Charlotte gains a friend who helps her accept herself. But time moves on, and Charlotte has to prepare for the future. Where will she go to school? Poor girl, there is being at a loss, and then there is being Lost!

Charlotte’s Tale

Part 2

by Angharad

 
Authors note: This story was originally posted on Sapphire’s Place. I have since re-edited/ rewritten much of it and with Erin’s Agreement, posted here. Thanks to Karen for her as-sister-ance.

It was commented on as being very contrived and weak, nothing new there then. I would ask you to hold judgement until you’ve read a couple or more episodes, because I think they actually show my writing at it’s best. It also contains a theme which some might consider depressing or sad, suicide is also mentioned on several occasions. There is some violence, but no sex.

I hope you enjoy.

Angharad.
 

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Part 2
 
When Simon Astley returned to school, he of course related his story along with unverified facts and much embellishment of my unfortunate trauma in the changing rooms. It doubtless pleased the conspirators who had set up my downfall. Why had they done it? Presumably the same reason a dog licks his balls — because he can! It was huge prank for them, for me it could prove to be a long sentence.

How did I know of Simon’s narratives? Well I had a new friend, his sister Jane, who two years younger than him, was at thirteen turning into quite an attractive young woman. Had certain elements of my anatomy not been glued to my abdomen, they could have been experiencing growth spurts.

I don’t know why Jane had befriended me, pity, curiosity or any other reason, but I found her attention and openness refreshing. It was doing me more good than that idiot psychiatrist.

After the debacle in the changing rooms, the rescue by my mother who took me home and sent for the doctor, who zapped me with tranquillisers, Jane had written to me. She had sent me a card hoping that I was feeling better and that she would like to come and see me. My mother, who was at her wits end at what to do next with me, persuaded me to invite her over. I agreed simply because I felt too feeble to protest. It had been a bad week and I had spent much of it zonked out in bed, spaced out on the pills.

So I was barely cognizant of the fact that my mother had phoned her mum to invite them over, but not Simon for obvious reasons. My first inkling had been my mum’s insistence that I shower and wash my hair, using conditioner. Then, on returning to my bedroom discovered she had laid out a new pair of jeans and a top for me.

Fearing this meant another visit to the hospital, I almost cried with relief when I learned it wasn’t. I did however, begin to shake when I learned we were having visitors. I shook even more when I learned who they were. However, after another pill, I calmed down enough to allow her to help me dress and do my hair, even consenting to wear a little makeup.

Half asleep when the door bell rang, I didn’t do much to respond, besides which Mum was already at the door admitting our visitors. I rose upon shaky legs as they entered our sitting room. “Hello Mrs Astley, Jane.” Whereupon Jane rushed over and hugged me, presented me with a bunch of flowers and asked how I was, all in an instant. At least that was how it seemed, maybe it was my pills. I thanked her for the flowers expecting my mother to offer to put them in vase, but she didn’t.

Instead, “Charlotte darling, why don’t you and Jane put those lovely flowers in a vase, you know where they are.” I did, I’d got them out often enough for her, so I led Jane out to the kitchen.

“Wow, I love your kitchen!” exclaimed my new friend, and she proceeded to examine all the appliances and worktops. It was something I took for granted, my dad is a civil engineer who plans and builds roads and bridges and things. So anything in our house is planned with meticulous detail and then implemented in the same way. Sadly he spends much of his time away from home, so when he is here, he loves to do DIY. He designed and fitted our kitchen himself, I’d been there when he did it, so it was no big deal to me. But I suppose on reflection, it was one of the best anywhere on the planet, I know my mum thought so.

I gave Jane a tour of the kitchen and showed her all the gadgets, she was suitably impressed. “So do you get to do much cooking?” she asked me. Not an unnatural question given my apparent knowledge of the gadgetry.

“No, not very much. Mum is very protective of her domain and you know, two women in the same kitchen and all that stuff.” On the spur of the moment, I thought I had bullshitted my way out quite nicely.

“So how are you going to learn? I help my mum all the time and even do some meals myself. I just love cooking, it’s like, so creative.” She beamed at me and I was lost for words. She was relaxing with me as she would another girl, although my hormones were telling me that I was anything but, despite the pills I was taking.

“I’ve been a bit preoccupied with all the changes I’ve had to make, and I was going to ask her to let me start helping around the place a bit more, but I don’t want to make her feel threatened.”

Before she could reply, I found a vase and began to fill it with water. The flowers came with a sachet of plant food which I dissolved in the water, then cut off the ends of the stalks as it said on the sachet. Then I was on my own. Jane had sat on one of the stools swinging her legs back and fore watching me. I felt very nervous, I’d never arranged flowers before because no one had ever given them to me before. I laid them on the table and began to examine their length of stalk, then I put the longest in the middle and shorter in front, and so on. Before long, I had what I considered a reasonable effort in impromptu floristry.

