Chapter 1

I’ve heard it said that Bob Dylan intended his ‘The Times, They Are A’ Changing’ to be a protest song. The first version I remember hearing was sung by Simon and Garfunkel, and it sounded more like a ‘progress’ song, when sung without the nasal whine. The first verse that relates to the water rising until you have to swim to survive must be a metaphor for the reality of growing up and making your own way in life.

I’m getting ahead of myself. It would be too easy to ramble on about the vagaries of childhood and how it made one feel. Me, I just did what the lyrics told me to do, stay afloat and get on with it.

My life was a mistake, or so my father always used to say. A celebration of some award that caught my mother unprepared. As such, I was the youngest child, by far. My parents, Robert, and Constance Strickland were the core of a small, local, paper. It was called the ‘Patcham Times’, and had been started by his grandfather, at a time when Patcham was a small collection of houses, north of Brighton. He had originally printed it on a hand press, in his garden shed, but the printing was now done behind the office, off Crowhurst Road. It was purely a local gossip paper but promoted the local businesses and attracted a good number of advertisers, ranging from Brighton and Worthing to an extent of some fifty miles east and west.

Being a weekly, it never worried about the current ‘news’ unless it impacted the local area. It was there to keep up with local events, sales, shows, and gossip, and, as such, sold well enough to be moderately profitable. Dad wrote the reports on the local events, spending a lot of time out and about, while Mum wrote a cooking and domestic column.

We lived in a modest house on Wilmington Way, just big enough for us, if we remained friendly. There was, in my younger days, my sister Harriet, a good twelve years older than me, and in High School when I was a baby. She left home when I was five, having to get married, which was a good thing for me, because I got to take over her bedroom. Prior to that, I was sharing with my two brothers; Robert (eleven years older), and John (ten years older.) They were happy to see me move, as it had been a bit cramped with a single and a double bunk in the one room. Of course, by the time I moved, they wanted somewhere quiet, so that they could talk about girls and sex.

Me? They named me Conway, and everyone called me Con, until I was in High School when that became Connie. I suppose it was inevitable, seeing that I was short and slim. I was the one in the family that followed my mother’s gene pool, which made her dote on ‘her baby’. Seeing that my father was a workaholic, later to become an alcoholic, I was definitely a ‘mother’s boy’. She was a fantastic cook, so she took it on herself to pass her knowledge on to a new generation. I was instructed, as a matter of daily living, in the art of cooking, cleaning, washing, sewing, and mending.

By the time I started High School, I could have breezed through the cooking and domestic sciences. Seeing that I was shunned by the boys as too puny to bother with, I did gravitate towards mixing with the girls, and my knowledge proved to be my entry into their world. I became the go-to person when they were having a problem in the domestic science class. What they didn’t know was, that by this time, I was a co-writer of the cooking column with my mother. The fact that we wrote as ‘Constance Morgan’ her maiden name, hid me within her folds.

My brothers both left home. One joined the Navy, simply to see the world, and was lost, overboard, in an Atlantic gale. The other had married, and quietly emigrated to New Zealand. I always thought that it had been my father’s driven ways that was the reason they all left. He had become quite the man-about-town, and there were rumours of a mistress that reached my ears from the girls in school.

He died from a fall from a window, when I was sixteen, and the ownership of the paper passed to my mother. The window in question just happened to be in the bedroom of the woman that it was rumoured he was seeing. Her husband had returned from a business trip a day early and had been going back to his car to get his suitcase when my father hit the lawn, headfirst, just a few feet to one side of him. The police did tell us that there was enough alcohol in his blood to flambee a steak.

My sister had married well, into a family where divorce was a definite no, with morality a defining mantra, so she had cut ties after my mother had a chance to cuddle her grandson, just the once in the hospital. She had, oddly, left quite a bit of her old wardrobe behind. I hadn’t bothered to change anything in her room and had now reached the same size as her when she left. My mother always spoke about not wasting, so I was regularly wearing my sisters' old jeans and tees around the house. Nothing that my father or brothers left would fit me, so it had all been bagged and sent to the local op-shop.

Once I left school, Mum sat me down and told me that I needed to get a proper trade, and that she had enrolled me in a cookery school, close enough for me to cycle to. She took over the running of the paper and I continued to write the column as Constance. The sub-editor was tasked with getting the stories that my father had been writing, and we found out that he hadn’t written a word, himself, for a few years, so his passing hardly caused a blip in the content. For a couple of months, we moved in our new direction – Mum to the office, and me to the cooking school. Then I made a fundamental error.

