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Dandy Edge. by Tanya H. One. For all the time I'd spent on Dandy Edge, a lofty limestone outcropping overlooking a twisting, tree-lined gorge, I never troubled myself to discover the story behind the name. While it never had the visual impact of Millers Dale or Chee Tor, neither did it attract the visitors and its solitude drew me powerfully when I needed space, time and peace. Or, on that particular afternoon, a quiet, vertical spot to kill myself. Having left the car beside the lane running through the valley bottom, where I thought the police would easily find it, I took myself along the familiar, winding climb trying to keep my thoughts clear; to soak up the trees sighing in the wind, the limestone under my boots and scents of ripening blackberries on the briars edging the trail, but Lesley's last words echoed around my skull with the finality of a judge condemning a guilty man to death. As I'd climbed into the car, hot with mortification of how I'd been outed, knowing with dull finality where this encounter headed, she'd flung open our bedroom window and launched a billowing, blue garment towards me. 'And keep the dress, you pervert - I don't want it now.' Andy, washing his truck next door, saw and heard everything, but that only started my humiliation. Even as I trudged my last up that path to Dandy Edge, Lesley's manicured fingers would have been flying over her phone's screen; first to her sister, then her mum - witches of the worst kind - then to her pack of friends. By the time I went back to school on Monday she would have reached enough of the town that the whispers and sniggering would follow and ambush me through the corridors and classrooms at school. The first week of term after the summer holidays too; some of those kids would be practically salivating to get stuck into me. Mr Tavistock wears a dress! Let them have their scandal, their gossip, pretend outrage. Mr Tavistock wasn't going to face it, I would step over the Dandy Edge with my eyes closed and wait to be switched off. Normally the view from up there stretched across Derbyshire's White Peak towards Buxton to the North West and Asbourne to the South. Fittingly enough for the holiday's last weekend and my last day, the cloud sulked too low for any sightseeing and a faint, sheer drizzle left the limestone slippery as I crept towards the edge, leaning forward to peer over the drop at the tiny rocks below; the ones I would dash myself upon. "You're very close to the edge." A woman! I nearly fell with surprise. As I turned she clapped her hands to her mouth, eyes wide with surprise and horror. "Oh, God - I am so sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump. Shit, what a stupid thing to say. You were going to jump, weren't you? Please don't." She could have been one of my A-level pupils, she spoke with a flat, Derbyshire accent, though I didn't recognise her, though I'd have traded ten years of my life for the late-teen assured confidence brimming from her stance. Thick waves of brown hair caped her shoulders and glistened under the drizzle, her pale face shone with such concern I wanted to scream at her to fuck off and leave me alone. "I'm Mayzie. Just having a walk, please don't step off. Would you like to talk about it? Please let me help." I didn't recognise her, but she could have been any of the shallow, media obsessed clones engaged in their endless competition to be exactly the same and slightly different to all the other girls and the media stars they aped. I couldn't think of a less likely person to open myself to. Though her presence out here on her own on this murky day, miles from a 4G signal, Costa or shopping outlet suggested my initial presumptions were harsh. She wore a decent (raspberry pink) waterproof coat, tight black leggings and good (sea green) walking boots over thick socks; a small, grey daysack hung on her back. Even so, I wasn't going to spill the beans about the unravelling smoke and mirrors of my duplicitous life. "Thanks, but no. If you don't mind I am about to jump off. It would probably be best if you just kept going. Don't try and stop me." Turning my back I contemplated the edge. Having hoped for a little more solitude to find the right moment to die, Mayzie's unwitting intervention meant I would just have to go for it, in case she called the police and the whole situation grew even more humiliating. "I'm joining the Army tomorrow," she said, as though I hadn't just confirmed my suicide plans to her. "I'm going in the Air Corps, as a groundcrew specialist. This is my last day of freedom, sounds dramatic I suppose - when I have volunteered and I'm free to leave whenever I want, but I came up here to have a last look before, well... before I grow up; make adult." "Congratulations, it's a good thing to do. I hope you enjoy it." Had I really just said that? Like one of my pupils had just disclosed her career plans at the end of a class. A gust played with my coat; I'd rushed up so quickly I hadn't bothered to fasten it - there hadn't seemed much point in taking care to keep warm and dry. Mayzie bit her lip - a most endearing gesture. I'd have swapped fifty years of my life (you only have minutes left, matey) to have spent five years as her. I'd wanted to join the Army too - the structure, discipline, community and purpose had appealed and I'd believed it would have made a man of me, helped me contain the growing discomfort of my gender. But Gran and Mum had forbidden it - Gramps and two uncles had died in service (Normandy, Korea and Ulster) and their Graham wasn't going to follow them onto the town centre memorial. I should have told them where to go, but I didn't; too much the 'yes man' for that. Do something positive they had urged, something to create rather than destroy. They had thought I should be a teacher, 'got a way with little- uns he has,' so that's what I did. They did let me join the army cadets, I stayed on to become an adult volunteer - doing my bit for the town's youth while secretly wishing I'd just left home and done it. Now age had taken the option from me. "You'd have enjoyed it," said Mayzie, with a small, apologetic shrug - like she'd been part of the coven keeping me in Buxton where I could be supervised. "I'm sorry?" Like I'd missed a few lines of the conversation. "It would have done you good to get away, to make your own space - find yourself." "Do I know you?" "Oh no. You couldn't know me." She smiled and I thought her pretty at that moment - not conventionally maybe, but something about her... the quirk of her lips, arc of her eyebrows? She looked like the kind of bright, unpretentious girl I would have enjoyed teaching. And I would have enjoyed imagining a life where I'd been her. "I think you should go now. Leave me to it." I saw no point in what might have beens now. Lesley would be happily feigning distress and rolling in the attention of the wife who'd discovered her husband in one of her dresses. I'd seen her in that state before - some slight from a mate on Facebook, a perceived insult via any of the other platforms she frequented. A couple of my friends at work had asked what I saw in her, but that had been out of my control as well - she'd been a safe pair of hands for Mum to hand over her boy to; a good Derbyshire lass, solid parents and stable prospects in her mum's hairdressing salon. I suppose we got on alright, comfortable if not exciting, but we hadn't that much in common - aside from our dress sizes! Thank god I hadn't got as far as wearing make up today, or unboxing the size 8 stiletto heeled court shoes I'd had hidden in the bottom of my wardrobe for the last five years. Though I was still snug in a pair of her knickers - they'd find my smashed body in them; something else to add to the glee of my downfall. Fuck them. "Don't jump, Graham. You're a good person, a great teacher. The school will miss you; think of the positive effect you've had - Sean Hanes? Remember him, you got him sorted didn't you? Tracey Killner, Petra Janowski, Alan Bowles? You do good work, Graham." Screwing up my face I made myself look away from her and peered over the side again. "Who are you?" "You're me, or you will be in a moment." That made me stare, frowning - as if the day couldn't get any stranger. Mayzie shrugged. "Lesley was always going to find out. She's been holding you back, trapping you in that shell - don't you see?" "What do you know!" I almost shouted, but ten years in the classroom had taught me the power in keeping restraint, of maintaining my cool no matter the provocation. "I suppose if she'd been a better friend to you she'd have found out ages ago, but taken it better. You should have joined up, Graham. You'd have found yourself there - found the courage to be yourself: to be a woman." I took a deep breath - it didn't matter who Mayzie was, where she'd got her information to form her insights. How stressed had I got? I'd made up some avatar to tell me where I'd gone wrong! Enough was enough: I'd worn a brave, male face for long enough; been the man they'd thought I should be and now I'd been found out through Lesley coming home early. "Goodbye Grahame," she said and grinned, sprinting for the edge. "No!" I yelled, dashing forward. My boots slipped on the limestone - with one hand I tried to regain the balance, the other I swung for her - much to late. Mayzie's hair streamed behind her and she ran - one step, two steps, then she jumped - her arms stretched like she could fly. She turned as she launched herself, while I took another misguided step forward thinking maybe I could catch her. As it was my foot skidded on rain-slick limestone and by the time I'd found some traction and balance she'd only got thin air under her. My heart raced and my guts went loose at the sight of her, as she clawed for grip in the air and started her plummet. Then she turned and laughed and waved, already dropping, but not Mayzie anymore - her hair had stopped streaming; instead she wore a short, sandy coloured, neat side-parting. Her eye-catching coat had turned dark blue and she looked so much like me I gasped with mute terror, watching helplessly as I fell to my death. Another skid and for a heart racing second I thought the slippery rocks would have me following, but I found more traction and teetered on the edge, driven by much more than car-crash morbidity to watch her drop. She went without a sound, facing up to me and wearing a pleasant familiar smile, my face - my coat, jeans and walking boots! My slightly long arms, my backpack! A sickening thud forced my eyes shut, a cry caught in my throat. For a second, despite the distance and even though her limbs had shattered and the back of her head had burst, I felt her eyes on me. Her left hand moved in a very distinctive wave, then her eyes closed. The girl who looked exactly like me died. Two. For a heartbeat, maybe four or five I didn't move. Or couldn't move. You don't see a premonition like that and laugh it off. My eyes fixed on the broken body all the way down there, but they didn't really see it - they just stared and blinked and wept a little while my mind's eye remorselessly replayed that sequence where Mayzie ran for the cliff top and Graham Tavistock went over. Something blew over my face, blurring the body bleeding over the uncompromising rocks. I brushed at it absently, like flies had chosen that moment to bother me. Colour intruded the edge of my vision, but I didn't really notice it either. That breeze had other ideas; that irritation clouding my view escaped my fingers and swept over my face again. I snatched at it, needing to look over the remains of Graham Tavistock and wait for the trick to be revealed, but pain spiked my scalp and seized my attention. Hair - thick, dark brown and wavy hair blowing into my eyes; loads of it. When I twisted it between my fingers and pulled, the immediate hurt told me where the hair was fixed. And my coat wasn't this raspberry pink, it had been dark blue - a sensible, practical colour for walking in. Mayzie had worn a coat this colour before she... I stared obsessively at the little hands peeping from that bright coat's sleeves - pale nimble fingers, slender and delicate with none of the wiry hair I'd grown used to; somebody else's hands, except when I told them to release the impossible brown hair they did just that. They flexed and twisted exactly as I wished them as though those slim (woman's) hands could be mine. Woman's hands; woman's hair, woman's coat... A cry caught in my throat again - a high, light woman's sound. This eclipsed the dead Graham below - I stumbled back on leaden feet, fell over an inconvenient rock and sat heavily. I grunted with the air knocked from me, my chest jumped, moisture seeped through my trousers. No, leggings - black leggings tight to the curves of the legs sprawled before me, legs that finished in petite, sea-green walking boots. Woman's legs, woman's boots... People like us, we dream about moments like that don't we? We furtively read all those stories about men that become women and as much as we know it could never happen, that there is no magic mirror, no transformational ring or gender-bending genie, we still wish it could be us - and it was! I sat there with rain soaking my arse, staring at my legs that had somehow been made to look sleek and feminine in plain black leggings, at the fingers pale against their black material and realised why my chest had shifted when I'd fallen. Under the bulk of this coat were breasts - I could feel them, sitting happily over my ribs; I knew the intimate support of whatever bra might be under there too and the slight pinch of the band around my back, the straps over my shoulders and even the new sensation of an underwire's touch. Breasts! A woman screamed, long and shrill, bursting me from my silent reverie. For a second I thought it might have been me; screaming with joy? The sound came again, from below. Power came back to those new legs, I pushed myself off the wet stone, almost fell again as legs on a wider pelvis conspired against what I was used to. The body had been found, a man shouted - call the police, and ambulance! He's dead, the woman sobbed, oh god, he's dead. They'd think it was me, that I'd pushed her - him. That I'd done it to steal her body, that I'd - "Bollocks!" I snapped. My voice came light and smooth. Nobody knew what had happened - I didn't know what had happened. I needed to go through, to get away... Where? Everything I had, every link to my life lay in the pockets of that cooling corpse or the back pack squashed underneath it. Car keys, wallet, phone, house keys - everything that gave me some identity had gone. Graham Tavistock had died - killed himself. Who did that leave? Mayzie? My coat pocket beeped, I felt a buzz - like a phone. Not like a phone, an actual phone, a cheap model from a company I didn't recognise with a cheerful red case and a notification on the screen reporting a message. Tapping the screen with one of my strange fingers prompted it to demand a PIN I didn't know. Back in the pocket I found a wallet, a black canvas, wrap over affair secured with velcro. Under a bright Union Flag was the slogan, 'Army, be the best'. My fingers shook - Mayzie had told me she was due to start her training tomorrow, Monday, before throwing herself off the cliff and killing me. I shouldn't have pried into the dead girl's life, but her heart beat for me, her hair blew in my face and I had nothing else. Feeling like some kind of grubby trespasser I pried open the wallet's mysteries. By the time I had gone through every pocket and fold there were many more questions and few answers. The National Insurance card and fifteen pounds, a ten and a five, were easy enough; a Santander debit card in the name of Ms MM Hare suggested Mayzie was on the grid. Then I found a single bus ticket from Buxton to Matlock, a rail ticket to Woking - both dated for today - and one of those electronic hotel room key cards for the Travelodge chain. This had a post-it note attached with Room 107 written upon it. Signposts to a life I knew nothing about, but signposts nonetheless - you didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to see them. With shaking hands I put the phone and wallet back in the pocket, I took a step towards the path then halted, turned back towards the edge, but didn't move. Voices rose up, a woman sobbed. I should go down there and do something. What? Tell the police I'd seen her jump. Her? What could I tell them? Lesley would fill them in, delighting over the detail. My throat closed up, a sob burst from me before I could try and stop it. Crying seemed pointless, but I couldn't stop that either or the tears pouring down my already wet cheeks. Not wanting anybody to see me like this - anguished, alone; Mayzie - I turned for the trees and hurried away. Three. I ran - Mayzie's body felt lean and lithe with none of the waistline baggage I'd grown used to. At first I walked the familiar trails across the top of the gorge, faster and faster I went uncaring of the slippery stones pushing through the thin dirt, or the mud splattering my calves. Then I ran, arms swinging wide to keep my balance as I jumped tree roots and rocks, hopped from stone to stone on rugged descents and almost vaulted a mossy stile at the valley bottom. After the first few hundred metres I forgot the tight bouncing on my chest, the wider hips and emptiness at the head of my thighs - they faded into ordinary as I concentrated on not falling, or breaking an ankle and marvelled at Mayzie's physical capability. How she could run! I darted through trees at the valley bottom, winded slightly now - heat building under my coat until I unzipped it and let it swing open. Underneath was a grey cotton top, only slightly pushed out by compact, alien breasts with nipples stiffened by the exertion. I stared for a moment - how could I be looking down on them like this? I couldn't be this girl, I'd died - I'd seen myself crooked and burst on the rocks below Dandy Edge. The vision persisted, I walked further and found a tarmaced