First Lady

by Alison Mau

  I was the first patient at the clinic. Together they utilised a surgical technique that had been devised by Golliger, a surgeon at St. James’s Hospital in London, where they had both worked during their post graduate training.

  Walker was a very warm, inoffensive man, with a soft voice and a truly lovely personality. At our first meeting he took blood for testing. When the results came back, he called me into his clinic.

  ‘You’ve got hepatitis C.’

  ‘No, I haven’t!’

  ‘Well, you’ve been close to someone who has.’

  We realised that I’d picked up the condition from a partner in the 90s, but had never had any symptoms. Walker was naturally reluctant to operate. I begged him to reconsider, and the fact that I had had all that other surgery over the years made the decision easier for him. He agreed to go ahead.

  The operation was a major one, and his methods much more advanced than those of Milliken and Liggins more than twenty years before. He excised the whole of the old vagina out. Rather than operating by ‘keyhole’ which would have been his usual practice, he cut me right open to see clearly what he was dealing with, and that I was healthy all the way through my body. They took a section of bowel, stitched it to the top of the vaginal cavity without severing the blood supply, and then hoisted it into place. No need for a skin graft.

  The operation was a success but meant another ten days in hospital, as they explained that when they touch the bowel it ‘goes to sleep’ and you have to wait until you can go to the toilet again.

  He did a fantastic job — there was no longer any chance of it collapsing or closing up. In fact every gynaecologist I’ve seen since has remarked on his ‘beautiful work’.

  Walker carried on as the only surgeon in New Zealand specialising in this kind of surgery until well into his seventies, finally retiring in early 2014.

  Those who embark down the same path as me must now look overseas for help.

  17

  THE LIES PEOPLE TELL

  I am often asked whether I tell people ‘what I am’ and if I do, when? Most people find this very hard to get their heads around; ‘I’ve had a sex change!’ is not something you generally blurt on first meeting (why would you?) and frankly I have always thought that it’s rather unladylike to spill your secrets when they’ve not been asked for.

  In my case there are more pressing reasons one might keep one’s own counsel. The following is a great example.

  In the early 1970s, at the time Graham ‘Monty’ Liggins was trying unsuccessfully to make a better woman of me, I spent about a year in Auckland working at night at a coffee lounge near the top of Queen Street. It was a popular haunt of the gay community, and all the queens would gather there. There was one, very convincing as a woman, a tall redhead who looked like she could have been a street kid — unlike the others she never wore much make-up, and seemed quite out of place. Sharon was nineteen, and had grown up in the horse-racing world always wanting as a child to become a jockey. At six foot one fully grown, she’d obviously become too tall for her dream and needed a new career. Sharon always got a very, very hard time from the others. I didn’t know what she’d done to upset them, but they bullied her like mad.

  It was awful to watch and I felt very sorry for her, so when I went back to Christchurch I talked to Tim and told him how she was being treated.

  ‘How about we bring her back here for a while, give her a break. She can live with us?’ I suggested.

  Biggest mistake of my life.

  Duly we brought her home and it wasn’t very long at all before the trouble started. The first incident took place in town, while Sharon and I were on a shopping trip. We were on our way to Ballantynes and the window display of a jeweller’s shop in Cashel Street caught Sharon’s eye. She told me to go on ahead. When she caught up with me, I noticed she was doing something very strange with her mouth. We turned a corner and she stopped me, held out her hand and spat out a diamond ring.

  Sharon had a real talent for shoplifting. She appeared to see it as some sort of vocation, one for which she was superbly suited. She would only target goods of real value, things that she could return to the unsuspecting retailer and claim that she’d bought it for her husband and he did not care for it, might she have a refund please? These were the days before electronic transactions, in-store cameras and security tags and it was relatively simple for her to claim she’d misplaced the sale receipt. She would go to the retail stockists of Silverdale jerseys, which sold for about $40 or $50 at the time, wear several out of the store under her clothing, then go back a day later. Bingo! She’d get an immediate refund. Another favourite target as she got more skilled (and more brazen) was the hardware store; she would pick up a chainsaw and take it straight to the counter with her request for a refund. No need to even leave the store.

  Years later her world would come down around her ears, as town after town barred her from their business districts (she had a long drive ahead by some very circuitous routes whenever she wanted to go anywhere) but these strategies worked brilliantly for her for years. Sharon was a heavy gambler but her criminal history meant she was banned from racetracks, so the money made from shoplifting would be stashed in TAB accounts, and all bets placed by phone.

  My marriage with Tim was falling to pieces and a separation was inevitable. I moved into another little house to give us both some space, and took Sharon with me, a decision I would very soon regret.

