Prologue

My name is Wendy. The rain was dreadful this morning. My name is Wendy. Does this bus go to the city centre? My name is Wendy. I am twenty-one years old. I am not married. I haven’t got a boy friend. I haven’t got a job at present. I am living on some money that my mother left me. She died. Actually, she was killed. She had an accident with an electric tooth-brush. It was a terrible shock. Please don’t pull my hair. Would that yellow dress in the window fit me? Have you got the same style in blue? I want to buy a handbag. I want a red cocktail dress with a square cut front. Excuse me, constable, this man is annoying me. He seems to want to pull my hair. I think he’s jealous. I can’t do shorthand or typing, but I could learn. Could you tell me the way to the Ladies’, please? I am Wendy. My mother and I lived in Cottingham. My father was a professional soldier. He was a colonel in the Green Howards—no, he was in the Coldstream Guards. That’s why I’ve grown up tall. His name isn’t in the Army Lists—because—because—because I’m a liar. Actually, he was an artist, a painter. He was a most wonderful man, but he never made any money. He was a lamb. My mother never really recovered from his death—she never really recovered from her own death. I’m all that’s left. I’m a girl, Wendy, just a helpless girl, alone in the world on high-heels. I love heels. I’m a girl. When I was born the doctor went to my father and said, ‘It’s a girl.’ My father was overjoyed. He always wanted a daughter. I’m his daughter—or I was when he was alive. I often think how lucky I am to be a girl. This is my skirt and my blouse and my shoes and my stockings and all the things I can’t tell you about. I’m very prim. That’s why I don’t want to go on the stage. I’m Wendy. I now have two nightdresses. I now have four pairs of stockings. One of my nightdresses is red and the other is black. I’m going to get them out and have a look at them in a minute. I’m sure they’ll be lovely. I love nice things. Tonight I’m going to sleep in a nightdress—the black one, I think. Don’t you wish you had two nightdresses like mine? I chose the most romantic ones in the catalogue. They arrived this morning. Would you like to wear a black nightdress? You can’t. I won’t permit it. It belongs to me. It is mine. A girl has to be careful of all sorts of things. On wash day I have to keep a look out in case some kinky boy comes and steals some of my undies off the line. I think every­body is going mad nowadays. Boys wanting to be girls! I can understand a girl wanting to be a boy, but I can’t under­stand a boy wanting to be a girl. But I suppose there are a lot of things one doesn’t understand when one comes from Cottingham. Actually, I used to live in Cottingham. It was very quiet. On Sunday mornings I used to go to church with my mother. I’ve always believed in God. I think it’s best to be on the safe side. Imagine being attacked by a man! My mother and I used to go to church in white gloves carrying white hymn books—we wore the rest of our clothes, of course. I love wearing clothes. Church on Sunday mornings was very nice. They were all very nice people there. It was nice to wear nice clothes and be in church. No one played the trombone in the vestry and I never got my hair pulled. Mother and I lived very quietly after father died. He was the noisy one. He used to get terribly drunk and fight—artists are like that, you know. Once a man came and said something horribly insulting to me—I can’t tell you what it was—and my father gave him a fearful thrashing. My father wasn’t always terribly civilised. But one has to make allowances for men. They wear such dismal clothes that they have to do violent things occasionally to keep themselves from going crazy. It must be dreadful to be a man. I’m very glad that I’m a girl. My name is Wendy. Wendy Ross.