by Fay Weldon
Dr Simmins thought she might switch Ms Octavia to 8 mg estradiol, another dopamine agonist, not yet approved for Parkinson’s but a rational alternative for an elderly woman with little remaining oestrogen protection against inevitable neural entropy. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Dr Simmins was sorting out these possibilities in her head and may have missed something but probably not. The Co-Treasurers were thanked and the meeting brought to an end.
Dr Simmins called on Tyler and was pleased to find his choice of computer games had changed again. Now it was Assassin’s Creed and not nearly so noisy, a more female kind of murder. Poison. The slaughter still happened, but tended to be silent and secret. Oestrogen was fighting back. Tyler still had to shave, if only weekly. In the perpetual war between testosterone and oestrogen in the human body, oestrogen was edging ahead. Ruby Simmins felt prepared to cut down her own sleep medication and step up Tyler’s estriol to 5 mg daily.
Dr Simmins called by the She Devil’s rooms and found her in excellent shape, neatly dressed and at her desk, hair washed and combed, bravely wearing bright lipstick on her somewhat misshapen lips, cheerful, briskly competent in manner and finishing the book she had developed out of the paper for Academica Feminica with which she had been having trouble back in December.
The book was called The Campus-Outrage/Outrage Cycle – and concerned the artificial outrage fomented by a self-described ‘dangerous faggot’, a young man who toured universities provoking young fourth-wave students of both genders into outrage and absurdity, to the delight of a prejudiced media.
‘I’m sure that’s very interesting,’ said Dr Simmins, politely. ‘Whose side are we on?’ These old ladies did so go on about their obscure political theories: they might as well be theologians for all the difference they made in the real world.
The She Devil laughed and said the purpose of these papers was to explore both sides and then sit on the fence, duty done. But by and large she had come to the conclusion that lamentation was never the answer. She understood Valerie better; the new world was so complicated it was not surprising that the young needed safe spaces where they could focus on just one train of thought at a time; it was not weakness but strength that led them to avoid trigger words. One must move with the times, and not lapse into easy condemnation. She understood better now that M to F, far from involving castration and the creation of a eunuch, was a mere reassignment of pleasure zones: that as medical science progressed sex change would be reversible. All at will could drift from one sex to the other, vigorous young Tiresias-es all, exploring the many sensual pleasures that the new world had to offer. She now understood that gender, like the State, would wither away and universal parity be reached, at least for the young.
‘In other words,’ said Dr Simmins, ‘if you can’t beat them, join them.’
‘Quite so,’ said the She Devil. ‘One must conserve one’s strength.’ And then, brightly, ‘I’m so glad you warned me about the caffeine.’
She’d been accepting her morning coffee from Valerie out of simple politeness, she said, but had been pouring it down the loo instead of drinking it, as Dr Simmins had suggested. She felt so much better, so much younger, and no longer kept needing naps. Dr Simmins noted that her eyes were glittery and sharp, though red rimmed. The She Devil did seem to have taken Valerie’s arguments on board rather wholeheartedly, but on balance 15 mg Seroxat daily seemed to be working.
Dr Ruby Simmins had always seen Valerie Valeria as a rather dangerous young person, rather similar to Lucy her flatmate years back, the girl who had stolen the love of Ruby’s life from under her nose, the one who had destroyed Ruby’s faith in mankind and with it her future. Valerie and Lucy shared the same manic ruthlessness. It was a welcome relief for Dr Simmins to realise, if only now, that it was not stupidity that had kept her young self from realising what was developing between Stephen and Lucy, but the sleeping pills that Lucy ground up for Ruby’s coffee.
So whatever changed, Dr Simmins thought, except perhaps, these days, genders? There were nice people and nasty people and some of them were M and some of them were F: and a whole lot in between. So be it.
May
The She Devil chaired the monthly Board meeting in windowless 2HT/3 with a degree of formality Valerie had not aspired to. Dr Simmins attended at the She Devil’s invitation. Minutes were taken by Ms Belinda Makepeace, once a very highly paid Company Secretary. She took them down in shorthand but her eyes had a rather fluctuating efficiency. Minutes of the last meeting were read and approved – no one having the heart not to. Dr Simmins paid proper attention. She had been right to cut down on the Prozac.
