THE REINCARNATION OF JENNIFER JANE

by

Jennifer Jane Pope

with additional narrative by

Ruth Kirkpatrick

Author’s Note:

This story was actually written more than two years ago now and is a perfect illustration to answer the question I am frequently asked as to why I don’t write a straightforward TG story for publication in book form. Despite the fact that this novel is also a thriller, contains elements of bondage and one particularly graphic scene later on, the sad truth is that the simple fact that the main character starts out as a male and then ... well, you can guess that bit ... established publishers get the wobblies and assume it won’t find a market. If only they knew!

Despite that, at the latest count, Reincarnation has been read by close to two thousand readers and I’ve had some lovely mails back as a result. For a while, it has been on offer to buy in electronic form from my own site, but regular visitors there will know that I have stopped trying to sell directly from Storybook some time ago now, as the work that generated was just too much for me to cope with.

Of all the books and stories I have now written (and we’re talking over two million words now!) I don’t really have any hard and fast favourites (another frequently asked question) as it’s hard to compare things that I’ve striven to make so different, whenever possible and to compare a short story with a novel, or novelette is like trying to compare Diana Ross with Shania Twain.

However, having said that, Reincarnation does find a particularly soft spot in this crusty old heart of mine and so I offer it to you now, in the hope that you derive as much enjoyment from reading it as I did from the writing of it. I’ve split it into three instalments and parts two and three should follow here within the next few days, as and when Crystal has the time and space to allow.

And now, my liddle possums, if you’re all sitting comfortably, let our story begin ...

 

PROLOGUE

The tabloids, as usual, got hold of the wrong end of the stick - and then dropped it for good measure. I am referring, of course, to those particular gutter leaders who fill their pages with female nipples and sanctimonious exposees of people in high places and high churches, bemoaning the lack of morality in society which, if it ever were to attain the standards these self-appointed guardians of our morals profess to seek, would deprive their editors of anything to print which would persuade their readers to part with thirty pence a day, or fifty five pence on Sunday.

I should perhaps explain, if only for the benefit of those of you with sufficient taste and sense to direct your daily pennies towards the more literate and informed section of the press, for none of you will have seen my picture with the splash headlines about Ex-Junkie Author's Psycho Secrets and so on. You will not have read that I, Jennifer Jane Pope, writer of this and many other parishes, am really Christina Margaret Hammond and that I spent months in a secure mental unit, supposedly receiving treatment for heroin addiction and every sort of psychological disorder from paranoid schitzophrenia to being born with six toes and a third nipple.

Well, I can assure you that there are only five toes inside each of my stiletto heeled court shoes and, though I have had four nipples in my time, they came in two distinctly separate pairs and I never possessed them as a complete set together. When you read my true story, you will see what I mean by that!

As for Christina Margaret Hammond's mental disorders and drug addiction, I can confirm that she suffered from both, though as to the exact degrees of what, when and how, I cannot be sure for, though I was once she, as far as I am concerned, I was only Christina for the few hours I needed to come to terms with the sort of revelatory shock which might well have reduced a less hardy soul than mine to jibbering insanity forever.

You may well, as you read this book, find much of what I have to tell you almost impossible to believe. It was even harder for me to believe it myself. You may also wonder at the way in which I was so quickly able to come to terms with it all. Me too, until I ask myself what effect it would have on a condemned prisoner if he learned that he had been spared the gallows at the eleventh hour. Overwhelming relief and a reprieve from an imminent end that had seemed as inevitable as the sunrise can have some strange effects on the thinking processes of the said reprieved.

I know.

I was there.

And it did.

* * * * *

 

- 1 -

Look at me today and you would never believe how lucky I am to be here, in this life of mine, enough trappings of success to indicate that I am successful, though nothing too ostentatious, unless you count my extravagant taste in shoes. Oh yes, I hear you say, of course you've been lucky; talent on its own is never usually enough - luck always comes into it. And it does, I won't deny it, but it's not that kind of luck I'm talking about, but the luck that snatched me from the jaws of death, long before I embarked on the career that has spawned seven best selling novels, three film scripts and a West End play.

Because, dear reader, this life of mine so nearly finished more than a decade ago and indeed, death then would have come as a welcome release from the constant pain, a shortening of a road that was going nowhere, but had already become interminably over long. Only the most incredible freak of nature - para-nature might be a more accurate term - deprived the Grim Reaper of a premature acquaintance with this singular soul, though I confess, at the time I was not quite so sure of my good fortune as I am now.

I should explain. Thirty something years ago (if you want greater accuracy, don't hold your breath!) I was born James Morton Kirkpatrick, of an Essex mother and a second generation Irish father, one Eamon Sean Kirkpatrick, though my family tree plays little enough part in my story, apart from the inheritance passed down to me through my paternal grandfather, Seamus Kirkpatrick of County Derry. That inheritance was not financial, though it was most definitely material, first materialising when I was but eighteen, though I was not aware of its presence for nearly another two years.

By then, the tiny growth had insinuated itself so firmly within the fortress of my cranium that there was little the medical profession could do for me, though I did not completely abandon hope, pressing on with my university career and praying nightly that science might suddenly find that its stride pattern could allow for one miraculous leap, at least. Two more years of therapy, twenty four months of laying beneath the sinister X-ray guns, swallowing enough pills to keep a major manufacturer in new Rolls Royces for life and watching my pale hair gradually fall out and even I, the eternal optimist, could not but face the truth.

I was dying and it was not going to be a comfortable death. Only the morphine phials, distributed twice daily in pairs by my doctor, to ensure that I was never in possession of enough of the dream juice to attempt the unthinkable option, kept it at a remotely bearable level and, even then, I was growing a more frequent visitor at the local casualty department at three and four o'clock in the morning, pleading for the top-up dosage that my precious card entitled me to.

And so it was that I first - and last - met Christine, poor mixed up Chrissie, with brains long ago scrambled by LSD, amphetemines, cocaine and every other substance that our eighties culture had learned to abuse. She, too, was dying, though in a different way. I did not understand then, nor do I profess to now, quite how her life force was ebbing, but I think it would be fair enough to say that Chrissie had lost the will to live. Certainly, when I saw her perched astride the fence at the top of the railway cutting, one look was enough to tell me what was going through her mind.

I approached her cautiously, not wanting to startle her into jumping, for the pale moonlight glinted on that deadly third rail only a few feet below her precarious perch. She turned at the sound of my footsteps and stared at me vacantly for several seconds, as though she had never seen another human being in her life before. I saw the ravaged face, emaciated by her habits and by continued neglect and my heart went out for the pretty girl she so obviously once had been. The stained teeshirt hung limply on her frail shoulders, the baggy jeans, ripped, patched and ripped again, were no better a fit.

`Hi,' I said, trying to sound casual. `Thought I was the only night owl around these parts.' She continued to stare for several more seconds and I could almost hear the worn cogs trying to mesh inside her head. Eventually, some sort of light, though very dim, appeared to dawn in her hollow eyes.

`Piss off,' she said, though without venom, for I think the effort required for that was well beyond her. Undeterred, I continued walking slowly towards her.

`Nice clear night,' I ventured. `Full moon, nearly, too.'

`It's fucking cold,' she said, distantly. I started to pull off my leather bomber jacket.

`Borrow my coat, if you want,' I offered. `I'm beyond feeling the cold.'

She stared at me hard, concentration difficult. `What you on?' she demanded. I told her, but explained that I had nothing on me to spare, nothing at all, in fact. I passed her the coat and she drew it around her shoulders.

`Mind if I sit up there with you?' I asked. She shrugged, so I took that as an invitation and climbed up to sit within a couple of feet of her. Over the next few minutes, though it seemed more like hours, I elicited enough information from her to understand her situation. As I had expected, she had intended this journey to be her last. She still had enough methodone running through her veins to stave off the inevitable effects of withdrawal, but she had no more money and she had already abused the clinic's charity.

I fumbled in my pockets and found one crumpled five pound note and a few coins, the whole lot amounting to less than ten pounds. I showed it to her, but she shook her head.

`Need a lot more than that,' she said, pouting like a child who had been refused a sweet. `Anyway, it's too late now. I've made up my mind. This is a shit world and I want out of it.'

I'm still not quite sure what happened next and the passage of time does nothing to sharpen the memory. I recall reaching out a hand to her - I had some notion of pulling her backwards off the fence and reckoned that, in her weakened physical condition, I would then be able to restrain her until - well, until what hardly matters now, does it? There was some sort of struggle. I think she panicked, realising my intent and we both toppled forwards, rolling down the uneven embankment in a tangle of arms and legs.

The live rails, as you may know, are situated nearest the centre of the tracks, so that the live for upline and down are alongside each other and there are two plain steel rails between them and either side of the tracks. We came up against the first of these, clattering into the unsympathetic metal with a bone-jarring jolt, but Chrissie was up on her feet almost immediately. Ignoring the raging pain in my elbow and hip, I made a lunge for her, grabbing her ankle and hauling her back. She fell on me, spitting and clawing like an alleycat and she was far, far stronger than I would have believed possible.

I managed to regain my feet, still trying to hold her, but she spun around in my arms and the top of her head cracked into my jaw. Red and purple lights exploded across my vision and I shook my head, I think, screaming for her to stop. One of us stumbled again and I felt myself falling, arms outstretched in an attempt to break my fall. There was a giant, searing flash and I felt as though all my innards had been driven into my head. I heard a screeching, high pitched whine and then everything went black.

When I came round, it was still dark, though how long I had been unconscious, I had no way of telling, for my watch was no longer on my wrist. My head was pounding away like a bass drum and I closed my eyes again, in an effort to shut out the pain, whilst I tried to figure out what had happened. There was only one obvious answer - I must have fallen onto the live rail, but, if so, why wasn't I dead?

I was no expert (neither am I now), but I knew enough to know that the voltage needed to send power through all those miles of track ran into the hundreds, if not thousands, which should have been plenty to have fried me on contact. And yet I was still alive! But at what cost? Burns? Broken bones?

Gingerly and not daring to open my eyes, I flexed my fingers, then my arms. Finally, I tried moving my arms. So far, so good, I thought. Nothing broken and no untoward pains, other than a dull ache which seemed to run throughout my entire body. I breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously, I couldn't have been properly earthed and the contact with the rail had only been fleeting.

I opened my eyes again and looked along my body, taking in the teeshirt and the torn jeans, the dirty trainers and -

I sat up so rapidly that the backs of my eyes felt as if they had been hit with a sledgehammer and I screamed from the pain and screwed them shut again, hands pressed against my temples. It was probably half a minute, at least, before the pain subsided enough for me to risk opening my eyes again and, when I did, I just sat there in stunned silence, unable to accept what I was seeing.

Time seemed to freeze and then turn in on itself. I was dead. I was dreaming. I was mad. I was seeing things.

Things like a soiled teeshirt and torn jeans that I had last seen on Chrissie, moments after we fell from the fence. Things like hands that were tiny, hairless and slender and delicate, skinny wrists. Things like two small mounds beneath the teeshirt, that had no business being on my body. Hands shaking, I slowly raised the front of the teeshirt, rutching it up beneath my chin, revealing the incontrovertible evidence. Two puckered pink nipples, inside two darker circles of flesh, pouting from two small, but unmistakably feminine breasts. With my free hand, I fingered the right one, probing it gently. There was no doubt it was real.

I let the front of the shirt drop again, my hands flying to my mouth, stifling the scream of terror before it came. It was impossible! my brain raged. It couldn't be! No, this was some nightmare and I could will myself to wake up. Desperately, I tore open the waistband of the jeans, dragging the zip downwards and thrusting my hand inside, delving between my legs. There was nothing there, or rather, there was, but not what there should have been, for, in place of the familiar bulge of my own genitalia, all my fingers found was a small mound, a light covering of hair and a deep cleft slit between the tops of my thighs, into which one finger delved, before I withdrew it as though I had been scalded.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I refastened the jeans and staggered to my feet. I wiped them away with the back of my hand and turned blindly in a circle, toppling backwards to land on my backside on the bottom of the embankment. It was then I saw it - me - the body, lying out there between the two tracks. I knew it was me - my body - and yet it could not have been. All reason told me this was just an hallucination.

I stood up, stiffly, and tottered towards the rails, stepping over the first and then standing there, my feet suddenly frozen to the gravel between two sleepers, looking down at the grisly remains that had just recently been James Morton Kirkpatrick. One arm was a blackened, twisted mess, the shirtsleeve burned clean away. The face - my face - stared up at the night sky, mouth distorted in my final death agony, blood leaking from one eyeball. Tiny wisps of smoke still curled up from the charred soles of my Doc Martens and the smell of roasted flesh was everywhere. I turned away, staggered back to the embankment and vomited, though little apart from a bitter tasting bile came up. I toppled forward, arms over my head and simply burst into tears, the feminine sobs echoing around inside my head in a mocking cacophony.

The distant whistle of a train brought me back to what was left of my senses. I sat back, looking around me - the new me, that is - and saw the old me still where it had died. Overhead, the sky was beginning to lose its inky colour, lightening perceptibly in the van of the approaching dawn. I began to crawl up the embankment, fingers clawing at the tufts of grass and weed for purchase and eventually got to the bottom of the fence. I stood there, clinging to the rough timber for comfort and support, as the mail train thundered past only a few feet below. I had to do something, I knew. I needed time to think. I had to get away from this place - now!