lane. For want of anything better to do I followed it and found myself on the main road, staring like a lost wanderer at hurrying cars, lorries belching diesel smoke as they lumbered up the hill towards me and then, bright red and labouring itself, the box shape of a bus with Matlock shining from its destination screen. With eyes lowered, as though the bored bus driver would see through me and eject me as an imposter, I presented my ticket and she clipped it. "Murkey day for a walk, love," she said. "Thanks," I muttered and headed for a seat, away from the other passengers, avoiding their eyes. Only when I sat and found a bulge on my back did I remember Mayzie's grey daysack. Inside I found a packet of tuna and cucumber sandwiches - from Morrisons according to the label, a slab of Dairy Milk chocolate, some bottled water and a paperback book - Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie. I had seen this in a bookshop maybe a week ago and thought it looked worth a read. When I opened the cover to drink in that lovely, new book smell, a cream colored envelope dropped into my lap. Inside, on a sheet of thick notepaper, written in ink with a flowing script were the following words; Dear Mayzie, Go to the Woking Travelodge, you'll find what you need there. Be yourself at last. With love. Whose love? I felt as I'd whirled into some kind of spy movie - a low budget Bourne Supremacy, though I couldn't see Matt Damon tolerating the idea of being killed off in the first scene and replaced by some unknown girl. (Not that I'd looked like Matt Damon you understand.) As the bus trundled South along the A6 from Bakewell, as I left the Peak District behind with the prospect of a bland night in a town I had never visited before I found myself weeping again and turned to the window hoping none of my fellow passengers would see my tears, I had done my best to live a good life, to meet the narrow expectations of family and wife. Hadn't I been a decent teacher, a committed instructor and mentor for a succession of Army cadets in Buxton? It seemed unfair that the memory of Graham Tavistock should be closed off with Lesley and her dress, that final plunge from Dandy Edge. For a moment or two, as I snivelled into a paper tissue, I convinced myself that I wouldn't have jumped; I'd have thought it through and realised suicide wasn't the issue and walked home to deal with the repercussions of my crossdressing. Perhaps that would have been the impetus I'd needed to restart my life, to turn my back on Buxton and make a new life somewhere else. I could have transitioned, lived as the woman I'd dreamed of. Then I looked through Mayzie's ghostly reflection in the bus window and saw through the lies. Even if Lesley had kicked me out I wouldn't have changed much, not until Mum died at least - I would have just plodded on dutifully. At Matlock I left the bus, and with some time to spare hurried to the Sainsburys by the railway station to relieve the urgent pressure in my bladder. A stout man in rigger boots and oily overalls stared like a madman as I hurried into the toilets and headed for the urinals. Only as I found the elastic waistband of my leggings and he said something like, "All the traps full in the girls' bogs then, duck?" did I realise what I'd done. Blushing furiously I headed for the toilets where I'd be less inconspicuous. To confront the biologically most fundamental change - once I'd let a long and very satisfying jet appear from all the neat tucks and folds I'd been miraculously equipped with. I might have sat there and simply stared until they closed the store, but I shook my head and found a grin from somewhere. "Oh, look at you, Graham," I murmured to myself. "Hello, Mayzie," I said to my reflection over the sink, pulling my hair back into a fist-bound pony tail to examine the lines of my jaw, the streamlined ears, pointed nose, almond shaped eyes of a warm, hazel shade, full lips with just a suggestion of a smile ready at the left corner, small white teeth and a mole (beauty spot) prominent on my left cheek. Mayzie Hare - who had named me? Created this fiction and made it real? Four. When I was very young, age 6 maybe, my dad walked out on me and Mum then kept going until he finally stopped in California. Kelly, my older sister by four years, went with him and though she did her best to persuade me I was, even then, too much bound by apron strings to leave mum; nor was I old enough to see mum's flaws the way Kelly and Dad had. I think Kelly resented me for staying - as though I felt myself better, more loyal, or something - for I never saw her again. We stayed in contact via Christmas cards, email and Facebook; though twice divorced herself she'd made a life for herself in the States and had three children to be proud of. Dad had a single, fatal stroke ten years ago so that was that. Amongst the things Kelly left behind were her dressing up clothes - neatly folded in a chest under some Lego boxes in the tiny, spare room we called a playroom. I found them while having a bit of a pre-Christmas tidy - some girlish dresses of fanciful princess designs and a few hand- me-down skirts and blouses that might have been Mum's or Gran's. I think the feel of those clothes over my hands triggered something deep, brought back memories, notions, ideas - call them what you will - that I'd been made incorrectly and left skewed between what I looked like and what I was. A memory surfaced, of a conversation between me and my sister. - Kelly, will I ever be a girl like you? - No, silly; you're a boy, for ever. - Why am I a boy? What if I wanted to be a girl? - You can't. Anyway, boys aren't good enough to be girls. Then, sometime later; you know what your childhood memories are like: - Mum, can I wear a dress like Kelly's? I'd really like to. - Slap. Don't be so stupid. One night, when I had snuck into the playroom to wear one of those dresses, to enjoy the swirl of the material around my bare legs and imagining I could wear some kind of beautiful dress whenever I wanted, wherever I wanted, that I could really be a girl - I was thirteen by then, established at secondary school - Mum caught me. As you can probably guess, she wasn't supportive. It was all I could do to persuade her, through ashamed tears, sniffles and sobs not to tell Gran. To her credit she didn't, or at least if she did she made Gran keep quiet about it. Mum and I never spoke about it again either, but the dressing up clothes all vanished and she mapped out my journey into teaching and Lesley. You can't make those dreams and wishes go away, you all know that. No matter how hard you try to focus on the life in hand, to apply some monastic discipline to your thoughts and feelings they never go away. With my male blinkers determinedly fixed I strode manfully through teacher training college, my first school and then marriage dogmatically convinced that any notion of being female, any moment when I might envy the girls and women around me was not only wrong, but utterly out of my reach. Even so, there were moments when those repressed emotions burst out with a breathtaking crunch to the belly. Sight of one of my colleagues, relaxing in the staffroom with a coffee, crossing her legs with a smooth nylon shush and unconsciously adjusting her hem could be like a slap around the face; seeing a couple of the girls braiding each other's hair in a quiet moment between lessons could twist cruelly my competing halves. At those times I desperately sought out the transformation story sites, pictures and chatrooms - always terrified Lesley would somehow find out, though her IT skills were Jurassic, or that somebody would link me to them and out me. How society unconsciously and maliciously makes us ashamed. Then I found ways of stealing time on my own in the house so I could dip into Lesley's large wardrobe - she loved her clothes and had so many she couldn't have noticed if anybody had disturbed them. I suppose discovery had been inevitable, perhaps I should have told her - when we were still friends, but she'd never given me reason to believe she had any sympathy for the trangendered - you only had to cringe at her reaction to any media stories on the subject to know how she felt. So I'd been transgendered, hungry to be a woman, but not so starving that I exposed myself and chose to live female. Through the years I'd grown an idealistic, lace-trimmed idea of what kind of woman I would love to be - of skirts, cosmetics, jewellery and always being 'just so'. The detail of what I would have been, had I been a woman, always remained sketchy, but always a secretarial, office or classroom based sort of role where I could wear skirt suits or fitted dresses, nylons and heels, my hair pinned up, nails immaculate and make up always perfect. I'd be of interest to the men, be gently seduced with flowers, meals and necklaces. Looking back it was a terribly old-fashioned view of womankind, a long way from the muddy reality of my current outfit, or the impending actuality of joining the army as a girl. I'd always promoted the army to my cadets and pupils of both sexes as a means of escaping backgrounds, expectations and Buxton itself, but how was I going to manage as a woman soldier? The prospect made my belly flip and palms moist. Five. Amongst all my fellow travellers at London St Pancras station I must have looked rather dowdy and windblown - my tangled hair itself was enough to set me apart, never mind the muddy boots. While stretching my legs in between the mainlines and Underground I wandered out of the station concourse and found a pizza outlet that didn't rinse me of all my small savings. Only cheese and tomato, it went down like one of Lesley's finest roast dinners. As I munched I wondered what she was doing; how puffed up she would be, presenting herself at the centre of the gossip storm of my suicide. My suicide! This time yesterday I'd been washing up after tea, now here I was - a girl equipped for hill walking negotiating the London Underground somehow on her way to the Army. How long could I keep up these lines of reflection? This time yesterday would be easy; this time last week relatively simple? After a month; a year? I suppose much of it depended on what awaited me in that hotel. A trap, some great, horrible joke? The only way to find out was to go there. In silent reverie on a Northern Line tube train to Waterloo I didn't realise the carriage had practically emptied until two lads sat opposite, almost identically dressed in sports kit, carrying holdalls and reeking of the gym and hair care products. "Shut yer legs, darlin'. There's a draft," said one. The other sniggered, "Anyone smell fish?" My thighs went together, almost with a snap - I hadn't realised I'd been sitting like that - force of habit - and I folded my arms over my chest, concealed as it was by my bulky coat. From there they pretended to ignore me, but didn't. Enjoying my discomfort they described in graphic terms what they had planned for some women - girlfriends or wives? I couldn't tell as they didn't give them anything as dignified as names. I tried to shut them out, thought about moving seats before discounting the idea in case they followed me. Amongst the overloud descriptions as making her airtight, decorating her with a pearl necklace I learned breasts were only tits or fun bags, vaginas were downgraded to cunts to be filled or smashed and women reduced to bitches or slags. Almost the worst of it was knowing I'd sat in male only gatherings in various locations and times and heard woman, colleagues described in such terms. What had I done about it? Now, on the receiving end, I realised how horrible they were. To make matters worse we ended up stood in a tunnel away from a station for several minutes so I couldn't even get out. Even as Graham I probably couldn't have fought off one of them and my imagination clinically outlined what could happen to a girl on her own in London on a Sunday evening. They only stopped when the carriage's other passenger decided he'd had enough. Uncoiling from his seat further along he loomed towards us in docker boots and stained orange overalls while the tips of his dreadlocks moved like snakes right down his back. "Think she's had enough now," he said in a deep, gravelly voice. "I fucking have. Aint you got sisters? Girlfriends? Mothers?" They sniggered some more, pretended indifference to his size, but their body language changed and they got off next stop, shouting something about frigid bitches. "Foolish being out on your own," said my rescuer, returning to his seat. "Girl like you shouldn't be out on your own. Aint right." I thanked him, eyes on the floor, and hurried from the Underground to the comparative safety of Waterloo and while boarding the Woking train I saw, with some relief, a group of casually dressed women getting on and went to sit close to them. One of the Woking station staff gave me directions to the hotel, only five minutes walk she said, but I had long legs and good boots and covered the ground in half that - checking my shoulder in case of unwelcome followers, giving shadows and voids between buildings a wide berth. The Travelodge came into a view reassuringly quickly - a blocky, modernist structure with some windows illuminated against the gathering night and a bored receptionist who hardly gave me a glance as I saw directions to room 107 and used my room key to swipe myself into the corridor. Mixed expectation and trepidation made my heart thump as I stopped outside the room - no light seeped under its door, but I knocked anyway. What should I have done if there had been an answer? I waited, knocked again - no reply. Half expecting it to be some kind of hoax I waved the card at the room's reader. A magnetic clunk and brief green flash told me I'd got into the small, bland room you'd expect in such a place - double bed, desk with tiny kettle and a small TV - a wardrobe hardly worthy of the title, door to a cramped en-suite and there, beside the bed, a medium sized dark blue suitcase and a black, leather shoulder bag. Propped against the TV was another of those cream envelopes with my new name written upon it. My fingers trembled again as I reached inside and read the handwritten note. Dear Mayzie, I hope you had a pleasant journey. Here is everything you need for your new start. The folder on the desk contains some information, the suitcase and handbag everything you'll need for tomorrow. Don't be troubled by what you read, Mayzie never existed before today. You must be at Brookwood Railway Station by 1000 tomorrow at the latest. Go well. With love. Was that a faint hint of perfume on the thick paper or was my imagination making my anonymous benefactor into some fairy godmother? When I opened the mauve folder and skimmed through the sheets of paper my thoughts spun off in different, haphazard directions as I tried to make sense of where and who I was. A report from Derbyshire Social Services spoke of Mayzie Hare as a troubled girl, in care since she was three, of her birth mother (father unknown) defined by drug abuse and poverty. That woman had died during a prison sentence imposed after she injected little Mayzie (me) with heroin to quiet her wailing. Aborted adoption attempts led to long-term fostering, a wasted school career and expulsion from college. Some social worker had summarised Mayzie's Army application as a last chance. I found documents outlining my impending military service; joining instructions for my recruit training at Pirbright - I had an Army number and confirmation of my enlistment as an Aviation Groundcrew Specialist in the Army Air Corps. I read through a list indicating what I needed to take with me and telling me what I should wear when I arrived - smart trousers or skirt, blouse and smart shoes, not stilettos. I had bank statements, details of a mobile phone plan and the half-forgotten phone's PIN, coincidentally the last four of my new Army number. When I dug the phone from my pocket and entered the PIN it opened immediately and showed me a message. There was no Mayzie Hare before today. You are a blank page, Mayzie. Write your own story. Searching though the phone, but found only one lonely contact - Imogen Carlyle (Social Services) with a mobile number. I had no pictures, no documents, no favourite websites - all I could find was music, all the music I'd had stored on my lost phone. After linking to the hotel wifi I called up the BBC News website, looked for Derbyshire stories and felt my face go cold as I read the headline describing a Buxton schoolteacher's apparent suicide. An old photograph from the school's website looked out cheerfully and the couple of paragraphs the incident warranted didn't say much except the police weren't looking for anybody in connection with my death. Somehow the story made everything more real, as real as it could be! Numb fingers made hard work of calling up Imogen Carlyle's details and after an aching age of hesitation I called her. She'd picked up on the third ring. "Hello, it's Imogen." She sounded well-spoken and irritated, as she had every right to be - it was way past dinner time on a Sunday evening. She'd probably had a glass of wine and her feet up with some TV to pass the time before bed with her husband. "It's Mayzie," It seemed a lie to use that name, but I plunged on. "Mayzie Hare." "Mayzie...? Oh, yes. Mayzie, Army Mayzie? Are you okay?" My mouth turned dry, I swallowed - trying to force some cooperation from it, but couldn't make a single word. All I could think of was what those boys had wanted to do to me. "Mayzie, where are you?" In response to that I croaked, "At the hotel." "In Woking?" "Yes." "Good girl." She sounded a little warmer now, which did nothing to ease my confusion, and reminding me of all the social workers I'd ever come into contact with through safeguarding issues at school or cadets. She clearly knew my history - which apparently hadn't existed before today. "Get some sleep then, sweetie. You've a big day tomorrow." Sweetie! "I don't really know what's happening to me." An understatement. "You are going