Author’s note. This story was originally written in 2004, and was posted in on a different website with another title and with me using my then current pen name of Richard Packer. It had over 6000 downloads there even though it was not the stroke story that was, and is, commonplace on that site. Searching through an old CD Rom I found myself enjoying re-reading my story and felt that with some minor work it could be made available for a Big Closet audience to enjoy. Obviously, the amount of French written could be increased considerably, but I hope I have the balance right to keep the dialogue in English for the most part with a scattering of French words and phrases.

This is the result. I hope you will enjoy it.
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Why do all airport lounges look the same? Industrial carpet lit by hundreds of fluorescent strip lights and drinks from machines at exorbitant prices. Weary people slump on unyielding plastic seats trying to fill time until their flights; trying to stop the kids from killing each other or pacing aimlessly round the duty-free shops.

Not so with us - even though it was 5am, adrenalin kept things moving. We had been up since midnight, met in the rugby club car park and had been taken by coach to Manchester airport for an early flight to Carcassonne in the Languedoc in southern France.

Who were we? Well, we were 18 members of a Welsh youth Rugby Union team with our coach/manager Mr. James - that is Fred to the parents and 'boss' to us. There were also a couple of mums to keep everyone clean, happy and healthy and Fred's daughter Janis who was about to finish her B.Sc. degree in Sports Physiotherapy at Loughborough University. We rather looked forward to her laying her hands on us - you know, to ease those troublesome groin strains!

The team looked good - Blue blazers with team badge, team tie in blue and cream stripes (our strip colours), grey trousers and black polished shoes - the team travel kit in other words. We looked a bit more together than the average traveller at that hour of the morning, although the ties were already at half-mast on some of forwards whose bull necks didn't take kindly to collars and ties.

Why were we there? Oh, didn't I say? Well we had won our league in the Under-16s Competition during the winter and one part of the prize was a series of fixtures against youth teams in the Rugby playing part of France which occupies Perpignan right round the coast to Narbonne and Montpellier.

Why 18 of us? 15 made up the first team and three reserves who would play in the 7's tournament, but not otherwise unless there was injury amongst the first choice players.

Who am I? The name's is Aiden, by the way. I was reserve three-quarter and had a couple of months to go before my sixteenth birthday. Generally on the left wing but capable of filling in wherever. I hoped to make full-back eventually, but at 5 foot 6 inches I was just too small, and anyway - there wasn't as vacancy at the moment! Josh - blue-eyed, blond haired and six-two was likely to remain in post for some time to come before he could entered an adult team.

I had had to save up the £250 the trip cost. It took me 4 months of gardening, baby-sitting and the like to get it and all that work bought was an early morning flight on an economy airline. At least I would fit comfortably into the economy class seats for the two-hour flight. That was more than could be said for some of the forwards!

The flight was uneventful - April gloom and drizzle gave rise to patchy cloud over the central highlands of France and then to glorious April sunshine glistening from the fish scale tiles that coat the roofs of La Cité, the fairytale castle of Carcassonne that we flew over on the final approach to La Salvaza; Carcassonne's airport.

All tiredness seemed to evaporate with the sunshine. Animated chatter surrounded the carousel as the bags reappeared promptly from the belly of the aircraft.

Boss's curt instructions kept us all together as we moved through the terminal building and loaded our belongings into the coach to take us to our hotel, where a late breakfast was to be followed by a shower and some kip before the first practice session that afternoon.

Arriving at the hotel near Agde was uneventful but the double booking of the hotel rooms left us all gobsmacked. What in the hell were we to do now? No rooms, a holiday weekend coming up and nowhere to sleep or rest!

I am sure Boss's French had seen better days, but he seemed to convey the impact of the moment with what sounded like fluent invective to the uninitiated like myself. Phone calls followed to other hotels that also had no spare rooms available, by which time the French contact from the local Rugby clubs who had made the bookings turned up.

I never really understood what had happened, but I understood the consequences well enough. We all sat in the hotel lounge surrounded by baggage; tired and bedraggled whilst numerous phone calls took place. The hotel did, at least, come up with a very good free lunch to compensate for their part in the cock-up of the bookings.

By 3pm the practice session had been abandoned and the news was that 22 families of local rugby players would put up one player or adult each for the duration of our visit. By 4pm cars started to arrive at the hotel and rather uncomfortable looking team members were driven off to who knows where, by the local rugby supporting families.

The group sitting in the lobby had shrunk to five or six by the time my 'family' arrived. They had had to wait until the father; the local First team's lock forward had come home from work with the car before being able to come for me. His huge proportions made the handshake a bit painful, but his welcome was warm. We left with clear instructions to be at the training ground at a local lycée by 10am the following morning.

The journey was punctuated Monsieur Gatti's introduction to the area in broken English and my brief responses in minimal schoolboy French. Soon we drove up to a modern villa on the outskirts of a large village. The wonderful beds of spring flowers made a backdrop to the blue water of their pool and the mountains of the Pyrenees in the distance.

As we drove up an attractive blond woman of about forty came to the open door, walked over to us as the car was garaged, and offered her hand in the normal way. This was Madame Gatti. Sophie to her friends and family. After a polite introduction Monsieur Gatti; Pierre as I later learned, shouted up the stairs to bring down the third member of the household, their daughter Sylvie.

Sylvie was the material of teenage boys' dreams. About my height, but with long blond hair, slim and athletic; but showing curves where it mattered. Dressed in a strappy top whose neckline finished just above her breasts, and miniskirt. She had my jaw dropping. She seemed to glide down the stairs to shake my hand in the French fashion but the handshake was firm and the smile was both self-assured and welcoming. "Bienvenue chez nous. Je suis Sylvie et vous?" This girl was no decorative adjunct to a dominant French male. "Je m'appelle Aiden", I said haltingly. "Je joue au rugby. Je suis un l'ailier." This seemed to satisfy her for the moment.

Madame Gatti had better English than her husband, so she explained that they had offered Sylvie's sister's room for my visit with the emergency. Michelle was studying at the University of Toulouse and would not be at home during my visit.

Sylvie was asked to show me Michelle's room. I wondered how she would explain to me what was what in the room, but I needn't have worried. Sylvie attended the International School in Toulouse and some of her classes were in English. The room was a bit girlie, as was to be expected. Ceramic tiles on the floor with a couple of scatter rugs, a vanity unit, fitted wardrobe and chest of drawers in pale coloured wood. The bed was a single with pink bedspread and a clutter of furry toys.

I found Sylvie's French accent fascinating - particularly with the Occitan accenting of the words. Someone, it seems, had quickly emptied a couple of drawers for my use and made up the bed. Under the circumstances I thought I had come off rather well with a pleasant family and a comfortable bed.

"Dinner in ten minutes" or was it "Le dîner sera en dix minutes". I cannot remember now, but it sounded good whatever language it was in. A quick wash was in order, but ten minutes was enough.

On going downstairs I followed the sounds of talking until I found the dining room. Sylvie was already there, having laid the table. She waved me to a place next to her.

I was comfortable with the mixture of French and English that was used during the meal, but was encouraged to use French when I could. I had to be shown how to eat the fat leaf bases of artichokes, but the steak slipped down well. The goat's cheese with local honey smelling of the garrigue, was unusual to British tastes, but good, and the créme brûlée made a fitting end to the meal.

Afterwards, tiny cups of strong black coffee allowed the family to chat about the English visit, our opponents and French rugby in general. I was surprised how easy it was to fit into this family and talked more than I would thought possible about my widowed mother and much older sister at home in London. They also queried my size in getting into the team as well as my ponytail of mid-brown hair. My speed and lithe figure explained my place in the squad and I was surprised how much Sylvie knew about the game; but then, she had watched her father playing in many many matches as soon as she could walk.

After the dishwasher had been loaded I was pleased and surprised to be invited to Sylvie's room. She wanted to show me her CD collection and was interested in what I had on my MP3 player that was round my neck on arrival. It had helped to while away the hours of waiting in the hotel.

She put on her current favourite; a pretty girl who was the lead singer of a group I had never heard of; but was surprised and pleased to see that our tastes otherwise in New Age music were very similar. "J'aime beaucoup Vangelis, Jean Michele Jarre et Yanni". When things got too difficult to explain we typed what we wanted to say into her computer and got it to do the translation with more or less hilarious results.

After 2 hours it was 11pm and the effects of the early start and the good company took its toll on me and I regretfully said goodnight and went to find the shower and bed.

8am came all too soon and it took some shaking and laughter from Sylvie and Sophie to get me awake enough for the morning ablutions and breakfast. Nevertheless, by 9am all we were ready to leave for the lycée sports ground. Sophie was driving and I was both a little nervous and quietly pleased that Sylvie was going to stay to watch the practice whilst her mother went shopping. The yellow minidress Sylvie was almost wearing made it difficult for me to know where to look whilst we chatted in the car and I hardly noticed our arrival after about 25 minutes.