Somehow, I found the strength to pull myself up onto the fence and tumble over it, landing heavily on the hardened mud surface beyond it. I scrambled to my feet again and lurched the few steps back to the pavement, looking up and down the street to make sure I wasn't being observed. Across the street, two houses already had lights burning in their windows, but outside I was still alone.

I walked blindly for some time, wrestling with the impossible, outrageous, horrendous truth. There was no way it could have happened, but there was no way I could deny that it had. I needed help, but whose? Who would believe me when I didn't - couldn't - believe myself. Somehow I found myself standing at our front door, cursing myself for not having rescued my keys from my pockets - my old self's pockets, until I remembered the broken catch on the kitchen window.

 

- 2 -

Inside the house, everything was silent, apart from the ticking of the grandmother clock in the front hallway. I looked at the time. Five fifteen. My parents would not be awake for nearly two hours yet. My father was always up first and he always took my mother a cup of tea in bed. I tiptoed up the stairs, slipped into my bedroom and closed the door, slipping home the modesty bolt behind me. I didn't want to risk putting on the lamp, but there was now sufficient light penetrating between the half drawn curtains for me to see my way around. I went across to my bed, carefully avoiding looking towards the mirror and sat down, my hands limp in my lap, my shoulders sagging.

I stayed like that for several minutes, eyes closed, tears trickling down my cheeks, trying to think what I should do, still hoping I was dreaming, yet only too aware that I was not. At last, I managed to get a grip on myself. I snatched up a tissue from my bedside table and dabbed at my eyes, sniffing and swallowing, nerving myself for the final proof.

And there, in the mirror, it was. I stood studying myself for a long time, scarcely breathing, my fingers entwining themselves in the loose strands of pale blonde hair, staring at the face of the girl I had last seen properly as she sat atop the railway fence. I had already guessed, of course, but now there was no possible room for doubt. I was dead - or, at least, my body was dead. No, James Kirkpatrick's body was dead. After all, if I was in this body, it was mine now, wasn't it? But where was Chrissie? This was Chrissie's body. Correction, this had been Chrissie's body, but where was she, her essence?

Was it in my old body, blitzed into eternity by several hundred volts, or was it out there on some cosmic ether, floating free with all the other perished souls? Did souls perish? My hand flew to my mouth as I thought of another possibility. What if she were still here, in this body, sharing it with me. I closed my eyes and tried to sense her, but there was nothing. I told myself not to be stupid, but then I had to choke back a laugh at the stupidity of that. What could be more stupid, more crazy, than what had already happened.

I had to get out, I knew. If my parents found me, Chrissie, in this house, they would call the police immediately. Given enough time, I was sure I could convince them of the truth, for there are always things between parents and children that no one else could possibly know about, but I wasn't ready for that confrontation yet.

Think calmly. Act calmly.

There was a hundred and twenty pounds in a biscuit tin in the bottom of my wardrobe and another three hundred in my building society account. I doubted I'd be able to withdraw it, not as Chrissie, anyway, but I took it, just in case a future opportunity arose. I looked down at the disgusting clothes I was wearing and opened the wardrobe again, but one look told me that I was no longer going to fit into any of my old clothes. I went to the door, drew back the bolt and opened it a few inches. All was still quiet and I tiptoed along to my sister's bedroom, locking myself inside as I had done in my own room.

My sister, Ruth, was - still is - two years younger than me and, I gave thanks for it, was staying with our two female cousins in Hereford for two weeks. I quietly began sifting through her wardrobe and the chest of drawers beneath the window, selecting a few items which I stuffed into the smaller suitcase, which she had not taken away with her. Finally, stripping out of my things - Chrissie's things - I stuffed them under the bed, behind the trunk containing Ruth's old dolls and things and began to redress myself.

The white cotton panties fit perfectly and, as I smoothed them out, I couln't help but stare at my new shape. My new body was undernourished, it was true and my breasts dropped badly, but it had not deteriorated as I had feared. given its previous history of misuse at the hands of its original owner. I decided I should wear a brassiere, even though Chrissie had evidently disdained the use of one, for the unaccustomed weight and drag on my chest was disconcerting and if I wanted to improve what I had inherited, going bra-less was not a good start.

This was not the first time I had worn women's clothing, though my previous experience had been more than two years earlier, for a "Drag" party at University. My then girlfriend had loaned me bra, pants, stockings and a rather pretty evening dress, together with clip-on earrings and very over-the-top makeup and we had hired an outrageous blonde wig from a local fancy dress shop. Fastening the bra was a struggle, which I won by reversing it, clipping it in front of me and then sliding it back around into the correct position. As I adjusted it in place, the difference was astonishing. Supported against the force of gravity, my new boobs filled the cups quite nicely and took on an altogether more attractive shape.

Ruth, it appeared, had taken all of her teeshirts with her, leaving me with a restricted choice. I picked out a plain, pale blue coloured blouse and buttoned it up, my fingers struggling to come to terms with the fact that they had to reverse roles to accommodate the "other side" buttoning of a female garment.

Now I came upon another problem. My sister possessed two pairs of jeans and a pair of casual slacks, but none of them were there. Whether she had taken them all with her, or whether one or more pairs was in the wash downstairs, I had no idea, but I had no intention of risking discovery by searching any further. I opted, instead, for a plain black skirt. It was slightly flared and finished well above the knee, but it was quite modest and still fashionable. I looked down at my legs, pale and thin in the early morning light and pulled open the drawer where I knew Ruth kept her tights.

I cursed under my breath when I realised that there weren't any there, just stockings and some pairs of socks. I stood there for some time, debating with myself and then shrugged at my reflection. What the hell, I thought and picked out a plain white suspender belt from the second drawer. I felt stupidly proud of my efforts in drawing the stockings up my legs without laddering them and clipping them onto the suspenders. I remembered Henry Ford's saying as I studied the effect, for what he had said about the colour of his Model Ts applied equally to my sister's choice in stockings. At least, I thought, as I smoothed the skirt down once more, they go with the black skirt.

Shoes were going to present a problem Not the size, for Chrissie had taken a size five, the same as Ruth, but my sister had taken not only her trainers, but the only other pair of flat heels that she possessed, leaving behind a pair of black stilettos, then just coming back into fashion (again!) a pair of wedge heeled clogs and another black pair with chunkier heels than the first pair, which were, nevertheless, a good three inches high. I slipped my feet into them, buckled the ankle straps and stood up. The new distribution of weight and balance was almost alarming at first, but, after a few minutes, I was able to walk surprisingly well and I crossed to the wardrobe and took out Ruth's old leather jacket, the one she had bought from a car boot sale before I had bought her a new one for her eighteenth birthday. I slipped it on, picked up the suitcase and turned around for one last look at myself.

That was much better, I decided. I still looked an unhealthy shade of off white, but at least I no longer looked like a tramp. Except -

I put the case down again and picked up the hairbrush. It had seen better days and Ruth had taken her best set with her, naturally, but it was good enough and very soon, the girl who looked into the mirror could do so with more pride in her new appearance than she could have done not an hour before.

I paused again in my own room, long enough to scoop up my best watch and the two pairs of gold cufflinks, which had been eighteenth birthday presents from distant aunts. They were not worth big money, but I reckoned I should be able to get twenty pounds for the pair and I was going to need every penny I could lay my hands on. I scooped up the handful of small change, which I always kept by my bedside, added my travelling alarm clock to my horde and checked the time again. Half past six. I would have to hurry.

Negotiating the stairs in my new heels was a harrowing experience, for I could not afford to make any noise. My father would already be stirring by now and, although he would probably put any extraneous sounds down to my being up before him - I had spent many nights lately walking around the house with my pain - there is something undeniably different about the sound of a woman walking in high heels.

I slipped out of the back door and down the alleyway that separated our house from the Fullers next door. It led directly to a deserted lane at the back of our street, which, in turn, came out in the small arcade of shops which served our estate. I was just in time to hail the early bus into town.

There was a tremor in my voice as I asked for my ticket, but if the driver noticed, he said nothing and did nothing to suggest it. When I spoke, I sounded undeniably feminine, though the voice inside my head sounded completely different to the way I remembered hearing Chrissie. I sat at the back, my case alongside of me and watched the familiar streets glide by the window, knowing that I should not be seeing them again for some time. If I was going to have to spend the foreseeable future - indeed, probably the unforeseeable future - in Chrissie's body, I wanted to take it as far away from whatever background and influences had reduced her to attempting suicide as possible.

At the station, I bought a one way ticket to Waterloo and staggered onto the platform just in time to board the next train. It was still early, even for commuters and, in any case, it was a Saturday and the buffet car was empty. I deposited my case on a seat, reached in my pocket for some coins and ordered a very large brandy and ginger.

 

- 3 -

 

It seems strange now, but it was not until I got off the train at Waterloo Station that I began to notice just how different it was to experience walking in a skirt. I suppose, because of the way events had unfolded - fallen apart would be a more appropriate description - I was operating in some sort of auto-trance mode. Certainly, I had felt very calm about leaving our house dressed as a girl and, once I realised that my voice was not going to give me away, I had passed the rest of my journey in a sort of mind fog.

As I walked down the platform, however, the feel of my skirt swaying against the tops of my thighs and the cool touch of the morning air around the bare tops of my legs sent a little chill of excitement running up and down my spine. A West Indian porter stopped and turned as I passed him and I had to suppress the urge to laugh out loud. I wondered how he would feel if he knew the truth about me, but then I also rationalised that, as far as he was concerned, I was a girl in a short skirt and, though the legs I'd inherited were as scrawny as the rest of the body, they were definitely female legs.

Damn it, I was a female, in all but thought and, if I needed any further proof, it came in the subterranean ladies loo, which was my first - and very urgent - port of call. I remember standing there in front of that porcelain basin, staring down at the little oval of water, hesitating for several seconds, despite the warning signals my bladder was transmitting to my brain. Eventually, feeling very awkward, I turned around, pulled my panties halfway down my thighs, hiked up my skirt and squatted on the cold seat. I wondered how I was supposed to operate the plumbing side of things, but nature, aided by the build up of pressure, took care of things for me. As I sat there, listening to the cascade of liquid tinkling into the loo, I ran the gamut of emotions in a matter of seconds.

First, I started to cry again, snatching up a piece of unsympathetic toilet tissue to dab away the tears and then, as the torrent of urine slowed to a dribble, I was struck by a sudden revelation. My headache was gone! It had to be several hours since my top-up shot at the hospital and, in any case, that morphine dose had been given to a different body to the one I now inhabited. True, Chrissie had been on methodone, but her last fix would have been well before mine and I knew, from experience and from the doctors' experimentations, that morphine was the only real defence against those splitting headaches.

I sat there for several minutes, considering the implications of what had happened for the first time. How it had happened was not important now and I could try to figure that out later, but, whatever else was wrong with this body, it didn't have a cancer, or at least, not of the brain. I cried again, but this time through a mixture of joy and relief. Okay, I was a boy in a girl's body, but it wasn't a body with only weeks left to live. I was not going to die!

I choked back a whoop of triumph, stood up and immediately regretted it, as the warm trickle began to run down my inner thighs. I sat down again immediately, grinning stupidly to myself and reached for some more tissue. I had a lot to learn.

In one of the coffee shops up on the main concourse, I ordered coffee and a cheeseburger, deciding that I needed a time out to consider my next move. I needed a place to stay, that much was certain and I probably needed that place, or at least a temporary refuge, quite soon. I hadn't slept in more than twenty four hours and I doubted whether this body had fared much better. For the moment, I was existing on a mixture of adrenalin, brandy and now caffeine, but I would not be able to keep that up for long.

And there was another potential problem. Chrissie's habit. It would be my habit now, though surely, I thought, I should be feeling the first symptoms of withdrawal by now. I ordered another coffee and just sat there, looking out at the growing throng of passengers and staff as they meandered about that vast, glass-roofed space. I ordered a third cup. I was in no hurry after all. I had no definite plans, no real destination. Any place I chose, any time I chose, that would be the start. For the moment, I felt happier and more relaxed than I had in years. I was free - free from pain, free from fear, free from the shadow of death's grim scythe. I was free to start my life over again. Okay, I told myself, so this time, barring some scientific miracle, you'll be doing it as a girl, but anything has to be an improvement from what you were looking at a few hours ago.

I finished my coffee, picked up my case and went downstairs to the ladies again. This time I remembered the tissue before I stood up!

The room wasn't much, but then neither was the rent, not compared to normal London prices. There was a bathroom along the landing, shared with the other five rooms on this floor and breakfast was served, the landlady told me, in the downstairs "parlour" between seven and eight each morning. Evening meals were extra and had to be ordered in the morning. I thanked her, locked the door behind her, took off my jacket and shoes and threw myself onto the bed.

As yet, however, sleep eluded me and I simply lay there, eyes closed, taking stock of my new situation and trying to find an explanation for the inexplicable. I was - still am - pretty well educated, as well as being basically very bright, so I soon managed to put together some sort of concept as to what might have happened.

