Uniform Treatment - 4

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Chapter 4

I slipped my black trainers on and saw how the heel trod on the trousers. I saw they would be frayed to bits before I reached work. With yet another sinking feeling, I searched for the box of shoes.

The shoes that were certainly my mom’s were tight and sometimes too small to get my foot into. My sister’s were, to my surprise not such a bad fit. Some pairs were too tight in width, though the length seemed okay, some were a different cut or just softer fabrics. I found a pair of court style shoes in dark blue that had quite a short toebox and hardly any vamp, so that much of the foot was open. This seemed to stop the pinching that more closed shoes caused to the top of my foot. I had never tried to wear heels, but as I stood, I saw that the trousers no longer scraped the floor. I tried a step and realised my whole balance was uneven. I had no trouble standing, but I found my heel was meeting the floor too soon when I took a step. I walked around for a bit and slowly discovered that by walking almost as if on tiptoe the shoes seemed to meet the floor properly.

I looked in the mirror and with the extra height I noticed that a bulge in the trousers – a bulge where it could be dangerous to my ongoing employment under the circumstances – showed above the bottom of the mirror. They zipped at the back, these ones, and were very close cut. I was at a loss for a moment, and then remembered some panty girdles my mom had. I inwardly apologised again to her for considering using such intimate apparel, but I suppose I had, in a way, inherited them; they were mine now and I had the right, if not the desire, to wear them. I fished a black pair out. I slipped out of the shoes and the trousers, pulled off my boyish underpants and I pulled on the panty girdle. It gave the desired smooth line, softly crushing my masculine bulges into submission, uncomfortably, but not painfully emasculating me further.

I pulled the slacks back on, and slipped back into the heels, without socks, because I’d left the tights at work, and it all looked shockingly feminine. I looked at the clock, and saw it was seven forty five. Not quite in a hurry yet. I could perhaps afford a cup of tea and a sandwich on the way? No, I decided I could not. Not just the money either, although eating out was a complete waste, but also I would ruin my makeup. With that thought, I realised it would have to happen at some point, and that I would need to at least reapply the lipstick. This meant I would need to take it with me, and a mirror too. And a hairbrush maybe? And the keys to the bedsit and my street key. And just as yesterday, these slacks had no pocket. I pulled back the curtains and turned off my light. It was cold looking and miserable this morning, despite being summer. I would need a coat too. Over the winter I’d worn my tatty old denim bomber jacket and a scarf, but didn’t feel that ripped rocker style would cut it with my new – though adhered to under sufferance – economically important image. My sister only had a couple of coats and she had taken them with her. I had only one of my own and one of the pockets was ripped; not something to wear to work while I was still trying so hard to set the right… well, a professional impression.

I hadn’t brought any of my mom’s coats. I’d carried all I could of her stuff, but some things seemed so bulky and so superfluous, and relatively lacking in sentimental value. Coats and bags were among the things I’d not prioritised. I did find a shoulder bag of my sister’s that was unfashionable enough for her to have left behind. It was black imitation leather, with hemp-like black panels where it could expand. It fastened with a toggle, and was big enough for my needs and much better than the bumbag with the additional items I needed. I still needed a coat and wondered about my school blazer, or my sister’s, which was among her school things, since I was worried now that anything masculine might look incongruous. I mooched some more, realising I was going to have to make sense of all these boxes, under the circumstances, since I may have an ongoing need. I was surprised to find a thin gabardine mack in navy blue together with my sister’s uniforms: a school overcoat. My school hadn’t had such a thing. I tried it on and found it was tight across the shoulders. Not so tight I couldn’t wear it, but tight enough to feel awkward and when I looked in the mirror it looked wrong. I folded it back into the box. I would just have to be cold. I had a small folding umbrella of my own, and that was small enough to fit into the shoulder bag with only the handle sticking out. I had become accustomed to moving around in the heels now, so I decided it was time to leave. I would get there early, change before Alison arrived and have a coffee while I waited.

