One for the Team Ch. 02

Chapter Two - The Inner Sanctum

September 1984

Charles lived with the veiled threat made by Robert Fellows that he knew Charles' secret, whatever that meant; but Robert didn't bring it up again over the ensuing days and Charles was just too busy to ruminate over it as the days turned into weeks.

Besides the hours he devoted to class and studies, his compulsory extracurricular activities took up most of his spare time. There was rugby training three times a week and Charles had become quite adept at the game and as Robert had predicted became a useful winger. Charles was also a Private in the school cadet corps and paraded one night a week and attended weekend bivouacs once a month.

He was not really interested in marching up and down the square or playing squaddie, it reminded him of a Monty Python sketch in a newly released movie. That said, he became quite a capable member of his platoon and was promised a promotion to Corporal or possibly even Sergeant if he stayed in the corps as a middle houseman when enrolment in the school cadet corps became elective rather than compulsory.

Any spare time Charles had was spent fagging for Robert Fellows, the housemaster of Bridge House, who enjoyed the luxury of a dorm room that resembled a small apartment. Charles was required to keep it clean and tidy, clean the housemaster's shoes and boots, press his clothes and run errands for him.

This left Charles little time to present as Charlotte but she appeared at least twice a week. Because the compulsion was so strong he would sacrifice precious sleep to spend hours dressed as Charlotte in the privacy of his dorm. Lack of sleep led to the occasional faux pas and one day he was close to dozing during a particularly boring lecture when he noticed little half-moons of nailpolish on his cuticles and once when washing his hands after using the lavatory he saw the remains of eyeliner on his lower eyelids in the mirror.

He and William Larkin continued their friendship and although there was little time for socialising, being in the same house meant they were often together at house functions where the lower housemen were used as cheap labour, setting up, serving drinks and cleaning up after, but as the school year progressed the middle and upper housemen let up on them a little and allowed them to participate in house activities. After all they needed to pass on the Bridge House traditions to the next generation of housemen.

Charles found that he and William were alike in not only being small and slender in stature, they often affected the same mannerisms. William spoke with lisp and had rather a high voice, Charles noted that William often seemed to be appraising the older youths during sports and wondered if he might be gay. There was an undercurrent of homosexuality at the school. It was never spoken about but some of the older boys seemed to be on very friendly terms with some of the lower housemen, especially the more epicene.

Robert Fellows continued to bully Charles, issuing him rips for menial or imagined breaches of the rules which caused Charles to work even harder as part of his punishment. The only time he seemed pleased with Charles was when they were on the rugby field. Charles became a prolific try scorer. Being fast, agile and slender he had the ability to outrun his opponents, break tackles, and set up tries.

During a close game against their arch rivals Harrow College, Chelmsford College were down by ten points at halftime and the boys sat in the dressing rooms dejected, catching their breath, guzzling water and eating quartered oranges.

"We have to score first after halftime," Robert growled.

"Pay attention; I have a plan," he stalked up to the blackboard and picked up the chalk.

"Their defence is almost impenetrable but I've noticed they tend to use a blitz rather than a sliding defence to defend their tryline hoping to win the ball in the ruck."

"Ward... I need you to take one for the team," Robert's eyes drilled into Charles.

Charles simply nodded. The opposition forwards were big men and their backs were not that much smaller, the team relied on brute force rather that agility.

"I want you wide on the wing at the twenty-five yard line ready to take the pass. But I don't want you to run full-bore zig zagging past the first line of defence."

This was how Charles had scored two tries in the match already but the opposition had figured out his tactics and effectively shut him down.

"I want you to run down the sideline at three-quarter pace to draw in the defensive line to you in as a pack. You, Steven, will be at outside centre and at the last second Ward will flick you a pass enabling you to run around the pack and score," Robert drew the little circles and crosses on the chalkboard to depict the manoeuvre.

"Those Harrow lads will chew Charles up when they make the tackle," someone at the back of the room mumbled.

"Who said that?" Robert scrutinised the assembled team for the dissenter.

The team remained silent.

The teams took to the field after half-time and as soon as Chelmsford got to Harrow's defensive line they made the play.

