Tranford Tales - Mary

Warning! Cynic ahead!

CHAPTER 1

If I'd known I would never have had kids. But you don't, and like millions of other young couples we were suckered into it.

It's not babies. I love babies. I loved being pregnant, breast-feeding and toddlers. I quite enjoyed what we did to get them.

But when they go to school, that should be it. Teenagers should definitely not be allowed.

At least when they get to eighteen or so you expect them to go off and you can have a life again, like we did for our parents. Now I know why my parents were so happy.

Fat chance! Modern kids don't do that. And they're allowed to have all sorts of "issues" to deal with. Not parents, of course. We just have to manage however unreasonable things get.

Thankfully our son Simon went off to university and met a girl so they fell into the "own place to live" trap and even into the baby trap, including starting a second one before discovering the toddler time called the "terrible twos". (Spoiler alert - it lasts to the terrible teens.)

I really felt I should have warned them, but was so desperately glad to have one large lump out of the house, that I persuaded myself they wouldn't believe me. I prayed for my daughter Chrissie to do the same.

Instead she went to the local art college and continued to live at home, which became a hotel for a succession of unsuitable boys.

In all kindness, when she had her heart broken, I told her it was better to forget about men and concentrate on being Prime Minister, or possibly something useful, preferably involving leaving home. Nevertheless she persisted.

In hindsight, the best was Dominic. He was a useless thing who lived with us for over year without any sign of paid employment. The art college had somehow faded away, and they were both on the dole. Her issues helped to keep jobs away. I don't know what Dominic's secret was, other than being totally useless. He was quite intelligent, but only seemed proficient in pointless knowledge. He and Chrissie were as one in being blind to things on the floor which should be picked up and put away.

God knows how the two of the filled the day. Although I think sleeping occupied quite a lot. And disposing of what was supposed to be the key part of two meals for four in the fridge when I was out actually earning a living.

I say the best - he was useless but harmless, and he kept my daughter sexually satisfied without causing any babies. For that I was grateful. (She was welcome to babies, but not here. Move out first, that's the law.)

Then she dumped him, because he was boring. And found men who were not boring but hurtful.

Leading to more "issues", pills and therapies. Having plenty of time to brood, she came up with a new thing to be a victim of, and implicitly blame me. It was called gender dysphoria.

She wanted to be a man. Called Clive.

I had to restrain myself from giving her a good slap.

I decided it was one of her fancies that would peter out. The expensive school that she begged for, but didn't like. The musical instruments and lessons. Art college. Different things to protest about. Daft ideas for going into business.

I told her I didn't mind her being a lesbian - it was quite fashionable. Wouldn't that be good enough? Sharing a flat somewhere? But messing with your body had to be dangerous. And anyway, what about all the clothes and makeup? She had even posted a few things on YouTube giving makeup tips with the (unfulfilled) expectation of getting millions of followers. Her room and the bathroom were littered with nail varnishes of every hue.

And she'd had sex with a great many more men than me. I didn't tell her, but I had slightly envied the number of cocks she'd had. My score was 2 and only just. I hadn't been unfaithful, but sometimes I'd wondered how different it might be. And purely as sex objects a couple of her boyfriends would have suited me. Not for any other purpose, but you know...

That didn't go down well. As usual, I didn't understand anything, unlike her dad - who just said "OK, if you like," to anything, which is not my definition of understanding.

CHAPTER 2

There had been no consideration of my feelings, of course. I was shocked and embarrassed in equal amounts. Like most parents, I had bigged up my kids' limited achievements, so people knew of my talented artistic daughter, and expected to hear of her triumphant career. I did not tell them that I had now had two sons, though I used the new name Clive and pronoun with him (see) as much as I could remember at home.

You hear about these things, of course, and make whatever comment is polite in the company you're in. With my daughter I had, of course, murmured tolerance towards LGBT along with ending global warming and saving the whales. So long as it doesn't actually affect you, I'm all for these things.

Privately, I thought it was nonsense. Males and females are made that way, otherwise we'd none of us be here. Men were men and women were women, unless they were born with some abnormality and misidentified of course.

