Swan Songs

by Swan, Tarn

  Twinkles was hyper when I picked him up from work tonight. He’s just found out that The Town Business Guild have nominated his Christmas windows as the best on the high street. They’ve been chosen to represent the town in the regional Market Town’s seasonal window dressing competition. A panel of judges will then choose an overall winner. His boss and the shop’s owner are very pleased indeed, the nomination brings lucrative free advertising in the form of articles and photographs in several of the local newspapers.

  I’d better go get ready to visit mum. Afterwards I’m taking Twinkles out for dinner to celebrate his nomination. I’d never be forgiven if I didn’t make a big fuss of him. He deserves it. I’m delighted for him.

  10th December 2005:

  A Lamb In Wolf’s Clothing

  Mum should have been discharged from hospital yesterday, but she isn’t too well and they decided to keep her in for observation. She has a urinary tract infection and is on strong antibiotics. I’m worried about her. She seemed really confused when I visited last night and kept asking where dad was. Then she got upset because Twinkles wasn’t with me and I had to tell her he wasn’t feeling well himself and had stayed at home rather than risk infecting her. It wasn’t the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but I could hardly tell her that I had Twinkles bound and gagged and locked in the boot of the car, well in my fantasy universe anyway. In reality he was at home watching television in the bedroom, under strict instructions not to move from the room unless nature called him to the bathroom or he morphed back into a fully fledged human being, whichever came first. I suspected nature would be the first to call. I wasn’t holding out any hope of Twinks regaining human form until after midnight at the earliest. All I could do was a damage limitations exercise and keep him away from other people lest he savage them.

  I knew yesterday was never going to be a picnic on Walton’s Mountain kind of day, but I was ready for it. I had all the proverbial hatches battened down and was ready to shrug on my metaphorical flak jacket, extra padded this year, as with all the stresses and strains of recent days I suspected that hostile fire might be even heavier than usual. Yep it’s that time of the year again. Twinkles birthday. As I said I was ready or thought I was. The alarm went off yesterday morning and I stuck it on snooze for a few minutes and snuggled back under the duvet. Putting my arms round Twinkles and cuddling him I asked him if he wanted me to say it, it being happy birthday? The answer was swift. No he didn’t want me to frigging say it and he’d bite me if I did. It was no more than I expected, but ritual demands I ask in the hope that one year he smiles and says yes.

  Let me explain. Twinkles and birthdays simply do not mix. The best to be hoped for is a tight management of the day in order to minimise casualties. With that in mind I do not make him a birthday breakfast, as hard experience has taught me that either the kitchen or myself will end up splattered with it and not accidentally, as happened in respect of my birthday breakfast this year. I do not give him a card or a present because I know he’s likely to tear up one and throw the other while shouting about them both being crap. I don’t take him out to dinner, because he will be rude to me and anyone else he comes into contact with. Twinkles is a bit like a Hobbit, only instead of having a second breakfast he has a second birthday. We celebrate it the day after his actual birth date, because by then he’s usually calmed down and got everything out of his system, and is ready to enjoy his cards, presents and my attentions. Over the years we’ve talked much about why birthdays make him unhappy and consequently unpleasant. We’ve concluded that there’s a combination of reasons, none of which can be put into absolute terms. The only absolute is that birthdays bring out the worst in him.

  In common with many regular women the prospect of getting older is not one relished by transgender people, or indeed by the gay community in general where youthful looks are often more prized than in the straight community. A lot of manipulation goes on when it comes to giving details of one’s real age. Not that Twinkles has anything to fear yet, not by a long chalk. He’s almost six years younger than I am and I still consider myself to be young. I think in Twinks case it’s more than a fear of aging that cause his birthday blues. I think most of it is to do with expectations that can never be met and thus every birthday is a let down.

