Previously…

I arrived home and was welcomed by a posse of pussies–or do I mean a pride or a rabble–of pussies, all wanting to play, stalk or eat me. Having fed and watered the inner beasts and given a number of cuddles and strokes–two per cat, there’s a recession on–I was free to go and change my skirt.

After washing the soiled skirt, I went and sat by the pond. It was peaceful and pleasant here and I relaxed on the patio and let myself drift off…

I was awoken by a sound. It wasn’t a normal sound and I wasn’t sure what it was, but I think it was a sort of metallic chink sort of noise.

I rubbed my eyes and then regretted it as I had smudged my makeup, but then I heard the noise again. Lifting a cat off my lap, I stood up and made my way round to the side of the house where both my darling little Beemer and Abby’s car, Dolly, were parked. I heard the sound of running footsteps retreating away from me as I turned the corner. I couldn’t see anyone so he or she had gone. My heart was beating rather a lot as I turned away from the lane and gazed over at the cars.

I gasped as on the bonnet of my lovely shining car, written in red paint was:

‘Leave now, we don’t want your sort here.’

And now the story continues…

I stared at the bonnet of my beautiful, shiny car and could not believe what I saw. I had thought my troubles were over and the tricks played by Nigel were a thing of the past. But no, it seemed I still had problems.

As I approached beautiful BMW, I was able to view the paint daubs close at hand–still wet and dripping slightly. ‘What infamy!’ I thought; ‘obviously, somebody here has it in for me!’. I laughed at my own feeble joke, but it was a bitter laugh.

I would never know what I had done to deserve this. I had come to live here–a refuge from the trials and tribulations that I had experienced from my previous existence. I could have cried then, but I didn’t. I could have screamed at the top of my voice about the unjustness of it all, but I didn’t. I just went back indoors, made myself a cup of tea, ejected a cat from my seat, sat down and had a think.

I loved my Beemer, it was the only part of my previous existence that meant anything to me now. The house was really Olivia’s The business was really Nigel’s. But the car, it was mine and mine alone.

‘So,’ I thought, ‘what should I do about it?’

I could get others to run around and sort things out; I could cry on Abby’s shoulder until things got better, or I could even ask the local police force to put out an all points bulletin on the “perp”–as our American cousins would say. But no, I would stay calm and collected, do what was right and then nail the bugger to a tree when I caught him or her. It was obvious that there was someone who didn’t like me or what I represented. Right it was time for little Samantha to be a bit proactive and use her little grey cells–as Hercule Poirot was wont to say.

I stood up and went outside and looked at my car again. Anyone seeing this vandalism would think that there was something about me that would cause someone to want me to go away. But, and that was a big but, I wasn’t Tom anymore–a Tom that would run away and try to hide in a backwater like, erm, Penmarris. Well, it was a bit of a bonus that Penmarris was the place where I wanted to spend the rest of my life, together with my sweetheart and my daughter–and about a thousand cats, but that is beside the point.

It was obvious that by now, everyone and the canary in the sweet shop knew that I was transgendered. The jungle drums had started beating as I first stepped into the village and the smoke signals were enough to cause a mini climate change heralding the next ice age or even global warming. So, the fact that I was a wee bit different might make certain locals think that I could be the Antichrist or something. The fact that I had only met sweetness and light with the rare exception of a certain doctors’ receptionist did not mean that everyone loved me like their own.

So I had to decide who would be so nasty as to physically hurt a Beemer. A Skoda, well that would be understandable or a Merc, probably justified, but a Beemer–no, the mind had to be warped. I put my thoughts on hold as I picked up my little pink mobile ’phone and rung Mr Potts the mechanical guru.

‘Hello, Mr Potts, it’s Samantha Smart. I have some red pain on my bonnet, can you fix it?’

‘You’m should get a new bonnet, then. Can’t be that expensive. What d’yer want to wear a bonnet fer. Bit old-fashioned innit?’

‘No, Mr Potts, the bonnet of my car, you know, my BMW?’

‘Oh ri’ couldn’t understand what you’re sayin’; sounded like you come from Bodmin or summat. Just pop the car down anytime and I’ll quote ye.’

‘The trouble is, Mr Potts, someone has written something nasty in paint on my bonnet and I don’t want to drive it down the High Street like that.’

‘Bit naughty is it?’

‘Yes, to me, anyway.’

‘Ri’, give oi ten minutes and I’ll come and ’ave a look-see. At young Abby’s place, are ye?’

‘Yes.’

‘All ri’ see yer soon.’

With that he put the ’phone down and I went and made another cup of tea. I felt a bit reckless so I had no less than three Chocolate Hobnobs with my tea as I awaited the arrival of Mr Potts. I knew that there was no way that he would turn up in ten minutes and budgeted forty-five to be on the safe side. I picked up a pen and paper and started writing things down.