The first item on the agenda was ‘Policy change’. The She Devil, standing straight and smart in crisp white blouse and red jacket, no longer the grieving widow but the bold executive, made a stirring speech about the necessity of a new interpretation of the word ‘parity’. The feminist movement must move forward into a world where men should be seen as brothers in arms against the forces of prejudice and illiberalism, and no longer the source of these ills. Women of the world, unite, she said, you have nothing to lose but the chains of stale group-think. She declared this to a standing ovation. When she moved the appointment of a nominated Steering Committee of eight plus Chair, there were a few grumbles that an odd number would be preferable – as it was, the Chair would be left with a casting vote – but the movement was carried.
In ‘Matters arising’ Valerie said that plans for the Widdershins Walk next New Year’s Day were proceeding nicely: the covered walkway was all but completed, Lady Patchett had agreed to head the procession with her grandchild, and the new age of parity was under way. There was a round of applause when Valerie was able to announce that UNESCO was considering the inauguration of New Year’s Day as an annual Widdershins Day, a New Thought Day, suitable for worldwide celebration. And the IGP had been there first! Valerie quoted from the I Ching: ‘Difficulty in the beginning works supreme success.’ Tyler would be playing the guitar and singing next Friday in the canteen at five o’clock and could everyone let their appropriate cohorts know. Everyone was welcome to come along. The applause for Valerie was almost as long as the applause for the She Devil, but not quite.
In ‘Any other business’ Ms Serena from Ethics asked if extra soil should not be brought in for the burial area; a recent high tide had washed completely round the High Tower and made her nervous: or failing that could not some kind of stone sarcophagus be erected? The first suggestion was carried: Amethyst Builders would be employed. The Co-Treasurer, Ms Amelia Sidcup, explained that the cost of a sarcophagus could reach tens of thousands and was unnecessary. Ms Bradshap intervened to say she was sorry about Ms Serena’s nerves and perhaps Dr Simmins could be asked to prescribe something? Dr Ruby Simmins had done wonders lately, said Ms Bradshap, to make the High Tower feel less like a convent and more like a normal charity. The She Devil endorsed Ms Bradshap’s remarks and ruled in favour of Ms Sidcup.
It was noted in the minutes that Ms Serena had then walked out of the meeting saying they had all gone mad, ‘probably due to Dr Simmins’ happy pills, and if anyone thought for a minute they’d realise Widdershins was pure Satanism, and did they really want old Bobbo to rise from the dead?’ Ms Octavia followed her out.
Tyler, present by comment consent, sat at the back and played cat’s cradle with a length of ribbon throughout.
The meeting resumed after apologies had been made to Dr Simmins. Ms Bradshap remarked that it was most important that the IGP should stick to its positive-discrimination policy. Parity of employment was still a priority. It was almost impossible to find female stonecutters for a sarcophagus locally; enquiries having shown that the national average within the trade was 94 per cent male and 4 per cent female, so it was pretty hopeless trying. She was sure extra soil would do the trick, and Amethyst had acquired a new JCB mini excavator suitable for rock and sand, second-hand but at considerable cost. Expenses had been split with the IGP.
&n
bsp; The minutes recorded no other business and the closure of a most satisfactory meeting.
June
Tyler’s choice of computer game was now that girls’ favourite, Dulcie and the Dark Mountain. The sound track was quite bearable. Dr Simmins feared she might indeed be taking him a little too fast into femininity and added a little testosterone to the mix. Tyler was now uncomfortable with the girth of his Adam’s apple, which somehow interfered with the otherwise smooth and gentle flow of his profile. The only crag left. He had been massaging it night and day, rather hoping to avoid the tracheal shave, or chondrolaryngoplasty, the surgical procedure in which the thyroid cartilage would be shaved through an incision in the throat. An Adam’s apple without the shave was a certain giveaway of a cisman. But it was a nervy business. Things could go wrong. The surgeon’s hand could slip, the larynx be damaged beyond repair. Tyler refused.