“Has anyone given you flowers before, like a boyfriend or your dad?” she asked.

Blushing I replied, “Only in hospital, I’m a bit new at being a girl and I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“After what they did to you, I’m not surprised,” she said in a quite matter of fact way.

“Shall we take these through and show our mums?” I said quickly before we got back into discussing my recent experiences.

I placed the flowers in the fireplace where they looked both attractive and would remain cool. My mother asked me to make us all a pot of tea, so I left them all to talk about her kitchen, which Jane was positively crowing about. Making a pot of tea and finding a piece of cake and few bits of crockery were about the limits of my culinary ability. But it was something I could do and so I set about it my task quite happily. Halfway through setting up the tray and making the tea, they all three came into the kitchen as my mum showed Jane’s mum around.

The afternoon went by more pleasantly than any I’d had for several weeks, and when they left, we all hugged and kissed goodbye. Jane was told to come over anytime by my mum, and her mum said, ”I think you are a very brave young lady to cope with all you’ve been through.” I simply blushed by way of response and shrugged my shoulders.

It was ironic, I had at last got a girlfriend who was simply that, a friend who was a girl and who thought I was the same or wanted to be so. I felt even more confused, because part of me enjoyed not having to act like a boy around her, showing off and acting like a total plonker. I was actually beginning to relax in her company too, valuing it for her friendship alone. I badly needed some friends, I’d lost all of those who were supposedly mine at school, it seemed they were of the fair weather variety. Of all the people who knew me at school, only the music teacher and headmaster had enquired about my health, and I suspect only the music teacher was really interested. I was after all his star soloist and I missed my music, my singing. I hadn’t sung a note since that fateful day, part of me wanted to do so again — part of me was terrified.

I let myself out into the garden and just wandered about thinking whether I would ever sing again, if I had strained my throat in my contretemps with Watson or if the pills I was taking would affect it. I had to know, so I went into the garage and after doing some breathing exercises, did some warm up scales and exercises. So far so good. I then tried one or two simple songs and they seemed to be all right too. Finally I sang the twenty third psalm. It was something I had performed at the funeral of one of the school governors, some months ago. I felt pleased with the rendition in the uncertain acoustics of the garage, and it made me feel better too.

As I finished my mother walked in and with tears in her eyes declared, “That was simply beautiful sweetheart, I’m so glad you want to sing again. It was wonderful.” We hugged and both cried for a moment, I felt more loved than I had for years. For an instant, I felt as if I wanted to live again.

I had been pleased to discover my singing voice had survived, although I was uncertain what effect the pills and things would have on it in the longer term. In truth, I was uncertain what effect they would have on all of me, not just my voice. The anti-andro whatevers, sounded pretty horrible, making me a chemical eunuch. I could be the first castrato chorister for a hundred and fifty years!

After my ‘garage concert’ and Jane’s visit, my spirits had risen a little. I wasn’t sure that life was going to be worth living exactly, but at least it felt as if there may be a tiny bit of hope.

I needed to get off the pills I was taking, they were making me so dopey I didn’t know what day it was half the time. However, until I did stop them, I knew I wouldn’t cope with any sort of schooling. That was another worry. Where could I go? Hardly back to Stalag Ten, which had been the place of my humiliation, so where else was there?

A girls school? Could I cope with such an environment, and would they accept me anyway? What about a mixed sex school? I think they call them co-eds in the US. I didn’t actually know of any in the area, but then I was so muddled much of the time, that I wouldn’t know my elbow from my ar.. !

I should talk to Mum about it, but then she would think I was ready to go somewhere, which would get back to Cervantes, and he’d think he was getting it right, which is wrong, but he doesn’t know it. Then he is a prat and I hate his rotten guts, and I feel quite dizzy and will sit down.

“A penny for them.” The voice came from nowhere, so lost was I in my thoughts, that I jumped visibly. It was a bit like sitting quietly in a train, just chugging along and an express comes past the other way. The sudden whoosh always makes me jump.

“I’m sorry Charlotte, I made you jump.” My mother had obviously come to see why I was so quiet.

“Yes you did Mum.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“If I could ever face going to school again.”

“You’ll have to one day, and the longer you put it off the worse it’ll be.” She paused and came over and hugged me. “Where would you like to go to school?”

“I don’t know, I don’t even know if I ever want to go again.”

“Well, young lady, I don’t think any of us have a choice in the fact that you have to, but we may just have some options as to where.”

“Anywhere round here will have heard about what happened, boys or girls.”

“They may well have forgotten by the time you get there. It’s a nine day wonder.”

“Except I have a rather noticeable name, thanks to that singer girl.”

“We can always change it. What do you fancy?”

For a moment I nearly said “James”, but decided against it. Instead I threw it back at my mother. “What would you have called me if I’d been born a girl?”

“Goodness, that takes me back a bit,” she paused to think. “It was a choice between Christine and Charlotte.”

“You’re joking!”

