Tiddles’ had stopped to wash pretending he wasn’t hunting and so on. It was quite funny as long as the bird stayed aware of the danger.

I suddenly saw a sort of relevance to me. Provided I was aware that I could be discovered, until I get some sort of surgery to remove my boy bits, I can minimise the risk of them being discovered. Things like overconfidence could be my downfall, that and betrayal by someone like Jane.

I didn’t honestly think she’d do so deliberately, but Jane always seemed to have the ability to catch me when I least expected it, like so called ‘friendly fire’. I read somewhere that a good friend makes a very bad enemy. It was food for thought and I would have to make sure she never got to that position, she knew too much. Goodness, isn’t life complicated?

Personally, I couldn’t see myself falling out with her, but that wouldn’t necessarily stop her falling out with me. That was worrying. I shrugged my shoulders and went back to my schoolbooks.

After tea Simon rang and we spent an hour talking about nothing, then he mentioned Fart Face.

“Bumped into Old F.F., he gave me a filthy look and walked past me. I was so tempted to say something, you know, be extra polite or something.”

“Oh don’t Simon, he could make life so hard for you.”

“Yeah I didn’t, but the temptation was sooooooooooo big.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. Mum says if he does start picking on you to keep a note of it in as much detail as you can.”

“Sounds like hard work, dunno if I could be bothered.”

“She says that it’s the only way you can prove victimisation and for that he can be censured, whatever that means.”

“They slap his wrist, I think it means.”

“Oh! I’d have thought it was more than that, but anyway, do that and if you have witnesses, get their names and if possible to sign your account afterwards.”

“Jeez Charlotte, that’s a lot of work for a slapped wrist.”

“Yeah but it’s his wrist not yours. The alternative is to get Jane to poison him.”

“You’ve tried her cooking then?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said blushing furiously, she was quite proud of her cooking skills, they were better than mine.

“Are you implying my sister is capable of murder?” I could hear the laughter in his voice.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t do anything like that, I might not live long enough to regret it,” I joked back.

“I think you could guarantee it, she’s got a longer memory than most psychopaths I know.”

“How many do you know then?”

“I go to school with over six hundred of them, and that doesn’t include the teachers.”

“I wonder what St Margaret’s will be like,” I was thinking out loud.

“According to Jane, she’s the nicest one at Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts!” I squealed and giggled.

“Yeah, apparently they call the PE teacher, Hagrid and the headmistress is Voldemort,” he laughed.

“You are encouraging me so much,” I said wondering if I had gone from the proverbial into the fire. I had met the headmistress, Mrs Edmonds, and she didn’t seem that bad. Maybe we were all on our best behaviour, and I was sort of going there with special needs concerning my gender thing. Oh dear, my tummy was churning.

“Nah, you’ll be alright, they’re all a bit strange, so you should fit in perfectly.”

Simon could be a wicked tease and unfortunately my pouting was lost on a phone call. “Oh Simon, don’t be like that.”

“Oh alright then. I have to go, Mum’s calling me for tea and I’ve got some revision to do.”

“Oh okay, I’d better let you go then.” The official goodbye took another ten minutes or so, but we are teenagers.

I went downstairs and my mother was doing some Quorn sausages for my tea. They tasted pretty much like the meat ones, so I didn’t miss anything this time. I gave her a special hug and cleared up the dishes as a thank you.

Tomorrow I had another practice, we’d missed a couple, Miss Daws had had a summer cold and didn’t want to give it to me. I appreciated her thoughtfulness and asked Mum if we could buy her some flowers. I knew I was pushing at an open door, so I wasn’t surprised by her enthusiastic agreement.

Dyeing my hair was a bit of a pain however, plus we didn’t know what it would do to my hair long term, so tomorrow I would be going with it in natural mode. They’d probably all think I’d bleached it anyway, the fact that it was so long compared to my schoolboy days, plus the makeup and the breast forms, should give me enough disguise. After all, I’d spent plenty of time trawling around the town centre with either my mum or Jane and no one had recognised me as far as I knew, except that first time when Simon had seen me in the local department store. Phew! I wouldn’t want that to happen again.

I went to bed about ten and read for a little while. Jane Austen isn’t entirely my cup of tea, but my mother reckons every girl should read, ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and ‘Rebecca’. I’ve seen the films of both and not sure I agree. She also has me down to read ‘Jane Eyre’, but from what I’ve heard of Charlotte Bronte, she was a bit strange to say the least, although I like her first name.

Mum was telling me that a hundred years or more ago, London used to stink so much in the summer, that people would escape to the countryside. Some of them would see places like Bath as being almost rural, although the London they knew was much smaller than it is today. I suppose we should be grateful for the Victorians and their sewers. Fancy having to do your business in a potty and then chuck it out the window. I don’t fancy it one bit, yuck.

I dreamt I was back in Victorian days and my dad was trying to marry me off to one of several suitors. Simon was one of them but he was also the poorest, so Daddy wasn’t too keen on him, even though he was the one I fancied.

I had to wear ankle length skirts and corsets, they were horrible. If I hurried to do anything I couldn’t breathe, nor could I eat very much the corset stopped me. The boots I had to wear buttoned up on the sides and one of the servants had to use some sort of hook to close them. I felt really sorry for our maid, she worked really hard for the pittance we paid her, so I used to give her things like my old clothes.

I woke up needing to go to the loo, and thinking to myself that giving someone my old clothes was pretty mean, until I recalled something I did in history, and back in Jane Austen’s time, lots of poor people didn’t have more than a single change of clothes. I have a wardrobe full to bursting, how times have changed.

I then woke up having a nasty dream about being recognised at the school by Watson, who still fancied me and wouldn’t go away even though he knew my real identity. “Always knew you were a bit girly, now you’ve proved it. So Astley likes girly boys does he?”

“I suppose you must too if you keep following me around. All this is your fault you big gorilla,” I shouted and started hitting him. Whereas before he had known what to do in beating me up, by being a girl, he wasn’t at all sure and was going red in the face as I maintained my onslaught. I woke up when one of my slaps knocked the lamp off my bedside table.

The next morning I had a nice bruise on the back of my left hand. After breakfast I told mum, I wasn’t going to dye my hair for practice.

“If you think you won’t be recognised, it’s okay with me.”

I had looked at myself in the mirror that morning, standing totally naked and there was no sign of boy anywhere, except the hidden bits, which were glued up inside. My waist was thin and my hips were growing, from behind, I had a nice behind, a bit small but I was underweight at the moment. My chest was underdeveloped because I had lost weight, but my breasts were there okay with prominent nipples and the dark bit around ‘em, can’t remember what it’s called.

My face has changed a bit too, got thinner making my cheekbones more prominent and with some makeup no one is going to see James Church anywhere, he just no longer exists except in one or two people’s memories.

“What did you do to your hand,” my mother had noticed the bruise.

“Bumped it going to bed.”

“What are we going to do with you?”

“Give me the money for Miss Daw’s flowers?” I smiled.

“I asked for that,” said my mother reaching for her purse.

“You did agree Mummy.”

“I know, look we need to do some supermarket shopping, so how about this afternoon we do that and get Miss Daws either some flowers or a pot plant, and I’ll drop you off at school.”

I was going to say that I could be recognised then, but when I thought about it, Mum was at the concert, we go shopping together and do other things together so if people were going to recognise us, surely they’d have done it by now? With my luck probably not, but I can’t let it dominate my whole existence. After all, the rumours that abounded when I left were that I’d had a sex change, so let them wonder, I don’t care.

I helped Mummy clean all the windows, which in our house takes all morning to do inside and out. Then she took several curtains down and washed them, again I did the taking down and put up the spare ones. There is so much work involved in a house, maybe I don’t want to be someone’s wife. Then I thought of Simon, and vacillated somewhat.

After lunch, we went to the supermarket. It’s a huge place with food and stuff on one side and clothes and cameras and mobile phones ‘n things on the other. I bought some more tights and saw a cotton dress I had to have. I had to work for it though.

I got Mummy to allow me to try it on. It was really yummy, a halter neck and frill around the hem at the bottom. The pattern was sunflowers, big and small ones on a light green background. It was only fifteen pounds so I could have bought it myself, but I wanted some sandals too and they had some nice white ones with a three inch wedge heel.

“I think you’ve got enough clothes at the moment Charlotte.”

“But Muuuuuuum, I don’t have any sun dresses.”

“You have skirts and tops.”

“Yeah Mummy but this dress is just soooo comfortable.” I batted my eyelashes at her and she narrowed her eyes back, knowing she’d been conned.

“If you get me the dress, I’ll buy my own sandals,” I ventured knowing I was going to buy them anyway because she wouldn’t allow me to have a three inch heel except for formal wear.

“One of these days, you are going to push your luck too far, Charlotte Church.”

Some woman who was walking past glanced round so quickly, I’m surprised she didn’t dislocate her neck. Satisfied I wasn’t the Charlotte Church, she went on her way.

I bought the sandals and I think surprised Mummy by being able to walk in them, they were quite comfortable seeing as they weren’t that expensive. My sports ones, which are brilliant, cost twice as much as these and I can walk miles in them but they aren’t really suitable to wear anywhere posh.

We went for a cuppa and a cake before I went off to my singing practice. The cafeteria was really busy and we were lucky to get a table. I was chatting with Mum about the pot plant we’d got for Miss Daws which I thought she would like, a big begonia thing full of bright yellow flowers, when a mother and daughter asked if they could share our table.

As we’d only just started our teas, we had to say yes and put up with it. They had similar fare to us.

“You from round here then?” asked the woman.

“Yes,” said my mum, “ we live on the west side, in Whitechurch.”

“That’s just down from us,” said the girl, “we only moved here a fortnight ago. We live in Newchurch.” These were villages on the outskirts of town, Whitechurch was older than Newchurch and tended to be bigger houses, the latter being mostly a new estate. Mind you our house was one of the newest in our village, as I said, Dad had designed it and oversaw the building of it. It was probably the best house in the area.

“So, do you like go to school around here?” asked the new girl.

“I’m going to St Margaret’s in September,” I said feeling embarrassed.

“I am too, how old are you?”

“Nearly fourteen,” I said blushing.

“Gosh, I’m thirteen, maybe we’ll be in like, the same class?”

“Dunno,” I offered, “s’pose we’ll have to like wait ‘n see.”

“That would be nice for you Hailey, you’d have someone you know,” said her mother.

“Yes, that would be like, good. Why don’t you come round to our place some time?”

My mother decided to enter the conversation, “If you’ve just moved in, why don’t you come round to us one afternoon and have some tea?”

“That’s very kind of you,” said the other woman.

Then they got to introducing each other, and I discovered Hailey’s surname was Burston. They seemed okay, so when they agreed a date for the day after tomorrow, I was a bit alarmed.

“But Mummy, I may have practice.” I said with a degree of urgency in my voice.

“You won’t know until tonight, so don’t worry.”

“What do you have to practice?” asked Hailey.

“Singing, I’m singing in a concert next week.”

“Oh wow, like another Charlotte Church!”

“Yeah, I am another Charlotte Church only I sing under another name so as not to cause confusion.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Not really, but I use the name Christine when I perform. It’s my middle name.”

“CCC, sounds like a county council.”

“Yeah, my parents like didn’t have much imagination!” I said tongue in cheek and got the required glower from my mother.

We went on to discuss the sort of music we liked, she was less catholic than I am, going for the Artic Monkeys and Spice Girls. I had just discovered my dad’s collection of Led Zeppelin, much to Mum’s annoyance. Hailey asked who they were, so I knew what we’d be listening to the day after tomorrow.

Was it good fortune that someone needed friendship as much as I did? I’d have to wait and see, but at least I had a chance to branch out a bit more, although I did wonder if it would get in the way of my seeing Simon. If I’d said anything to my mother, she’d have gone through the roof.

I noticed the time and we had to go or I’d be late again!.

I wondered if she’d told the others of my past, or if she’d do that in school if ever I fell foul of her. I could really do with something powerful on her, that I could use to counter blackmail, sort of like I’d read about with the Cold War, where they called it, ‘Assured Mutual Destruction’. It had kept the Russians and Americans from fighting each other, so I wondered if it was possible to protect me from Jane. I needed to speak with Simon.

Charlotte’s Tale
by Angharad.
Part 13.

The practice went fine, the songs were coming together and no one seemed to twig my disguise. Miss Daws actually said she preferred me with my normal coloured hair. Simon met me afterwards and walked me home.

We detoured to the park and we had a kiss and a cuddle under the trees, which was going very nicely until we were discovered by Jane and some of her friends.

Our attention was occupied with our bout of tongue wrestling Simon was leading by two falls to a submission, when I became aware of tittering. I opened my eyes and became aware that we were not alone. I glanced around and simultaneously pushed Simon away. He grumbled then opened his eyes.

“What d’ya want?” he said loudly to Jane.

“Mum said if I saw you, to remind you to be home early for dinner. You’re late, but now we can see why.”

He’d obviously forgotten. “Damn, I’d better go, Charlotte. I’ll call you later.” He pulled on the jacket we’d been sitting on and ran off towards his house.

Jane said something to one of her cronies and they both laughed. I decided I didn’t want her company for the moment and went off towards my house. I heard the whole group laughing loudly, so doubtless I was the butt of their jokes. It didn’t bother me, I kept telling myself as I walked as fast as I could away from them. So why was I sniffing?

I wondered if she’d told the others of my past, or if she’d do that in school if ever I fell foul of her. I could really do with something powerful on her, that I could use to counter blackmail, sort of like I’d read about with the Cold War, where they called it, ‘Assured Mutual Destruction’. It had kept the Russians and Americans from fighting each other, so I wondered if it was possible to protect me from Jane. I needed to speak with Simon.

I’d also get him to give her a flea in her ear, I didn’t like the way they silently stalked and laughed at us. It had a predatory feel about it. I knew Jane had a nasty streak in her, she could also be incredibly kind and caring but she could flip to the other in a moment. It was sort of unbalanced. I’d read that Stalin, the wartime leader of Russia had been like that, ever so nice and signing death warrants the next moment. I shuddered.

“You’re late, good practice?” asked my mum.

“Yeah, I bumped into Simon on the way home.”

“That explains it then.”
“Explains what?” I asked.

“Your lipstick is all over your face and you have grass cuttings stuck to your cardi.”

I went beetroot, deciding to keep quiet and be thought a fool was better than saying something and proving it. I would have to be more careful in future.

Simon phoned later, I was reading more Pride and Prejudice, but it was hard work and women in those days had very different lives from us. Sheesh, I was glad I was born now, not then. I mean what would have happened then? I’d have been humiliated and beaten up regularly without the option of escaping to another world as I’d been able to do.

“Hi Simon,”

“Sorry about dashing off like that.”

“That’s okay.”

“Jane didn’t say anything did she?”

“No, she talked with her friends and they just laughed at me.”

“That’s not very friendly.”

“I did notice.”

“I suppose they were laughing at you because you were with me.”

“I hope so.”

“What else could it be?”

“With Jane, you tell me.”

“She wouldn’t tell them about that, surely. It would reflect on me and I’d kill her.”

“Probably not, it would also reflect on her as my friend,” although I knew she’d weasel out of that if it suited her.

“Yeah.”

“I just wish I had something on her, so I could bluff back.”

“You mean like she had a criminal record?”

“Yeah, that would be ideal, but I suspect she’s squeaky clean, left no witnesses alive, cleaned up her fingerprints, DNA was inconclusive….”
“Erm, not quite.”

“What do you mean,” my heart was racing.

“Nah, I can’t tell you about that.”

“Tell me about what?”

I could hear him struggling at the other end of the phone. “If I tell you she’ll know where you got it. Mum was able to suppress it for the most part or her solicitor was.”

“What did she do?”

“I erm, can’t tell you.”

“Simon, if you can’t tell you, why did you bring it up?”

“Have a look in the archives of the local paper, March 10 last year.”

“What am I looking for, the football results.”

“No the court reports. I gotta go, bye.” He rang off.

I sat perplexed by the conversation. He had given me some evidence to research and I needed to see what it was. I wrote down the date. Then I asked Mummy if I could use the computer.