Our arrival did not pass unnoticed. Walking in with a radiantly beautiful girl beside me did wonders for my ego and I had to introduce her to everyone who hadn't already gone to change. I had to leave her, but was loath to do so. Why had I become so smitten so quickly with her I wondered. What gave her the magnetism to make me fall so quickly under her spell? Also, what trick of fate made me be the one to be invited to her home and to be so empathetic in so many ways.

The practice session brought me back to reality. Passing, tackling and kicking practice... Routine plays... set pieces in the lineouts and scrummaging were all honed by the coach except where the boss concentrated on the scrum and Janis, his daughter stepped in to help with the three-quarters.

Janis knew as much as we did about Rugby. Like Sylvie, she had grown up with the sport and played in a women's rugby team at Uni. She was an accomplished dancer and had introduced ballet into the practice sessions for the three-quarters. You can imagine how keen the boys were to do ballet - but we gave it a fair crack of the whip and found it helped so much with flexibility, balance and manoeuvrability that it stayed in the training schedule. For the in the next hour then we had a practice match with two teams of nine.

My team picked up the ball from a loose scrum and in what seemed to be a fraction of a second it had landed in my arms. My speed allowed me to easily outstrip the short line of the opposing three-quarters and by the 25-metre line I was home and dry, and could cruise to touchdown between the posts. I heard the shriek of delight from Sylvie across 50 metres of pitch and all heads turned to her in her enthusiasm, followed by a smile and a few envious glances in my direction. I waved and settled down to kick the easy conversion.

In fact our team lost by a narrow margin but I got a warm word of congratulation from both Janis and the boss. A quick shower and pep-talk took us to 12.30pm when Madame Gatti and the other parents were due to return. Sylvie was already sitting in her mother's car talking excitedly when I spotted the red Citroën people carrier she drove, waved and walked over to join them. "I saw your try", Sylvie said. "I know", I said with a smile - the whole field noticed your cheer! She blushed beautifully - You don't need lots of words for that sort of language!

I had to get back for the team bus by 5.30pm to go to our first match, but lunch came first and a bit more listening to CDs before Sylvie suggested a swim. "La piscine est chauffée." She said, as if I needed any encouragement! Now, seeing Sylvie in a bikini would be worth a lot!

The swimming pool was only a short bike ride away. I used Michelle's bike and only had to negotiate two roundabouts on the wrong side of the road. I headed for the mens' changing before meeting again at the showers. I was almost overwhelmed when I saw that Sylvie and most of the other girls there were topless. No one seemed to be taking any notice of this, so I tried to show how mature I was and did my best to ignore the bronzed boobs in all shapes and sizes that were arrayed before me. She just shrugged, and grinned over her shoulder at me as if to say... "You are in France now!"

As she said afterwards "Why should boys and girls be different in what was needed for swimming?"

We splashed and swam for an hour with me being introduced to Sylvie's friends as they arrived. I tried to keep up with their conversations. Sometimes I was included and sometimes not, but the view made the lack of conversation worth it. The pool was the centre of their social lives it seemed. All social groups formed and disintegrated and reformed here on the grass under the trees. Who was dating who, was scrutinised here in dappled Languedocienne sunshine.

"Dépêche-toi, nous serons en retard" Sylvie shouted from the women's changing area to get me out of my reverie and indeed, she was right. A quick trip in the car, a light meal and we would be away to our first fixture.

It seemed as if Madame Gatti had been on the phone during the afternoon because Sylvie grabbed my arm as I left the car and got on the coach with me. I managed to keep my composure and escorted her to a window seat to many envious glances. As it happened, several other host families had decided to take up empty places on the coach to see us play, including two of Sylvie's friends.She would have someone to stand with on the touchline. It seemed that Sylvie genuinely enjoyed Rugby and had suggested attending the match without her parents' encouragement.

The opposition from Perpignan had a huge pack who were going to push us off the ball in the scrums, so the boss got us together in the pep talk before the game to try the keep the ball inside the pack with lots of close passing and to make the best of the touch kicking where our height and light weight would make catching the ball and passing it back to the three-quarters easier.

To some extent the strategy worked, but their pack was their strength and they weren't about to give away most of their advantage easily. There were lots of minor injuries that didn't slow anyone down until early in the second half when we were down 10:12 then our left wing collided heavily with one of their prop forwards and seemed to have a mild concussion, so, after warming up, I was on for the last 25 minutes.

Pride at Sylvie and her friends watching must have put wings on my feet. The smirks from the French forwards at the approach of someone a third of their weight caused some amusement, but 12 second 100 metre races are my forté, and my ponytail was soon blowing in the breeze as I streaked past their slower and larger stars. Only a very fast and dangerous full back stopped me scoring several tries. I had to be satisfied with two, one of which was converted and the match ended up as an honourable draw, 26 each.

Sylvie was ecstatic about my efforts and I got hugged and kissed by all three girls much to amusement of the rest of the party; but who was I to care? This was the life... eh? A fan club already! It was almost as if I had played the match single-handedly. If there was jealousy from the other players it wasn't shown... just complementary comments about my two tries.

On the way home Sylvie and I seemed to be glued together at the hip and my arm seemed to naturally wrap round her shoulders. She just smiled as she looked across at me.

I managed to get one more first team game during the week when our fly half got a hamstring strain, but Sylvie couldn't go to that match. She did make it to the Rugby Sevens competition and was torn between supporting her home teams and our A team which contained yours truly. Luckily we didn't have to face her home team. They were knocked out before us, so she could give use wholehearted support in our match to sort out third and fourth places. We came third out of 16 teams. We were pleased with that.

When duties allowed, Sylvie and I seemed to grow together like twins. We didn't try... It just seemed to happen of its own accord. I don't know why the chemistry was so strong between us - we just seemed to have an intense bond between us that had been waiting to happen. We enjoyed the same sorts of music and dance, reading and, of course, Rugby. As the days passed Sylvie glowed with a transparent beauty that verged on the sublime. The effect it had on me was electric. Her charm and charisma entranced me. Lisa was not the only one to comment on the change in me.

Sylvie’s parents were quietly amused by our friendship, but could see tensions developing in their much loved daughter as the time rapidly approached for the end of our visit. Tension became tears as the days became hours before departure - and not all of them were Sylvie's.
The final morning dawned as brilliantly as most of the others and it was clear that something in the atmosphere had changed. It was like a secret had been born and was bursting to be shared. Over breakfast the smiles reached a crescendo as Madame Gatti explained that she had phoned my mother the previous evening after Sylvie and I had gone out for a final tearstained walk hand in hand.

What was on offer was a summer with Sylvie after my GCSE exams were over. School finished early for Year 11s at the end of June soon after Sylvie finished her trimestre.

How could I refuse? I hugged everyone there including Sylvie's father who had to bend down for his hug. I didn't know what to say - I just beamed and nodded ferociously.

So the flight back was sad, but held huge promise for the months of the extended summer break before my A level courses started. I had already decided to do French A level!

No one likes revising for exams, but sending daily Emails, texts and making lengthy phone calls made the 1200km we were apart seem much smaller. The weeks crawled by and the number of exams still to take got fewer and fewer as the date of my return flight crept closer and closer. Tennis and cricket occupied games at school but they did not have to same qualities that made rugby stand out as the queen of sports.

Mum seemed to be easily tired as my departure got ever closer but I wasn't aware of the implications of her tiredness until later. I was just so glad to be returning to Sylvie and the Languedoc.

The Gatti's lived closer to the Spanish border than Carcassonne so I flew to Perpignan. I don't think the arrivals hall at that airport had seen many demonstrations of unalloyed joy as happened that afternoon when the Ryanair flight had disgorged its passengers into the searing heat of the Midi. Walking out of the air-conditioned arrivals lounge was like walking into a wall of heat. I knew that my case had far too many clothes in it!

We sat in the back seat together and I could hardly get a word in edgeways as Sylvie talked nineteen to the dozen about her plans for the summer for us. In the end I did what seemed to me to be the most natural thing in the world. I kissed her. Her eyebrows shot up and she stopped talking and smiled demurely!

I put my arm round her. She snuggled up to me and we looked at the mile upon mile of grape vines that slipped past the car as we drove. The silence was punctuated by just an occasional comment or question from Sylvie's mother. If her mother realised what caused such a change in her daughter's behaviour she never let on; but she did have a rather enigmatic smile for several days after, whenever she saw us together.

I don't remember much about those first few days except that Sylvie and I went shopping for a few extra bits of more suitable clothing. Young French males had to be seen in the same sorts of chic clothing as their girlfriends. So I was kitted out like everyone else - to see and be seen. I was back in Michelle's room as she was holidaying with friends in Corsica at the time of my arrival.

Sylvie and I seemed to join seamlessly as if we had never been parted. We hung out at the pool hour after hour and drifted from home to home, party to party as teenagers will. It all seemed just so right until the letter arrived from home.