I can understand why some women would want to be men if it was possible, but it isn't. Whatever they do is a fake.

And I see why some men think it would be great to be women, but that's because they don't understand what's really involved. It's hard work and painful for quite a bit of the time. Dressing up is just playing.

Naturally this was an "issue" that got counselling and encouraging support. She, I mean he (no I don't), got hormones and grew a stupid little moustache. We bought a rowing machine for our new man to develop his shoulders to look more masculine. It lasted no longer than the guitar.

The bust was a bit of a giveaway, of course. He had to bind it before going out, but still was a long way from convincing. Ultimately they would be cut off at his (=parents') expense. The NHS doesn't usually do that.

It is fair to say that I was a bit tetchy for another reason. The menopause was making me hot and bothered, rotting my brain so that I seemed stupid at work, and making me so unattractive that my husband had given up wanting to go to bed with me, so slept in Simon's old bedroom.

It wasn't the actual sex as much as being needed. Having a man climb on top because he had to. I wished I could complain about the weight and the mess again.

I really didn't need a child who wasn't actually doing anything useful demanding sympathy, and implying blame for having made her the wrong sex, when I was already knackered at the end of a day's work. And I was annoyed at her giving up what I was missing.

As a mother does with everything, I came to terms with the situation practically, and covered up the emotional strain, trying to support Clive in his change, as the months went on.

There was a little bit of sympathy when I attended a counselling session to be told that the effect of his medication was something like the menopause. And a bit of "serves you right!" that I would never admit. And sadness at what was being done to the body and face we had once had fun with dressing and trying makeup.

Of course, there was even less chance of his getting paid employment in this stage, with the slightly odd appearance and mental issues.

It turns out you have to "live in the chosen gender" for two years before they'll start cutting bits off. Well, I hadn't seen a lot of difference between unemployed Chrissie loafing around the house in tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt and unemployed Clive loafing around the house in tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt. How would he/she prove it?

Ta-da! Facebook! Unknown to me, "Clive" had well-established creds on social media, plus a note in the Job Centre "Preferred name Clive". So it was all go. Hormones and the waiting list for surgery.

I was resigned to the situation and had got my stress level down to seething when something else happened.

CHAPTER 3

"Darling," said my husband of 32 years, a word which immediately aroused suspicion. What had he lost/broken/spent now?

"I think I really understand Clive."

Yeah, like he really understood how to fix the washing machine, I suppose.

"We've got a lot in common, really."

"Half the genes, I should hope," I said waspishly. "Unless you managed to slip someone else's sperms into me when I wasn't paying attention."

"No, yes, I mean."

He went red with embarrassment, which I took as a good sign, but unfortunately it wasn't.

"I mean this transgender thing."

"You what?!"

"I've been talking with him, and I think I might be in the wrong gender as well."

"For fuck's sake, say you're joking!"

"No, really. I've been reading about it, and want to get in touch with my feminine side. Clive's let me try on some of her, his, her old clothes, and I really liked it. Could I do it at home some time?"

Of course we had both been reading about gender dysphoria, and I laughed when it said there were a lot of older men who liked to put on a frock. The male menopause, I suppose. I never for a moment guessed.

I had just about been holding up with Chrissie/Clive. Couldn't he just have waited?

He had a nervous smile.

Which I slapped really hard.

It was the best thing that I had done for months.

He collapsed on the sofa, legs apart, his bollocks temptingly available.

I am just too gentle. I didn't punch them, though I still wish I had.

I think he guessed my thoughts as he quickly moved to turn the target away.

"Fuck you all!" I said, which was the second best thing that day.

"I'm not doing anything for either of you. Fuck off and leave me alone!"

I grabbed the bottle of gin, and went to the bedroom. There's no lock, so I pushed a bedside table against it.

And cried my heart out. I didn't actually drink any gin - the first evening I hadn't for years.

They both came in turn with hesitant knocks and "Mum" or "Darling". I quite liked shouting "Fuck off!" in response.

Eventually I had to go out to the toilet. Outside the door was a cold cup of tea and a cheese sandwich. I was a bit hungry and thirsty, so I had them. It was the wrong sort of pickle in the sandwich.