Nor did Tyler want glottoplasty to feminise the pitch of his voice. The whole voice box would have to be removed in order for the vocal cords to be tightened and shortened rather like guitar strings, but with added blood. It was a reasonable fear but Dr Simmins reduced the testosterone. It could make you grumpy, and in grumpiness make the wrong decision.
The human body was a wonderful thing: it could be carved and tucked and seamed into something entirely other and still survive, thought Dr Simmins. The human brain was even more wonderful, add a chemical or a hormone and it would oblige by altering personality: the nice become nasty, the nasty, nice.
Tyler was not alone at baulking at glottoplasty, Ruby Simmins suspected – the final MTF frontier, the deep male voice of command and power was the most difficult thing to give up when transiting. To speak with the little plaintive enquiring trill of the female of the species was an irritation to those accustomed to telling others what to do. Men were happy to take on all parts of the female anatomy other than the voice: FTMs could rely on testosterone to thicken the cords willy-nilly and didn’t have to bother with surgical intervention – MTF was more complicated: what was thick must become thin, and blood would flow. It was more of a sacrifice than altering genitalia.
And if a misnamed Tyler – surely he ought to be ‘Tayla’ by now – could keep an audience of elderly women rapt and enthralled over lunch in the canteen his vocal cords might as well stay as they were. In his new role Tyler might even end up on the world stage. He was considering buttock enhancement: then he would be even more desirable. Valerie was rather keen on that. There was nothing to be done to feminise hands or feet but fortunately these were on the small side to begin with, which was just as well.
Valerie wound her light limbs round Tyler and gazed into his eyes and said how happy she would be when he was Tayla and Tyler thought how easy to make this beautiful creature happy and no skin off his nose if he did; other parts could look after themselves and these days, especially if you went private, they were lavish with the morphine.
One way or another, Dr Simmins thought, Tyler was well placed to change gender. Sheer amiability would see him through.
July
Leda Blumer, head of Security, called by Dr Ruby Simmins’ clinic to have her skin grafts checked. She had suffered third degree burns to arms and side on the Widdershins Day lightning strike seven months back – at least thus vindicating Ruby’s rather irrational (she was the first to admit it) fear of thunderstorms. Fortunately there hadn’t been a bad electrical storm since, the weather having been so singularly benign.
Leda was doing nicely: the split-thickness skin graft had taken well, with no sign of infection, and the face at least had not been affected. Vitals were normal. But she lingered in the surgery for no apparent reason and when Dr Simmins showed signs of sympathetic enquiry she dissolved into tears. She was a tall, rather slow-moving girl with good strong shoulders and jaw, tree trunk legs, not much waist, cropped dark hair and beautiful sad eyes. It occurred to the doctor that she might be a trans, an FTM, but Leda said no, she was a cislesbian, just awkward looking and unhappily in love. She needed something to get her through the night, pills, antidepressants, anything.
When Valerie had first turned up at the High Tower, Leda said, she had been so happy; after years of loneliness and rejection she’d found a soul mate, the sex had been transfigurative (Leda’s word); they’d even agreed to get married and had an engagement party but Valerie had suddenly changed, begun to avoid her and seemed to despise her. She’d taken up with the She Devil’s grandson, a young MTF. Valerie hadn’t even told Leda; she’d let her find out for herself. It was cruel and out of character. Did Dr Simmins think it could be something to do with Tyler inheriting money when he became Tayla? Valerie must know by now that cismen never really turned into women. They could tweak this and tweak that but at heart they stayed the same control freaks and bullies they were born.
Dr Simmins wrote out a prescription for Prozac. She had fellow feeling with all those betrayed and double-dealt. Back in the sixties she’d self-prescribed Librium and switched to Prozac when it became available. She had stuck to that: modern medications had their point, but the old ones often worked the best.