Inside the envelope was another envelope. Written on this envelope were Mum's instructions to read the whole letter several times before doing anything. There was also a separate letter for Sylvie's parents.

I can see the opening of that inner envelope as if time became frozen - what could have caused such atypical behaviour in my mother? She explained fully and simply that she had been feeling very tired in the weeks before I had left, so she had been to her doctor and after examining her she had sent her straight to the hospital for a scan. The results were not long in coming - and the news was the worst. A very aggressive cancer had formed in her abdomen and had already spread throughout her body. All that could be done was to give chemotherapy in the hope of reducing the severity of the symptoms until nature took its course.

In the letter to Sylvie's parents, Mum asked that I stay with Sylvie for the summer as planned as she wouldn't be able to care for me and in any event would have my older sister Tina with her to help when she wasn't having breaks in the hospice. We would write and call as often as we wished, but it would give her the greatest pleasure to know that I was as happy as possible, and well looked after by people who cared for me.

In between the tears and the self-recriminations about my insensitivity and thoughtlessness, I desperately wanted to go home to share the maximum amount of time with my mother; but the Gattis' sat with me until late in the evening holding me close and in the end convinced me that my mother needed time for the palliative treatments to take effect then I could enjoy the remaining time I had with her.

Four weeks later all that could be done for mum had been done. It was now a matter of TLC until the end. So at the end of the second week in August I prepared to fly back to Britain with a heavy heart. I was leaving a family I had grown to love and was returning to a place full of unknowns... of being an orphan, a new school away from my friends, and the guardianship of my elder sister who lived in a small flat in London and was beginning to cut out a career in retailing. I knew she would 'do her duty' by her younger brother but would find it an extra drain on her slender resources of time.

So it was with delight, surprise and not a little relief that I found that Sylvie and Sophie were joining me on the journey back to Britain. In those first few days back I spent much of the time at the hospice by my mother's bedside, sometimes with Sylvie and sometimes without.

Sophie had some experience of driving on the right, so she had hired a car to get us from Manchester airport to home. I think she found it more nerve-wracking than she let on, but we arrived safely. I used my room, Sylvie used Tina’s room and Sophie had the guest room. It all worked very well.

Unbeknown to me, Sophie had been on the phone to her husband who was one of the few Frenchmen who worked during August, and they had talked extensively about my situation. To put it all in a nutshell the French rugby club had been impressed with my skills during the visit at Easter and had enquired after me in the interim. They felt that my style of play would fit into a French team better than an English team. Also her parents were overjoyed about Sylvie's and my friendship. To cap it all, the local lycée would give me a place on their International Baccalaureate course if my GCSEs were good enough.

So when mum gave me some money and asked me to take Sylvie to London for the day, it gave Sophie and Mum the chance to talk. The offer I subsequently found out was that if I agreed, Mum would change her Will to make Sophie and Pierre my legal guardians instead of my sister, and I would go to live with the family I had come to love as much as my own. That was for at least the next three years, when my lycée course came to an end.

Sophie and Sylvie did not come with me to the hospice immediately the next day to allow Mum and me to talk at length. At length, meant about 30 minutes as she tired so easily, but amongst the tears I was both saddened that this had happened, but overjoyed that I could live with the people I had come to love. I agreed without reservation and gave Mum a very wet and tearful kiss. She just looked so relieved that her son would be well looked after now that she could no longer do so.

She was weary beyond measure, and seemed to shrink in front of my eyes, now that one of her final tasks had been accomplished. Nevertheless, she rallied after a few minutes and asked me to open a bedside drawer that contained a new Will brought by the clerk of her solicitor that morning. A ward sister and nurse were sent for to act as witnesses to her signature and Sophie and Sylvie came in. Both held my hand as Mum signed her name for perhaps the last time and the witnesses countersigned.

Her final duty done, Mum slipped away 36 hours later - worn out by the ravages of her disease.
Clearing out a house after a death is a demanding task that fell onto the shoulders of Tina, my sister, for the most part. I had only to box up my belongings and see them off by carrier to arrive in France a few days later.

After the funeral a week later, Tina told us that she was delighted with the arrangements and that I would be financially independent until I left University, and would then have a small nest egg of cash to spend on whatever I like to start me off in the World. Until I was nineteen and had finished my baccalaureate, I would receive an allowance from a trust fund and after that I could administer my own affairs.

GCSE results came in a few days after that. I had 5 A*, 4 A and a B. One of the starred A grades was in French! They were good enough for me to start on the course and to look forward to a new life and Rugby club.

The boss and Janis gave me a good send-off at the club with a party, and Sylvie was able to come with me and join in the fun.

The next day was the flight booked to my new home and new family. There was an equal mixture of grief and joy, but much less uncertainty and for that I was grateful. Learning that Sylvie would be leaving the International school to join me at the Lycée was also really good news... and the sounds of builders at the Gatti's house beginning to erect an extended utility room on the ground floor and two new bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor was equally important.

Michelle had returned to her friends at University by the time of my arrival so I went back into her bedroom and all the construction work had been finished by Christmas when she returned.

The next few days were a whirl of officialdom. It was felt that I needed a Carte de Sejour to help the process of registering for school, and a Carte de Santé for health and dental care. Then I had to be included on the Gatti's health plan to cover to 30% of health and dental costs not paid for by the State.

To do this certified translations of my birth certificate and the probate registered Will giving the Gatti's guardianship had to be obtained and recorded. Every document seemed to have six copies and all needed passport photographs attached.

It was a difficult few days, but the Gattis smoothed the process through a long familiarity with notorious French bureaucracy.

Finally a bank account was opened in my name and automatic transfers set up for my trust funds in England, then all was ready for the Rentrée, the day in early September when the schools reopen after the long summer vacation.

More photographs were needed, as were more copies of application documents and certified copies in French of my GCSE results. I was amazed to find that I was amongst a group of nine foreign nationals starting at that school that year. The French education system seems to cope with all-comers in a way that British schools rarely have to, or perhaps I haven't been to the right sort of schools! Rural Wales was not the best place to see multiculturalism, perhaps.

Assessments and introductions took most of the first day and I rarely got to see Sylvie who was also new to the school. As a French national she was expected to cope better on her own!

What was clear was that the way one looked was tremendously important at the senior levels of the school. No school uniform meant that there were a lot of chic dressers. Not to be outdone or show up Sylvie meant several visits to clothes shops in Carcassonne or Perpignan the next weekend to improve my wardrobe. Monoprix or Carrefour, local supermarkets with clothing departments, were OK for younger students but not for the Baccalaureate classes.

Monsieur Gatti, Pierre, came on the first visit to make sure of my sizes, but after that it was Sylvie and I did a 'shop 'till you drop' routine until I was fit to be seen with her. My shoes were a 40, my jackets and trousers a 42 and shirts a 35.

Luckily, the weather would stay in the 20s or higher until November so I didn't have to worry about winter clothes yet. Even so, my CB, Carte bancaire or debit card, took a real hit! French clothes, as I found out, are stylish, but not cheap.

I also put off the buying of ski gear. Like most French people in the area the Gatti family spent most winter weekends and national holidays in the mountains. Andorra was only an hour away in the car, but most times we would go to Ax-les-Thermes with the neighbouring ski centres of Plateaux de Bonascre and des Sadnet. Needless to say, Sylvie and I would have lots of practice sessions to get me up to the standard of the rest of the family. A few goes on a dry ski slope near my old home in England would not help me to be able to hold my head up with Sylvie's crowd who had been skiing since they were toddlers.

Pierre was often absent with away matches for his team at weekends so the two women took me under their wing as it were. Under their tutelage my skiing improved in leaps and bounds. Following Sylvie and Sophie down the nursery slopes as they demonstrated some technique to me was always a slight distraction with their tight ski pants, crotch gap and obviously female outline, but I can say that the combination of recent bereavement and gratefulness at my absorption into their family meant that neither girl nor woman seemed in the least bit a potential sexual conquest. Too much was new and too much had to be learned and experienced.

In telling you about my life I have started to say, the rest of the family. Did you notice? It was now only three or four months since Mum had died and here I was with a fuzzy feeling of remoteness about my past life in England and a new family who to all intents and purposes had adopted me. When I had first met Michelle she had hugged me and called me her little brother. She let on much later that her parents had always wanted a son, but a Sylvie's difficult birth had made further children too demanding for Sophie. I had a lot to live up to!

I had been told to call Pierre and Sophie by their first names rather than Monsieur and Madame Gatti, but within weeks I slipped unwittingly into calling Sophie, Maman. She just looked at me the first time with a slight smile. I hadn't realised what I had said, but it seemed so natural and so normal, that after a hug and a tear or two, I continued to call her Maman.