After all this time of me looking after them, they couldn't even get that right!

Eventually I went downstairs.

"Shut up!" was my greeting to both of them.

There in the living room was the evidence.

The bastards had ordered a pizza!

Without me to serve them, they had given themselves a treat!

While I was upstairs with a broken heart!

I made a decent cup of tea, burnt some toast, had to scrape it because it was the last of the bread, put on some cheese and pickle, ostentatiously leaving the Branston pickle jar out, and sat in front of the TV and pretended to watch a documentary programme about building a tube line.

Not a good night, and I looked awful at work. All I would say was "the family". Natalie took me for a burger for lunch, instead of our usual modest salad.

So I had another one on my way home and announced that they would have to get their own dinner and if they ordered a takeaway my ex-husband's model aircraft would not survive.

Of course, I'm a mother, so by the end of the week I had started to put things right for the interlopers in my house.

I couldn't even withdraw sexual favours, since he'd done that to me already.

Yes, I just had to get on with it. Not allowed to have issues.

CHAPTER 4

Clive had gone out to see some friends, bound chest, stupid moustache and all.

It was time for a talk with the person formerly known as my husband.

"OK, Lucy Loveless, tell me about your feminine side."

"How did you know I was Lucy?"

For fuck's sake! He's already got a female name!

"Women's intuition," I said.

And I thought he'd been drooling over Xena, Warrior Princess, like any normal husband, when he actually wanted to be her!

I actually smiled. Well mate, good luck with that, seeing where you're starting from.

He misunderstood my inner joke.

"So it's all right then? I can dress up a bit, and you'll call me Lucy sometimes?"

"Even better," I said sweetly, "I'll actually do your gender confirmation this evening with the sharp knife!"

He went pale, which was good.

"No, I don't want surgery. Just to put on clothes and makeup if you wouldn't mind."

"Of course I mind!" I said, so loudly that the neighbours would know something was up, so I concentrated on keeping my voice down.

"It was bad enough when you stopped fancying me, and then Chrissie started this Clive rubbish. Now I wonder if you ever wanted me at all. How long have you been gay?"

He looked uncomfortable, and I wondered how he would look if I gave his balls a good squeeze. Just thought about it. No real intention.

"I haven't. I mean, I wasn't, I mean I'm not. It's just with Chrissie's transgender stuff I saw some pictures of men in women's clothes with their wives, and thought how nice it would be to be like that with you. I talked it over with her, I mean him, and she actually sorted some things, and I found I did like it. I just didn't want to be secret and I didn't want to hurt you."

I seethed for a while.

Then I fumed.

"Well you bloody well failed there! I don't know if I'll ever recover. But Chrissie's going to go through surgery whatever I say, so we've got to stand by her however much I disagree."

Then a thought came. Was there a tiny ray of sunshine?

"So being in a dress really turns you on? Do you need frilly panties to get it up these days? Do you toss yourself off in secret?"

I was thinking if that was what it took, it might be a small price to pay for the resumption of marital activity. It might not be normal service, but at least it would be service.

"Oh no," he said, shaking his head. "Not like that. I just feel all calm and nice. Womanly."

And he gave what he must have thought was winning smile.

You've got fuck-all idea of being a woman, I thought. Shame you've forgotten how to be a man.

"I see," is all I said.

"Well, just don't flaunt yourself in front of me for a while, and let me know if you start dating. And for fuck's sake don't let the neighbours see."

I was not a happy bunny at work that week.

Then when I dragged myself home on Friday evening, who should be there to greet me but bloody useless Dominic!

It never rains but it pours!

I was dealing with the burdens of both my daughter and husband. I didn't need this, and what was he here for anyway?

"Hello, Dominic," I said. "Flying visit?" (Some hopes)

Before he could answer, I added "Where are you working these days?"

It was no surprise when he said he didn't have a position at the moment.

I feared he had come for the weekend, but it was worse.

"He's come to stay to give me emotional support," explained Clive.

Cheeky cow! I thought. What have I been trying to do? And after the way you treated him? She thinks the world revolves around her and her emotions.