***

The shoes I had chosen weren’t just the best fit, they were a blue that was almost black and they had a heel that was only about two inches high. When I say only, it was enough to feel very strange, but in the shoe box there were some very high looking heels, some I was glad didn’t fit, but some that would. I had sorted the shoes into two piles, those that fit and those that didn’t, and I had hardly looked, I had just slipped my foot in and assigned a pile. There were two that had fit that were higher than these ones that I had chosen. One pair were strappy sandals, another were dark blue and smart. There had been a couple of pairs of very flat shoes that had fit, and there had been these. Most of the others were either too small, or pinched too much, though I suspected a few would stretch a little with wearing.

I hoped, of course, I would find a better job, a more appropriate job, a man’s job, before I needed to explore further.

This hope was reinforced by the disturbing clopping of my shoes as I walked to work. They were about an inch across at the tread part of the heel, and were quite stable. I had actually tried, that morning, to stand up in one shoe with a narrow heel and nearly twisted my ankle, so I realised that wider heels required less ankle strength to keep them straight. The two inch heel preserved the hem of the trousers from scraping on the ground and strangely, though it was only two inches, I felt much taller walking in them. I found I walked differently too: somehow I was more aware of my thighs, and they seemed to be more forward in my stride. It was an odd feeling, hard to describe, and yet becoming natural after the first 500 yards, since by then I was actually settling into a stride and entering a main road. My mind became occupied with worries that people would look at me and laugh, but no-one did. The only mockery I felt was from the constant clopping of the heels, which followed me and echoed off the walls of buildings.

I arrived at the Sherlington 15 minutes early, and realised that I had had to walk more slowly in these shoes. I slipped into the ladies, unlocked my locker and went into a cubicle. I slipped off my shoes, then the trousers and sat to slip on the tights. Then I took off the shirt and stepped into the dress. I tried a little harder today and managed to get the zip all the way up. I hung the apron over my head, slipped back into the shoes and then unlocked the door. Stepping out of the cubicle with my clothes, I walked to the mirror and folded them on the surface there. Then I tied the apron behind my back and looked in the mirror. I stared at myself for a moment. I could hardly believe that it could be so easy to look like a girl. It had never been an issue before, but then I suppose that until recently what I looked like had always been contextualised by shorter hair and boy’s clothes. But “clothes don’t make the man”, do they?

I walked my folded clothes over to my locker and put them in. I looked in my handbag, and decided I didn’t need anything and locked it in with the clothes, dropping the key into the pocket of the apron. I walked back to the surface by the mirror and picked up my maid’s cap and the hairpins which I had left clipped to it. As I was considering how to do it, Alison entered.

“Morning!” she said cheerfully.
“Morning, Alison,” I replied.

She looked at me holding the cap, then walked over and turned it around in my hands.

“That way round. They didn’t have them at Bat Towers, did they? Here, let me show you. On your head like this, then a hairgrip here, and here… and one here… and one here. That won’t move now.” And she smiled.
I looked in the mirror and didn’t smile. “Thanks very much, Alison,” I said, but didn’t feel at all thankful. It was certainly the icing on the cake, utterly finishing the look of a maid.

***

I suddenly became aware that the movements behind me that I’d been only vaguely aware of as I contemplated my image were those which resulted in Alison now standing there, reflected in the mirror wearing just a bra and panties again. I was slightly shocked, and though I thought she looked very nice, I looked away embarrassed, horrified, indeed, at the situation and the implications if they ever realised I was not a girl.

Then the door opened again and Mrs Jennings walked in.
“Morning girls,” she said imperiously.
“Morning, Mrs Jennings,” said Alison, looking a little embarrassed but who then, to my surprise, dipped a little curtsey, in spite of her state of undress.

Mrs Jennings turned to look at me. I tried to smile. She started to frown a little.

“Ah, I don’t think Christine has been told she should curtsey, Mrs Jennings.”

My head turned involuntarily quickly to look at Alison, who nodded at me and gestured with her hand. I looked back at Mrs Jennings who was looking at me expectantly, but then deigned to speak.