Sylvie did a double take the first time I called Sophie 'Maman' in front of her, but said nothing. Pierre told me years later that my inadvertent slip, a fortuitous one, had caused tears and joy in the household. The son that had been missing from their family had come 'home', as it were. The decision to offer me a home had been a difficult one based on limited knowledge of me. My assimilation into the family so effortlessly had quashed the uncertainties that remained in their minds after all the soul-searching and prayer as my mother lay dying in the hospice in England.

My introduction to the Rugby club... Pierre's rugby club, was a nerve-wracking experience. Whether it was in skiing, making a presentable appearance at school or here, on the rugby field, I could feel the responsibility of the Gattis' support, hopes and encouragement. The club coaches had seen me play and had approved. That much I knew. I also knew that I would be playing with boys, young men really, up to the age of 18. They seemed huge to me but I had speed on my side!

During those first few weeks an assistant coach who spoke good English sat beside me in the team meetings making sure I understood what the coach was saying but it was remarkable as to how quickly I picked up the language and I was glad when the extra translation was no longer necessary. The rugby needed no translation.

My speed, the ballet lessons from the previous year and the new skills from skiing made me difficult to catch. My scoring for the under-eighteens C team meant we climbed through the league quickly and I soon replaced the left-winger in the Under-18s B Team. The player I replaced was not unhappy. He congratulated me and said that he was being moved to an adult team as he was almost 18. It was made clear to me that if I played my cards right, then I would be groomed for the Under-18s First or 'A' team the following season.

Pierre watched when he could, and offered advice with his huge arm easily enveloping my narrow shoulders. Sophie came occasionally and Sylvie came to most of my matches; even some of the away matches. Often with a friend or two.

At Christmas, Tina came to stay. She was the first person to occupy the new guest room that was next to my bedroom in the new part of the house. We talked forever - late into the night about our lives and parted after a few days in good spirits.

After Christmas I was approached by Jacques, a boy in our year, to see if I could put in a good word for him with Sylvie. This surprised me as I was not sure that after 6 months I was regarded as Sylvie's brother; but was flattered with his confidence. I had to think hard as to whether I felt any jealousy at Jacque's approach and how to deal with his request. Could I say that I felt any yearning to be Sylvie's boyfriend rather than her brother. "Was she someone I wanted to sleep with and make love to?" Did I want to share her in that way? I think I rather surprised myself by concluding; "I want to be a part of Sylvie's life, She is a delight to be with. She has supported me through my integration and she would grace the arm of any boy, BUT I didn't want her to be my girlfriend with all that entails". I wanted her as a sister.

I went to sleep comfortable in the knowledge that I would support Jacques in his quest. He was a good friend and I would like Sylvie and him to get together.

My hints dropped at appropriate moments surprised Sylvie a little I think with comments like... "Do you want to get rid of me so soon?"... but she clearly felt the same way about me as I did about her and she was happy to start going out with Jacques as I was to see them go.

Over the next weeks I spent much of my time with the girls at school. My physique didn't single me out as a sportsman, beyond the Rugby, of course and, my interest in fashion, dancing (all stemming from the ballet classes!) cycling and skiing made me more interesting to the girls than many boys in my year. Did I mention the cycling... no, looking back, I didn't.

"You know the Tour de France; don't you?; of course you do. It occupies weeks on European television. Even the most insular American citizen must have heard of the great race. Well, the Tour de France spends some of its time in the mountains each year and hard cycling is thought to be good for building up lower body strength for rugby players. So we cycled as part of our training, and to be honest, you are regarded as being abnormal if you do not cycle in that part of France either on the roads or in the velodrome. When in France do as the French do... and in this case it is vital for your street cred if nothing else. Now that Sylvie was spending much of her free time with Jaques, I was rather on my own and used hard training with cycling and skiing to build up my strength to remain one of the best school sprinters and retain my place in the rugby team.

Nevertheless, being on my own or with an all male group of rugby players or at school did leave me rather alone and I found that I would welcome a girlfriend. I was not that others had noticed my lost looks and sighs, but it must have been so. Over the next few days at school there was some whispering amongst the girls until a deputation visited me. "We think you should go on a date with Laurence." I was told emphatically. "The Committee has spoken."

Now, I knew France was a bureaucracy first and foremost but I didn't think they resorted to sorting out a teenage boy's love life. And who was this Laurence, anyway?

Laurence it proved, was rarely seen at the piscine where everyone's private business became everyone else's business. To be honest I had hardly noticed her when Sylvie was on my arm, but one couldn't go out with one's sister; even an adoptive one, so I set out to explore why 'the Committee' thought Laurence was my ideal partner.

She was small, smaller than me and that is saying something. She came originally from Calvados, the area to the north-west of France that borders the English Channel, that the French call La Manche. As such, her accent was not typical of the Languedoc. Old memories die hard in the Languedoc. Folk memory goes back to the time when the South-west was independent of Paris in its own kingdom which included the northern strip of Spain. Northerners were a little suspect even then. Laurence was also a little separate from the ebb and flow of social discourse.

As I took more interest in her from a distance I noticed the black hair cut into a pageboy style; the gamine features of her elfin like face. The demure way she slowly raised her eyes, when she knew I was watching. Had the committee seen her as I saw her, I wondered?
I noticed to my surprise that she had a solo roll in an up and coming dance production put on by the dance class of the school; and I also noticed her at the athletics practices. Why hadn't I noticed her there before? She could run sprints without that rolling gait of larger more powerfully built women. She was fast and hungry for success.

In track gear her figure was obviously boyish but her movements were just so graceful. Perhaps it was the unstylish clothing she wore to school that had hidden her from me before.

I booked a ticket for the dance production. The girls selling them said nothing, but smiled knowingly. I was one of only five or six boys at the performance. I didn't know the others, but their body language was definitely of ambivalent sexuality.

Laurence danced her piece of a masked troubador with great vivacity, but also a sensuality and great sadness. I loved the performance and it gave me an opportunity to talk to her the next day.

I saw you there in the sports hall she confessed. I was surprised you were there. As a rugby player I thought you wouldn't be seen dead watching girls doing contemporary dance.

"You don't know me well yet", I said with some feeling. "I have done two years of ballet as part of my rugby training in England."

I have seen you running she added. I watched you clock 11.1 sec the other day for the 100 metres. I was impressed.

Come and dance with me at dance club she said. It is from 4pm to 5pm tomorrow in the dance studio. Come in your athletics gear without shoes. "That is, if you want to", she said, as she smiled knowingly and stood up ready to go.

It took me all of 5 seconds to make up my mind. Her offer whist ostensibly simple, seemed to hold all sorts of possibilities to my naïve mind.

I told Sylvie of the offer and my intention to accept. She said she would tell Maman to keep some food for me.

I had my track kit on under my tracksuit when I approached the swing doors of the dance studio the following afternoon.

After a deep breath I entered to see a wall of girls at the bar. All turned as one to look at me with what approached amazement. I think the teacher had been forewarned, because she just said to strip off the tracksuit and get to the bar. I was late! Luckily the dance positions used in England use their French names so I could follow the warm-up ballet style exercises without difficulty.

After bar work the teacher gave the girls practice on points, but I knew that boy dancers didn't go onto points so she gave me the once-over. She approved of my posture, and upper body strength. She said that most male dancers were much taller than me and whilst I should have started dancing by 12 years old to become any good; she felt that I had some potential and I could come again if I wished. She hadn't had a boy dancer for several years, she added, so felt that her offer was tinged with concern as to the comments I might get later in school.

The last 15 minutes of the class was a free dance for everyone to try out moves and develop some ideas of the choreography they might use in future productions.Laurence moved across and grabbed my hand. “Suis-moi" she said as she started on a routine that was at my limit to follow. "Bien" she said when we had finished. Now try some lifts! She showed me how to lift her. Where to put my hands and how to stand. After several successful, but perhaps ungainly efforts the dance teacher dismissed the class and came over to us and asked if we could stay for a few minutes.

She showed us how to put the lifts into a simple routine and after the ten minutes we were both perspiring but the studio rang to our laughter.

"I think you have a partner Laurence", Madame Fabre said, and laughed. "You may end up as the stars of next year's show!" "I will have to brush up on my techniques to use with boys she said, I am rather rusty!" "I do hope you will come again", she said and I am sure it was sincerely felt.

The instant the swing door had shut Laurence was in my arms. "You were fantastic" she said. "Did you really learn to dance like that in a Rugby Club" she said."I cannot believe it knowing other rugby players here."

Having both arms full of excited, wriggling perspiring very female flesh was something I hadn't bargained for, but my heart didn't have time to slow down before her lips brushed mine. Such a broad hint even penetrated my brain and time seemed to slow until our breath ran out, and "Bravo!" rang out down the corridor.

Sylvie had got her mother to come by car back to school to pick me up and Sylvie had come searching for her errant 'brother'. Laurence blushed beautifully at the intrusion. Unfortunately it was time to part for the time being... to change and shower hurriedly... then to give Laurence one final hug before she walked a short way home and we let the car take the strain.

