Miracle at Christmas

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Miracle at Christmas.
by Angharad

Copyright © 2011 Angharad
All Rights Reserved.
  
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The wind was biting as she left the relative warmth of the cafe. She’d had to do the late shift because Tim was off sick with bronchitis. She kept telling him to stop smoking but he said he couldn’t. Normally she did earlies, which involved opening the place up and starting the preparation for the lunches and dinners. Peeling spuds and chopping vegetables, shoving the roast in the oven as well as making coffee and tea for early customers, plus the odd cooked breakfast as well.

The cafe was a little gold mine for its owner, a grumpy old sod called Baskerville Barnett–whoever had thought that one up? Tina wasn’t impressed, but he had taken her on despite her problems and the pay was regular if less than rewarding for the effort she put in, just a fraction above the minimum wage–but it was still slave labour.

Tina had had problems since childhood, when she’d been called Christopher. She’d known she was really a girl but she knew to tell anyone would result in real trouble, so she kept it to herself. The problem was as she watched her sister Diana grow into a teenager and then into a young woman, she got more and more depressed.

Her parents did the usual things, tried to talk to her, took her to see doctors galore but she knew they wouldn’t understand. She’d watched programmes on telly about people who changed sex but judging by the reaction of her family and others she overheard talking about these ‘creatures’, she felt she couldn’t tell anyone how she felt.

Then last Christmas things had come to a head and she had broken down and revealed her secret. Her mother was startled, her sister bemused and her father angry. She locked herself in her room and tried to hang herself from the attic access the trapdoor of which was in her bedroom.

She was discovered as she kicked the stool over, her sister calling her father to come quickly and Christopher was saved although he was unconscious and it had caused some damage to his body, from then on he’d walk with a limp. The ambulance was called and he was hospitalised, then sent to a psychiatric hospital where he spent a couple of weeks trying to explain how he felt to a doctor who thought people who wanted to change their gender needed psychotherapy not hormones or surgery.

“The problem, Chris, is you need to accept who you really are–a man who has a strong feminine side. Learn to use it, get a career in hairdressing or something like that, you should be able to empathise more with women than most men, so could do really well catering for them.”

Tina had played the game, but with one objective in mind–to get out of the hell hole they called a hospital, which was full of real crazies, and then to finish the job she’d started before–only this time somewhere she wouldn’t be disturbed until it was too late. She also decided she could never go home again.

She or rather, Christopher, was given into the care of a medical social worker who was a bit more enlightened than the doctor had been, she’d met someone who had changed their gender and had gone on to be relatively happy. Christopher began to wonder if it might be possible after all.

He was settled in a bedsit where with the help of the social worker and sympathetic GP he began to plan changing over, primarily collecting together a small wardrobe and practicing things like make up and voice. His limp was a problem, he’d never be able to wear heeled shoes, but if that was his only problem, he’d survive.

The GP referred him to a more sympathetic shrink and was promised if he could find and keep a job as a female, the doctor would prescribe hormones and consider referral for surgery after a year or two.

Christopher became Tina and after months of searching found Baskerville Barnett’s cafe. Tina was a bit large for an average woman, with a biggish head and matching body, however, Barnett had had to sack someone earlier that day for dipping in the till, so decided he would give this weirdo a chance.

“We’ll try it a week at a time, if the customers don’t take fright, and you can do the job okay, we’ll think about a longer term arrangement. When can you start?”

“When d’you want me?”

“Now?”

Tina thought for a whole millisecond before accepting the challenge. She took to the work quickly. It wasn’t hard to do from the intellectual side, making food, cleaning tables, waiting on them and cleaning the kitchen when they stopped cooking.

Barnett was impressed and even allowed her to introduce things like proper table cloths instead of plastic things–she had to take them to the launderette, but she’d contributed something. Then new curtains, and she and Tim painted the place one weekend and it began to attract more customers as it became seen as a decent place to go to get a reasonably priced snack or meal.