“I see. Well, as one of the directors, it is customary that my uniformed staff curtsey when we meet. The same goes for the other directors, but you won’t often see them, and the same goes for any VIPs who might happen to visit, you know, councillors, MPs, that sort of thing.” She paused, “You do know how to curtsey, don’t you?”

“Um… I think so, Mrs Jennings, I murmured,” unable to believe this archaic habit.
“Show me then,” she smiled.

I blinked, feeling shaky and nervous, and then I bobbed down, bending my knees while taking my weight on my left leg and letting my right leg go behind the other for the thigh to hang more vertically, half like a genuflexion, in an imitation of the move I’d so rarely seen girls do. I’d been too stunned at the time to observe Alison’s technique. My effort was probably a clumsy movement, but seemed to satisfy her. A brief smile flicked across her face and she walked into one of the cubicles.

Alison mouthed at me silently: “Sorry, meant to tell you,” and tipped her head in a contrite way as if to ask for forgiveness. I flashed her a brief smile of absolution, as I heard a stream of managerial urine from behind the locked cubicle door. I turned to lean on the shelf in front of the mirror, and stared into my stunned and disturbed eyes. I felt shaky. It seemed that every twist and turn of events required me to make one more act of self-immolation. If I threw it in, if I walked out, I’d have to walk out in heels, and then I’d have to face my landlord who now thought I was a girl too and if I disabused him of the notion I was quite sure I would be homeless by evening. If I didn’t, I now had to keep up the act on two fronts: I couldn’t afford to walk out. I felt like slumping into a heap on the floor, then I saw Alison step up beside me in her uniform.

She quickly tied her apron and said quietly: “Here, watch me.” And she half turned so I could see her position her cap on her head and then insert the hairpins.

And I knew I needed to pay attention to this awful thing that I would need to do to myself, unless I decided to simply give up and let my life crash completely.

With a loud metallic crack the latch was pulled back on Mrs Jenning’s cubicle and she walked out, washed her hands while studying her face and then glancing at myself and Alison she said: “Chop, chop girls, work to do.”

Alison dipped another slight curtsey and I found myself doing the same, complying easily from sheer nervousness, I think. We followed her out and she strode off down the corridor to her office.

“Time for a quick coffee,” said Alison. “Want one?”
“Oh, yes, please,” I said, quietly.
Alison craned her neck and saw Mrs Jennings had gone, and then whispered: “She’s a bit of a dragon, but very fair minded. Don’t worry, she likes you.”
I frowned and asked: “How can you tell?”
“She likes anyone who words hard,” Alison said with a wry smile, and then with more earnestness: “really, she does.”
“But… I mean… we have to curtsey?”
“Mmm, well, just to her really. Oh, and there was another time, when some charity event was held here there were some local dignitaries.”
“It’s just… so, it’s…” I stammered.
“I know, it’s a bit Victorian. Like the maid caps, I guess, and the building. Wait till you get a prize.”
“A prize?”
“Yeah, every now and then the old dragon awards prizes. It’s sort of random, but sometimes individuals, sometimes a whole team, she just gives us things,” she looked at me to gauge my reaction. “Nice things,” she said reassuringly.
“Oh, so, um, I guess then it’s okay to curtsey,” my sarcasm was instinctive and I couldn’t help it.

Alison looked away and finished making the coffee, not engaging with my bitter tone. Then she turned, handed me a cup of the steaming liquid, and erased the earlier conversation with a smile: “Down this, and then to work.”

***

At the end of the first week at the Sherlington, I went home with my wages. Mrs Miller had listened when I had explained to her how poor I was and that I had never been paid monthly before. She had spoken to Mrs Jennings, and they had agreed to pay their new chambermaid weekly for the first month. It came to just over £70 for that first week. With rent at £40 a week, plus the extra £20 I had promised Mr Gunn, I only had £10 left for food. After having done the arithmetic, I didn’t feel like eating, but studying the payslip realised that I had been taxed and my NI deductions had also eaten into my earnings. “Surely,” I thought, “I don’t earn enough to pay that much tax?”