I can only imagine what she said to her parents about the unusual English rugby player who had taken up her offer of a dance, but within half an hour she was on the phone to me and we talked for what seemed like minutes, but was actually over an hour, about all our likes, loves and hates until the second shout that dinner was ready.

Laurence could speak Breton as well as French, but not Occitan. With a bit of hesitancy and some practice we could speak with a mixture of Breton and Welsh to the consternation of the other students who spoke Occitan when they wanted to say something private. This had singled her out and made her something separate from the rest of the girls. I found that her father and mother both worked in the European Airbus complex near Toulouse and that Laurence's Baccalaureate options were largely Maths and Science based. Not my main focus I had to say.

I dragged myself away from the phone with the promise that we would meet up outside school the following day and go to athletics practice after the end of the day.

Sylvie couldn't get over the success of her plan. She quietly chortled her way through the evening until Sophie and Sylvie couldn't stop grinning each time their eyes met. When Pierre came in after a very long day at work, he could see that something was in the air, but not what. Everything had to be explained again - much to my embarrassment.

I didn't see Laurence approach. I just felt this bundle of girl leap into my arms. She had trusted me to prevent her dropping to the tarmac. I did;... just!

We chatted nineteen to the dozen about trivia until it was time to go to class. It was only as Laurence was about to go that I noticed that she was in a simple top, miniskirt and sandals. Normally she wore shapeless garments that suffocated her petite figure. The transformation was amazing. The ugly duckling had moulted to become 'a very fine swan indeed'.

She glowed. Head held high, holding my hand with confidence and pride. Had I done this? Had this transformation been the result of one dance and a kiss? If so, could I have a second helping of contemporary dance?

"What have you done to Laurence?" was the amused request that faced me several times from girls in ones and twos in the corridors that day. What was I to say? I suppose it was my fault? My fault? Is there any fault attached to something this good?

By the end of the day even the staff knew about my session in the dance studio. No doubt Madame had been commenting in the staffroom! Kindly comments made it quite impossible for me to duck out now. Perish the thought!

Athletics practice was less formal than dance. We warmed up at our own pace; then moved through to the area of the field for our event. Since we were both sprinters we headed for the track and practiced starts before the coach had time to visit our part of the field. She recommended that we ran a marked route that had markers to allow intervals training. Jog a bit, run a bit, jog a bit etc. It is meant to build up cardiac recovery rates. By then end of the circuit the two of us were laughing so much that we nearly went round again, just for the fun of it.

A slightly stern word from the coach brought us back to reality, but a stifled giggle behind our backs was enough to show that the criticism was well meant.

Rugby practice was not linked to school, but Laurence sat through the practice in the rain on Thursday evening. I had to explain why we had done each activity as her origin was not from area. "I still don't see why ballet helps you with those moves she said." Perhaps she will understand in a while. Perhaps Sylvie can explain it better!

There were no after school practices on Fridays, but I was asked if I would visit her family for dinner and to stop off and help her to buy some new clothes. The outfits that suited an ugly duckling were not the raiment of a swan it seems!

In a panic I consulted Sylvie about matters of taste in girls' fashions, particularly a girl who was so svelte as Laurence. An hour later, or was it more; I was on overload and collapsed with what I thought was a touch of panache onto the bed. "Too much... too much." It is just too hard to be a girl. How can I remember it all?

In fact it was easy. Laurence disappeared for moments into a cubicle and emerged to glide, swirl and pirouette in what seemed to be a myriad of garments. Some created a sultry temptress with her black hair and dark eye shadow. Other outfits made her into a vamp, oozing sensuality. Next, she was a defenceless child demanding immediate attention to cure some minor hurt with a kiss to her knee 'to make it better'.

No doubt Laurence's natural dancing ability helped create these illusions, but it was fascinating and perhaps a little alarming to see how these elements in her makeup provided all the facets of womanhood that had beguiled men since the start of time. She was the mother, the lover, and the smouldering seductress packaged as Laurence, 16 years, black hair, dress size 34, blue eyes... dancer and athlete. Should I see all these things? Was she self-aware, or only sending me subliminal messages. Am I seeing too much into this? Am I up to this, at only16 myself?

Almost unbidden a choreography drifted formless into my mind linked to a favourite track from sultry songstress of the time, Sofia Mestari. As the shapes coalesced mentally into girl and boy the movements seems both enrapturing and universal. Where had these ideas come from? I am no choreographer, and yet just as I had inadvertently released this being from its chrysalis of girlhood, I seemed to be compelled to try to capture the essence of this ephemeral event for the future. Would anyone else understand? "It doesn't matter. I will do it for us". But I needed to keep my counsel for now.

Bags and boxes loaded us both down after 3 hours. Famished and footsore, a call on her phone brought Laurence's mother to meet us in her car.

She didn't seem to mind the large number of bills that filled Laurence's purse. After all, she said, Laurence usually underspent on her dress allowance. This was a change she approved of.

I was happy to stay quiet as Laurence chatted to her mother about the day and purchases. Food was the family priority now. As we settled to the meal I became the centre of attention. How I came to be in the Languedoc and the kindness of the Gatti's and their daughters. Soon however, it was time to go, and Laurence's father was kind enough to drive me home with an open invitation to come again.

Not everything can be excitement and novelty, and the weekend with its usual rugby matches and family meals seemed somehow empty. The void I felt was partly filled by calls to Laurence, but the sound of her voice was a poor substitute for that something that made her charm fill the room. Yet I could not put off the homework - and with Laurence concentrating on Maths and Science and me on Languages and Literature I could not claim that a visit would make the work go quicker.

Sunday dawned with my normal run at 7am. Soon small feet were keeping time with my own. Laurence had caught up in the morning sunshine before the Midi sun started once more to bake the red soils of what I now called home. Did I feel her approach empathetically. I cannot be sure, but that irritating void I had been aware of somewhere within me during the weekend seemed filled before I was immediately aware of her footfall.

Best not to examine these things too closely. Live for the moment! Just a hug and several kisses heralded our parting to return home for showers and breakfast. I remembered later, that not a word had passed either of our lips. Perhaps some things are beyond words, or at least seem so.

Dance class was on Tuesday and I made sure I had the Sofia Mestari CD in my bag. The younger girls at the class paid me little attention this time. Too much concentration was needed to get feet and hands just so during the bar exercises. The same applied to Laurence and I, but there were opportunities for covert glances and shared body language.

At the end of the taught component I offered the CD to Madame to play for the class to dance to. Her eyes took said yes, but her mouth said 'Wait'. The track was too difficult for her younger dancers.

After the others had run off chattering as young girls do, Madame put the CD on the player and I lead Laurence into an impromptu performance of the dance that has emerged from formless thoughts I had had previously. As En Plein Coeur de la Nuit faded away Laurence crumpled into my embrace and our lips met. There was a sort of choke in Madame's voice as she stated pragmatically - "That has got real potential, but it will need working on!" See me tomorrow to sort out some extra lessons, at which point she left pulling a small lace hanky from her sleeve to stifle a sniff. Looking after her disappearing figure we turned and smiled in the glow of our embrace.

Laurence stayed limp in my arms for a few seconds before we shared another hug. "Where did you learn to dance like that she gasped? Certainly you didn't learn that at the Rugby Club!"

"I don't know I replied honestly." “I think you bring it out in me - you are just so responsive to my lead and feed back my emotions to me. It seems to be an 'us' thing!”

Nothing had prepared us for those moments, but we were both sweaty and soon felt the late autumn chill penetrate our dance kit. It was time to shower and make our way home.

Leaving the school arm in arm I wondered where we would be at the time of the next dance performance?

I cannot say that our lives continued at the intensity of those first few weeks. My rugby and dance seemed to develop in tandem and the rugby coaches began to chat to Madame Fabre about my experiences with dance in rugby training in England, but nothing had come of it yet.

Madame brought a male dance teacher she knew in from Carcassonne to help me develop the skills I needed to do the lifts of Laurence. He was rather non-plussed by my small height but we worked together over a number of weeks. I found the lifts easier after his help. He didn't feel that I would ever be able to lift a 'full size' ballerina; but as I only intended to lift Laurence it didn't matter.

With athletics, homework, rugby, homework, dance and more homework you can imagine that there was little time to keep one's pulse on the heartbeat of the school. Laurence and I were just too busy, but as the rugby season finished and athletics started in earnest, we were building up to the dance production a few days before the end of the school year. Laurence and I had fully choreographed two pieces of a little over 3 minutes each. They had taken many hours of very hard work in front of the gimlet eye of Madame Fabre to hone them to the perfection needed.

Usually the sale of dance tickets was rather sluggish and the bulk of the tickets were sold to parents or friends of the dancers. It was with some amazement that all the 60 available tickets in the dance studio were sold within the first day. A delighted Madame Fabre moved the performance to the sports hall that would take an audience of several hundred, even with the empty space in the middle for the dancers.