By this time, the novelty of someone who was obviously masculine in a skirt had palled and hardly any of the regulars said anything anymore other than how Tina had civilised the place. She was now a regular feature and although the local yobs caused her a few problems, calling her names and threatening her, she stuck at it and the shrink prescribed the hormones.

She knew they’d never make her beautiful but at least she could begin to feel her body changing, which it did very slightly–but she was happier, happier than she’d ever been. Barnett, had begun to see her as part of his team and she took on more responsibility like opening up in the mornings at seven o’clock. Then when Tim had taken sick, she was asked to close the place–Barnett had taken on a couple of other staff but they only did the minimum and the onus fell on him and Tina to keep the place going.

December’s icy blast blew through her coat and she shuddered as she walked home from the cafe, it was late, one of the casuals had had to go early to collect her kids, and Tina had had to finish the clean up by herself, an hour late. Still, she had a job and she was living her dream–sort of.

On the way home she passed an empty shop–once a rather nice shoe shop–now defunct and defaced by graffiti and fly posters. Outside a group of yobs were doing something in the door way–one of them was urinating on something. She went to cross over the road but something prevented her. The bundle of rags was a person, a homeless one in a sleeping bag and some bastard had just pissed on him. The other yobs thought it was hilarious and the odd kick was delivered to the wavering voiced victim who screamed in pain.

Tina was caught in a quandary, to intervene risked her getting the same sort of treatment, abuse and violence, but she couldn’t walk by and see the rough sleeper kicked to death or abused as he was obviously being at that moment.

“Leave him alone,” she shouted.

“Look out it’s Danny la Rue,” said one of the yobs.

“Nah, Dame Edna,” suggested another.

“Piss off, Hop-along before we do you.”

“Show us yer dick,” called another and they all laughed. Just then a police car appeared at the end of the road and the yobs decided discretion was the better part of valour and went off.

Tina went to the assistance of the victim, a young man who had bruising on his face and some bleeding round his nose and mouth. “Are you badly hurt?” she asked him.

“I’ll live,” he croaked back.

“You’re bleeding and you’re all wet.”

“So? Why should you care?”

“What d’you mean, why should I care? You’re a person same as the rest of us.”

“I used to be–just a bit of garbage now.” He started to shiver.

“Let me call an ambulance?”

“They’re not interested in the likes of me.”

“But you’re cold.”

“So?”

“You could get hypothermia,” she felt cold and she’d had a cooked meal at lunchtime god knows when he’d last eaten.

“So? It’s painless–so they say.”

“Don’t be silly, you can’t just die in a doorway.”

“Why not, thousands do it every winter.”

“Because I said you’re not.”

“Are you a man or a woman?”

“Does it matter–I’m not offering you a date–but I could offer you a hot drink and somewhere to shower.”

“How d’you know I won’t kill you and rob you?”

“I don’t, any more than you don’t know I won’t do the same to you.” She paused then offered the invitation. “Come back to my place and clean yourself up, I could do you a snack of some sort and a hot drink, and we could see if we could clean up your bag.”

He coughed a long rattling cough and spat on the pavement.

“You don’t sound well, let me get you to a hospital.”

“No, no hospitals–alright?”

“Okay, but don’t die on me will you?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not supposed to have people in my room at night.”

He thought that was funny, laughed and then coughed again.

“You haven’t got TB have you?”

“How would I know?”

“Didn’t you have the jabs in school?”

“Can’t remember that far back.”

“C’mon, see if you can stand.” She helped him up and then collected his meagre belongings in a black plastic bin bag. He leant on her as they walked to her little flat.

“You gonna get into trouble for this?”

“Not if you keep quiet.”

“I won’t sing then.”

“Please don’t.”

“You got any pills–you know uppers or anything?”

“No and you’re not doing drugs in my flat–you’ll get me evicted.”

