At Aunt Greta’s–
A Bolt From The Blue!
by Gabi
Chapter 18 of a Continuing Saga…

Farah and I went to bed that night wondering if we would find ourselves back in 1944 again. In spite of the first couple of times I had time-slipped, since then it seemed it was the bed that had acted as my “Tardis” to wartime.

‘It was great meeting your bro,’ Farah said as we undressed. ‘He’s cute and soooo cool, and he doesn’t seem to mind that you’ve changed into a girl. In fact he seemed quite pleased.’

‘Well, I guess he’s always thought I was a bit girly,’ I confided; ‘but he was never mean about it–unlike a lot of other boys.’

‘Sure, most boys are pigs,’ Farah stated.

‘Yeah, with cooties,’ I added and we both giggled. ‘’Cept that’s a bit mean to pigs.’

‘You mean that pigs don’t have cooties.’

We put on our dressing gowns and went to the bathroom. ‘Do we need to shower?’ I asked. ‘We had one just before lunch and we’ll have another one in the morning before breakfast.’

‘I guess we can’t be that dirty,’ came the response, ‘but I’d still feel dirty if I didn’t wash all over before bed.’

‘Yeah, I agree,’ I answered. ‘Auntie told me that in the war she could only have 3 baths a week and you weren’t allowed to have the water more than four inches deep. The government even suggested sharing a bath to save hot water, so she and her mum often had one together.’

‘Why don’t we share one now,’ Farah suggested.

‘Better not, coz I’m still on, but if you have one first, I’ll hop in afterwards. I’ll just go and ask Auntie,’ I said, going in search of her.

She agreed readily, so we both had a quick bath with me getting in after Farah had finished. Then, donning our pyjamas we went downstairs to say goodnight to Auntie. She was on the ’phone and looking concerned, nodding from time to time and making comments like ‘Yes, I see…’ ‘naturally, you’re bound to be worried, I would be were I in your position, Helen…’ ‘of course, and I’ll tell the girls …’ ‘and promise me you’ll let me know if there’s anything we can do…’

I wracked my brain trying to think who we knew called Helen; I couldn’t think of anyone at school called Helen, and I couldn’t think of any relations–not that I knew very many. But Auntie was saying ‘goodbye’ to Helen and ringing off so I would not have long to wait.

‘Oh, hello, girls,’ Auntie said. ‘Come to say goodnight?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Who was that on the ’phone?’

‘Mrs Rose. She was just ’phoning to say that Bryony can’t come round tomorrow.’

‘Oh, that’s a pity,’ Farah said.

‘It wasn’t definite she was coming,’ I added. ‘I hope she’s all right; she had a bit of a tummy ache after tea. Too many strawberries, she thought.’

‘I’m afraid it was a bit worse than being a piggy over strawberries,’ Auntie replied. ‘Mrs Rose had Dr MacNeish round to see Bryony, and she took her straight to the General Hospital. Helen Rose was speaking from there. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with Bryony yet, the doctors are still examining her and waiting for the results of a scan.’

‘A scan,’ Farah squealed. ‘Wow, that means she could be real sick.’

‘How soon will we know if she’s going to be all right?’ I asked.

‘Mrs Rose said she’d let us know as soon as she knew anything,’ Auntie replied. ‘She had already phoned her sister–Mrs Farthing–in Great Shaghorn and she’s coming over tomorrow and bringing Penny over too.’

‘I’d like to meet Penny Farthing,’ I said.

‘Maybe you will,’ Auntie replied.

* * *

Helen Rose sat in the waiting area of the A&E Department of the General Hospital. She had been sitting anxiously for some time and kept looking at her watch. She had sampled the tea from the vending machine in the corner which was more akin to gnat’s pee than anything else; next time she tried the coffee and it was equally revolting and, she thought, at 50p a go was more than extortionate.

The time was really dragging; ‘How much longer are they going to take with her?’ she thought, glancing at her wristwatch again; it had been two and three-quarter hours. Looking for some distraction, she began browsing through a pile of old magazines when a headline on the cover of a four-year-old edition of Women’s Own caught her eye:

’I’m letting my 14-year-old have a sex change!’
She picked it up. Inside was an article about a German boy who had insisted he was a girl from when he was very small. At eight, the child started going to school in a skirt, and at 14 she was being allowed to take female hormones so she could go through a female puberty. The article described the many problems this transgendered child and her mother had had to endure in the intervening years.