It seemed as if the whole school were there, but obviously they weren't. Even at this late stage Laurence and I were happily oblivious of the reasons for the influx of fee paying visitors to the dance production. It was only when Madame Fabre introduced her colleague who had helped me, and the artistic directors of both very well known theatres in neighbouring cities that the penny began to drop. I looked at Laurence and she looked at me. They had come to see us!

It was perhaps fortuitous that the younger performers took the stage first. We had a chance to savour the anticipation of the performance. What could go wrong. Laurence looked ravishing in her skin tight multi-hue dance outfit that matched my own. Make up enhanced the effect. Polite applause followed the performances of the younger girls and it was our turn to end the first half.

Laurence's hair shone, her eyes reflected the stage lights that lit the auditorium. This was her element, her raison d'être. I was her foil. Tuned by empathy and practice. Science and Mathematics meant nothing now. Spoken languages and literature sank into insignificance. The familiar music introducing Sofia Mestari's song found us balanced; anticipating eagerly like falcons poised for the stoop. Just a slight draft moved the hem of Laurence's gauze skirt, which enhanced the body suit that ostensibly revealed nothing and actually revealed a lot more.

But then we were away. The audience faded. The hall faded. The music was all, and the fledgeling shed the last of her down and took flight. She seemed to float effortlessly like dandelion seeds in a zephyr of a breeze. We were as one, yet apart, a synergy in motion. Was it three minutes or three hours? It could have been any length of time, but the heaving of tired lungs, of fatigue in limb and emotional overload brought us back to reality. As the music faded away we held hands in the silence, bowing and curtsying together in the silence.

After two heartbeats of silence, pregnant with meaning, the hall erupted. Applause, cheers, whistles and stamping continued for too long. Way too long. We didn't deserve this. Our main piece came at the end of the second act. How could we better this? Incroyable!

As planned, the glare of the lighting faded somewhat, and we were able to escape to the relative anonymity of the dance studio, which was being used as a collection area for all the dancers. The younger dancers had not seen our performance, but had heard the noise. They enquired politely about our dance and were satisfied that all had gone well. We just sat in the glow of success with a glass of Evian, carrying out our warm down in the comfort of routine.

What now, was the unspoken question? An extended embrace, intense with shared emotion then a gentle physical reminder from a mother that we needed a shower and clean dance suits for the second half. Laurence disappeared with a shower cap, and her bag to try not to undo the two hours work it have taken the coiffeuse to set her hair, and I just got the shower after removing my makeup.

Shortly after returning from the shower I found the mother who had been brought in to do the stage makeup and she started again on me from the drawing prepared previously. As she was finishing me, Laurence arrived to have her makeup changed. We were both in the colours of the baked earth of the Occitan. We were the most zealous of converts to our adopted region and to the bloody Cathar history that has been emasculated into the sanitised history that the tourist sees.

When we returned to the hall it was crowded. We learned afterwards that mobile phones had been ringing during the interval and boys and girls from nearby had come to school to be part of something that was maybe bigger than themselves. The hall was occupied to its fire limit and perhaps beyond. There was a hum of anticipation.

Our second dance to a compilation of Occitan songs started with an acoustic guitar solo in medium tempo, then lead onto a slow section redolent with the ethereal music of the shawm, sackbut and rattle. The whole was intended to create a musical picture of the baked earth of the Languedoc summer, torn asunder over centuries of conquest and tyranny. It had been home to many unsung heroes and heroines as the boot of occupation sought to crush identity of a people. Our dance finished with a paean of a nation reborn in quick time with a flamenco feel. The aim was to recapture or rekindle a consciousness that had been lost with the absorption of the world of the troubadour into Greater France.

The reception to our finale was more muted. The dance had exposed a nerve, a sinew that made for a tension. The music had the dark quality of a nation subjugated and in thraldom. The applause was none the less, the cheers a little more muted and the whistles absent. Our goal was achieved. Our gift to our adopted people returned with the only type of interest we could provide.

It provided an intended downbeat end to a performance tinged with hope. The audience settled dutifully to hear short speeches from the assembled dignitaries. Applause rang out for Madame Fabre and the bouquet carried on by the youngest dancer was appreciated enormously if her smile was anything to go by. The Principal of the Lycée was equally fulsome about everyone's performance that evening. This is a thing Principals are adept at doing, of course. Then he asked either of the two artistic directors to comment if they wished.

They made polite comments about the hard work done by the younger pupils and swiftly moved on Laurence's and my performance. We were flattered and amazed by their eulogistic praise. Rarely had they been party to such a performance as ours that did not involve professionals with many years experience and training. They had been intending to offer us place in the school that trained the corps de ballet, but after seeing our performances they felt that professional contemporary dance was our métier and they would be happy to recommend us to any of a range of dance companies where we could hone our talents.

Both our families gathered us up into their arms as the crowd drifted away into the night. Sylvie and Michelle embraced us in a hug that seemed to last for ever; but even with tracksuits over our damp clinging costumes we were getting cold so the goodbyes had to be brief once we had thanked both of our dance teachers and, of course the two artistic directors who were hugely encouraging. We promised to consider their offer very seriously once our final two years of the Baccalaureate course were over, and would explore the possibilities of working with a local group in our free time during the following year.

Arrangements were made for both families to eat together at a well-known restaurant the following evening; but the end of the adrenalin rush after the finale left Laurence weeping and emotionally exhausted to the consternation of her family. To sobs she explained that she could not bear to be parted from me so prematurely after all the intensity of the evening; the bond we had forged from tensile emotion could not be torn apart so soon for her. So, after much shrugging of Gallic shoulders Laurence came home with us to a light meal, a shower and a few moments of intimacy where we snuggled down together in bed together for the first time, innocent of any carnal thoughts.

Whether it was pheromonal or something more, I cannot say, but there was an undoubted rightness of us being there together. "Je t'aime", she whispered as her breathing slowed. "Je t'aime" I replied as my arms enveloped her.

It was already the dawn when I woke at about 6.30. Laurence was still asleep, her hair tousled on the pillow. I couldn't get to the bathroom without waking her and I got a quiet 'Bonjour cheri. Dormes-tu bien?', as I tried to creep back to bed without waking her.

As we crept down the stairs in search of orange juice and croissant, she spotted her holdall that her thoughtful parents must have brought over after we had gone to bed. Inside were clean clothes for the day, toiletries and her running kit. Every day for months Laurence had started the day running through rain or shine and her parents had obviously thought that today would be no different.

So after a light breakfast, we changed into our kit, warmed up and jogged off into one of the network of single track paved roads that seem to crisscross the vineyards in this part of the world. For the most part they are car free and hidden from view of the casual traveller. The air was fresh with a slight dew on the plants. The smell of the garrigue was beginning to fill the summer air with its characteristic aroma of thyme and marjoram as well as a multitude of other less well-known herbs. As we passed a ripening fig tree its heady sweet Laurence was wearing a short wraparound skirt and tee-shirt leaving her tanned arms and legs with their lightly contoured muscles free for me to look at. I dropped back a couple of metres to see her better and she stopped and turned round with a smile. "I will give you a little something to look at" she said, "This is just for you" and slipped off the white panties that I had been watching as she ran. She pushed the panties into the pocket of my shorts and ran on laughing.

As her skirt lifted at every footfall, I was mesmerised by the glimpses of buttocks. After some 5km we stopped at one my favourite spots for a drink of water.

“Did you enjoy that?”

“Need you ask? It was an experience like no other.”

“I did that for a reason. Can you work out what it was?”

In fact I had noticed that Laurence ran with her legs together, and had no obvious crotch gap.

“I think you may be transgender, was my reply after a few seconds.”

I wondered if I may have got it wrong, and might give serious offence, but it seems to be a correct interpretation of things I had thought about over the weeks, but had consigned to the back of my mind.

“I have to tell you a story. It is my story that no one else knows except my parents.”

“Where I grew up in Britany I knew from a very early age that I was a girl. I was bullied so much that my parents moved me to a new school, but my reputation followed me and life was a hell for month after month. I was thoroughly miserable and I considered suicide. My parents were frantic about what to do.”

“I was seeing a psychologist for gender dysphoria and went on to hormone pills to prevent male secondary sexual characters from developing. I was much happier in myself and the hormones gave me the breasts you see now, so no silicon implants were needed, but the ostracisation continued with increasing venom.”

“A promotion was available in Toulouse for my father and mercifully he was appointed. We moved here to get away from the bullying and the taunts and I was able to have my surgery in a private hospital here in the South-West before coming to school here.”

“I was still very wary of my status as a girl and tried to hide with drab uninteresting clothes. It was meeting you that freed me from all the horrid feelings of being abnormal and a pariah.”

“You have released me from my prison, and I love you for it, but you must know all about me now. It would be unfair to leave you in the dark.”