The brain is made up of billions of cells, each one a source of electrical energy. For people who believe in God, the brain, or its soul, never dies and any scientist will tell you that you cannot create or destroy energy. You can release energy from matter by burning it, as with coal or petrol, or even explosives, but that energy has to be there in the first place, as latent energy. So, assuming you cannot destroy energy, what happens to the brain's electrical impulses when you die? Do they just sail away into the clouds and join up with all the other homeless brain impulses? Or do they assume some other form, something which might account for tales of ghosts and hauntings?

I didn't know the answer then, nor do I now, but I had a very good idea what had happened to mine. Due in some way to the massive burst of current when I - the original me - came into contact with the live line, they had somehow transmitted themselves into the nearest refuge and, in the process, presumably, they had usurped this brain's original occupants, effectively killing off the old Chrissie. What was left was me, the new Chrissie, about whom I knew very little, though I reasoned that that was not important. I knew everything there was to know about myself, I just had to adapt that to its new external appearance and accept the fact that James Morton Kirkpatrick was no more, otherwise my so far calm acceptance of what had happened would soon deteriorate into something bordering on insanity.

I slept until mid afternoon and, for the first few seconds after awakening, I was totally disoriented. I had grown so accustomed to the lancing pains in my head that it was a while before I remembered where I was and what I now was. I opened my eyes and sat up, slowly, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. I had been right. I had been sure I was in the first instance, but it was a relief to have that assurance backed up by the physical proof.

I swung my stockinged legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching and yawning. My skirt was crumpled from where I had slept in it and the blue blouse was likewise creased, but I had liberated another skirt, a grey one and two further blouses from my sister's bedroom. I was sure she would understand - well, once she had come to terms with the fact that her big brother had suddenly been transformed into a girl whose clothes were a bundle of rags and happened to be the same size as her!

I took stock of my situation. Including the things I had on, I had two pairs of panties, one brassiere, one suspender belt, one pair of stockings - damn, one of them had a ladder at the heel! -two skirts, three blouses, one jacket and a pair of shoes. I had about eighty pounds left, plus a few trinkets that might fetch about twenty pounds more. I also had one not very large suitcase and a stomach that was rumbling ominously.

The landlady showed no reaction when I told her I was going out for a few hours, simply passing me a latchkey and warning against "having people back after nine thirty". I pocketed the key and walked out into the brilliant sunshine, my jacket over my shoulder. I found a little jeweller pawnbroker and emerged twenty six pounds better off, moved on to a greasy spoon cafe, where I demolished a healthy portion of bacon, eggs, beans and tomatoes, washed down with a huge mug of tea, ignored the looks from the handful of men who were clustered around the other tables and went back outside to do some serious shopping.

The discount store was just the thing and the lady assistant I approached was very motherly and helpful. I had a problem when it came to ordering my new underwear, not having a clue what bra size I was. I mummbled something about having lost a lot of weight due to illness. One look at my sunken cheeks and hollow eyes was enough to convince her of that and she quickly measured me.

`Thirty four B,' she suggested. I bought two, one in black, one in white, plus panties and suspender belts to match each. They sold stockings in packets of three pairs and again I bought black, tan and dark tan. Two cheap blouses and another black skirt, this one a bit longer than the one I was wearing, completed my purchases there and I moved on to a shoeshop a few doors further along.

To my delight, they were having a half price sale and all their lines were cheap to begin with. I bought another pair of black shoes with heels the same height as those I was already wearing, though much thinner, a pair of strappy sandals with a two inch heel and then picked up a pair of flat court shoes. However, as I did so, I caught sight of a pair of really tarty stilettos, the heels of which had to be at least five inches high. They were black patent, with double ankle straps and open toes.

`And why bloody not?' I said, under my breath. `If Ruth can walk in 'em, so can you.' I dropped the flatties and bought the high heels. The three pairs of shoes knocked a large hole in my extra twenty six pounds, or would have done, if I hadn't already knocked a hole in it with my other purchases, so I was well into my original eighty pounds and I hadn't finished yet.

At a small beauty salon, I had my ears pierced and tiny gold studs put in them. The lady showed me how to rotate them and advised me to wait three weeks before changing them for rings. I also bought a little makeup kit and a small bottle of shampoo and conditioner and then, just as I was about to turn back to the guest house, I spotted a secondhand bookshop. After ten minutes browsing through the dimly lit shelves, I found what I was looking for, a hardback book on makeup and beauty tips. As I handed over the fifty pence, I looked down at my fingernails, noticing, for the first time, how chipped and bitten they looked. I made straight back to the beauty salon, catching them just before they were due to close and bought a packet of false nails, some glue and a small bottle of bright red nail polish. I had begun to formulate a plan and grotty fingernails had no part in it!

I made two final purchases on my way back, spending three pounds in a secondhand junk shop that was open surprisingly late, on a small transistor radio and another pound on batteries for it at a corner convenience store. Back in my room, I fitted the batteries and turned on, tuning in to Radio Four for the news. I was not completely astonished to hear my own name, the sombre newsreader announcing that police had identified the body of a young male found alongside the railway lines early that morning, etcetera, etcetera. For the first time, I thought about my parents and what they must be going through. By now, they would have contacted Ruth and she would be on her way back south, but there was little I could do about it. What she, or the police, would make of her missing clothes, I neither knew nor cared. It was better, at least for now, that they all believed I was dead. I wondered if Chrissie had had anybody close to her, but somehow I doubted it. Even if she did, it wouldn't make her any less dead and I resolved that whatever new name I decided to call myself, it wouldn't be hers.

I bathed and washed my hair - did I tell you it was just about shoulder length? - and was amazed at how dirty it had been. Back in my room, having made the dash back along the passageway wrapped in the larger of the two towels with which I had been provided, I towelled it damp dry and brushed it out with the old brush I had brought from Ruth's room, making a mental note to buy a new one in the morning. Whilst my hair dried, I took out the makeup kit and the book and settled myself in front of the dressing table mirror.

 

- 4 -

For a first attempt, it wasn't bad. If I say so myself, I've always been good with my hands and, following the book's advice to err on the side of caution, I applied a sparing layer of blue eyeshadow and darkened my lashes with black mascara. However, the lipstick I chose was bright red, to match the nail varnish I was going to use and it took three attempts before I got it right.

The false nails took ages, but I stuck at it, retuning my little radio to Radio One, though keeping the volume respectably low. Eventually, I sat back, spreading my fingers and admiring my gleaming new nails with no little amount of self satisfaction. My gaze travelled downward to my feet and toes and I reached for the little red bottle again.

By the time I stepped out into the evening air, I had decided upon my new name. I opted for Jennifer, because that was the name of my girlfriend from student times, with whom I had gone to the drag party. She had been bubbly and full of fun and daring and I didn't think she would mind if I adopted her name. To be honest, she would probably have been very proud that I had chosen to call myself after her and, if she had been there with me now, she would have treated the whole thing as one huge, exciting adventure.

Which it was, I supposed. I walked to the corner of the street, my heels clacking on the pavement. I had opted for the new black pair with the three inch heels, having tried on the higher ones in my room and deciding they would require quite a bit of practise to master. They did wonders for the shape of even my skinny legs, but I didn't want to risk a broken ankle on my first evening. Beneath the new black skirt, which was tight fitting and reached just above the knees, I wore my new black suspender belt and panties and one of the new pairs of black stockings. I decided I would have to find a slip or petticoat next morning, but the lack of one was not crucial.

Above the waist, I wore one of the new blouses, a pale cream thing with quite a low neckline. Through the thin fabric, the outline of my black brassiere was quite visible, but that was a deliberate ploy. Ruth's leather jacket completed the ensemble, my lipstick, eyeshadow and mascara zipped safely in one of its side pockets. I would also need a handbag, I decided, but all-in-all, I had not done too badly. Most girls get years to learn about all the little things like handbags, makeup, shoes and fashions and so on, plus they have mothers and big sisters and cousins to fall back on for advice. Jennifer would have to learn all on her own and a damned sight faster.

I wandered past several pubs until I found what I was looking for. I took a deep breath and went in. The place was crowded, with a jukebox pounding out Tina Turner's "What's Love Got To Do With It?" somewhere in one of the smoky corners away to the right. There was a crowd clustered around a pool table and two girls playing the fruit machine near the ladies toilet, but, apart from a couple of pairs of male eyes that turned to follow my progress to the bar, no one took any notice of me.

`The sign in the window says "Help Wanted",' I said to the barman, when he finally got around to me. He was a youngish fellow, perhaps twenty eight or nine, with short, dark hair, dark eyes and a friendly, if harrassed looking face. He looked me up and down, or at least, that part of me that was visible above the bar.

`Have you had any experience?' he asked. I only just stopped myself from giggling. If only he'd known what sort of experience I'd had, he'd have run a mile! Actually, I had served behind the bar in the Students Union, as a way of supplementing my grant, so I knew my way around the pumps and optics, even if I was a bit out of practise. I told him I'd worked in a couple of pubs down south and gave him the names of two places near where I lived - correction, had lived. I hoped he wouldn't take up references.

`When can you start?' he asked. I shrugged.

`You look as though you could do with some help right now,' I said. He nodded, grimly.

`Yeah, it's my dad's pub actually, but he's had to go into hospital for his gallstones and one of the regular barmaids has pissed off on holiday, so there's only me and Anne there to cope with this lot.' He jerked his thumb to indicate the middle aged woman serving at the far end of the bar. `Come on round and see how you get on,' he said. `The prices are marked on everything and there's price lists behind the tills. Name's Doug, by the way.'

`Jennifer,' I said, taking the proffered hand.

`Welcome aboard, Jenny,' he grinned and so I started my first shift as a barmaid, at the Admiral Nelson public house, Canal Walk, Southwark, South London.

By the time I finished that night, at some time just after midnight, I had acquired three things, apart from a nice crisp ten pound note that Doug Baines gave me out of the till when he had finished cashing up. The other barmaid, Annie, was slightly deaf and, after Doug had introduced me, persisted in calling me Janie. And, when Doug asked me for my surname, I had to think of something quickly. My parents were sort of Catholic and I had always hated the way, as kids, we were dragged along to just enough services to keep Father O'Flynn from banging on the door, so I thought it would be a nice irony to call myself Pope. So, James Morton Kirkpatrick, who had briefly become Chrissie god-knows-who, became Jennifer Jane Pope and arranged to move in to the spare attic room above the living accommodation above the pub itself.

I bought twenty cigarettes and a box of matches from behind the bar and coughed over my first ever cigarette all the way back to the guesthouse, but I had never felt so elated in all my life!

The only slight cloud on my new horizon was Doug himself. No, not in any nasty way, but, when Celia, the barmaid who had been away, returned from her impromptu holiday, he asked me out for a drink on what he decided was to be our joint night off. I agreed and we went to a wine bar, somewhere in Chelsea. I had been shopping again several times since my first expedition and I had a very nice cocktail dress, which I had bouth for three pounds at the Oxfam shop. It was black - I like black - with a diagonal white slash running from right shoulder to left hip and had a flared, lace trimmed skirt, which swished delightfully when I walked on my five inch heels, in which I had been practising in the secrecy of my lofty room.

I had also purchased a smart black jacket, also from Oxfam and I knew I looked very smart as we walked out to the taxi. Doug thought so too, I could tell, for he hardly took his eyes off me all evening, though he was the perfect gentleman throughout. We talked and he told me that he had spent nine years in the army, invalided out with a bad back only a few months earlier. He wanted to set up in his own business, specialising in electronics, but for the moment his plans were on hold, until such time as his dad made a full recovery. His mum, I learned, was living with another man in Clapham.

When it came to my turn, I made up a story about having studied journalism at college and wanting to be a reporter, or a columnist.

`Friend of mine works on the Evening Standard,' he said. `Maybe I could get him to put in a word for you?' I thanked him, genuinely grateful and we moved on to a little nightclub only a few minutes walk from the bar. Everything went fine, until the disc jockey started playing a selection of slow numbers. George Michael's "Careless Whisper" was one. I can recall every detail even now.

Doug drew me close to him and we sort of ambled about the tiny dancefloor, trying hard not to bump into too many other couples. It felt strange, being led, rather than leading, but was more disconcerting was the gentle pressure of his right hand at the top of my buttocks. Even worse, as my breasts brushed against his shirtfront, I could feel my nipples growing hard and something was happening deep inside the pit of my stomach!

I didn't - couldn't - fancy him, nice bloke as he was. After all, I had been brought up as a male and it didn't matter that I now had a female body, it would have been a homosexual relationship in all bar the actual physical side. The trouble was, there are certain parts of the body that react automatically to certain stimuli, as when your leg jerks when the doctor taps your knee to test your reflexes, or when you start to get an erection at the sight of a pretty girl, or a pornographic movie and this traitorous body of mine was reacting now in the only way it knew how to!

Making an excuse, I took myself off to the ladies toilet and locked myself in a cubicle for five minutes, trying to calm my nerves and gather my senses together. I had a problem, I could see. Doug fancied me and my body was obviously not averse to his proximity. The trouble was, my brain wasn't on the same wavelength. I solved the problem with the time honoured female excuse of a headache, but, as the taxi rumbled back through the still crowded streets of South London, I knew it was only a temporary reprieve.

Doug's father, Douglas Senior, came home from the hospital the following afternoon. Like father, like son and vice versa, he was a lovely man, balding and slightly chubby and with a voice and a laugh that could peel wallpaper at fifty yards. He gave me the once over, grinned and shook my hand, heartily.

