17

The parcels came on a morning of steady autumn drizzle. Mrs Ford called upstairs, ‘There’s some parcels for you, Brian.’

When I saw the four parcels I was dismayed. I had expected one big, brown, meaningless lump. These were wrapped in blue and white striped paper and the name of the order com­pany was prominent four times. Brown gummed tape had been used to make them strong, but I thought that they looked as though they could not contain anything except women’s clothes. There was a dull rattle inside the parcel that contained the shoes. It was easy to guess that it was two shoe boxes wrapped together, and I thought that it was easy to guess that the shoes inside were women’s shoes.

For a moment I thought of walking out of the front door and not coming back. I avoided Mrs Ford’s eyes.

I took the parcels upstairs and put them on the bed. I called myself a fool for not sending instructions that they should be put in plain covers.

But then I became calmer, and I saw that really they were not at all obvious. They were simply well-made parcels in blue and white paper strengthened with brown gummed tape. They were quite workmanlike.

Perhaps Mrs Ford would come up to find out what I had received. I got the parcels off the bed and into the wardrobe.

She knocked as I was closing the wardrobe door. ‘Can I come in a minute?’ she called from outside. ‘I’d just like to have a look at the pillow-case I gave you yesterday. I think it’s torn. I think I gave you the wrong one. Can I come in?’

I muttered, ‘Gruesome bitch!’ and called out, ‘Yes, come in, Mrs Ford.’

She came in and went to the bed to turn the pillows over.

‘What was in the parcels?’ she asked, sounding more friendly than curious.

‘Just some things I sent away for.’

‘Some clothes?’

‘Yes. A jacket and some sweaters and some shoes.’

‘Aren’t you going to look at them?’

‘I haven’t time just now. I have to go for an interview about a job.’

‘Do you like sending away for things? I always think that you can’t be sure you’ll get what you want.’

‘They seemed cheap, so I thought I’d get them.’

‘What’s that parcel you’ve got under the bed?’

She meant the suitcase.

‘It’s a present. I bought it for my brother. It’s for his birthday. It’s a case.’

‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’

‘Yes. He lives in Cottingham. He’s married.’

Mrs Ford seemed to be on the point of becoming suspicious of me. I wished that my hair would grow quickly so that I could get away. I could send for a wig—but I did not want to wear a wig. I wanted to have my own long hair.

Why had I turned Shirley into a brother?

Mrs Ford might tell her Jack about the parcels. He might understand that they contained women’s clothes. He seemed perceptive enough to have identified me as the kind of person who dressed up.

It was necessary to go to the interview I had invented.

Outside the drizzle was coming down as if forever. I look down at my raincoat and thought of the raincoat that was in one of the parcels in the wardrobe. I wanted to open my par­cels, but instead I had to tramp about the streets getting wet.

I thought about how thrilling it would be to open the parcels. My throat began to feel tight with anticipation. I would lock my door and spend the afternoon trying on the things, and if Mrs Ford came creeping about, I would tell her that I could not open the door. She could think what she liked.

I had lunch at a café and arrived back at the house just before half-past one.

I met Mrs Ford in the hallway.

‘How did you get on at the interview?’

‘They said they’d let me know.’

‘I’ll be out this afternoon,’ she said.

I would be alone in the house. It flashed in my mind that clothing of hers would be in the house. But there was no need to think like that now. I had clothing of my own.

Clothes.

I went past her and took the stairs two at a time.

I went into my room and locked the door after me. I got the parcels from the wardrobe and put them on the bed. At first I could not break into the large, square parcel that contained the shoes. I was so excited. I took hold of one corner in my teeth and made a tear. Then I got my fingers in and tore the paper off. An account sheet slid to the floor. I got the lid off one box. There was a smell of new leather. I took out the tissue paper. There were the flat-heeled shoes, brand-new-black and mine. I took one shoe in my hand. It was lightly made and girlish. I took the other shoe out. They were my shoes. They were shoes for a girl and they belonged to me. I put them down on the bed and opened the second box and took out the tissue paper. There were the court shoes, my high-heels. They were women’s shoes, my shoes, elegant black leather outside, soft grey leather inside, gold lettering stamped on the inside, hard slender heels that would click and tap on the pavement. The shapes of court shoes were civilised as the shapes of a violin were civilized. My heart seemed to be forcing itself into the base of my neck. I had to sit down on the bed.

The excitement was pounding inside me. I could not go on examining the things. I must get dressed up as quickly as possible.

I went and drew the curtains and then got out of the clothes I was wearing at comically high speed. When they lay on the floor I despised them. They kept me male. I kicked them all under the bed and out of sight.

I burst open parcels and got the things I needed.

There was a white brassière and a black brassière and a black suspender belt. The breasts I had made were hidden in my old case. I put on the black brassière and found that they fitted perfectly. I congratulated myself on my work.

I was putting on my suspender belt. I was fixed up and I had a bust, so already I looked like a woman.

One of the slip and pantie sets was black and the other was slate blue. I chose the black set. For the first time I was stepping into a pair of knickers that had no possible owner but myself. And as I cast the slip over my head I felt how luxurious it was to be putting on clothes that had never been worn before. I eased it down over my shoulders and bust. It was as tight on my body as I had wanted it to be. The black lace made me love myself. New things were heaven.

I was very careful not to catch the new stockings with my finger nails. I fastened them so expertly, quickly yet gently. I ran my hands over the stockings to feel the sheerness, and told myself that not every girl had such long legs as I had.