“Okay, okay, only jokin’.”

“You’d better be.”

“Don’t even know your name,” he’d said.

“Tina, what’s yours?”

“Gabe. Is that Tina as in Christina?”

“Yeah, is that Gabe as in Angel Gabriel.”

“Yeah sure, if I was some bleeding Archangel d’ya think I’d be freezing my wings off in a shop doorway?”

“Nah, I ’spose not.”

“Well then?” he said and she laughed.

Somehow they got up the stairs, what with her bad leg and his emaciated and injured body, it was struggle especially with his bag of stuff.

That night, she helped him bathe, fed him and let him sleep in her bed while she made up a temporary one in a chair for herself. She washed by hand, all his clothes–the ones worth washing and put a pile of Christopher’s clothes, ones she’d meant to dump, for him to try the next morning. She left the heating on all night, despite her struggle to pay the bills and did her best to dry all his stuff. It was in the middle of the night when she crept into her makeshift bed and fell into a dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

She woke at ten the next morning, stiff from her uncomfortable position and still wearing her day clothes struggled out to check on her guest and his washing. The bed was empty and all the clothing was gone, including the stuff she’d laid out for him.

She began to wonder if she’d dreamt it all–then a wave of panic rushed over her as she couldn’t see her bag and the purse which was kept inside it and all her worldly wealth–the few pounds she hadn’t spent.

She rushed round the flat and found it beside her chair, she pulled out her purse and instead of the ten pounds she knew she had placed there, the purse was stuffed with twenty pound notes. She felt quite faint and had to sit down. Where had that come from?

She went to strip the bed, despite his shower he’d still ponged a bit, but the bed was clean, slightly rumpled but clean. What was going on?

She went to the bathroom and sitting on the loo, she raised her skirt, pulled down her panties and–shock horror–it wasn’t there. What the hell? She touched down below with her hand–she had a fanny and when she sat, she could pee like girl.

She wiped, redressed and went to the mirror. It seemed to be steamed up, but when she wiped it clear the face looking back at her was like her sister. She even looked behind her in case Diana had come into the bathroom, but as far as she knew Diana didn’t even know where she lived.

She went back to bedroom and examined herself in the wardrobe mirror–somehow, overnight, she had changed from being an ugly transsexual into a quite attractive woman. She realised she wasn’t limping and fainted, falling onto the bed.

She awoke a little later with someone ringing the doorbell. Her hair a mess and her head a little muzzy she called in a female voice for them to wait she was coming. She quickly combed her hair and opened the door on the other side of the threshold stood a very handsome young man holding a large bunch of flowers.

“Are you, Tina?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“These are for you.”

“Who sent them?”

“How would I know, I’m just the messenger.”

“I can’t accept things unless I know who sent them.”

“Go on, lovely young woman like you, I’ll bet you get flowers all the time.”

“Who sent them?” she asked wondering if they’d been sent to the wrong flat.”

“Just take ’em or I’ll get into trouble.”

“I don’t want that to happen, but what if they’re for someone else?”

“They’re not, we don’t make mistakes, besides if we have, that’s our lookout.” He pressed them into her hand and dashed off. She went back into the flat and into the kitchen. Kitchen? She had a bedsit, what’s this with bedrooms and kitchens? Not only that but there was a vase in the cupboard next to the washing machine. She didn’t have a washing machine. Jesus–she wasn’t only in the wrong body, she was in the wrong flat. This had to be some sort of dream.

Where was the guy she helped? Had she helped anyone or was it all a dream? The bloke with the flowers, he looked vaguely familiar. She looked at the card stuck in the bouquet. ‘With compliments — Heaven Scent Flowers.’

The delivery man’s voice seemed to echo in her mind, “I’m just the messenger.” Heaven Scent? What sort of name was that? “I’m just the messenger.”

She sat down on the chair in the kitchen she didn’t usually have. “Are you a man or a woman?” “I’m just the messenger.”