`You could do with a bit of fattening up, my lovely,' he boomed, `but apart from that, you'll do. Come through to the bar and have a drink. You don't know how glad I am to get out of that hospital. It's full of bloody sick people and I can't stand sick people.' His laughter rattled the optics as I followed him through.

As I sat in my room late that night, removing my makeup (yes, I was a fast learner and only on nights when I was totally exhausted would I sleep with it still on) I already knew that I would have to leave this place before too much longer. Douglas Senior had quickly noticed the way his son was looking at me and was already making little suggestions, aimed at giving me a nudge in the right direction. It was a shame, I thought, for they were genuinely nice people and the customers were an easy going lot, too. I looked around my little eyrie and at the dresses and blouses hanging from the rail in the alcove and then turned back to study my reflection again.

It was incredible what a return to a decent diet and exercise walking in the fresh air could achieve. The hollow cheeks were filling out nicely and already my eyes had lost the worst of their sunken, haunted look. Chrissie had once been a more than average attractive girl. Jennifer Jane was going to be quite beautiful. Which was likely to prove her undoing, I knew.

 

- 5 -

I had been a female for a little less than three weeks now, yet I had assimilated quite a lot of knowledge and affected some decidedly feminine mannerisms, even in that short time. I could walk on my highest heels quite confidently, though those shoes were real killers to wear for long periods. I was even considering looking for an even higher pair, spurred on by the punky looking girl who used the bar with her boyfriend most nights. Her heels, she assured me, were seven inches high and I could easily believe it, for little more than her toes touched the ground apart from them!

I looked down at my own feet, still with their bright red toenails, which I was carefully manicuring every afternoon between my shifts. I couldn't quite imagine them in seven inch heels, but I was prepared to try for sixes. I was, I realised, becoming obsessed over my appearance, worse than any girl I had ever known and I was developing an almost fetishistic love of really sexy clothing. My bust had filled out somewhat since I had first seen it, once again a result of healthier eating and some improving exercises I had seen on one of the daytime television shows. I resolved to by myself a sexy basque, similar to ones I had seen on page three of The Sun, but with all the other calls on my wages, as I sought to build up the necessities for my new lifestyle, I had not yet been able to afford it. Instead, I had taken to putting one pound fifty a night, plus any tips I was given, in the bottom of my lingerie drawer and currently my basque fund stood at some seven pounds eighty.

That lingerie drawer was already growing quite crowded, for I had augmented my initial purchases and the items I had "borrowed" from Ruth with several bargains from the local open air street market. I had a dozen pairs of panties, mostly plain cotton, but in a variety of colours, about a dozen pairs of stockings in all, three pairs of black tights and a couple of new bras from the discount shop where I had bought the others. I also had a full length petticoat in black and a pair of half slips, one black, one white, from the Oxfam shop. The latter establishment had also yielded up a fake fur jacket (black, of course) which was mine for only two pounds fifty and a couple of hours with a needle and cotton, repairing a split seam under the arm. I had never sewn before, but a quick trip to the library and half an hour spent over the requisite book and I did a passable job. The jacket was a bit warm for the time of year, but it would be autumn soon enough.

It was strange, I thought, how I had taken to wearing women's clothing so easily and yet I found no attraction in the now opposite sex, men. I could strut about the pub in my five inch stilettos, my skirt barely covering my stocking tops and feel very sexy and very turned on, especially when I saw male eyes following my steadily fattening legs in their black, shimmering nylon sheaths. However, the thought of ever doing anything with these men - even Doug, who was such a great lad - left me cold and feeling almost sick. Perhaps, I thought, I should get professional help, maybe even hypnosis, but the thought of having one of those ... things ... pushing up inside me was enough to nip that idea in the bud.

The problem was, I fancied girls, even though I now was one myself. I looked through a couple of magazines in the local newsagents and saw a couple of adverts for Gay Advice lines. I bought one and took it back with me, but as yet I could not bring myself to ring any of the numbers. Strictly speaking, I was not gay and yet, strictly speaking, I was. My head was in a terrible turmoil and things nearly got out of hand when I went through to use the ladies loo in the main bar.

Suzi, the punky girl with the impossible shoes, was already in there, fiddling about with her makeup. She was wearing, though only just, a dress made from shiny black PVC material, which left most of her extremely long legs on show. She turned, as she saw me in the mirror and smiled, her deep violet lips curving back to reveal her excellent teeth. When I had first encountered her, I had been astounded at the cultured way in which she spoke, for her outward appearance disguised the fact that she was extremely well educated and came from a pretty well off family. The black, spiky hair, the nose ring and the leg revealing skirts were just her own particular ways of thumbing her nose at the conventional world in which she had been brought up, I supposed.

`Nice skirt,' she said, nodding at me. I had bought it that afternoon, in the market and it was the shortest I had ventured to wear to date, though, by comparison with Suzi's, it was positively Victorian in its modesty.

`Thanks,' I said. `Love your dress, too. Is it new?'

`Yes, I got it today, up west. Costs an absolute fortune, but it's totally worth it. Would you like to borrow it sometime?'

`I wouldn't dare,' I breathed, my heart starting to beat faster at the thought of wearing that daring creation.

`Why not?' she challenged me. `You've got fairly decent legs.'

`It's not so much that,' I said, `but if anything happened to it, I wouldn't be able to afford to replace it.' Suzi waved her hand, airily.

`Oh, who gives a toss?' she said, nonchalantly. `I'll just screw daddy for a few bob extra. No, you wear it, if you like. Here, I'll scribble down my address and you can come round and have a decent trawl through my wardrobe.' She tore a page from the little notebook which she took from her bag and scrawled on it with an eyebrow pencil. `It's only a couple of streets away,' she said, pressing it into my hand and herself a shade too close to me. `Gavin is away tomorrow, until the weekend and I know it's your day off, because I asked Dougie.'

Her eyes were deep green and I could see two little reflections of my own face as she stared unblinkingly at me. There was no mistaking what she was offering and no mistaking how I was reacting to it. If I had still been a man, my cock would have been bursting my fly zipper. As it was, I could feel myself growing hot and damp between the tops of my legs. Suzi, who was perhaps an inch taller than me anyway and a total of three inches taller in those shoes, leaned slightly forward, her lips slightly parted and I think she would have kissed me there and then, had not the door opened and two middle aged women come blundering in. They eyed Suzi with evident distaste, but she simply grinned, stepping back and turning to the mirror again.

`Tomorrow morning, then?' she said. I nodded.

`Yeah, tomorrow,' I said and almost fell into the one remaining vacant cubicle. When I emerged again, Suzi was gone, but she was till in the bar with Gavin and she gave me a sly wink when he turned away to say something to one of his friends sitting at the table behind him. I smiled back, feeling myself blushing and realised that there was a way I could sort out the Doug problem, maybe without leaving after all, unless he threw me out when I told him.

 

- 6 -

`No, I wouldn't dream of asking you to leave,' Doug said. `You've fitted in right well here and the punters like you.' His eyes betrayed his disappointment at my revelation, but to his credit, he handled it better than most men would do, on learning that the girl they fancy is a lesbian. `Seems a dreadful waste, though,' he said, forcing himself to smile. I took his hand between mine and squeezed it, gently.

`I'm truly sorry, Doug,' I whispered. `You're a smashing fella and I'd like for us to stay friends. You've treated me well these past two weeks.' He reached out and planted a kiss in the middle of my forehead.

`Yeah, we're friends, Jenny Jane. You can always rely on me.' I couldn't resist the urge to peck him on the lips.

`I know that,' I said and hugged him fiercely. `And thanks - again.'

Suzi's flat was in the basement of a huge Victorian terraced house and had its own front door, reached by a flight of seven stone steps. She answered the door at my first knock and I gasped when I saw what she was wearing. Hot pants, as such, had dropped out of fashion a few years ago, but the leather pair she was wearing were not intended as a fashion statement. With their heavily studded belt and with the fishnet tights under them, they screamed an entirely different message. The halter neck leather bra merely added the exclamation mark at the end and the ankle length boots, with heels easily as long and as thin as the shoes she had worn in the pub the night before, were a very emphatic postscript!

She led the way through the lounge and into one of the largest bedrooms I had ever seen and there, in the middle of a bed large enough to land Harrier jump jets on, lay the dress she had promised me. What I hadn't been expecting were the boots that lay alongside them, for, made from the same shiny black PVC, they were long enough to run almost up to my crotch. There was also a pair of fishnet tights in an unopened packet and a pair of long, PVC gloves. I picked up the packet and turned it over in my hands. The word "crotchless" sprung from the label, hitting me straight between the eyes. Slowly, I turned to Suzi, who had picked up what looked like a studded dog collar and was busily buckling it about her slender throat.

`Just another of my little fetishes,' she said, grinning widely. I smiled back, but my stomach was turning cartwheels. `I'll go fix us a couple of drinks, whilst you get changed,' she offered. `The boots lace up those open ended hook things. Give me a shout if you need any help, otherwise, I'll see you in the lounge.' I continued to stare at the booty on the bed, as the bedroom door clicked shut behind me. Gingerly, I reached out with my empty hand and touched the boots. The PVC was smooth and cool to the touch and I shuddered, ecstatically, at the contact. I dropped the packet with the tights back onto the bed and began fumbling with the buttons at the back of my skirt.

To anyone who has never worn PVC before, I ought to explain that, from my point of view at least, there is something quite unique about it. It has an aura of danger and excitement about it, it clings, not unlike rubber, it controls, not unlike leather and it squeaks in its own peculiar way when you move in it. And it falls into its very own category. Leather usually suggests dominance and aggression, rubber is submissive and silks, satins and lace are feminine and flippant, sultry and sexy, depending upon the situation, the design and the temperament of the wearer.

PVC, whether black or red - I personally hate white and blue, the other popular colours in the nineties - has its peculiar aura of slutty elegance. Any woman who dons a PVC outfit, no matter how modest the cut, will know what I mean. It is very hard to put into words, but you can be sure that, if you walk into a room wearing a PVC skirt, or PVC jeans, heads will turn. My head was close to turning upside down, as I sat on the edge of the bed and began drawing the crotchless tights up my legs.

When I finally succeeded in pulling the waistband over my hips, I turned to the mirror to study the effect and nearly came on the spot, although I was yet to learn the exact mechanics of the female orgasm. The cutaway framed my pale pubic hair perfectly, the diamond pattern of the net making my legs look fuller and stronger and definitely sexier. Beneath my little triangle, the lips of my new female sex pouted invitingly, a tiny pink slit visible between them. I turned away and picked up the dress.

There were laces up the back, which had been slackened off to allow for easier access, but I was still forced to wriggle and tug my way into it. Luckily, the laces worked from the middle and I was just able to reach them and begin pulling them in, fumbling the loose loops into a bow at the third attempt. The dress felt as if it had been sprayed onto me and the built in cups supported and shaped my boobs as firmly as any brassiere. I resisted the urge to return to the mirror and, instead, picked up the first boot. It was absolutely electric, feeling my foot and leg slide into it and then, as I began the ritual of lacing it closed, I thrilled to its firm embrace.

It took me three or four minutes for each boot - I've grown quicker with the practice of years - and then I picked up the first glove and began easing it up my arm. It was surprisingly warm, inside that shiny cocoon, and there were beads of perspiration on my forehead by the time I finally stood up and approached the mirror again, the sensation of walking in those boots for the first time quite indescribable to anyone who has never worn such footwear themselves. I could hardly believe what I saw, for the transformation those few garments had wrought was truly astounding. And I was still standing there, staring open mouthed, when the bedroom door reopened and Suzy swayed in.

`You managed okay then?' she said, placing a full glass into my unresisting hand. I stared down at it. `Bacardi and lemonade,' she said, `with a dash of something special that I picked up in the West Indies last winter. She stood alongside me, studying our two reflections. `You could do with different make up and a decent pair of earrings.' I turned to look at her ears, which she had adorned now with a pair of heavy gold pendants.

`I don't think I should,' I said. `Not yet, anyway. I only had mine pierced about a fortnight ago and the lady reckoned I should wait three weeks.' Suzi reached up and took my right earlobe gently between finger and thumb, folding it forward.

`Do they hurt at all?' she asked. I shook my head without thinking, jerking my ear from her grasp. `Well, they look to have healed up okay,' she went on. `Would you like me to try for you. It's easier than doing it in the mirror, especially the first time.' I agreed, quite eagerly, for I had been wondering what it would feel like to have proper earrings in. During my sorties to the shops and whilst I was working behind the bar, I had studied the various girls with pierced ears. Their selection of ornamentation varied from petite little studs or floral mounts, through conservative gold rings, up to huge creoles and pendants, though I had yet to see a pair as extravagant as those which swung from my new friend's ears. I was about to, however, for Suzi, having gently removed my first stud, took up a pendant that was easily as large as her own, though slightly different in shape. She eased the wire through my piercing and released her grip. Immediately, I felt the stern pull on the lobe, exaggerated when I turned my head and started the thing swinging.

`Okay?' Suzi asked. I nodded and she turned her attention to the other ear. The overall effect was simply magical. My small features looked dwarfed by the giant golden pendulums and yet they also seemed to be emphasised by their presence. From the top drawer, Suzi took out a black tin, folding back the lid to reveal an assortment of lipsticks, eyeliners and eyeshadows, complete with brushes, pencils and just about everything else a girl could want for the act of making up her face.