Winning the scrum, the fly-half got the ball out to Charles on the wing who slowed his usual lightning speed to a canter which Harrow's defence saw as a weakness they could exploit. Their middle opened up as the defensive line swarmed at him and at the last second Charles threw a pass inside to Steven Belfour-Brown at outside centre. The defence hit Charles like an express train and he felt the wind knocked out him and then an aggregation of pain as fists, shoulders and boots crashed into his body driving him to the ground in a sea of agony.

Charles lay on the turf under a pile of hard heavy bodies, barely conscious but he smiled when he heard the referee blow his whistle indicating that Steven Belfour-Brown had scored under the posts.

When the melee finally got off him he lay dazed on the ground and his teammates came over to him to see how he had fared. The waterboy came over with the 'magic sponge' and splashed water on his face while two of his teammates dragged him to his feet.

"Great play Charles," Steven Belfour-Brown came over with a wide grin on his face.

The fullback kicked the goal and the team reset for the kick-off. Charles was visibly limping when he took up his position. He lagged in the play, his body battered and bruised and several of his teammates told him to go off the ground injured but he refused.

Chelmsford were about to set up for a lineout at Harrow's twenty-five yard line when Robert Fellows called out to make the play again from the next ruck.

"Fuck off Robert; they'll kill him," Steven Belfour-Brown called out.

"Make the fucking play!" Robert snarled.

Charles took up position wide on the opposite wing and the ball passed through many hands and found him. This time he didn't need to pretend to run at half speed, it was all he could do. The men of the defensive line wanted revenge and were determined to crush him before he could pass.

Charles made the pass a split second before he felt a crushing weight and felt something popping in his shoulder and then he blacked out. He woke up on a stretcher on the sideline and despite being ordered to the infirmary he watched the end of the game. Chelmsford won by six points.

Charles was taken to the infirmary for a full check-up and had to remain overnight for observation for the concussion he had suffered. Most of the team visited him and congratulated him on his courage which had won them the game.

William Larkin visited him that evening bringing chocolates and pop.

"Christ Charles; the whole school is talking about your two tries and the sacrificial runs you made up the wing," William plonked himself down on the edge of the cot.

"The soccer team won two nil too. I saved a penalty," William grinned.

Robert Fellows came into the infirmary the next day and issued Charles a rip for failing to attend the morning dorm inspection.

Charles expected nothing else.

The nurse gave Charles a physical examination the next morning and issued him a chit excusing him from PT, rugby training and cadet parades for five days due to the injuries he had sustained. He was given the morning off to recuperate. Monday morning was a slow day for Charles anyway. After breakfast and dorm inspection he was programmed to attend lectures and then finish the morning with PT which for him usually meant a cross-country run.

He ambled back to his dorm and found the door wide open. Because he had failed to stand outside his dorm and report it for Monday morning inspection the housemaster had opened the door with his master key. He'd found Charles' room immaculate but had flew into a rage and scattered Charles' possessions around the room.

Charles gingerly picked up his chattels and cleaned up the mess. He sat at his desk and sighed, opening a text book to study the lecture he was missing. He flicked through a few pages and then something caught his eye. The doors at the top his wardrobe were ajar. Charles paled and wincing with pain he got out of his seat and locked the door and opened the wardrobe doors wide.

His suitcases had been moved; someone had taken them down and then put them back. He took down the two cases that held his 'civilian clothing' and put them aside and then he took down the case that held Charlotte's things.

The locks had been sprung and he carefully opened it. Lying on top of Charlotte's accoutrements was a rip. Written in Robert Fellows' handwriting were the words: 'As you are excused evening parade you are to report to the Bridge House common room ensuring you are neat and clean as you should have been for this morning's inspection. Bring this suitcase.'

He rummaged through the suitcase but the search was to no avail; his copy of Trans Sexcretary was missing

*****

Charles spent the rest of the day terrified. It was obvious that Robert Fellows knew his secret; he had told him so the night of his house initiation but now he knew for certain, the evidence was damning. William Larkin joined him at lunch and dinner and he was still upbeat about Charles' performance of the rugby field, so were most of his housemates who congratulated him on being instrumental in the win.