‘Hmmm,’ she thought as she scanned through the text, ‘I wonder if Dr MacNeish has seen this. It’s interesting that the girls at school with this child were so supportive of her–rather like Gabrielle and her friends forming the B.B.C. Girls are so much more understanding and compassionate than boys. If Bryony is transgendered, she is going to need all the support she can get.’

‘Mrs Rose? Mrs ROSE!’ Her thoughts were interrupted suddenly.

Startled, she jumped slightly, looked up and saw a nurse in a dark blue uniform. ‘S-sorry, Sister, I was lost in my thoughts for a moment.’

‘That’s all right, Mrs Rose,’ replied the sister with a friendly smile. ‘Doctor Warren will see you now, if you’ll walk this way.’

The ID badge on her uniform informed all-comers that she was Sister N. Law. Helen suppressed a strong urge to giggle as she followed her down a long corridor, watching her exaggerated, wiggling gait, and wondering if she was meant to emulate her. She knew her ‘daughter’ almost certainly would, as would a number of her friends. She was surprised and ever so slightly alarmed that she so readily thought of Bryony as a daughter after eleven years presumption of boyhood, but somehow it seemed to make sense–she accepted that Bryan had never conformed to most people’s archetypal male child. The budding breasts, a narrowing waist and broadening hips seemed to indicate a degree of femininity. And now there was this seepage of blood through her penis as an additional worry.

Sister Law stopped outside a door and knocked. ‘Come in,’ called a voice from the other side.

‘Mrs Rose to see you, Dr Warren,’ Sister announced.

‘Thank you, Norma. Come in, Mrs Rose; please take a seat,’ the doctor said, looking up and extending a slim, elegant hand to be shaken. Dr Warren was about the same age as Helen Rose and gave her a friendly smile. ‘We’ve met before; the name Rose is unfamiliar to me but I never forget a face. You went to St Agatha’s High School, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, and I remember you. You were Bunny Warren.’

‘I still am, except here I’m officially Eleanor. You were Helen Highwater in those days.’

‘Don’t remind me; d’you remember how Miss Isle, when she was taking us for gym used to call out, “come, Hell and Highwater,” when she wanted me to do something?’ Helen grimaced. ‘I could never understand why my parents never saw the pitfalls of calling me Helen, and it always bugged me that they called my twin sister, Brenda–so much more normal.’

‘Yes, those of our parents’ age seemed to be oblivious to the misfortunes they could inflict on their offspring by choosing a name that could be misconstrued. But you want to hear about your child, Bryan, except he prefers to be called Bryony.’

‘Yes–Bryony,’ Helen confirmed. ‘She insists she’s a girl in a boy’s body, and that seems to ring true seeing that she is showing distinct breast development.’

‘Yes, I noticed it,’ replied Dr Warren, ‘and she has more of a girl’s shape than a boy’s which could be significant. And her own feelings about herself are confirmed by the ultra-sound scan we did which shows that internally she is fully female, with ovaries and a fully-developed uterus and vagina, except that for some reason the labia fused over towards the end of gestation and she developed a small “penis”,’ Dr Warren explained. ‘Otherwise there are no signs of other male organs.’

‘Does that mean you think she could be intersexed, Bunny?’

‘No, not intersexed in spite of her “penis”–which is probably an enlarged clitoris which somehow has incorporated her urethra. She’s a fully functioning female internally, and I suspect she is awash with oestrogen, which is causing her physical development. I’ve checked with Dr MacNeish and she told me she’s awaiting the results of blood and DNA tests from last week. I’ll see if I can hurry them up. If Bryony is 46XX, which I strongly suspect, then it’s quite possible that she is having her first period and having no proper vaginal opening, the blood is somehow finding its way out through her “penis”. It’s probable that some masculinisation occurred in the womb, possibly through stress, and the vaginal canal closed over forming a sort of pseudo-penis, which is why everyone thought she was a boy.

‘She was complaining of a tummy ache, but I just thought it was due to over-indulgence of strawberries and cream at a little tea-party I gave her and some of her school friends. I must admit that I never thought of the possibility it being the curse.’

‘It’s hardly the sort of thing you’d expect with a son,’ Bunny said, ‘even if you suspected he might be gender dysphoric. But with Bryony having a full complement of female organs it’s going to be part of her life from now on.’

‘So her insisting that she was a girl inside is in fact the case; she will be so pleased. What’s the next step? I suppose she needs some sort of surgery.’