“No I’m not. I like the name Charlotte, although I appreciate it has some negative connotations for you.”

“Yeah,” I answered, “just a few.”

“Despite the nasty associations, I think it suits you, and I’m quite used to calling you Charlotte.”

“I suppose if it was going to get out it would anyway.” I philosophised, though inside my emotions didn’t feel anything like as calm about it. What was barely beneath the surface was sheer terror. Scratch me and watch it happen!

“I’m really pleased with you,” my mother beamed at me, “since Jane came around, you have really started to show some of your old self.”

“I wondered if it was worth getting some advice from Mr King, about schools.”

“What? Your old music teacher? That’s a wonderful idea, Charlotte.” With that she gave me a hug and we both smiled, although my terror was ready and waiting to surface. “I’ll give him ring and see if he’d be prepared to come and see us.”

She disappeared and I decided to allow my thoughts to drift back to Jane’s visit. I glanced at the flowers she had given me, they were very beautiful. I hoped that she liked me for myself, not just as a goodwill gesture to a freak.

I compared myself to her. She was vivacious and very pretty, with a figure that was developing into a shapely one like her mother. I was a year older, and straight up and down. I didn’t want to be a girl, but no one believed me. I wanted to be a boy, but had somehow failed the practical. What I wanted less than being a girl was being a nothing.

Effectively, I had no penis anymore, and I suspected my balls weren’t that good anyway otherwise my voice would have broken and I’d be covered in zits, like my contemporaries. So if I couldn’t be a boy anymore, then I think I’d prefer to look a bit more real as a girl. You know have boobs and things.

Oh God, what am I saying! Do I really want tits? I don’t know, I just know I don’t want to be a nothing, and there doesn’t seem to be much option otherwise. So I need to take hormones of some sort. That means I need to speak to Cervantes, old prat-face himself, but that will make him think I really am transsexual, and he will feel convinced in his own convictions of his diagnosis. The only convictions he should have are for being a prat!

“He will come and see us tomorrow after school.” Chirped my mother.

“Who will?” I enquired, lost in my own convoluted world.

“Mr King. He said he would love to see you and to help in anyway he can.”

That’ll teach me to keep my mouth shut, except for eating, I thought to myself, but my mouth said, “Okay.”

“Well you could sound more enthusiastic. He is putting himself out to help us.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure he is, I feel a bit frightened that’s all.”

“I’m sorry too baby,” she put her arm around me, “I keep forgetting how difficult this is for you.” We hugged for quite a few minutes before she said,

“I’ve got so used to you as my daughter, I forget that it’s so new for you and for others.” She held me tight as I shook and wept silent tears. The terror, like the magma in the sump of a volcano, moved closer to the surface.

The next day duly arrived, and I accepted that my mother wanted me to make a good impression on Mr King. So I was duly scrubbed and anointed with all sorts of scented unguents and creams, which if the truth were known, felt rather nice, although I wasn’t so sure about the smell. Standing downwind of myself would I considered, be like standing in a second rate florist shop.

I declined to wear a skirt, and would have preferred no make up, but settled for a lip gloss, a padded bra, my embroidered jeans and fitted tee shirt with lace at the neck and sleeves. My hair was, tied up in a pony tail, high on my head with a pink scrunchie. On my feet I wore my girly, pink Reeboks!

We agreed that my mother would let Mr King in and have a quick chat with him, then she would call me in when they were ready. He had seen me in the hospital, but I was hardly at my best then. I wanted him to feel comfortable before I entered like some alien from the planet Zog!

At the appointed time I heard the door bell ring and my mother answer it. I could hear two voices, my mother’s and a male one. It could well be Mr King. I couldn’t hear what was said, just the murmur of the voices. My heart rate increased and I could hear the pounding in my ears. I felt rather faint, and sat down.

I tried to think of something nice to take my mind off the impending ordeal. I thought about my dad. He was a lovely man, away in Germany at the moment building some motorway or some such thing. I missed him. He said he would be home at some point this month, but couldn’t be firm on his dates. I hoped it would be soon.

Thinking of my dad did the trick, I was lost in those thoughts when my mother came up and asked me to come down. With trembling body and legs of jelly, I made my way downstairs. Mum held my hand, and as we approached the sitting room, she gave it a squeeze. I looked up at her and she smiled at me.

“Ready?” she whispered, and I nodded my response.

“Mr King, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Charlotte.” She led me forward as we entered the room.

Old King jumped up, and stretched out his hand, “Hello Charlotte, I’m glad to meet the real you at last.”

I offered him my fingers, my palms were so sweaty it felt they would drip any moment. He took them, and instead of shaking them, he pulled me to him and gave me a hug.

I was astonished, but accepted this as a gesture of acceptance of some sort. “I can only do this while your mother is here.” He said quietly. “I have missed your nightingale voice, without it, the school choir is mediocre to say the least. I have hopes of young Wall, but he’s still a bit young and I don’t think he will have your talent.”