Charles could hardly eat, his mind wandered during lectures and he was quiet and withdrawn which William put down to Charles' concussion.

After dinner Charles returned to his dorm, and as instructed, he forewent the cadet parade and used the toilet, took a bath, shaved, ironed a clean shirt and dressed in a clean school uniform. He took down the suitcase that held Charlotte inside it, took a deep breath, and headed for the stairs. If it hadn't been such a cold evening he would likely have been sweating, not so much from the weight of the suitcase but from trepidation. He could hear orders being shouted out on the parade ground by young men playing at soldiers; the commands sounded almost ghostly as they echoed down the stone corridors.

He met no one, all the junior housemen were on parade and middle and upper housemen were either in their dorms or their house common rooms. Charles approached the Bridge House common room with fear and apprehension.

There was a sign taped to the door: Closed for Council Meeting. He knocked on the door.

"Come," Robert Fellows deep voice beckoned.

Charles opened the door and as it swung open the hinges moaned; almost a vocalisation of the dread he felt.

The common room was empty except for the housemaster, an almost unheard of situation unless there was a House council meeting. The House council was purportedly elected by the House to support the faculty appointed housemaster. The fact that the three current members were Robert's cronies and rugby teammates didn't raise an eyebrow; no one expected a fair election, the housemaster wanted a council who supported and rubber-stamped his every decision. Every House at Chelmsford College was the same.

"Ah, Charles, welcome. Put your little suitcase over there and come sit," Robert's faux friendliness was disconcerting.

He was wearing tracksuit pants and a longsleeved t-shirt, definitely not house attire but who was here to chastise him? He would have been freezing except for the roaring fire behind his ornate, almost throne-like chair.

"Come and sit here and let's have a chat," he pointed to a hard-backed chair set up in front of him.

Charles knees nearly gave way on him as he made his way to the chair; his body still ached from the pounding he had taken on the rugby field. As he sat he once again noted Robert Fellows' chiselled features, his perfectly coiffed hair, a little long with the sweeping fringe that accented his deep blue eyes. He was incredibly handsome and he knew it.

"You did a half decent job on the field yesterday Ward but we're not here to talk about that," Robert said with some finality.

"We're here to talk about this," Robert picked up a VCR tape and turned it over slowly in his fingers.

Charles stomach swooped and if he had eaten any dinner he surely would have bought it up. He just hung his head and remained silent.

"You know it's against College rules to have pornography on campus," he continued to twirl the damning tape in his hands.

Of course every lad in College had a stash of pornography. While cleaning Robert Fellows' room Charles had found a stack of Mayfair and Fiesta magazines and once he had seen the cover of a VHS tape on top of Robert's VCR player titled Naughty Maids depicting a woman dressed as a French maid impaled on a huge phallus. It was an open secret that students hoarded pornography and besides, young men cooped up in a male-only environment needed relief.

Charles just nodded.

"Interesting movie by the way; the House Council found it intriguing too," Robert grinned at him and reached for his cigarettes.

Charles thought he was going to faint.

"Don't worry; we can keep a secret. We have many secrets," Robert lit two cigarettes and handed one to Charles.

Charles seldom smoked but took the offered cigarette and drew deeply on it.

"Funny how us Brits call cigarettes fags... and you're also a fag aren't you? You're my fag," Robert blew on the tip of his cigarette making the red ember glow in the gloom.

"Do you know what fag also means?"

"It is a synonym for tired or exhausted," Charles croaked.

"Now you're just being coy. Our American cousins use the word as slang for something else don't they?"

Charles remained silent and took a puff on his cigarette.

"Anyway; we're disappearing down rabbit holes," Robert smirked.

"My father, Grange Fellows, is a member of Brooks's, which is a gentlemen's club on St James's Street. It is one of the oldest and most exclusive gentlemen's clubs in London."

"But I'm telling you nothing you don't already know because Reginald Ward, your father, is a member of the same club. Isn't that interesting?"

