by Ivan B
Marjorie smiled.
“Call it the old reporter’s nose. Their body language says that they are plotting something. Can you give me a good reason for the Vicar, the Verger and the Lord of the Manor to be in cahoots?”
Charmian laughed.
“I’m sure there’s a good reason, don’t you trust your vicar?”
Marjorie was quiet for a minute.
“Yes I trust him, at first I was not so sure, but I did a little digging.”
Charmian was surprised.
“Digging?”
Marjorie smiled again.
“It’s that reporter’s nose. There was something not quite right in the way he arrived. I had this feeling that the bishop was doing a favour for a friend and giving us a vicar in the process. Then when he had his licensing service none of his old parishioners would say why he left, they just closed ranks. I did ask the Bishop a direct question, but he gave me a sideways diplomatic answer.”
Marjorie watched the three men leave.
“I did a little research, I didn’t want St Nathaniel’s to have another lame duck minister. I found out that he did have something to hide.”
Charmian’s heart sank.
“To do with children?”
Marjorie waved her hand.
“Not the way you think. It is unusual, but harmless. If you look back over his career, and believe me I have, you find that he really does his best, it’s just that he seems to attract disaster. Would you believe that he once lost an entire Sunday school?”
Charmian was relieved.
“So now you think he’s all right.”
“Actually,” murmured Marjorie, “I think he is a bit of all right.”
Charmian thought she had misheard.
“Pardon?”
Marjorie smiled again showing her even white teeth.
“I think he is drop dead gorgeous and have done so since the first time I set eyes on him.”
Charmian was utterly flabbergasted.
“But Peter thinks that you want to hold him at arms distance because you are wary of him.”
“I’m not wary of him, I’m protecting him; a friendship with me could bring him nothing but grief and possibly ruin his career.”
“I don’t understand,” said Charmian, “how could being friends with you spell disaster for him?”
Marjorie studied the cafés menu intently.
“Because I couldn’t keep it at an acquaintance level, I would have to try and take it further.”
Charmian was still perplexed.
“Are you married?”
Marjorie roared with laughter.
“No dear I’m not married; it’s just that I started life as a man.”
Charmian was completely wrong-footed and at a total loss as to how to reply.
Marjorie took one look at her.
“If we’re going to be friends then you need to know.”
“How?” Charmian managed to mumble.
Marjorie poured herself and Charmian another cup of coffee.
“I wasn’t born with two heads or anything like that, in fact I had a fairly normal childhood; that is if you can call normal having a father who runs through women like other men run through underpants. Even as an adolescent it never occurred to me that there was something wrong, except that I somehow didn’t want to go out with women. I didn’t mind hanging around with them, and even shopping with them, but not going out with them. For a time I wondered if I was gay, but decided I wasn’t. When I left college, I joined a regional newspaper in Manchester as a cub reporter and for a time I forgot all else except journalism. I loved it, and I was good at it; somehow I seemed to be able to sniff out a story. Then during the silly season, that’s the summer when all politicians and right thinking people go on holiday, my editor came up with an idea. On the team there was also a female reporter called Rachel who was roughly the same age as me. It was a standing joke that people thought we were brother and sister. The editor’s idea was that we swap roles for a month; but not just roles, also our lifestyles. I would live Rachel’s life and she would live mine. In the brainstorming session some bright spark suggested that we also cross-dress. Before I knew it I was commissioned to be a girl for a month. The following week I went to a local film studio and the make-up team showed me how to dress as a woman, walk in high heels, and supplied a long hair wig and false boobs. The photography team was on hand to record the transformation; I still have the pictures. I’ll never forget walking into work on the Monday morning, all the office cheered as I hobbled in; I felt like a million dollars. The month soon passed and I walked out of the office as a woman on the Friday; on Monday I was due to re-enter as a man. As I took the woman’s clothes off that Friday, I cried like a baby. I had had a fabulous time and for the first time in my life I had felt alive, now it was all ending. As I was sobbing my heart out my father came in with one of his floosies. Some people think that he was just a drunken old womanizing sot, but he was no fool, after all he had made a fortune on the stock market. He realized something was wrong and talked to me; my bed was littered with bits and pieces of female attire so it didn’t take him much time to figure out what was wrong. He didn’t understand, but he did pay for me to see a London Consultant in gender orientation. The consultant was brutal; he told me to go away and be a man, but added that if in a year’s time I still wanted to see him I could. In that year’s time, Rachel and I won three newspaper awards for our gender swap routine, but she pledged never to do it again, she had hated every minute of it. A year later I went back to the consultant. I was convinced that I’d be happier as a woman. He explained that it was not an instant process. First I had to live as a woman, then if I endured that he would supply estrogen to me and I would start to physically change; surgery he said was optional. Nine months later, on the day I took my first estrogen tablet, my father died of a heart attack while making love to his sixth wife. He’d made a fortune; according to his stockbroker, he always bought low and sold high; on the other hand his will declared that he had seventeen children, seven legitimate and ten illegitimate. He left us all equal amounts of his money, but he also left me his shares in a small computing company saying that I was his favourite daughter.”