When I arrived home I knocked on the ground floor door. Mr Gunn opened it, looking menacing as usual, but he smiled when he saw me.
“Come in, my dear,” he said and I felt myself nervously frown.
“I’ve come to pay the rent,” I said fairly redundantly. He had turned to make room for me to enter, but glanced back with a leering smile that he may not have been able to help, and said “I know, dear”.
I didn’t like him calling me “dear”. I felt a sort of tension run through me each time he said it, but I was painfully aware that he was being more lenient about the rent because he thought I was female.
“Just step inside so I can enter it in your book.”
I stepped past him and he touched the small of my back as I did, and as he closed the door. With the click of the lock I felt a wave of anxiety pass over me. His touch on my back guided me forward, but then released when I began to walk down the corridor to what turned out to be his kitchen, at the end. It was a decent sized room with a six-seater dining table in the middle, a Utility style piece in oak-veneer. He came in, sat and gestured for me to hand him my rent book. I did, and he opened it and glanced up.
“Have a seat, my dear, only take a minute.

He had never invited me in before and I felt edgy about it. He counted the money, smiled when he counted the extra £20 against the arrears, he filled in the rent book and handed it back to me, and I realised he was done.

He smiled, I got up to leave, and then I said: “Mr Gunn, you said you might be able to find me some work in one of your other properties, if I had any trouble?”
He frowned: “But you told me you have a new job?”
“I have, and it covers the rent, as you can see, but it isn’t well paid and I could really use a Saturday job.”
His gaze drifted past me and for a moment he wasn’t really present. Then he caught my eye again and smiled his leery smile and said: “I’ll have to see my dear. There may be something I can offer you but I won’t know until tomorrow. Will you be in tomorrow, say 5pm?”
“Yes, yes I can be in then.”
“Good, I’ll see what I can do.”
Now I smiled: “Thank you Mr Gunn,” and I left his flat and climbed the two floors to my own room with some hope.

***

After paying Mr Gunn, I put together my remaining change which amounted to 75 pence which together with my £10 I realised it would be another week on cheap sliced white bread and water. At least there was free sugar and coffee at work. I needed more hours, and I didn’t feel I could rely on Mr Gunn’s open-ended offer, and I couldn’t wait until Mrs Jennings perhaps offered it because she noticed my being a reliable hard-worker: I needed a weekend job fast.

So after seeing Mr Gunn, which I followed with a spoon of Bovril in hot water and two slices of bread, I decided I should go out again. The walk home had cured my lack of hunger and the Bovril and bread took then the edge of the hunger away. I would go to the supermarket and look for reduced offers and perhaps a Saturday job.

I had left the blue two-inch heels in my locker at work and worn my jeans over my tights with my trainers after Alison had assured me that I didn’t need to dress smart on arrival. This meant that the shoes would last longer and I didn’t have to be seen in public wearing them. I had worn my repaired trousers on Thursday and the jeans today, and I had reverted to teeshirts. But I had not, in the end, decided I could get away with arriving flat-chested and putting the bra on after arriving, so I was starting to feel accustomed to wearing it. But did not forget to take it off with its padding before heading to the supermarket!

I arrived there with £2 – my carefully considered spending limit – taking my old sports bag from school to carry things home in, and wandered the racks looking for anything reduced to mere pennies, which might be nourishing. Finding nothing in the first shop, I went to the noticeboards and with no job opportunities there I walked round the corner to the other supermarket. There were only two large stores in town and maybe Friday was not the best day but I knew that sometimes there were bargains to be had. In the second shop I found a bag of apples reduced to 30p which were apparently a bit bruised. I grabbed that, paid for it, and went to the noticeboards.

There were two jobs offered on this one, one for babysitting, but no hours were mentioned and I suspected it would be at random times when the parents wanted to go out, not a steady job. Also, they would expect me to have a phone. The other was for a driver for a charity minibus, not a job for a 16 year-old. Neither seemed worth following up, though I wondered whether I should risk the money for a phone call to inquire about the babysitting. In the end, I just went home.