I didn’t know what to say. “I’ve missed you too, Mr King,” fell out of my mouth.

“Let me look at you,” he held me out at arms length, “I think this is an improvement on that scruffy, longhaired tearaway, I used to know.”

“I know where to come for a reference then.” I threw back at him.

My mother settled us down and went off to make some tea. We chatted about what was happening in the school choir. He mentioned names of boys I knew and one or two new ones. He told me what they were singing and about their forthcoming concert, although he was desperately short of soloists and may have to cancel.

I knew where this was leading and had no intention of taking the bait. There was no way I could go near that place again, except to burn it down! Surely he couldn’t really be trying to tempt me back.

My mother brought in a tray of tea and cakes. We had spent the morning baking them and I had actually enjoyed it, doing things with my mum again, like it was when I was little.

“I was just telling Charlotte, that we could do with her help at the next concert. I am so short of soloists, it’s untrue. The boy’s voices break so early these days, and when they’re so young, they don’t have the technical skills to sing very proficiently. They have very sweet voices but no technique. That’s where you were such a treasure, because you were a little older and much more mature in your technique. It’s such a shame you’re not singing any more. Such a waste!”

I was blushing to the roots of my hair, and I suspect through them. I looked at the floor, because I felt so embarrassed.

“You don’t seriously think Charlotte would sing at that school again, do you?” said my mother in an obviously, concerned voice.

“No, not after the stories I heard. But I can dream can’t I? This child has a voice which could charm the birds out of the trees, and given the right training could be even better. Depending on where she wanted to go with it, it could bring her fame and fortune.”

“I think I’ve had enough of that for the moment.” I piped from under the embarrassed scowl I was wearing.

“I’m sorry Charlotte, for all I know your voice has changed with all the hormones and things you presumably have to take. I think it’s such a loss all round.”

“As far as I know, it hasn’t changed yet.” I responded.

“Will you sing for me, just something simple, anything. Just let me hear that wonderful voice again, one last time.” He looked me in the eye, and I felt incredibly self-conscious, blushing even more, if it was possible.

My mother was about to intervene, but my glance stopped her. “Have a cup of tea first, while I go and do some warm ups, then I’ll sing for you.”

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed, “Simply wonderful.”

I left them to their tea, and wandered off to the garage, where once again I did some scales and other warm ups. I didn’t really know what to sing, it was so long since I had done anything, and I was out of practice. In the end I decided on the twenty third psalm again, because its wording spoke to me, and I hoped would fortify me in this ordeal. I ran through it in my mind, then sang it a couple of times, checking my breathing and general tempo. It felt okay, I can do this, I thought to myself.

And so I did. I walked calmly into our lounge, asked if they were ready, and upon their agreement, launched into my piece.

When I’d finished there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, my mother was sniffing back the tears and even old King had his hankie out, dabbing at his eyes. “That was simply splendid. Beautiful. As good as you have ever sung,” was all he said, before returning to his raptures.

Sniffing, my mother added, “That was lovely, darling. Mr King is right in some ways, you should keep up your singing even if you only do it for your own pleasure.”

The rest of the evening, we discussed my continuing education. Nothing was resolved but we did now have a better understanding of the options. Mr King tried again to inveigle me back to sing at their concert, but my mother wouldn’t hear of it. I was nearly tempted until I considered the consequences.

The thought of the ragging I would receive, made me shudder. It had been bad before, but now, all those who teased me would feel justified. They would have a field day. I missed the singing, especially to an audience, the buzz was something else. But it couldn’t compensate for the abuse I’d receive. If only I could wear some disguise! But what am I thinking about, they’d recognise me as soon as I opened my mouth, or would they?

I went to play on my computer, a few games of something would take my mind of these mad thoughts. However, I couldn’t settle to the task in hand, and gave up on my rally car driving.

I went to see my mum. I wasn’t sure about what I was going to say, but I needed to talk to her. “Mum, you know I’m not sure about this girl stuff?” She stopped reading the paper and looked at me, and nodded. “I’m not sure, but at the same time I don’t want to be a nothing.”

“You’re not a nothing, you’re my daughter.”

“But I am. If I take my clothes off, then I look like a boy without a dick. I don’t look like a girl, except between my legs. I’m fourteen. Most boys of my age have deep voices, hairy legs, muscles and spots. Most girls have boobs and broader hips, not to mention periods. I’m a nothing, neither one thing nor the other.”

“Well we can pad your bras out a bit more, and possibly get you some form of padded pants to make your bum look bigger.”

“If I go to school as a girl, it won’t fool anyone for long. What about games and things?”

“I hadn’t thought that far in advance. But even if you had hormones tomorrow, they would take months to work. No one grows breasts overnight, and you are far too young for implants.”

