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TIME GOES BY by Geneva Using an old magic book, his mother changes Francis to Frances to avoid call-up in WWII. Frances escapes her mother's domination, but accepts her new body and makes a new life for herself. Grace Rossi stared at the headlines in the morning newspaper. She had listened to Prime Minister Chamberlain's radio broadcast the night before and she had intended to scan the newspaper for any other developments, but although she tried to read, little sank in. She still felt numb. Her stomach twisted at the thought of war and she had to grip the table to stop her trembling. To be at war with Germany yet again! The Great War had cost so many lives. Even worse for her own family, although the Italians had been on the side of the British in the Great War, this time, with Mussolini's cooperation with the Germans in the Spanish war, Italy might end up on the other side of the conflict. If that happened, she worried that there might be resentment among the English about her own family. They were of Italian ancestry, although it was now three generations since her Santini grandparents had come to England, her late husband Franco's ancestors almost as long. Her older son Paul was already in the armed forces, the Navy, having decided on a career other than the family's traditional caf? business. His choice had caused some friction in the family, especially with his father, as Paul had been intended to take over the caf? business, but eventually Franco had come to terms with it. Her older daughter, Antonia, worked in the caf? business, as did her daughter Angela, but she thought of her younger son, Francis. He was young, almost finished grammar school, and would be certain to be called up if the war was not settled soon. He was a vigorous, energetic lad and had even joined his school cadet corps and had taken some drill and weapons' training. Francis was her favourite. She always felt a little guilty about this, but perhaps it was because he bore her late husband's name and, to be sure, he had been a beautiful child, with his dark hair, yet piercing blue eyes. Now he was a good looking young man. Her heart ached. How could she protect him if the war did not get settled soon? A spell of warm weather kept her busy in the shop. She could have let her daughters look after it, but she found her house depressing and confining after her husband's sudden death from a heart attack and she needed to be out and about and keep herself occupied. It was some months later, as the days shortened and the war dragged on - some people called it the "Phony War"- that business began to fall off and the problem of her son took up her mind again. Then the Germans invaded the "Low Countries," making a peace even more unlikely. Idly she flipped through the local paper. It had a series of articles on well known actors and actresses. This weekend's edition caught her interest, as it featured the actress Joanne Sandon. Grace felt some vicarious pride. Joanne was her sister, although when she took up her stage career she had adopted the name Sandon, rather than the family name Santini. The family did not talk about Joanne much, as there was a secret there. She knew that her grandmother, Angela, had used a magic spell from some old book to change her brother Jacopo into a girl, who eventually took the name Joanne. They had not talked about it for years, as the original idea for changing Jacopo had not gone entirely to plan. Grace had inherited the spell book after her mother Angela died, but was very careful about when she used it. She kept its existence secret, of course. She had not even told her late husband, only taking the book from its secure hiding place for desperate situations, but after he died she had told her two daughters about the book's power, but only after they had been sworn to absolute secrecy. One of them would eventually inherit the book. It was too dangerous to be used without a lot of caution. Magic was not supposed to exist. Grace mused how her brother had become her sister and then the family thought they had lost her. It turned out hat she had made a success of her life in the theatre and was eventually reconciled to the family. An idea began to form in Grace's mind. Just before her grandmother took her last illness she had taken Grace aside. "Graciela, I am getting old, and there is something you should have, the book of magic spells. I have watched you, and of all of my granddaughters growing up, I think you are the best to receive it." Grace had protested, of course, but her grandmother just held up a hand to silence her. "Don't talk nonsense, girl! I thought I had raised you better than that! All of us have to die and soon it will be my turn. Now, see here." She opened a tin box. Inside was a silk bag. She slowly unfastened the cord with her stiff fingers and pulled out an old book. "You see this, have a look at it." Grace had cautiously taken the book and opened it. It had writing in it, obviously handwritten, but she had shaken her head at it. "I can't read it, Grandma. It's not English, and the print is strange." Her grandmother took it from her and laid it out on the table at her bedside. "It's in German, or at least parts are, and in their Gothic writing. I had to learn a little German for it." She started to read, but Grace just shook her head. "Grandma, these sounds make no sense." "Well, my girl, these are comments, in German, about the contents of the pages on the opposite sides. You see these?" This time, as her grandmother sounded them out, it was obvious that even she was having difficulty with the words. The combinations of sounds were very strange. "You remember, I suppose, what happened to your brother Jacopo?" Grace had felt an involuntary shiver. Attending to several customers broke Grace's reverie, but when they left she began to think about the magic book again. Her grandmother had used it to change Jacopo into Joanne. Now, if Francis had been born a girl? Girls wouldn't be combatants in any war, would they? Some months later Grace listened in growing dread to the radio. Some announcer was talking about the miracle, that hundreds of thousands of British and even some French troops had been evacuated from some place called Dunkirk on the French coast. Grace shook her head. This was no victory, just an escape. She bristled at some Frenchman's derisive comments about Britain's future chances, but she was aware that there was a strong determination among the British to fight on. If so, Francis would eventually be called up. Grace made up her mind. She pushed aside some dishes on a shelf that covered her hiding place in the shop's wall and pulled out the tin box. She pried it open and there it was, her grandmother's ancient book. She knew it had powerful magic, yet it did not look like much, just a couple or dozen or so pages, written in a Gothic script. If pronounced, the words gave some strange sounds, unlike any language she had ever heard. She thought about the stressful times she had used it, once to help in her sister's difficult labour with her first child, another time to fix a hunchback of a cousin's child, various and other little things around the neighbourhood or among relatives, preferably where a sudden recovery might also be explained by natural causes. She ran through the worn pages until she got to the spell she was looking for. There was a description of the spell's effect, written in Gothic German on one side. On the opposite page were just a few dozen words, or at least she supposed the groups of consonants and vowels that made words. The whole lot could be read in less than a minute. Was she doing the right thing? But she thought of the dangers. The safety of her family came first. She slid the book into her apron. She would take it home, make some preparations, and use its powers. The problem was how to keep Francis still enough to use the spell. He would never sit