‘I’ve already put a drain tube in her lower abdomen to get rid of the menstrual blood; that drains into a dressing as there’s not a lot of flow, it being the first time she’s come on. Then, a bit later on, she should undergo labiaplasty so she will have a normal vagina like any other girl.’

‘How much later?’ Helen asked, anxiously.

‘Fairly soon,’ came the reply. ‘If possible I would suggest it be done before she comes on again, as it would obviate the necessity of a repeat performance of tonight’s drama.’

‘Would you do it yourself?’ Helen asked.

‘Oh my God, no,’ came the rapid-fire reply. ‘Labiaplasty is a very special skill, and Bryony deserves the best surgeon we can get. I will try to get Mr Hans Cunnimacher, FRCS to do it; he’s one of the best in the business.’

‘He sounds foreign.’

‘He does, doesn’t he, but he’s English by birth,’ replied Bunny: ‘both his grandparents came to England as refugee children from Nazi Germany in the late nineteen-thirties.’

‘Well, I’ll happily go by your recommendation. Is he likely to be very expensive?’

‘No, he does a lot of NHS work.’

‘Good,’ replied Helen, ‘that seems very satisfactory. Tell me, has Bryony been told what she has inside her?’

‘Not yet, because we want you to be present when she is told.’

‘I’d like to break the news to her myself. May I see her?’

‘Of course. I’ll take you to her,’ replied Dr Warren, standing up and heading for the door, opening it and holding it open for Helen.

‘You know, Bunny, I’ve been thinking that it’s a blessing Geoff and I finally decided to call him–err, HER Bryan,’ Helen said as they walked down the corridor to the lift.

‘Why, what was the alternative?’

‘Toby,’ Helen replied, ‘after Geoff’s father.’

‘That sounds very Shakespearian,’ commented Bunny.

‘Why Shakespearian?’ asked a puzzled Helen.

‘Toby, or not Toby? That is the question!’ replied Bunny, giggling and dodging out of reach of her old school chum to avoid any possible retaliation, and pressed the button to summon the lift.

As soon as they were inside the lift Bunny pressed the button for the floor she wanted and after a smooth-sounding man’s voice requested they, ‘mind the doors, going up,’ the doors closed behind them and the lift went into ‘lift-off mode’ and started its upward journey.

They looked at each other and burst out into a fit of schoolgirl giggles. ‘Toby, or not Toby, indeed,’ Helen chuckled, raising her eyebrows, ‘You haven’t changed, Bunny, you were always a joker. So where is my daughter?’

‘In the gynae ward; as soon as I saw the ultra-sound scan results I had her moved there. I’m gynae registrar here; she was passed on to me by the houseman who was uncertain what to do.’

The lift slowed to a halt with a ‘ding-dong’ and the smooth voice announced, ‘Fourth level, Minster and Pavilion Wards. Doors opening, please stand clear.’

The doors slid open almost silently and they left the lift. ‘So which is it?’ Helen Rose asked, ‘Minster or Pavilion?’

They were standing in a wide lobby with three sets of lift doors on one side with an enormous window opposite and on either side to left and right a pair of double swing doors.

‘Minster. I’ve had her put in a side ward on her own. We wondered about putting her in the children’s ward, but thought that at 12 and having a gynae problem, she would be better up here where the staff are used to “women’s problems”, as they are coyly called by some people.’

‘Mostly men,’ added Helen as Dr Warren held open one of the doors to Minster Ward.

Once inside, the doctor knocked on a door marked “Ward Sister” through which there came an instant reply of, ‘Come in, Doctor.’

Inside was Sister N. Law.

‘How did you know it was me, Norma,’ Bunny Warren asked.

‘You have a particular knock, and you’re one of the few people who bother to knock. Most people just barge in.’

‘We’ve come to see Bryony,’ the doctor explained. ‘Is she awake?’

‘Yes, or she was a few minutes ago,’ replied Sister, standing up. ‘So, Mrs Rose, how do you think she’ll take it that she’s actually a girl?’

‘She’ll be thrilled. You see she’s often protested that she’s a girl in a boy’s body, and we were trying to find out if she was transgendered.’

Sister opened the door of a side room and they entered. Bryony was sitting up in bed reading a magazine. ‘Hello, pet, here’s your mum and Dr Warren to see you.’

‘Mummy!’ squealed Bryony, putting down her magazine and holding out her arms for a hug.

‘How’s the tummy ache, poppet?’ Helen asked, giving her a hug and a kiss.