Suzi's own makeup had always intrigued me. Lavish would be one way of describing it, or you could try extravagant, outlandish, or even plain freaky. Her eyelashes were always thick and black, black drawn in lines replacing the eyebrows she had either shaved off or plucked out of existence and her eyeshadows were always bold and strident. Her lipsticks ranged from deep plum, through dark purple, to black and yet, strangely, this overtly theatrical approach to her face had a way of making it even more attractive. Only a few years before, during my early teens, the glam-rockers, male and female, had striven for a unisexual peacock style of flamboyancy which the punk rockers, though usually only the females, had taken several steps further, adding gothic sinisterism and a hard, in-your-face brashness that some people found awful, but which others - and I count myself among their number - found quite mesmeric.

And now, today, Suzi was determined to complete my transformation from simple blonde barmaid into a raunchy bitch. She started with my hair, backcombing and spraying it until it stood up like a pale, frizzy halo, complete with little flakes of glitter that she blew in for good measure. She made me turn away from the mirror whilst she worked, promising me the effect would be better if I didn't see it until she was finished. Nervously I sat there, gloved hands resting on booted knees, as she took up what at first looked like a black caterpillar and began smearing adhesive on it from a tiny tube.

`Close your eyes,' she instructed and my first false eyelash was pressed gently into place. The second one followed a few seconds later and I opened my eyes again, trying not to blink to vigorously for fear of disturbing either of them. My eyelids felt strangely heavy at first and it was quite strange actually being able to see the tips of the lashes on the upper periphery of my vision. `They dry almost immediately,' Suzi assured me and was soon laying on thick mascara.

`Do you have to go through this rigmarole every time you go out?' I asked, trying to start up some sort of normal conversation.

`Yes, near enough,' she replied. `Luckily, I can do a lot of my work from home, but when I'm out, I have to remember my image.'

`What exactly do you do?' I prompted. Suzi laughed.

`As little as possible,' she said. `Actually, I'm a fashion critic, but not all that catwalk nonsense. I write for a teen magazine called Ouch!' I had seen copies of that magazine in newsagents, but I had never read one. The covers usually depicted some young female with hair that would have made Suzi's look almost normal, often with safety pins through their ears, their noses, or even worse. Most people, seeing one of these covers, would have agreed that the magazine was aptly titled.

`All I really do is write poisonous prose slagging off this star and that famous face,' she went on. `Our readers are a bitchy lot, really. I think it's all a load of rubbish, but it pays well and the hours are pretty flexible.' She had moved on to the eyeshadow now, brushing on alternate blue and silver, working with all the painstaking concentration of a true artist. Somewhere during the proceedings, we both finished our drinks and Suzi stopped for a few minutes to get us refills. The alcohol was already beginning to go to my head and I started to relax.

`You'll love this new lipstick,' she said, holding it up for me to see. It was a very bluish purple and looked very much stickier than my own red one. `It dries out on contact with the skin,' Suzi explained, `and it's very shiny. It's also absolutely waterproof and doesn't come off too easily.'

`It does come off though, doesn't it?' I asked, alarmed. The prospect of going back to the pub with my lips that colour was not one I relished. Suzi patted me on the shoulder.

`Trust me,' she said. `I use a special cream. It takes a few minutes, but it gets it all off in the end.' Thus mollified, I fell silent and pulled shapes with my mouth, per Suzi's instructions, as she applied my finishing touch.

`Don't look at the dressing table mirror,' she said, walking across to the wardrobe door. `The effect is much better if you see it all at once.' She swung the door open, revealing a full length mirror on its inside, but carefully keeping it at an angle where I still could not see myself. With one finger crooked, she beckoned me over. Fingers trembling, I rose unsteadily to my feet and took three paces towards her. With a flourish, she swung the door further and there, in front of me, was the second new me I had confronted in two weeks!

 

- 7 -

I gasped out loud, my hands going to my mouth, for I could not believe what I was seeing. I was completely unrecognisable as the somewhat demure blonde who had knocked the door not an hour since. The hair and the makeup made me look like a different person altogether and, combined with my raunchy attire, it would have given instant orgasms to ninety percent of red blooded males!

`Wow!' I said, lowering my hands again and moving another step closer. `Is that really me?' Suzi, smiling, nodded.

`It sure is,' she said, in an affected Texan drawl. `Take a good look at the bitch in black.'

I was turning myself on, just looking at my reflection, so it was hardly any surprise when Suzi made her move. She stood behind me and fitted one final item to my kinky ensemble, a choker made from several lengths of fine linked, chrome plated chain, stitched to a thin leather backing strap to hold its shape. It completed my image perfectly.

I felt her hand on my hip and, in the mirror, I saw it move around and press into my stomach, drawing me back against her, the firmness of her leather cupped breasts pressing between my shoulder blades. Her breath was warm on the back of my neck and I felt her lips brushing the flesh there as she nuzzled against me.

`Oh, dear sweet Jenny Jane,' she crooned. `How I want you.' Her hands were cupping my breasts now, kneading them gently through their PVC skin and I felt my nipples growing bigger and harder. Between my thighs, I was sticky and hot and suddenly, without even thinking about it, I turned, through my arms around her and raised my face to hers. Her lips descended on mine instantly, her tongue thrusting between my teeth in a fierce, devouring kiss that was like no other kiss I had experienced.

`Oh, you naughty girl,' she breathed, when our mouths finally parted again. `You gorgeous naughty girl.'

`Yes,' I sighed, dreamily, `I am a naughty girl.'

`Then perhaps I should spank that wicked little bottom of yours,' she said. My eyes opened wide with surprise and I stiffened.

`Spank me!' I gasped. Suzi nodded.

`Yes, my darling, spank you is what I said.'

`Are you serious?' Again she nodded. I was still holding her at the waist and she still had a grip on my shoulders, but I made no attempt to move away from her. Instead, as though from a long way off, I heard myself speaking.

`All right then,' I said. `Spank me.'

She sat on the side of the bed and I draped myself lengthways along that edge of it, lying with my lower stomach across her thighs, my head resting on my gloved arms. I felt her hands tugging at the hem of my dress and raised myself a little to make it easier for her. The PVC slid up, exposing my bottom in its fishnet glory and her hands began to caress it. Little firy darts were already lancing through my stomach and I was trembling quite violently.

The first slap landed square in the middle of my right buttock, catching me unprepared and stinging a lot harder than I had anticipated. I jumped and let out a little squeal, though it was not entirely from the pain. I felt a warm glow beginning to spread out from where her hand had struck me, even before the second slap landed and my hands went automatically to my behind. Suzi had clearly anticipated such a move.

She told me later that she had hidden the handcuffs under the pillow and it was an easy matter to reach out for them and snap them quickly around my wrists. Then, gripping the short connecting chain, she held my hands securely in the middle of my back, whilst she resumed the spanking. Strangely, after the first shock of feeling the hard metal through my gloves, I was not at all afraid, but that was probably because the heat erupting inside me left no room for any other emotions.

The spanking stopped and I felt her hand pushing my thighs apart, fingers squirming between them and reaching beneath me for the opening I new was wide and wet. They slipped inside me easily and I groaned my pleasure, my stomach muscles contracting fiercely as the tremblings became spasms of sheer abandonment. And then, somehow, I was lying on my back, my fettered hands beneath me, my legs spread wide, Suzi's hungry mouth devouring my sex, her tongue probing and teasing and I heard a scream of pure, raw lust as I was swept up by my first female orgasm.

A little later, as we lay on the bed, side by side, sharing a cigarette, Suzi toyed idly with the cuffs she had used on me and brought up the subject of Doug and the pub.

`I wouldn't say anything about today,' she warned me. `Not from my point of view, I don't mean. I make no secret about my likes and dislikes, but some of the regulars down there can be pretty funny about that sort of thing.'

`I can imagine,' I said, dreamily. I felt completely shattered, totally drained and my body was still suffering little after shock tremors. `But what about Gavin?'

`Oh, he's all right about it, as long as I don't go with other men. I think the idea of me screwing with another woman turns him on more. He's even made up a threesome before now.' I shuddered at the prospect.

`So you don't mind making love with either men or women?' I asked. Suzi let out a little snort.

`I prefer to call it having sex, not making love. It's usually lust that's involved with me.'

`Is that how you see what we were just doing?'

Suzi raised herself on one elbow and looked down at me. `Oh, Jenny Jane,' she said, smiling broadly, `it's more than just that, or it wouldn't be any fun.' She stroked my cheek, tenderly. `I've fancied you since the first night I saw you. Don't ask me why, but it just happened. And I've seen you looking at me before, or, to be more accurate, looking at my legs.'

`I was fascinated by your shoes,' I admitted. `I'd never seen anyone wearing heels as high as that. It must be really hard to walk in them.'

`It is,' Suzi said, falling back on her pillow, `but I don't wear them for walking. They're my trap, my snare. My legs are the best thing about me and it's not only men who have fetishes about women in stilettos.'

`Isn't it?' I said and then hurriedly changed that to: `No, I suppose it isn't.'. I smiled to myself at that little slip, although Suzi clearly read nothing into it. I didn't know how many other women had been where I was now, but I bet none of them, even the biggest heel fetishist among them, had viewed Suzi's long legs in their high heels from quite my unique viewpoint. I placed my hand on her crotch, pressing against the leather of her hotpants and she let out a little murmur of approval.

`Take them off,' she said, her eyes closed, her lips curved into a contented smile. I fumbled with the belt and loosened it, drawing down the heavy zipper. Kneeling up, I began drawing the leather shorts down her thighs, Suzi lifting her bottom clear of the mattress to make it easier. Her tights, like mine, were open at the crotch and I could scarcely restrain a gasp as I saw that her mound was completely clean shaven. As I eased the pants over her feet and dropped them at the side of the bed, she opened her legs in unmistakable invitation and revealing the unmistaklable glint of gold, too.

I peered at her gaping slit, dumbfounded, for she had a small gold ring infibulated through each of her outer lips. I winced, but it did not deter me. She was already wet and had been for some time, to judge by the musky aroma. I lapped, tentatively, teasing her with my tongue, the warm sweetness like nectar to the taste. It was not the first time I had pleasured a woman with my mouth, but the first time that it was not to be merely the prelude to filling her tunnel with a throbbing, straining cock. For the first time in two weeks, I mourned the loss of my manhood, but then, I reasoned, had I still possessed it I would not be here now.

I brought her to a rapid climax, seizing her clitoris between my lips and sucking the distended bud into my mouth, the way she had earlier done with mine. She bucked and groaned, her feet thrashing against the bed, especially when I reached up and cupped both leather covered breasts in my hands and squeezed them.

`You're good, Jenny Jane,' she gasped, when she finally managed to haul herself up into a sitting position. `And I'll bet mine isn't the first cunt you've sucked, is it?' I shook my head and turned my face away from her.

`It wasn't like this before, though,' I mumbled. She obviously thought I was referring to our outlandish costumes.

`I like leather,' she said, `and I prefer to see a woman - or a man, come to that - partly dressed, rather than naked. I think naked bodies can be quite unexciting and some can be quite ugly. Nice tight clothes that hide just a bit more than they reveal are the best.' She slid off the bed and stood up, collecting our empty glasses. `I'll get us another drink,' she said. `I think we could both use one.'

She was back in under a minute, passing me my glass. `Have you never done it with a man?' she asked, her forthrightness stunning me, despite what had already passed between us. I shook my head.

`No, never,' I said, perhaps a shade too firmly. `The thought turns me cold.'

`Poor old Dougie's going to be disappointed, then. You know he fancies you rotten.'

`I know,' I said. `But I've already discussed this with him.'

`You mean you told him you were a lesbian?' Suzi looked quite shocked. `I bet he went absolutely hairless!'

`No, quite the opposite,' I said. `He was very sweet and understanding about it.'

`He probably thinks he'll be able to convert you,' Suzi retorted. `Most men get that idea. They think gay women are all butch with cropped hair and pug ugly faces. They don't understand it's got nothing to do with physical appearance.'

`In a way, I wish I could fancy him like that,' I sighed. `It makes me feel a bit guilty, after he's treated me so well.'

`He's not like most men then, is he? Most men are selfish bastards who never grow out of being little boys.'

`I'm not exactly an expert,' I said. It was true, for I could hardly give a detached view of my own former sex. I looked down at myself, all shimmering black and grinned. `Mind you, I seem to be learning new things every day, don't I?' Suzi gave me an appraising look of her own.

`You've put on quite a bit of weight since the first night you came to the pub,' she said. `Not that you couldn't use it. You were very thin.'

`I was pretty ill,' I said, truthfully, even though my own illness had been nothing to do with the physical condition of my female body. `Something to do with a virus in my kidneys,' I lied.

`Well, you're looking better now,' she said. I felt pleased at the compliment and it was true, I felt better than I had in many years. It was that that was the reason I had so easily accepted my new gender in the first place, even though the body I had inherited was very much the worse for wear, it was not on the point of letting me down completely. My two weeks of decent food and hard work and excercise had benefited it much quicker than I could have anticipated and even my hair, which I washed and conditioned daily, now had a healthy sheen to it. Only my eyes, which still had a slightly sunken look about them, gave any clue as to the way I had looked on the day I had started my adventure.