I had been a bit behind with my column for the next issue and had taken it with me to catch up during lunch. I had taken a sandwich into school, and was in the library, eating and writing, when one of the lecturers walked behind me and saw what I was working on. I had to tell him that I was working on the column for the next Patcham Times.

“So, you’re Constance Morgan?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been writing parts of this column for about six years, and now write it all, with my mother being editor, she doesn’t have the time to do it.”

“No wonder you’re so good in the practicals. I’ve noticed you helping some of the other students.”

“The girls were at High School with me, and I used to help them with cooking tips, so it’s natural that they look to me to help when they’re having trouble. I’m sorry, sir, but some of the teachers are a bit fierce, almost like head chefs.”

“That’s because we’re trying to get our students used to dealing with dictators, young Con. We don’t just teach cooking, we try to give them enough backbone to continue in the business, without burning out. The only way you can be safe from head chefs is to start your own restaurant.”

“I haven’t thought that far into the future, sir. At the moment, we’re just getting back on track after my father’s death. My mother taught me all she knew about cooking, but she’s now running The Times. She was hoping that this course would give me enough skills to get a good job, so I don’t end up working for the paper. I do love cooking, though, it’s something I experiment with, at home. I can admit that a few things I’ve concocted have been terrible, but I’m filling a notebook with recipes that are mine. Perhaps opening a restaurant of my own isn’t so far-fetched, after all.”

He went around the table and sat in front of me.

“Now, tell me. You write as Constance Morgan and you’re sitting there in a girl’s tee shirt and jeans. Are you trans?”

“No, sir. I’ve never thought of it. I suppose that I do come across as a bit of a girl, seeing that my mother has been teaching me girly things since I was little, with the cooking just being one part. The clothes are because my sister left a lot of things when she married, and I’ve reached a stage where they fit me. Lord knows, nothing my brothers left behind could do anything but hide me like I was wearing a tent. They took after my father. I’ve never considered trying on the skirts and dresses Harriet left behind.”

“What about the hair and complexion?”

“My mother, again. We’ve been close ever since I was able to reach the kitchen tabletop. She is a stickler for looking after your skin and hair. It’s long because I’ve grown to like it that way. I suppose it’s part of my camouflage, hiding the puny weakling that boys want to bully. It all came from High School, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be afraid of what you are, Con. It’s what makes you the person you’ve become. The staff have been wondering why this particular class is so good, right from the start. The two guys are from restaurant owning families, but we usually get girls from High School who couldn’t toast bread, at first. Did you help all four of them??

“Yes, they were in my year. There’ll be a few in following years that I’ve helped. The older girls were too full of themselves to ask for help.”

“Would you be prepared to take part in a little experiment? It would only take up an extra lesson, about twice a week.”

“That depends, sir, on what you have in mind.”

“All right, I’ll level with you. Since the start of term, the practicals that your class have produced have been so outstanding, the Headmaster has been asked to try them. He’s been impressed with the quality, across the whole class. I can see that you don’t assist the girls, directly, and none of you assist the guys, but there is a level if talk between you that lifts everyone. The staff have been thinking about running an advanced course in experimental cooking, but, up to now, we haven’t had the quality of student to make it work. I want you to work, with me and a few others, to get the advance course off the ground. It would be all of your class, if they want to do it, and there are a few of the older students who could be able to keep up with you. It would mean you doing classroom study, once a week, on ingredients and ways to create a masterpiece. Then, the other lesson would be a practical, with you showing how to make things from your notebook.”

“So, if I get it correctly, we’ll be writing the course notes as we go?”

“That’s right. There’s just one other thing that we should discuss, before we see the Headmaster and get his approval. I think that it would help everyone if Constance Morgan was in charge of the practicals. Everyone, here, reads your column. It would give you a career as a teacher after you graduate, should you want it.”

“That’s a huge compliment, sir. I’ll talk it over with my mother, tonight. Will you be bringing it up with your class, this afternoon?”

“We’ll talk about the concept. It’ll be interesting, to both of us, to hear what the other girls think.”

He left me to finish what I was doing, which was slightly harder after he had said ‘other girls.’