still long enough for her to read the spell without him demanding to know what was going on. She supposed she would have to drug him. She would have to let her girls know what she intended. On thinking about it she decided she would use the spell at the weekend when her daughter Angela was to be away visiting a friend. Antonia was more under her thumb than Angela and would be less ready to protest her actions. Besides, a younger woman might be a good help selecting any new clothing. She began making a list of the women's clothes she would need. Getting the right sizes might be a problem, but she could take some measurements after the spell had done its work, just before the new girl woke up. She could make some of the new clothes, but she would need to buy others. She hoped she would be able to get everything she needed in the shops. Already there were scarcities and clothes rationing was being suggested. She would need a girl's name. Luckily Francis was easily changed to Frances and maybe the changes in Francis' birth certificate would not be noticed if she scuffed it about a bit. Now, how to drug him? Alcohol would be easiest, but he would notice. She remembered that she had been prescribed some sleeping pills for the disturbed nights when her husband had been in his last illness. Her book had many healing spells, but none had been effective against his illness. When she checked in her bathroom drawer she was relieved that she actually had some left. She hoped they would still be effective after the time they had lain there. She could slip enough to Francis in a drink to send him to sleep, and read the spell to him while he was unconscious. When Francis came home that afternoon he was in a good mood. He had scored well at rifle practice. She looked at him indulgently. "All right, Francis, that's enough bragging. Now come and have something to eat." Francis waved his hands excitedly as he described how he had scored in the competition, eating with his mouth full, despite her past attempts to teach him manners. He paused only to drink his coffee. Usually they drank tea, but she had made coffee, the better to disguise the taste of the drug. He frowned a little. "Mum, this coffee tastes funny." "Does it? How does it taste?" "A little bitter." "Oh well, don't waste it. Just put some more sugar in it." Francis tried that, but he still made a face. "Well, a bit better, but it's still funny." Grace watched as he downed the rest. "What are you doing tonight?" she asked, as casually as she could. "Fred and I thought of going to the pictures, but I'm not sure." He talked on a bit about his win then he screwed up his face and frowned. "Gosh, Mum, I feel funny all of a sudden. My eyes feel heavy." "Your stomach all right?" Grace asked, trying to put just a little maternal concern in her voice. "Yes," he yawned. "But I feel really tired." "Why don't you go upstairs and lie down for a while on your bed? I won't let you sleep too long, so you'll be able to sleep tonight." Grace heard his footsteps, unusually slow and heavy as he climbed the stairs. She gave him ten minutes and then looked in on him. Francis was sprawled face down on the bed, still in his clothes. She tiptoed downstairs and lifted the book from her handbag. "Antonia, come on," she whispered. "You have to help me now." Antonia was white faced. "Are you sure this will work? Are you sure it's the right thing to do?" "No, not completely sure," snapped Grace, "but he's young and healthy. He should be all right." They turned Francis over gently, but he was sound asleep and gave only a kind of sigh. They removed his pullover, shirt, trousers and socks. Grace opened the book and began to read the spell. Antonia's hand was at her mouth. Her face was white. "What now?" she asked through her tears. "Just watch." said Grace, "but maybe we should undress him more." They removed his underwear. Antonia was too frightened even to feel embarrassment at her brother's naked body. They watched as the spell began to take its effects. ..... When Frances slowly woke up after the spell had done its work and discovered that she was in a new body, a female one, she had been rapidly jolted to full consciousness. She went through a series of increasing shocks and terror as she felt over her body, discovering and experiencing the effects of the change. She screamed and whimpered at the first sight of the new body, the protrusions of the breasts on her chest, with their soft, yet firm feel, then desperately feeling, further down, discovering the drastic replacement of her male genitalia with its completely strange female openings. "Mum, what's happened?" she screamed to Grace. "I changed you into a girl," Grace said simply. Frances stared at her then almost went into hysterics, crying and screaming. There were the other major differences. She was no longer as tall, she had lost weight, and her body proportions had drastically changed. Her limbs were narrower and smoother. Too, there were the other changes, although she did not appreciate them at first, or even for some months. Her face, was now softer and rounder, a classical oval shape, now missing heavy eyebrows, with delicate arched ones and pretty cheekbones instead. Her neck was longer, her waist much narrower, its narrowness emphasized by wide hips, a classic woman's hourglass figure. At least her eyes and her hair were still the same colour, and her skin was the same light olive colour, although now softer and smoother. After her fury lessened, Frances just wanted to hide away in her room with the shock and shame. Her mother had said she was responsible but she was totally mystified as to how it had come about. All she remembered was drinking some coffee in the living room, the next she woke in her own bedroom. Not that she recognized it at first as her own room. It was so drastically altered. All evidence of her male existence had disappeared. The male clothing in the wardrobe was gone entirely, the rails, shelves and drawers emptied out and the contents replaced with women's clothing. There was even new wallpaper, in a predominantly pink colour, and a flowery pattern. Some dolls replaced the football strip on the shelves. Framed pictures of elegant Victorian ladies in long gowns, in soft pastel colours, replaced the posters. When her exhaustion had taken the edge of her terror and panic her mother started calling her Frances and had patiently explained what she had done and how. She told her it was some magic book that had been in the family for years. " Mum," Frances cried out. "You can't be serious. This is ridiculous. There's no such thing as magic! It's a myth!" "You're changed aren't you? So my magic obviously worked. See, I'll let you have a peek at the book." Grace opened the old book, with it's mildewed pages. "And this is what I used on you. Oh, yes, there is a spell to reverse the effects on the next page. Uh, Uh, don't try! " Frances tried to grab the book, but her reactions were still too slow. "Mum, please change me back. I can't live like this!" "No, you have to stay as a girl. I did it to keep you safe. Otherwise you would be called up. You could be killed. Look at you. You are a girl so you won't be called up now. You should be happy. You are very pretty too. You will get used to it. Now, look at me. Don't you think I have changed too?" "I don't bloody well care how you look. I just want my old body back!" " Mind your language!" her mother snapped. "Come on. Look at me," Frances shook her head. " I can't believe this! You have destroyed my life and all you care about is your appearance!" Frances peered at her mother. "Yes, you look younger," she snapped. " Yes, your face is different too. And I see you've lost weight. Satisfied now?" she said sarcastically. " But I don't care. You must change me back!" Her mother ignored her and gave a satisfied smile. "Look at your sister too! Antonia?" she commanded, "turn around and show how pretty you look." Antonia grimaced