I stood up and stalked across the carpet, deliberately mincing and swaying my hips, to take up a pose that would have been worthy of any page three girl.

`Would you say I was pretty?' I asked. The alcohol, the adrenalin and the feeling of sheer sexuality that my borrowed clothing engendered were all combining together now to sweep aside anything that remained that might have resembled inhibition in any way. Suzi put her head on one side.

`I'd say you were beautiful,' she replied, quietly. `Or at least, you will be again in another few weeks. You still look a bit undernourished, especially around your face, but some people prefer the waif look anyway.' I felt a child like pleasure at hearing her words, for I had already come to the conclusion that I was a conceited bitch, albeit one with every reason in the world to feel insecure. It was quite a paradox, in one way, that I, who had been a man up until fifteen days before, should seek compliments on my femininity, but it was not so strange if viewed from a different angle. I had, as you will have realised, assimilated my new status and condition with almost no qualms, but then there would have been little point in doing otherwise, for it would not have helped one iota. No, I had been given my second chance, a fresh start in a fresh - okay, fresh to me - body and if that was to be a female body, so be it. The sooner I got used to it and learned how to make the best of things, the better, but, if I was going to be a girl, I wanted to be a pretty one, not some plain little nonentity who never merited a second glance.

Suzi put down her glass and picked up the discarded handcuffs, turning them over and over in her hands. Slowly, she walked up to me, holding them before her, a strange look in those green eyes.

`Put the drink down, turn around and put your hands behind your back,' she said, her voice little more than a whisper. I looked at her through narrowed eyes.

`Why?' I said, my voice cracking a little. `What are you going to do?'

`Trust me,' she said and I did. The steel bands clicked tightly about my wrists again and I was powerless to prevent her blindfolding me with the silk scarf she then took from the drawer. `What's going on?' I demanded, beginning to feel a little less certain than I had been a few seconds earlier. I heard another drawer being opened and the chink of something metallic.

`Just be patient, Jenny Jane,' Suzi called out. `I'm preparing a nice surprise for you.'

It certainly was a surprise, for, when she pulled the scarf from my eyes, I saw that Suzi had suddenly grown a man's genitalia, albeit that both the cock and its two enormous testicles were made out of black rubber and held in place by an elaborate harness of leather straps and buckles.

`What on earth - ?' I began, but she cut me off in mid sentence.

`It's a dildo,' she said, in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, just as if she were identifying a breed of dog to me. `A double dildo,' she enlarged. `The other end is inside me and I can tell you it feels good; as good as this one is about to feel when I put it in you.'

`What do you mean?'

`Surely you've used a dildo or a vibrator on yourself?' Suzi said, eyebrows raised. `Or maybe not,' she added, her voice dropping lower.

`No, maybe not,' I agreed, my heart beginning to pound so loudly I was sure she must be able to hear it. I started to edge away, but it was as much for show as it was a show of reluctance and I did not resist when she took my arm and guided me towards the bed, pushing me down on the edge of it and then forcing me to lay back, my bottom only just on the mattress, my legs bent and my booted feet on the carpet. Gently, but firmly, she prised my knees apart, shuffling forward until her own legs were between them, the black cock bobbing with her every move.

`No!' I whispered, but we both knew I meant yes. Grasping the shaft in her right hand, she began lowering herself, aiming its rounded tip at a target that was already more than well enough lubricated to welcome it.

`Oh, Jenny Jane,' Suzy crooned, those green eyes alive with mischief. `Who's about to get her first taste of cock, then?' The hard rubber pushed my labia wide apart and, for a second, I went as rigid as a board. However, as inch after inch began to slide slowly into my well-oiled hole, my entire body started to come alive to the sort of sensations that I had only in the last couple of hours learned could exist.

`Oh god, yes!' I moaned. `Oh, yes please. Fuck me! Fuck me completely senseless!'

And that is almost precisely what Suzi did!

 

- 8 -

It was a very tired Jennifer Jane who stumbled into work at eleven the following morning and it was not all down to sex, either, for, having spent a few hours dozing in each other's arms through the afternoon, we showered, had a snack meal which Suzi prepared in her own kitchen and then went out to a little club where she was a member. I wore that dress again and those boots too, though I was dubious about going out and being seen in public that way. Suzi, however, clad in a leopardprint catsuit and with a tiny black PVC skirt over the top of it, assured me that my outfit would be quite conservative where she was taking me.

She was right, too, for when I first saw the dancefloor at La Masque, my eyes nearly popped out of my head. Every fetish in creation seemed to have been gathered under that one small roof, but I won't bore you with lengthy descriptions here, except to tell you about the one person I danced with other than Suzi.

Patti was drop-dead gorgeous, with long red hair, perfect, if slightly lavishly applied, makeup, long red fingernails that were more like talons and an exquisite figure that looked as though it had been poured into a high necked, red rubber mini dress. Her long legs were equally suited by the matching red rubber stockings and high heeled shoes she wore and her lipstick had been carefully selected to complete the red match. She was a terrific mover, too, and not short of male admirers, but I noticed she spent more time with the female section of the membership. It was only afterwards, as Suzi and I sat in the taxi which was taking us back to her place, that Suzi revealed Patti's secret.

I could not believe it, but Suzi assured me that Patti was actually a boy, though Suzi still referred to him as though he were really a female.

`She's undergoing treatment,' Suzi told me, `though she's still not sure if she wants to go the whole way. She told me last week that she's too fond of her male bits to lose them yet.'

I felt a little shudder pass up and down my spine, but it was not caused by horror or disgust, rather a feeling of curious anticipation. My afternoon session with Suzi had given me a new insight to my new self and caused me to wonder if my original reaction to Doug was not due just to some ingrained "thing" that really should not apply to me now that I was a girl. The cock that had filled me so deliciously had only been made of rubber, of course, and the person on the other end of it had not been a man, but I was eager to get indoors and repeat the sensation. Would I, I wondered, get the same pleasure from a real penis, something that was flesh and blood and warm and alive? I pictured Doug's face, concerned and caring, and knew that I was not yet ready for him. Patti, however, was a different kettle of fish. It would be like doing it with Suzi, except the cock she would eventually thrust into me would not be strapped on.

Suzi, as alert as ever, seemed to read my thoughts. `Would you like me to invite Patti around for an evening, next time you're not working?' she said gently, as she closed the front door of her flat behind us. I looked at her, wondering if this were some sort of test of my loyalty, but she seemed perfectly genuine. She took my hand, drew me to her and kissed me gently on the mouth.

`Jenny Jane,' she whispered, `you can't go through your life without knowing what it feels like to be shagged by a real cock and I can assure you, Patti's not deficient in that department, whatever she might look like otherwise.'

`And you wouldn't mind?'

`Why should I?' she replied. `Life's too short for hang-ups. This isn't a rehearsal, you know; this is the real thing!'

Doug said nothing about my not having come home overnight and I, in turn, did not offer any explanations. The lunchtime session at the Nelson was largely patronised by a different crowd from the one who frequented it during the evening. On Mondays and Thursdays there was an open air market in the next street, from which several of the traders drifted in for a mid day break and two factories just around the corner, from where a lot of the workers, male and female, sought sanctuary during their lunch hours. There were also a few pensioners, especially on pension day itself and a couple of self-employed window cleaners, who would have been well advised to concentrate on ground floor work after the lunchtime sessions they usually indulged in.

Today was busy, but not overly so, though I was glad to be able to retreat to my room and put my aching feet up before the evening session got under way. I lay back on the bed, listening to my little transistor radio and, almost immediately, an interview came on with a woman who had been born a man, but finally changed her sex at the age of thirty five. It was not a programme that courted sensation and the interview was conducted with typical BBC seriousness. The woman was very frank, however, and one part that did interest me was when she talked about the first time she went back to confront her parents as a woman for the first time. She had not seen since beginning her treatment a few years before and she was dreading their reaction, as well as the reactions of her brother and two sisters.

`My parents were a little cool, though they were trying to be understanding,' she told the interviewer, `and my brother, who had always been a sport mad he-man type, hardly spoke a word to me. After I had been in the house ten minutes, he made some excuse about having to meet a mate and went out. My two sisters, however, were marvellous.

`Kate, the eldest in the family, had been a rock from the start and had even come with me for my first appointment with the psychologist, but Ruth, the baby of the brood, had been away in America when it all started coming to a head. She was really super, giving me tips on makeup and fashion and promising that she would come shopping with me at the weekend.'

Ruth.

I thought of my Ruth, my own little sister, who was not so little any more, otherwise I would never have been able to make use of her clothes to aid my flight to London. As kids, we had always been close, she being a bit of a tomboy until she was fifteen or so and only when she first discovered that there was more to boys than climbing trees or playing cricket with them, did we stop spending most of our weekends and holidays together. I wondered what she would be doing right now.

It was still at least a fortnight before she would be back at college, so she could be anywhere, I supposed. My funeral would be well over by now, but would she still be brooding over my death? It was most likely she would, for she had always been very sensitive and we had been closer than most siblings. I began to formulate an idea - a plan - which, though I had no idea of knowing it at the time, was to have repercussions that were to completely change the direction of my life yet again.

I was not to have my supper date with Suzi and Patti, at least not for quite some time to come, for a flu bug which laid low both of my fellow barmaids meant that I did not get another day off for a fortnight. Doug managed to draft in an agency temp, but I still worked extra shifts, as Doug Senior was still under strict doctor's orders not to attempt anything other than the lightest of duties. I wasn't complaining, however, and I did manage to slip away to spend a couple of afternoons with Suzi in her flat.

When Annie and Celia finally returned, I approached Doug and asked for a weekend off. He was only too happy to oblige me, told me to take the Friday off as well and even gave me an extra twenty five pounds as a reward for all my endeavours.

`I don't know how we'd have managed without you, Jenny Jane,' he said. `You deserve a break, if anyone does. How are you going to spend your weekend? Sleeping, I should imagine.'

`No,' I said, quietly. `I'm going to visit my sister.'

When I stepped off the train, the only luggage I had was a large shoulderbag, in which I had packed a change of underwear and a spare blouse and skirt and a supermarket carrier bag in which I had managed to cram most of the clothes I had "borrowed" from Ruth a month earlier. I was dressed conservatively, in a matching skirt and jacket in my favourite black, a whole two pounds from my favourite clothes shop and I was wearing the black three inch heeled shoes I had bought on my first day in the big city.

Not having had much opportunity to go shopping or socialising, I had plenty of money - most of two weeks' pay, plus overtime and what was left of my bonus after having paid for my return trainfare, so indulged myself in the luxury of a taxi and asked to be dropped a few streets from my parents' home, where I knew there was a public telephone box. I dialled the number with shaking hands and almost burst out crying when I heard my mother's voice on the other end of the line.

Fighting to keep my voice as normal as possible, I asked if Ruth was at home. There was a slight delay and I heard Mum calling up the stairs. A few minutes later, Ruth came on. I gave her my new name and asked if we could meet somewhere.

`What for?' she asked, sounding suspicious, which was not entirely surprising.

`It's to do with your brother, James,' I said, quietly.

`Oh,' she said, her tone strained. `Were you a friend of his, only he never mentioned your name at all.'

`I only met him just before ... the accident.'

`I see. But why do you want to meet me?'

`It's something you need to know, Ruth,' I said. `Something very important.'

`Very important?'

`Yes, or I wouldn't have phoned. Look, I persisted, if you're worried, why not meet me in St Margaret's park, near the old bandstand and bring Mr Fuller's dog. Bosun will protect you against anything, you know that.' It was true, for the old labrador had been a great favourite with both Ruth and myself. Mum was allergic to dogs' fur, so she wouldn't let us have an animal of our own, so we had sort of adopted Bosun and frequently took him for long walks, much to the relief of Ernie Fuller next door.

`How'd'you know about Bosun?' Ruth asked. I smiled to myself.

`I know a lot of things from James,' I told her. `Listen, there's nothing sinister in this, but I really do need to talk to you.' There was a short silence and then she agreed to meet me at two thirty. I described myself and what I was wearing and promised her I would recognise her.

`Because of the dog?' she said. `But there may be loads of people with dogs, especially at that time of day.'

`I'll know you,' I promised and hung up the phone as the pips started.

 

- 9 -

I arrived at the park bench at least a quarter of an hour early, my heart already thumping with anticipation and no little trepidation and I smoked two cigarettes, one after the other, in an effort to steady my nerves. It seemed a lifetime before I saw them, Ruth and good old Bosun and I had to fight back the urge to run towards them, arms outstretched. She approached me slowly, adding to the tension that was building throughout my whole body and, when she finally stood before me, she made no effort to sit down. I saw that she had had her hair cut shorter and that it now had a reddish tint to it. Her little elfin face was as pretty as ever, though her eyeshadow was bolder than when I had last seen her.

`Hello Ruth,' I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. She looked at me, curiously, a strange light in her eyes. `Won't you sit down? Poor old Bosun could probably do with a rest. His legs aren't as young as they used to be.' Reluctantly, she sat, keeping to the far end of the bench.

`What did you need to talk to me about that was so important ... Jennifer?' she said, as the old dog flopped gratefully to the floor at her feet, tail thumping, as ever it did.

`My friends call me Jenny Jane,' I told her, smiling reassuringly. `And James used to call you Jellytot.' I saw her eyebrows shoot up at that.