"Do you know that your father and my father are friends Charles? Isn't that a coincidence? Our fathers are friends and we're at the same college and we're friends too... well sort of. You're more my servant than my friend."

Robert placed the video tape on the table and slid it across in front of Charles.

"Your father was in his cups one night at the club and told my father, in strictest confidence of course, that he had found his youngest son dressed up as a girl. Isn't that interesting?"

"No need to answer; the question is rhetorical."

"Anyway... he told my father that he had sent his son to a university college that was very strict and disciplined. It was going to make a man out of him he said. My father, who is usually quite discreet, passed on the little titbit of information to me when I was home at the end of last term... sort of warning me to be on the lookout for a pansy who might need a little manning-up so to speak."

"I thought I'd done a pretty good job too. Your grades are excellent and you are highly regarded by the Cadet Under-Officers, silly chaps playing toy soldiers if you ask me, and you have become a very useful rugby player."

"But then I find that," Robert pointed accusingly at Charles' suitcase.

"I've often wondered what the fascination is with dressing up like a girl. Don't get me wrong; it's a fine English tradition. Dressing up in women's clothing has long been a custom in the theatre, amongst certain effeminate types, and even the odd MP has been known to slip into a pair of knickers and stockings when it takes their fancy."

"But then we looked at that tape. It seems that you not only like to slip into a skirt and blouse, slap on the paint and put on a wig, you seem to like a little bit of sodomy," Robert grinned evilly.

"No! I don't! I just use the video for stimulation, just like you look at those women on the tapes in your dorm, dressed in lingerie and being shagged," Charles face turned scarlet as he retaliated.

"Be that as it may. Bring along your little suitcase and follow me. The council wants to see why you are so fascinated with women's clothes," Robert arose from his throne and beckoned Charles to follow.

"Be a good chap and take the sign off the door first will you?"

Charles took the 'closed' sign off the door to the common room and then followed Robert through a door in back partially hidden behind a hinged bookcase. He had never been here before and followed Robert down a gloomy brick corridor and then down an even gloomier stone staircase where they came to a heavy door bound with sturdy old iron fittings. Robert inserted a key into the lock and the tumblers clicked ominously in the silence.

"The House council's inner sanctum," Robert said over his shoulder.

"You should feel privileged to be here; very few housemen ever get invited," he said as he opened the door, ushered Charles inside and then locked the door behind them.

The sanctum looked cavernous with its brick walls and granite flagging. There were no windows but the walls were decorated with the house flag, plaques and rich deep-burgundy and gold brocaded curtains. Expensive and ornate Indian fukari rugs gave relief from the cold stone floor; the furniture consisted of a series of red velour couches and recliners, black marble tables and brass standard lamps that gave the place a feeling of opulence, an open fireplace with a black wrought-iron fire guard and matching toolset commanded one corner.

The other three members of the of house council lay sprawled around the room, a bottle of expensive scotch whisky in a crystal decanter sat on one of the low tables and the council all held drinks in their hands. Steven Belfour-Brown and Wayne Jenkins were engaged in a heated conversation while Brian Nichol read a newspaper. They turned briefly to watch their housemaster enter the room and then went back to their conversation.

Charles had heard of this place but he believed its existence a myth. He was proved wrong.

"Follow me," Robert parted a floor-to-ceiling brocaded curtain and they stopped behind it.

"That's the privy," he pointed at a door that was nowhere near as ornate as the rest of the room.

"When you come out we want to see... what do you call yourself when you're dressed up as a girl?"

"I don't dress up; I become," Charles whispered but there was indignance in his voice.

"I become Charlotte. I transform," Charles bowed his head, embarrassed.

"Well goodbye Charles and hello Charlotte I suppose. Now run along and do what you do and let's see what all the fuss is about shall we?" Robert tapped him affectionately on the shoulder but Charles hated being talked down to like this.

There was some relief when he entered the privy and found that it had been converted into a modern bathroom with black and white tiled walls, a porcelain urinal, a toilet cubicle, a shower and a tiled bench with a sink and stainless steel fittings with a large mirror on the wall behind it. It was the antithesis of the common room and council's inner sanctum, being well lit, contemporary and functional.