“You don’t usually ask,” she said looking up from her sewing.

“I need to go on the internet.”

“You don’t usually ask about that either, so why now?”

“I want to look in the archives of the local paper.”

“What for?”

“A project I’m thinking of doing for English.”

“On what?”

“Well comparing the ways courts give out sentences compared to Jane Austen’s time.” It was an outrageous fib.

She gave me a funny look and shook her head. She didn’t believe me.

I went into Dad’s study and booted up the computer, I went to make a drink while it was booting, it can take a few minutes. I made Mummy a cup of chocolate. The look she gave me was very suspicious.
I supped my Bovril, while I found the paper and then clicked on archives. From there it took seven or eight goes to find the reports I wanted.

‘Magistrates bound over three juveniles for multiple shoplifting offences. The defendants all girls aged 11 and 12 years from St Margaret’s High School for Girls, pleaded guilty to stealing goods from shops on ten occasions. The items were jewellery, clothing, makeup and CDs. One of the 11 year olds, ‘J’ was seen as the ringleader, and only avoided a supervision order when she broke down in court and apologised for her offences. Her parents agreed to the court’s demands for tighter control of her leisure time. They assured the court that she had never been in trouble before.’

I scoured the pages for anything else that it could be, but there was nothing. It had to be the piece. All I had to do was to let her know I had it without naming Simon as my source.

But then how many would know about it? Certainly the other two would and presumably their friends. So it could be loads of people know, in which case, it would be pretty useless. I suspect Jane would wear it like a badge rather than hide it as a source of shame. I need to speak to Simon some more. However, I knew she did have an Achilles’ heel, so her invulnerable façade isn’t as strong as she makes out.

It struck me as sad that I needed to stoop to her level, but it was an investment, a sort of insurance. It could however backfire on me, if she waited until I’d embarrassed her then dropped her bombshell, it would wipe me out. Maybe this was an exercise in futility? I mean how can anyone have a worse secret than they used to be a boy, well short of mass murder of babies or stealing from a church. I’d just have to try and keep her on board.

I closed down the computer, feeling more impotent than I had before. Some times life seems to pee all over you this was one such a day. I went back into the lounge where Mummy was still watching the telly.

“What’s the matter?” she said looking at me over the top of the newspaper.

“Nothing, why?”

“You look as if you lost a pound and found a penny.”

“Do I?” I shrugged my shoulders.

She patted the seat by the side of her, “Come on sit down and tell me about it.”

“Nothing to tell,” I lied, shrugging my shoulders.

“Sit down and spill the beans!”

“Oh all right,” I sighed.
“What happened?”

“Jane and her friends saw Simon and me kissing.”

“Simon and I kissing, or Simon kissing me, not Simon and me.”

“Does it matter?” I sighed slouching in the chair. A lecture on grammar was hardly what I needed at this moment.

“After your trip to the dance with him, I’d have thought she would be aware you had thing for each other.”

“If I was an ordinary girl, it would be bad enough, but with my past, she could seriously embarrass me.”

“Yes she could.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t but that’s life. So is this why you were on the computer, looking for dirt on her?”

I’m sure at times my mother is a witch. “How did you know that?”

“I just took the clues you gave me, which led me to that conclusion. Did you find any apart from the shop lifting?”

Definitely a witch! “How do you know about that?”

“I used to be a magistrate, remember. I was on the juvenile bench. She was the ring leader of a gang of them.”

“Wow! You are amazing Mummy!”

“It’s taken you a long time to notice.”

“So did you like find her guilty?”

“No I withdrew from the case because I knew her parents. It was my colleagues who heard the case. I thought she got off very lightly. She had a really mean streak in her in those days.”

Still has, I thought to myself.

“It’s not going to compare with her ammunition against you, but then they say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Do you feel you’ll have a problem with her?”

“I don’t know, she can be quite mean when the mood takes her. Even Simon is half afraid of her.”
“And she is going to be at the same school as you next year?”

“Oh don’t,” I dreaded to think about that.

“Schools are not the havens of peace and learning they should be, but girls’ school should be better than a boys’ one.”

You don’t know Jane, I thought to myself. I was less likely to be beaten up so regularly, which had to be a good thing, but girls can be every bit as cruel as boys. “I hope so,” I said not feeling at reassured by my mother’s words.

“If there’s a problem, we’ll have to find another solution. If necessary, send you off to a private school.”

That sounded even worse to me, “Boarding school!”

“Not necessarily, there are day schools as well.”

“Oh!”

“So if things go pear shaped we can always find an alternative.”

“Thanks Mummy,” I gave her a quick hug. I knew it wouldn’t be that straightforward, because my reputation would follow me if Jane did a character assassination. But she was trying to help and it would cost lots of money, so I had to be grateful for her generosity.

“You do have another friend these days, why don’t you call Hailey?”

“Erm, when the concert is over, I’ll give her ring.”

“Why not before, she seemed a nice girl.”

I was beginning to see other girls as being a possible threat to me. Boys are thick and not likely to pick up on my mistakes, but other girls will and then exposure would follow. I didn’t want to risk it, especially when I could see Simon, who was neither thick nor a threat.

“I suppose it would get in the way of your practice,” Mum looked at me with squinting eyes.

“Yes, it could.”

“Or in the way of seeing Simon?”

She is a witch, I am now convinced.

Charlotte’s Tale,
by Angharad.
part 14.

Nothing much happened for the next few days and I did my practices and occasionally saw Simon, but not Jane. I wasn’t deliberately avoiding her, but neither was I seeking her out, so our paths didn’t cross.

A few days before the concert, Mrs Phillips rang to say that Sir Cliff was coming and he’d suggested we sing a duet. Wow! Singing with a legend, okay an old one but still Wow!

“What does he want to sing?” I asked.

“He was going to leave that up to you to choose bearing in mind he doesn’t sing anything choral or classical, his voice isn’t trained for that.”

“Gosh, I don’t know.” My mind had gone blank, “I couldn’t think of anything he’d sung, although my mum had some of his CDs. “Could he call me and we could discuss it?”

“I don’t know Charlotte.”

“You did tell him it was Christine not Charlotte who was appearing?”

“Yes don’t worry, he won’t be expecting the Welsh songstress.”

“I mean, even if we agreed on something, we’d need to practice it. I don’t think I’ve ever done a duet with anyone before.”

“Oh, shall I just tell him, no?”

“No way, my mum would be over the moon to hear me sing with him. I’ll think of something. Let me go look at his CDs and I’ll ring you back.”

“Okay Charlotte, bye for now.

I went off and rummaged in the CD rack, looking at my mother’s collection of Cliff Richard CDs. I looked at the titles of the tracks and one caught my eye, ‘Miss you nights’. It was one which I liked and I hoped he wasn’t going to sing beforehand. I played the song and sang along to it. Yes, it would work, if we simply sang the verses to each other and then the choruses together.

My mother came to see why I was playing her music. “I didn’t think you liked Cliff Richard?”

“I don’t dislike him, he hasn’t got a particularly good range, but he can hold a tune and this song is pretty good.”

She poked out her tongue at me, which made me giggle. Then she sat down to listen to the rest of the CD.

I called Mrs Phillips. “Hi, it’s Charlotte. I’ve got a song, one of his. I just hope he wasn’t thinking of using it.”

“Which one?”

“Miss you nights.”

“Oh, that’s one of my all time favourites. I’ll ring his agent and see what we can do.”

“We’ll need to practice it, and who is going to accompany us?”

“Not sure, but leave it with me?”

“I would suggest that we each sing the verses to each other and the chorus together.”

“Okay, I’ll tell the agent.”

“How did you manage to get him to agree?”

“He’s staying with a mutual friend about ten miles away for the weekend.”

“Are you going to publicise it?”

“No we can’t; all we can say is, ‘a celebrity mystery guest.’ It’s a shame but there you go. Half a loaf is better than none. Don’t tell anyone will you?”

“I’ll have to tell Mr King and Miss Daws. I’ll also have to try and get the music.”

“I’ll ask his agent if they can email you some.”

“That would be great. Wow, I can’t believe I’ll be singing with him.”

“It’s true, I met him a couple of years ago at a charity gig, he was really nice.”

“For an old man,” I said cheekily.

“He looks twenty years younger than he is.”

“That’s still old to me.”

“I suppose it is, but then when you are as young as you are, someone of twenty seems ancient.”

“Dunno about twenty, but thirty sure is old.”

“Thanks Charlotte. If I’m still here when you’re thirty, I shall remind you of that.”

“Why where are you thinking of going?”

“I don’t think I need to answer that Charlotte, but the South of France would be nice.”

“No, Mrs Phillips, Nice is in the South of France.”

“Very punny. I must go and ring this agent.”

I was so bubbly when I went back into the lounge Mum asked me if I’d been sniffing something.

I was tempted to answer with something very rude, but didn’t. I could hardly contain the fact that this was one of my mum’s all time heroes and she didn’t know. I’m sure afterwards if I ask him to pose with her, I can get a photo which will make her year. How I was going to keep it quiet for another few days, I didn’t know.

Everybody noticed my barely hidden excitement. My mother thought I’d fallen in love, with a capital ‘F’. Others wondered if they changed my pills or something. I just walked around with this smug grin on my face, which Simon described as a ‘shit-eating’ one. His turn of phrase actually wiped the grin off my face for a few minutes as I found it revolting.

The day after my conversation with Mrs P, I had an email. It was from Sir Cliff’s agent and ‘in confidence’. It suggested that he was agreeable to sing the duet with me using ‘Miss you nights,’ and they sent me a copy of the music. They also suggested that I pop over to where he was staying the morning of the concert to practice with him. They gave me the address and told me that someone would come and get me and bring me back in time to get ready for the concert.

I went and spoke to my mum. “Mum, I need to rehearse a duet with some guy who’s singing at the concert, on Saturday morning. They’ll come and get me.”

“Who is it and where is it?”

“Some bloke called Webb, never heard of him before. He does ballads.”

“What are you singing?”

“Dunno, he’s got some song in mind apparently, you know me, hear it once and sing it.”

Her eyes narrowed at my deliberate arrogance. “Yes provided I meet the driver before he takes you, and you have your mobile with you.”

“Yes, I’ll take my phone with me.” How I managed to down play my excitement, I couldn’t say. Inside I felt like a bottle of champagne, ready to go pop at the first opportunity.

When I took the music to my own rehearsal, Miss Daws was astonished, but she played it well after two runs through. Mr King listened and helped me with the presentation of the song.

“These pop singers have little or no training, so you often can’t hear what they’re singing, their enunciation and diction is so poor.”

By the time we’d done it for the sixth time, my enunciation and pronunciation was perfect and my pitch was pretty good too.

I was going to wear a new dress for the concert, a gold sequinned thing with a scoop neck and short pleated skirt. Although I’d put on a bit of weight, I needed to use my enhancers. On the Friday before we managed to find some gold sandals with a two and half inch heel. I also bought some gold eye shadow and nail varnish and some sparkly tights.

On the Saturday morning, the bell rang and Dr Phillips was at the door. He was my lift to see Sir Cliff. Mum was so surprised that she forgo to ask where we were going and whom we were meeting.

By the time we got there, I was positively buzzing. I mean I’d been sat with my favourite doctor for half an hour, and our conversation was nice. Then I was going to be singing with this legend! Wow just doesn’t seem to cover it!

We went to this big house on the very outskirts of a village. There was a large Mercedes in the driveway. We rang and were admitted, where I was introduced to the agent. He laid down some rules, about recording and stuff. I was quite happy with that. He also said that Sir Cliff would arrive only a few minutes before he was due on stage, otherwise it would create uproar and be nasty for the other artists.

I was told that the male voice choir would sing for half a dozen songs, then there would be a short break. Then I would do my three songs and at the end would wait on stage while the mystery guest arrived and was introduced. Sir Cliff would do three songs, then he would ask me to return to the stage to sing the duet with him. The concert would then end.

Wow, it’s really going to happen. I nearly had to pinch myself to believe it wasn’t a dream.

“Come and meet Sir Cliff,” I was led through to a large lounge where he was sat on a sofa, there was some man playing on a baby grand piano, a sort of bluesy piece of music.

Sir Cliff stood up and we shook hands, I was overawed completely and began to tremble. He smiled and sat me down alongside him and we chatted for a few minutes. He was so nice and relaxed me very quickly.

I asked him what he was going to sing, but he told me, ‘to wait and see.’ He felt however we ought to crack on as he had a lunch appointment. We went up to the piano and the agent positioned some mics for us to use, he was going to record it so he could discuss with us how it was going.

The pianist began running through the music of the song. I asked if I could do some warm ups. Sir Cliff agreed he’d like to do so, too. So we did some scales and a few bars of songs. He complimented me on my voice, which had me blushing and I got very embarrassed for a moment. I had to pause before we could continue.

Then we ran through the song, individually. We each listened, his was even better than Mum’s recording, and he kept winking and smiling at me. It was magical, Mum would have had a heart attack, I’m sure.

When it was my turn, I let it rip and was too powerful, so my second attempt was much more sotto voce. Then we sang together, it was okay, but a little rough. We listened to the recording and the agent and Sir Cliff pointed out the bits that needed attention and we practised those.

After an hour we had a pretty good product and we were all pleased with it. He gave me a signed photo for myself and also one for my mum. Then I asked him if he would pose with my mum after the concert for me to take a photo.

“I will on one condition.”

“Okay,”

“That you pose with me for one as well.”

“Wow!” was my response and he laughed.

We shook hands and Dr Phillips took me home.

“So how did the rehearsal go?”

“It was alright I suppose. Never heard of the guy before, some pop star bloke apparently, his voice is okay and we got a reasonable effect in the end.”

“What’s his name?”

“Spider Web, or something.”

“Who?”

”I told you, I’ve never heard of him before, but I think you’ll enjoy the duet, it’s a Cliff Richard song.”

“Pity it’s not with Cliff himself,” she said looking dreamy.

“Yeah, this is a local Amnesty concert, not the Albert Hall, like Cliff Richard is going to drop in and sing with little ol’ me.”

“I can wish, can’t I?”

“Well I think it will take more than blowing out the candles on your birthday cake to get that one.”

She glowered at me, and I felt so naughty, she would kill me when she found out.

We had lunch, some salmon with new potatoes and salad, then some fruit and ice cream for pudding. I knew that tea would be a light snack so as not to weigh me down for my singing.

The concert was due to start at eight, with the doors open at seven thirty. Changing facilities at the church are rather poor, so I had agreed with Mrs Phillips to arrive ready to go on at half past seven. This meant getting ready about half past five and leaving here at seven, with a light coat over my dress.

I phoned Simon, who said he’d bought a ticket for his mum and that he might come as well. I managed to get him to promise not to breathe a word about the mystery guest. He couldn’t see what the problem was. I could, it was a sell out without anyone knowing who was coming. If they had known we’d have had riots with people trying to get tickets. The church will hold a maximum of about three or four hundred, which for me is a huge audience, but I was trying not to think of that. I found out later, they squeezed in five hundred, a hundred tickets were sold on the door.

I had to dye my hair again for my stage identity, which was a bind. I’d told Sir Cliff about it and he smiled, saying he had to do all sorts of things to get ready to hide his age. I told him he looked pretty good to me, and I wasn’t just being nice to him.

In the end I didn’t use the gold makeup, it looked awful, I just did my usual stage stuff, which is a bit more than I’d wear to go out, except maybe to a party. Mum was going to wear something fairly sedate until I told her I wanted some photos of us, so to ‘get her act together’. She laughed and changed into a rather nice black and gold dress, which would photograph well with mine.

We drove to the church and parked up in some reserved spaces. Then we went in and I was amazed at the sound equipment they had there, I knew who was responsible for that. We were going to be singing into microphones, and they had mixers and all sorts of stuff at the back, with an engineer. I did a sound check, then went off to the artist’s room behind the stage — the vestry in other words. Mum had settled herself with Dr Phillips, whose wife as producer was rushing about like a lunatic.