She continued “Are you repelled by me?”

There was only one answer to that question. I stretched over and kissed her deeply.

“I cannot imagine anyone being more of a girl than you.”

We kissed gently at first then with more ardour; our hands exploring the bodies we knew so well from dancing together; but now the touching had the urgency of arousal. The smell of the crushed herbs lying under us was tempered by the reek of unrequited passion. We lay on the red earth of the region, intimate with the soil had seen so much blood spilt to conquer and tame it.

Practical as ever, Laurence slid a hand into her back pack and drew out a tube of lubricant. After using it she said simply.

“Now you can make a woman of me.”

As our passion receded we dressed slowly, interspersed with kisses, a passion temporarily sated. We walked back to the house slowly, tousled, even dishevelled, but resplendent in our love, arm in arm to face the day.

If anything was noticed by the rest of my family as to our appearance on return, nothing was said. We were kissed and went off to have a shower separately. Clean, and dressed in normal daywear of shorts, shirt and sandals we went down for a second breakfast and found that smiles were infective!

Pierre disappeared off somewhat suspiciously mid-morning and an hour later Laurence's parents came for her to go to an afternoon stylist's appointment before our celebratory dinner that evening.

It was a bit of a low spot for me as my dress suit was ready and pressed, and with a corsage ordered that we were assured would match Laurence's dress, all was ready.

So it was, that the reason for Pierre's secrecy was revealed. He had picked Tina up at Carcassonne airport and brought her to stay for a long weekend. He had also collected two copies of a video made by the school of the dance performance.

After lunch, Tina and I snuggled up together, watched the video and told her about my 'most beautiful girl in the World.'

After a short siesta and snack, the time was approaching for preparations to begin. Each bathroom was in constant use. Sylvie, Michelle and Tina taking an hour each closeted with the mysteries of the cosmetics cabinet. Sophie moved from one daughter to the other making sure all was as it should be, but in fact, didn't take a great deal less time with her own preparations. Pierre sat with me in the garden for a while talking about all my activities and how to fit everything in now that regional and national dance competitions were a possibility. I wasn't able to make a decision as to the future except that that future could not be without Laurence.

I had been without a father for as long as I could remember. He had died in my infancy and I had never felt the need for a father figure, but in this quiet time I felt that it was so right that I asked him if he would allow me the honour of calling him, ‘Papa’.

"You have become everything that I would have hoped a son of mine would become", he said. "It is you that do me the honour of asking", and I shall go and tell Sophie immediately because if I leave it longer she will have put on her makeup and will have to start again after she has had a little cry! "I shall be delighted to call you 'Son' as well; if that is alright." It was, of course and his hug almost squeezed the air out of lungs before he strode off the tell Sophie.

At 7.40pm everyone reappeared. Sylvie in a silk dress in the washed out blue. It sculpted her figure and the colour matched her eyes to perfection.

Michelle supported a cerise satin dress that rippled in the late evening sunlight.

Tina's ensemble was in a light pink that enhanced her paler English colouring, and Maman had an emerald sheath dress that matched the emeralds in her engagement ring. It seemed to flow as she walked.

All had dressed with great care, but the choices seemed restrained in some respects and I was not quite sure why I felt this to be the case being quite ignorant of these matters.

A short drive in two limousines with liveried chauffeurs brought us to a well-known restaurant with one Michelin star. Pierre, had taken over the whole of this small restaurant for the night. There must have been some conversation during the drive over a radio link because as we arrived at the restaurant, Laurence's parents' limousine arrived from the opposite direction.

All eyes were on Laurence when she emerged from the car after her parents. The corsage of freesias I had bought adorned a stunning white dress that almost appeared to defy gravity in remaining on her. This was a garment of the catwalk, a one-off, an example of the best haute couture France had to offer. Its apparent simplicity, combined with a little make-up and quite austere gold necklace and bracelet, acted synergistically to enhance her loveliness without masking her delicate features and essential vulnerability.

I loved her at that moment with an intensity I could barely hide. In the end I just whispered "Tu es trés trés belle." and kissed her hand. I saw now why the other women had dressed in a more restrained fashion. This was Laurence's night and no one was going to upstage her. Her hair shone. Gone was the pageboy cut I had known since our meeting. Somehow the coiffeuse had created a new style. It was appropriate to her age and love of activity, but in a style that emphasised the sophistication and elegance of the archetypal cultivated French woman.

I took her arm as we went into dinner to the sounds of our dance scores. Her unencumbered breasts and prominent nipples made the dress move sensuously and all eyes shared her moment. Laurence and I had pride of place at the head of the table and Madam Fabre, her husband and Henri, my male dance teacher had been able to join us. We embraced both teachers as we greeted them

A photographer was in attendance for some minutes recording for posterity and one of the pictures eventually appeared with a short report in Midi Soir, the newspaper of the region.

The meal had been fixed earlier in the day and each dish was exquisite, a model of nouvelle cuisine. A tiny cup of chilled soup, was followed by foie gras on Melba toast, then a Champagne ice cream to clear that palate. The fish course of Langouste, lead on to tiny slivers of succulent beef in a sauce that defied description.

A small soufflé of Roquefort, light as thistledown, lead on to a sorbet of citron, and finally a tiny portion of a chocolate gateau that was hugely rich without being cloyingly sweet.

Each course had its own wine that I had begin to appreciate under the tutelage of Papa. He was an oenologue and Master of Wine during the day, advising restaurants and hotels like this one, on their cellars. We were each poured less than half a glass of each wine as an ever-attentive waiting staff brought each bottle or decanter round. These were not the vins de pays of day-to-day drinking. These were first vintages from chateaux with serious reputations and vintages that would have raised the eyebrows of wine connoisseurs the World over. Some were vintages from papa's own cellar laid down many years before and reaching their peak now.

Finally a fine vintage Crémant de Limoux was poured and the entire party toasted our health and happiness. Pierre spoke of my arrival in tragic circumstances. My successful absorption into both the Gatti family and French society, and the immense pleasure I was giving to himself, Sophie and their two daughters as I fulfilled all their expectations of me. They were proud to call me their son, and the girls had the brother they never expected to have.

The chef/patron of the restaurant was called and praise lauded on him for the wonderful meal. He said it was the first time he had decided to close his restaurant for a private function and it was a pleasure to do so for someone who's advice and guidance had helped to make his restaurant one of the most respected in the area. To applause, he said he was looking forward to getting his second Michelin star with Pierre's help.

Tina spoke in broken French of the circumstances of our fathers' and subsequently, our mother's deaths. She had also been left alone, although an adult. She appreciated the infinite trouble my new parents took to involve her during my time in France and never felt excluded in any way. She was overjoyed at our success, and looked forward to us dancing in England when the time was right.

Laurence's father is not a man given to public speaking, but was full of emotion when he spoke of their joy at his daughter's awakening into the dance and womanhood, and offered their thanks to the Gatti family for a wonderful evening. To laughter, he offered those who wanted to join him, a tiny glass of a very old liqueur Calvados, the apple brandy of Laurence's home region. It was the only contribution he had been allowed to make; he concluded ruefully.

A quartet had set up quietly over the last few minutes and after Laurence and I lead off the dancing in a smallish open area. A Waltz, Quickstep and Cha-cha-cha followed in quick succession before we both felt the need for some air and privacy.

The restaurant had a balcony that looked out over the rugged mountains of the Pyrenees. They were beautiful in their grandeur by day and topped by fairytale castles of the bloody Cathar period and were now full of mystery by night. No one followed us out. We stood under a crescent moon in a velvety black sky that was punctuated only countless stars and the opalescent swathe of the Milky Way. This was our time to savour the moment that would remain crystal clear in one's memory for a lifetime. It was a defining moment. As Laurence slipped into my arms we made our reaffirmations... "Je t'aime." " Je t'aime."... sealed so so very gently with a kiss.

I will see you tomorrow morning she said - for our run and she arrived on her cycle at a little after 8am. Gathering a water container each, we did some stretching exercises before jogging off through the lanes. As soon as the houses faded away she stopped and removed her panties. I am sure you can look after these she said with a smile and ran off ahead of me. Within a few hundred metres my shorts were tented and I as I had no intention of trying to catch up; Laurence ran on. It was only when we had reached the same spot as before that she stopped and took a drink, looked askance at me with a lopsided smile, then slipped off into the low herbs that crowded into the little valley and gave the smell of the garrigue that permeated villages each summer.

We kissed, touched and fondled until the sun was becoming unpleasantly warm to be unclothed without sun cream and soon her panties were once again cradling her. She raced me back home to a shower and breakfast.

We must do this again on Wednesday she giggled. Wednesday is the day off in the week that French schools have to make up for the four very long days that they are open.

Monday was back to school, but with lots of hugs and kisses from friends after the performance on Friday night, and we were just settling down to ordinary day-to-day lives of students at the end the first year that is confusingly called seconde, when a note arrived asking me and Laurence to visit the Principal's office later in the day when our parents would be available.