Those thoughts hadn’t even really crossed my mind, except perhaps for the hormones. Even there, I didn’t really want to commit myself to changes which couldn’t be undone, should I manage to make it back to manhood.

“What about some of these things they advertise on the internet?”

”What things do you mean?”

“There are places which sell false boobs, which can be stuck on and are supposed to look like real ones.”

“Are there?” she looked aghast for a moment, then said, “Show me.”

I had never actually visited one of these sites, so I put a few things into Google and eventually we found some. They were mainly American, but there were two British ones as well. She didn’t seem that impressed.

“I wonder if any of the surgical appliance places do anything like these?” She left me at the computer and went off. I didn’t know what she meant or how she had taken my query, so I left things for a bit.

The next morning, she didn’t call me to get up. I’d had a mixed night with some bad dreams and some better ones. I had dreamt that I had gone to my concert, disguised as a girl with dark hair and prominent breasts. Instead of abusing me, the boys were fighting each other to assist me or catch my eye. It was great fun, and none of them recognised my voice, so I was completely incognito to them. In another, I saw myself at a new school and it was hell. It was the girls who were tormenting me, asking why I didn’t have boobs or periods. I ended up crying with this one, and woke up wet from sweat and tears.

Eventually I got up, it was nearly ten. It was late for me. Since coming off the pills, I was trying to make my life as normal as I could. I went downstairs to get some breakfast and heard my mother talking to someone on the phone. “Yes, as I said, she seems very body conscious and aware that she is lacking breasts and wider hips.” She paused, then, “I thought I’d let you know. How old must she be before you can prescribe them, oh.” That sounded rather flat.

“Would that be wise, if it’s not under medical supervision? Oh I see, so it’s not hormones as such. We could try that I suppose, I’ll get some. ………..and you think the shop you mentioned may be able to help. Okay thank you doctor. ….yes I will. Good bye.”

She turned around and saw me standing behind her. “Ooh!” she said and started a little. “I was asking Dr Cervantes for some advice vis-á -vis our chat yesterday.”

“We chatted about all sorts of things yesterday Mum, what’s it to do with the creepy crawly doctor?”

“Now darling, he’s only trying to help you.”

“Help me what?”

“Now Charlotte, you know very well that he is doing his best, and he is quite fond of you.” At this I made gagging noises. “You silly girl, stop that!” I did as I was told. “He sends his regards.”

“Look Mum, if I had tits, he’d be on them!”

She looked blankly at me. “The expression, getting on my tits!”

“Oh I see. That’s very vulgar Charlotte.”

I considered myself told off. Boy, some days I wonder why I bother to open my gob at all! I went off to get some breakfast, pretending to be in high dudgeon.

I was half way through my orange juice when Mum told me to hurry up and get dressed, we had some shopping to do. Yuck!

“Get yourself washed and dressed, wash your hair, and put on a skirt and top. Don’t forget your bra.”

I began to protest, but she cut me short. “I don’t care what you think or want, we’re going to do it my way today. So please get a move on.”

I did as I was told, you don’t argue with Mum in this sort of mood. Not unless you want grief. I put on a white top and a pink skirt, with my white sandals. She nodded her approval, told me to use some of my cologne and to put on my watch and bracelet.

I returned as instructed. “Where’s your bag?”

“You didn’t tell me I needed my bag!” I stropped at her.

“Of course you need your bag, and make sure your purse is in it.”

I pouted at her but went to get it. “Purse?” I opened my bag to show her. “Good girl.” I just scowled.

We caught the train about eleven thirty, and were in London about an hour or so later. Then we set off for the underground. After a couple of changes of tube, we emerged in a street, and after a short walk went into a shop.

“Hello, I’m Mrs Church, I phoned this morning about my daughter.”

“Yes, I remember. This is the young lady?” my mother nodded. “How do you do?” was addressed to me.

“Fine thank you, how do you do?” I was pretending that I had been brought up rather than dragged up. I was conscious of my mother’s watchful eye. A boy would probably have wound her up, but I was supposed to be a girl, so I played it straight.

We were led into the back of the shop which was some sort of fitting room. I was told to remove my top and bra, and after some hesitation complied. My mother’s smile reassured me it was okay to show my flat chest.

The woman, who was serving us, and whose name badge read ‘Rita’, was about forty, so really quite old. Probably even older than my mum. She looked at me, and nodding her head, said, “I see what you mean, she is very underdeveloped. Still, I think we should be able to help. Today I’ll do a measuring and colour match, then we order them. How quickly do you want them?”

“How quickly can you do them?” asked Mum.

“Two weeks, but that would cost an extra hundred.”

“Yes, if it means two weeks. Can you guarantee that?”

“Usually. You’d have to come back for a fitting and for me to show how to fix them yourself, or for the young lady to do it herself.”

“Right, lets go for it then.”

I was then subjected to very careful measurement of the chest, and then to a equally precise match of skin tone against a series of charts, a bit like choosing paint. Then, I was asked to put on my bra. When it was on, she placed different bags of jelly stuff in it, until she and my mother were in accord. Then they asked me what I thought.