I spent four hours that evening sorting the boxes out. I found another pair of trousers, pink ones with small yellow flowers on, in a thin cotton, among my sister’s things. I tried them on and though they were tight they were wearble and seemed to be made to be tight and stretchy. I didn’t like them, though I kept them on around the bedsit to preserve the pairs I had that I felt I could wear. I arranged the useable clothes into neatly folded piles of skirts (6), dresses (7), shorts (4), shirts or blouses (4), tops (8), bras (5), pantigirdles (3) not including the one I was still wearing, pantycorselets (2), knickers (9), slips (2) and half-slips (2). There were also the shoes I had sorted out earlier, and I came across 6 pairs of unladdered tights, two were black and ribbed, one pair was brand new fishnets still in the packet, and two were patterned and in different colours. There had been two odd and three complete pairs of stockings and five pairs of socks, mostly very short. One if the pairs of tights that had no ladders in my mum’s stuff were taupe, and I realised they could be useful.

I folded the tops and put them in my drawers. I set aside the trousers I was able to use and had been using, so I could wash them, and I folded the skirts which I swore I would never use. I hung up the dresses. They were all mom’s and I treated them as if she was still wearing them. The shorts I put in the same drawer as the tops, all of which might be useful at some point since I simply could not afford to buy clothes, not even second hand at the moment.

After that I felt tired enough to sleep. It was only when I lay down that I realised I still had my dinosaur jaw in my hair. I got up, took it off in front of the mirror where I realised my mascara and eyeshadow were still visible and would have been at the supermarket earlier.

***

Come the morning I lay there for some time thinking of nothing. I must have dropped off again and when I awoke it was after noon. I got up and realised I’d fallen asleep dressed. The stretch trousers were quite comfortable, but I pulled them off and then peeled off the tights I’d still had on. I put them aside as I’d need to give them a good rinsing before tomorrow. I’d been washing them each night and then hanging them over the bath for the morning. Then I pulled off the pantygirdle which had felt comfortable enough too until I took it off and my poor constrained boy bits suddenly had some freedom and I saw the welts the strong elastic had left around my waist and leg tops. I took off my top too, and then had a bath.

One of the few good things about this bedsit was that bills were included. It was not in good condition and it was small and in need of decoration, but it had its own bathroom, a microwave, kettle and toaster and I didn’t have to pay for using them. Heating was from a radiator and Mr Gunn had assured me it would be turned on in the Autumn.

After my bath I had a breakfast of microwaved porridge. Oats were cheap and I used half milk-half water to save on milk, with a little sugar to bolster the taste. It got me by.
After letting that go down I returned to the bathroom, washed both taupe pairs of tights and the black ones in case I had to use them. I washed the pantygirdles I’d used and the knickers I’d realised after the first day I should wear under them so I could get more than a day’s use from the girdles. I’d taken to using knickers from the pool of my mum’s and sister’s stuff as y-fronts were redundant under a panty girdle and I decided I’d be better keeping them in good condition for when I could escape the strange feminine world I’d fallen into. I also hand washed my trousers and tops and finally I washed all the bras.

I stood back and looked at the undeniably womanly array on the washing line dripping into my bath. I turned on the wall fan heater and went to make a cup of tea and waited for Mr Gunn.

I hadn’t really had my head screwed on when I’d been doing the washing, and I’d washed all my most masculine, if actually many of them were women’s, clothes. After they were dripping in the bath and I was sipping my tea wrapped around the waist with a towel, I realised that I needed to get dressed before Mr Gunn came. I felt so stupid and angry with myself. I opened the wardrobe and looked in. The first thing I saw was one of my mom’s flower-print shirt-dresses that she would wear around the house. Nope. Next thing, after the other dresses behind it, was the gap where my trousers would be when they dried. Shit.
I looked in the newly rearranged drawers – no not that one, they’re all skirts! Then I saw the shorts. There was a pair which were longer, and in a salmon pink with flowers on the back pockets. There were some short red ones in a stiff dressy fabric, that had turned up legs. There were a pair of short short denim ones and then there was the last pair, which were grey and slightly shiny, with a thin pink stripe in the fabric that made them look businesslike. They seemed my best option.