`He never told you that!' she exclaimed, but there was the trace of a smile on her mouth. `The rat!' she said.

`Because, on your sixteenth birthday, you made him promise never to use that name again, nor to tell anybody else,' I reminded her. `He also hid Mrs Muggins and wouldn't tell you where she was for a whole week.' Mrs Muggins was the name of the rag doll Ruth had cherished since she was a toddler and I remembered how she hunted high and low for her before she finally found her tucked behind a curtain in the lounge, a crisp new five pound note cellotaped to her, together with an extra birthday card. I related all this to Ruth and I could tell I had her intrigued.

`Just how long did you know James?' she demanded. `He certainly seems to have told you a lot about me.'

`I lied on the phone,' I admitted. `I've actually know James a couple of years longer than I've known you.'

`But - ' she began. I held up my hand and interrupted her before she could protest.

`Do you remember when you cut you elbow when we tried climbing that old oak tree that used to be over near the main gate here?' I asked her. `I went across the road and borrowed some cotton wool and an elastoplast from the lady in the greengrocers. You were eleven at the time and you refused to cry because Mark Sillence and John Petty were with us.'

`I was the only girl there that day,' Ruth protested. `I remember, I was - '

`Wearing my old jeans, the ones with the patched up knee and my old school football shirt, because that was supposed to be trendy at the time. Mind you, we both knew you liked it because it was baggy and it hid the fact that you had not long had to start wearing a bra.'

`What do you mean, your shirt?' she demanded. `There were no other girls there, I told you. I was wearing Jamie's old stuff, I remember it clearly. There were just the four of us.'

`I know,' I said. `Just hold onto that thought for another couple of minutes.' I quickly began telling her about certain incidents, certain memories that only we would have known, like when I found her and her schoolfriend Tabitha, drinking Tab's dad's vodka late one night in this very park.

`You were too drunk for me to take you home,' I said, `but I took you to the Wimpy Bar and made you both drink two cups of black coffee and you were - '

`- sick all the way home,' she finished for me. `But - what are you saying? One of us must be mad here and I don't think it's me.'

`No, you're not mad,' I assured her. `And neither am I, though nobody could possibly have blamed me if I had been, especially after what I'm about to tell you happened.' I passed her the carrier bag and she took it as though it might explode in her face. Very slowly, she opened it and sat staring at her shoes, which sat on top of her other things.

`Where on earth did you get these?' she gasped.

`From your bedroom,' I replied. `I had to borrow them in something of a hurry. There was no other way.' Slowly, quietly, I began to relate the events of that fateful night. She listened in silence, not interrupting once, her forehead furrowed in concentration. When I finished my story, she said nothing for a full minute, but just kept sitting there, eyes downcast.

`Either I'm dreaming, or you are,' she said, at last. `Or you've got a vivid imagination and a bloody good memory for things Jamie told you about us.'

`I'll admit that could explain it away,' I said. `But I do know one thing Jamie'd never tell anyone, something you made him promise never to reveal, otherwise you said you'd throw yourself under a bus with shame. You promised to clean my shoes for a month in exchange, but I said it would be our secret and I swore on Mum and Dad's lives that I'd never tell a living soul. And you know that Jamie - I - would never take an oath like that and break it. So, Jellytot, it's still only you and I know that you pinched that tenner out of the phone jar and I caught you trying to buy fags with it down at the station cafe.

`"I swear this oath until I die, otherwise in Hell I'll fry." You made that up and we used to swear to each other using it as our oath. And nodody else would, or could have known that, either.' I fell silent and she just carried on sitting there, staring at me. Suddenly, her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes opened wide, tears welling up in them. The other hand started towards me, but stopped half way, hovering in mid air.

`Oh, fucking hell, Jamie!' she gasped. `It is you!'

There was a little cafe on the far side of the park, where there were chairs and tables in the open air on fine days. We walked Bosun between us, found an empty table as far away from the few other patrons as possible and ordered coffees. Ruth could not take her eyes off me as we talked, as though she were afraid that if she even blinked, I would dematerialise like a mirage. I told her about my new job and my new friends, such as they were, though I carefully omitted to include my little adventures at Suzi's flat. I noticed, half way through my monologue, that she was staring at my chest, which had blossomed even more than ever, as I continued to eat and exercise in a way that Chrissie clearly never had. I had even, the previous afternoon, had to buy two new brassieres, with cups one size larger to accommodate the increasing size.

`What's the matter?' I quipped. `Never seen a pair of boobs before?' She blushed and picked up her coffee cup to cover her embarrassment.

`Sorry,' she said, `it's just that it's going to take a lot of getting used to. I mean, are those real, or are you sure you haven't had some sort of crazy cosmetic surgery done and this is all a hoax. I mean, okay, I believe it is you, but - '

`You saw my body,' I said. `My old body, that is.' She shook her head.

`No. They wouldn't let me,' she explained. `Nor Mum. Dad went with the police to identify you, but he said it wasn't too pretty and it'd only upset us. Oh Jamie, this is all too crazy. I thought we'd lost you forever and now ... this!'

`You'd have lost me pretty soon anyway,' I reminded her. Her face became serious again.

`But what about now?' she whispered. `What about ... you know?' She tapped the side of her head with her index finger. She had never been able to call it a cancer when the old James was alive and she couldn't bring herself to do it even now. I smiled across the table at her.

`It's gone,' I said. `Or rather, it's still in my old body.'

`Not any more it isn't.' Ruth started giggling. `You were cremated three weeks ago.' I started giggling with her, for it was funny, the way we were sitting here so calmly discussing my death and funeral. I had considered finding out the date and time just after I moved into the pub, for I had a notion that I perhaps ought to be at my own funeral, but, after consideration, I decided that a person should only be at their own funeral once in their lifetime.

`But what about the girl whose body you're in now?' she asked, when we had finally stopped laughing. I shrugged.

`No idea,' I said. `I know absolutely nothing about her, not even her surname. Her body's still here, as you can see, but what happened to the inner her, we'll never know. Actually if you'd seen the state of her - of me - even a month ago, you'd have been amazed how much better I look already.'

`You're very pretty,' she said. She considered this for a moment. `Doesn't that worry you?' she asked. `I mean, it must have been a great shock, waking up and finding you were a girl, or at least your body was a girl's. But in that body and with that face, you must have men looking at you and trying to chat you up all the time.'

`I've got used to it,' I said. `There are a few lads at the pub who fancy their chances, but a good barmaid knows how to handle that sort of thing.'

`You don't - I mean, you don't ...'

`Fancy any of them?' I put the question for her. `No, at least, not so far. I still fancy girls, as a matter of fact. Maybe that'll change one day, but I don't really know at the moment.'

`Oh Jamie, I am glad to see you, no matter what you look like.' I reached across the table and took her hands in mine.

`Thanks, Jellytot,' I said. She regarded me sternly.

`You promised me you'd never call me that again,' she said. `Whether you're my brother or my sister now, a promise is a promise.'

`I know, and I won't call you it again,' I said. `But you mustn't call me Jamie, either.'

`It's going to feel strange calling you Jennifer, or Jenny Jane,' she said. I remembered Annie on my first night behind the bar and how her hearing impediment had given birth to my middle name.

`Why not call me Janey instead,' I suggested. `It's not so very different from what you've been used to, is it?' She smiled at me and nodded.

`Okay ... Janey,' she said. `Now, how about coming home for tea? Poor old Bosun will be getting hungry by now, even if you're not.'

`I don't know,' I replied, hesitantly. `I don't think Mum and Dad could take it, not the way you have.'

`They don't have to know the truth,' Ruth said. `You're my friend from college, Janey - Pope, is it?' I nodded. `Well then, Janey Pope, I'm hereby inviting you to come home with me to meet my parents, have some tea and then go for a bloody good girls' night out together.'

`Nowhere posh, though,' I said. `I haven't got anything suitable to wear.' She looked at me wide eyed.

`Christ!' she exclaimed. `You really are a girl, aren't you?'

 

- 10 -

Seeing my parents again was not quite as traumatic as I had feared it might be. My mother had always made our friends welcome, though, in her usual self depracating manner, she apologised profusely that tea was only a ham salad. I assured her that I loved salad, which I did, apart from beetroot. I discreetly contrived to leave that at the side of the plate and professed to be full when she enquired if there had been anything wrong with it. Mum still made the best cup of tea in the world and was polite enough not to raise her eyebrows when I asked for three sugars in mine.

There was one awkward moment, when Ruth announced that she had invited me to stay the night and suggested that I used her brother's old room. My Dad, who had said little throughout the meal, as was his usual fashion, looked up from his armchair in the window.

`Your new bed isn't wide enough for two,' he reminded Ruth. `That old thing might have been, but this one definitely isn't and the camp bed is broken.'

`She can sleep in Jamie's room,' Ruth said, firmly. `I've packed away most of his things and I'm sure Janey won't mind. I know Jamie wouldn't have.' My parents exchanged looks, but finally my Mum nodded.

`Ruth's right,' she said. `Jamie wouldn't have minded. He would expect Ruth to have her friends stay whatever. He slept on the sofa only a couple of months back when that Polly stayed the weekend.'

`Fair enough,' said my Dad and picked up his evening paper. Ruth and I volunteered to do the washing up and cleared everything through into the kitchen. Automatically, I opened the cupboard beneath the sink and picked out the washing up liquid, turning the tap on, off and then on again, to clear the airlock that Dad had been meaning to get seen to for over a year now. As the water began flowing over the dirty crockery, I realised my mother was standing behind me.

`You don't have to do that, dear,' she said. `You're a guest, after all.'

`Ever a guest, never a pest, Mrs Kirkpatrick,' I quipped. She looked at me strangely.

`One of my favourite sayings, that,' she said. I swallowed, realising my mistake.

`Oh, I got that from my gran, I think,' I said. `It's quite popular in our part of London.'

I followed Ruth upstairs to start getting ready and minutes later there was a knock on her bedroom door. My mother entered, carrying a tray on which stood a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

`I thought you girls might like a little drink to get yourselves in the mood before you go,' she said. We thanked her, but after she had left and Ruth went to fill our glasses, I put my hand over mine. She looked up at me.

`Still don't like red?' she said, with a touch of surprise.

`No, it's still the smell,' I told her, for I had not even been able to stand the bouquet of red wine since I had got completely drunk on it at my seventeenth birthday party and spent all night throwing up in the downstairs toilet.

`Oh well,' she said, pouring into her own glass, `you'll just have to catch up when we get to the pub.' She picked up her glass, walked over to her wardrobe and threw the door open. After a few minutes deliberation, she selected a very pretty cocktail style dress in black and white diagonal stripes and held it up for me to see. It had thin shoulder straps and was very close fitting and I remembered seeing it on her at her eighteenth party. I reminded her of this and she grinned.

`I got red wine stains all over it that night,' she reminded me. `We seem to have a thing about red wine, don't we?' She helped me into the dress and zipped it up for me, but she then decided that my shoes weren't right for it. From the wardrobe she took out a pair of four inch black stilettos, obviously bought very recently, for I could not remember seeing them before.

`No, I got them from a charity shop whilst I was in Hereford,' she replied, when I said as much. I laughed and told her about my excursions to the Oxfam shop near the pub.

`Bargain hunting must run in this family,' she said. She held up the shoes and looked at them, critically. `They may be a bit high for you, though,' she said. I shook my head and took them from her.

`I've got a pair even higher than this and I've got quite used to walking in them,' I told her, sitting on the edge of the bed and unbuckling my own shoes. Ruth made an approving noise.

`You really are a fast learner, aren't you?' she grinned.

`Our girls' night out wasn't really that adventurous. We started at the local pub, The Stag, and had a couple of white wines apiece, graduating to a Bacardi and Coke before moving onto the wine bar on Easterby Street. We managed to find ourselves a quiet little corner booth and swapped reminiscences over another bottle of white for an hour, before we had to move on to avoid the attentions of two rather noisy and non too sober young business types who obviously thought that two girls out on their own had to be fair game.

We took a taxi into the town centre and tried one of the two discos, but, after dancing for less than half an hour, we decided to take another taxi and go for a walk along the sea front. It was a mild, balmy night and there were plenty of other late strollers. I told Ruth that the one thing I had missed about being in London was the sea. The air was just so much tangier here by the shore and it really cleared my head.

We found the late night burger van near the pier and made pigs of ourselves with two giant hot dogs, giggling stupidly as we strove to prevent the fried onions from slipping out and dropping onto our dresses. Ruth had chosen a new, lime green dress, with shoes to match, something else she had brought back from Hereford, though this time from what she referred to as a "proper" shop.

By this time, despite my assurances about being able to handle the borrowed heels, my feet were really beginning to ache. Ruth was faring little better and we found the nearest phone box and rang for a taxi to take us home. She opened the front door with her key and walked into the hallway ahead of me, leaving me to close the door and juggle the deadlock lever that was still giving trouble, its repair coming under the same category as my Dad's promises about the airlocks in the hot water pipe to the kitchen sink. It was a tricky manouevre, flicking it and tapping the lock casing to free the catch, but two years of being last home had made me an expert at it.

I turned to follow Ruth into the living room and saw my mother standing there, framed in the door, my sister still halfway to it.