The vestry was full of men, the male voice choir I suppose. They were from Wales and from some unpronounceable place, but they were all very pleasant and made a fuss of me. They did some warm ups, which were amazing, the whole room resonated with their wonderful harmonies.

Just to show I wasn’t completely ignorant, I asked if they were going to sing, ‘Sosban fach’.*

“Only at Twickenham when we’re beating England,” came back the reply.

Then I was on my own and they went off to start the concert. I walked to behind the stage to listen to them, they were fabulous. They did several pieces I knew and several in Welsh I didn’t recognise as well as one or two I did recognise but didn’t know the names.

Of course they got encores and overran by some twenty minutes.

While the interval was on, I did my own warm ups in the vestry without realising I was being listened to by half of Wales. I stood facing away from the door and ran through the Ave Maria, then Miss you nights. At the end I heard this clapping from the choir. I nearly messed my panties, I didn’t know they were there.

“Dew, but that was lovely,” said their conductor, “I hope we’ve got some seats near the front.”

I was so embarrassed all I could do was blush. I excused myself and went to the loo, touched up my lip gloss and powdered my nose, then out to Mum to take my bag.

The interval was called over and a few minutes given for Miss Daws to set up and the audience to return to it’s seats. Then I was announced and I walked out on to the stage. The place was absolutely packed, and I tried not to think about it. I gazed at a spot on the back wall above the door.

I was just about to start when the guest arrived, we were running twenty minutes late and a buzz ran through the rear of the hall. I got Miss Daws to play the intro again.

I did Fields of Gold and had warned her I was going to improvise a little, we had experimented and I knew she’d be able to go with me. I slowed it down and elaborated a little here and there, and she was brilliant. I was in total command of this whole mass of five hundred souls and they were so patient. When I at last finished, their applause was very generous, I saw the Welshmen clapping and stamping, they enjoyed it.

I next introduced the Schubert (Ave Maria) as one of the most exquisite pieces ever written, and that I hoped they would forgive my inadequacies as I tried to sing it. That created a buzz and the Welsh contingent whistled and clapped shouting encouragement. I was as high as a kite.

I gave one of my best renditions and Miss Daws was absolutely perfect in her accompaniment. It went down, well I wasn’t sure for a moment because when I finished, there was total silence for maybe ten seconds. Then the noise was deafening. Mum told me she was in tears and that the audience was completely blown away by it.

For my last piece, Summer Time, I was going to sing unaccompanied, which when I told the audience, it drew a round of applause. Miss Daws gave me a note to start me and I shut my eyes and went for it.

In a few bars I had gone into my trance and forgotten there was anyone there. I played with it as we had experimented, and a bit off the cuff, which I felt I could do. After all, I had sung this so often I reckoned I could probably do it backwards while parachuting on a bicycle. Well maybe that would be a little too much of an exaggeration, but I think you get my drift.

Again when I finished, there was silence then a thunderous applause. There were cries of encore, which were ignored.

The MC announced, “Don’t worry Christine will be back to sing a duet with our very special guest. It gives me great pleasure to introduce a legend of popular music and an iconic figure of the sixties, seventies , eighties and nineties, and now the twenty first century. I give you Sir Cliff Richard, who has agreed to give us some of his very valuable time from his busy schedule.”

The applause was rapturous as the great man made his way to the stage, where I was waiting to escape. He walked up to me and said quietly, “That was absolutely wonderful, you need an agent, we’ll talk later.”

Blushing like a beetroot, I left the stage to the maestro.

“What a wonderful voice ladies and gentlemen, now you have to suffer this old duffer.” Everyone laughed and he chatted with them for a moment or two saying why he was here and the problems of Darfur and the need for the world to stop the genocide and enable the people to live freely.

His own accompanist took his place at the piano and they did half an hour of all sorts of his songs including one or two he said were going to be on his new album. I was stood off to the side really enjoying his act, it was longer and better than we were led to believe.

Then suddenly, my little dream state was shattered when I heard my name being called.

“And now ladies and gentlemen, the cream of the show is going to do a duet with this old fart, a little song I recorded some years ago called, Miss you nights.” The applause was deafening as I stepped up on the stage and he took my hand.

He started the song, did a verse, then we did the chorus together, then I did a verse and the chorus and so on. It was going so well, we ran through it twice, all the time he was holding my hand and squeezing it to give me encouragement. When we did finish it brought the house down, and I was so high I was nearly flying. The energy was beyond description, then he kissed me on the cheek and hugged me.

The applause went on for several minutes and there were flashes from cameras as we took several bows, then calls for an encore.

“Again?” he said to me and I nodded. The piano struck up and we did the song right through again, the result was the same but this time we finished and were both presented with bouquets of flowers by Mrs Phillips.

Then came the photo opportunities and he showed great patience in being photographed with dozens of people, including my mother, and also one with both my mum and me with him, then one of him and me for his album, he said.

Then as I wandered about in a daze, Simon came up and told me he’d enjoyed the show and had changed his mind about Cliff Richard, “He was cool,” I just nodded. My high was waning and exhaustion was setting in.

Sir Cliff was whisked away in his limo and my exuberant mother dragged me and my flowers off to home, alternately chiding me for keeping secrets from her, and complimenting me on her lovely surprise.

“Spider Web indeed!”

“No, I said Harry Webb,” I joked, which is Sir Cliff’s original name.

* Sosban fach = a traditional Welsh nonsense song about saucepans boiling on the fire, sosban fach means little saucepan.

Charlotte’s Tale.
by Angharad.
Part 15.

We got home and were both still buzzing. How could singing a few songs with some old bloke have such an affect on me? His energy was amazing and it seemed to build as he went on, as if he’d absorbed it from the audience.

Mum parked the car in the garage and we went into the house, I switched the kettle on as a habit as much as anything else. I didn’t actually know if I could sit still long enough to drink it. I began to see how so many performers got into drugs and things, wanting to maintain the high when they weren’t performing.

When I came off that stage, I could have jumped over a ten foot wall, or felt as if I could. I still felt I could do a five foot one, which is nearly as tall as me. I was floating around inside my own head.

“Charlotte,” I heard this from afar and took no notice.

“Charlotte?” I still ignored it.

My body was poked and my mother’s voice came through loud and clear, “Charlotte, I am talking to you.”

“Sorry Mummy, I was miles away.”

“So I noticed, here, eat this and drink that.” She shoved a sandwich in my one hand and a cuppa in the other.

I took it over to the table and sat down to eat and drink.

“It’s grounding.”

“What is?”

“Eating and drinking, it’ll help you come down from your high and give you some energy when you do, complex carbohydrates.”

“What are you on about Mummy?”

“You are still on a high, somewhere up above your body. When you come down you’ll feel exhausted, the food and drink will help you to come down more gradually and ease the exhaustion.”

“Oh.” Is that all? I felt like asking.

“I read it in an article somewhere, but you don’t want to eat too much, which is what usually happens.”

“Cliff Richard was whisked away, otherwise he’d have been pestered by people for the next few hours, which followed by the buzz from performing would have kept him on his high for half the night. Instead he escaped and is probably now winding down from the buzz of working with a star like my daughter.”

I wasn’t really listening. Well I was sort of, about two sentences behind what she was saying, and suddenly, I snorted a mouthful of tea all over the kitchen table. I spent the next few moments coughing and spluttering and she was laughing as she wiped up the mess.

“Do you know how much they took from the concert?”

“No, a thousand or two?” I guessed at random figures.

“Over four thousand, according to Mrs Phillips.”

“Wow! That’s good.”

“That was great, and all of it will go to their cause.”

“Good, those poor people in Africa, must be awful.”

“Yes it must.”

“I bet, I couldn’t have done this in Darfur,” I said beginning to swoop down towards the earth.

“Done what, my darling?”

“Changed over.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t have had much chance for that.”

I felt a tear in my eye. I didn’t know what it was or where it was from, but it was there as if I felt the pain for any transgendered children in very poor parts of Africa. I assumed there must be some as this didn’t just occur in England or America.

“The civil war would have meant survival was the first priority, we’re very lucky here aren’t we?” My mother was still talking and I was half listening and half floating around the globe thinking of all the places on the earth where, kids who felt like I did, wouldn’t get the opportunity or care to do what I had done. I decided that if I ever became very wealthy, I would set up some sort of charity to help them.

“Then the church, in parts of Africa it’s very fundamentalist and would look very unhelpfully at anyone outside their very narrow view of things.” Mum was still droning on.

“Even over here and in parts of America, there are fundamentalists who think they can cure you by praying for you. They claim to be able to cure homosexual men and so on, I think it’s rather wicked, don’t you, Charlotte. Such things are probably biologically determined so won’t be sorted by divine intervention now will they? How can they suggest that people doing what feels right to them, is a sin? It’s absurd.”

“What?” I was lost, mainly because I wasn’t really listening and suddenly I discover my mother is verging on a militant for gay people.

“Oh it’s nothing Charlotte, I was sounding off about a programme I saw on the TV the other night.”

I was back with her. “What like, programme, was that then?”

“Oh one of those undercover things about how some fundamentalist churches claim to be able to cure homosexual men. They brain wash them and often it causes them to have mental problems afterwards.”

“Brain wash? How do they do that?” I had this picture of someone’s brain being put in our washing machine and spun around at enormous speed. I felt quite ill for a moment.

“They disorientate them and fill them with a revulsion for themselves and tell them if they believe enough, they’ll be cured. Then they have some sort of ceremony, which gives them huge expectations and they get all hysterical and often fall about afterwards. Then they are supposed to be cured.”

“Doesn’t Jesus like gays then?”

She stopped and looked at me as if momentarily lost for words. “You hit that right on the nail young lady. Jesus is supposed to love everyone, so that just about sums it up, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” I had no idea, I was asking a question which she had sort of answered. I was a little worried, if she was that interested in the rights of gay people, was she trying to tell me something?

“You’re not gay are you Mummy?”

She stopped as if hit with a poleaxe. “What!”

“Well you are like, getting very excited about that TV programme, like.”

“No, darling, I am not gay. I am interested because people might think you are.”

“Me!” I gasped. I felt as if she had stabbed me in the heart. “I don’t fancy other girls!”

“Some might see that as being gay.”

“Why?” I was shedding a few tears now.

“Because you used to be a boy.”

“But I’m not a boy!” I yelled shrilly, “I’m not a boy.” The tears were rolling down my face and I was sobbing uncontrollably. Mummy came and enveloped me in a huge and comforting hug.

“I know you’re not a boy, you’re my darling daughter and I love you. But we have to be aware of how others might see you.”

“But they came and listened to me sing, Cliff Richard kissed me. He wouldn’t have kissed a boy!” I shrieked.

“I know my darling, he saw a lovely girl, which you are.”

“So how could they think I’m a boy?”

“Charlotte, there are people out there who are nasty and will take advantage of any situation they can to make themselves feel better or profit from it. Often they have very poor feelings about themselves, so they seem to feel better if they can make someone feel worse than they do.”

“What, they feel good making others feel, like bad about themselves?”

“Exactly that.”

“Is this about school?”

“There are probably one or two in your new school, as there were in your old school.”

“I don’t want to go then.”

“You don’t have a choice, Charlotte. It’s the law that you go to school.”

“I’m not going if it’s full of nasty girls who are going to say nasty, untrue things about me. How can I go? How can you make me Mummy?”

“I shall be here to help you. You have to take that risk and if they do get nasty, you have to deal with it. By doing so you get stronger and they get weaker.”

“But, I don’t like, want to go.”

“You have to. Remember, there is also the chance to make new friends and do nice things as well.”

“But if we got a teacher at home like before, I could like do without going to school.”

“Darling, it’s not the answer and you know it. If you can’t survive as a girl how are you going to cope as a woman? Adults are every bit as nasty to each other as children.”

“Like Jane?”

“Jane? Your friend Jane?”

“Yes, that Jane, she’s a psycho. Even Simon is afraid of her.”

“But she always seems so nice.”

“They always do.”

“Has she been a problem to you?”

I suddenly thought I had dropped myself in it. If Mum was going to campaign for unknown gay men, what would she do for me, kill Jane?” I had to talk this down a bit. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Well if she is, you must tell me and I’ll have a word with her mother. I’m sure she wouldn’t allow it.”

“It’s okay,” I said, sighing. How come they could have two kids, one a total sicko and the other my cuddly Simon?

“Come on young lady, I think it’s time for bed. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“We do?” I was hoping for a teenage lie in, maybe get up in time to go back to bed.

“Yes, we’re going shopping,” she beamed at me.

“What for?” fatigue was setting in.

“I expect we’ll think of something and we both deserve a treat.”

“Yeah, sure,” I kissed her goodnight and went up to bed. I took off my makeup and the gold dress and cleaned my teeth, then crawled into bed. I was completely dead.

I was singing, I could see myself on stage wowing the audience, they were all completely in my thrall, but that was in the distance. I was like a fly on the wall and Jane was talking to some stranger, “Of course she used to be a boy named James, a weird little kid but he could sing a bit.”

“Can you get photographs?”
“I ‘spect so, but it’ll cost extra with those, I’ll have to steal them from her house.”

I felt my anger growing, she was selling me, her so called friend for money, to a journalist from some nasty tabloid newspaper. I always knew she could do something like this. Now she’d proved it.

“Get them, we’ll make it worth it,” said the journalist, a grubby little man.

“Oh I will, she trusts me you see.”

“Why are you doing this?” I screamed at Jane, but she couldn’t hear me, nor see me. I could hear myself singing away in the distance and the audience applauding. “I thought you were my friend.” I was crying.

The images faded when my mother came into my bedroom and hugged me, “It’s okay Charlotte, you’re alright, it’s just a dream.”

She calmed me down and I eventually went back to sleep, but in the back of my mind was a big question, should I give up the singing? If I was to get any success at it, parasites like Jane could suck me dry or bring me down. Was it all worth it?

The next morning I was still very tired but Mum was set on shopping and not local. She had me up at seven and in the shower. I dressed in a skirt and top with my low heeled boots. It looked like there could be quite a lot of walking.

“Why are we up so early?” I asked as I ate my breakfast, and yawned.

“We’re going to Town.” She was quite excited, I wasn’t. By Town she meant London. At least I could snooze on the train.

“Why?”

“Because we are.”

Mothers! Strange creatures.

Charlotte’s Tale.
by Angharad.
Part 16.

“Why are we going to London?” I whinged all the way to the station.

“Charlotte, if you don’t shut up, I’ll leave you behind and you can go and spend the day with Jane.”

“Erm, okay, I’ll be quiet. Can I have a magazine to read, please?”

“That should be, please may I have a magazine?” Corrected my mother.

“Okay,” I sighed, “Please may I have a magazine, Mummy dearest?”

“Miss Smartie Pants, just you be careful or I’ll get them to lock you in the guard’s van.”

“Sorrreeee,” I said quietly, knowing it to be an idle threat, they don’t have guard’s vans on trains any more, but it was the appropriate response and I thought I’d better keep in her good books–who knows what treasures I might find to enrich my wardrobe.

The train ride was tedious enough for me to fall asleep while I glanced at pictures of Angelina Jolie’s latest baby, I suppose I was still tired from my concert. My mobile ringing and vibrating woke me up. For a moment, I had to remember where I was and why, by which time the phone had been ringing for quite a little while. I only just managed to pull it out of my bag and say, “Hello?” before the caller lost interest or died of old age.

“Can I speak to the famous singer, Christine Monk?” said a voice I recognised instantly.

“No, she’s doing a photo session for ‘Hello’ magazine.”

“Damn, I suppose I’d better speak to Charlotte then.”

“Simon, it’s a good job you’re not closer or you’d deserve a slap for that.” I noticed my mother giving me a very strange look.

“So where are you, if you’re not at home?”

“On a train going to London, Mummy’s promised to buy me some ace clothes.”

“We’ll see about that, you cheeky little madam,” assailed the ear that wasn’t pressed to the phone.

“Oh, so I won’t see you then?”

“Dunno, depends on what time we get back.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Dunno, I’ll give you ring when we get back, but you know what it’s like shopping, we’ve only got three native bearers with us, so we won’t buy too much.” I could hear my mother stifle a snigger at my remark.