to go through with it, Mayzie? It's what you need, a fresh start - some structure and something to get your teeth into." "Yes. I'll go. It's just... I'm..." "Yes?" What are you? Graham? Mayzie, woman, bitch? All of the above? "Scared." "What are you scared of?" "That I can't do it." That I couldn't be a woman. Who would teach me? "The Army thinks you can do it, otherwise you wouldn't be there. You can do it. Mayzie, don't be defined by your past; put it all behind you. Tomorrow's a new day. Go to it with a grin and your head up." I promised to call her tomorrow, at the end of the day and stared at the phone as though I could make it tell who'd sent that message, force it to reveal who sat behind all this effort in orchestrating two vast bureaucracies to fabricate a girl then move her from one to the other. Then I Googled 'Imogen Carlyle Derbyshire Social Services' and found a portrait of a plump woman with an iron grey helmet of hair and twinkling eyes. So she was real. Wasn't she? Exploring the room I found a plain, white blouse and a pair of black trousers - neither of very good quality- and a pair of flat, black ankle boots (upper and sole other materials) in the wardrobe: my smart clothes for tomorrow. Black socks, white (plain) panties and matching bra would complete my outfit. Fleecy pyjamas waited on the bed, a toiletry bag in the cramped en-suite. I probably did pong a bit, a shower would make me feel better so I stripped off quickly and left my clothes in a neat heap by the bed. For all the childish excitement of having a real need to wear a bra, the straps had started to annoy my shoulders, the chest band pinched and I couldn't get the underwire to sit comfortably under my left breast so it felt good to get the thing off and let my breasts free. Which led to a minute or two examining my naked body in the en-suites big mirror - small, but round breasts, well defined waist, long legs, a luxurious spread of dark curls over my pussy. Turning and looking over my shoulder I found a decent bum to go with my smooth curves, pale, flawless skin and wavy hair hanging down just below the bottom tip of my shoulder blades. Not bad, I thought. Putting hands on my hips I scooped my hair away from one shoulder and tilted my head. Then smiled, I couldn't help myself; I'd become a woman, an actual female! Like some kind of exotic dancer I put my arms over my head and made a sinuous flow from fingers to knees, with a sensual roll of the hips, and laughed. I jumped on the spot just to feel my boobs bounce, small as they were. Who could get so excited by the sudden manifestation of a pair of fatty balls on their chest? Me! That's who. A woman, a card carrying, gold-plated miracle of a woman. "Thank you, whoever you are," I shouted into the bedroom (and would probably have shit myself if a disembodied voice had said, 'you're welcome') then took myself into a long hot shower. The feel of the water slipping over my near hairless skin! I stood entranced for several minutes just watching the patterns the warm water made running over my body. Then I lost myself in the satin sensations when I ran soapy hands over my curves, lifted my breasts' weight, cupped my lean bum and smoothed a finger along its crease... Words fail me, nothing you'd find in a dictionary would come close; perhaps you could picture the wonder on my face as I tenderly explored my new body, the shy smile I wore, the delight shining from me as my nipples crinkled and hardened under the water's kisses and finger swirls around them. Did I go any further? You'd better believe it. I found a very sensitive spot where I wasn't just warm and wet - I'd become hot and slick; the sleepy lips I'd become familiar with after several toilet visits grew swollen and eager. And when I eased in the first few centimetres of my longest finger? I had to stop; worried in case I'd scream, or tear down the shower curtain, lose my ability to stand and fall from the bath to break something catastrophic. 'And how did you sustain these injuries, Miss Hare - both legs broken, a depressed skull fracture and a sprained finger?" "Ask the Doctor, nurse - she knows." I thought I'd better save that treat for the bed, where I was less likely to hurt myself, but I did have a little taste - oh, delicious. No satin nightgown for this princess tonight, but wrapping myself in those soft pyjamas felt snug. I made myself some tea, curled up on the bed and watched some drama on TV for awhile. Now, instead of wishing I could be like every female actor I saw, I just wished for the opportunity to shop so I could dress like them. "Your time will come, Mayzie," I said to myself while brushing my teeth. After all, I'd waited almost thirty years to be a woman - a trip to the shops and maybe a salon would wait. Six. I woke early, about an hour before the alarm and stared into the morning's dim light wondering why I had the bed to myself; Lesley slept heavily, she often snored, and I usually opened my eyes to her laboured breathing. Instead, a jet thundered overhead, springing me back instantly to a hotel in Woking close to Heathrow's flightpaths. Sitting up sharply my breasts shifted, hair swung forward around my face and I grinned to wake back into the wonderful dream. After a quick scamper to the loo I took a moment to reacquaint myself with the super-sensitive areas I'd explored so much the night before, though only with the briefest of a kiss passed from one pair of lips to another on my fingertips. Then another cup of tea and a freshening shower before dressing. As much as I had been pleased to get the bra off yesterday evening I enjoyed the simple, fumbled act of trapping my breasts and wrestling with the clasp. I really should have liked to have turned up for my first day in the skirt option of smart clothes - perhaps that sounds a little ungrateful in the context of the gift I'd been given yesterday: sorry. Even so, to draw on panties, wrestle with the blouse's female-sided buttons and then step into the woman sized trousers made me happy. The trousers fit me well over bum and hips and flowed away into a wide legged cut that moved sensually around my legs as I packed away yesterday's clothes and got ready to check out. I'd found a hair brush, nets, hair grips, spray and bobbles when I'd had a brief look in my suitcase and scared myself into a mini panic when I realised I didn't know how to use any of them to create the kind of bun the Army would want my hair in. Trying to remember something of Lesley managing her hair I did brush mine to a shine and wrestled it into a functional ponytail from the back of my head. It didn't look bad for a first go and I enjoyed its swish over my neck. At Brookwood station all niceties were forgotten as I joined a group of smartly dressed young people with suitcases and apprehension practically hazing the air around them. We suspiciously eyed each other up, before our fears focussed on a plain white coach sweeping into the station forecourt. A brisk soldier in camouflage and an Artillery beret bounding out and looked us over, without seeing any of us. "Last chance to hoof it back to mummy and daddy," he said cooly, voice carrying effortlessly through our hush, his face like stone. Nobody moved, perhaps he was disappointed. "On you get then. Come on! Why can I still see you!" From there the well rehearsed machine whisked me into a whirlwind of lecture theatres and classrooms, never fast enough - hurry hurry hurry! People in camouflage uniforms constantly shouted at us, even when they weren't yelling it felt like they were. We were never fast enough, nobody could do anything right. I found myself one of a thirty six strong Anzio Platoon under a sneering Sergeant from the Logistics Corps and an indifferent Lieutenant of the Royal Engineers. Anzio was further split into sections of eight women with Private Hare assigned to 4 Section under Corporal Hind, who wore the sky-blue beret of the Air Corps, matching eyes of startling intensity and a bright ginger moustache. At some point, just after lunch, after a morning of sworn oaths and endless forms, Corporal Hind hustled 4 Section into a classroom containing a horseshoe of nine chairs. "Ice-breaker," he said, after chasing us into the seats. My ponytail felt a little loose and that troubling underwire was protesting about all the dashing around we'd been doing, but otherwise we'd been so busy I'd almost forgotten about being a woman. He flipped over the top sheet on a flip-chart to reveal a handwritten list of points he wanted us to talk about. "Who's going first?" He demanded, but didn't wait for an answer. "You!" I nearly squealed with shock when he pointed at me. "Work through the list, try and make me laugh - but remember the values and standards! If I go down I'm taking you lot with me. Crack on. Stand up, don't be shy." "Erm!" "Shit opening. Do better, unless your name is Erm. Shit deal if it is, by the way, but we'll see if we can come up with a better name later on. Crack on." I almost 'erm'd' again, but stopped in time, with my mouth open. "Good drills," said Corporal Hind. "I'm Mayzie Hare. I'm (almost forgot how old I was and said thirty two) almost eighteen, from Buxton - in Derbyshire." Eight faces stared at me, seven of them expressionless and one, the Corporal's, bored.) "Mediocre tourist trap, crap if you live there." "That's ruined my Buxton based, romantic anniversary weekend with Mrs Hind!" Was he joking? He said he was. Next point - why I was joining the Army. "My social worker said the Army was my last chance." I chanced a nervous smile. Corporal Hind didn't. Next category - which corps. "Army Air Corps," I said. Corporal Hind pulled a cynical face. "Communications or bowser mong?" he asked. "Aviation Groundcrew Specialist." "Bowser mong," he said with assurance. Favourite film - What sort of film would a seventeen year old girl from the care system like? "Stardust." I didn't have time to wonder, so I gave my actual favourite. "Stardust! Fuck's sake. Anybody here going to list Full Metal Jacket, Dredd or Mad Max Fury Road as their favourite films? No? You're all dead to me. Why do I get a female platoon again! Come on then, Hare. Stop distracting me with your hilarious anecdotes and crack on." Family - this would be tough ground for Mayzie Hare to walk upon, but I wasn't that Mayzie - I was me. "My family? I haven't got one, just a load of social workers and foster carers (that said with my eyes holding Corporal Hind's, daring him to take the piss). I'm not going back." Another little smile, a self-deprecating shrug to hopefully tell them it wasn't a problem. He didn't take the piss, gave a tiny nod. "Sounds like you needed the Foreign Legion, not God's own corps, Bambi." Worst fear about joining the Army - easy. I ran a hand down my tired ponytail. "Making a bun out of this every morning. I haven't a clue." "I'm sure this load of princesses will give you a crash course," he said. "Or we'll be calling you Messy Hair. Get it? Laugh then! Jesus! If this lot can't tame your thatch, Hare, I've got some clippers, good rates too - better than that butcher in the camp barber shop." The last point was to give them an interesting fact about myself - clearly I wasn't about to disclose what would have been the headline, but the thought that yesterday I'd been Graham did bring a quick grin to my face. "Most interesting fact; you spell my name with a zed instead of an ess." "How the evenings must fly by with you! Sit down now, you - blondie, up you get. Crack on." We did a lot of cracking on! I won't trouble you with the biographies, as much as they were revealed, by the other internees of 4 Section, nothing really jumped out from the mixture of accents and anecdotes. Some of them probably had worse backgrounds than Mayzie Hare, most of them didn't. The three I will introduce to you were the girls sharing my bay in the eight bed barrack room that became our home for the next fourteen weeks. Usha Jameson in the bed opposite with her cultured voice and luxurious fall of satin-black hair, slightly plump figure and puppyish eagerness to please. The youngest of four children from a well-heeled Wiltshire family, she'd joined the Army to be a geographic technician in the Royal Engineers - clever stuff! Usha took it upon herself to show me how to net and bun my hair - though it took a week or so before I was confident to make a passable attempt myself. Next to her slept Kelsey Gray, a scrawny whip of energy hoping to put East London's lack of opportunities behind her. Belligerently defensive accounts of poverty in tower blocks gave us patience with her when her determination to succeed at all costs had her accusing us of holding her back. Intending to be a combat medic in the Medical Corps, sport was her obsession, to become a PTI her dream; we wished she could be still once in a while and nicknamed her Tigger. Some wonderful accident had them place Paislyn Hardy in the bed next to mine. She projected such an air of bored indifference, which contrasted starkly with her actual commitment and capability, they started calling her Twinkle about the same time my own name was forgotten and I became Bunny. Paislyn had gleaming honey blonde hair and a compact, hourglass body that held her back in some of the PT sessions. She waved off this issue contentedly, pointing out that her chosen trade as an aircraft technician in the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers meant she would be driven everywhere. She joined Usha's bun masterclass until we were sufficiently skilled to be able to sit in a triangle, back to the girl behind you, while we dressed each other's hair. This seemed to ensure the tidiest, most resilient buns. One morning in week five, Corporal Hind came in, after knocking -he couldn't come in unless we were all dressed - and on seeing the three of us like that, he pulled his legendary sneer and walked out again. Small victories. Life descended into a chaos of activity. We worked harder than the most industrious domestic servants to keep our room obsessively spotless as well as our allocation of communal areas - we got the downstairs toilets, yay! Kit maintenance - ironing and presentation for inspection - took up loads of time. As you can imagine, nothing was right, even if it was, and our kit, immaculately folded and laid out in our lockers, would be thrown across the room by whichever artificially enraged instructor was charged with the sham inspection that morning. Afterwards we'd have only a few minutes to frantically scrabble around the barrack room, amongst the other girls, finding which was ours amongst the identical army issued stuff. The PTIs clearly hated us, though Corporal Hind did reveal, in a rare moment of benevolence, that their hatred wasn't personal - they hated everyone, which wasn't true either. The whole basic training performance by the instructors was an act - part of the deconstruction of recruits, deemed necessary to rebuild us as soldiers. By the time we passed out even Corporal Hind had become a mentor rather than an instructor and when I bumped into him again, four years later on an exercise in Poland, by which time I'd made Lance Corporal and he'd got to Staff Sergeant, we enjoyed a warm reunion with much laughter. Maybe the biggest dislocation for me in those early days of training, as I started to get used to being a woman and as I learnt to be a soldier, came from the proximity of all the young women in Anzio Platoon. Imagine Graham Tavistock living in close proximity to a load of teenage girls, and the kind of awful movie they'd have made about that in the eighties! Not all the girls of Anzio Platoon were conventionally beautiful, but we were all Army fit and young. At first I didn't know where to look when we were changing from one rig to another, getting ready for bed or using the communal changing rooms in the gym, surrounded as I was by breasts of different sizes, all kinds of womanly legs and everything else. Gripped by the sensibilities of my old gender I found myself reluctant to bare my body to my roommates and would snatch my eyes from any inadvertent exposure of theirs. Twinkle would tease me, very gently, about being so shy while Kelsey laughed and blatantly paraded her lean, dark nakedness towards me while Usha was kind enough to turn away when I undressed. After the first seven days I didn't have time for it to be a problem and the bodies around me faded into wallpaper; the awareness that I hadn't always been like this numbed under all the pressures of this new life. Beyond that I learnt what women were really like, or at least the women in my platoon; that we're funny, ribald, sensitive, clever, resilient, strong, emotional - in short, people and I loved becoming one of their number. Though I found I was practically the only one who didn't have some kind of tattoo - even Conventional Usha had a rose on the back of her left shoulder, Kelsey had smoky patterns inked into her dusky skin and Twinkle a circle of daisies around her navel. Nor did I have any piercings, not even earrings, so I was marked, in Twinkle's eyes at least, as some kind of dangerous weirdo. "Were you really in care or some kind of nunnery?" she asked, one evening when we were supposed to bulling our parade shoes. "A very strict one," I said, working more polish into a toecap. Because I knew how to polish shoes, a transferable skill from cadets, I did Usha's and she ironed my uniform. "We weren't even allowed to see in colour until I was thirteen." "When they let us out we should get a team tattoo," Kelsey suggested, putting her T shirt back on after showing us the climbing flowers and whorls around her back and shoulders. "A girl on her hands and knees scrubbing a toilet," Usha suggested. "Twinkle dropping her rifle on the obstacle course?" "Bunny landing on that PTI during gymnastics!" "She was trying to jump him, weren't you, Bunny?" "She's that desperate to pop her cherry after escaping from her convent!" I made retching noises, "So not my type!" As Graham I hadn't taken much interest in sport - imagine the slight boy who gets picked last for all