Leda dabbed her tears, saying that she was trying hard to wean herself off Valerie but if only Valerie wouldn’t sneak round from time to time for a shag and break Leda’s heart time and time again it would be so much easier. Valerie had told Leda she was an unlucky person – look at the way lightning had struck her and disfigured her and nobody else – and nothing would ever go right for her. Valerie was probably right and the best Leda could hope for now was the occasional mercy fuck. ‘And for God’s sake try not to look so needy all the time, or you won’t even have that,’ Valerie had said.
Dr Simmins tried not to affect surprise and doubled the daily dose of fluoxetine, Prozac, from 20 mg a day to 40 mg. Leda was able to go away happy with the prescription if not with life.
Dr Simmins wondered if she should bring the matter of Valerie’s wandering eye to Tyler’s attention and decided not. Tyler, so soon to be Tayla, was doing so well it would be a pity to upset the apple cart. There was also the issue of confidentiality to consider and of course the Iron Maiden and what the mind didn’t know the heart couldn’t care about. Or was it the other way round?
July Again
Board meetings were suspended for the summer and the Steering Committee met in their place. Lady Patchett, once again Chairperson, sent apologies – busy as she was dealing with the media storm stirred up by her Outrage Cycle article, but coping valiantly. So did Leda, the head of Security – she had a hospital appointment: her split-thickness skin graft was bubbling and buckling. Miriam from HR had an urgent meeting with Amethyst Builders, and Ms Serena from Ethics was ‘taking my dog to the vet’. Odd, because she did not have a dog. Ms Octavia did not turn up, and was assumed to have forgotten. But that left the quorum of three which the rules demanded: Valerie, Tyler (replacing Bobbo as the obligatory male – T. Patchett not B. Patchett. No one would notice and he’d keep his signature wobbly) and Ms Bradshap. The meeting proceeded.
Dr Simmins was in attendance but found herself falling asleep from time to time during the meeting – Valerie’s coffee? Ms Bradshap drank only green tea and Tyler was off stimulants, so they were spared. She woke up sufficiently to hear Valerie voting in a further 10 per cent increase for the Widdershins Walk budget and that some query from the Charity Commissioners had been satisfactorily parried. She did not comment.
The next day Dr Simmins took Tyler into London for a further consultation with Dr Marlene Patstock at the New Beginnings Private Clinic, or NBPC, in Harley Street. They travelled in the Mercedes. Leda had offered to drive and Dr Simmins had accepted the offer. Nobody liked driving into central London any more. Better leave it to the professionals, RoSPA-accredited as Leda was.
But at the last minute Valerie had insisted on coming too – to keep Tyler company in the hour of his decision, though so far as Ruby could see the decision had been well made already, and what Valerie really wanted to do was torment Leda. A
s it happened Dr Simmins saw no sign of anything untoward going on between them. The glass partition between chauffeur and passengers remained firmly closed. Leda’s neck, shoulders and head did not seem unduly tense – with any luck the Prozac was working.
Tyler was looking particularly pretty in a white cotton dress splashed with large red roses and not his normal jeans and t-shirt. Very much Tayla.
Traffic was light all the way to Crawley. Dr Simmins told Tayla more about her surgeon, Dr Marlene Patstock, the rather oddly-named surgeon who was herself an MTF, then a Michael not a Marlene, who had been a one-time colleague of Ruby’s at the North London GRC before starting the NBPC.
‘So many initials,’ complained Tyler.
‘It’s as well to learn them’, said Dr Simmins. ‘GRC – Gender Reassignment Clinic, MTF – male to female, FTM – female to male. Cismale – born contentedly male, cisfemale – born contentedly female.’
‘Don’t teach the cisgrandson how to suck eggs,’ Valerie chimed in, laughing merrily. But now she was snuggling up to Tyler, her hand under his skirt and on his knee or even further, Dr Simmins suspected, but didn’t like to bend her head and look down to check.
‘It’s all such a new world to me,’ Tyler was saying. ‘Like, not the way I expected, not really. A spot of trannyism was lovely. But all this is so – kind of – full on!’