Not knowing much about such things, I accepted their judgement. I was then told I could keep the padding in my bra. It felt strange, cool and heavy compared to my simple foam pads. They bounced a bit when I walked, like real ones. I wasn’t sure what I felt about this, at the same time, I knew I had precipitated it.

After this shop we went to a big health food type shop and mum bought several items. I had a feeling I was going to be the beneficiary of at least some of it.

After a day or two of wearing the new breast forms, I was almost used to them. I was also taking some capsule thing three times a day, and another one twice. Apparently they weren’t really hormones, but may help start things growing a bit. I learned afterwards, they were phyto-oestrogens, and ginseng, the latter would also help me to get some energy.

Nothing seemed to happen, anyway, except perhaps I did feel a bit more energetic and went out once or twice on my own to the local shop for messages.

Dad came home for a weekend, and seemed pleased with my progress. He brought me some expensive eau de toilette, which I’d never heard of, called, Anais Anais. It smelt very nice, and I was told that as young woman I needed to develop my own sense of style and that included a scent. It wasn’t something I’d given much thought to, but I think I understood what he meant.

I enjoyed my father’s visit, and we did all sorts of things as a family, and just us together. We also had a heart to heart, and I began to understand how difficult this was for him. He had wanted a son, he’d got his wish. Sadly, his son was a bit small, but it was okay. Then he seemed to miss out on puberty, still sounding like a girl. True, a lovely singing voice was a small compensation, but why did it have to be so girlish?

Then the disaster of the ‘pseudo-castration’ and hospitalisation and Dad’s dreams were fast disappearing. He wondered if he’d cope with this poofy child who seemed to want to be a girl. He’d expressed his doubts to my mum, who’d understood but was very upset. Then when he’d seen me in hospital, it nearly broke his heart. But he still loved me, and was determined to do every thing he could to help me. It wasn’t going to be easy, but he would try.

We were both in tears, as I sat on his lap and we hugged each other. Realising how far he’d come to try and love me as a daughter, how could I betray that love. When he then said, that he wouldn’t be able to cope if after a while, I decided I wanted to be a boy again. I saw my future being written in tablets of stone.

How could I live without my dad, or my mum for that matter. They were both so important to me. While I could have argued that they should be supporting however I saw myself, I understood their difficulty, even if they were blind to mine. If I was going to be stuck as a girl, then I might as well go the whole hog and get bits added or removed as necessary. It did mean I’d get to wind up Dr Cervantes, which would make it almost worthwhile.

Officially, I was on sick leave from school and had been for two months. Not unexpectedly, the local education authority were becoming concerned that I wasn’t attending a school somewhere. They seemed to be reasonably sympathetic to my situation and once a week, a peripatetic teacher came in for a couple of hours and set me some work.

I suppose it was helping me get back to a routine which would mean I could return to school. It was the summer term, so at best, I’d be starting for the new academic year in September. Reluctantly, I went to the local girls school with Mum for an interview. They were pretty full but agreed they would accept me, however, I would have to resit the year unless I could prove I was up to the next standard. I didn’t want to have to resit a year, however, I wasn’t in a position to know if I was up to their standards. We would need to talk to the visiting teacher and see what she thought.

I was a little apprehensive about this part of my adventure, but it was far enough away not to worry me yet. Finding out if I was up to standard was the next worry, and sorting out my body, to get that up to standard as well.

The breast forms that we had ordered duly arrived and we went up to Town again to get them. They were very realistic, and matched my skin almost perfectly. The lady showed us how to attach them with the special glue, and also how to get them off again. I would have to let my skin recover in between attachments, so I couldn’t wear them stuck for longer than a week, then a couple of days without, and so on.

When they were stuck in place I became aware of them pulling on my chest skin, and they were cold too! But they soon warmed up and with my bra back on, didn’t feel too uncomfortable. She showed us how to apply a small amount of special make up to hide any seams, but the fit was amazing. They really did look real, but they did cost quite a lot of money. However, I was beginning to look more female. My hips were still narrow, but with realistic breasts, I could probably get away with being a girl with ‘boyish hips’.

I’d been taking the isoflavones (phytogens) for two weeks, and with the combined effect of the anti-androgens, I felt sure my waist was getting smaller and my bum bigger, although this was probably wishful thinking.

Certainly I felt more confident about being seen as a girl, and felt happier experimenting with my looks. Jane came round more often, and we spent ages playing with various hairstyles and makeup, and the wardrobe I had. Of course this led to us making several sorties into town for more clothes. I was never sure if my mum was pleased or concerned at the amount of money I seemed to be able to spend. However, I was building a wardrobe of clothes which I liked, so it was worthwhile. I was developing a sense of myself and of my own style, with Jane and Mum’s help. I thought it was coming on nicely, but then I would wouldn’t I?