“You realise my mother has just resurrected her crush on Cliff bloody Richard, don’t you? I can hardly think for the racket, she keeps playing his records and singing along with them. I threatened to call the doctor once.”

“He was already there when I did it?”

“What? Who was?”

“The doctor, silly.”

“What are you on about?”

“You wouldn’t have had to call the doctor for me when I sang along with him, ’cos the doctor was already there.”

“What last night?”

“And yesterday morning, in fact the doctor took me to see him.”

“See who?”

“Harry Webb.” My mother sniggered again.

“Who?”

“Harry Webb, look it up on Wiki or Google it.”

“Okay, see you later, byeeeeeee.”

“Byeeeeeeeee,” I replied. I switched off the phone and looked at my mother.

“You are getting wicked, Charlotte. I’m sure that James would never have done that sort of thing.”

“James didn’t have a boyfriend like Simon.” I blushed as I realised the implications of what I’d just said.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said my mother stifling a grin.

“Ooooh!” I said and pretended to slap her. Thankfully she laughed. I went back to my magazine, I’d hoped to pick up some advice on makeup or hairdos but there wasn’t much worth reading. Some long article on the rights and wrongs of abortion, and another on dyslexia in cats. I didn’t know they could read, maybe we should get another one and see what sort of things they like to read. Mews of the World, I suppose. I chuckled at my own silly joke.

“I’m glad you’ve found something amusing in that magazine, what an extortionate price for a pile of glossy paper and vacuous journalism. I think we’ll get you a proper book for the return journey.”

“Okay,” I sighed, just ‘cos she was stuck on the Times crossword. She always gets tetchy when she’s stuck on it. I wonder if I’ll be like it when I’m old.

We finally got to London and left the train, only to go down to the tube station. I like going on the tube, whooshing around under the streets, although sometimes you have to stand because it’s so crowded. We went down the very steep escalators, keeping to the left so those in hurry can pass on the right. I held on tightly, because they are very steep and if you fell, it would certainly hurt rather a lot. Mummy told me she once saw on old lady fall and she had to be taken away by ambulance, the old lady I mean–not my old lady, hee hee.

Down on the platform, it’s quite warm and yet there’s a breeze flowing through the tunnels. When a train goes by you can feel the air being sucked by its motion. The carriages rattle and most are rather old, but today I didn’t mind that. I was wearing a denim mini skirt with leggings and my black boots. On my top I had a pink tee shirt under a pink hoodie. My hair was tied back in a pink scrunchie and I had a belt which sat more on my hips than my waist, this was in pink plaited leather with a gold buckle.

We got on the tube train and went off, passing through several stations. The names didn’t mean very much to me as I was busy watching a young couple who were practically making out on the train. They started by kissing and suddenly they had hands rubbing all sorts of bits of each other’s anatomy. I wasn’t sure if I found it offensive or enlightening. She had her hand in place which I’m sure Simon would enjoy if I did it to him. I found myself getting very hot as I thought that and Mummy looked at me watching the young couple and tut-tutted.

“I hope you and Simon don’t get up to such things,” she said and I blushed even more. How did she know?

“Erm, no, Mummy,” I said without looking at her, blushing even brighter red. I think if I’d got any hotter, I might have set off the fire alarm. Eventually we got off the tube at Oxford Circus and reversed the trip on the escalator, going up the long moving staircase.

“Why do they call it a circus, Mummy?” I asked hoping there wasn’t a big top nearby. I had horrible memories of the one and only time I’d been taken to the circus. I was about four years old and my parents thought it was a treat for me. In some ways I suppose it was, I almost enjoyed the animals and the acrobats, although I was anxious for the tightrope walker and trapeze artists–thinking they might fall and hurt themselves. Then, in came the clowns and I felt myself becoming frightened–I don’t know why, but I was.

We were sitting in the front row when one of the clowns came right up to me and terrified me. I screamed, and desperately tried to escape from him. Daddy got cross, calling me a girl, whilst those in the audience around us thought it was funny. I clawed my way free of the seats and ran off, out of the big tent with my father in hot pursuit.

I can still remember running out into the car park and my father scooping me up just in time to save me from being squashed by van. I was shaking and crying, and he was red faced and angry. He shook me, and shouted, “You silly boy, what were you thinking of?” I couldn’t say anything, except cry. Eventually my mother found us and calmed things down.

“It just means the road is in a circle,” I heard these words and jumped. “Charlotte, are you okay?”

“Yes, sorry, Mummy, I was miles away.” I blushed.

“A circus means the road goes around in a circle.”

“Oh, does it? So why do they call those horrible things in a big tent a circus?”

“I suppose because of the Romans, who called some of their amphitheatres circuses, because they had a round arena. The big top has an arena which they call a ring, so I suppose that’s what it’s from.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

“I thought you didn’t like circuses.”

“I don’t, horrible places with cruelty to animals.”

“I thought it was something else you didn’t like.”

“I don’t like any of it, oh look, there’s Next, can we go and look inside?” Before my mother could correct my English again, I darted into the shop pulling her along behind me. We concentrated on the clothes and soon forgot about circuses.

Soon it was lunch time and we ate in a Spaghetti House. I had minestrone soup, which was enough for four–I didn’t need a main course, although I did have some Italian ice cream for pudding. Mummy had soup too, without the ice cream–erm, I mean she only had soup, she didn’t want a pudding.

Back to the ordeal–yeah, she had to twist my arm to look in all these shops, I was in so much pain. Okay,the only pain I had, actually, was from carrying all those plastic bags full of shopping. I had a new dress, some cord trousers, and strappy top. She wouldn’t let me have the shoes I wanted–‘they were far too high a heel for girl of my age’–grrrr! I’ll buy my own some time. Mummy doesn’t seem to understand that we artistes, need to wear outfits that mark us out from the common herd–I had enough of that when I was a (failed) boy.

The shops have to close at four on a Sunday, something to do with all the shop assistants being able to get to a church in the evening? I don’t know, but by then we’d like, spent most of the day shopping, so I was ready to go home.

We stood on the platform at the station waiting for our train, and I was aware of some boy further along checking me out. He looked alright, so I must have been doing the same to him. We had eye contact and he smiled then looked away. He was interested, or should that be interesting? I blushed and kept looking at the rails as if they were going to do something interesting, or that my life depended upon watching them.

Actually, that’s not like, quite true. I sneaked another look and he was now staring at me. I was blushing profusely and waggling my foot to try and distract me, but his eyes were magnetic and kept attracting mine. I wasn’t sure how to get out of this.

I mean, like, if it was Simon, I’d like, tell him to like, get lost. But I’d never spoken to this boy and thinking of Simon, made me feel even more embarrassed–in fact, I was like being unfaithful to him.

“Are you all right, Charlotte?” Mummy asked.

“Eh? Yeah, why?”

“You seem to be having a hot flush”–her eyes followed mine along the platform and she saw him looking at me. “Oh, what would Simon say about that, I wonder, you floozie.” She scowled at me and then at the boy. He looked away sniggering. How do I know? Erm, it was a guess–gosh it’s like, hot on this platform.

On the train, Mummy insisted I sit on the inside seat, so that I didn’t indulge in any unnecessary flirting. “I don’t know, Charlotte, sometimes I begin to think you’re boy crazy.” She rebuked me and I blushed again. I wasn’t really doing anything, only exchanging glances. I’ll bet she did it. How do I know, Daddy, once told me that Mummy was a real flibbertigibbet, so I’ll bet she was a floozie, too.

On the way back, I sent a text to Simon: ‘On way home, call me l8r, C xxx.’ The boy from the platform walked by while my mother was in the loo, he just had time to drop a piece of paper on her seat before she came back.

“Was that the boy from the station?” she asked.

“Where? I replied, pretending to look for him out of the train window.

“He came past you a moment ago.”

“Did he? I was sending Simon a text, I didn’t see him.” I pretended to act as if I was uninterested, except I was desperate to see what was on the paper.

“We were going to get you a book, why didn’t you remind me?”

“Sorry, Mummy, I forgot.”

“I’m sure you did, too busy thinking about boys, I expect.”

“Mummy, I like, don’t think about boys all the time. I think about one, Simon, so there.” I sat with my arms folded looking out of the window at the passing fields, pretending to be in a king-sized sulk. The problem was, I was still holding onto the bit of paper the boy had dropped and my hands were getting all sweaty. Part of me suspected he’d probably written it in crayon, another part of me thought it might have cooties on it, so now I’d have them.

I picked up my magazine and after a bit of surreptitious manipulation, I managed to open the paper and read it. I gasped.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked my mother.

“Erm, Victoria Beckham has six houses,” I lied, looking at the paper again. I reread the message–‘my frend thinks you have nice tits:-)’ What a prat, he couldn’t even spell friend properly.

I closed the magazine on my covert message, I knew I couldn’t respond, Mummy would spot it, besides how would I write it without her seeing me doing it? I did run through some ways I could have done it, but I couldn’t really be bothered. Then I saw him alight at two stations before ours and I felt vindicated in not doing anything. This was especially so, after he made a vulgar gesture as the train pulled away, he pretended he was supporting breasts on his own person. Boys–I’m soooo glad I’m not one.

As we got closer to home, I began to think about Simon and Jane: how could two such different people come from one family. Simon was so nice and Jane, was such a psycho. I recalled my dream and her selling the photos to the man in the dirty mac. Was she that mercenary? If she was it wouldn’t completely surprise me, if she wasn’t it would be good.

“Charlotte, wake up we’re nearly there.” Mummy, patted me on the knee to bring me back to the real world. I wasn’t asleep, just lost in my thoughts. I was still dreading going to school, which would be in the next few weeks. Jane had the power to destroy me by blabbing my little secret. I had no retaliation even her prosecution didn’t really compare. She had promised not to tell anyone, but then she promised not to hurt me and did.

I didn’t know how important Simon was to her, because if it became known I used to be a boy, how would it look for him, dating me? I shuddered as I got in the car.

“Are you all right, Charlotte?”

“Yes, somebody just walked over my grave.” A stupid expression, especially as most of us get cremated when we die, but she understood it.

“Oh, what caused that?”

“I don’t know, Mummy.” I did but I couldn’t tell her.

We got home and I put the kettle on and ran upstairs to put my shopping away. We’d only been home half an hour when the phone rang, it was Simon. He would come around after tea, I told him we were only having a light meal tonight, salmon salad with watercress, home grown tomatoes and new potatoes with a pat of butter on them, scrumptious.

I helped Mummy make the salad, I scrubbed the new potatoes and popped them on to boil, then washed the tomatoes which she’d picked from the greenhouse earlier. The salmon had been cooked the day before, so we ate it cold. It was really tasty, Mummy cooks it with garlic flavoured sunflower oil, which she prepares herself.

As I helped her wash up, I did wonder if the garlic flavoured salmon could be antisocial, especially with Simon’s arrival imminent. Just before he came, I ran up and cleaned my teeth and used some mouth wash–at least I’d tried, hadn’t I?

He arrived at seven and asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I’d been walking all day, but there was less chance of being parentis interruptus, if we were out. We walked along the river, which is about half a mile from my house, we were holding hands as we strolled. There were quite a few people about, walking dogs and just out for a stroll like us.

In one spot, the path widens quite a lot and the council have put a few picnic tables, we sat at one of these. “I’m nervous about going to this new school,” I said to Simon. We were both sitting astride the bench seat, him behind me, his arms around me.

“I suppose anything new is a bit scary, but I’m sure you’ll cope,” he tried to reassure me.

“Yeah, that’s like, scary enough. It’s Jane, who like, really scares me.”

“I think she has that affect on most sensible people.” He chuckled, as he said it, “She frightens the crap outta me.”

“It’s that she could like, destroy me with, like, a few words.”

“Surely, she knows that, and what would it gain her?”

“I dunno, but it like worries me. Especially, as it could have an affect on you.”

“Me, how could it affect me?”

“If it like,became known I like, used to be a boy, then it would hardly do your reputation any good like, would it?”

“Oh,” I felt him pull away from me and my back felt colder where he had been cuddling me. “I’ll have a word with her, if she drops me in it, I’ll murder her.”

We both got up off the seat, and walked a bit further, we were holding hands but somehow the warmth had changed, I felt a distance in Simon’s attitude towards me.

“Are you like, going off me?”

“No, course not, why did you ask that?”

“You took your arm away,” I looked into his face but he avoided eye contact. He put his arm around me again and tried to laugh it off.

I stopped and turned to face him, “Simon, tell me honestly, are you going off me?”

“No, no I’m not. It’s just I forget–about your past–then you remind me, and it throws me a little. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know about it, but like I said, I forget.”

“I’m sorry,” I felt a tear run down my cheek. He saw it and pulled into a hug.

“Hey, I still like you, okay? It’s all okay, so don’t cry.”

Of course, telling a girl not to cry always has the opposite effect, and I bawled all over him. At the end he suggested he’d have been drier if he’d jumped in the river. That made me laugh.

He helped me clean up my mascara, which was supposed to be waterproof, but had dribbled down my cheeks a bit. I didn’t have a mirror with me, so he had to wipe the tissue under my eyes. In doing so he had to put his face really close to mine and I made life difficult for him, by lunging forward and kissing him every few seconds.

I loved being a girl, but getting the hang of relationships, was soooo difficult. At least Simon still liked me, least I hoped he did and he would help me, I hoped, to deal with Jane.

We got home and he kissed me on the doorstep. Actually, he kissed me on the lips, but I was standing on the doorstep. I went in and ran up to the bathroom and took off my makeup, before Mummy saw it. She gave me a funny look when I came back down. “Oh, Jane phoned, she’d like you to call back.”

“What? Tonight?”

“Yes, why not, it’s only ten, I’m sure she won’t be in bed yet, and I got the impression it was fairly urgent.”

“ ‘Kay, I’ll ring her now.” I dialled her number, and Simon answered. We bantered for a few minutes before I asked to speak to the poison dwarf.

“Oh hi, Charlie, look, a group of us girls are going into town tomorrow night, wondered if you’d like to come. It’ll be good, and you’ll get to meet a couple of girls from school.”

I hated being called Charlie, but I’d never tell her, she’d do it all the more. “Where are you going altogether?”

“There’s a new place opened, does a disco for teens on a monday, it’s supposed to be really good, lotsa dancing. There’s five of us going, six if you come.”

“What time?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go or not.

“Come to my house around six, we’ll all catch the bus together.”

“I’ll have to ask, hang on”–I went to speak with my mother. She agreed I could go. I had misgivings, but thought it better to keep her on side, and she had contacted me, rather than the other way round. “Yeah, okay, see you tomorrow.”

“Oh brill, yeah, later, bye.”

I had signed my covenant with the princess of darkness and it hung over me like a personal black cloud. Maybe, I’d have been better staying as a boy, I only used to get beaten up in those days. Now I’d be completely annihilated if it got out. No wonder teenagers get depressed.

“Are you all right, Charlotte?”