but turned around slowly in front of Frances. "See, don't you think she is now such a lovely girl?" The young man Francis had never thought much about his sister's looks. She was only his sister, after all. The new girl called Frances was more observant. She shook her head in exasperation. "Yes, she is," she sighed. "Why is that?" "It's something to do with the spell," said Grace. "My grandmother said that although it changed men into women, it also had the effect of making women more beautiful. So now the three of us are beautiful women." The hint of smugness brought Frances's fury to a boil again. "But I don't want to be a woman," she screamed. "How could you be as callous as this? You are cruel!" "You will get used to it. Now, it's time you got dressed. See, I have some nice clothes for you." She pulled out a bundle of clothes from a drawer. Frances grabbed the first article she saw, but recoiled. "That's a girl's skirt!" She picked up the next. "Knickers? These are all girls' clothes. Where are mine?" "Listen, you are now a girl, so get used to it, and the first is to put on the appropriate girl's clothes. You'd just look stupid in men's clothing now." Frances threw them down. "Never!" "Please, Frances, put on your clothes," her mother insisted. "No, no!' she screamed, in the strange high pitched voice. "And stop calling me Frances!" "All right!" Her mother stared her down. " You can stay here, but no food until you are prepared to wear girl's clothes." Grace was almost in tears at her daughter's anguish, but she had to be firm and keep a stern face. She had not expected what a struggle it would be. It took three days for hunger to break Frances' spirit. She spent the first day screaming to exhaustion, the second to crying and sniffling. By the end of three days she desperately wanted to wash, and a foul odour was coming from the chamber pot in her room. Her mother looked in on Frances. Her heart was breaking at the sight of the sullen, miserable, tear stained face, but she had to continue. "Come on, please, Frances. Do this for me. You know I love you." "Mum, I can't. I am a man. Please, change me back and give me men's clothes. How could you do this to me? What are you thinking of?" " There is a war on. You would be called up. Your brother is already in the navy. One is enough. This is to protect you. No, You must accept this. I will not feed you unless you are properly dressed as a girl. And starting now, you will have no water either! She held up a floral patterned blouse lying on the chair at the bed. " See! Don't you think the clothes are pretty?" "No," Frances screamed. She grabbed the garment and threw it across the room. She threw the rest on the floor and turned her face to the wall. Her mother bit her lip, but saying nothing, picked up the clothes, refolded them and left the room. Frances heard the door being locked. She screamed again, but she was too tired and exhausted to continue for long. She looked out of the window. She supposed she could climb out onto the tree and down it, but she was totally naked. She would have to put on the female clothes if she went out. She huddled in bed, crying yet again, trying to ignore the cramping pains in her stomach. She wondered about just jumping head first from the window to kill herself, but she was afraid she might be only injured, and be crippled or paralysed. By the next morning she felt faint. She was very thirsty, her throat was dry and her stomach cramped. She heard the door open, but this time it was Antonia. "How are you, Frances?" Frances began to cry. "How can she do this to me? How can you help her?" "Come on. Mum loves you. So do I. I know that you want to do your part in the war, but Mum wants to keep you out of it. I don't agree with her doing this, but she's too domineering for me to resist." Frances held up her female arm and looked at it. She looked in the mirror. And shook her head. "Antonia, what happened when Mum read the spell, you know, between her reading it to me and my waking up?" "Well, it started about ten minutes from her reading the spell. The first thing I saw was you starting to shiver. Mum had drugged you so you wouldn't object when she used the spell. It affects everyone who hears it, she said. Well, as I said, you began to shiver. So did I. That stopped, then a minute or so later there was more shivering, then in another minute the tremor was stronger still, getting violent. I just felt cold and I had goose pimples all over. Mum was shivering too, but none of us nearly as much as you. "You woke up briefly, I suppose you were shaking too much. Your eyes were staring and you were gasping. I was terrified. I thought you were dying. I must have been whimpering with fright, but Mum held me. Your eyes were moving violently then with a gasp you fell completely unconscious. " I was shivering again and I felt queer too. Then it was as if a series of ripples began to run through you, from your head to your toes, from your body out along your arms and legs right to your finger and toes. Each time the body just seemed to change, ever so slightly. Parts were shrinking, and changing proportions, you know, your shoulders and your waist narrowed, your hips and thighs swelled out." Antonia blushed and stammered. "Then your private parts began shrinking until you were almost flat down there." She pointed to her groin. " Then it split again, and it began rearranging into a girl's parts. Your face was gradually changing too, softening, becoming smoother, your eyebrows shrinking, losing their heaviness, your cheeks became more prominent. Finally, there's no other way to say it, you had become a girl completely. The rippling had gradually became less and less until it faded away and you settled into a deep sleep. That lasted almost two days. "Neither Mum nor I fell unconscious. We had just the occasional shiver and maybe a bit of tingling, but after about two hours Mum had changed, younger looking maybe, and much prettier.The spell seemed to have taken a lot of weight off her. When I looked into the mirror I saw I was much prettier too, and my figure is better. I like it. "I'm sorry, Frances. But maybe you should just accept what has been done to you. Being a lovely girl is not the end of the world, after all. Actually,I think its pretty nice." Later that day, when her mother checked on her and asked her to put on the girls' clothing Frances hung her head, and tears began running down her cheeks. She tentatively reached out to the pile, shuddering as she touched the garments. Seeing her mother's adamant face she picked through the pile of girl's clothing. There was nothing she could do. Sighing, she picked up the pair of knickers on the top of the pile but turned her back to her mother to hide her groin and the embarrassing female breasts. One leg at a time, she drew them onto her legs and pulled them up over her hips, shuddering again at the soft shiny fabric against her thighs, hips and belly. Her mother was looking at her with a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. There may have been sympathy, but firm resolution too. "That's a good girl. Do you want me to help you dress?" "Yes, please," she said hoarsely, trying to stop the tears in her eyes. "And you are going to do as I say from now on?" "Yes Mum," Frances whispered. "Well, in that case I think you should get something to drink first. And maybe it would be best to have a bath first. And wash your hair. I'm sure you'd like that. Just leave the bra and the rest of the clothes for now. Here, put on this dressing gown and come downstairs. I'll put the kettle on for some tea. Then you can have a bath. After you get dressed in your pretty clothes I'll give you something to eat." Frances was so weak that she stumbled going downstairs. She felt her breasts move inside her dressing gown, her nipples grazing the fabric with an odd sensation. Sitting at the living room table she stared gloomily out onto the street. She