‘A lot better; they gave me a tablet for it, and Dr Warren put a drain in my tummy,’ came the cheerful answer. ‘Do they know what’s wrong with me?’

‘We do,’ replied Dr Warren, winking at Helen.

‘Tell me, sweetie, what do you want more than anything else in the world?’ Helen asked.

Bryony frowned for a few seconds, then grinned and replied, ‘To be a real, proper girl, Mummy.’

‘That’s what’s wrong with you, poppet,’ her mum replied.

Bryony’s eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped in disbelief. ‘But how can I be a girl when I’ve got a stupid cock-a-doodle?’

‘You know how you said you always knew you were a girl inside?’

Bryony nodded.

‘Well, that’s exactly what you are. Your scan showed that inside you have all the bits and pieces that a girl should have inside, overies, a uterus and vagina and the only bit missing is a vaginal opening. The reason for your tummy-ache is that you’re having your first period, and the blood is trying to find a way out.’

Bryony burst into tears. ‘You’re n-not t-t-teasing m-m-me, are you?’ she sobbed.

‘No, she’s not, sweetheart,’ said Bunny Warren. ‘Your mum wouldn’t do that. I know, because we went to school together. Also I saw the scan and I promise you that you’ve always been a girl.’

‘But why don’t I have a front bottom?’

‘I don’t know for certain, but I think it might be due to soemthing that happened to you when you were in Mummy’s womb that caused your vaginal canal to close over and made your clitoris grow into a sort of “pseudo-penis”.’

‘Oh WOW-WEE!’ Bryony exclaimed joyously. ‘I always KNEW I was a girl. Will I be able to have a proper front-bottom instead of that pseudo-doodle? And will I be able to have babies when I’m older?’

‘Yes, darling, to both questions,’ Helen replied. ‘Dr Warren is going to arrange for you to see a surgeon who will be able to give you a proper vagina–please try to avoid calling it a front-bottom, poppet, as I think it sounds just a wee bit unsavoury and a mite obscene.’

‘Sorry, Mummy.’

‘That’s all right, sweetheart. from now on you will know.’

‘So when do I get my new vagina?’

‘Well, Bryony, you actually have a vagina inside you, so what the doctor has to do is to re-open the vaginal canal–the bit that lets stuff get out–’

‘–And boys get in,’ giggled Bryony.

‘BRYONY! Please!’ her mother scolded. ‘I don’t want you thinking about that just yet, young lady. I hope you’ll save yourself for your husband, like I saved myself for Daddy.’

‘Sorreeeeee,’ came the repentant reply. ‘But how soon can I see the surgeon?’

‘I’ll try and speak to him on Monday, sweetie,’ Doctor Warren told her.

‘Kewl,’ came the reply, and then, after a short pause, ‘Doctor?’

‘Yes, Miss Rose,’ replied Bunny with a twinkle.

‘Did you know Mummy when she was my age?’

‘Yes we were school friends.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘Well now, let me think,’ answered Bunny, teasingly. ‘Actually she looked exactly like you, except–’

‘–except what, Doctor?’ Bryony asked anxiously.

‘Except–she didn’t have a pseudo-doodle!’ Bunny Warren said, and burst into a fit of the giggles.

* * *

I woke up at about seven o’clock according the my digital clock. Farah was still asleep next to me, but as soon as I stirred she turned over and asked, ‘What’s the time, Gabs?’

‘Just after seven,’ I replied. ‘Looks like we didn’t go anywhere during the night.’

‘Just as well. All that time travel stuff is soooo spoo-oo-oo-ooky,’ she replied making ‘spooky’ sound really-really spooky. ‘I mean, like what would happen if we got stuck back there like?’

‘Eeeek!’ I replied. ‘That would be like, the pits.’

‘Yeah. it would,’

‘Shall we get up?’ I asked.

‘Okay,’ replied Farah. ‘Let’s go to the bathroom.’

‘’Kay,’ I said.

We scrambled out of bed and went to the bathroom. Farah had the first shower and I followed on. After we had dried ourselves we returned to “my” bedroom.

‘Greta!, Freya, hurry up!’ came a voice from downstairs. ‘Brekky’s ready and we have to go to church.’

To be continued…

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Thanks are due once again to Doctor Bonzi and his Mum for their erudite proofing and for advice on Matters Medical.
Thanks also to Kaleigh and Annette for advice on American girl/teenspeak
Any mistakes remaining are the entire responsibility of the idiot author.

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