No–it couldn’t be the same voice–it couldn’t–could it?

Messenger? Gabriel?

The door bell rang again and she jumped up and dashed to answer it, this time she’d catch the bugger, archangel or no archangel. She ripped open the door and standing before her was her sister, Diana.

“What d’you want?” she said bluntly.

“You’ve forgotten haven’t you?”

“Forgotten, forgotten what?”

“Look, Tina, how could you forget I was coming over to collect you to go and get Mum’s prezzie before you had to dash back to that precious restaurant of yours. How’s Bask?”

“Bask?”

“Yes, Baskerville Barnett, your partner–what is this, Sis, you got early onset dementia?”

“I’m beginning to think I might.”

“Waddya mean?”

“I don’t think I could begin to explain things–but let me get my bag and we’ll go somewhere and get some coffee.”

“Dunno if we’ll have time for coffee, it’s Christmas Eve and everywhere is frantic. Ooh lovely flowers–who sent ’em?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Go on, I would.”

“Okay, his name is Gabriel and he’s a real angel of a guy.”

“Oh wow, Sis, tell me more...”

The End

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Comments

Thank you Angharad,

ALISON

A lovely heartwarming story that makes me feel so good.And a Merry Christmas to you and the
family and that rascally Bonzi.

ALISON

Miracle At Christmas

What a nice ,gentle ,feel good story.It made me feel warm and im still smiling writing this.Thank you.

devonmalc

devonmalc

Ditto Angharad!

A real Angel of a guy? LOL! Thank you Angharad for a real Angel of a story!
hugs
Grover

Nice to see a kindness rewarded

Sadly too often in the real world the man would have been left to die or she would have stabbed and robbed if she'd helped.

She took a serious risk, both from the goons and the homeless man and came up trumps.

Hum, but will her parents get the message or will she always have been their younger dsughter? Mind you they weren;t evil, just didn't understand.

Need a happy ending every once and a while.

John in Wauwatosa

John in Wauwatosa

With compliments – Heaven

With compliments – Heaven Scent Flowers.’Angel's in disguise. for a Miracle at Christmas to a selfless soul.

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

Lovely story

Although it took quite a bit of bravery to give the man her bed.

Thanks for the Christmas miracle, with the hurt and darkness, too.

Kaleigh

Thanks Angie.

A psychiatrist who thought she only needed therapy. Yeah! That would figure.

Still nice story. Some gift! Some Christmas. Lucky girl!

PS. I sometimes do contribute to Hatbox.

XZXX

Bev.

Growing Old Disgracefully

bev_1.jpg

wonderful

wonderful christmas story. keep up the good work.
robert

001.JPG

This is sweet!

Very, very sweet, sis!

Karen J.

* * *
I contend that for a nation to try to tax itself into prosperity is like a man standing in a bucket and trying to lift himself up by the handle. - Winston Churchill


"Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”
George Carlin

Great Story!

I'm glad Gabriel is still doing good things!

Wren

Brilliant!

But then I'd expect no less of you :)

--B


As the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body, then only left-handers are in their right mind!

Wouldn't It Be Luvverly?

joannebarbarella's picture

If good deeds were rewarded like this in real life? Nice one Angharad,

Joanne

Entertaining angels

This is one of those stories that remind us that Christmas is a time representing change. Also, it shows the very special holiness that is unique to the transgendered soul. And above all we see the beauty of compassion & kindness:

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares [emphasis mine]. Hebrews 13:2 (KJV)

Then because Tina cared for Gabe, her true inner beauty was seen as outward beauty as well.

The Rev. Anam Chara+

Anam Chara

Cute

A sweet read

Virtue

Emma Anne Tate's picture

Virtue must generally be it’s own reward; charity too, for that matter. But having heaven step in and reward the courageous and well-intentioned makes for a lovely story at Christmastime — or at any time. Thank you, Angharad.

Emma