  It was pretty plain she was not in a good state mentally — there was plenty of disturbed behaviour on show — and I suspect she was taking some sort of drugs to try to keep her stable. It all came undone one night at the new house. Sharon was acting distressed, quite crazy, yelling and crying about wanting a sex-change operation and how she simply could not go on as she was.

  She went into the kitchen, grabbed a large cooking knife from its sheath, and in one swipe cut off her penis.

  I rushed in to find her slumped against the bench shrieking her head off. I called 111 and gasped out a request for an ambulance (the woman taking the call must have been rather confused by my description of the patient’s injury and how it had come about) and then got down on my hands and knees to look for the unfortunate appendage. The floor was slick with blood. My two little puppies, curious as ever, were trying to muscle in on the act and I was terrified they’d run off with the prize.

  I couldn’t find the thing anywhere, and eventually we realised that Sharon had made the cut in an upwards motion from the base, and the penis was still attached by a small hinge of skin. Off to the hospital she went, where they duly stitched it back on. When she was released a few days later there was no one but me to nurse her back to health, but as soon as I could decently do so, I gave up the lease and moved house. Sanity at any price!

  I moved back to Auckland in 1994 with a male friend, Kevin, who I was having a fling with. Kevin had a grand plan to open a skin clinic for men, so I put up half the money for the lease on a salon on Jervois Road in Ponsonby. The business flourished quickly and in many ways it was one of the happiest years of my life. But slowly, Kevin’s behaviour began to remind me a little too much of my father’s. He was belittling me. The relationship was deteriorating. At the point of no return I moved all of my stuff out of the salon to a rented house in Titirangi.

  I did not know it, but Sharon had become something of a stalker. She lived in the same district, and would sit in her car on the road near my house and watch; I later found she would break into the house when I was gone for the day and search through drawers and rubbish bins, looking for evidence of anything she could use against me.

  One Sunday night, there Sharon was on my doorstep. I saw her off, telling her she was not welcome, and left to drive a friend to the airport. When I returned there was Kevin in the lounge, wild-eyed and furious.

  ‘You bloody bitch, you’re killing me!’

  Out of control, he s
creamed that he knew I had AIDS, and promised to blow my head off, then kill himself.

  I took the dogs into the bedroom, pushed the bed up against the door and, shaking with terror, called the police. When they arrived they carted Kevin off in a police car.

  Although we’d been seeing each other for the best part of a year, I had not told him much about my past. I’d never seen the sense in saying to anyone: ‘I used to have testicles and now I’ve got breasts, is that okay?’ Because what are they going to say? ‘Fuck off out of my life’ is what.

  He was charged with threatening to kill, and I was called to court as a witness on the Monday morning. The evidence showed that as soon as I had left the house that night, Sharon had gone straight to him and spun her spiteful story.

  She was sitting in the courtroom for Kevin’s appearance. Before the case was called that morning, a detective came to speak to me, saying he felt that something was not quite right with their story. Suddenly, Sharon stood up — a hush fell over the courtroom.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said in a commanding voice,

  ‘This poofter has got AIDS!’

  Everyone parted around me, inching away as if I would infect them.

  The case was held over and the next time I had to appear, I had some ladies from Women’s Refuge with me for support. I heard later Kevin was given a warning and let go, but by then there was no way I could consider sticking around.

  Once again going home seemed the only answer. I called a second-hand furniture dealer who came and took everything from the house as a job lot. A friend organised a passage on a US freight ship for $50 so I could bring the dogs back with me to Christchurch. But Sharon had one last salvo organised for me before I could get away.

  A knock at the door. A man I didn’t recognise, and behind him on the street a van with darkened windows. He introduced himself as Mike Valentine from the Holmes show at Television New Zealand. Tell me about your sex life, he demanded. He’d been told I was knowingly spreading AIDS among heterosexual men; he had checked the story with various people and they claimed it was true (I don’t doubt that part at all; there were plenty I can think of who’d be delighted to spread that lie).

  I refused to rise to the bait and told him firmly that it was a shame Mr Holmes had stooped to this. I then shut the door.

  The police arrived shortly afterwards to get a statement about Kevin’s threat, and when I told the detective what had happened he warned me not to say a thing. He was the only person I spoke to about it; I was terrified of the prospect my family could get dragged into it.

  My barrister later joked that it might have been a better result if Holmes had gone ahead with the story — I might have been very rich as a result. But I had no intention of letting anyone think of me in that way. I’ve never had any ‘social’ disease in all my life. All I wanted to do was put the rumours to rest once and for all.