That afternoon, at the start of our class, he asked for everyone to gather round and asked who would be interested in an advanced course of experimental cooking, with both theory and practice. We all said that we would like to do it. I told my mother what had been said that evening, as we ate the dinner I had prepared.

“They want you to be a team leader, but as Constance?”

“It looks like it, Mum. The name carries some respect, thanks to the years that you were writing the column. Our lecturer said that the entire staff reads it, and that the Headmaster samples our practicals. He’s a three-hat chef and he’s trying our cooking!”

“I’m proud of you, Con. Some of the other mothers have spoken to me about how you helped their girls at school, and it just seemed a bit far-fetched. If the school thinks that you could have a future in teaching, it now looks as if they were all telling the truth. This extra work would be just two extra classes a week, then?”

“So far. We haven’t got the Headmaster’s approval, yet. I expect that he has been spoken to, this afternoon. We’ll be likely to know more, tomorrow. There’s just one thing that I haven’t been able to get my head around. That’s doing it as Constance. I know that I’ve been wearing Harriet’s jeans and tees, but I’ve never touched the rest of her things, and I’m worried that they’ll all laugh.”

“We’ll worry about that when the approval is given. Those girls in your class might be able to help, seeing that you’ve helped them so much. They would be better when looking at what you have to pick from, and what you may need. Don’t fret about money, if this goes forward, we can afford some serious shopping time. You’ve hardly cost us anything except for school outfits since you became a teenager.”

“Thanks, Mum, I think.”

She took the finished column with her, next morning, which left me a week to think up another one for next week. I looked, more carefully in the wardrobe, before I got dressed for the cooking school. We did have outfits supplied to wear when we cooked but could just go casual for theory classes. I decided that I would try something that I never would have ever thought of, before.

There was a pair of red leather jeans that I had always passed over as too girly, and I matched them with a black polyester top and a pair of short boots. I’d never tried the shoes, before, so was surprised when the boots fitted, although I did have to swap my socks for thin ones I found in a drawer. I loaded my satchel with my notebook and other things, then locked the house and rode to the school.

When I arrived, I made sure that I brushed my hair, after I took off my bike helmet. In the class, the girls looked at me, but didn’t say anything at the time. The four, Penny, Maria, Jane, and Brenda, were all good-looking and had been popular in High School. I often wondered what they thought of me, or if they had just been friendly because I had helped them. The two guys, Charles, and Pete were friendly enough, but seemed as wary of being around me as they did with the girls. Both of them were engaged.

That day, I discovered something that altered my path in life. We had gone into the room where we usually did the theory classes, and our teacher walked in with the Headmaster. The question was asked, once more. Were we prepared to spend an extra two classes, each week, to look at experimental cooking? It wouldn’t be marked towards our course results, but it would be added to the overall assessment. When we all said that this was what we wanted, the Headmaster asked to see my notebook.

We all sat, quietly, as he browsed through it, smiled a few times, frowned once, then put it on the desk.

“Con, what you’ve written here is amazing for someone so young. There are a couple of recipes that I have seen made, but with different methods. You others, Con is a very bright chef in the making. As such, he will be the team leader with the advanced course, with other teachers helping out, to make it all above board. I will taste every dish that you produce in the practicals, and I’m looking forward to it. Now, there’s something that I’m going to ask you all, and it has to be between us, as the public knowing it would not help a certain person’s future. Do you all swear to keep our little secret?”

All the others were wondering what it was all getting to, but all agreed to keep it secret.

“Thank you. Now, Con has been experimenting with his cooking for some time, by the number of entries I see in this notebook. The notebook will be the basis of the terms work, and, as I said before, Con will be the team leader and take you through the actual cooking. If anyone asks who is leading the course, you will tell them that the leader is Constance Morgan, because that’s who wrote these recipes.”

The guys looked stunned, and the girls gave a little squeal and came over to me and enveloped me in a group hug. Then the two guys also gave me careful hugs. I had never, ever, been subjected to that amount of contact. Mum would sometimes pat me on the head until I grew to be slightly taller than her, then she would sometimes pat my shoulder. Neither Dad, nor my brothers, had ever come close to being affectionate. At High School, none of the girls would give me a hug when I helped them, I suppose that was some sort of peer pressure in regard to a girly nerd not being huggable. My very first day in definite female attire, and I had received more affection than my previous sixteen and a bit years.