`Oh, good evening, Mrs Kirkpatrick,' I said, brightly. `Hope I wasn't making too much noise.' She just stood there, not moving, not saying a word. Ruth looked from her, to me, and back again.

`What's up, Mum?' she asked, her face wreathed in concern. My Mother moved at last, her head tilting sideways, her eyes flickering between the pair of us.

`I want a word with you two,' she said, very quietly, but in a tone I remembered only too well. One, or both of us, was in trouble, though I had no idea why. She led the way into the lounge and went to stand in front of the empty fireplace, her arms folded across her chest, her legs planted in that same old stance which she always adopted when she was ready for a fight. Ruth still looked puzzled.

`Whatever is the matter?' she said. Mum let out a long sigh.

`I was hoping you'd tell me,' she said. She turned to look at me and then jabbed a finger in my direction. `Come over here, young lady,' she commanded. Hesitantly, I walked over to her. In my heels, I was three or four inches taller than she was, but right now I felt like I had when I was a six year old and she had caught me pinching chocolate gateau out of the fridge.

`What's the matter, Mrs Kirkpatrick?' I asked, my voice trembling. She stared straight into my eyes, craning her neck upwards.

`Don't you Mrs Kirkpatrick me,' she said. I looked down at that face that I had once been able to look down on even without the aid of high heels, for I had been well above average height as a boy. I knew that expression and my stomach was already turning somersaults. `Sit down on the sofa, both of you,' she said. `I'm damned if I'm going to get a crick in my neck.'

Ruth and I settled next to each other, but mother remained standing. `Now then,' she said, `I've been watching you very carefully since you arrived here, Janey Pope, if that's your real name and I've seen a few little things that I never thought I'd live to see again, at least, not all from the same person.'

`What things?' Ruth demanded, but I think I already knew.

`Beetroot left on the side of the plate,' my mother said. `All the ham left till last, apart from the beetroot, of course. And you've never been in this house before and yet you not only knew precisely where to find the washing up liquid, you also fixed that bloody hot water pipe without even thinking about it.

`Okay,' she said, holding up a hand to silence my protestations, `those could have been purely coincidental things, but then, when I went upstairs after you had both gone out again, I saw that not much of the wine was gone and one glass had not been drunk from.' Oh lord, I thought, my mother was still as sharp as ever. "Miss Marple" we used to nickname her, for she never missed a trick when it came to bringing up two kids who could be as full of mischief as any normal healthy children.

`Then, finally, I deliberately waited up for you,' she went on. `Ruth's never been able to get the hang of that damned lock, no more than I have and I guessed she'd leave it to you. Even father struggles to make that thing work, and yet you easily, Miss Janey Pope, flipped it shut the way only one other person ever could.' She raised a hand to her forehead and mopped her brow.

`Okay,' she said, having paused for breath, `I'll tell you what I think, shall I?' She looked from me to Ruth and back to me again. `I think that anyone outside this room now would tell me I was going mad, but I believe that God moves in mysterious ways. Take those damned silly shoes off and come here, Jane,' she said, quietly. You could have heard a pin drop as I leaned forward to do as she said. I padded across the carpet and stood in front of her, hardly daring to breathe, my head spinning. We were more or less the same height now and she reached out and grasped my upper arms.

`Janey Pope you may be now and I don't profess to have the faintest idea how this has happened, but mother's have a sixth sense when it comes to their kids. God in His Heaven is the only one who could tell us the hows and the whys of whatever is going on here, but from now on, young lady, because you obviously are a young lady, you don't call yourself Janey Pope whilst you're under this roof.

`Okay, I agree you can hardly call yourself Jamie any more, but if you're going to be Janey anything whilst you're here, you'll be Janey bloody Kirkpatrick.' I stood there, stunned, as she suddenly threw her arms about me, for I had rarely heard her use language as strong as even "bloody" before, but I was even more shocked when, as she hugged me to her, both of us sobbing, she burst out with: `What the fucking hell are we going to tell your father?'

 

- 11 -

In the end, we agreed that we would tell Dad nothing, at least, not yet. I was staggered at how my mother had found me out and at how easily she accepted my transition from son to daughter, but then Mum had always been full of surprises. She closed the lounge door, took out a bottle of wine - white this time - and poured us all a drink. Then we had to sit down and I told her everything that had happened. She nodded her head when I explained my theory about the electricity.

`The inquest isn't until next week,' she said, `but I know they think it's suicide. I never believed it, even though the evidence pointed that way. And somehow, I just couldn't accept that you were gone. I know you didn't have much longer left, but I just knew you weren't gone yet.

`That poor little girl you tried to save, well, I'll pray that her soul finds an easy rest, but I'll also give thanks that your soul found a new home here on God's earth, for that was surely what it's done. Oh my and just look at you. My two girls together now.' She started laughing.

`Do you know, Jamie - I mean Janey, sorry - I've still got that photograph of you and that Jennifer, the one where you were dressed up like a vampire woman.'

`I was supposed to be Morticia, from the Addams family,' I said, grinning as I remembered that party again. Mum shrugged.

`Whatever,' she said, `but I thought you made quite a good girl, even then. You always had soft features for a boy.'

`Oh thanks, Mum,' I retorted, in mock indignation. She was still shaking her head.

`And now just look at you,' she exclaimed. Ruth suddenly burst out laughing and doubled over. It took her several seconds to control her mirth and, when she finally subsided, I asked her what was so funny.

`Granny Maud,' she said. `Don't you remember, whenever she came down from Essex, she'd look at us both and she'd always say the same thing?'

`"My, but you've changed since I last saw you",' I repeated, bobbing my head the way my Gran had always done. The three of us looked from one face to the other and suddenly we were all doubled up with laughter!

We sat up talking for most of the night. My mother, whilst overjoyed that I was still alive, albeit as a daughter rather than a son, was as practical and protective towards me in my new body as she had been when I still suffered in the old one. She grilled me as only mothers can grill their children, asking me about this, that and every other imaginable detail of my new lifestyle and, with a directness I never saw as her son, came very rapidly to two very basic points.

One of them Ruth and I had already covered and she seemed inordinately relieved when I said that no, I did not fancy men and no also, I had never had sex with a man.

`Good, then you won't have to decide upon whether to use contraception or not,' she said. As soon as she said this, I understood the reasoning behind her earlier relief. Though not devout, she was still a Catholic, so contraception was a no-no, or, if it wasn't, you didn't talk about it and you practised it in the dark and hoped God couldn't see you.

`And what about periods?' she asked. I hadn't even thought about that. Of course, I'd learned about the female menstrual cycle, ovums, eggs and all that stuff at school and I'd had a few girlfriends, but I had not once, in the four weeks or so, realised the implications for me. I confessed as much there and then.

`Well, we'd better do something about being prepared,' Mum said. `If you've been a girl for four weeks, it could happen any time now. In fact, it should already have happened.'

`Maybe it was the drugs,' Ruth suggested. `I was reading something a few weeks ago and it said that often certain medication can upset the cycle, or sometimes knock it out altogether, like pregnancy does. Apparently, a lot of women drug addicts don't get their periods at all and, even when they do come off the stuff, it can often be a year or more before the body gets back to normal.' She looked at me and grinned, wickedly. `Lucky sod,' she said. `You don't know what you're missing.'

I think that that night was the strangest of my young life up until then, even stranger than the night I had first become Chrissie, in many ways, though not as traumatic. If someone had come up to me in the street a year earlier and said that one day I would be sitting up with my Mum and my sister, discussing periods and how to avoid getting myself pregnant, I'd have been calling out for the men in white suits. Nowadays, of course, I'd think twice before I subjected anyone to the men in white suits, but we have yet to come to that.

One thing I had noticed since I had become Jennifer Jane was that I did not dream any more, or, if I did, I never woke up recalling doing so. I also needed far less sleep than before, waking up refreshed after as little as four hours. That can be very useful for a writer, especially one who spends as long as I do in solitary vigil before my keyboard and VDU. However, that night I did dream. I dreamed of myself, dressed in white, a baby cradled in my arms and the tears were still streaming down my face when I woke up.

It was still only nine thirty and, when I padded downstairs, still wearing the long cotton nightie that Ruth had loaned me, I found my mother, sitting alone in the kitchen, the huge brown teapot before her. She smiled when she saw me and reached for another cup.

`I didn't expect to see you before midday,' she said. `Ruth is still fast off. I told your Dad you two had a bit of a heavy night, but he didn't seem that concerned. Apparently they're in the middle of a big contract at work and he can't think of anything else at the moment.'

I explained about my new sleep pattern, but said nothing about my dream. The vision had been deeply disturbing, but not in the way I might have expected and I needed time to sort it all out in my head. Instead, I asked Mum how she had managed to get up so early, considering we had not gone to bed until after five.

`I didn't go to bed at all,' she said and smiled again. `You didn't think I could sleep after everything that's happened. Oh Jamie - Janey - I'm so happy. And I can't believe how well you seem to have taken it all.' I took my teacup from her.

`There didn't seem any point in worrying, not once I'd got over the initial shock,' I said. I had already covered this during our night conversation, but I repeated it all again, just in case she might still think I was only putting a brave face on things. `We all know that I was as good as dead and the pain I went through was awful, no matter how many drugs they pumped into me. If it had gone on much longer, it might well have been me considering those railway lines, instead of Chrissie.

`Anyway, being a girl hasn't been so bad so far. I even get drinks and meals bought for me. I never had that when I was James.' My mother smile grew even broader.

`Materialistic little hussy,' she laughed. `Drink your tea and I'll cook you some breakfast. After that, you can wash up for me. There are still no free meals in this house, except for guests.'

Ruth finally surfaced just before midday, by which time I had already bathed, washed my hair and dressed in the same black suit I had arrived in. I accompanied my mother to the local shops and helped carry back the shopping, commenting on the weight of the bags. As James, they would not have amounted to much, but Jenny Jane was only a weak female. Mum and I laughed together at that.

`Women are stronger in a lot of other ways,' she assured me. `You may not fancy men, but it wouldn't hurt you to learn how to twist them around your little finger. It can save a lot of wear and tear on the shoulder muscles, believe me.'

In the early afternoon, Ruth and I went shopping in the main town centre. I took her straight into Lyle's, the big department store and headed for the escalator leading up to the first floor - and the lingerie department. I found what I wanted within seconds, a black satin and lace basque, with four suspenders and a lace up front. Ruth looked at the price tag and whistled.

`I don't care,' I told her. `I'm treating myself as a way of celebrating. I've not only got my new lease of life, I've also got back the most wonderful and understanding mother and sister any girl - or boy, for that matter - could ever hope to have.' She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. It really was strange being the same height as my little Jellytot, after a lifetime of looking down at her from an advantage of five or six inches.

`Put your purse away,' she said. `I'm going to treat you. I've still not touched any of my share of Granny Maud's legacy. I'll buy you some knickers to go with it.' She picked up a pair that were little more than a triangle of satin with some lacy strings attached. `There, you tart,' she laughed. `Are they sexy enough for you.' This time it was I who kissed her and we took two pairs, together with the basque and added two pairs of shiny black stockings to the pile.

We sat in Lyle's cafeteria, drinking coffee and making a mess of huge cream scones. Ruth wiped her mouth and sat back.

`My sexy sister,' she said quietly, shaking her head. `Who'd have thought it?'

`Thought what?' I replied, innocently. Ruth leaned forward again, conspiratorially.

`Don't look now,' she said, `but there's a couple of blokes across there and one of them hasn't taken his eyes off you since we sat down. I reckon he's in love.' Of course, when you tell someone not to look round, what's the first thing they unfailingly do? I did it and the man, who was three tables away to my right, hurriedly averted his eyes. I studied him, almost brazenly. He was a big fellow, probably well over six feet tall and with heavily muscled shoulders. I guessed his age as being low thirties, though his dark hair was already thinning and receding. He was sitting opposite another chap of similar build, though this one had sandy blond hair. I could not see the second man's features, for he was sitting so that he was almost back towards me. The first man was still looking down at his plate, but I could see enough of his face to be able to class it as not altogether pleasant.

His mouth looked small and his cheeks were pink and flabby and, when he risked another upwards glance in my direction, I saw that he had small, almost piggy eyes. I smiled at him, nonetheless and he quickly looked away again.

`Don't encourage him,' Ruth hissed at me. `If he gets the wrong idea, we could get ourselves lumbered. Anyway, even I don't fancy your one.' She stifled another giggle and the conversation finally drifted around to my long term plans. I had already explained to Mum and Ruth that I was going to return to London and my job with Doug, at least long enough to explore the avenues concerning working as a journalist. Mum was a bit upset at the thought of losing me again so soon, but Ruth, who was a determined career girl, understood.

`With your new passion for clothes,' she said, `you could get a job as a fashion writer.' I thought of Suzi and smiled, secretly.

`Maybe,' I agreed. `We'll just have to see what turns up. I think I've seen enough in the past month to know that life is full of surprises.'

If we had looked back as we walked out of the cafeteria, we might have got our first clue to the fact that what I had said was perfectly true, but that some surprises can be distinctly unpleasant.

 

 

Hmmm ... well, before you start getting too envious of the Jenny Jane in this tale, perhaps it would be a good idea to wait and see what waits around the next corner in her new and slightly topsy-turvey life. She definitely isn’t expecting what comes next - are you?

Part Two coming very shortly, possums!

 

 
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