The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3128 by Angharad Copyright© 2017 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.

Danni came in with a face like thunder and hair that looked like she’d been caught in a storm. Brenda’s car wouldn’t start so she went to catch the bus only it didn’t run but the rain did and she was soaked, puir wee soul.

I sent her up to shower her temper not being improved by Trish asking why she needed a shower, she looked wet enough already. I scolded Trish who went off in a huff probably firing the cruise missile she’s been building in the woodshed.

While Danielle was in the shower I collected up her wet clothing and threw it in the washing machine. With so many bodies, there’s always enough laundry about to make up a load, and I shoved the machine on. After this, I went up to speak with the nearly dressed, Danni.

“I’ve had John Jackson from the echo on the phone.”

“What did he want?” she continued drying her hair and brushing it—she’d certainly got the basics very well.

“He wants to talk with the latest England ladies’ star.”

“Oh yeah, who’s that then?”

“How would I know? Probably some snotty little tart from the council estate at Leigh Park.”

“Yeah, probbly, so why’d he ring you?”

“I think he wants to set up a one night stand with her.”

She snorted and then pretended to vomit.

“I get the impression that doesn’t excite you?”

“Excite me—yuck—I’d rather do a hard training session than go anywhere with him—gross.”

“What about the interview?”

“What about it? I thought you always said never talk to the press.” Hoist by my own petard again, sometimes I think life would be easier if I went into a Trappist monastery. Nah, I’d fail the medical, but it would be much quieter.

“There are times when it’s expedient to speak to them.”

“President Trump said they’re all liars.”

“Pot calling the kettle black, I’m afraid. The advantage of talking to them is that you do get a chance to influence the interview, the risk is they’ll twist what you do say. In all honesty, it’s probably safer to speak with a local hack than a more experienced one from the London press.”

“So you’re saying I should talk to him?”

“I might be a good idea, naturally because you’re underage either Daddy or I will sit in with you. I thought down at the football club might be a good idea. You playing this weekend?”

“Yeah, Sunday at home.”

“So we could do it before the game and your coach would be on hand as well.”

“They’ll want pictures I s’pose?”

“Inevitably.”

“What if someone recognises me from before—you know—my old life.”

“It’s a risk we have to run every day until it becomes old news.”

“But it could cause problems with my career and in school—I don’t want my friends finding out I’m not really a girl.” Her bottom lip quivered and the tears began. I held out my arms and she flew into them, sobbing against my chest. “It’s not fair, Mummy, life just starts to get good and some fucking bastard has to spoil it.”

I rubbed her back and neck as she sobbed and sniffed. “Life isn’t fair I’m afraid, or only that horrible people would have bad things happen. I’m afraid unless we come out with bells and whistles, there will always be those who feel they have a right to challenge us or condemn us because it causes wrinkles in their nice little map of the universe. In reality, it’s none of their business unless you were having a relationship with them, or possibly receiving medical care when it might be appropriate for them to know. Otherwise, as far as I’m concerned it’s a need to know only basis, and he certainly doesn’t need to know.”

“What if he brings it up?”

“We tell him we agreed not to discuss personal information.”

“Did you?”

“I did quite categorically.”

“I’m still scared.”

“I am too, sweetheart, for all of us. Each time this happens I feel a little bit of me dies. It shouldn’t happen, we’re not doing anything wrong and we have statutory rights to live as we wish. It’s no one’s business but our own.”

It annoys me that people if they find out seem to feel a right to ask embarrassing questions, like have you had the op? Do you prefer sex with boys or girls? Are those your own breasts? If they said that to a biological female they’d deserve and get a slap.

I suppose they’re trying to orient themselves—she looks female but is she? How much is real and how much plastic surgery? The problem is, with so much plastic surgery being used by people, even by everyday folk, we all tend to wonder about anyone we see who seems just too perfect or seems to have a tight face and scrawny neck, or boobs on an eighty-year old that look as perky as a twenty something’s.

“What do we do, Mummy?” asked Danni drawing me back to the matter in hand.

“We give him his interview and if he asks that question, we terminate the interview and refer him to Jason who will eat him for breakfast and come back for the editor as elevenses.”

She snorted and I handed her a tissue. “The FA know your history, the club knows it and so do your school. Your doctor knows and no one else, for the moment, needs to. So he can debate the finer points of domestic and European sports law with Jason who has just the right information to shut him up, plus because you’re a minor, I don’t think he can publish your name anyway.”

“No, but fourteen years old, England ladies soccer player from Portsmouth, does tend to give the game away.” She had a point.

“We’ll deal with it.”

“But what do I tell my friends?”

“You need their support and remind them they were lucky enough to be born female, you had to work for it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.”

“There’s a saying, that fortune favours the brave. It does biologically because risk-takers tend to do better than over-cautious people. Occasionally it goes wrong, but on the whole, statistically, it tends to be true.”

“What?” she blinked at me, bemused.

“Carpe diem.”

“What?”

“Seize the day.”

“What?”

“Look, sweetheart, you either sit here and wait for life to come to you or you can go out and take it by the scruff...”

“Okay, okay enough of the clichés.”

Hmm, I’d have thought platitudes was more correct, but what do I know?

“And you’ll be there with me?”

“I will.”

“What about Dad, will he be there?”

“I’m sure he will if he can, especially if you ask him.” Once she starts batting her long eyelashes, he’s putty.

“Hmmm, okay. We’ll do it.”

I hugged her tightly and kissed the top of her head, the scent of her shampoo filled my nostrils as I did so. She is so beautiful, how could anyone doubt her?.