the teams and you'll see how I used to be. Mayzi's capacity for running and swimming amazed me at first. Until we started running with pack and rifle in boots I found myself leading most individual efforts, though when it came to team runs I preferred to stay close to the back of the pack, chivvying along the strugglers. Usha and Twinkle were often to be found back there, but their dogged persistence usually got them over the line in time. The upper body PT sessions were more of a problem for me, but I was the right shape for them and soon toned up. We found ourselves doing boxing training, the most exhausting sport I'd never tried. Twinkle and I were selected to box for the platoon and then company in different competitions and I went on to win just under half of my bouts, while Twinkle's aggression and compact size made her the platoon champion. I found myself enjoying five a side football for the first time in my life and had a good time playing netball, though I usually got into trouble for straying from my area when I forgot I wasn't playing basketball. For all my time at a mixed school I'd thought girls' sport to be genteel and delicate - not in our platoon; lots of them were hard cases and competitive. Kelsey in particular would yank a ponytail when she thought she could get away with it. Initially the surprise I radiated at some of their behaviour only added to the 'Sister Mayzi Lived in a Convent' tales they enjoyed inventing. Back in the Graham time, I'd always fantasised life as a woman to be a succession of feminine experiences - shopping, beautician's, dressing, being beautiful, even sexy and sexual. As a living, breathing biological woman the reality was nothing like that, but so much better with the realisation that I was actually living as a woman, not fantasising or imagining it. I was really doing it! Being the girl; admittedly in slightly different circumstances. Though learning to be the woman as I learnt to be a soldier came hard. Some days I went to the shower and wept into the streaming water from all the different ways my body hurt; the bruises over my back and hips left by my webbing, the blisters that grew into callouses on my little feet, my cracked nails and weary eyes. My first period started in the middle of a field exercise in pouring rain and crushing dark; Twinkle and I were filthy and shivering on sentry duty together, laid in a muddy shell-scrape under a dripping poncho staring into the hissing night in case one of the instructors were sneaking up. Amidst the fatigue and crushing discomfort I realised the aches in my tits weren't just from all the running we'd been doing as we learnt section battle drills and those cramps weren?t just the ration pack food disagreeing with me again. "I?ve got my period," I hissed nervously to Twinkle; misery dragged at every syllable. I should have known it would come - the anonymous fairy godmother had placed tampons and sanitary towels in my suitcase. "Right now!" "I don?t know." "You don?t know!" "It?s complicated." Fortune might not have been smiling on me, but at least she stopped laughing and I didn?t start bleeding before we were relieved from the sentry position. By the red shaded light of her tactical torch, my bare thighs blue with cold, Twinkle helped me with my first tampon. Yay, I?m a woman! Other skills I brought from my time as a cadet instructor related to drill and weapons training. Drill was the endless, foot-stamping, arm swinging and bellowing effort that went into making our parades look good - though not at first; the bull-necked Regimental Sergeant Major, a fearsome creature of impeccable turnout unable to communicate at any level below screaming sarcasm, jailed the whole platoon after a lass from 2 Section wet herself on the parade square during one cataclysmic bollocking following some really bad marching. It got better after that, but Lou?s Leaky nickname followed her through her twenty five year career, even when she became an RSM herself. In weapons training, or skill at arms as the Army described it, I?d done enough time stripping, cleaning and shooting issue SA80 rifles that I could lend a hand to the clumsier lasses in the platoon. I managed to help Twinkle out of her absent minded habit of dramatically launching the recoil springs from the back of her rifle during stripping; Usha still has a scar on her right cheek where she caught one. In week 5 we?d generated sufficient confidence in our potential to actually finish the course that they issued our parade uniforms - in our case a khaki tunic and matching skirt. The skirts wouldn?t have won any prizes at a fashion event being knee length, flared and box pleated so we could still perform our knees raised, foot stamping drill without tearing them. Kelsey regarded hers with blatant disgust, it could only have been worse if you?d asked her to wear some kind of flounced, party dress in pink - with frills. Twinkle examined hers with head tilted as though considering how to have it altered to a more attractive style while Usha claimed hers was better than the one she?d worn to her private school. Meanwhile I stepped into mine as soon as I could and gave it an experimental swirl around my bare legs. "What are you looking so pleased about?" Twinkle demanded. By that point I?d made it my policy to never embellish or make anything up about my Mayzie past - what I?d got in that folder was what I passed on. My friends often speculated about and made up stories about my background to pass the time, but I never confirmed nor denied any of their variously funny, outlandish or obscene suggestions. Admitting I?d never owned a skirt before comfortably fitted into my policy. "Never had a gopping skirt?" "Any skirt." "You are the weirdest girl I have ever met," Kelsey said, with a weary grimace. "And I went to an inner-city school." Gopping, by the way, is an Army term for anything dirty, smelly, unpleasant - that kind of thing. It could be interchanged with minging, gouting, or hanging. Our English had bloomed with military terms we heard every day, most of us swore like dockers without even thinking of it - every day we were a little more squaddie. "No self-respecting woman under 95 wears tights any more," Kelsey groaned when we were dressing for our first inspection in parade uniforms. Natural tan, which the Army had picked years ago as its hosiery shade of choice for female soldiers in uniform skirts, landed well wide of the mark for her dark legs. "Mother says ladies shouldn?t be seen with bare legs," Usha said, with an innocent look - she could be inscrutable when the mood took her. "Or without gloves. And a hat, you must always wear a hat. Never trousers. Are you listening? This is how you lot can better yourselves." "Usha Jameson, fresh from the 1930s," I said, though I hadn?t a problem with wearing tights, natural tan or otherwise. In fact, I was happy to be complying with the old-fashioned notion that bare legs were somehow demeaning. My legs felt good and looked good in sheer nylon; more than that was the simple satisfaction of doing something as feminine as putting on a pair. Of course it wasn?t the first time I?d ever worn tights, thank you Lesley, but it was my first time wearing them out and in view; I?d discreetly shaved my legs before the occasion. My skirt may have been the world?s ugliest, particularly when accessorised with truly awful parade shoes, but as we hurried out to take our places in the platoon I couldn?t have been happier with the lined skirt?s sensual movement over my sheer dressed legs. Trust the Army to suck even the slight pleasure from that - we found we had to spray our legs with hairspray to stop runs developing in our tights; laddered tights caused veins to pulse in Sergeant Majors? brows! Though it didn?t take long to start envying the boys in their parade trousers when the wind blew across the parade square, which it always did. Even two pairs of tights coated with hairspray didn?t help. Seven. A bigger event, even than wearing a skirt in public for the very first time, was the families? day organised for the Friday of week seven. There were a few Commonwealth girls, with wonderful accents in the platoon, whose loved ones were far far away, so I didn?t think I?d be the only one without family present. What I was more interested in was the weekend off we?d been promised after the families? day. A weekend off? Routine, you say. To us it felt like the prospect of a six week long summer holiday. By then Anzio Platoon?s number had fallen to 27 - six girls had left and three more had been back-squadded due to injury; in 4 Section we maintained our original eight and had become a tight team as we helped each other through the ordered insanity of our training. Usha?s excitement at getting back to the family seat, our term for her house in Salisbury, grew with each day; though we couldn?t be sure whether she were more excited about seeing her pony, Labrador or parents. Kelsey had mixed feelings about her London tower block, but became animated when talking of seeing her little sister again while Twinkle kept her thoughts to herself and I didn?t know what to do with my weekend. "Where are you going to go, Bun?" Twinkle asked one evening leading up to the big day as we scrubbed the toilet floor. "Somewhere where somebody else scrubs the bogs." "You?re a born scrubber. Going back to that paradise in Derbyshire you never stop talking about?" I had no intention of going to Buxton, and I never spoke of it - in case you were wondering. She fell quiet for a moment, leaving room for the background murmurings of female conversation and block cleaning clatter elsewhere in the barracks. I felt the gentle sisterhood of the platoon wrapping me so warm and comforting it could have been fleecy pyjamas. "I guess you?re going home with your parents?" Home for Twinkle was a retired farmhouse North of Norwich where her Dad had made his place selling BMWs. "Nah. They?re not coming." "Not coming! Really?" "Too busy, doesn?t matter, Norfolk?s a proper inbred shithole anyway. Listen, why don?t you and me head for somewhere, book a hotel and get pissed, find some handsome lads to objectify and shag senseless and generally forget about Pirbright." I had been mulling over a bed and breakfast Dorset way, so I could walk some of the Jurassic Coast - a geography teacher?s go-to holiday - as well as wandering into a few shops, just to browse. The thought of a weekend in pubs and clubs with Twinkle couldn?t have been lower on my list of relaxing weekend activities, but when I saw the intense anticipation shining from her brown eyes I couldn?t say no - not when she?d been such a good friend to me. We (she) decided on Brighton, with it being a relatively easy train journey from Pirbright, having a beach (my criteria) and lots of places to drink (hers). The event went well - the instructors seemed pleased with the displays of drill, PT and fieldcraft we put on for them (Twinkle and I had to demonstrate ration-pack cookery). I met Usha?s Mum, a matronly GP from Salisbury who made me blush with her effusive thanks for being such a friend to her daughter, and Kelsey?s Gran, who brought her little sister. Twinkle and I both fell a little bit in love with them both. I couldn?t help comparing both Mrs Jameson and Grandma Grey with my own mum and Gran, though I generally thought of my male past less and less. After a parade in front of a civilian audience, which Corporal HInd effusively described as ?adequate? the platoon was dismissed into the care of loved ones, or in our case, to the railway station. Kelsey, Usha and a couple of the other girls saw us off with hugs, I was still getting used to how tactile women were with each other, before Twinkle and I ended up on opposite sides of a train?s table on our way to Brighton, each with a big, frothy hot chocolate in a cardboard cup. "I?m half expecting Hind to strut up and yell at us for being out of uniform or something," said Twinkle, watching London suburbs rush past the window. "I am not cleaning that toilet!" I said firmly, waving at the offending facility somewhere behind me. "It?s proper minging." She wore skinny jeans and a hoodie with tennis shoes, her hair gleefully down and wild about her shoulders. Having taken the trouble with hoop earrings and some make up before we left the barracks she looked ordinary and exotic at the same time. Without much in the way of a wardrobe I?d had to put on my original black trousers and blouse, with my raspberry pink walking coat; my ears weren?t pierced, yet, and I didn?t own any make-up. Twinkle had pulled a face at my outfit. "Got your bank card, Bun?" she asked. I patted my handbag. "Good, cos we are going to hammer it tomorrow." "Won?t we have hangovers until afternoon?" "I don?t think it will take much to get me pissed," she admitted and yawned. "God, this is supposed to be a break and we?ll still be knackered by Sunday night when we go back." Folding her arms she sat back in her seat and stared from the window, with ?pissed off? so clear in her frown she might as well have messaged me. I thought perhaps it might be me, not the most teenaged of teenaged girls, getting her down - along with her family?s non-attendance today - so I decided to keep quiet and let her come around when she was ready. I passed the time worrying about the weekend before me. It wasn?t that I?d never been out and been drunk - some of the nights at teacher training college would have been memorable, I?m sure, if I had any memory of them, but I hadn?t been drunk as a girl. What would I blurt out in a shot after shot induced lack of control? And what about the sex Twinkle had planned for us. From what I?d experienced at my own hands I felt confident it would be mind-blowing, but sex with a man! The idea fascinated and revolted me at the same time, though I had already bought condoms from the barracks? shop. But sex with a man! It wasn?t like I hadn?t considered the mechanics of the act in quiet moments during training. My male experiences had equipped me with sufficient knowledge to allow the reverse engineering of what a woman might do, while the notion of experiencing an erection, either in my mouth or pussy, had a tingling appeal. The rest of the male package of ego, muscle and bristles had the potential to put me off; even drunk I wasn?t entirely sure of the ability to carry it further than the first kiss, as much as I didn?t want to let down Twinkle. However, I would do my best; after all - doing our best had been promoted as the ultimate of efforts since day one of recruit training. By the time we?d had a short taxi ride from Brighton station and checked into the seafront hotel Twinkle had booked she?d recovered her good humour. We bounced on the beds in our twin room, marvelled at the carpet on the floor, the soft furnishings and cosy en-suite, but before the chance to unpack she hustled me from the hotel and practically dragged me towards the High Street. "Since when did you turn into a PTI," I muttered as her feet practically blurred over the pavement; a car horn blared as she skipped between two lines of afternoon traffic. "I do not want to be an accessory to your early death!" "You think I?m going to be seen dead with you in a pub dressed like that!" Halting at the entrance to a huge Primark store she threw open her arms and cried, "Welcome to the glittering world of thrown away fashion, Messy Hair!" Stifling a smile I followed her in, wondering how long I could play the part of Mayzie, the girl from care, when the long repressed woman inside me felt giddy to be let loose in a store like this. Until now the only women?s products I?d been able to buy had been sanitary products and the plain tights and bun nets required for uniform purposes. Don?t get me wrong, that had been special enough at the time, but here and now surrounded by an overwhelming variety of clothing choices I felt like the proverbial kid in the sweet shop. Lesley wouldn?t have been seen dead in Primark - she liked a more exclusive boutique, but the bustle, energy and determined bargain hunting filling this store, even this late in the afternoon, touched something in me. "So what does madame think she?d like to wear to the ball this evening?" Twinkle asked in a pompous voice. "Some skinny jeans to show off your perfect bootie? A flirty, floaty skirt to catch the eye and promise the world?" "You?re so wasted in the army." "Don?t I know it!" "I?d like to wear a dress." "A dress? Good choice, what kind suits you?" I shrugged contentedly. "Don?t know, I?ve never owned one." "You don?t own a dress! Where were you living? The moon? Under a rock? With cannibals? It was cannibals, wasn?t it?" "It was Buxton, not Lord of the Flies!" "Lord of the what?" "Where did you go to school?" "This century, Bunny!" I enjoyed seeing her laugh, she seemed much more relaxed than earlier and I wondered if I might get the chance to explore and help with that tension, but now... I knew exactly what kind of dress I fancied, the kind I wouldn?t have been able to wear as a man; flat fronted, fitted over waist and hips, but not especially low cut. I had in mind some advice I?d heard or read some time ago, ?boobs or legs on show, but not both?. Not to be outdone, Twinkle had found herself a selection of items to match the armful I had and as we were called forward into the changing rooms I experienced such a surge of joy I almost wept. Thankfully nobody saw my eyes fill up. Not because I?d got the opportunity to do something typically, stereotypically girly for the first time, but because of another sudden realisation that I?d become a girl. All those weeks sweating, hurting, shooting, playing war might have been leading me to this moment - in a discount clothing store about to try on a heap of dresses with my best friend. In the end I bought two, both in similar styles (see above); one with long sleeves in a maroon, stretchy fabric, the other white, short- sleeved and slightly a-line. Both covered me to within a couple of inches above my knee. Respectable, I thought - Twinkle placed them on the mostly acceptable end of the