  When he was a little boy his birthdays were marked, but not exactly celebrated. His sisters got birthday parties, but he didn’t because according to his grandfather’s twisted logic, boys didn’t have parties because they were un-masculine. His mother favoured fully biological girls over boys with a penchant for dressing up as one, so she never pushed the matter on her son’s behalf. There was a card and sensible present beside his plate at breakfast, but that was it. There were no hugs and exaggerated kisses or messy homemade birthday cakes covered with candles. Every year he hoped his birthday would be different. He’d wake up and everyone would like him and make a big fuss of him, but every year he’d be disappointed. I believe that sense of disappointment and rejection drives his birthday blues to this day. He wants something he can never have, because the past is immovable. It is as it was and will always be, but he hasn’t been able to detach himself and let it go.

  In the here and now of adult birthdays nothing is good enough for him, because it is not what he wants at a deep level. His sadness and sense of loss manifests as a criticism and angry rejection of everything that he is given. It’s a kind of corruption and reversal or casting back of the criticism and rejection he felt as a child. Childhood shouldn’t leave scars of any kind, but alas it does for so many.

  The alarm went off a second time and I patted Twinkles’ bottom and told him it was time to get up. He dropped a mini bombshell. He didn’t need to get up, as it was his day off. I told him he’d better be winding my flaming key. He wasn’t. He’d changed his day off. I could have strangled him with my bare hands. Another coping strategy we’ve developed over time is that he doesn’t take his birthday off work. It’s best if the day is as ordinary as possible. Work helps keep his mind occupied. I was vexed.

  After showering and dressing I pulled back the duvet and hauled him out of bed telling him to get ready. Was I frigging deaf, hadn’t I heard him say it was his day off? No way was I leaving him alone in the house all day to storm and stamp, or worse, trot off to pay a call on his mother. I was taking him to work with me, so I could keep an eye on him. It was not a popular decision. He flounced off to have a shower, bristling indignation and sporting a warning red handprint on his bum.

  The other evening, while we were out celebrating his shop window nomination, he had one glass of wine over discretion and aired a thought that had he been more sober he might have kept to himself. I was glad. Forewarned is forearmed as they say. He brought up the subject of his birthday and casually said he was thinking of paying mommy dearest a visit to remind her of the son she had borne all those years ago. He felt it was important, seeing as she was now his sole remaining parent. I instructed him to put the idea out of his head. The coffee shop incident when he saw his mother and grandfather had hurt him badly. It brought to the fore his pain at the way his mother has rejected him. Ever since he’s been looking for an excuse to lash out at her, to get even. Grief and anger are potent forces. His threat to visit her was not an idle one. He’s done it before on his birthday. He got dressed up to the nines one year and consequently ended up getting arrested, not for being dressed up, but for using one of his high heels to smash out all the glass panels on the front door when his ice matron mother closed it in his face. He was bound over to keep the peace on that occasion. With regard to this occasion I was not risking getting a phone call informing me of his arrest. I was serious about taking him to work with me. However keeping him there all day was hardly feasible, besides none of my staff deserved to have the birthday boy from hell inflicted on them. I had a morning staff meeting I couldn’t get out of, but after that I could work from home.

  Lulu, wearing a mauve baby-doll nightie and a pair of novelt
y miss Piggy slippers was already in the kitchen drinking tea and eating toast when I went downstairs. He offered me a slice. It was his new recipe, honey and mustard. The smell was bad enough so I declined while wondering what the boy possessed in lieu of taste buds. The sound of the morning post arriving coincided with the sound of Twinkles descending the stairs, in spite of my having told him to stay in the bedroom until it was time to leave (I wanted to spare Lulu being caught in the birthday fallout) Moving like a greyhound on amphetamines I galloped up the hall, but not fast enough to stop him leaping down the last four stairs and pouncing on the pile of mail on the mat. Evading my attempts to grab him he sidestepped into the living room and slammed the door in my face, leaning his weight against it to try and keep me out. His strength is no match for mine, especially when I’m mad enough to be tied and I heaved the door open demanding he hand over the cards immediately. He refused. I told him I was going to count to three. He retorted that I could recite the frigging alphabet in Greek for all he cared, they were his cards and he was going to open them and see what rubbish he’d been insulted with this year. I issued a quiet threat. If he damaged a single card I would smack his backside so hard it would cringe at the thought of making contact with a chair for weeks to come. He flung the pile of cards on the couch. He didn’t want to look at them anyway.