If Miss Marple could do it, I’m sure that I could find the culprit and reveal all in Dotty’s drawing room with all the suspects conveniently sat on chairs looking guilty as charged and the local constable looking baffled and perplexed as he held his truncheon suggestively and waited for the culprit to make a dash for the door.

‘Right,’ I thought, ‘let’s get down to it.’

1. Who had a motive?
2. Why would anyone one not like sweet little me?
3. List possible suspects–remember it is normally the one that is the least suspect.
4. Check out the butler first on the premise that the butler is always suspect. Mind you he is a sweetie–no, I must be strong and investigative.
5. Find out everyone’s movements from the list of suspects–note to self, should I wear the female version of a dear stalker and start smoking a pipe?
6. Stick to the point.
7. Ask said local constable, private dicks and others if there are any clues on nasty letters that they have as evidence.
8. Go and see Marcia as one of the notes had a distinctive medical type smell.
9. Get chops out of freezer for tea.
10. See if Katie has any ideas re the underworld and Nigel’s nasty little friends and acquaintances.

I put down the pen and paper as I heard the sound of a van pulling up outside. I went out to see who it was and was surprised to discover Mr Potts, half an hour earlier than my ETA for him. He was examining at the damage to my little darling and scratching his head.

‘Mmm,’ he said, ‘not very nice init?’

‘No; will it cost a lot to sort out?’

‘Need a strip down and respray, not much change out o’ five ’undred, give or take VAT.’

‘When can you do it?’

He looked at me and scratched his head again. I was tempted to recommend him a good dandruff preparation but wisely kept quiet.

‘Mmm, bring ’er over very early tomorrow, an’ I’ll try an’ get it sorted in a few days. Or ri’?’

‘Or ri’–I mean all right. Thanks, Mr Potts.’

‘You’m be welcome.’ He tugged his forelock–I didn’t know people did that still, but this was Penmarris–and left.

I was tempted to text Abby, but knew she was busy potterising so first of all, I rang my insurers to tell them about the infamy.

Looking at my insurance certificate, I found the claims line number in tiny writing buried deep in the wording. It was a premium line number–what an unexpected surprise, I don’t think! I dialled the number.

‘Thank you for calling Countrywide insurance, If you wish to have a quote, please press one. If you have a query on your policy, please press two. If you wish to cancel your policy, please press three. If you have a query about your premium, please press four. If you wish to make a claim please press five.’

I woke up at that point and pressed five.

‘Please note that your call may be recorded and in the event of a dispute regarding your claim, the recording may be used against you. Your rights are not affected by this in any way. Please press one if you are querying an existing claim. Press two if you do not agree with our decision on your claim. Press three if this is a new claim.’

I had virtually lost the will to live at this point and was as close as I had ever been to throwing the ’phone into the duck pond, but with fortitude I carried on regardless. After all we did win the war, didn’t we? I pressed three and awaited further instructions–Sherlock Holmes, I am sure would have deduced that this company couldn’t really give a toss about claims, rather, they were more interested in collecting in premiums so that executives could go on long and expensive holidays in the Bahamas.

‘Hello, my name is Inderjit, how can I be helping you, please?’

‘God a real voice–sorry err, Inderjit, did you say your name was? I have a claim I wish to make?’

Twenty minutes later, after telling him my life story, blood group and the size of my panties, he promised to send out a claims form–albeit reluctantly. I had to inform the local police in the shape of PC Len Troughton but I know what he would say–‘B’aint no chance of catching whoever did it’–but still miracles do happen, don’t they?

I had my third cup of tea and wondered if you could overdose on it–I was shaking slightly, then I remembered that I hadn’t taken my pills yet and might turn into a werewolf at any moment.

Sitting by the pond, I tried to relax. I would do some sleuthing later on and wondered if I should call Rent-a-Bloodhound or somebody. Anyway, it was somewhat soothing sitting there listening to the sound of the stream as it babbled away. Then of course I had to use the loo in a hurry–too much tea and running water does that for you.

As I emerged from my ablutions my ’phone chirped at me. I didn’t recognise the number, but it was local. I sat back down by the pond and pressed the green button thingie.

‘Hello?’

‘H—H-Hello, is that Samantha?’

‘Yes, who’s this?’

‘It’s Candice––’

‘Erm hello, Candice. How can I erm, help you?’

She sounded upset for some reason.

‘I—i—it’s my B—B—B—Brian.’ I was sure she was sobbing.

‘What’s happened to him?’

‘H—h—he’s taken an overdose, and he’s at the h—hospital…I’m with him. Luckily they got to him in time but he told me he wanted to die. He says that he can’t live like this anymore. I know that you are…transgendered, too. Please could you come and talk to him? I’m absolutely at my wits’ end.’

‘Of course. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

I put the ’phone down and stared into the distance. I was not sure what I could do to help Brian. Surely Marcia would be better than me? Grabbing my bag and the spare keys for Dolly, I left a message on the table for Abby and then drove to the hospital.

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, help with the plot-lines and pulling the story into shape.