old-fashioned scale. A couple of pairs of jeans and a comfortable variety of tops along with a really smart, short waisted denim jacket seemed to be enough for now - enough to carry at least and Twinkle had another shop in mind for shoes - though I pulled her away from the checkouts when I told her I needed tights. Her response came immediate and heartfelt. "Tights! What do you want tights for? Haven?t you had enough of wearing those 15 denier passion killers on parade? Who wears tights now anyway?" "The Duchess of Cambridge?" "Yeah, look at all the princes you?re having to beat off with that shitty stick!" "They will make me look sophisticated." "Sophisticated! Old more like. You! You're about as sophisticated as... Think of something that isn't very sophisticated, quick." "You?" "Exactly. You're about as sophisticated as me. Don?t get all ?airs and pretentions? on me now, Bunny!" I bought tights. Not 15 denier passion killers though, a very slinky pair in natural tan and some smooth, black opaques. We bought shoes; nothing special as I was never going to manage the kind of heels Twinkle eyed up, and ultimately bought for herself, but I did get a couple pairs of feminine flats that I thought would do until I could settle down and fully grow into my new life. We went dirty for dinner and ate too much at McDonalds, revelling in the simple pleasure of not having a horribly unrealistic time limit for a gopping meal and enjoying the bustle and irreverent racket of the town centre at dinner time. It had been some time since I?d had a dislocating rush of imposter syndrome - the relentless pace of basic training and the necessity to get on with it had overwhelmed most of the shock and awe of being female. But to see myself in my new white dress, my legs smooth and sophisticated, my thick hair down and loose to cape my shoulders brought the dreamy, imposter feelings flooding back. Twinkle finished off her eye make up as I stood there, wide eyed and speechless with what I had become, turning to check my profile, looking over my shoulder to see how the dress flowed down my hips and waist. So entranced was I that I didn?t realise Twinkle was speaking at first; with her mascara wand in one hand she rested the other gently on my shoulder. "You?ve never seen yourself like this before, have you?" I shook my head, I don?t think I could have spoken even if Corporal Hind himself had stalked in and yelled at me. "The dress is so you. I?ll admit it, your legs look great, well sophisticated. You know you?re, like, really hot don?t you. I mean, beautiful?" My cheeks warmed and I looked at the carpet. I?d always had the quietly downtrodden person?s discomfort under praise, but to hear it in those terms from Twinkle felt a little too much. Perhaps the trousers would be a better option. "Life can be really shit, Bunny," she said, with another squeeze to my shoulder. I placed a hand on top of hers, holding it against me. "Thanks for staying with me this weekend." She shrugged, made a little smile. "I couldn?t let you go off on your own, could I?" "You could have gone home." "You?re sure I can?t do your eyes?" I shook my head, letting her evasion slide; the subtle sheen of the lip moisturiser I?d applied was enough for tonight. My feet felt light on the floor, eager to get moving - to get the night underway. Once she?d darkened her eyes satisfactorily we did just that. Evening was well on its way into night and the onshore breeze came cool through my tights, making me pleased I?d shrugged on my new jacket. We hurried along the seafront promenade, the waves rustling over the pebble beach and the darkness out to sea contrasting with the strings of coloured lights swinging between the lamp posts. "So what?s your preference, Bunny? Tall, dark and mysterious, or powerful and fair?" "Can I have one that makes me laugh?" "Is that it? A sense of humour? Jeez, Bun - I make you laugh." "I?m laughing at you, not with you." "Come on, give me something to work with here." I had to laugh at her earnest enthusiasm. "You know so much, you can choose for me." "What if I?m into short, pot-bellied and balding men, with bad breath and terrible personal hygiene?" "You?re not bringing him back to the hotel room!" "Come on, Bunny! I know... Who was your hottest boyfriend?" When I didn?t answer she pressed on. "There must have been somebody in all those care homes. Come on, what about your first time? The first boy you let in to see your treasure, the lad who -" While I half listened to her enthusiastic, lively pleadings and wondered how I would reply to them or what ideal male I could describe to shut her up, her words seemingly ran into a brick wall. The brisk clipping of her heels stuttered to a stop and I turned to see what could have distracted her so suddenly. "Oh my god!" She clapped a hand to her mouth. "Bunny I am so sorry, I mean... I didn?t mean..." "What?" I asked, properly confused. "I shouldn?t have pushed, I?m so sorry." "Twinkle, you aren?t making any sense." "Forget I asked, please. I won?t mention it again. Unless you want to talk, you can always talk to me - after what we?ve been through - you know that, don?t you?" "What?" "Forget it." The penny dropped. Or it might have done. She started walking again, head up, hair blown out to one side. "Twinkle, wait. I didn?t answer because of, whatever you thought might have gone on, I didn?t know what to say." I caught her hand and turned her to face me. "I?m a bit embarrassed about it, but I haven?t had a first." Her eyebrows lifted. "You haven?t?" "I?m a virgin, never touched by man." "Oh. You never said." "I thought you might think I was... I don?t know, even weirder than you already do." Even in the streetlamp?s glow I saw her cheeks colour. "Oh shit. I just..." So I repeated the mantra of my assumed youth, all the detail I would ever offer about Mayzie?s past. "Being in care was a bit shit, and I was a bit shit." Then added a bit more, to hopefully reassure her, though I hated lying to her. "I just kept myself to myself. Nothing horrible happened to me." Her relieved smile cleared the moment and we started walking again, not far to the first of the pubs now, though she didn?t let go of my hand so once again I could enjoy that casual, tactile intimacy girls seemed to enjoy with each other. "What about yours?" I said, so I could hear her voice again. "Was he tall, dark and handsome?" "He was certainly taller than me," she offered, very quickly. "Wish I?d worn flats now, I bet I?ll be carrying these heels on the way back?" "I?ll find somebody to carry you back" "That?s what I love about you, Bunny - you?re always looking out for me." She waved her free hand towards the first pub we?d come across - flickers of bright lights and thumping music spilled from the door as two lads bundled out for a smoke. "How about this one?" "I?m not kissing a smoker." "Yuck. Come on, let?s get pissed." And we did. Eight. In my experience of teaching the best way to deal with teenaged boys was a mixture of light humour, risque when appropriate, subtle deflection back onto the subject matter and gentle sarcasm. I might not have been a bouncing, ?down wiv the kidz? kind of teacher, but I like to think I?d been relatively popular. Anyway, I discovered in the first three pubs I went into with Twinkle, that the same kind of strategy worked well with most of the males who hit on us. "Are they always like this?" I asked during a few minutes of peace in the women?s toilet watching Twinkle repair her lipstick. "That," she said definitively, "is low key. I went to Magaluf in the summer and literally had fucking boys fighting over me - boys, I might add, that I hadn?t even spoken to! Self-centered pricks." To be honest, it wasn?t unpleasant - most of them were relatively easy on the eyes, good humoured and not so up themselves that they couldn?t get along with two confident (relatively), piss-taking girls who?d had seven weeks of sarcasm, swearing and relentless ?too slow, go back and do it again?. Even I, the least experienced female in the place, quite enjoyed myself, though I had a constant edge about which one Twinkle would decide was the one for me. As much as she flirted, laughed and teased she never seemed that keen on letting it go any further. Some of the lads must have sensed this and they drifted away, one or two seemed to enjoy our company, for the company?s sake, which was pleasant and, it seemed, as far as Twinkle wanted to go. But, as always with some people, there are those who step over the mark - or in the case of one individual, went over the mark with a marching band and fanfare. It happened as Twinkle leant daringly over the bar to point out to the barkeep which peanuts she wanted. Her new turquoise dress, being a little shorter than mine, had the potential to ride up as she stretched and as I?d almost finished trying to decide which brand of bottled lager to try next, I noticed a broad shouldered lad with a slick hairstyle discreetly manoeuvring his phone to take a picture of Twinkle under her dress. Having been expertly instructed in the need for speed, aggression and surprise in overwhelming an enemy force, thank you Corporal Hind, I bottled my outrage at this intrusion and before the wanker in question knew what had happened I?d whisked his phone from his hand and passed it to the big lad behind the bar. "That twat has been upskirting my mate," I said over the pub?s hubbub, just as the pervie knob realised what had happened. He started calling me all the bitches and the fat slags, Twinkle went scarlet about the face and started making threats to his manhood, while the barman, cooly, managed to look at the last picture that had been taken, the camera screen being open still on the phone; namely and angled, poorly composed image of Twinkle?s pale upper thighs contrasting artistically with the curve of her black panties over her genitals. "Give me that back," said the photographer, and more besides. "He?s committed a criminal offence, that phone is evidence and if you give it back you?re aiding and abetting it," I pointed out, with all the authority I?d been working on when it had been my turn to be leading tactical exercises. That?s when he raised a fist to me. After that a few things happened very quickly; Twinkle stuck one of her spiked heels into the top of his foot; as he went down I accidentally knocked his face into the edge of the bar and while the barkeep tried to hand the phone back he fumbled the offer and dropped it in a freshly poured pint of Guinness. Where it stayed for some time as Mr Howling- with-outrage and hurt, and a bloodied nose, was ejected by a woman- mountain from the door staff who grinned with delight when we explained what had happened. "Good work, girls," she said reaching for her radio, "I?ll get the penis barred from all the town centre bars." "Men are fucking rubbish," Twinkle commented a few minutes later. Claiming to need some fresh air we?d left the pub, and wandered back onto the promenade to find some peace and solace away from the lights and noise. Happily the wind had dropped and though it remained autumn cool enough for our breath to steam we?d had enough lager to keep us warm for a little while longer. Despite the last event I felt loose and mellow, entranced by the stars pinpricking the night sky between shifting bands of cloud. "Not all of them. The two in the loud shirts in that other place were funny." "Stop looking for men who make you laugh! Besides, the taller one couldn?t take his eyes off your tits." "But he didn?t drool." "Don?t waste your cherry on somebody who just talks to your boobs, Bunny. It deserves better than that." "Noted." "Who are you saving yourself for?" I followed a triangular cloud for a moment or two and tried to think of something to say. "Nobody in particular. I suppose I?ll know." She plonked herself on a bench and kicked at a pebble; not quite sure whether or not she needed to be alone I sat more carefully, crossed my legs and tweaked my hem for the millionth time since we?d left the hotel. "Twinkle. What?s the matter, you seem so pissed off. Don?t let that dickhead-" "I love you." "-spoil the... oh." "There, now I?ve said it!" She bent forward, elbows digging into her knees, her hair closing her off from me. "Sorry, terrible timing. Really sorry, Bunny. I tried to talk myself out of it, but I thought- why should I?" She sighed heavily. "Rained on your parade now, haven?t I?" Twinkle looked up, scooped her hair behind her ear and looked hard at me. "Why don?t you say something? Don?t just sit there staring at the clouds, Mayzie. I just said I love you. At least scream, or laugh, or run away and tell the world how Paislyn Hardy is a miserable dyke." "I don?t think you?re miserable. Moody perhaps." "Ha bloody ha, Catherine Ryan!" Very abruptly she kicked off her heels, left them toppled beside the bench and without a word stepped onto the pebble beach. "Twinkle? Paislyn?" "Probably best to leave me alone for a bit." "Do you want to be alone?" Her crunching footsteps halted, answer enough. She waited just a couple of metres away, facing the sea. The streetlamps cast enough light this far out that I could see how stiff her shoulders looked. So I picked up her shoes and stepped out after her, my feet sliding through the shingle until I was close enough to reach out and touch her - though I didn?t, and I couldn?t decide why not. "Are you going for a paddle?" "See what they?ve done to us, Mayzie? They?re turning us into squaddies, we?re dealing with everything with a joke." "Sorry. I -" "I?m sorry, I?m stupidly emotional." "Love?s not stupid," I said, which probably would have sounded lame if I hadn?t been drunk. In truth I hadn?t really got the first idea of how to respond to her declaration. She sighed. "Every morning when reveille sounds, I wake up into another day of hell at its worst and fucking awful at its best and I roll over and look at you, just starting to untuck yourself, and you smile at me. Every single morning you do that, Mayzie. And there have been some mornings when I?ve thought, if I don?t see Bunny smile at me right now I won?t be able to get out of bed. And when I?m struggling on the runs, it?s always Bunny Hare who drops back and gives me some encouragement." "I called you a fat, lazy cow last week," I said, uncomfortably recalling that particular beasting; my legs had been screaming, Usha had already collapsed and Twinkle had been faltering with the PTIs lining her up for the safety vehicle, or glue wagon as we called it. "Sometimes a girl needs to be called a fat, lazy cow." Maybe it had worked, we?d both finished in time - just. "Which you aren?t, by the way - fat or lazy at least." She turned, faced me and her cheeks were glistening in the ambient light. "You?re doing it again. But I wouldn?t have got this far without you." "Course you would, we?re a team - Hardy and Hare, we?re getting each other through." "And I still love you. Still sorry for falling in love with you." "Sorry?" I said. "Not sorry. Are we going to paddle now?" "It?ll be absolutely fucking freezing." "Chicken." She made clucking noises and flapped her arms. What could I do? With my nose in the air I strode down to the tideline and contemplated the wavelets hissing up the pebbles. "Really?" But she?d already got her toes on the wet pebbles and squealed when the first wave ran over her feet, scampering backwards and almost falling as the stones shifted beneath her. "It?s lovely," she said, shaking her head emphatically. I lifted my dress and skimmed off my tights, hoping the town CCTV wasn?t looking our way. Twinkle looked away too - she?d been staring at me with her head tilted and challenge written all over her face, but as soon as I lifted my dress she snatched her gaze away from my body and I knew then what had changed. She?d seen me naked in the shower, getting dressed and undressed a hundred times in the barrack block; out on that field exercise she?d held the red-shaded tactical torch for me and helped insert my first ever tampon and now she turned away when I took off some tights! The English Channel slapped my legs so coldly it hurt, I squealed as well, but took her hand as she tried to pull away. Her shrieks of protest would have made a passer by think some kind of assault, abduction or murder was going down. The beach shelved away abruptly when we were just ankle deep, we slipped - found our balance with much arm waving and name calling - and ended up knee deep in the freezing sea. The next wave barged into us, seawater splashed my thighs and wet my dress. Goosebumps lifted over my skin and my nipples crinkled uncomfortably hard with the bitter cold. Laughing together now, we splashed our way out of the water, recovered our shoes, and hurried for the promenade, our wet feet slapping on the tarmac. Her hem hung dark with brine, with our windblown hair and sandy feet we must have looked such a sight, so much so that I laughed again with the simple pleasure of being silly, and being silly with Twinkle. "It?s fucking freezing!" she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around herself. "Told you." "Nobody likes a smart arse." I slipped off my jacket and laid it over her shoulders. Her brows came together, she moved to take it off, making some small protest about me being cold too, then changed her mind and held the jacket?s collar together at her throat, wearing it like a cape. "Thanks," she said, softly. Her eyes flickered downwards and I wondered if she?d noticed how my nipples were pushing out the dress?s bodice. "It?s not just love is it," I asked her quietly. After a pause she shook her head, very slightly. "I think about you... A lot." Her eyes found mine, but she didn?t look away. Her unbound hair drifted across her face in the breeze, so I pushed it aside and my fingertips brushed her cheek. She bit her lip, making her look vulnerable and even prettier at the same time. I recognised her intent and tilted my head slightly, heart racing, as she leaned in and kissed me. Just a quick peck, gone before it really had any contact, but a kiss. Then her eyes dropped guiltily, like she?d pushed