Our final monthly test results were due out before the end of the term as was the result of the examination in French and French literature that marks the end of the first year of the Baccalauréate (bac). I had had to have extra help to bring me up to the standard for a modest pass in this test, but Laurence was expected to achieve a mention bien grade of 14 or15 out of the 20 marks available.

At lunch Laurence and I met up and neither had any idea of why we had been asked to visit the Principal with our parents, but after a quick lunch we sat waiting in his secretary's office for our appointment. When both mothers arrived we were ushered in.

"First of all, the Principal said, I am going to tell you that you have both passed your terminal examinations.”

“Aiden, you got 11 and Laurence, you got 15. Considering your background, Aiden, your pass is very good."

"Laurence, you know your pass is good.”

"I am giving you these results early for a very good reason which will become apparent shortly.”
We, glowed... if this was just the introduction to what he was to say, we couldn't imagine what was to come. "As you know", he said, "this is one of the smaller lycées in the south-west and cannot offer all the options available in big cities. You, I note, he said to Laurence are currently destined to take a general bac in the sciences in the B série or track. Laurence nodded, but waited in silence. Aiden, you are currently destined for a general bac in literature and classics in the A série." (The most straightforward)

After your performances last week and detailed discussions with the artistic directors you met, I have spoken to the Principal of the Lycée in Toulouse who offers the Technology bac in Music and Dance. As a result of the recommendations of myself, your two dance teachers and the artistic directors who were privileged to see you dance last week, plus sight of the video we produced, the lycée in Toulouse would like you both to be interviewed and auditioned for places in the D série in their music and dance courses, with of course, the usual weekly boarding places attached.

The D série is the most demanding of all the courses available in French schools and it would involve huge commitment and effort on our part. We looked at each other, smiled and nodded. "Yes", we said, "yes, yes, yes" and gave both mothers a special hug.

"I am very pleased for both of you; so I shall warn your teachers not to expect you on tomorrow or Wednesday" he said smiling. "Tomorrow and Wednesday" we said looking at him surprised. "Yes, tomorrow you will have the whole day with Madam Fabre in the dance studio. It is the least I can do after the pleasure you gave so many last week. Then at 10am on Wednesday you will present yourselves to Toulouse. The school will be closed to pupils of course, but the weekly boarding students will be there and able to show you round before the formal assessment starts."

In France authority speaks and once accepted, bureaucracy works quickly it seems. We only had the afternoon to wait and agreed to tell no one of the audition, except Sylvie, until after we returned in case something went wrong. It was the longest afternoon I could remember; but we had a word in quiet urgency with Sylvie and she was delighted. Somehow or other people picked up on our body language or something and there were some quixotic looks in our direction with no one having sufficient of an inkling to ask us direct.

Sleep evaded us that night until Laurence's fatigued father brought her to us at a quarter after midnight. "You put up with her please" he said. She is just as much yours as ours now.

Strangely we went to sleep quite quickly once we were snuggled up together. Then it was an early rising, washing, and off to school loaded down with dance kit - which was more bulky than heavy.

Madam Fabre was as early as we were. It was a day of total commitment for us all. We had to prepare individual exercises to show our athleticism and dance skills at the bar - both to music and to command, then carry out various lifts singly and in combination. The audition procedure was clear and unambiguous. The last part was a free dance and of course our two prepared performances were used for this. It was too late to do more than work through the performances again and work out any rough edges that had crept in since last week.

At going home time Madam Fabre embraced us both and wished us "Bonne chance!".

Other students had seen that the dance studio was closed for the day and had noticed our absence from normal lessons. We let one or two close friends into the secret on pain of instant death if they spoke to anyone.

The next responsibility was to visit Laurence's home to say goodbye to her parents and pick up her clean dance kit for tomorrow. Maman was to take us to Toulouse, leaving at about 6am.

The drive along La Languedocienne motorway to Narbonne then the Des Deux Mers Motorway to Toulouse was uneventful and it was lucky that Maman knew her way round the city as the traffic was awful at 8.30am. We were lucky to get parked near the Lycée just after 9.30, in good time to meet the Principal at 10am.

The day went in a blur. We were interviewed individually and together by a team of three staff including a vice-principal. Before lunch all three of us were shown round the dance facilities specifically, and the sports and academic facilities in perhaps less detail. The boarding facilities were shown to us separately.

Lunch followed in the boarding house dining room with a teacher who might be our personal tutor. She said that she had no voice in the selection procedure and would advise us on as best she could on whatever we asked and answer our questions if any.

After lunch we were given just under an hour to check up on the sound system, set the lights and to practice in the unfamiliar setting. We had also to change and Maman added just a small amount of makeup to each of us.

As 2.30pm approached all was as ready as could be. The three chairs set out, one on each of three sides of the studio. Our examiners talked to us about the pieces and the choreography we had done and our reasons for choosing the music. They tried to put us at our ease, but it wasn't easy.

The compulsory exercises went smoothly. At least as far as 24 hours preparation could ensure. Then we had to complete a free dance where we were allowed to listen to a piece of music once the carry out an impromptu dance on our own. Laurence interpreted her piece so sensitively. The assessment panel had chosen the music carefully with our video tape in mind. These people wanted us to do well.

When my turn came; the music was a Turkish dance and I just imagined that I was just making a run the full length of a rugby pitch with feints, dummies, turns, leaps and spins... whilst holding fast to an imaginary rugby ball. After the dance we were asked about our interpretation. Our inquisitor said it was the first time that anyone had played rugby in a dance audition, but complimented me on several aspects of my performance. I didn't hear Laurence's debriefing that was held in another room.

Finally we launched into our two dances. After both dances we were numb with tiredness, we could not have done better, and sat expectantly in our tracksuits for the deliberations to be completed. Finally, we were rather disappointed to be asked to change, then to go back to the Principal's office and wait for him to give their decision.

The students who guided us back said quietly that this procedure meant almost certainly, that we were accepted. If we hadn't been good enough the panel would have told us!

The Principal was delighted with our interviews and audition and said from the outset that we were accepted to start in the new school year. He was, however, concerned with my French as far as entering the D série was concerned because we would have to do a range of other subjects other than dance. He also said - you know that you are being accepted as individuals. We don't offer places for pairs of students, even if it feels rather like it in this case!

With Maman's contribution, it was decided to start us both in the D série and to review both of our academic progress half way through the first trimester and make a more permanent decision then.

Madame Fabre had given us her portable phone number so we used Maman's portable to let her and the two families know the good news. With permission I also left Tina a message on her answerphone in London for when she returned from work.

We snuggled down in the back seat, weary but also bubbling with excitement. We had slept only a little the night before and exhaustion began to take its toll. A journey does not take long when most of it is spent asleep!

We dropped Laurence off first. It was right that she should spend time with her parents at this happy time, but it also left an emptiness in me.

Soon we were home to tell how the day had gone to Papa and Sylvie. Vintage champagne is not meant to go with takeaway pizza; but it seemed to slip down well enough.

Half an hour later, Laurence was on the phone. She felt the same emptiness as I had. With more Gallic shrugs I was allowed to cycle to her home with my schoolbooks and clothes for tomorrow; and we slept the sleep of the just, spooned together, until the alarm woke us refreshed and emotionally complete once more.

The last two days of the year were a blur of congratulations and goodbyes. Even the ever-present paperwork for the transfers seemed to appear by magic and then, les grande vacances were upon us and for three months we could be together all the time.

I was invited to Brittany to meet Laurence's relatives; and Tina spent another long weekend with us. But most of the time we ran the lanes amongst the ripening grapes and danced the evenings away at discos until the early hours in the way of the Languedoc when a 10pm start is the only time it is cool enough for such activities.

There was an area of grass at the piscine that was used by established couples and we migrated to this area to get the sun, swim and relax and to chat to other couples. No one could miss the body language of our complete love one for another.

I got to know Laurence's body as intimately as my own. Her muscles that tensed up and needed massage when extemporaneous dances did not work. Nudity was of no consequence in our lives, I felt attuned to her rhythms, and her to mine, in life as much as the dance. She still ran without panties in the countryside. We were in tune and mutually enthralled.

It sounds corny, but the days rushed by. In and out of each other's homes and beds as if they were our own. We explored ourselves as we explored our milieu. We were as part of the Earth from which we sprang, and to where we would eventually return.

Just as the grapes swelled, darkened and the vendage approached, so we had to prepare again for the rentrée. Our idyll was over and the hard work was to return; but ideas for new choreographies cascaded from us, and new music became our laboratory. Massaging discordant harmonies from prepared pianos and the like, into movements that reflected the torn land that dominated our homes. The land was our cornucopia. We were absorbed into the fundamentally French concept of the terroir, of the land and its people, indivisible!

And so to Toulouse...

We will go triumphantly and together into the World of the Dance.