"Well, I'm sure we can stretch tonight's stew for one more," I said, and Clive looked a bit guilty.

"Oh, that pot. He came a bit early and we had it for lunch."

"Just the two of you?" was my rhetorical question.

"Never mind, I'll fix something. How long will you be staying?"

"Until he's fully recovered from the surgery and as long as necessary afterwards," came the cheery answer.

"Oh well, it's your room, Clive," I said.

"He can't stay with me now!" came the offended reply.

"I put my stuff in Simon's room," said the smiling Dominic.

I looked at him.

The poor bastard, I thought. There's only one reason he's come running. He really loves her. And she chucked away the one man who treated her decently. Now he's come back to help her step further away from him. It's tragic.

I felt a certain affinity with him. Yes he was a useless lump, but he was a nice one, and I was truly sorry for him. As I was sorry for me, actually.

I was going to tell him to sleep on the sofa, but I didn't. My ex-husband and I would share a bed again and put up with it, as parents have to do.

At least I was familiar with the routine. Dominic had previously given me good reason to reject his offer to wash his own clothes, and I knew that entire packets of certain foods would vanish without warning.

It also gave us parents the chance and inevitable practice of talking (quietly) in bed. About Clive, and Lucy. After a week I was no happier, but better informed.

Clive was definitely happier with Dominic there, and passed what was the final psychological consultation before being committed to surgery. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

CHAPTER 5

It was on Thursday that Dominic invited us out for lunch on Saturday. It was a pub he knew of, about an hour's drive away. I suspected an ulterior motive, but never suspected what it was.

It was a place called the Tranford Arms, quite a nice old-fashioned one which had been surrounded by some kind of new estate, although fairly tasteful. It was a bit early, so we had a walk around, and popped into the community centre to use the toilet.

We were greeted by an old person in a working smock, but who looked like a man. He sounded like a man, but maybe it was like an agricultural thing. He pointed us the way and also a map of what was called Tranford village. There were amateur notices for a dance, a conducted walk in a nature reserve and some committees and items for sale etc.

It was a typical middle-class Saturday morning. Washing cars, gardening, walking dogs or just going somewhere. Not much traffic, and it looked like a nice quiet place to live.

People were starting to arrive so we went into the pub and were given a table by a friendly red-headed waitress. She gave us the menu and pointed out the day's specials.

"All made to order," she said, "so give us some time. It's just me in the kitchen for lunch. Alf will deal with drinks and any extras," nodding towards the barman.

It certainly looked like a nice traditional pub and lunch.

"I live not far from here," Dominic explained. (Which I correctly guessed meant his parents' house. I imagined their delight when he left to live with us, and their disappointment when it didn't last.)

"I live in Tranbrook, which is a suburb of the city. This is Tranford, formerly a little village just outside. I like it, and I thought you might."

It was a nice lunch, and a good atmosphere. No piped music, just a mixed crowd of people chatting.

We had finished and I was expecting to pay. Dominic was looking at his watch, then he suddenly stood up and waved to someone by the door. A young man with a beard came over and was invited to join us. He got a drink from the bar while Dominic got him a chair.

"This is my friend Jerry," he said, and introduced us.

"He lives in Tranford, so if there's anything you want to know, just ask."

We were a bit puzzled, so I asked what he did.

"I'm a lawyer," he said. "Contracts, not the courts, so not very exciting I'm afraid."

"So what's special about Tranford?"

"Well, nothing really. Pleasant but boring. It's sort of the point."

"Maybe Clive would be interested in the fact that I was christened Geraldine."

He waited.

"You mean?" began Clive.

"Yes this is a place where quite a few of the people are not the gender they were assigned at birth, or don't choose to present that way. Some have had surgery, some have not. Some just dress or do hair and makeup. At least a third of the people in the room, I would say. Some you wouldn't know. Some it's pretty obvious, but the nice thing about Tranford is that nobody minds."

"There are a lot of couples who are really just a man and woman, but one or both didn't start out that way. They just want to live quiet normal lives."

"And people who might not always be one or the other, gays and just tolerant people who like the village."

Now I looked I could see that some of the women were probably not, though doing well to carry it off.