“Yes, Mummy, just a bit tired.” In some ways I was exhausted but the thought of going to bed and having more scary dreams didn’t make me feel any better as I trudged up the stairs.

~~~~~

Thanks to Gabi for more express editing and suggestions, some of which actually related to the story.

Charlotte’s Tale–part 17
by Angharad

I awoke feeling a bit tired–perhaps from my troubled sleep–thinking about Jane and the disco, or maybe simply tiredness from shopping the day before. Tired from shopping? I’m a girl for goodness sake, it must have been Jane and her perishing disco.

It was eight o’clock when I struggled down to breakfast, Mummy was seated at the table eating toast and reading the Times. I yawned ‘hello’ and kissed her on the cheek. She likes these little things, which James never used to do. I flopped down in the chair with a box of cereal and poured cornflakes into the dish, then some milk over them.

Mummy looked at me over the top of her paper, “You seem tired, young lady?”

“Yeah, I like, didn’t sleep too well.”

“Why was that?”

I didn’t really want to tell her, so I fibbed, a sort of half-truth, “I was like, thinking about the disco tonight.”

“You were so excited about it?”

“Yeah, I like, suppose so, trying to work out what to wear.”

“Oh, my poor little goose, you have so little in your wardrobe, so little the door doesn’t shut properly.” She grimaced at me.

“Well, I like, don’t know what to wear, I’ve only ever been to one disco and that was at the school. I like, had Simon with me then, now I’ve only got Jane.”

“You said you were going with a group of girls.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like, know any of them, do I?” My voice rose a little at the end of the sentence.

“Don’t get aggressive with me, Charlotte Church.” Now she was annoyed.

I felt like crying, “I’m sorry, Mummy, but I don’t know any of them, do I?”

“I don’t know who you know and who you don’t, but I do know it would be good for you to get to make more friends with the girls you’ll be with in school.”

“Yeah, I like, know.” I shrugged.

“So why the pout, Missy?”

“I’m nervous. It’s like, bad enough if I’d been born a girl, with the possibility that they could know of me from before, like makes me nervous.”

“There’s not much we can do to avoid that, unless we move to a new area, which would mean selling this house and losing the support network we already have. In your case, your friends, the doctor and Mr King.”

“Yeah, I like don’t ever want to leave this house, ‘cos Daddy built it,” that did it, my apparent tiredness and the sudden memory of my father, sent me over the edge and I started to cry. Mummy moved her chair around to comfort me, and she hugged me.

“It’s just you and me now, Charlotte, we have to support each other.”

“I know, I just like, miss him so much.”

“So do I, darling, so do I.” I felt her weep a little too and I felt rotten for making her sad as well. We hugged for a few minutes and felt a bit better. “You don’t have to go out, if you don’t want to, I’ll ring Jane and tell her you don’t feel well.”

“I can’t hide from them forever, can I? So I like, might as well, get it over with.”

“You’re such a brave young woman, your daddy would have been so proud of you.” I saw the tears run down her face and I started crying again. Mummy passed me a tissue and started laughing. “Look at us, red eyed and miserable, and the sun is shining, come on, get yourself dressed and tidied up and we’ll go for a walk.”

“Okay,” I smiled back at her, not because I felt happy but in recognition of her attempt to cheer us up. I would shower or bath before I went out tonight, so I washed and tied my hair back in a ponytail. I dressed in jeans and top, with my trainers and strawberry socks.

“What, no makeup?” asked my mum.

“No, I like don’t feel like it, today.”

“How about just some lip gloss?”

“Okay,” I went into the cloakroom and smeared some on my mouth–it sounds as if I didn’t care, I did. I did it carefully but in some ways I didn’t care, I suppose I felt down or depressed.

It was quite warm and dry, so I pulled on my pink hoodie, and we linked arms and walked away from the house. “The washing will be done by the time we get back,” said my mother.

“Yeah, I’ll help you to like, hang it out on the line.”

Mummy squeezed my arm, “I thought you might.” I could feel the love pouring into me from her gesture, and I had to sniff back a stray tear. She was an absolute brill mother, and I loved her to bits.

We passed one or two people she knew and we spoke briefly, but not for more than a moment or two. Then when we got near the florists, she led us in and picked up a bunch of flowers that she must have ordered. We paid and she carried the flowers in both hands. It was one of those done up in plastic stuff with like a bowl of water in the bottom.

“Do you want me to carry those?” I offered.

“No, it’s fine thanks, they’re not that heavy.”

“Where are you taking them?”

“You’ll see presently.”

I suppose we walked a half a mile longer and we turned into the lane that leads to the church. We don’t usually go to the church unless I’m singing, and after the Cliff Richard thing, it felt strangely quiet.

We didn’t enter the church, but walked around it, to the graveyard. We didn’t usually do this, so what was going on? She led me to a part of the cemetery where there were no gravestones, just little flat name plates. Then I knew.

In front of me in brass attached to a small flat stone was my Daddy’s name, his date of birth and that of his death. I felt the tears well up in me. I didn’t know he was here.

“Daddy was cremated as you know, I had the ashes interred here. I didn’t tell you before because you were so upset, but I think you ought to know now. Would you like to lay these flowers by his name plate?”

I took them from her and nodded. I could hardly see where I was going with tears and I nearly fell over once. I stood them by his name and took the old, dead flowers away. Mummy took those off me, and asked me if I’d like to be alone for a moment. I nodded, and I presume she went somewhere to dump the dead flowers.

I couldn’t get my head around the fact that a once, tall and strong man, was buried under a brass plaque about the size of one of the paving stones on our patio. I cried and told Daddy how much I missed him and when Mummy came back we hugged and cried together.

I don’t know how long we were at the grave, or what ever they call it, Mummy said, interment or inhumation or something. When we left, I was exhausted and I’m sure I looked a right sight. We interlocked arms and strolled home, this time without seeing anyone.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I asked.

“Charlotte, I’m sorry, but I had to deal with my own grief before I could help you with yours. I hope you understand?” I didn’t, but nodded anyway. I know she would only do what she thought was in my interest, so I had to believe her.

Back at the house, we sorted the washing and put in the second load, or Mummy did, I hung the clean stuff out on the line. It wouldn’t take too long to dry.

After lunch, Mummy suggested I take a nice luxurious bath, she even let me use some of her bath oil, not the cheapo Dove stuff I use, but Estee Lauder. It smelt absolutely gorgeous and frothed up a treat. I got in the water and once I dealt with the shock of sitting in hot water, I lay back and enjoyed it. I certainly didn’t think of England, because ten minutes later I was fast asleep, if it took that long.

I woke up coughing and spluttering. Must have slipped down the bath and got a mouthful of water–not so nice, but as no damage was done, I could see the funny side of it. The water was getting cooler, so I reckoned I’d probably been in there half an hour. As the bath emptied, I showered, washing my hair and rinsing off the bubbles from the bath oil. When I dried, my skin felt so soft, it was really gorgeous, Simon would have liked touching it, and I suspect I’d have liked that too. I became aware that my nipples were standing up and I felt myself blushing. Silly, no one could see me, but I was becoming aware of my body and I didn’t really want anyone to see me, except maybe Simon.

I examined my breasts in the mirror, they were growing a bit, still only an A cup, but I was only thirteen, and might be considered a late starter in the boob department, having taken the pills for only six months. I wasn’t complaining, Jane wasn’t much bigger, and it was amazing what I could achieve with a booster bra and some creative use of padding.

I dried my hair and decided I’d put it up. If we did much dancing it would get rather warm and I didn’t want sweaty hair; after a while it smells and it’s not very comfortable, let alone elegant. Elegant, me? Ha, that’s a word Mummy would use, me, I’d rather be kewl. Elegance is for old ladies of at least thirty, kewl is for kids.

I dressed, a camisole top with my push up bra, shorts and my footless leggings. I thought I looked quite good, my shorts showed off my small waist and the contrast at my widening bum. I thought I had a nice bum, least Simon said I did.

I put on a bit more makeup than usual, eyeliner top and bottom, mascara, blusher to highlight my cheekbones and a darker pink lip gloss. I did my nails to match the lippy and waited for them to dry. It was five o’clock. When my nails were dry, I pulled on my black boots, they have a four centimetre heel and come nearly to my knees. I can walk a bit in them, so hopefully I’ll be able to dance in them too. I put on a few bangles and my wristwatch, some dangly earrings and quick squirt of smellies and I was ready.

Because she knew I’d be bouncing around on the dance floor, Mummy did a light meal which I enjoyed, then after a quick cuppa, I helped her clear the table and then pulled on my denim jacket and grabbed my bag.

“Have you got your mobile phone?”

“Yes, Mummy, and my lippy and my tissues, and my money, and my comb, and my compact, and my anti-gorilla spray.”

“Your anti-gorilla what?”

“Spray, it keeps gorillas away.”

“We don’t have gorillas within hundreds of miles of here, except the zoo.”

“Shows how well it works then.” I beamed her a smile and she smiled back.

“If you run into any problems, give me a ring and I’ll come and get you.”

“What sort of problems?” I suddenly felt uneasy, had she thought of something I hadn’t?

“Anything, from feeling fed up to having a squabble with Jane. I wasn’t being specific, just supportive. You did say you were ambivalent about going.”

“No Mummy, I said I wasn’t sure to go or not.”

“Yes, ambivalent, that’s what it means, you were vacillating.”

“Oh no, I don’t want any injections, thank you.”

“Sweetheart, I said vacillating not vaccinating.”

“Oh, that’s alright then.” She was just showing off with her big vocabulary. Unfortunately, I can’t get her back–I don’t know any big words she doesn’t. Still that would be cheeky, wouldn’t it, and she does do her best for me.

Instead of letting me walk, she drove me over to Jane’s house. Jane introduced me to Suzy, Zoe, and Chloe. She informed me we were waiting for Daisy, who was always late.

Zoe had shorts on too, but she was wearing sparkly tights and Ugli boots. Jane had a mini with leggings and trainers, and Chloe wore a checked dress which flared just below her bum, she had on boots with huge heels compared to mine, and she could walk in them. They were quite pointed in the toes and the heels were stiletto ones, I felt a mixture of contempt and jealousy. They were way kewl, but she was too young to wear them. Her makeup was a bit extreme as well and during the chatter we had while waiting for Daisy, she explained her boobs had grown when she went on the pill–the contraceptive pill. I was horrified. I mean I was taking the pill too, but I couldn’t say that, I didn’t want them to think I was that sort of girl. Chloe was fourteen already, but that’s far too young to be having sex–or was it all talk?

I admired Zoe’s shorts and she said she liked mine. I got mine in Miss Selfridge when we were up in town–she got hers in Next. I noticed her legs were fatter than mine, but then so she was all over.

The bell rang and Jane let Daisy in. I sat next to her in Jane’s Mum’s car. “Do you go our school?” she asked me.

“I’m going to in September.”

“You look familiar–you don’t sing, do you?”

“A bit why?”

“You remind me of that precocious cow who was on the stage with Cliff bloody Richard, I mean, who’d be seen dead with that old fart?”

I decided I wasn’t going to let Jane drop me in it later. “It was me.”

“What was?”

“I’m the precocious cow who sang with Cliff Richard, he’s a lovely man, and I’m really glad I did it.”

She blushed and spluttered, “You were quite good, actually.” After that, we didn’t talk until we got to the disco.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks to Gabi who interrupted her Burns Night to express edit this wondrous tale. A:)

Charlotte’s Tale–part 18
by Angharad

We danced as a gang, handbags pooled in front of us and I was actually quite enjoying myself, shaking it all about. By common consent we repaired to a table and drank some more of the cola which had cost an outrageous amount, so we made our drinks last.

“If we come again, we’ll bring our own,” said Daisy, who seemed quite free with her opinions, but so far this was the only one with which I agreed. I drank some of my cola and listened to the music and the occasional conversation when the music was quiet or the conversation loud enough to actually hear it.

“C’mon, Jane,” Daisy prodded her and they both went off somewhere.

“Where have they gone?” I asked wondering if Jane was cooking something up. Chloe thought they’d gone to the loos, though she used a rather cruder word which would have been common place in my old school — bogs. Was I becoming a prude? My reverie was interrupted by some boys asking us if we’d dance with them. We declined because we’d agreed as we went in that none of us would dance with a boy. Jane had given me a knowing look and smirked.

I drifted back into my dream state, I was actually quite tired–all the shopping yesterday and the emotional drama of walking with Simon and that bit with the boy on the train. Was I a floozie? I didn’t think so, but I’d have preferred to have had Simon here to dance with rather than this coven of Jane’s friends.

The music stopped and the DJ spoke loudly and clearly. “We’ve had a request for Cliff Richard’s Miss You Nights and not only that girls and boys, we have someone here who has actually sung it on stage with him. Perhaps, if we ask nicely she’ll do it for us.”

I went from semi doze to instant paranoia–this had Jane written all over it and sure enough when I glanced over to the DJ’s station, Jane and Daisy were standing there talking to him.

“C’mon, Charley, come and give us a song.” He called at me and I felt myself getting hotter. The crowd started calling ‘Charley’ and clapping.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” asked Zoe. I nodded unable to say anything.

“You’d better go and do it, Charley.” Chloe began to clap and call my name.

“Let her be, she doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to,” only Suzy seemed to support me, but then she seemed nice anyway.

Jane came up to me and grabbed my hand–now they knew who I was, “C’mon, girl, your public awaits.”

“I don’t want to do it, I haven’t warmed up or anything.”

“Too bad, grab her Dais.” The two of them pulled me towards the DJ.

“Is that right, you’ve actually sung this song with Cliff himself?”

I mumbled yes and wanted to die.

“Speak up, darlin’, they can’t hear you.”

“Yes,” I said and stared at the floor.

“What’s he like?”

“He was very kind and considerate.”

“Where did you sing with him?”

“He guested at a concert we were doing to raise money for Darfur.”

“So he’s a nice guy and you liked him?”

“Yes, he’s very nice.”

“Would you sing with him again? If you had the chance?”

“Yes I would,” I said realising that he’d now trapped me.

“Right well, he’s here on this CD and I have a mic here for you,” and before I could drop it and run, he said loudly, “Let’s hear it for Cliff and Charley.”

Suddenly I was faced by a growing crowd of people, all about my age standing round and clapping and whistling, what could I do. I froze for a moment then heard the music begin and closed my eyes thinking myself back to that magical night and my duet with a living legend. I heard his voice begin to sing and in my head he was standing beside me, facing me and singing to me. We’d rehearsed it enough for me to remember the words and the timing, which is crucial

Somehow, the DJ was able to mute the record on my part and I gave it a go, and this without any warm up or preparation. I paused and Cliff Richard came back, then we did the chorus together and then a line each and finally the chorus and fade out.

I opened my eyes and they were all standing there absolutely silent. Then the DJ took up his microphone and said, “That was absolutely brilliant,” he began to clap and the whole place erupted in applause.

“D’you sing much?”

“I used to, and I’m hoping to do some more in my new school.”

“I think you should, that was magic–everybody, let’s give Charley another round of applause.” I handed him back his mic and waved as I walked back to my seat and the remains of my drink–I was sweating profusely and although buzzing with adrenaline, I wanted to go home.

“See, told you it was her,” said Daisy to some boy who walked beside her. I was beginning to heartily dislike Daisy and began to wonder if I would now live in fear of two ‘Janes’ at my new school.

“That was really kewl,” said Suzy and squeezed my hand.

“Will you come to the loos with me?” I asked her and she nodded. Once in the cubicle I vomited and she knocked on the door and asked if I was alright. I told her I was–it was just nerves.

“Those two should have asked you first, it wasn’t right to put you on the spot like that.” Suzy was holding forth outside my cubicle. I wiped my face with toilet paper and flushed the loo. Then repaired my makeup, mainly my lip gloss and she offered me a peppermint. I accepted it gratefully to help take away the taste of the sick.

As we walked back to the table people patted me on the back and muttered compliments. It was okay I guess, but I’d have preferred not to have sung tonight. Another hour and it was time to go–I for one, wasn’t entirely sorry. I think it also meant I wouldn’t go again.

Back at home, Mummy noticed I looked a bit washed out. “Are you alright, dear?”

“I’ll be okay, I’m just tired.” I went to bed early without any supper–a rather unusual event for me and totally zonked. I don’t think I woke until about seven the next morning when I felt better but not entirely so. I was still worried about Jane and her malevolence.

I was lying in bed looking at the lampshade and thinking–well that might be a slight exaggeration–my mind was in drift mode and kept washing up on a reef called Jane or Daisy and sinking, or was the sinking feeling just in my tummy–I think they call it the solar plexus or something; funny that, I always thought solar was to do with the sun. Does that make me a sun belly?