The upshot of the school thing, was that my visiting teacher was in favour of my resitting the year. I asked if we could take the year tests and see how I did before deciding. She agreed, and also to getting me more work to stretch me a bit more. What I had been doing was too easy and I was ready to up the pressure a bit.

The pressure certainly rose. I would start the day by going for a run of a couple of miles. There was quite a difference between wearing the breast forms attached or simply held in the bra. When I got back, I would shower, breakfast and study hard for two hours. Then I’d spend half an hour doing singing exercises, which I found had the paradoxical effect of relaxing me while at the same time energising me. I’d do some reading for my schoolwork for another half an hour or so, then we’d have lunch.

The afternoon was two more hours of hard graft over my books, then I’d go for a walk before we had tea or dinner depending on whether Dad was home and what we’d had for lunch. Then, another two hours of schoolwork. If it was fine, Mum and I would go for another walk, then bed.

Weekends, if Jane was around we’d do girl things which I was beginning to quite enjoy. If we went out she would make comments about different boys we’d see which used to embarrass me at first. “He’s got a nice bum,” or, “I wonder what he looks like under those clothes. Those lips look quite kissable.” It was still a little embarrassing, but worse was when she suggested different boys were ‘clocking me’.

I had never seen myself as a sex object, and at fourteen, I should have been seeing girls as such if anything. So to have boys my own age or older making comments, some of which were quite vulgar, was nerve-racking. “Get the tits on that, or nice arse;” were amongst the more common. I also got used to men and boys talking to my chest or looking at my legs rather than my eyes when speaking to me. If I was feeling playful, I might flirt a little or on the other hand I might remind them that my face was higher up than they were looking.

On one such occasion, I’d had a very trying time with a maths problem and instead of going for my afternoon walk I went for a second run, in shorts and tee shirt. Some van driver stopped me, asking for directions to a road nearby. Fortunately, I knew where it was and as I was directing him, he was glancing at my chest all the time. Admittedly, I was breathing quite heavily after running up hill and I suppose my chest was heaving in the sports bra I had on. I was also aware that I was a bit sweaty, so my shirt was sticking to me a little.

He just began to stare at my chest, rather than where I was pointing. “Do you mind!” I snapped at him, “the place you want is up that way, not on my chest.”

“Pity,” he commented, then blushing, he thanked me for my directions before driving off in the wrong direction! I went back to my run, giggling as I went, which did not help my breathing.

One weekend, Jane and I bought some of those washable hair dyes, and we dyed our hair purple. My mother nearly had a fit, and so did hers! We looked so different, simply by changing our hair colour. The next week, at Jane’s house, I used a dark brown one, which with some different make up and some of Jane’s clothes I looked like someone else. To test my theory, I rang our door bell when I got home. My mother answered.
“Yes young lady.”

“ ‘scuse me Mrs Church, is James home?” I watched her blanch a little at my question. I had disguised my speaking voice slightly and it was obviously enough to fool her.

“I’m afraid he doesn’t live here anymore.” She was becoming agitated and I began to wish I hadn’t started it.

“Where is he then?” I piped.

“He died.” She answered, and I could see the tears beginning to form.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” I said and left. I watched her shut the door before I ran back to Jane’s house, tears forming in my eyes too.

I washed my hair back to normal colour and changed into my own clothes again. I told Jane what had happened.

“You did what?” she asked, “I’ll bet she was upset. How could you do it?”

“I didn’t mean to upset her, it just came into my mouth and fell out before I could stop it. I didn’t mean her to react like that.” Was what I said, but I wondered if part of me did want her to. Apart from my anger about how everyone had been so accepting of the trick which had been played upon me, which had robbed me of my identity as well as my sex, I wondered how she was dealing with my change of identity.

For what it was worth, I now knew. I felt a bit sad and not a little angry. I suddenly realised that I was also suffering the same bereavement, which thanks to my father’s attitude meant James was as good as dead. I began to understand that this was forever. I was going to be stuck as a girl for the rest of my life or lose my father if I tried to reassert my masculinity at some point in the future.

I had gone along with it all because it seemed the only thing to do. The evidence had been made to point to me as the guilty party. It had been accepted, and despite my efforts to protest, it had been seen as true. I was therefore a liar. Suddenly, I felt so angry that I could punch someone, hardly a feminine response.

I hurriedly left Jane’s house and went for a long walk. The jeans I was wearing felt hot, and the flared legs kept catching, making my temper even worse. I wanted to hurt someone, or myself. The bra felt tight and the breast forms were uncomfortable, but were stuck on today. I felt like ripping them off, but knew I couldn’t without taking large areas of skin with them.

I wanted to go somewhere I felt safe. I wanted to scream and shout and break things. I needed to do something physical or I was going to explode and do myself or somebody else some harm. On one hand I didn’t really care, but another part of me, did. It was the latter side which won.