was thirsty and ravenously hungry. Her mother had won the clash of wills. This time. She gulped down some water, two glasses full, and then had to force herself to slow down and only sip at the hot tea. She took another gulp of water. She heard the sound of water being run into the bath. "All right, Frances, it's ready!" her mother called. Her mother had even scented the water with a light feminine scent. Sighing, Frances struggled back up the stairs to the bathroom and took off the woman's pink satin dressing gown her mother had given her, then pulled down her knickers, stepped into the bath and lowered herself into the warm water. She tried to avoid looking down at her body. "I'll help you wash your hair. I got a nice shampoo for you. Your hair's lovely and thick, but you'll have to let it grow." Frances had managed to suppress her tears but began crying afresh when she felt her breasts shake on her chest as her mother rubbed in the shampoo and rinsed her hair. She found her nails embedded in the bar of scented soap. "Come on! What are you waiting for?" said her mother. "Wash yourself." She rubbed the suds over herself, trying to avoid the alien breasts and the nipples. "Your breasts too," insisted Grace. "And between your legs!" Tears in her eyes, Frances soaped all over and then rubbed with the cloth, flinching as it passed over her nipples and between her legs. A lot of her body hair had fallen out and the springy hair at the vee of her belly and legs was shaped differently to before. Why were these parts so sensitive? "All done? If you are you can get out of the bath." "Yes," Frances sighed. She rose to get out, still swaying slightly, weak with hunger, awkward with the wide hips and embarrassed by her nakedness. Her mother held out a pink towel. "Dry yourself with this and rub your hair dry too. Then come back into your bedroom and we'll get you dressed." Frances followed into her bedroom, her stomach hollow. Her mother had laid out the female clothing on the bed. She pointed adamantly to them. Frances picked up the knickers to draw them on again. "All right, a piece of advice," said Grace. "I would think you'll be wearing stockings most of the time. And that means something to hold them up. So put on this suspender belt first and then fasten your stockings to it. Then your knickers to cover everything up. It's neater and more convenient that way when you go to the toilet. It's also warmer that way. You'll be glad of it in the winter." Her mother took a garment from the pile. It appeared as if it was made up of a band with four cloth triangles on it and hanging from these, elastic straps, each complete with a metal adjustment and a fitting at the end. Before she could react Grace placed it round Frances' waist and fastened the little hooks at the back. Frances felt the straps dangling on her thighs. "Next, you can put on your knickers if you want, or you can put on stockings first. It's awkward to fasten your stockings if you've got knickers already on." "All right, stockings first, " Frances sighed. She would have preferred to get her alien female nakedness covered up as soon as possible, but her spirit was broken. "Also, you have to be careful with your stockings. These are rayon. Once you get more used to wearing and caring for stockings we can get you some silk ones if you want to be all prettied up, but maybe you can wear lisle cotton ones for other times." Her mother sighed. "They are making noises about clothes rationing so you may not be able to replace them so easily in the future. Sit down and pull them up. You should bunch them and roll them carefully up your legs, like this. Don't try to just pull them or they may rip." Frances felt the fine fabric drawn up her legs and thighs. It felt clinging, but cool and smooth. "Stand up and I'll fasten them." Her mother's fingers were at her thighs, pulling her suspenders and her stocking tops together to attach them, "Now you can put on your knickers." Grace handed her the garment. They were a fine soft cotton and Frances pulled them up her legs. They seemed to fit more closely than Francis' male underwear had. Grace pulled the leg of the knickers down to cover the stocking tops. Frances' face reddened. The tug of the suspenders on her stockings was quite noticeable. They kept her stockings very tight. "Now your bra. Put your arms through the straps and pull them over your shoulders. It fastens at the back. Maybe you knew that?" Frances picked up the bra. This was made of a shiny pink satin material. She put the straps over her arms and pulled them up to her shoulders, and reached round to the back strap, feeling the shiny material cool on her breasts. She tried to fasten the back hooks, but she could not see what she was doing and only fumbled with it. "Here, let me help. You should also lean forward so you fall naturally into the cups." Frances gritted her teeth. Her mother had said 'you', but to Frances the breasts were still alien, something she had been given but wanted no part of. "All right, turn around," her mother commanded, and Frances felt the garment drawn tightly round her and her mother's fingers at her back fastening the small hooks. "Let me adjust the straps." Again her mother's hands were at her shoulders and she felt the straps tightened, lifting her breasts slightly so that she felt firm and braced. At least the garment held the breasts from swaying about, but she felt confined. She wriggled in the bra, feeling the tension on her chest and the slight harnessed feeling. She wondered how she would ever get used to it. "That's a girl," encouraged her mother. "Next, your slip. Here, it's a satin one too. It goes on over your head." The shiny material slithered over her head. It slid easily down over her hips and thighs. "Now, I think you can wear a blouse and skirt to begin with. Here's a blouse." It was a slippery rayon material, not fully opaque, quite different from the crispness of a man's shirt. Frances pulled it on and was momentarily puzzled when she went to fasten the front buttons, discovering that it fastened on the wrong side. "And your skirt. Pull it up." This was a slightly flared style and zipped at the side. It enclosed her narrow waist snugly, but it was open at the bottom, of course. Even with her knickers she felt exposed. "Oh, you do look pretty." Her mother said, ignoring Frances' reddening face. " But I should look out a petticoat for you to wear under pretty frocks. Now sit here and I'll brush your hair. Oh, yes, when you sit down, just hold your skirt down so you don't show anything. Don't flop down. Also, I know that you used to cross his legs above the knees before, but now that you're a girl you may show more than you want if you do that, to so just cross your legs at the ankles. Your sisters like to wear shorter tighter knickers. They say they can even tuck pads in them when they have their periods, but if you do that you'll expose your suspenders and stocking tops if you're not careful." What would be worse, Frances thought, to have your suspenders and stocking tops on view, or these stupid looking long legged knickers? She also grimaced at the thought of monthly periods. She sat down at the dressing table, feeling her taught suspender straps moving over her hips. Her skirt moved easily over her slip. Grace sighed as she brushed Frances' tousled hair. "Much too short. You'll have to wear a hat, or at least a headscarf when you go out for a month or so. Maybe I'll take you to a hairdresser to get it a bit smarter. I suppose I could get you a wig." Frances was aware of the continual tug of her suspenders on her stockings. At first she had placed her hands on her thighs, but clenched them at the unaccustomed feel of the hard ridges of the metal fittings, reminding her of her new situation. "Now, just a bit of lipstick on you, and a touch of powder." Numbly, Frances let her mother apply some makeup. Eventually, staring at her in the mirror was a pretty girl