The Headmaster left the room, and we got down to our theory lesson. Later, that morning, all we did was chop carrots, in the approved chef style that looks so easy when you’ve mastered it but takes a lot of concentration to get right without chopping the end of your finger off. The trick is to start very slowly, until you create the muscle memory, then you speed it up over a period of months.

We all sat together at lunchtime and the one thing that was on the girl’s minds was why I was dressed in such a good outfit, and why I hadn’t dressed like this, before. Penny wanted to know where I had bought the retro-look clothes.

“They’re my sisters’.”

“Wow, she’s got taste. I’d like to shop for things like those.”

“You’ll have to invent a time machine, then. These are things she left in the wardrobe when she got married. That occurred when I was five, so these would be more than eleven years old. I’d heard about fashion going around in cycles, but never thought that I would be on the leading edge!”

“You mean to tell us that you have a wardrobe full of vintage outfits and you’ve never worn them? You need help, girl, if you’re going to be our Constance. I know the guys won’t help, but I’m sure that our team will have you looking like a genuine Constance, if you want us to.”

“To tell you the truth, Penny, I only wore her things because they were better fitting than my own, and because I’ve been too lazy to go shopping for my own things. I really don’t know all the things she left. Today was the first time I tried her boots on, because I thought the rest of the outfit needed them. I was surprised when they fitted, and I have to say I feel good in them, a bit sassy.”

That got a laugh, then Jane wanted to know when they could come around and check out the treasure trove. Brenda then wondered if they might be able to borrow anything, seeing that what I had on was good stuff, and she could see us starting a trend. I realised that, as they were talking, I could see the bones of future Constance Morgan columns in my mind. Vignettes of teenage experimentation and filtered reports of our next couple of years before we graduated. By that time, we may have found someone else to keep the column going.

The extra lessons would start the following Tuesday, with the practicals on Thursdays. The week seemed to fly by, with me wearing various things from the wardrobe. I found that my sister had amassed a collection of slacks and blouses that would enable me to mix and match for the foreseeable future. The four girls, however, had other ideas.

We had arranged for them to come around on Saturday morning, Mum was planning a lunch, with a shopping outing in the afternoon. I had no idea of where the right shops were, so I just doggy-paddled in the ebb and flow of events, expecting that I would be well advised by my four friends.

Friends? That was a new concept for me. I’d never had a true friend, just guys who had said hello, then waved as they moved on to someone more exciting. I had never had a birthday party, and just had to make do with looking on as my brothers filled the garden with their school buddies. Since the group hug, I was coming to realise just how alone my life had been.

On Saturday morning, my bedroom was invaded by a bevy of beautiful girls, all with the first thought of what I had to choose from, and the second being what I needed to move forward. My initial thought, that I would be a faint impression of Constance was tossed out within the first ten minutes, all with my mother’s approval. When all the drawers that I had never bothered to pull open were inspected, I found that my sister must have carried very little when she left. Even Mum was surprised at what we found.

“That girl must have needed a complete shop-up on her honeymoon. It looks like the only things she took away was her wedding dress and her going away outfit. There again, she would have needed maternity clothes, and her new husband wasn’t short of money.”

Brenda wondered whether that had been the plan, seeing that if a girl doesn’t want a baby, these days, there are several ways she could prevent it happening, even if the man was from a family that didn’t believe in contraception. I couldn’t add to the conversation, having hardly known my sister.

After an hour, I was told that I had enough underwear, stockings, tights, and accessories to be all right until I developed my own style. The girls had sorted out the dresses and skirts, the tops and blouses, the shoes, and boots, sometimes holding things up to themselves in front of the mirror, and sometimes holding them up to me. In the end, I was told that there was only one major range of things I needed. That was new cosmetics, as eleven years had rendered everything useless, with screw tops locked and tubes like solid cylinders.

That, and the actual making of Constance, was all there was to do. We stopped for an early lunch, and then I was told about each step as they would take me from Conway to Constance. Or, should I say, the first version of Constance, as I was told that I would evolve as I learned to live with my new life.

That was a worry, a new life. In the tidal flow of my existence, I suddenly knew that it wasn’t any good treading water anymore. These girls were going to teach me freestyle, with Mum happy to throw me into the deep end. This coming week was going to be sink or swim, with today being just learning how to do laps. Like the chopping, the girls assured me that it just took a little time to learn the muscle memory, and I’ll be walking and talking as if I had been born to the sisterhood before I knew it.

Marianne Gregory © 2023