Marjorie stopped for a moment and drank some coffee, it was clear to Charmian that her father’s last words meant a lot to her.
“One of his illegitimate children threatened to contest the will over that statement saying that if he could not tell men from women then he was not sane . Fortunately he never did, I think the thought of the legal costs put him off. To cut a long story short two years later I underwent gender re-orientation surgery in Egypt. The London consultant said it was optional, but it wasn’t for me, I had the full works.”
Marjorie paused and toyed with a sachet of sugar.
“Having had it I now understand why the consultant tried to put me off, the process of physical metamorphosis is not for the faint hearted. Whilst out in Egypt I had my name changed from Malcolm to Marjorie and returned a woman. On return I found that my father’s shares in a small computing company had become shares in a large computing company, the portable computer boom had started. I sold the shares and started a women’s magazine. A few years later I added another title, and then when I felt I was getting stale started to take a back seat. Initially I lived in London, then I bought a weekend cottage in Felburgh; not too soon after that I bought a weekday flat in London and moved here.”
Marjorie leaned back.
“So that’s the story of my life. Now you see why I could be poison to Peter. In any case I am content to cherish from afar, I’ve learned to live like that.”
“Who else knows?” Asked Charmian.
Marjorie shook her head.
“I regret to say no-one. Initially I thought that I would establish myself and then ‘come out’ as they say. But I am too much a coward. Every day I enjoy being a woman and I don’t want that ruined by people staring at me as some sort of freak. On the other hand I th
ink Bunty knows. During the brief period my father lived with my second stepmother we lived in Glumburgh and I attended the primary school here for a year, I must have been eight or nine. One day I mentioned how one of my schools had its kitchen invaded by rats, I later realized that that incident was while I was here and I think Bunty has put two and two together.”
“Why tell me?” Asked Charmian. “You must have other friends whom you have not told.”
“Because you have only just met me; how do you tell someone who has known you for years that you are not what they think you are and that all the time you have known them you are living a charade?”
Charmian replied forcibly.
“It is not a charade, physiologically you were born one sex, but psychologically the other. Just because you corrected the anomaly does not make you live a charade, you live as you were meant to be.”
Marjorie gave a slow smile.
“That’s the other reason I told you, I thought you would understand.”
She sighed.
“There is a third reason. All those years ago my London consultant said that I must have one friend who knows the truth besides my GP. I guess the rationale for that is in case I have an accident and get shipped off to hospital. When I first arrived here I told Catherine, Roger’s third wife, but she died of cancer some time ago. Then I confided in Norma, but she died recently. Now I am telling you.”
Charmian chuckled.
“But I will probably only be here for two years.”
Marjorie smiled sweetly.
“That’s what we all say when we first arrive.”
They sat in silence and Charmian polished off the last éclair.
“Do you know that Peter chairs some Anglican committee or other on gender issues facing the church.”
Marjorie nodded.
“Yes, I found that out when I looked into his past. I actually retrieved one of his committee papers to General Synod via the Internet. He speaks sense on the subject and the paper was remarkably devoid of prejudice.”
Charmian reached for the remaining cake and looked at Marjorie who shook her head, as she picked it up.
“Do you mind if I ask, what’s between you and Cameron?”
Marjorie took time to answer.
“When I first returned as a woman and started my magazine I ran a series of articles on being prudent. You know how to choose the best plumber and so on. One of the articles was on financial investment. In the course of my research I came across Cameron who at that time was a high-flying investment advisor. But my reporter’s nose twitched and I exposed a cartel of insider dealing. Cameron lost his job and was lucky not to go to jail, he was just too slippery for the authorities. I know that people in glass-houses should not throw stones, but Cameron has undergone a metamorphosis too. When I knew him back then he spoke with an Oxford accent; his father was South African, but I don’t think Cameron’s ever been there in his life.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I think he is an unscrupulous toad. Two years ago when the post of treasurer came up Cameron was the obvious front runner, but I wouldn’t trust him with a piggy bank. I threatened to expose his past if he didn’t pull out.”
“Wasn’t that risky,” said Charmian, “just suppose he tried to dig up your past.”
“I took a gamble, Cameron has only ever known me as a woman; but I was prepared to take the risk anyway rather than see the church funds drained away by him.”
Charmian was surprised at the vehemence in Marjorie’s voice and decided to change the subject.
“Well,” she said, “Now tell me about you and God.”
Marjorie laughed, “I wondered when you would get round to that.”
About the time Marjorie started talking to Charmian about her reliance on God, Peter Mark and Tom emerged from the bank. They had dealt with a rather dull bank clerk who advised them to open what he called a club account, ‘specially designed for clubs and societies you know, earns a good rate of interest.’
So now they were all members of the St Cedd Benevolent Society. Tom was the Chairman, Peter the treasurer and Mark the Secretary; at least as far as the bank account was concerned. There had been one incident that made them all laugh; to open the account they had to deposit £25 in cash. Between them, by emptying out all their pockets they raised £24.99. The bank clerk had sighed and given them 1p out of his pocket.