with an entirely feminine face but with a severe looking hairstyle. She rubbed her lips together. They felt slightly greasy. The girl in the mirror had red eyes and tear stained cheeks. Her body, even what she could see sitting down, was entirely feminine. Her shoulders had shrunk and her neck was longer. Her blouse was pushed out by two bulges, emphasized by the narrow waist of her skirt. Her mother stood back to look at her critically. "Yes, you look very nice," and her mother kissed her. She attempted an embrace but Frances pushed away from her mother. "They'll come looking for me, you know." "I'll change your birth certificate and say they made a mistake." "How will you explain this to my brother?" "He is away in the navy. He won't see you for a while and he knows to keep family secrets." "What about my friends? They will see I'm not around." "I'll tell them you went off to stay with relatives in the country to avoid the bombing." "And who am I supposed to be if anyone asks?" "My distant cousin's daughter Frances! Now come downstairs and I'll give you something to eat. But better put something on your feet. I got you these." Frances looked at them in dismay. They were pink women's slippers. Frances was just ravenous. She wanted to eat to make up for the three days she had refused food. Her mother did not mention her victory; she was making a light, matter-of-fact conversation, forced perhaps, as if Frances had always been just another young woman. Frances wolfed down the food, but she was barely listening to her mother's chatter. She was trying to think of a way to get out of her situation. To do that, she would have to get hold of the book to see if there was any way of reversing the spell. By contrast, Grace felt as if a weight had been lifted from her. There might be questions about her son Francis, but she felt she could deal with them. She now had an extra daughter. Her 'son' was safe, or at least safer. Civilians were killed in the bombing but there was nothing she could do about that. That night, with Frances tucked into bed in a woman's nightgown, Grace readied herself for bed. She turned over the old book in the light of the bedside lamp. Now, what to do about it? She could not leave it lying around as she knew that Frances would not rest until she had found it and used it to change back. She should never have mentioned the reverse spell. Two or three days later Grace was working at the shop when she looked out of the door to the plumber's shop across the back lane. Jack Howe and an assistant were unloading some tools from carriers on their bicycles. Up until now she had hidden the tin box with the book in the wall in a cavity left over from a small repair. That could be improved. She brought out the tin box and took it across the street. "A small job for you, Jack," she said to the workman. "Can you solder this box shut?" Jack looked at her with a hint of amusement at his lips. "Hiding something away then, Grace?" "None of your cheek, Jack, just some family papers, to keep them a bit safer. You never know. It might be my turn to get a bomb." The box securely soldered, she placed it in the cavity in the wall, mixed up some plaster of Paris and sealed the box in. In a day or so she would paint it over and with age no one would be the wiser that the book was hidden away inside. At some point she would have to decide who to give the book to before she died. She now had three daughters, and would have to watch them to see who would be the best. But time enough for that. ...... Three months later, Frances looked out from the shop counter at another grey day. She could feel herself getting into a black mood, born of frustration. She thought back again to the change her mother had imposed on her. She had now been changed three months. She was more or less used to her new body and barely thought about the clothing. Her first period had come about a month after the change. That first time,she had been disgusted by the discharge and having to wear pads. She had just finished another period, her third. She was afraid that she was getting too used to the new body, accommodating its different shape, its weakness compared to the male body its rhythms. She was noticing attractive women less, and perhaps beginning to notice men. She wanted to resist these changes on her mind, but she was afraid that they were proceeding inexorably. She no longer used her wig, but her hair was still much shorter than most women's. But her conscience nagged her. There was a war on and she should be doing something. She should not be quietly sinking into a way of life that kept her from participating. In the months since her transformation, her mother and sisters had supervised her carefully, offering advice and direction, clothing, her woman's body, make up and grooming and all aspects of being a woman, cajoling her on the appropriate behaviour expected. They had even set her to learning sewing, cooking and housekeeping. The only time she had time to herself was in her room. The first days, as soon as she was alone, she had stripped off her female clothes and all makeup. But she had been left no male clothes at all. It was too cold to be naked and too boring just to lie in bed. Also, being naked, she was continually aware of the projecting breasts on her chest and her groin, now with a groove, and totally devoid of a penis. Eventually she had given up and worn her girl's clothes until it was bedtime and she changed into a nightgown. She had actually acquired a reasonable collection of clothes, as much as her sisters. There were shortages and less and less variety in the shops, but Grace was an accomplished seamstress and over the years before the war had accumulated a reserve of fabrics and materials. Some other clothes were cast-offs from her sisters. Frances was bored, yet continually fretted. She found herself picking at her nails or fussing with her lengthening hair and stuck her hands in the pockets of her apron. Her mother had suggested she grow them longer, but Frances had only allowed her to reshape them. Besides, long nails and working in a shop were not compatible. She was working in the caf?, but it was slow, even for a Friday. Angela was in the back, tidying up some shelves. She decided to clean up the front shop to occupy her time and switched on the radio. As usual, there was news of the war. Frances fretted: she should be doing her part as a man, but now she was stuck in this female body and her mother had hidden the book someplace. Over the past months she had looked in every place she could, both in the house and in the shop, but had not been able to find it. She watched as a couple of soldiers in uniform passed by the shop window. It reminded her of an idea that had begun to grow in her mind for some weeks now. The rain appeared to have stopped. Frances set her lips. She had decided. "Angela," she called. "Can you look after the shop for a bit? I have to do run off on an errand." "All right," she heard. The first weeks after her change, she had not been allowed to go out unaccompanied but this had gradually been relaxed. Besides, where could she go? She hung up her apron, and slipped on her raincoat and a hood against a possible return of the rain. Her hair was still shorter than most women's, but now it was cut in a feminine style. "Back in a few minutes, then." She had noticed the recruiting office some time before and an idea had been growing in her mind. Unfortunately, this would mean an end to her attempts to find the book, but there was a war on. That was more important. The recruiting office was not busy either. Most men of the right age would be called up automatically unless they were exempt for some reason but there were always a few still wanted to volunteer, including women. The walls inside were covered with recruiting posters. One showed a keen- looking young woman in the uniform of the Womens' Auxiliary Air Force, with an airman in the