me too far. She started turning away and I knew if I let her I would be letting her go. All thoughts of men dissolved in the certainty of the path I wanted to walk. I caught her by the waist, stepped before her and held back her hair so we could kiss again - properly this time. Nine. Military theorists and instructors at Army Training Regiments will tell you, over and over and over, that no plan will survive contact with the enemy. Success in combat depends on good training to make reactions near instinctive and attention to good contingency planning - having a mind- mapped idea of how to react in event of a particular, ?what if?. I like to think I?d taken on board those lessons during my seven weeks service up to that weekend in Brighton, but even a General gifted with superhuman crystal-clear thinking couldn?t have predicted where my Friday night with Twinkle would have ended up. That she and I should have enjoyed such a deep and passionate kiss hadn?t been on my radar, never mind the position I found myself in two or three hours later. I sat naked in the tangles of bedding we?d made on Twinkle?s bed with her crouched beside me, tight in my arms, as I tried soothing her tears. I?d never heard anybody cry like Twinkle did that night; she dug up deep, ragged lungfuls of hurt and sobbed them out; she wept with pained moans, so anguished I found myself crying with her. Her tears ran down my breasts, maybe some snot too - though I had no room for squeamishness while her shoulders shook with every twisted sob or her body trembled so fiercely I couldn?t still her, no matter how hard I hugged her, or stroked her cheeks or hair. The switch from passion to despair came so quickly that the memory of our first, breathless kiss became a fantasy; as though the sweet sensations of her lips on mine, the slick taste of her tongue, the heart-racing compression of her tight body against me could only have happened in a dream. But the kiss had been real. Afterwards, driven by the deepening cold, and growing internal heat, we?d hurried back to the hotel - not speaking, as though something as ordinary as words would break the magic. Until she slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me close, so our hips bumped as we walked. "Did that really happen?" she asked. Her fingers made circles on my pantyline. "It seems a little dreamy now." "How about a little reminder?" We?d had three little reminders before we got to the hotel where, stifling giggles, we tried to sneak upstairs to our room and seemed to find every squeaking floorboard in the premises. Shivers racked both of us by this point and with very little ceremony, or sensuality, dresses, bras and panties were flung to the rooms extremities until, with more giggling, we ended up nose to nose under Twinkle?s duvet. Her icy hands on my back made me wriggle, while her stiff nipples pressed into my breasts, stoking the heat building at the head of my thighs. "I never imagined the night would end up like this," I whispered, my voice feeling too thick for my neck, and kissed her nose tip. "I have." Her cool hands wandered a little lower, to the point where my back flowed into my bum; she touched the very start of my cleavage and I shivered again so noticeably she sighed happily. "I?ve laid there in my bed, next to yours in the block, watching you while you sleep and very very softly playing with my kitty, imagining it?s you making my fingers wet." Which may have been the most beautiful, erotic thing anybody had ever said to me. I hadn?t been so bold to masturbate in my bed in the barracks, too worried about squeaking in orgasm and being found out. Occasionally I had made myself some privacy in one of the toilet cubicles to rediscover the joys of my female body - quick and dirty fumbles, and nothing like the trip Twinkle took me on. She must have been with girls before; the confidence she showed over my body and the ways she knew to make me squirm must have come with experience. In my lonely, snatched fingerings I?d never imagined that an expertly used tongue could be so intense or the orgasms she drove from me could come so powerfully I had to smother my cries in the pillow. As I came down from the last one I felt like I?d done a ten mile run; you might have imagined I had if you?d heard my panting or seen the radiance over my face. "You?re beautiful," she murmured and kissed me, her mouth exotic with my musky taste. Her hands made sensual patterns over my heaving belly, around my still tingling breasts, along my numb arms and moist thighs. As much as I wanted to say something I had no words for that moment, for the feelings ebbing through my body, for what I knew I felt for her. But she needed something then, some reassurance that we were real together, that I wasn?t just passively experimenting with her. So I rolled her onto her back, pressed her to the mattress with my weight and scooped my hair over my left shoulder so I could see her. "Every morning, when I saw you, I smiled because I was so pleased to see you, Twinkle. I love you too." To see her happiness at my words made speaking them well worth the effort. When she first started touching me, I?d tried to caress her as well, but she?d gently pushed away my hands so I laid back and enjoyed her enjoying me, but I needed her too. I suppose the hectic, furious time we?d spent together as Army recruits had driven deep any thoughts of softness, passion and intimacy. There and then, my breathing steadying, content in the shared heat of her bed and pressed close to her wonderful body I needed to touch her, to taste her; explore her. I hungered to make her cum. At first she stiffened under my hands, then relaxed as my kisses went down her neck and explored the edges of her breasts. She parted her legs for me and I smiled around her nipples to know the silk of her inner thighs, her feminine softness overlaying taut muscles the Army had gifted her. At that moment, suckling softly on each of her nipples in turn with my caresses moving closer and closer to the heat pouring from her pussy, I knew this was right; loving another woman felt beautiful, wild and exciting; loving Twinkle became the most important thing in my life. When I finally stopped teasing her labia and skirting her clitoris, at the perfect moment to finally ease a finger inside her everything went wrong. I completely missed any edge of crisis on her face as I tongued her tummy button, mistook her growing tension for pleasure, but couldn?t ignore the final signal she broadcast. Having barely got the first few centimetres of my finger into her delicious, wet heat her hand clamped on mine, her legs squeezed shut and she pulled me clear. Moments later I had her balled up in my arms while that awful hurt sobbed from her. I hope I never experience another?s sheer raw pain like that again. I didn?t try to talk to her, beyond soft, comforting words - I?m here, I love you, it?s okay; even though it patently wasn?t - because she couldn?t have answered. Even when time passed and she started to speak she could only make half-strangled apologies about spoiling everything which only started the weeping again. I don?t know how long we were there, curled up together under her duvet before she looked up, looked me in the eye with her eyeliner smeared, her face blotched and her mouth pulled down in misery. My bladder urgently telegraphed its capacity and my knee ached, but I couldn?t move because truth piled on her lips and if I had broken the moment she might never have told me about her dad and I wouldn?t be writing this. "It?s not you," she whispered, holding my hands so tight her knuckles shone deathly white. "It?s me." She said sorry some more, and though I tried to shush the apologies her determination and need to apologise won out and I knew I must just listen, not interrupt - even to protest that it wasn?t her, it couldn?t be her. Her dad had raped her. One Saturday night, when she?d been closing on her fifteenth birthday, he?d come home after his usual weekend drinking session at the nearby Working Mens Club, pulled back her duvet and clambered on top of her. I can?t bring myself to tell you about it in the terms she used, I couldn?t use words and sentences to carry over the pain and shame she expressed in that halting tale of betrayal. I had only been a woman for a short time, but I knew a vagina could be a tight, unwelcoming thing without the right encouragement. Twinkle got nothing like that - he?d hurt her, and gone on hurting his daughter until he?d finally ejaculated in her and stumbled away. Next morning she?d wondered if it had been a nightmare, until she saw the mess he?d made of her. My slender finger easing into her brought all that back, and the thought I could have triggered that made me sick inside. Every kind of penetration, no matter how loving brought the same trauma back. She?d never let a boy make love with her, never used a tampon or anything like a dildo. On that night her Mum had been away - she?d had to go down to Chelmsford to care for her very sick sister, recovering from an almost fatal childbirth and this was a sad part of a horrible tale. Her Mum had made arrangements for Dad to miss his weekly drinking, darts and snooker night, but he?d gone anyway and Twinkle realised his routine; drink to excess, drive home, fuck his wife - whether she wanted it or not. His wife being away couldn?t change that sequence - Saturday night was always fuck night; if his wife wasn?t there what was a man to do? Fuck his daughter, that?s what. Then never spoken about it, never treated her any differently; he played on as the loving dad while Paislyn played the happy daughter. Until she could leave home and turn her back; and take the nightmares with her. When finally she slept, pillowed on my arm and cupping one of my breasts, I lay watching the sky lightening with morning and thought about all the ways being a woman was shit, even in the British, liberalised norms.The gender I?d fantasised about my whole adult life, that I?d longed for and finally found existed in the eyes of many as an object without feelings or humanity - just a woman, only a girl: meat. You know the terms men use to describe women; I had passively been part of that dehumanising talk and it shamed me. Then I looked down at the woman I loved, because I did - even more for what she?d said - and brushed the tips of my hair over her brow and said, "Just as you are, I love you." Ten. We missed breakfast, disappointing - I woke up growling with hunger - but predictable given the night we?d had. When I stirred, around 1030, the sun made the room over bright and gulls? screeching took me back to family holidays in Scarborough. With her eyes still bruised by smudged make-up Twinkle slept on, despite the discomfort of having to share her single bed with me and even through the stealthy extraction I made before scampering to the en-suite. Military doctrine encourages planning ahead so I had painkillers ready for the thumping headache I?d got somehow. I enjoyed a long, satisfying pee before washing away my lived-in scent in a steaming, soothing shower. By the time I?d turned my skin bright pink and crept back to the bedroom, with a towel covering chest and hips, Twinkle had stirred. She?d managed to get vertical, but no further than sitting on the edge of the bed, perfectly naked and weighted by hangover. Gesturing helplessly at the mascara smudged pillow she muttered something about barrack room damages. I found her some paracetamol and a big glass of water which she slobbered down gratefully. "We need to find food, I?m dangling," I said and closed off any short- term opportunities for further conversation with the room?s hairdryer. Twinkle took her time in the shower, so I got myself dressed hoping it might inspire her to hurry, enjoying the pleasant domestic routine of fastening my bra and drawing brand new opaque tights over my legs. I had pulled on my new, maroon dress and was lacing up white, daisy speckled tennis shoes when she emerged, looking a little fresher. "You?re wearing a dress?" "No shit, Sherlock!" (One of Corporal Hind?s favourites.) "Are you going all girly on me?" "I?m making up for lost time. Hurry up, I?m starving!" Driven by growling tummies, we hurried into the town centre and dived into the first cafe we liked the look of - a wide, airy place with lots of pot plants and sheltered alcoves. I had a sausage and egg cob, Twinkle went for a bacon one dripping with ketchup; we ate them with due respect then complemented the owner so brightly she gave us refills for our coffee and left us alone in our secluded, houseplant edged corner. I?d been watching Twinkle, with a mixture of blatant stares and more discreet glances since I?d woken, trying to determine how to deal with the two elephants which had edged their way into our room since yesterday evening. Testing the water, I produced a hairbrush and hair elastic from my handbag and asked if she would plait my hair. Thankfully the water felt warm and welcoming; she had me shuffle around on my seat and started brushing my hair with long soothing strokes that took me back to some of those early, companionable times when she, Usha and I would bun up each other?s hair. While the tugs and tweaks massaged my scalp I drew on my courage and faced elephant number one. "I really don?t know the terminology, but are we... like, I?ll probably get the words wrong, are we, you know, going out? Together." Her hands stilled; I wondered if I might have to run after her with half a plait unravelling behind me. "Even after last night?" I released the breath I?d been holding. "Last night was my sparkliest ever." "Really? Even though-" "Really. It didn?t have the fairy tale ending, but... I have fallen for you. It was a fantastic night, the best. I love you!" Her weaving resumed, she?d reached the nape of my neck by this time and I felt like the world beyond me and Twinkle had quietly moved away, to let us have our moment. "Will you be my girlfriend?" she said, very quietly. I smiled, felt tension flow away. When I looked over my shoulder, causing her an awkward moment with my unfinished plait, you couldn?t imagine how that radiant woman could be the same as the one who had wept in my arms. "To have and to hold?" I said. "For richer or poorer?" "Better or worse?" She glanced at the floor just then, a frown gathered between her brows. Then she nodded. "I will?" she said. "Me too." Eleven. While I sat very very still in a Claire?s Accessories shop and a short- sighted girl with long, electric blue hair fired gold studs through my ear lobes, a bubbly Twinkle explained how I had been living at the centre of a Romanian forest at the top of a tall tower imprisoned by an evil vampire queen. "Horrible step-mum?" Jasmine, the ear piercer asked absently, squinting for the centre of my ear lobes. "A black-hearted witch," Twinkle confirmed. "And did a handsome prince come and rescue you?" "She did," I said, gesturing towards Twinkle. "Riding a musical unicorn that farted rainbows." "Actually, she rescued me," said Twinkle, but poor Jasmine didn?t know what to believe by that point and we left laughing. Twelve. We shopped, snacked, drank lattes mounded with aerosol cream and marshmallows, laughed, joked, held hands and attempted to squeeze in as much normal life as was possible into a single Saturday. "Seven weeks in the Army, I can hardly remember what normal is! Can you?" she said in a big Next store waiting to try on jeans and tops. "Normal! Forget it." (Who wanted to go back to my old normality?) "We make our own normal now." She made me try on heels, like I needed massive amounts of encouragement! First a pair of lace-up ankle boots in black suede I quite liked and which felt manageable to my inexperienced feet; then, for comedy effect (mostly), a towering pair of silver stilettos covered with glitter and weighed down with substantial platform soles. They looked awful with black opaque tights and even when I stood, with Twinkle?s assistance, I didn?t dare take a single step. I bought the boots, and some new, lacier panties in bold colours, but not much more having had a sudden crisis about where I would pack everything when the time came to move on from Pirbright. All the while Twinkle?s bright, bouncy and apparently happy demeanour contrasted so much with the sobbing, weeping woman of the night before I wondered if I had imagined it all. More food then a movie, which I quite fancied, Pan if you must know - I?d always had a soft spot for Peter Pan and Neverland. Twinkle had other ideas, she?d wanted to see the new James Bond so I think she had a point to make. She started with hand holding, innocent enough until I moved mine to find the Malteesers and she let her hand fall onto my thigh, just above the knee. Once there her fingers made such a warm, intimate tingle I left them - even though her pale skin shone out against my tights and told the world what we were doing. When she started circling her fingertips just under my hem I laid my jacket over my lap, whispering how cold I?d become - as if anybody paid us any attention. The cinema wasn?t especially busy. Thankfully. As her fingers worked higher up my thigh I willingly parted my legs for her; when she teased my pussy through my underwear I sat there with a faint smile on my lips and laid my head on her shoulder. Even as I stifled my arousal into tiny, kitten squeaks a part of me, the new essence of me soared with joy that I, Mayzie Hare, could be so wild and happy allowing my girlfriend to gift me a lovely, bitten back, orgasm in a cinema. It might not sound very exciting to you, but I had been a geography teacher! Discreetly licking her fingertips clean, my panties and tights were thoroughly soaked from where she?d fingered me through them, she leant close and whispered, "I thought you wanted to see this film." "Ha bloody ha, Sarah Milligan!" "You?ve done that before," I challenged as we left the cinema, arm in arm, our hips bumping together as we walked. "Jealous?" "Happy you learnt to do it." "Only to myself." I smiled at the thought. "I?m coming to like you in a