I found myself walking along the river bank, and with a large stick I had picked up, was bashing and smashing everything in sight. Thankfully no one was around to observe this very incongruent behaviour from a ‘girl’.

Finally, I was empty of anger and energy. If I’d had the chance to sit and sleep, I would have done. I became aware of the time, it was six o clock. Heavens, my little prank had been at about eleven. I’d had no lunch, I realised I was hungry. I also realised I was lost.

I began to feel a little worried. Scared would have been too strong a description, but I was certainly uneasy. I began to walk faster, but none of the landmarks looked familiar. I stopped. I needed to find the river, because I could navigate from there. But where was it. I was aware of a man walking towards me, and I suddenly thought I would ask him, then I felt paranoid. I didn’t know him, if he thought I was a girl out here on my own……!

I began to walk confidently towards him, holding my head up high. I wished I kept the stick. I also wished I hadn’t left my bag at Jane’s, my mobile was in it. I only had my own stupidity to blame for the problem I was in. I would therefore find my own solution.

As I wandered towards I didn’t know where, it occurred to me that my mother might be worried about me. Now I felt guilty. This was crass of me to do such a silly and thoughtless thing. The anger had all gone now, and all I felt was sorrow. I was sorry I had acted as I had, I was sorry I had upset my mum, I was sorry I had stomped out of Jane’s house. I was still lost, and it was half past six.

Of course these days, there are no phone boxes because mobile phones have killed them off. Besides I had no money, so couldn’t call anyone. I wandered on some more, praying, “Please God, let me get home safe and apologise to my mother. Please let me do this and I’ll be a good girl from now on. I promise. Amen. P.S. If you help me, I’ll sing at the concert.”

I don’t know if it was the latter part which helped but, a few minutes later, I stumbled out onto a road and then a sign post. My town was five miles away. It was going to take me nearly two hours, but at least I now knew where I was going. “Thanks God.” I offered, “I will sing at Mr King’s concert, and I’ll do at least one religious song.” Happy that I’d settled my debt with the Creator, I walked as quickly as I could.

As I got closer to home, I began to recognise landmarks, each one of them made my heart gladden. By the time I was on the outskirts of town, I was almost crying with joy. My feet hurt, the shoes I had on were not really suitable for walking in the countryside, having a clumpy two inch heel, and these blessed jeans had rubbed me on my legs. Finally, I was on the last lap. I passed Jane’s house, and thought I’d better reclaim my bag.

I nervously rang the bell, her mum answered the door, “Charlotte! Where have you been? Your mother is very worried about you. Come in, I’ll call her to say you’re safe.”

Jane came up. “Where have you been, it’s nearly nine o clock.”

“I forgot my bag.” I replied.

“Here,” she said, “we were all worried about you, you stamped out of here like someone possessed. It looked as if you were capable of anything.”

“I had some stuff I needed to work through.”

“Goodness look at your hands.” She said. I did, they were all dirty and skinned where I’d been holding the stick. I accepted her offer to go and wash them. In the bathroom, I saw my dirty, tear stained face reflecting back at me. I washed my hands and then my face. I looked a bit more presentable afterwards, although my hair was scruffy and would need washing again. I combed it into some semblance of tidiness and tied it back with an elastic ring, I had in my bag.

Ten minutes later, after a glass of orange squash, my mother arrived. We embraced and with tears in everyone’s eyes, she took me home.

“I’m sorry Mum. I didn’t mean to worry you.” I sobbed to her.

She hugged me, “I thought I’d lost you as well. It was you earlier wasn’t it? Asking for James.”

“Yes Mum, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it would upset you. It was meant to be a joke.” I sniffed. “Then I got very angry, I don’t know why.”

“I do darling. It’s okay. I understand. I’m just so glad to have you back safely.”

“I got lost, and walked and walked.” I sobbed at her, “I got frightened I’d never get home again.”

“Come on, have something to eat, and up to bed.”

“Can I have a bath Mum?”

“Of course you can. Go on off you go, I’ll get you something to eat.”

I ate my food, wrapped up in a dressing gown and my nightdress. I had several blisters on my feet, which the bath had eased. I was absolutely shattered.

“I have to sing at Mr King’s concert.”

“What!”

“I have to sing at the concert.”

“Why?”

“I promised God I would.” I felt a little foolish saying this, but it was true.

“You did what?”

“When I was lost, I asked God for help and in return I promised I would sing at the concert.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I have to Mum. I promised.”

“But the boys will tease you.”

“Only if they recognise me.”

“What do you mean, of course they’ll recognise you, and your name.”

“I can call myself anything. You didn’t recognise me earlier did you?”

“No, I didn’t. It was Jane who told me it was you.”

“So if you didn’t recognise me, why should they?”

“They’ll know your voice, and the stuff you sing.”

“I’m sure I can change some of that. I need to speak to Mr King about it first, but I want to sing there Mum, and I intend to.”