“Call it your first donation,” he said.
“When it has multiplied you can give it to the lifeboat appeal. Little did he know that his 1p had all ready been returned, with interest. Now, once some of the money was laundered, they were in business.
When Peter got home he phoned Bronwyn, she had become the clearing-house for information on Kimberley. Apparently Kimberley was now conscious and partly lucid, but still in intensive care. Bronwyn said that one sign of hope was that the doctors had told Damian that he now had to visit during normal visiting hours as she was off of their critical list. Peter was relieved, but still prayed that she would return to full health as the story of Muriel and Jim was still in his mind. Finally, he got down to writing his weekend sermons. The subject had been chosen for him by circumstances; suffering.
Chapter 15
Admitting to Failure
By Sunday lunchtime Peter was a reasonably contented man. The meeting the previous evening at The Fisherman’s Friend had gone well. He had been needlessly worried that it might be a little flat after the mass baptism the previous week and Kimberley’s accident, but all went well. David, with Tracy’s assistance, had even taught them two new songs and Kimberley’s accident had raised some interesting after service discussions on death and dying. The St Nathaniel’s services also went well. Charmian had led the main morning service and she seemed to have made an instant rapport with the congregation; that, with Dan’s ever increasing additions to his list, had helped the service flow freely and naturally. Peter was also looking forward to the afternoon’s Formula One Grand Prix: it was due to be the European Grand Prix, which this year was from Brands Hatch. It was rare treat to have two Grand Prixs in Britain and Brands Hatch was Peter’s favourite circuit. He had been looking forward to this for some time and he had everything planned. He would eat his lunch watching the warm up and be totally settled for the actual start of the race. It was scheduled to start at 1pm and at 12.45 the telephone rang. Peter let it go on the ansaphone, but like most vicars he listened to the incoming message with half an ear; it was Jo. Peter picked up the cordless telephone handset by his side and turned down the sound on the TV. Jo sounded anxious and hesitant.
“Sorry to disturb you Peter, but I wondered if you had a copy of Shakespeare’s Macbeth we could borrow? Danielle is studying it at school and we couldn’t get a copy from the library.”
Peter instincts told him that this question was not the real reason for her call. He was certain that Jo already knew he had an almost complete collection of Shakespeare DVDs, but he also knew that Jo would not disturb him during a Grand Prix unless she thought it was urgent. Also, with Jo and Danielle due to leave for France tomorrow, he couldn’t believe that any homework was that urgent. But he played the game for a few minutes.
“Yes I have two versions, but they are both on DVD”, (he knew Jo did not have a DVD player and he thought she had once said she did not have a Video recorder either.) “Perhaps Danielle would like to come over later and watch it.”
“Could her friend Louise come too?”
“Of course”.
Then a pause.
“I don’t suppose we could come over now?”
There was a pleading in her voice he had never heard, and he realized that whatever the problem was she didn’t want Danielle, who was probably sitting beside her listening to every word, to know.
“Yes” he found himself saying, “come over; tell the girls I’ll put some popcorn in the microwave.”
Peter double-checked that the hard-drive was recording and then made the popcorn. Within fifteen
minutes the three of them arrived. Peter showed Danielle and Louise into the room with all the home cinema equipment. Both of them were suitably impressed, this gave Peter a horrid thought.
“Sit down here” he said, indicating the sofa, “But before you watch the film I have a favour to ask.”
Both Danielle and Louise looked at him.
“Please can you not tell anyone, and I mean anyone, about all this” and he waved his arm around vaguely.
“Fell off the back of a lorry did it vicar” laughed Louise while Danielle just looked at him as if he were mad.
“I relax in here and one of the pleasures is that I watch what I want when I want.” He paused not sure if the girls would understand. “In my last parish I made the mistake of telling everyone in a church service that I had a home cinema. The net effect was that several of the congregation brought me their favourite films expecting me to enjoy them, and even worse expecting me to discuss the finer points of the film with them later. I did watch a few and it was excruciating, I lost my relaxation time and hated every minute of watching films I didn’t want to see. I must confess I don’t want to be in that position again.”
“Why didn’t you buy a film review book and blag your way out of it?” said Louise.
“I did in the end,” said Peter, “and then it was on my conscience that I hadn’t told people the whole truth.”
Jo chipped in.
“How would you feel if I made you watch all the Humphrey Bogart films I enjoy?”
Peter tucked that bit of information away.
“Oh yuck” from Louise
“Torture, absolute torture” from Danielle, who then turned to Peter.
“We won’t tell.”
“Thanks.”
Peter then showed them the two different remotes, gave them the popcorn and some fizzy drinks, pulled the curtains, and left them to it.
Jo and Peter went into the kitchen and Jo made a cup of tea. This was a bad sign; Peter knew by now that when Jo reverted to tea it meant she needed a liquid comfort blanket. They took the tea and sat outside on the picnic bench under the sunshade. They talked for a few minutes about Jo’s preparations to go abroad and various other inconsequential subjects. Peter gradually realized that Jo was having difficulty getting round to the point of her visit, so he said softly.