I slipped the shorts on and then looked through the tops that were dry. I found a black teeshirt of my sister’s, all of mine were now wet, and slipped it on. To my dismay it was an inch short of the waistline of the shorts. I tried to pull the shorts up but nearly hurt myself. I walked over to the mirror and the image was definitely on the feminine side of androgynous.
I started to panic, and a voice inside started telling me I was being stupid: that everyone thought I was a girl anyway and I should wear the dress. I couldn’t stop the thought, which was voicing the self doubts that had been my daily companion all week, and it was all the more irritating because my wanting to seem less feminine and more boyish made no sense at all with Mr Gunn as he was, definitely less abrasive and more helpful now he thought I was a girl. But I couldn’t bring myself to not try to look less girly.

I centre-parted my hair and let it hang loosely as I was used to doing before my job. I took off the short teeshirt and looked for another and I found a lilac coloured one which had a vee neckline but was longer. I decided it was marginally less feminine. I went to the mirror again and looked at the image reflected back and the shorts were so tight fitting the showed a noticeable masculine bulge.

I slumped on the bed. After having struggled to appear a little less feminine, I now realised that Mr Gunn would see quite clearly that I was a boy if I dressed like this. He’d probably think I was queer in some way, bet definitely a boy and he would be likely to turf me out on my ear. I didn’t want to find out what his reaction would be, which meant I would now, having struggled to look less feminine, have to try to make myself look more feminine again.

I sat there for some time. I needed one of the pantygirdles, but they were all soaking wet. I eventually got up and went into the bathroom which was steamy from the warmth of the fan heater and the evaporation from the clothes. The trousers nearest the fan were drying well, but still very wet as was my sister’s white shirt, my planned outfit for tomorrow. The pantygirdles were all soaking. I searched for a tight pair of knickers, slipped on a stretch lace pair and pulled the shorts back on. There was still a bulge though not as noticeable. I was mired in shades of grey now, whether the bulge being slightly noticeable was a danger to me or whether I really needed to be quite sure there was no bulge.

That inner voice started up again that I should be done with trying to be a boy, I was a complete failure on that score and should just put on a dress.

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Comments

Circumstances Conspire

joannebarbarella's picture

We all know that Chris is going to have to accept an inevitable slide into femininity, but you are making his journey so realistic and downright enthralling.

I can only conjecture that Mr. Gunn is going to offer him some Saturday work which will make his transition even more certain.

so nice

I love this story and the she in him is gradually taking over, love the curtsying and inevitable worry about Mr Gunns reaction, I have a suspicion that his leery landlord will be taking him completely into submissive girlhood at the earliest opportunity!

This Uniform Treatment of everyone thinking Chris is a girl,

is proving to be a very emotional time for Chris. Something S/he has not been accustomed to being able to handle. Yet, even in his/her indecision, Chris seems to be handling this situation as well as can be expected. Waiting for chapter 5.

"With confidence and forbearance, we will have the strength to move forward."

Love & Hugs,

Barbara Lynn Terry

"If I have to be this girl in me, then I have the right to be."

This Uniform Treatment of everyone thinking Chris is a girl,

is proving to be a very emotional time for Chris. Something S/he has not been accustomed to being able to handle. Yet, even in his/her indecision, Chris seems to be handling this situation as well as can be expected. Waiting for chapter 5.

"With confidence and forbearance, we will have the strength to move forward."

Love & Hugs,

Barbara Lynn Terry

"If I have to be this girl in me, then I have the right to be."

It seems like life is rough

It would be nice if he got a little money so he wouldn't be living life on the edge.

I worry that Mr Gunn will want something nasty from him.