Mummy came in, she was already dressed, and held a mug of tea for me and one for herself. I sat up and accepted the cup of warming fluid. “How did yesterday go?”

I know she wants me to make new friends and therefore encourages me to do social things, but I feel less inclined than I did before, especially if Jane is involved. I don’t know if it’s personal or just my hypersensitivity but whenever she is involved, I seem to be on the receiving end and it’s not very pleasant.

“It was alright, I guess.” I sipped my tea.

Mummy gave me one of those questioning looks which when I was younger made me ’fess up even if I hadn’t done anything. Unfortunately, it still had the same effect and before I knew it I was telling her about my experience in the club and being tricked into singing.

“That wasn’t very friendly of her and Daisy was it?” said Mummy and I nodded my agreement, my eyes brimming with tears.

“She’s like it all the time, even Simon is scared of her, he calls her a psychopath.”

“I think that’s just a sibling exaggeration, after all she was very kind to you that first day you met in the changing room, wasn’t she? If she was a psychopath, she’d have no empathy or sympathy for anyone.”

“They said Adolf Hitler could be very nice and so could Josef Stalin,” I challenged.

“I’m not sure where you get your ideas from, my darling girl, but comparing Jane with two monstrous mass murderers from history is something of a mismatch, isn’t it?”

“Only of scale and opportunity,” I offered back and she laughed.

“Darling, you have very cynical view of your contemporaries for one so young.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked back.

“Well you seem to think that all your friends have a sort of Machiavellian hidden agenda to embarrass or humiliate you.”

“Suzy was nice.”

“In which case why don’t you cultivate a friendship with her and keep Jane at arms length?”

“What’s a mackywhatever you said?” I had no idea.

“Machiavelli?”

“I think so?”

“Oh he was an Italian in the fifteenth century, in Florence I think, who wrote about political science. He was very clever and his ideas were about clever analysis and strategies of the ruling classes. Usually we use it in a derogatory sense about people being manipulative in achieving what they want with others being pawns in their games.”

“Oh,” I said still having no idea what she was on about, “does that make Jane a conniving bitch?” I said out loud.

“Charlotte, please; none of that street language here,” she said firmly then her expression softened and she added, “That about sums it up, and it seems your friend too.”

She finished her tea and said to me, “Why don’t you have a nice relaxing bath and get dressed and I’ll make you something nice for breakfast?”

“I’m not very hungry, Mummy.”

“Well go and have a bath anyway, I find it makes me feel better when I feel a bit down or tired–and you can use some of my bath oil.”

Her bath oil was very expensive stuff that Daddy had bought for her in Harrods, so that was incentive to get out of bed. I pulled off my jammies and ran the bath, adding a capful of the expensive bath oil to the running water causing it to begin to go all frothy. The scent of the water was delicious and in a few minutes I checked the temperature, gave it swoosh round with my hand and clambered into the warm, sweet smelling water.

I quickly washed myself with my flannel and lay back to enjoy the warmth and scent of the relaxing water. I must have nodded off, because Mummy called me to come down because Simon was at the door.

I jumped up, slipping on the slippery surface of the bath and went flying, landing on my back on the floor of the bathroom.

“Are you alright, darling?” called Mummy probably after hearing me thudding against the floor.

“No,” I tearfully called back, “I’ve hurt my arm.” My left arm was turning all sorts of colours and lying at a funny angle–it was also hurting so much I could hardly bear it.

I called for her and she came rushing up to the bathroom. Fortunately I hadn’t locked the door and she was able to enter and help me. I was now in agony. She wrapped a towel round me and called Simon to come and assist. He was there in moments and between them they got me up and into my bedroom. It became pretty obvious I had broken my arm and would need to go to hospital.

Somehow, they dressed me, managing to get a short sleeved blouse up my now rapidly swelling arm and some shorts on my lower body. I didn’t remember, Mummy pulling on my bra, but when I got to hospital I was wearing one. Mummy took me in the car, and I groaned and cried all the way there.

Some sort of doctor examined me, made the pain worse–I actually screamed at him at one point. I had some X-rays, which hurt like hell as well. After that, the doctor gave me an injection and I woke up with my arm in a sort of splint thing with a bandage holding it on.

It was still hurting although he had apparently given me a pain killing injection and I had some pills to take when we got home. They don’t put the limb in plaster until the swelling has gone down and that would be another day or two. I had to return for an appointment at the fracture clinic the next day. Wunnerful, I’ve only been in school five minutes and I’m off sick–boy, does it hurt–a deep nagging ache and my fingers are all black and blue. I wonder what colour nail varnish would go with that?

Simon came round that afternoon with a bunch of flowers, he’s so sweet. He also offered to kiss my arm better, which I accepted until he took hold of it in his hands and a pain shot through me and I jumped. He blushed and looked very guilty.

A bit later, he admitted he felt he was to blame because if he hadn’t come round I’d wouldn’t have fallen and broken my arm. Jane called by in the late afternoon with a box of chocolates. I wondered if she poisoned them but the cellophane stuff was still on them so I suspected they were safe to eat.

After tea–Mummy had to cut all my stuff up because I couldn’t hold a fork properly–Suzy phoned and that cheered me up. She offered to come and see me the next day after school. I looked forward to that and told her not to tell Jane she was coming. I think she understood because she just said, “Okay, I won’t.”

For the next couple of days we were back and fore to the hospital and once I had a cast on my arm, I could go back to school. It wasn’t plaster of Paris but some other stuff–and you can choose which colour. I chose a lovely rose pink one, which got me teased by Jane. “You’re such a girly, Charlotte. I’d have had a black one.” I thought that said loads about her.

I could just about dress myself now, although it was a laborious task and having spent ages learning how to put on a bra properly, doing it up behind me after butting my arms through the straps, I now did it up in front and turned it round then put my arms through. I know lots of girls do it that way, but it isn’t very elegant is it?

I could do most things, but cried off games and gym, being sent to the library instead where I did most of my homework leaving me free to do other things in the evening, like some singing practice in the garage.

Fortunately, I was able to just about manage to do my hair and makeup by myself so when Mr King dropped by having heard of my accident, I looked fairly presentable and able to make him a drink of tea and a offer him a slice of homemade sponge.

He told me of a concert that was coming up and asked me if I’d like to participate. It was called Angel Voices and was primarily about singing religious songs and anthems. There were two categories, solo and choirs and he told me to get in quickly because the early applicants would have a greater choice of works. I asked him to apply for me and I’d sing Ave Maria and Pie Jesu. Then we’d have to sort out some practice sessions, and he’d speak to my headmistress about trying to get me time off to go to the boy’s school to practice. Given they had a music room there with that special piano, I accepted his offer.

Later the next morning the headmistress sent for me. “I’ve had a call from Mr King.”

“Oh,” I said, she didn’t look very pleased.

“Why can’t we do your singing stuff here? Why have you got to go to the boy’s school?”

I related how I’d worked with Mr King and Miss Daws for several years, and as Miss Daws would be my accompanist I felt it was only right I should practice with her, and she went to the boy’s school.

“I’ll agree to this on one condition,” she said looking pretty pissed.

I nodded my understanding of what she was saying.

“You must sing something for an assembly here one morning.”

That stopped me in my tracks. In itself singing something anywhere wasn’t too big a problem–it was what I did. However, it would mark me out amongst my peers and that could mean I could be an object of curiosity or envy–either way for someone trying to adopt a low profile–it could be something of a drawback.

I agreed, on the basis that we would both choose what I sang. She also told me that she wanted me to work with the music teacher at this school, a Miss Appleby, who coached the choir and occasional soloist, “though I’m not sure we have anyone at present who approaches your apparent ability. I’d like the school to help you develop it and then we both benefit.”

As most school singing coaches were pretty rubbish, I wasn’t entirely happy with the idea, but I’d do it to shut her up. I was going to speak with Mummy to see if we could find someone privately, or even ask Miss Daws or Mr King. If necessary, I was sure we could always buy a piano and have someone come to the house. I might even learn to play it myself too. Yeah, I like that idea–play the odd Rachmaninoff concerto before breakfast and a Chopin after dinner–yeah, I could just see me doing that, though I suppose it would have to wait until I got this wretched plaster thing off my arm.

I suddenly had a horrible thought, I’d be wearing this stupid thing on my arm when I did the concert–oh joy.

Suzy was becoming a good friend and we occasionally met up in town on Saturdays, when I wasn’t either practicing or out with Simon, or should that be practicing with Simon. I won’t tell you what we were practicing, I’ll leave that to your imagination–as Mummy says–too much information.

One Saturday after I’d been doing my singing training at Miss Daws’ house I met up with Suzy in town. She wanted a new bra and I wanted to look at shoes–I had dozen’s already, well a dozen shoes, so half a dozen pairs. We were coming out of Sensual with Suzy carrying her little pink bag containing her bra when we bumped into Jane and Daisy.

“Well what have we here?” said Jane, “Our little lezzie friends.”

“What?” I gasped.

“Shut it,” Suzy snapped at her.

“Oh didn’t you know? Suzy here is our very own...”

“Shut your stupid gob, Astley,” Suzy said looking very angry.

“But then you should be safe enough, eh, Charlotte?”

I blushed and before I could respond with a suitable riposte, Jane and Daisy walked away, chuckling like evil goblins.

Suzy was shaking and her eyes were moist. I took her arm and led her to a bench nearby where we could sit and talk for a moment. “She’s evil, that girl and her snotty little toady.”

Suzy took a deep breath and said, “But she’s right.”

“What d’you mean?” I asked feeling like I was out of the loop on something.

“I prefer girls,” Suzy said, “So I suppose that’s our friendship over.” She made to rise from the seat.

I put my hand on her arm, “I don’t care, I like you as my friend, you’re nice.”

“You’re not scared of me?” she seemed surprised.

“Why should I be–I don’t think you’d hurt me, would you?”

“No, it’s usually me who gets hurt. Once other girls, once they know tend to avoid me. I had to leave my other school because of it.”

“I’m sorry, that must have been difficult for you.”

“Not really, Charley, it was relief to get out of there–name calling and other abuses.”

“I know the feeling,” I let slip.

“Oh, how was that? I thought you were thick as thieves with the poison dwarf’s brother? You’re not, you know, are you?”

I blushed and regretted my lapse.

“Hang on, Jane said you’d be safe with me–what did she mean?”

I blushed like an electric fire, my face was burning, “I have no idea.”

Suzy looked me in the face and said, “Why are you blushing–there’s something I don’t know about you that Jane does, like you didn’t know about me–did you? So come clean, Charley, what is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I spluttered.

“I’m sure Jane would tell me, I could always give her a ring,” to prove her point she brandished her mobile.

“Okay, I’ll tell you.” My eyes were moist now and I had void opening in my tummy. Bang goes this friendship.

She looked curiously at me, “You’re a boy, aren’t you?”

Charlotte’s Tale–part 19
by Angharad

“Can we go somewhere quieter?” I said very quietly still blushing, and Suzy looked me in the eye and nodded. I felt sick, now there’d be two who knew at my new school. Jane, who I first thought was caring and helpful was the most horrible female I knew. She knew I couldn’t do anything to stop her short of killing her. She had me over a barrel and her dropping Suzy and I into this mess was simply a demonstration of her power. She was a demon in schoolgirl form and I was beginning to loathe her at the same time she just showed me I was defenceless.

We walked, Suzy and I across to the little park in the town centre and sat on a wooden bench. I could hardly see my eyes were full of tears. “Would you hate me if I were a boy?” I asked her which I think caught her slightly unawares.

“I don’t think I’d hate you...” she replied.

“But you wouldn’t want to be my friend?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

I felt the merest glint of light ahead and hoped I could salvage something from this friendship. “D’you want the full story or the edited highlights?” I asked sniffing back a tear.

She looked at her watch, “I’m in no rush.”

So I started at the beginning and told her how my life had been up to the death of my dad, and how that had sort of changed things. I explained about the depression and the way my mum had helped me fight my way back to some sort of life and that Simon had been such a supporter.

“So, he like knows?”

“I went to the same school as him.”

“What as a girl?”

“I had to wear the same uniform as him.”

“But you were really a girl inside?”

“I didn’t know what I was back then, but I know that I’m a girl now and always will be.”

“You’re on hormones?”

“Yes.”

“So it doesn’t get hard anymore?”

I’d omitted the part about the glue job and explained about it and she gasped. “It’s all stuck up inside you?”

“More or less.”

“So Jane was wrong.”

I sniffed and looked at her. “Sorry?”

“She implied you were a boy, you’re not are you?”

“Not anymore.”

“You realise if she tells on either of us, we could be implicated by our friendship.”

“I spent the last three years being a pariah, you think that’s going to worry me?” I spluttered. “I like you because I think you’re nice. I’m not interested in you as a girlfriend like in boyfriend girlfriend, because I s’pose I like boys, but I’d like you to stay as my friend.” I’d made my play, now I had to wait for her response.

“You don’t like do it with Simon, do you?”

“Do what?” I asked then realised what she was asking. “Geez, Suzy, I’m fourteen, we kiss and cuddle—that’s all.”

“As long as you’re not a gay boy masquerading as a girl.”

“If I were, shouldn’t you be sympathetic?”

“Gay boy, yeah—pretending to be a girl, uh uuh.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Am I a girl?”

“I told you that already.” She snapped at me then when I sniffed, she added, “Crikey, Charlotte, you are so thin skinned.”

“Sorry,” I said in a minute voice.

“Look, I had a hard time in my last school. I found a girl who I had the hots for and thought she felt the same about me—she didn’t. She blew me out of the water. I’d spent years coming to realise what I was and trying to tell my parents and that happened. Dad was okay, he’d cope with anything...”

“Tell him you want to be a boy,” I interjected.

“Oh I did years ago, went all butch, only wore boy’s clothes except at school—he didn’t worry one bit. Mum nearly went crazy, I think she finally did when this girl I confided in told everyone. They all acted as if I was carrying some terrible disease.”

“I know that feeling.” I said quietly.

“Yeah, I guess you would.”

“So are we still friends?” I pushed the subject again.

“You need to ask?”

“I’ll take that as a positive then.” I held out my hand and she took it and kissed it, which surprised me, then she chuckled.

“Boys shake hands, women kiss.”

Not being one to dismiss a challenge I stood up and motioned her to do the same. As soon as she did I hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. She responded by kissing me on the mouth, so I kissed her back—just briefly.

“I think that means we’re friends,” I said hoping we weren’t attracting a crowd. Thankfully there weren’t many people around and doubly so because Jane wasn’t about.

“You sure you’re not lesbian?” she teased.

“I don’t think so”—I saw Simon in my mind’s eye and said, “Nah, definitely not.”

“Pity,” said Suzy.

“You realise that St Margaret’s has an equality policy, the headmistress told me when they accepted me.”

“Yeah, so you trying to tell me I should wear a gaylib badge?”

“No, I was thinking out loud, I s’pose. The only reason Jane gets away with it is because no one has the guts to stand up and tell the truth. If we did, she’d have no power.”

“And we’d only have enemies.”

“Not quite.”

“Okay, one friend in a thousand enemies.”

“You’d be okay eventually, if I came out as a transgender girl, there’d be protests from parents and threats to withdraw their daughters, plus I’d be at risk of physical attack.”

“Just for being a girl—duh?”

“No, for having a different route to being one.”

“That is like, so stupid.”

“Don’t you think I know?”

“Yeah, sorry. Look, I have to go, perhaps we can talk again soon, without Jane knowing.”

“I’d like that.”

“You realise you’re now my best girlfriend.”

“That must make you the same,” I teased back.

“You sure you’re not...”

“See ya,” I said and she laughed and walked off.

I told Simon what had happened when he came round that evening. “So you’re forming the Anti Jane Astley club, are you?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

“Pity, I was going to join.”

“But she’s your sister?”

“I’ve been aware of that for longer than you, but she never quite drinks all the poison.”

“Don’t do that Simon, I couldn’t bear it if you weren’t there.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere—not without you.”

I felt a warm sensation swirling round me.

“There’s nothing I can do, is there?”

“I could speak to Mum but the last time anyone did, my lovely baby sister, destroyed them.”

“Oh, I guess that would apply to my mum as well.”

“Don’t even think about it, she is utterly ruthless.”

“I thought she was my friend,” I said feeling my eyes tearing up.

“She has no friends only victims.”

“What about Daisy?”

“Not sure about her, she could be equally psychotic.”

“If she does this all her life isn’t somebody going to hurt her back one day?”

“Yes please,” he said and I don’t think he was joking.