  Marching into the kitchen he replied to Lulu’s birthday felicitations with the words, ‘that shade of mauve makes you look like you have a chronic heart condition.’ Lulu retorted that at least he didn’t look as if had inflamed haemorrhoids and why was he always a grouch on his birthday? (He doesn’t know the half of it) Twinks demanded to know where his card and present were. Lulu said upstairs and he’d get them in a moment. Twinkles replied, ‘don’t bother because knowing you it’ll be a pile of cheap tat anyway.’ Hurt, Lulu said it was a bottle of the new Sarah Jessica Parker perfume, ‘Lovely.’ Twinkles immediately said it wasn’t lovely. It was horrible and he didn’t like it and anyway he’d bet it was a nasty fake copy from one of Lu’s Del-Boy contacts. Lulu took offence. Leaping to his feet he said fine, he’d take it back and change it for a bottle of POISON, because it would suit Twinkles’ venomous personality better. He fled the kitchen all but in tears.

  I coldly told Twinkles that it was bad enough that he snapped and snarled at me, but it was indefensible to do it to his friends. He had shot himself in the foot where Lulu was concerned. He usually leaves for work later than us, but because he was upset he left early without saying goodbye. I have never been so pleased to hear the front door slam. Needless to say I put my bad mannered boy over my knee and gave him a birthday spanking that was totally devoid of any air of celebration. It ensured that the car ride to my place of work was a less than comfortable one for him.

  He spent the remainder of yesterday safely ‘caged’ in our room with the television and the December issue of Marie Claire to keep him company. I occasionally went up to poke victuals through the bars, receiving menacing growls and dark looks in return. I shuddered to think what would happen if he escaped into civilisation. Lulu phoned to say he was going over to Kevin’s after work and would go straight onto the PP from there. I fibbed and claimed Twinks had asked me to convey his apologies. He hadn’t meant to be mean; he was just feeling out of sorts. It was a kind of truth and I knew Twinkles would be genuinely sorry when his mood passed off. Lu was mollified and asked if Twinks would be going out. I said regretfully he wasn’t up to it.(It would be like setting a wolf amongst lambs)

  It was a much cuddlier lamb-like man that opened his eyes on the world this morning. He loved his cards. The perfume that Lulu had bought him was exactly what he wanted and the long, straight blonde Cher wig I gave him to replace the one eaten by the hoover made him squeal with joy. Flinging his arms round my neck he said I was the most beautiful man in the world. He apologised to Lulu for being a birthday bitch and presented him with the top layer from his box of Thornton’s Continental chocolates, minus his favourite Viennese truffle. We had a nice breakfast. I took him to work and in about an hour’s time I’m taking him out to dinner. He doesn’t know where yet. It’s a surprise. I managed to book a table at Judges, the poshest restaurant in the area. I can’t wait to see his face when he realises where we’re headed.

  My mother is a feeling better this evening. I called the ward and the antibiotics seem to be doing their job. Her birthday present to Twinkles was a hoot. It made me laugh anyway. She got her revenge for the remarks he made about the jumper she bought me for my birthday. She got him one too. There’s a great big fluffy sheep on the front of it and embroidered underneath are the words: ‘fleece don’t blame me for this! My mother-in-law bought it and she’ll cut me out of her will if I don’t wear it.’

  Time to get ready. Twinks has finally vacated the bathroom.

  12th December 2005:

  Smurfs And Zombies

  Mum is still in hospital, but faring much better. She hopes to be allowed home tomorrow morning. The nurses have also got their fingers crossed. She hasn’t been the most patient of patients. Having to stay in longer than she expected has really ticked her off. She isn’t the only one in a mood. Twinkles has got a face on him tonight and not a pretty one. Frank and our new neighbour, the less than charming Ray, seem to have entered into a battle of the Christmas lights. The night after Twinks and Lulu helped Frank put up his outside lights, the Brownlow’s started putting theirs up. Before you could blink we were sandwiched between two brightly coruscating buildings. They must be draining more than their fair share of power from the National Grid. It probably explains why my computer has been running slow for the past day or so. Twinkles wanted to join in. I said no, absolutely not. A few pretty fairy lights strung through the winter foliage and a nice wreath on the front door are more than sufficient to the season. I don’t see the need for a plethora of gaudy flashing lights and illuminated figures, most of them in dubious taste. The woman over the road has a gigantic inflated blue Smurf on her porch roof. Correct me if I’m wrong, but as far as I can recall the Smurfs don’t warrant a mention anywhere in the Christmas story. There is no passage in the Bible that claims that Smurfs visited the baby Jesus in Bethlehem. Twinks says I’m a grouch without any imagination. I don’t care.

  He’s in a grump with me on more than one count. When I picked him up from work this evening he was all excited. He’d seen something wonderful while browsing in Strickland and Holt during his lunch hour. He wanted some money to buy it. I asked for details of this wonderful thing. He explained it was a Christmas ornament for the garden, a life size reindeer, which gracefully moved its head up and down and pawed the ground, while twinkling prettily. It was very elegant and tasteful. I hated to take the sparkle out of his eyes and dim the bright smile, but I said no. We didn’t need a life size twinkling reindeer for the garden, especially not one priced at almost three hundred pounds. It was an investment, he said. It would last for years. I closed the subject. He said I was mean, unreasonable, it was his money and he wanted it. Tough. He’d had his allowance for the week. He glared defiance. He would borrow the money from Lulu. Oh no, not if he wanted to be able to sit down this side of New Year. I’m cruel. I’m the sort of Dom who would make his one legged sub stand naked in a corner until he keeled over sideways. I am a veritable zombie, a thing without heart, soul or mercy. How could I abuse him so, after everything he’d been through this weekend? Easily I said and kissed his cheek. He ostentatiously rubbed it off. We had silent martyrdom the entire journey home.

  We arrived home to discover yet more houses in the Close have joined the Christmas lights frenzy. The place is beginning to resemble Blackpool illuminations. There’s a huge inflated Homer Simpson wearing a Santa hat tethered on one front lawn partnered by a massive Bugs Bunny sitting on a present. Even Twinks admitted they looked gross, especially when you compared them to a tasteful life size twinkling reindeer. I repeated the no word and headed indoors before all the flashing lights in the street triggered off a migraine. Twinks trie
d to beguile me into granting his reindeer wishes with kisses, cuddles and sexy compliments. I enjoyed them but did not capitulate. After all I have a reputation as a cruel and cold zombie to uphold.

  After Dinner, an excited Frank called for Twinkles and Lulu telling them he’d got a fantastic new decoration. It would put one over on that big bugger Ray Brownlow. He needed their help to put it up. From being someone who couldn’t fathom one end of a string of fairy lights from the other Frank has progressed to being something of a light bulb pyromaniac. There’s not a brick on his house that doesn’t have a decoration of some sort attached to it.

  I’ll have to stop tapping the keyboard. The police have rang to say they’re on their way to see me regarding an incident I reported. I was tempted to ask whether they’d come via Peru seeing as I reported it on Saturday night and they were only just getting close to arriving. Two days can hardly be called an urgent response. Details later.

  13th December 2005:

  Nightmare On Ivy Street

  To the collective relief of the nursing team on ward seventeen mum’s Consultant decided she was fit enough to be discharged from hospital this morning. Rumour had it that the ward Sister was going to apply for early retirement, or failing that, a job in Tesco if he decided she had to be kept in. I collected her at lunchtime leaving a box of chocolates and many thanks in her stead and took her home. She has to be careful for at least a month. No heavy lifting or housework, not even hoovering. We invited her to stay with us for a while, but she declined. Much as she loves us, she didn’t think she could live with us for any length of time. We’d drive her mad. She casually announced that Priscilla had offered to stay until she was fully fit again. Twinkles, despite wild glares from me, enquired about sleeping arrangements and wanted to know if Prissy had been warned that sex was out of the question for at least six weeks, did she want him to have a discreet word with the fem-man? Mum, quite rightly, told him to keep his sharp little nose out of her business.