background. Both looked heroic, but Frances had already heard of the air battle down south, not to mention the bombings in her own area. She had no doubt that there was struggle, and death too, but she had made up her mind. A WAAF officer sitting at the desk looked up expectantly when she entered. "Yes miss, can I help you?" Frances took a deep breath. "Yes ma'am, I 'd like to sign up for the WAAF's" "Good for you, miss. You're over eighteen, I take it?" "Yes ma'am, as of last September." "Right miss, take a seat and I'll get your particulars. First, your name?" "Frances Ross," she said. She wondered if it was best to hide her Italian ancestry, with the Italians being allied to the Germans and having declared war on Great Britain. Ross sounded much more British than Rossi. The officer jotted down her name on a form followed by her address. "All right, you want to join the WAAF's, you say. Your education, Miss Ross?" "I finished grammar school last year. I studied mathematics, English, science and German, and history and geography." "Very good, Miss Ross. What do you work at currently?" "I work in my mother's shop. It's an ice cream shop and cafe." The officer looked at Frances over her spectacles, a few slight frown lines on her brow. "Your talents are wasted, Miss Ross, if you have that education." Frances could hardly tell her that her mother kept her in the shop to keep an eye on her. "Anyhow, Miss Ross. I am sure the WAAF's can use your talents, and, give you some further training to your advantage. Now next, we will need to give you a brief medical exam. Do you mind?" Frances shook her head, rose and went in the direction indicated. A nurse in the adjacent room gave her a brief smile. "All right, miss, want to join up, do you? So I'll need to give you a quick check over. Can you remove your clothes? But you can leave your bra and knickers on at first. It's just a bit chilly here." There was no screen to undress behind, so, to keep from blushing, Frances kept her mind on why she was signing up. She submitted to an inspection of her eyes, mouth ears, getting her pulse taken and her chest sounded. Removing her knickers for the check between her legs was much more embarrassing. "Looks all right down there." The nurse was checking her gently. "I see you're a virgin." Frances nodded, red faced. She did not know whether to be glad or sorry that her female genitalia were normal. She blushed even more when she was asked to give a urine sample, but managed to pee in the cup. When she was finished she dressed again and was sent back out to the officer. "All right, Miss Ross, everything being satisfactory, you are accepted. Would you sign here please?" Frances could barely conceal her delight. She had been accepted. She could get away from home and her mother. She could do her part. "What happens now, ma'am?" "You will be hearing from us shortly, to report to a training depot." "Please ma'am, when will that be?" "In a few weeks. Not long. You should tidy up any of your affairs as you will be away from home for some stretches." Her disappointment must have showed. "Cheer up, Miss Ross. It won't be long. Then a girl like you will find an opportunity to use your talents in the WAAF's." Frances took a deep breath as she opened the door to her house after work. Now the die was cast. Her mother would be furious, but now there was nothing she could do about it. In fact, her mother broke into tears when Frances broke the news to her. Frances had expected some reaction. In fact she had prepared herself for some screaming, but Grace just sat down at the table and wept quietly. At last she got up and embraced Frances. "My, but you're a determined one. I suppose I should have known this would happen. Well, my girl, I can't stop you, but you know I love you. Just make sure you take care of yourself." Frances' official papers arrived in the mail two weeks later, with instructions to report to a training depot in Lincolnshire. A travel warrant for the train was included. She had made sure to watch out for the postman each day, just in case her mother decided to hide the letter. She was relieved her mother did not make scene at the railway station when she left. Grace held up well, just a few dabs at her eyes with an already sodden handkerchief, and held back most of her tears. Frances dutifully hugged her mother and sisters and kissed them goodbye, then climbed into the train. She had intended to look out of a window but she had trouble finding a seat, and by the time she did the train began to move out. She just had time to wave to her family out of the carriage door and they were gone. She tried to do the cryptic crossword in the newspaper, but her stomach was churning too much for her to concentrate. She had taken a big step. Now she was away from any hope of changing back, and from her family. For better or for worse, she would have to make her life on her own, away from family, and as a woman. She had probably burned her bridges. It was unlikely she could ever change back now. She wondered what her future held. At her destination Frances stepped out cautiously onto the platform with her small case and raincoat. Most of the passengers were older, with a few men in military outfits, then as they hurried away she began to notice some other girls standing around in the station. In a few minutes a grey- blue RAF lorry drew up outside, and a corporal with a loud voice shouted to them and pointed to the back of the lorry. It was only fitted with two wooden benches. "Oh well," she thought as she climbed in, "I suppose I didn't expect a Rolls Royce!" At the training depot she was surprised to see about another fifty young women already there. Somehow she hadn't expected so many. They were all set to waiting in a large room, clutching their cases, some chattering nervously, some already making tentative friendships, a few just staring and looking bewildered. At length a sergeant shouted out orders to them, to line up and stand at attention. They were then ordered to form a line, their particulars checked, and led along some benches, each piled with equipment and uniform clothes, where some WAAF's threw, it seemed, more and more articles onto her, and she felt the supplied kit bag get heavier and heavier as she stuffed more and more in it. Last, they were directed to a dormitory, and ordered to change into their uniforms, to be ready for their first drill and inspection in one hour. Frances looked at her own clothes as she undressed. She had been forced into them and disliked them. She was now getting out of them, although into other female clothing. Wearing a skirt was no longer strange. In fact once she was dressed she thought her blue dress uniform looked quite smart. It was strange to be wearing blue again. Francis had liked blue, but after the change all of the clothes Frances' mother had given her had pink in them. Her uniform flat heeled black shoes were hardly fashionable but they were comfortable. The grey lisle stockings were a bit thick, but as it was getting colder and the barracks were a bit cool, that was all to the good. Some of the girls from obviously better off backgrounds complained about the kit supplied to them. Some just burst out in hilarious laughter at the knickers they had been given. They were serviceable, but with the longish legs obviously not glamourous enough for these girls. Frances just kept her mouth shut and dressed as carefully and as fast as she could. She had just about finished dressing when another girl commented to her. "My, look at you! You've got your tie done up fast. Can you give me a help with mine?" Frances looked round to see some other girls struggling with the unfamiliar collars and ties. "Oh, my brother taught me," she said, and rushed to help some of the others do up theirs. They had barely finished dressing when they were ordered out to the parade ground for their first inspection. They all tried to stand stiffly at attention while commands