“Simon, she’s your sister,” I almost admonished him.

“Don’t I know it.”

“What’s she got on you?”

“You really want to know?”

“Do I?”

“I’ll tell you seeing as you haven’t worked it out—I fell in love with someone...”

“Who used to be a boy,” I finished the sentence for him then felt the tears start.

“I think I’m going to kill her if she blackmails her own brother.”

“Yeah, but think what would happen if you did—the publicity would destroy several lives and the law would wreck yours. It’s not worth it, she’s not worth it.”

“No, but you are.” I said trying to hold back the flood.

“But I’d lose you,” he said and I hugged him so tightly he complained about not being able to breathe.

When our passions had cooled a little I asked him what we did.

“We have to play her little game until she slips up and we can do something to her.”

“Like the shoplifting?”

“They only recovered a fraction of what those girls stole, for all we know she’s running another ring of victims to steal for her.”

“There is no way I’d steal for her.”

“You’ll be the exception then.”

“You haven’t have you?” From the silence that followed my question it became obvious that he had. I was disappointed but then realised he might have done it to protect me.

I determined if ever she tried to force me I’d speak with Mummy and then the police. It would be my word against hers but I’m damned if I’m going to break the law for a cow like Jane.

After Simon went home, Mum spotted there was something not right with me. She must be watching for it because she seems to pick up on it very quickly. Eventually she prised it out of me.

“Let me get this straight: you were out with Suzy when you bumped into Jane and her friend Daisy and she as good as told you that Suzy was gay and then told Suzy she wouldn’t be interested in you, implying you weren’t all girl—is that about it?”

“I think she’s also blackmailing Simon because he likes me.”

“And he knows your history, so is extra vulnerable.”

“I feel like I want to kill her.”

“Darling, violence is never justified.”

“I’d feel so much better.”

“Until she caught up with you again—and she would.”

“Yeah, I expect you’re right, again.” But the chance would be a fine thing.

“Look here young lady,” she finished, I braced myself for a broadside. “You’re heading for real trouble if you’re not careful. If Jane has this capacity to cause you, Simon or Suzy real embarrassment, then you need to box much more cleverly than you seem to be at the moment. There will be an opportunity in the future to do something to stop her or she’ll make a mistake, that is when you take action not knee jerk stuff now. I’ll speak to Mrs Astley, who will doubtless be horrified, and if she tries to make you do something illegal tell me and I’ll speak to the police, but for now, keep your powder dry and make as many friends and allies as you can.”

“So she can destroy them all?”

“No, so that you will have support if she does try to pull the plug on you. I’ll speak to your headmistress who I’m sure will be aware of Suzy’s history as well as yours, so might be able to intervene if Jane does try something.”

“Goodness, Mummy, this getting ridiculous. We’re schoolgirls yet you’re lining up the forces of law and order to try and control things. She’s a fourteen year old schoolgirl not the mafia.”

“From what you’ve told me, she’s a very slick operator and you’ve as good as admitted you can’t stop her, so somebody further up the food chain will have to. I happen to occupy that position, but I can only react to what you tell me she does, except to speak with the headmistress. She is obviously a very clever manipulator and if she is prepared to include her brother in her list of victims, she is very ruthless indeed, verging on what I suspect is some sort of mental problem like a personality disorder.”

I shrugged and went to bed, it was now out of my hands, after I finally got my mother to understand. At least she’s on my side which is more than Suzy appears to have.

Charlotte’s Tale–part 20
by Angharad

I was sick of this plaster thing on my arm, but it had to be there for another two or three weeks, showering was a total pain as I had to put a plastic cover over it to stop water going in at either end. The only consoling thought was that if Jane really upset me I could whack her on the head with it. I saw it in my mind’s eye and smirked then saw my mother standing there arms folded telling me violence was never justified. She was right I suppose and boys are much more likely to use physical force than girls. It wasn’t really me, nah, I’d have to sing her to death. As I towelled myself dry, I imagined I was a siren luring her on to the rocks with my enchanted voice. Ironic, God gave me a good singing voice and I imagine using it to destroy someone, very Christian.

As I dressed for school, dreading an encounter with Jane or with double maths, which was a certainty and just before lunch too, ugh, I remembered I had to go and see Mrs Appleby the music teacher at St Margaret’s. I wasn’t looking forward to it being happy with Mr King and Miss Daws as my coaching team, but Mrs Emonds the headmistress insisted I did or she’d make life difficult in time off to sing. I’d also agreed to sing something for assembly one morning—just what I needed, to stand out from the crowd.

Breakfast was a bit subdued and my mother picked up on it. I told her I hated double maths. I didn’t really, I could do it, it just made my brain ache, I preferred English or history, but not French—nes pas. Chemistry was boring. In the boy’s school we got to do things in the lab—I suppose they were hoping we’d blow ourselves up or gas each other, here we stand around and watch Mr Steadman demonstrate how to do things, then write it up as if we’d done it. How boring is that?

Physics is a bit better shining light through prisms and so on, though the equations are a pain, like flipping maths. Biology’s okay as long as we don’t have to cut anything up—I’d hate doing that. So far we just seem to look at slides or at things through microscopes—that’s okay if boring after a while. I thought biology was the science of life, but everything we see is dead—duh—hello...

Jane is in the year below me so we only meet in corridors or the school playground at break times. If I see her, I avoid her. Sometimes she sees me and makes some sarcastic jibe at me, which I try to ignore though at times it really is quite hard. Sometimes I almost want to run away and cry and once I was so angry, I nearly turned and slapped her one. Fortunately, a girl in my class happened along and distracted me.

Suzy was in a couple of my sets—art and design, and English; so it was always good to see her and we hung about together at weekends if Simon was playing soccer. St Margaret’s had a soccer team too, but I avoided sport like the plague, and my broken arm gave me a out for the time being. Suzy liked sports but after her experiences at her previous school, she avoided changing rooms to prevent any accusations being levelled at her if her sexuality was made known. That made me really cross, but I suppose a thousand teenagers with seething hormones, meant all sorts of things were possible and probably happening under my nose and my naïveté meant I was oblivious to it. As I had enough to worry about, it didn’t concern me.

Suzy told me she’d spotted at least half a dozen girls she knew were gay, I simply gawped. “How d’you know?” I gasped one day when we were having a drink in Debenham’s cafe.

“You develop a sort of gaydar about it. You just know. I’ll bet you do it with other trans girls.”

“Me? I’ve never seen another one—least not that I know of.”

“Oh c’mon, Charley, if all these documentaries are true or the stories in the Daily Wail, there’s one on every street corner.”

“I thought that was paedophiles,” I said testily.

“Oh, could be,” she smirked as I glared at her. Fortunately she ended the teasing there.

I survived double maths—I’m sure it’s the school’s way of making us feel as if we’re living longer, because time drags so much; mind you, Mrs Blyton—we call her, ‘the Blight,’ could make anything boring. She has weird hair and looks a bit like Einstein but that’s where the comparison ends. I’m sure he wasn’t boring, she could bore for England.

After I gobbled down my lunch, I had a packed lunch because Mum was out with a friend of hers from school—she went to a boarding school—so I took some sarnies and crisps with me, I went to see Mrs Appleby. We’d met briefly before in music. I had to sit things out with my arm in a sling, so apart from noting me as the new girl, nothing was said. Later in music theory, I kept a low profile though I could have answered all the questions she asked, but some girl in the front who was supposedly good on a piano and thus teacher’s pet, answered most of them.

I knocked and entered when told to do so, Mrs Appleby was sitting doing some marking and drinking coffee. “Yes, girl?” she said looking at me wondering what I wanted.

“Mrs Edmonds told me to come and see you, Miss.”

“I can’t take any more piano students.”

“No, Miss, I sing.”

“So, I suppose you want to join the choir?” This wasn’t quite how I thought it would go and my blushing showed it. “Come back on Thursday, we do choir practice then.”

“I—uh—wasn’t coming about the choir, Miss.”

“Well what are you here for, you want to be the next Taylor Swift, I suppose?”

“Ah—not quite—I’d rather be the new Renée Fleming.”

“Who?”

“She’s an American soprano, sings...”

“I know who she is.”

I blushed wishing I’d not bothered. “I go to the boy’s school for singing lessons.”

She looked astonished and gasped, “Why?”

“Mr King has coached me for some time and Miss Daws has accompanied me for several years.”

She put down her pen and swivelled around to look at me. “So, you’re a soprano, are you? What have you sung?”

“Lots of things, Schubert, Handel, Gershwin, most recently I did a duet with Sir Cliff Richard.” I threw the latter in because she was beginning to irritate me.

“Rich fantasy life, have we?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Miss.”

“You claim to know Ron King and to have sung with Cliff Richard, how old are you?”

“Fourteen next month.”

She laughed in my face, “Who set you up to see me, not Andrea Garfit, was it?”

“I’m sorry I don’t know who you mean, Miss.”

“So you still claim to be a soprano, eh?”

I nodded.

“Okay, sing something for me?”

“What now?”

“Yes.”

“But I haven’t warmed up or anything?”

“I’ll take that into account.”

I didn’t feel at all happy about this but I thought I’d better do what she asked. I started the Rutter, Pie Jesu, closing my eyes as I focused on the tune and the words. I hoped she’d stop me after the first verse but she didn’t so I had to sing the whole thing. I opened my eyes as I finished and she was sitting sobbing, tears running down her face.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I stood there blushing and feeling bewildered. I know it wasn’t one of my better performances but I didn’t think it was that bad either; obviously it was.

“I have to go,” I said deciding discretion was the better part of valour. “I’m sorry it was a bit rough.”

She seemed to come out of her dream and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, “Rough?”

“Yes, I’m usually better after a warm up.”

“If that was rough, I’d love to hear you sing it properly. You have quite a talent, child.”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you didn’t like it.”

“Like it, I loved it. I’m sorry I didn’t let you warm up but we have one or two prima donnas here every year, most of whom don’t know a crotchet from a minim. What’s your name.”

“Charlotte Church, Miss.”

“Very funny, now what’s your name?”

“That is my name, but I sing under the name of Christine Monk.”

“I thought she had dark hair and was taller than you?”

“I—er—dyed my hair and was wearing heels.”

“At the Amnesty concert?”

“Yes, Miss, that was me.”

“You really did duet with Cliff Richard?”

“Yes, Miss.”

She shook her head, “And Ron King is coaching you?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Pity, I’d loved to have worked with someone who could really sing, instead I get stuck with a bunch of girls who have no idea.”

“Perhaps I could help you with your choir, I’m sure some of them could learn.”

“You’d better go or you’ll be late for your first lesson, thank you, Christine.”

“Yes, Miss.” I dashed off to sit and listen to Mr Steadman talking about chemistry which is even more boring than watching him doing it in the lab. I felt confused about what I was supposed to do about singing here. Okay, I had Mr King and Miss Daws for external stuff, but Mrs Edmonds said she wanted me to sing for assembly. If she says anything, at least I can say I saw Mrs Appleby. I wasn’t sure how I felt about her crying at my rendition of the Rutter, perhaps she’s not well or very stressed or something. I don’t think I’d want to teach for a living, and certainly not music.

After chemistry came French and then history. Finally something I enjoyed learning about. Mind you, I suspect Mrs Altman was there when William of Normandy invaded, she’s as grey as a Brillo pad and has longer whiskers than Father Christmas. The girls all laugh at her but she loves her subject and knows it really well. It’s just rather sad she can’t teach it, so I learn it from the text book and on the internet and other books. Perhaps I’ll become a historian when I’m not singing—nah, I’m going to wow them like Katherine Jenkins does.

I walked home trying to ensure I didn’t meet with Jane or Daisy—Bellis perennis, according to my wild flower book, daisy that is. I thought I’d escaped them both when the suddenly appeared at the end of my road—well the road our house was in. “Oh look, Daisy, it’s a boy in skirt.”

I was determined not to cry nor to aggravate the situation. “Jane, Daisy,” I said even though I’d heard her remark about me.

“We were just looking for you,” said Jane.

“Sorry, got to dash, I’ve got singing practice.”

“This won’t take a moment,” said Jane.

“I haven’t got time,” I walked past her, I was genuinely late.

“Pity, tomorrow everyone will know your name is really James and you’re a boy.”

I stopped and turned to face her. I clenched my hands into fists, I really wanted to hurt her.

“Why are you doing this, I thought you were my friend?”

“Of course, if you do as I want, I won’t tell a soul.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“It gets things done.”

“What d’you want?”

“I want you to steal something for me.”

“Sorry, don’t do that.”

“Okay, James, honest but stupid.”

I felt tears fill my eyes and my hands were hurting where my nails were digging into the palms of my hands. I so wanted to hit her—no—to kill her, to watch her die. Instead I turned away, and walked silently to my house. Tomorrow my little world was going to fall apart, but I wasn’t going to steal for her or anyone.

Charlotte’s Tale–part 21
by Angharad

I slumped into the house and my mother came out of the kitchen as I did so. “What’s the matter, darling?” she asked but I didn’t want to talk, I was too upset. I ignored her and went up to my room and shut the door.

Thinking back to the day which had precipitated this whole business and what I failed to do then—I’d failed. If only I’d killed myself then none of this would have happened, possibly even my dad would still be alive and they could have been there for each other, my parents that is. Obviously, that was the solution, I had to die. If Jane did expose me to all and sundry tomorrow, I might as well be dead because I really would be a pariah and the friends I was beginning to make, like Suzy, would all be gone. Even if they still wanted to be friends, they’d suffer by association.

I’d leave a note blaming Jane as the cause of my demise saying that I’d opted not to accede to her blackmail and commit crimes. I’d wait for my mother to go to bed and then I’d do it. Before then, I’d say goodbye to Suzy, she’s been nice to me and I’d like to say goodbye, but without it sounding final in case she twigs what’s going on.

“Charlotte, what’s wrong?” asked my mother knocking on my door and barging in.

“Nothing, why?”

“You ignored me downstairs.”

“Sorry, was thinking about something.”

“What was so all consuming you went temporarily deaf?”

“Oh I went to see Mrs Appleby.”

“Who’s she?”

“The music teacher.”

“And?”

“She asked me to sing for her.”

“Just like that?”

“Well no, not quite, she asked what I wanted as she didn’t recognise me. When I told her she didn’t believe me and made me sing for her. Then she cried when I did.”

“She cried?”

“Yeah, I did Rutter’s Pie Jesu.”

“Didn’t she like it?”

“It wasn’t my best rendition, but she said it was okay, then she wouldn’t believe my name and then she wouldn’t believe it was me who sang in the Amnesty concert with Cliff Richard. I told her I was disguised and finally she believed me.”

“So what happens next?”

I shrugged, “I dunno, Mummy, she started crying and I had to go to Chemistry.”

“Perhaps I’ll ring her tomorrow and see how she is.”

“Dunno, Mummy, that tends to complicate things.”

“Really?”

I nodded, besides she might be a bit busy tomorrow when she finds me.

“Are you off to singing practice tonight?”

“Nah, I’m not going tonight.”

“Have you told Mr King?”

“No, I forgot.”

“Then you’d better go and do it.”

“Can’t you, Mummy—tell them I’m not well.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Just don’t feel much like singing,” I shrugged.

“Why don’t you want to sing—you love to sing.”

“Not tonight I don’t—all right?”

“Now tell me what’s really wrong.”

“Nothing, all right?”

“Charlotte, I know you inside out—there is something worrying you. As your mother I feel I have a right to know, because if I can help you know I will. Now what is bothering you?”

I felt my eyes brimming with tears, “You can’t help me, nobody can.” Then I lost it and burst into tears and she hugged me.

“Please tell me,” she pleaded as I cried in her arms.

“I love you, Mummy and I don’t want to die.”

“Die? Why should you die, sweetheart? You’re not going to die.”

“I have to, it’s the only way out of this mess.”

“What on earth could be so bad that...Oh, somebody in school knows about you?”

I nodded.

“Okay, I’ll speak to the headmistress.”

“No, it’s Jane, she’s going to tell everyone—I just can’t cope with it. I’d rather be dead.”

My mother hugged me and stroked the back of my hair and neck, “Hush now, I’ll speak to her mother, I’m sure she’ll be able to stop her.”

“You won’t, she’s evil.”

“She’s certainly a troubled young woman but I’m sure we can stop her.”

“You won’t—unless you kill her. That’s why I have to die, Mummy.”

“Charlotte, listen to me. No one has to die. This is perfectly soluble without anyone getting hurt. Now tell me what did Jane say to you?”

“She threatened me with telling everyone my real name was James and I was a boy, she wanted me to steal for her but that just gives her more power over me, so I refused.”

“That was very brave of you, my darling girl. Come and have a cup of tea and dry your eyes and I’ll speak with Myrna Astley.”