I was ready to put on my high-heeled shoes.

They were tight. I wished that I had a shoe horn. But then my foot was in. It was firmly held. I put on the second shoe. The fronts of my feet looked just as I had wanted them to look. Mine were women’s feet in high-heeled shoes.

I stood up and walked. The tip-toe feeling made me light and feminine. The consciousness of my feet and legs delighted me. I moved with a step instead of a tread. It was a wonderful sensation.

I lifted the hem of my slip to consider my legs. The stresses caused by the new position of my feet had made improvements. It was impossible to imagine that they could ever be male legs. They were not merely props for supporting my body and moving it about. They were a dramatically important part of my personality. If a man could see them as I was seeing them, his eyes would widen.

I dropped the hem of my slip and swung round on my toe in a spontaneous dance step. To be myself was joy. After years of wasted time, shuffling about dressed as a boy, I had come to this. I was alive in actual time, wearing my own clothes, standing on my own heels.

I would not need to worry about my walk. The heels and my own feeling about myself would make me walk properly. I told myself that, since I felt so like a woman, I could behave as a woman unconsciously. I was sure that I would not make any mistakes.

I went across and opened the wardrobe to look in the mirror. I saw that I was a tall girl in a black slip. The straps of the slip and the brassière made my shoulders look very white. I straightened the straps.

My hair was still damp from the morning’s drizzle. Its shortness made me boyish, but it was getting longer. My father would have told me to get it cut. I pushed my hair forward with my hands. That made it seem more. When it was long enough and I was ready to set off I would cut it into a fringe. I wanted my hair to be about my shoulders, curled under slightly at the bottom. It would be some time before it was that long—Christmas. But it would soon be long enough for me to pass as a girl.

I wished that I had a lipstick. My lips were rather pale. I always lost colour when I dressed up. There always seemed to be less blood in my face. I was pale and gentle-looking and there was the softness in my eyes. It was as though my body ran at a lower pressure when I was dressed up. I was cool and poised. My mind was calm and limpid—and happy. I sup­posed that my mind gained dominance over my chemistry when I was dressed as a woman. When I began to wear women’s clothes all the time my chemistry might undergo a decisive alteration. I hoped so. Surely nobody, however jealous, could expect me to dress as a boy if I developed a bust.

But there was no knowing what the police-minded might expect. They might try to force me to have plastic surgery to make me flat-chested again. The police-minded could be senselessly brutal. They were ugly and unpleasant and cruel and dishonest. They would say that I was unnatural. Yet there was seldom anything good of nature in them. Their persistent emotion was envy and their central quality was cowardice. Even that which was supposed to be their courage was a manifestation of their cowardice. They could endure because they were afraid to rebel.

Still, they were necessary. One day I might go up to a policeman as a girl and ask the way. He might say ‘Madam’. That would be delicious.

I got out the black skirt. It was simple and sharp. I had picked a black skirt and black shoes and black raincoat because I did not want brightly coloured clothes that would make me conspicuous. I could buy flashy clothes after I had gained confidence. Black was a safe colour—much favoured by lady spies. Ordinary green and ordinary brown were the colours to be avoided. Lamp-post green looked like nothing, and fawn gave the impression that a girl was courted by a man who wore bicycle clips.

I stepped into the skirt and drew it up. Putting my slip into it as I got it up was pleasant. There were many small sensuous pleasures in being a woman. It was tight at the waist and I had to pull to fasten the button at the side. I pulled up the zip. It fitted me smartly.

The two blouses were brightly coloured. One was vermilion and the other was deep pink. The pink one had a large rounded collar. It was more feminine than the red one. It smelt fresh and new as I was putting it on. I fastened the buttons behind me and tucked it into my skirt, running my fingers round to make it smooth.

I was dressed completely and correctly as a woman.

The pink of the blouse was a warm colour. My black slip did not show through. Perhaps it would in a strong light. I had not thought of that. It was getting dark in the room with the curtains drawn. I went and switched on the light.

I returned to the mirror. I wished that I had a lipstick, and some eye shadow, and a pair of ear studs, and a bracelet for my wrist.

But I had money and I could buy the little things I wanted. Everything would be perfect. When my hair grew I would be able to pass for a girl. I had no doubt that I could do it. The difficulty would be in overcoming the nervousness. Setting out would be like walking on a narrow plank over an abyss. Yet other people had walked over that abyss on high-heeled shoes. I could do it.

I said, ‘My name is Wendy. Wendy Ross.’

I would have to speak softly and sound my voice from the front of my mouth.

I tried again, this time attempting a Cottingham accent. ‘My name is Wendy. The rain was dreadful this morning. . . .’

I stood before the mirror for a long time, talking all sorts of nonsense to myself to practise my new voice. It sounded feminine enough—if a little deep—but I could not be sure.

It was after I had looked at the nightdresses and started to clear away the wrappings that were strewn about that I discovered a parcel that I had not opened. It must be the raincoat. I decided to leave it.

I undressed and put on the white brassière and a pair of the briefs that were for wearing under my slacks. Then I dressed myself up as a boy, flat chested and ordinary. Wearing an empty brassière was not pleasant.

On the landing I met Peter. He was going into his room but he stopped when he saw me.

‘What have you been doing today?’ he asked. ‘Have you been out looking for a job?’

‘I went for an interview this morning.’

‘How did you get on?’

‘They said they’d let me know.’

‘That doesn’t sound too good.’ Then he said, ‘You’re looking very pale. Do you feel all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look it. You look washed out.’