and criticism were shouted at them. When they were finally dismissed a few more of the girls were in tears but then the first camaraderie started, as the more fortunate ones helped the others. Frances had not placed her cap properly, but that was easily fixed. The basic training lasted six weeks, getting used to the discipline, the barracks, the continual lectures about health and regulations, caring for equipment and uniform, the humdrum food and the lack of privacy. At least she was used to the drill and marching from Francis' cadet days. She had to carry a gas mask with her, always. The girls were a mixed bunch, from all walks of life. Some took to the training easily; a few spent their first nights crying. The girl in the next bed to her had a bad time. She had signed up to get away from a domineering father, but now she found herself under service discipline. It was as severe, but at least it was impersonal. It took her a whole week to get herself together. Frances chafed at the restrictions too, but comforted herself that she was finally starting to do her own bit. She was more reticent about making friends. Perhaps it was her residual male conditioning, but she could not talk as easily as some of the other women as they talked about their personal lives, sometimes in graphic detail. She had never has the experience of growing up as a girl and never had any boyfriends, of course. She just concentrated on doing as well as she could in the training, and studying hard. She was now entirely used to her uniform, but most of the other girls had already shortened the legs of their knickers and Frances had gone along with them. Towards the end of the training the recruits were put through a series of aptitude tests. Frances did not think any more about them until an officer called her in. " Ross, have you given any thought as to what you would like to do now that training is almost over. You have done well in your training and your tests. You also have quite good dexterity." "Sorry ma'am, I haven't given it any thought." "Well, you appear to be bright, and I know you work hard. I think you would make a good technician, repairing electrical stuff like radios, or generators, maybe working on radar. Does that appeal to you?" Frances had never thought about what she would do, as long as it wasn't being a cook. She had had enough of the grease and frying fish and chips that were a large part of the business of her mother's caf?. She had never thought much about radios other than switching them on. "If you think so, ma'am." "Well then, why don't you do that! We'll send you to another training depot for some courses, and then you will get a posting to wherever they need you." The course was to be another six weeks, at an airfield just east of Liverpool. That meant she was nearer home, and her mother would expect visits from her. She had hoped to get away further. .......... Leutnant Helmut Pfahl felt his tension begin to ease as the French coast came into view. His Heinkel bomber was almost unscathed after the attack, but one of his gunners had caught several machine gun bullets in his thigh. He would be out of action for some time, if he was not crippled for life. The aircraft still stank of the acrid fumes from the Heinkel's own machine gun armament. Just two hours previously, over Southampton, the bombers had been intercepted by some Hurricane fighters of the RAF. The Messerschmidt Bf 109 escorts, under strict orders to stay close to the bombers, had been unable to react quickly enough as the RAF fighters flashed by them. He had seen two Heinkels go down, one with a trail of dark smoke, but still, the Geschwader had pressed home its attack and he had the satisfaction of seeing the explosions of their bombs below before turning home. By this time the escort were low on fuel and had abandoned them. A Hurricane had slipped in behind his Heinkel and given it a burst of machine gun fire that had hit his ventral gunner. Pfahl threw his bomber about the sky to try to shake the fighter but it was only after he found a large cloud that he was able to escape and eventually he was able to form up with some others of his section. On their way home several persistent Hurricanes had harried them out to sea but gave up the chase about 60 kilometres from the English coast. Dieter Becker, his navigator, had bound up the gunner's wound, but could not tell how serious it was. The remaining bombers had kept in formation to give each other protection, just in case. Some separated to land at the HQ in Tours but Helmut and a dozen other bombers had the extra minutes' journey to the satellite airfield at Rennes. Carefully he checked the sky above him. His crew would be doing the same, but only German bombers were visible. This far south, they were probably out of the range of enemy fighters, but it was as well to be careful. A little touch to the rudder and ailerons and he had the bomber lined up with the runway. He set the flaps and eased back a bit on the power to lose height and set down the landing gear. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the satisfying clunk of the hydraulic system. The big glazed nose of the Heinkel was not much protection for a wheels-up landing. The runway was rapidly coming up. He cut his speed just a little more and as he gently pulled back on the stick, the nose went up a touch and the plane settled on the runway with barely a bounce, first the main wheels and then the tail wheel, and slowed smoothly to a running pace. As he let his breath go he was sure he heard his crew exhale as well. Now barely above a fast walking speed he steered off the runway and taxied over the grass to the front of the main hangar. He felt himself relax as he finally switched off the engines. "How is he?" he asked Becker. "He's unconscious now, but I've given him some morphine." "What about the leg?" Becker shrugged. "It's a bit messy. The bullets must have hit the bone on the way through. I think it's shattered, and he's lost a lot of blood, but the bullets seem to have missed the artery." He heard the roar as the ambulance drove up and its crew jumped out at the bomber's door. Their experience showed. In just minutes they had eased the gunner out of the aircraft, onto a stretcher and the ambulance was on its way with the unconscious man to the base hospital. Helmut bit his lip as he saw it go. Another bomber, a large piece of its rudder shot away, drew up next to him and he saw more medical personnel remove two of its crew, obviously dead. So the Geschwader had lost at least two bombers, and this airfield alone had two dead and one badly wounded. Helmut lit a cigarette, drew on it deeply and walked round the bomber to inspect it. One panel in the belly where the Hurricane's rounds had wounded the gunner would need replaced, but otherwise the bomber was unscathed. He patted it on the glazed nose, just in front of the little cartoon figure someone had painted. The Heinkel 111 was a tough old bird and had brought him safely back again. When a small transport roared up beside the bomber, he, Dieter and the crew threw their parachutes in the back and climbed in. Debriefing would be first. The higher ups would be keen to hear their reports. He drew on the cigarette, breathing deeply to try to relax. Another day over and he was still alive. What about tomorrow? Next morning Helmut looked round the various crews at the briefing. He wondered what the target would be this time. He felt washed out and tried not to yawn. He had been awake at six, despite his exhaustion. He noticed some new faces, new men from the training school, no doubt. He preferred not to think about the others who were missing, one crew yesterday from his Gruppe, two several days before and two in the previous week, not to mention shot-up bombers that came home with dead or dying crew. At the command they stood at attention as the commander entered and scanned the assembled aircrew. His face was