She arranged to go and see Jane’s mum and made me go to my singing practice while she did so, presumably because she knew I’d be safe with Mr King and Miss Daws. Worse still, I had to go in my school uniform—to my old school—I hope no one recognised me.

They didn’t and it soon became obvious to Mr King that something was bothering me as my timing was all off and my voice was total rubbish. “What’s up with you tonight, Charlotte?”

“Dunno, sir.”

“You’re not on?” are you asked Miss Daws quietly.

“What?” I gasped when I realised what she’d asked.

“I just wondered, you’re so normal as a girl and it does affect some people’s voices.”

“No—okay, I’ll tell you.” I sat down and told them about my fear of Jane Astley and what a crazy she was. I told them of her threat to expose me unless I shoplifted for her and that I’d refused and now awaited the disaster tomorrow was bound to be.

Miss Daws looked appalled and I thought old Kingy was about to blow a fuse. I’ve never seen him appear so angry. “We’ll see about that,” he said and stormed off.

“Where’s he gone?” I asked Phyllis Daws who looked at me and shrugged.

He returned some fifteen minutes later. “I’ve spoken to your headmistress and I’m going to see her as soon as I’ve taken you home, Charlotte. This sort of thing is totally unacceptable.”

When I got home, my mother’s car still wasn’t there and I did think if I hurried I could just about kill myself while the garage was empty. But the more I thought about it, the less I could do it. I was all my mother had. If I died she’d have no reason to live either and I couldn’t do that to her. I’d just have to cope with whatever Jane did or said.

I boiled the kettle and sat in the kitchen. I tried to start my homework but I couldn’t concentrate and then—Mummy came in and woke me up. I’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table. My head was pounding and Mummy told me to go to bed but I needed to know what she’d done.

“I had a most interesting conversation with Jane’s mother. Jane was out so she called Simon in and after pretending he didn’t know what we were on about he told his mother just what Jane was up to. She’d even blackmailed him into stealing for her. Mrs Astley was shocked. She searched Jane’s room and found all sorts of stuff that shouldn’t be there. She called the headmistress and then the police.”

“The police?” I gasped.

“Yes and I agreed with her. We arranged to meet at the school where Ron King was already talking to Mrs Edmonds, they know each other quite well apparently. The upshot was, Jane has been suspended and pending police enquiries facing charges about theft and conspiracy to steal. She’s likely to end up being sent to a juvenile facility.”

“Won’t that just make her worse?”

“I don’t know, darling, but at least she’ll be out of your hair for a year or two.”

“Yeah bearing a grudge the size of Australia, she’ll probably kill me the next time we meet.”

“Hopefully she’ll get some therapy while she’s away.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

She looked at me then said, “I don’t know, probably not, besides I think she’s got something inside that pretty little head that is very twisted.”

I eventually went to bed but didn’t sleep much all night and wondered if I could go sick. I was told I was going—end of discussion. I quickly called Suzy and told her what I knew.

“Crikey Charlotte, are we going to be free of her?”

“I don’t know, I’m not holding my breath, and the delightful Daisy was with her when she threatened me.”

“Has anyone stopped her?”

“Who? Daisy?”

“Yes—if she’s still in school, she might be Jane’s contingency plan.”

“Oh no, what shall I do?” I felt tears running down my face.

“I don’t know, girl friend, but I’ll be there for you—like always.”

“Thanks but is that a good idea—for your reputation I mean?”

“I’m getting used to it, besides I hope you’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?”

“I would, absolutely.”

“Well then, see you later.”

I couldn’t face breakfast and managed to drink some milk instead. Even then I was sick and had to go and brush my teeth. Mummy made me do my hair before we left because it was such a mess, but I really didn’t care. Nobody was ever going to look at me again anyway.

When I was in school people kept coming up and asking if I was okay. So I must have looked rough. I kept searching for Suzy or Daisy the former for support and the latter for wondering when the bomb would drop.

I caught up with Suzy in between lessons. Usually she’s so neat and tidy but today her tights were laddered and she had a small tear in her skirt and some scratches on her face. “What happened to you?”

“I’ll tell you later.” She hurried off before I could find out what she meant.

There was no sign of Jane but then she’d been suspended anyway. At lunch, I caught up with Suzy. She’d managed to change her tights and tack the small tear in her skirt. “What happened?” I asked.

“Shall we say I happened to bump into a certain garden weed and persuaded her to keep her precious petals closed or she might end up on the compost heap.”

I looked at her for a moment—weed, eh? Then the penny dropped. Weed = daisy = Daisy, Jane’s friend.

“I haven’t seen her all morning.”

“I think she decided to stay home this morning.”

“She decided?”

“Well I might have helped her a bit.”

“You fought her?”

“Shall we say my powers of persuasion took a moment or two to take effect and she then agreed with me.”

“What if she tells the school you hit her?”

“I’ll say she started it and I just defended myself.”

“Thank you.” I hugged her and pecked her on the cheek.

“You sure you’re not...?”

“No.”

“Pity.” We hugged again and got some lunch.

After lunch I was sent for by the headmistress, my mother was there as well. I felt like I was a laboratory specimen. “Charlotte, none of us had any idea that Jane Astley was up to her old tricks again and was even worse this time around. Neither were we aware that she had a whole group of victims who she had doing illegal things for her. Thank you and your mother for bringing it to our attention. As the police are involved, I can’t tell you any more other than you should never have to fear her in this school again as I’ve set in chain a move to have her permanently excluded.”

“You can’t stop her or Daisy revealing my secret, can you?”

“Daisy hasn’t appeared in school this morning, it appears she slipped and fell on the way to school and bruised her face. I’m seeing her and her mother tomorrow and I shall make it quite clear that we have a policy of equality and diversity here and that means we accept and protect transgender and gay students and any discrimination shown by other students could result in suspension or exclusion.

“I’m sure it’s been a very trying day for you, so I’m letting you go off early with your mother, but you are not to worry, we’ll do all we can to protect you. Oh, Mrs Appleby suggested I ask you to perform Pie Jesu in assembly one day. She thinks very highly of your singing. Perhaps when things calm down, we could discuss it?”

I agreed but only to get out of her office.

“Okay, sweetheart?” asked my mother as we drove home.

“What’s going to happen to Jane?” I still felt her shadow around me.

“That’s for the law to decide, her mother has assured me that she will not be allowed to threaten or contact you—but Simon is still allowed to see you.”

“That’s good,” I said smiling more than I felt.

“What happened to Daisy?”

“Mrs Edmonds said she fell over coming to school.”

“Not helped by one of your friends was it?”

“Oh I doubt it, none of them are into gardening as far as I know.”

“Gardening? Daisy—oh yes, very funny.”

I just sat there and smirked.

Charlotte’s Tale–part 22
by Angharad

I had thought if I kept quiet, Mrs Appleby would forget about me singing in assembly, alas she didn't. I found later that both she and Mrs Edmonds the headmistress, had memories of which an elephant might be proud. So about a month later, I had several practice sessions with Mrs Appleby on the Rutter Pie Jesu, she was much tougher than Mr King ever was, and then I had to sing it in assembly. I was like a jelly, it would point me out as being different which was the last thing I needed, but after assembly loads of girls came up to me and told me they wished they could sing like me. Suzy was especially effusive in her praise telling me quietly that no boy could sing like me. I didn't argue with her even though I could, it would serve no purpose would it and she was trying to tell me that she completely accepted me as another girl. She is still my best friend and she has found a group of girls who like girls and seems to be growing in confidence.

I still train with Mr King and Miss Daws for concerts and things provided I do equal amounts of practice with Mrs Appleby, the upshot is I get singing tuition twice as often as before and I would say my singing is even better than it was. I won a prize in one concert I did, it was presented by the Charlotte Church who told me quietly, "Keep in touch I may know an agent who can help you." We exchanged email addresses and she's already told me I was probably better at my age than she was. That is quite a compliment.

So what happened to Jane? I don't know the fine detail only what I pick up and what Mummy tells me. It seems she was running a group of twenty girls mainly and the odd boy, who was shoplifting to order, she had a fence who would pay her and shift the goods they stole. They all received cautions except Jane and the fence woman, who had a couple of second-hand and discount-type stores, which was how she shifted the stuff. Of course she tried to wriggle out of it by say she bought things from all sorts of people like a pawn shop, I always thought porn was about dirty pictures of nude women or doing naughty things with men, I didn't know it was about buying things from people who were on their uppers.

Anyway, Jane was given a psychological assessment and she tried umpteen times to say I was the one needing assessment and I was the brains behind it all. Simon and his mother gave evidence against her and my mum was brilliant in defending me against her slurs. Apparently, she has a personality disorder, where she dissociates from other people and feels justified in manipulating them or exploiting them. She is quite bright but ruthless.

I became quite scared that once she got out of wherever they sent her she'd try to do me some harm and reading that trans girls are quite frequently attacked and murdered, made me doubly scared. Suzy was helpful and kept me calm, she also told my mum and she reassured me that it was quite rare and that no one would know I wasn't a natural girl.

We go to visit Dad's grave about once a month and take flowers or a plant to leave there, I also tell him about what I've been up to in school or with my singing. I know he's not there really, just a pile of ashes that he once was, but it helps me with my grief. Sometimes I go on my own and once or twice Suzy has come with me. She very kindly offered to share her own dad, he's a lovely man and he's told me to come and see him if I ever need to talk about anything.

I asked Suzy why she was in Jane's circle, she told me she wasn't because she had refused to break the law too, but she felt it was better to try and stay close to the monster and hopefully be able to react to any provocations that Jane made. She liked to have Suzy around because her liking other girls made her vulnerable and Jane liked to tease her about her sexual orientation a little like she did with me and my gender difference.

I am at last under the care of a psychiatrist who specialises in gender confusion, she's Dr Henley and is an Aussie. She referred me to a paediatrician who said my testes had to go as they were precancerous. Of course, the C word frightened Mummy and me and I had them removed. The doctor then told me as I was without a source of hormones, I'd need to have them prescribed, agonagle or something, means my testosterone source has gone, which means I am only taking a small dose of hormones, the same as a girl my age would naturally produce. Since they've been gone my boobs have grown much quicker and the nipples are bigger and darker and my hips are a bit wider, so my bum is bigger too. The doctor suggested I'd have breasts like any normal fifteen-year-old. I really need to wear a bra now like most other girls, Suzy thinks they look lovely but I try not to take any notice of her because I never know when she's just ribbing me or actually fancies me.

Simon did well in his GCSEs despite spending more time with me than his books, we are both very fond of each other. I know they say that teen romances don't last, but we're still together. I know he goes with his mum to see Jane now and again but we never talk about it. Mum talks to his mum occasionally so she keeps up to date about her. She was sent to a children's mental health facility and is supposed to be receiving some therapy, it's a secure unit and she received an18-months sentence. Simon doesn't think it's long enough but I hope they can help her. Despite what she threatened to do to us, I try not to bear any malice, especially if she was ill. Suzy is like Simon saying that she was evil and should be locked up for years. I don't know how long Suzy suffered at her hands, but she hasn't forgiven her, neither has Simon she really messed with him, thank goodness he was relatively unaffected, but he still hates her and any attempt to get him to talk about it, he refuses and changes the subject. Something I have learned is that girls talk, sometimes cattily, boys bottle things up. I used to do that but now I share with my friends.

Our school choir has come on in leaps and bounds since my solo in assembly, they all want to copy me and while most can't sing very well, there are one or two who can carry a tune and their enthusiasm rubs off on the others

I still don't like Chemistry but neither do lots of girls, double maths is still a life-shortening event, a study in tedium, but I learn enough to get by. Simon is good at maths so he often coaches me when I can't understand something, he demands payment in kisses, which is a price I'm happy to pay.

You're probably wondering about Daisy, the one who had a gardening accident, courtesy of Suzy. Her position was a little different to everyone else as she had originally been recruited with blackmail by Jane, but had then gone on to assist Jane even when she knew that Jane was compromising people. She claims she tried to stop Jane, but if she did I have yet to find anyone who saw or heard it. She got a suspended sentence and a hundred hours of community service, which she mainly did by helping elderly people in care homes. I hope they checked their purses after she been to visit - actually, I expect she would have been strictly supervised so temptation from the dark side shouldn't happen. She was also banned from communicating with Jane. She came back to school but within a fortnight she'd left and gone to a private school in the area. I haven't seen her since, not that I'd go looking for her anyway, she was a nasty piece of work so the further away she is the better. We think she left because a lot of girls were pointing at her and either laughing or talking in hushed voices.

The scandal was never raised officially so all we had was rumours which varied from Jane being sent away for years to hearing one of her victims had done away with her. I knew a bit more but told no one but Suzy. If the other victims were as afraid of her as me, the last thing they'd have done was kill her, she was too scary to confront. If she killed them, that would have been more likely, I really do think she was twisted somewhere and in trying to see it as an illness or a psychological problem I tried not to feel any malice towards her, actually it was more fear, I spoke to Dr Henley about her, who described the condition in medical terms and said it sounded like a personality disorder which are very difficult to treat, in which case she could be under treatment for years. All I know is she used loads of long words, many ending in ism and which lost me halfway through the subject. I thanked her but was little the wiser except learning that Jane was possibly incurable, meaning that she'd always be a threat to me and to Simon as well. Then I thought of how her mum must be suffering because this was the second time she'd caused trouble. Her mum had always been nice to me so I liked her. I felt for her though and suspected her husband may spend a bit more time with her and less time away giving her some support. Simon did say something about it but I was more interested in kissing his lips than hearing him talk.

We had a small wobble when his headmaster caught him walking me through my old school. He disapproved of me and of my relationship with Simon. He called him in the next day and told him that he didn't think it was appropriate for him to be dating me, another boy. Simon told him to get stuffed and that I was girl, and he'd date who he liked. The head threatened to suspend him for subordination. Simon told me and he was really upset about it. I told Mum who spoke to her friends on the board of governors. The headmaster was censured and one of them threatened to report him for transphobia, which could be seen as a hate crime, it was also seen as him interfering in a student's private life and censured for that too.

Apparently, 'Old fart face,' took early retirement feeling that his position with the governors was untenable, when Mum told me I almost offered to sing at his leaving do, she laughed but told me, no.

Mum was asked to go back to sit as a magistrate, thought long and hard before she went back and then it wasn't to the children's bench, which is the hardest of the various courts they hold and has the highest rates of burnout. She said she had done her stint before so they left her alone. She is a director of the company my dad founded so she has plenty to keep her busy, plus me of course, and my singing career. We live with the fact that anyone could reveal my origins to the press, but it's not as big an issue as it used to be, but that could change so we play it by ear.

So that's where I am, still singing, still dating Mr Wonderful, well, he tells me he is, and I have no complaints. School is okay, I suppose, except bloody chemistry, and we have to consider what subjects we might take for A level. Not chemistry but I may do English and French and of course music, Mrs Appleby, wants me to do it and to try to get to a music academy or even somewhere like Oxford who do degrees in music for sopranos - now that is worth thinking about or turning pro. Well, I must go as Suzy and I are going shopping then I'm meeting up with Simon and he's taking me to the cinema, apparently there's a new Tom Cruise film showing, he likes the action scenes and I just think TC is in very good shape for an old man and is nice to look at and I've been asked to take part in a Vivaldi concert, so I have a new piece to learn, prefer Handel myself, but it's good to put yourself about, oh, not in that sense, duh.

Anyway, watch this space you never know I might be asking you to buy my records before too long. Byee.