dress, even in tights" she said, undressing me in the hotel room much later on. We showered together, giggling and tangling in the shower curtain, accidentally bumping the taps to induce a near heart attack as the water turned freezing and leaving puddles on the bathroom floor as we tried drying each other using only kisses. Like the night before she didn?t want me to touch her as she beautifully worked me to another blinding orgasm. Afterwards she stiffened as I started to caress her arms and shoulders, she made half-hearted attempts to discourage me as my hands moved closer to her breasts, but allowed me to raise her arms over her head where I pinned her wrists with my left hand. It wasn?t much of a restraint, but she lay still like that as I slowly, gently and persistently made love to her. I hate to bring Lesley into a time like this, but during her periods she?d suffered with very bad cramps in her breasts and when we were still interested in each other I?d learnt that a soft, delicate massage of them with mouth, tongue and fingers reduced the discomfort and would make her cum. The experience translated easily to Twinkle's beautiful breasts, I stayed well away from her pussy - hoping to avoid triggering anything - while exploring her arms and flanks, her legs and the sweet spots behind her knees, the shape of her toes. I used my hair on her, teased her stiff nipples with my own and, giving into the heat between my legs, I used my own wet to make her nipples and lips glisten. After she arched her back, snatched her hands free to pull my face into her breasts then bit my shoulder, after riding her own orgasm she held me close and wept again, but these were soft, happy tears and I felt warm to have brought them from her. Thirteen. I didn't realise, until we were back on the train - heavy hearted - that Twinkle had turned off her phone for the weekend. I'd had mine out, for joint selfies mostly as nobody, apart from Usha or Kelsey, was likely to message me. We were side by side on the carriage seat this time, probably a little too close together for modern sensibilities. We discreetly held hands one or twice and may have accidentally exchanged chaste kisses when we could. "Mum," Twinkle said, her voice dull, showing me her phone. There were eleven messages and three missed calls. "Dad and my brother. I think they're pissed off at me." I squeezed her hand, so she'd know I'd heard, but she could manage this elephant at her own pace. "It was two weeks ago," she said only a short pause later. "Mum said how much Dad was looking forward to seeing me when I came home for this weekend. And I thought, I'm tired of him in my head. I'm not going to see him again, ever. I messaged to say I wasn't coming home on Friday morning then turned my phone off." "Hasn't he ever said anything about...?" "Never. It might never have happened, he might have persuaded himself it hadn't, convinced himself it was Mum," she gave a hollow laugh. "Not me." "Did you ever think of going to the police?" She laughed, but not happily. "Who would they believe?" "It's really strong of you to have told me." "I wish I hadn't had to," she whispered, and, by turning to stare out of the window, the conversation was closed. Fourteen. Back to Hurricane Pirbright; within hours of starting again on the Monday morning the wonderful weekend had faded to some distant, half- remembered myth. "It's going to be torture being so close, but so far apart," Twinkle whispered while we cleaned our teeth on Monday night. We'd had a brief conversation about how to manage our relationship as we went through the rest of the course. There were rules governing such things, intending to promote efficiency and objectivity; our hope was to avoid drawing any adverse attention. But, Twinkle's appraisal was accurate; it was torture. Even so, something in the way we presented must have changed, as we found out when Usha and Kelsey discreetly asked if the weekend had been more than just a girls' weekend. Usha had pinged the bite mark on my shoulder and we couldn't lie to them, could we. Neither of them seemed really bothered; Kelsey claimed to have always known. "Always?" Usha challenged. "Even before you met them, even before they were a thing, you knew they were a thing?" "We're not a thing," I said coolly. "We are romantically entwined." "The way you talk!" said Usha. "All those fine words you use." Kelsey made retching noises, "I don't want to think about them entwined! Fuck, that's in my head now. Somebody kill me." Corporal Hind found us in what we thought was a quiet corner after a particularly bruising beasting in the gym. We were standing slightly apart with only our foreheads touching, leaning into each other as if we could share each other?s pain and draw on our shared strength. "It'll never work," he said when our guilt had been confirmed by the way we jumped when he said hello. "You're punching above your weight, Hare. She's going to be a tech and you'll be a bowser mong; the cultural differences will kill it off." So that was that. "What will happen after we pass out?" became Twinkle?s frequently aired question. Desperation edged her voice when she asked it, like we were discussing the world?s end. I would be going to an airfield in Hampshire to learn my groundcrew trade and then to the Army's driving school in Yorkshire to qualify as a military HGV driver - I was really looking forward to that. Twinkle would be attending a much longer aircraft technician's course in Wiltshire and while we would be apart it didn't seem like a million miles away. I knew I would miss her, but we could see each other at weekends. Perhaps when we?d completed all our training we could be posted together; she?d be fixing the helicopters I?d be groundcrew for. "You'll find somebody else." "Why would I? I love you." "You'll find somebody better, somebody less fucked up." Nine weeks into training her performance fell off, she failed a PT test and a kit inspection, for all the help we gave her. This resulted in a proper bollocking from Corporal Hind, for Usha, Kelsey and I which only made things worse. Kelsey took it really badly, she had her eyes on being top recruit for our intake and saw Twinkle holding her back. "We should leave," Twinkle said. She?d been crying again, but wouldn?t let me touch her. "Go and do something else, travel the world, be ourselves." "I would love to see the world with you, Twink, but look - everything I own is within touching distance of my bed; literally everything." "You can travel light then." "You and the Army is all I have." She looked at me with pain etched into her face, then turned away. Corporal Hind summoned me to the platoon office the next day. Normally attendance here meant a bollocking, press-ups or some other punishment, but this time he had me sit (awkwardly) on an easy chair to one side. Sergeant Lane, the platoon sergeant, busied himself at his desk at the back of the office, but ignored me while listening to everything I said. "What?s going on with Hardy?" No preamble from Corporal Hind - straight to the point. "It?s complicated, Corporal." "Leave the Corporal out for now, Hare. Everything?s fucking complex, particularly you lot. Look at me, I spend so much time with you bastard teenagers I?m thinking of hammering my pods flat so I can?t spawn any of my own. You, you?ve got a bit more about you than most of the princesses in this platoon - you must have kept your eyes open and your gob shut in your previous life. I?ve been keeping my eye on you, you?re doing well, working hard, bringing the others along. Don?t let Hardy hold you back; whatever you two have got going on, do not let it fuck up your career. Understand?" For a moment I bristled - who was he to tell me how to manage Twinkle, or our relationship? He didn?t understand, didn?t know or care... Then I made myself take a look at him; Sergeant Lane?s typing had paused, though he pretended to look into his screen and at that instant I saw through the act. Corporal Hind genuinely cared. The revelation stunned me; I had thought us all equally worthless in his and all the instructor?s eyes. But he cared; about me and Twinkle - maybe the other girl; cared enough to have brought me here to find out what was going on and what he could do. "I know what?s wrong, I want to get her through it." "Good drills," he said and grinned. Sergeant Lane started typing. "What are you going to do? How are you going to help your girlfriend unfuck herself?" He arranged for us to see the padre. Padre Nicholls was one of our favourite personalities at the depot and though the army classed her as an officer, we had to salute her, she considered her duties more pastoral than military. Lean as a whip she would often don her boots and a backpack, containing Haribo sweets and chocolate bars, to join us on the lengthy forced marches we had to endure in full kit, with rifles. During her sessions, every other week on Sunday mornings, she hosted topical debates in the Anglican chapel and the instructors weren?t allowed in. Padre Nicholls distributed chocolate biscuits and encouraged snoozing across pews at the back, though I always took part in her debates. She chaired them with a light touch, sometimes having to steer some of the girls away from dangerous values and standards territory, but generally letting us talk freely. "We?re off to see the Padre," I told Twinkle as we marched away from the training block one afternoon a few days later. Corporal Hind made the appointment, freeing us from a tedious session with a Captain from the welfare department. "The Padre?" "I?m under instructions to find someway, and I quote ?to unfuck you? and the Padre is all I could come up with." She crashed to a halt and folded her arms. "I?m not going." "Yes you are." "Bollocks am I!" "You are. Because I want you to." "That?s not fair." I shrugged and offered my hand. She took it, but dragged her feet as we approached the chapel. "You can?t make me talk to her." "True. At least we?ll get a chocolate biscuit." "If she doesn?t offer chocolate Hobnobs in the first minute, I?m walking." Unhelpful, but she did sound a little more like the old Twinkle. "I love you, Twink. You love me, right?" I said, my hand on the chapel door. "Well, duh!" "Just checking." Taking a deep breath I opened the door and waved her through. "Ladies first." Padre Nicholls had a comfortable meeting room to one side of the chapel. She?d equipped it with deep chairs, brew kit and (thankfully) chocolate Hobnobs. After making us tea and providing the welcome biscuits she draped herself in a chair while Twinkle perched like the condemned on the edge of her seat and I wished I could stand, wringing my hands with discomfort. "So, Bunny and Twinkle - brilliant names - what can I do for you?" "Ask her," said Twinkle. Padre Nicholls raised her eyebrows at me. Another deep breath - more military doctrine; speed, aggression and surprise. "Twinkle?s my girlfriend, Padre. I love her very much, but something?s twisting her up and I need your help to untwist it." If the Padre felt any surprise at my revelation, she didn?t show it - her calm, welcoming visage didn?t falter; she smiled, in an encouraging way - practiced no doubt. Twinkle, on the other hand, almost dropped her Hobnob. "Her Dad raped her a few years ago and she can?t get him out of her head." That surprised them both. Twinkle made a choking noise, squealed my nickname in horror and surprise and tried to kick me. In hindsight such a brutal opening may not have been the best for Twinkle, perhaps the doctrine of close combat wasn?t to be recommended for getting your girlfriend to open up, but I?d been so fixed on the idea of getting Twinkle?s nightmare out of her head. In deciding on that option I had considered my own previous life?s failure to open up about woman envy. Only after Padre Nicholls had asked me to leave her office, both Twinkle and I were crying by that point and there may have been some shouting, did I wonder if Lesley?s outraged exposure of me, Graham, might have been similar to what I had just done to Twinkle. In my defence, I acted from love. Time passed while I sat hunched on a pew in the chapel. Dinner came and went leaving me hungry and forlorn. After an hour, Padre Nicholls emerged and sat beside me, crossing her lanky legs and putting her head on one side. "The army has a term for that kind of approach, Bunny. Perhaps you?ve heard of it - pulling the pin on a shit grenade?" I nodded, the kind of term Corporal Hind would use referring to an insurmountable problem one of us might have presented within a collapsing timeframe. "Don?t take up counselling just yet, will you?" "Is she okay?" "Bruised? Do you love her?" "I?ve never loved anybody the way I love her." She snorted, but smiled - murmured something about the passion of youth; I sighed at that, but there had been enough revelations for one day. "She?s worried about losing you, and terrified about not inviting her family to your passing out parade because she doesn?t want her dad there - understandably enough. And worried enough to think failing the course or leaving the Army might be easier, which is why you brought her to me, isn?t it?" "I don?t want to lose her either. I don?t want to see her give this up and go back to her shit family." "You?re from the care system, aren?t you?" "The poster girl." "Is a shit family better than none at all?" "No." "You didn?t even think about it." "Surround yourself with people who bring you love, not obligation, or guilt." "I?d like to talk with you one day, Bunny. Not today though. Twinkle?s talking to her mum right now, I think she?ll need you when she?s done. I?ve suggested the two of them should meet, on neutral ground. I think she?ll want you there." That surprised me, and it must have shown for Padre Nicholls squeezed my hand. "Don?t pull the pins from any shit grenades when you get there, will you?" Twinkle came out a few minutes later, handed a phone to the Padre who gave my hand another squeeze and left us to it. She looked blotched and wrung out, a faraway look in her reddened eyes. Apparently undecided, Twinkle loitered near my pew, then sat heavily about a metre away and I felt every centimetre like a slap. "I?m sorry." The words felt inadequate, but I didn?t have much else. Besides, "I love you." "A little warning maybe?" she murmured. I had nothing. "I trusted you." Another slap; I couldn?t meet her eyes. "Still do." Which made my throat close up and my eyes sting. "They've made a soldier from you already, Bunny." "Was it worth it?" I asked. "Dunno. Maybe. Yes, a bit. It was a shit thing to do to me, but maybe right too. I wouldn?t have spoken to her otherwise, the Padre." She paused for a moment, staring through the stained glass window behind the altar with such a look I wondered if the Padre had managed to convert her. "The Padre said that ?women shouldn?t have to carry a man?s guilt and his shame.? What do you think of that?" "I think she?s right," I said, uncomfortably aware of where I had been only a few months ago. "She thought I should tell the police, but I?m not doing that. What?s the point? She thought I should speak to Mum." Another long breath in and sighed out. "So I did." "How was that?" "Will you come with me, to see her? On our next weekend off?" Which was due after week eleven, a yawning distance and only a skip away all at the same time the way things worked at Pirbright. But it was the least I could do, and I agreed. "As long as you don?t speak!" I agreed to that too. Fifteen. She felt cool towards me for the next few days, but the usual controlled chaos of our existence didn?t allow much in the way of girlfriend time. On the plus side Twinkle threw herself bodily back into training getting Kelsey off her back and Corporal Hind off mine. Bayonet fighting day came leaving us exhausted and drooping, our voices broken and scratching from the blood chilling screams they hollered at us to produce while we charged, pummelled and disemboweled dummies over and over. Whatever system the instructors had come up with to sort us into groups for this meant Twinkle and I had been separated. My group went first and afterwards, while I heaved at the cold air with long, futile drags (for there didn?t seem to be enough oxygen to meet my body?s raging needs) and thinking I might puke at any moment, Corporal Hind wandered up. "Interesting colour you?ve gone there, Hare," he commented before turning to watch the next wave being warmed up for their charge. Having just been screaming how much I wanted to kill kill kill myself, having contorted myself to show my war face, I had some sympathy for them. Twinkle went at her target with particular savagery, driving in her bayonet, twisting and withdrawing the blade before punching it back in - over and over - her arms must have been killing her as her soft, Norfolk voice broke into a ragged growl. Being so utterly engrossed in the fight she missed the recall order and got a kick on the arse for her negligence. The look she gave that instructor! I swear he took a step back before Twinkle got control of herself and jogged over to the rest of her group. "She wasn?t thinking of me there was she, Hare?" "There are bigger bastards in her life than you, Corporal," I panted. He rubbed his moustache thoughtfully. "I must be slacking then, better up my game. Ever think the world?s gone mad when we teach people like you, who are able to create new life - without even using your hands, to slash other people to fuck with bayonets?" "If you don?t mind me saying so, Corporal, but that makes you sound really old." "Not me, Hare - something I read. You sound exotic with your voice all fucked up. Good work, now crack on." "Who were you thinking of, when you were stabbing that dummy?" I asked Twinkle in the barrack room later on." "You." She?d blistered her hands and I dressed them tenderly while she winced. "Not really you, Bunny. Brian - who else." "Thought so." We used his name now, not the title he had dishonoured. Maybe she found it easier; giving her demon a name instead of it being a position. "Hind thought you were pretending