stern and he must have been concerned with the losses, but he made no mention of them. "All sit down," he ordered. "Another raid today," he barked. "The target this time, Liverpool!" He pointed with a stick to the large wall map. Helmut felt his stomach shrink. Liverpool was well north of the usual targets, meaning they would be longer over enemy territory, and it was a longer way back if there was any trouble. It was also well beyond the range of any Bf 109 escorts. Still, the Heinkels had a good range and could easily make the journey if there were no complications. The commander pointed his stick again, tracing out the route. It was not what Helmut had anticipated. The commandant tapped at the target on the board. "This time, crews will approach the target by an indirect route. You will head round the west of the English coast and turn north up the Irish Sea, then for the attack, due east to Liverpool. The target is the Liverpool docks. It is a major base for ships from North America and is thus a strategic target. Its destruction is necessary." He brought up an enlarged photograph. "This is the dock area. Your main targets will be here, and here!" If that is not possible here is the secondary target. He tapped the photographs for emphasis. "Now, there is another change to normal operations. You are to leave on the raid this afternoon, so that when you reach the target it will be evening and you will have the sun behind you when you attack. This will give you some advantage over any fighters. Once bombing is complete you will head east across England and the North Sea to the Netherlands. It will be getting dark, all the better to elude fighters. You all have good experience in navigation and the English have concentrated most of their fighters on their south coast. " It will be a longer mission than most so far but our bombers have the range. We will not have an escort of our fighters this time. We know that the English can detect our approach, but their detection equipment are also mainly along the south coast. "All of Kampfgeschwader 27 will take part in this raid and our section will be last over the target. I will lead the attack, with six bombers, followed by the section of Leutnant Pfahl." He looked squarely at Helmut, who gave him a nod to show he understood, even if he did not like the information. So they were to be the last over the target! That would have given the antiaircraft batteries time to get the range, maybe even time to get RAF fighters on the scene. Helmut forced himself to concentrate on the orders and instructions. "If any of you run into trouble and cannot make the Netherlands then you have the option of heading directly south to France. It is slightly less distance. You could fly direct, but it is right over England and there is a greater possibility you would meet fighters on the way. Another option, if you absolutely cannot make for Belgium or France, is to head for the Irish Free State, which is neutral. Remember that the north part of Ireland is part of Great Britain. Unfortunately the Irish will intern you and you will be out of the war, so I stress this is to be done only as a last resort. It is your duty to the Fatherland to get home to carry on the fight against the British. They are on their last legs anyway. Intelligence says that they are running out of fighters." Helmut gave a snort under his breath. If anything, the RAF had become more aggressive in the last weeks and he had seen no lessening of their attacks on the raiding bombers. He spent the next hours checking and rechecking his route, but also noting the geographical features he might use as landmarks, just in case. There were hills across England, but no real mountains. There were low mountains in Wales, but they would not be crossing there unless in emergency. Trying to ignore the contractions in his stomach, Helmut listened to the engines as he waited for the take off signal. One had been a bit rough on starting but now they were both running smoothly. A last minute check of the gauges too. Already the first flight's six had taken off and getting into formation. Ah! There was the signal. He released the brakes, opened the throttle, waved to the ground crew and as the engines roared the Heinkel began to roll forward, faster and faster. In his rear the others of his flight would be getting ready. The aircraft was bumping along the uneven runway. Couldn't these French build things better? As the speed increased the tail lifted. He let the speed increase just a bit more then gently pulled the control column back, and with one or two final bumps the laden bomber was airborne. He gave it a few seconds then raised the undercarriage, hearing it clunk into place. He made a wide turn to the designated heading. He would form up in a kind of broad vee with the other bombers, then rendezvous over the coast with the other bombers of Geschwader 27 and set their course. The first leg was west northwest, which took them to the west of the English mainland. The English radar would have spotted them but he hoped the fighters would be too busy further east. To the south the Brittany peninsula gradually slipped under his left wing, then for about an hour there was only open water. Eventually some islands passed below. He knew these were the Scilly Islands, part of England, but there were no shots fired as the bombers passed overhead, still gaining height. Now it was time to turn due north, again over open water. There was a slight haze in the air, but eventually he could see a large estuary with a hilly area to its north. That would be the Bristol Channel with the part they called Wales. Over to the west, the Irish coast was only just visible in the haze. Still no fighters! The sun was now in the west. Another hour or so and they would turn east. He wondered if the English had detected them. He continually scanned the skies but it was empty except for the bombers. Ah! There on the right, reddish in the setting sun, was another peninsula, and close to it, a large island. That would be the one they called Anglesey. Now, with the sun low on the horizon, the stream of bombers turned east, undulating like a gaggle of enormous geese. Ahead, Pfahl could see different sections of the bombers, all still in good formation, but just undulating slightly in some turbulence. He checked his fuel yet again, the gauges too. Yes, everything was still good. The mountainous area was now to the south of them. They would keep their height. It would be more difficult to aim perhaps, but if there were fighters they would need all the height they had and hopefully they would be above the anti-aircraft guns' range. He was glad he had not become a Stuka pilot. Now in the haze to the east he could make out the distinctive two estuaries. The more north easterly one would be the Mersey, as they called it, with the ports of Liverpool and Birkenhead. He alerted his bomb aimer. The other bombers would be getting ready too. The crews would be glad to be rid of the bombs. Then they could head for home. Now Helmut could see the built up area ahead. He jumped a little and his stomach tightened up as puffs of brown smoke appeared in the skies ahead and they felt slight concussion from the explosions. They had been seen and the antiaircraft guns were getting into action, but it was time to open the bomb doors. The extra resistance slowed the aeroplane down and he heard the rumble and whistle of the slipstream above the noise of the engines. Down below, he saw explosions and flames start in the dock area and its surroundings but Helmut was still too far away to see properly what had been hit. Now the sun was just above the horizon, the flames below and to the east seemed more lurid in the dusk. They were almost on target. It would be his turn in seconds. "Get ready," he shouted. Helmut grunted as he saw a Heinkel ahead break formation leaving a white trail, probably from a lucky hit in a fuel tank by some shrapnel from