it was him." "Him? He?s not even on the bayonet radar. I?ll be in prison before I work down the list to him. Who were you kill kill killing?" "Same." She knocked her knee into mine companionably. "Best hope we don?t meet the bastard then." Sixteen. We got another weekend off at week eleven, with three weeks to push and a swagger in our steps as we were able to lord it over newer platoons, male and female, now we were next in line to pass out. For that weekend we chose London as our destination; both of us were country folk and had it in mind to wander around going ?ooh? and ?aah? at the city?s sights and bright lights. We booked ourselves into the Union Jack Club, a private hotel and meeting place for soldiers and veterans, close by Waterloo Station - this time going for a room with a luxurious double bed. We dined like queens in the club restaurant that evening, using the kind of plummy accents we believed were used in the Officers? Mess and referred to each other as Persephone and Miranda. We drank red wine and laughed a lot, but not uproariously - we conducted ourselves with restraint and decorum. After a little more wine in the bar, we headed back to our room, undressed each other passionately and made good use of the bed?s full width. The sex was wonderful, even though we avoided our hot, wet bits; I left Twinkle?s alone for obvious reasons while mine was placed out of bounds by an inconvenient period . Before going to sleep we lay in the lovely bed and watched crap television, everything feeling like the ultimate in luxury and decadence. After a morning?s sightseeing, when we?d made ourselves footsore and happy, we headed back to the club where Twinkle had arranged to meet her Mum, though her footsteps dragged more and more as we crossed Waterloo bridge. "I?m getting too good at keeping things separate, in their own boxes," she said, finally grinding to a halt and turning to watch a police launch cutting a fine wake along the Thames. She leant into me when I put an arm around her waist. "What am I going to tell Mum?" "If you think she knows..." "If she knows, why didn?t she say something - do something!" I thought about how people liked to deal with problems by ignoring them and hoping they would resolve themselves while they festered and gained strength, but didn?t say anything. It wasn?t my place to try and excuse anybody - I had my place at Twinkle?s side. "I?ll tell her I don?t want to see Brian again, see if she can read between the lines. She can come to our passing out parade, she can bring Eddie, but not him. He can fuck right off." Which I thought reasonable, but in the tradition of the best laid plans going wrong after contact, the enemy were one step ahead of us - waiting in the club?s library as we had arranged with the club?s reception staff. "Your party?s here, Miss Hardy," the cheerful lady announced, but we?d only been expecting one - Twinkle?s mum. "She promised!" Twinkle muttered, fists clenched as I followed her around to the library. It looked like they?d all come - Mum, Eddie and, standing smooth and confident at our entrance, Brian the Daughter Rapist. "Popsi, baby," he said with warm familiarity, his lined but still handsome face open with an affectionate smile. Twinkle had her facial structure from him, her figure and hair colour colour from her mum - somewhere in the background Eddie barely looked up from his phone, but I hadn?t much attention for him. "You promised," Twinkle said, still advancing - an edge to her voice. "We?re family, baby," said Mum. "We?ve all missed you." Her eyes dropped to the floor as she spoke; she glanced to Twinkle then back to Brian. I?d seen that look before, at the school gates and during meetings with parents about their children?s behaviour. I realised Twinkle?s intention about a half second before Brian did, but I?d seen her in action. With too much distance to cover to intervene I watched, and internally cheered, to see her shoulder drop and fist come back: our boxing instructor would have cheered too. Brian must have seen what was coming, but the absurd notion of his Paislyn swinging for him stayed his reflexes. Probably the same sort of thing, but reversed, Twinkle must have gone through when he climbed on top of her that night. His nose burst with a satisfying crunch and he crumpled towards her. Growling deep in her throat, like she had at bayonet drill, she drove her fist into his balls - he dropped with a belly emptying groan. Mum screamed her name and Eddie finally looked interested in the real world. Some chairs went over and a mug shattered. "He raped me!" Twinkle snarled, pointing. "Raped me! Do you hear? He raped me." I took her arm and pulled her back, she balanced light on her feet, building up for a good kick, and Brian rolled around on the floor, dripping nose blood onto the tiles and curled up around his testicles. "Oh, baby, he?s..." Mum started to say. "What?" said Eddie. "You hit me!" Brian groaned. "Your own daughter!" Twinkle said, quietly now with the anger bottled up and replaced by chill contempt - Corporal Hind couldn?t have made his tones so icily venomous. "Shannon..." he started to say, looking up to his wife. Once again she looked to the floor, her hands clasped together so tight the knuckles shone. Her mouth opened, but she didn?t speak and she turned pleading eyes to Twinkle. Then she faced her husband, stepped forward to him with her shoulders slumped and tears wetting her cheeks. "That?s how it is then?" said Twinkle sourly and we walked away together. Seventeen. If I lay on my side, stretched out beside her with my head propped on a hand I could rest one of my little boobs on hers. Sight or sensation of my breasts nestled comfortably against hers never failed to raise a smile from me; back in Graham time I?d always thought myself more attracted to legs, but now I enjoyed Twinkle?s breasts the most - probably because they were the satin paths to her orgasms; I could have been a little envious of the two cup sizes she had over me, but I definitely loved to see mine and hers together. That Saturday night, after we had lost ourselves in London?s bustle, dined in a small Chinese restaurant and drunk more over-priced beer than was good for us in a smart rainbow bar, I lay just like that, a thigh across her hips and my free hand caressing her cheek. Her eyes looked heavy and sleepy, but a smile waited on her lips, almost out of view. "Like popping a zit," she murmured. Not the sweet, romantic words I might have hoped for, but the first suggestion she wanted to talk about punching Brian?s pods back into his belly. "Feels better?" She shrugged, pulled a wry smile. "Hurts at first, aches afterwards, but the relief is good. It?ll leave a mark for a while. A long while." "Very poetic, you should write that down." "Stop being a squaddie, Mayzie. Just for tonight; ten minutes? Just for now?" She kept her tone light and stretched up to kiss me. "Any time you call me Mayzie I will." "Don?t ever call me Paislyn, will you? She?s gone, I?ll always be Twinkle for you." We enjoyed a long, sensual, but sleepy kiss before laying back cheek to cheek and looking at the night sky through the bedroom?s window. Red lights topping skyscrapers dotted the view, and the strobes of a slow moving helicopter moved noisily along above the Thames. "Poor Mum," Twinkle said. "I never want to be that dependent on someone and controlled like that." I could have added, any more, but the moment belonged to Twinkle as Graham had gone the same way as Paislyn. She stiffened slightly. "Is that what you think?" I nodded. "I?ve seen it; girls and women so totally under the spell, they can?t imagine breaking away from it." "She left me." "Women carrying a man?s shame?" Silence fell between us for a few minutes, but I could practically hear her thinking over the city?s background noises of buses and trains. "I don?t want somebody I love to feel controlled." "If you love somebody, set them free." "I worry myself sick you?ll find somebody else when we go to phase 2 training. Somebody you can really... you know." Moving my hand down across her tight belly I let my fingertips rest amongst her damp curls. "Just as you are." I kissed her. "We?ll be together, every weekend we can and have amazing hotel sex." I couldn't be sure how reassured that made her, reassurance would come from actions not words, but in my mind at least time was something we weren't short of. In my mind I couldn't bear the thought of parting from her permanently either. I thought I could do the work days when we'd have to live apart, we'd be sustained by messaging and video calls, counting days until the weekends. I'd never felt so comfortable with a person, never felt so lifted by the sight of anybody else and never felt so completely in love. Nothing I'd known before came anywhere close. Twinkle must have felt a little happier for she rested her hand on top of mine, moved it a little closer to her pussy and held it there. Eighteen. Going back to Pirbright the course?s end felt so close you could almost taste it with Phase 2 training loomed like the promised land; the food was better, you got your own room, the staff more human, the training moree laid-back and every weekend off. Unless you were on barracks guard. The only rub came from the certainty we might never see some of our comrades again, though Kelsey and Usha made us promise we?d keep in touch. Time passed in a whirl of inspections, lectures, drill, rehearsals, drill, kit preparation and more drill. My feet ached from the marching, stamping feet and standing to attention perfectly still. The final straight - nearly there; the twenty seven survivors of Anzio Platoon started looking around at each other and smiling; we?ve made it. We discovered (Corporal Hind told us) that Leaky would be awarded the Best Recruit trophy, much to Kelsey?s disgust - I?d have pissed myself in the Colonel?s office if I?d known, she muttered. To be fair, Leaky went from, well - pissing herself on the parade square to a super- soldier almost overnight and I felt the award well deserved. 4 Section?s efforts in teamwork and cohesion won us the Best Section award so I, as the section second in command, would have to march out to receive the prize from whichever VIP would officiate at our passing out. "Best sort out your drill, Hare," Corporal Hind advised and nodded to my beret, the pale blue of the Air Corps. "You?ll stand out like dog?s bollocks wearing that. Don?t let the corps down." I promised I wouldn?t while imagining all the ways I could make a mess of the job - drill wasn?t really my thing. "Good work with, Hardy. She?s born again hard." If only he could have seen her punching Brian, I think he would have approved. "That was the Padre?s work, Corporal." "Not how she put it." He looked at his watch. "You have an appointment with the RSM in ten minutes. Don?t be late, you know what he?s like." "The RSM!" "Regimental Sergeant Major, bellend; bad-tempered drill pig with no neck?" "Why does he want to see me?" My legs may have trembled. "Hare, he doesn?t even know my name, and I?ve worked here for eleven months, and he certainly doesn?t consult me on his diary appointments." He grinned like an evil magician. "Crack on." Having never set foot in the hallowed ground of Regimental HQ I crept in like the condemned. Compared to the shouting and high-speed aggravation I?d become used to at Pirbright, I found the hallowed ground of RHQ scarily calm and orderly. Busy civilians in offices looked wonderfully ordinary, I heard a woman laughing with genuine, gentle amusement, and smelt good coffee wafting from a kitchenette. Once I?d been shown to the RSM?s office I checked my uniform for fluff, gave myself a mental shake and knocked timidly. On being invited inside, in surprisingly mellow tones, I flung open the door, marched inside, crashed to attention and reported my name, rank and number in a smart, soldierly fashion. Without his headdress the RSM looked surprisingly human and completely bald. His wide desk was clear of anything but a pen and a pencil, his IT equipment and a polished brass plate on his desk announcing who he was in case you?d wandered in by accident. The walls were filled with regimental photographs of stern soldiers in red tunics and bearskins looking immaculate outside royal palaces. To one side, on an easy chair, sat an older woman with greying blonde hair in a low bun, a long face and a camouflaged uniform like every other soldier in the depot. Unlike ours, she wore the red and black MP flash, marking her a member of the feared Royal Military Police. Now my leg did shake - I couldn?t imagine why a Staff Sergeant from the RMP should need to see me. Had Brian complained about Twinkle punching him? Worse than that, had my unconventional enlistment been exposed somehow? Could they arrest me for joining on fabricated details? Of course they could. "I never get tired of this," said the RSM. Though his expression never changed, was that amusement in his normally angry eyes? "Hare, stop shitting yourself. This is my wife. Clara, you?re scaring her." "Nice to meet you, Mayzie," she said, uncoiling from her seat and offering a hand. I faltered a moment; it had to be a trap. Not only was a military police officer calling me by my first name in the RSM?s scary office, but she wanted to shake my hand. It was dry and firm. I must have looked dazed, she smiled kindly and suggested I sat down. When I looked to the RSM for permission he inclined his blocky head towards the other easy chair. "Even I have to bow down to a superior authority, even in my own office." "Relax," she said as I perched uncomfortably on the edge of the seat. "He won?t bite." "Not today. You?re wondering why you?re here. I?ll tell you. I get the invitations for family members for the passing out parade. You haven?t submitted any." "I haven?t any family, sir." A lie I quickly corrected. "Apart from the friends I?ve made here." "Good girl, a good answer. You?ve done well here, Hare - made a good impression. Keep it up and you?ll do well, especially in a mickey mouse rabble like the Air Corps." (He was a proud Grenadier Guardsman who held the rest of the army in utter contempt.) "Nobody should have to pass out without somebody there for them, cheering and clapping for them-" "If you?ll have me, I?ll be your plus one," his wife interrupted smoothly, a welcoming smile lighting her. "I won?t be in uniform, don?t worry. I?ll look like any of the mums." For a moment I didn?t know what to say, stunned by the complex, immense humanity of the organisation I?d been dropped into by the most unusual means. That the wife of a personality like the RSM should take the trouble over my welfare seemed unthinkable, but here she was, guileless and offering to be my Mum for the parade. Of course I said yes, to refuse such a special gesture was unthinkable. We shook hands again and I left RHQ in such a daze I forgot to salute the Adjutant and got a bollocking, bringing me right back down to earth. Corporal Hind couldn?t hide his curiosity when he saw me next. A measure of how the relationship between instructor and recruit changed as the course drew to its close was when he called me Bunny. "I?m untouchable now, Corporal," I said, still not daring to use his name which we had learnt was Alec. "The RSM?s wife has adopted me, she?s going to be my mum for the passing out parade." "Thou art highly favoured by the Lord," he acknowledged. "Best hope she doesn?t get pissed afterwards and show you up." Another grin, and I left in the sure knowledge some poor recruit?s mother would have done exactly that in the depot?s recent past. Nineteen. She didn?t, of course - she made the perfect Mum for the day, so warm and friendly she might actually have been a blood relative; we drank tea together and I introduced her to Usha?s mum and Kelsey?s Gran. She had all the warmth I could have wished for, and I was pleased to have her by my side during the buffet and reception that followed the parade, once we?d been dismissed and our rifles returned to the armoury. Many tears fell there as families embraced their solidly grown-up daughters, but perhaps the hottest, warmest tears spilled down Twinkle?s cheeks when she cautiously approached her Mum. Who, standing self- consciously beside Padre Nicholls, had dread etched into her face in case her daughter would turn and run. Twinkle?s hand found mine, she trembled, we both scanned the rowdy crowd for any sign of him. "He?s not here," said The Padre. "I left him," said her Mum. "Eddie?s here somewhere." Christmas sorted for Twinkle, and me as it happened - a fine time we had too. But I?m getting ahead of myself; before all that joy came the pomp and ceremony of a well-rehearsed and impeccably put together passing out parade - which went exceptionally well. They bussed in the band of the Welsh Guards to provide the music. While they played with suitable, stirring gusto, their bearskins, long grey greatcoats and gleaming instruments looked far more impressive that our khaki clad ranks as we marched on to the beat of the big, bass drum; faces set, skirts flapping and bayonets glinting on our rifle muzzles. The rain held off, though a December wind froze - even through doubled up and hairsprayed tights. Senior officers were produced and some general with a whiskery moustache and spurs inspected or rigid ranks before making speeches hardly anybody heard. Leaky defied our giggly predictions and didn?t do her legendary trick when she marched out to get her prize, while I got a faint nod of approval from Corporal Hind after I?d collected 4 Section?s award. Despite everything I couldn?t help but tilt my chin and square my shoulders knowing what I?d gone through and what I?d become; to be among mates I?d never forget and alongside a girl I wanted to spend every waking minute with. Hand in hand with my pride in being a soldier, with confidence in my new capabilities was the glow I got from being Bunny Hare; not the woman I?d always dreamt of being, but the woman I wanted to be; unconstrained by stereotypes or preconceptions with an exciting future ahead. Me.