  Letter from Dr Graeme Carpenter MB ChB Dip MSM, Dip. Obst., 11 April 1995

  TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

  Attention: Mr Kevin Mark Fletcher

  Dear Mr Fletcher

  RE: Elizabeth ROBERTS

  On 3 April 1995 blood was taken from Liz Roberts to test for the presence of antibodies to the HIV virus. The test was negative, i.e. there were no antibodies to the HIV virus. On 6 August 1993 the same test was done with exactly the same result. This means that Ms Roberts has been HIV negative from August 1993 until April 1995. Her current status is therefore HIV negative. This means Ms Roberts had not been exposed to the HIV virus since 1993. She has not even been exposed to the theoretical risk of contracting the virus.

  There is absolutely no chance that Ms Roberts is HIV positive, as she has been publicly accused of being. It would seem logical that any insinuation that she is in fact HIV positive is a falsehood.

  Yours sincerely

  High Street Mall Medical Centre

  Dr Graeme Carpenter

  It was humiliating to have to seek medical confirmation of what I already knew to be the truth. But even though I’d escaped to Christchurch, I knew I would never be free of the rumours unless I proved them to be wrong. Copies of the letter were sent to the Holmes programme and various other private individuals I knew to have had a hand in spreading the lies.

  Trying to set up a life at home, I rented a flat, got an unlisted phone number, and tried to settle in. Four days later Sharon was on the phone. I hung up on her. She turned up at the door. I refused to see her.

  I moved twice more in quick succession; each time with an unlisted number. Each time, with the help of a friend who worked at Telecom, she’d tracked me down within a week. When I didn’t pick up the phone to take her calls, she’d leave threatening messages. I wanted no contact with her but was losing a lot of money giving up leases and taking on new ones. Finally I found a lovely little house that had just been redecorated all in shades of cream and white — it felt like a sanctuary. I thought, oh, home at last!

  I went out with some friends on the Thursday night of the same week I’d moved in. When I got home quite late, there was a message waiting on the machine.

  ‘Have they been to get you yet? The police are very happy with what I’ve done!’ I tried to ignore it as just another threat, and took myself off to bed. Very early the next morning, there was a commotion outside. The rubbish collection truck was stopped in the street, and a stern voice said, ‘Don’t touch those bags.’

  Seconds later there was a knock at the door. I answered it in my nightie and a man in black leather asked to be let in. I disappeared to put on a housecoat, and when I emerged from the bedroom there were five or six of them filling the lounge room.

  The lead guy cut right to the chase.

  ‘Where’s the body?’

  ‘What body? Who are you?’

  ‘We’re from the Christchurch Homicide squad.’

  I passed out and fell to the floor.

  When I came to, one of the squad, Detective Hamilton, was patting my hand reassuringly and asking if I was alright. Someone had tipped them off, he told me, that I’d drugged and killed a man in my house. According to their informant, I had cut him up and stuffed the parts into rubbish bags.

  No wonder they’d told the rubbish truck to move on.

  They could plainly see there’d been no grisly murder in that pretty, cream-carpeted house.

  ‘We still have to look around,’ he said, ‘you’ll have to open up the garage for us.’

  Well, do you think I could find the keys? In a right panic I unearthed them after a search and opened the garage. Nothing of interest to be found (of course).

  ‘What’s in there?’ he asked pointing to the laundry door.

  ‘Oh don’t go in there,’ I said without thinking. I’d completely forgotten about the dogs, who were still shut in the laundry where they slept each night. As I was saying these things I was immediately regretting them. They went straight to the laundry and of course all they found were two little dogs.

  I was unaware at the time that while they were searching the house, uniformed police had cordoned off the entire street. I was the centre of what they called a ‘major incident’.

  Detective Hamilton made it clear I’d have to come down to the station to give a statement, so I made them wait while I got properly glammed up for courage, and off we went. Once seated in an interview room Hamilton asked me to listen carefully while he played a 111 recording. I watched the wheels turn slowly on the huge, ancient tape machine but the recording was quiet and the voice muffled.

  ‘Can you turn it up?’ I asked. I listened a second time.

  ‘That’s Sharon!’

  Sure enough, the recording said I’d killed someone in my house, and that she knew me from Auckland and would tell them what I was really like. Having found not a speck of evidence, the police dropped the case like a hot kumara.

  A court even
tually found against Sharon and awarded me $82,000 for defamation of character, due in a lump sum. She claimed she had nothing, which wasn’t true; she’d sold her house and divided the proceeds between her TAB account and cash which she stashed inside the panels of her car. Finally she got caught, and I got my money.

  I didn’t hear from her after that for a long time. But one night, watching TV years later, there she was on one of those programmes about neighbours at war, at a house in Porirua accused of killing the neighbour’s cats.

  18

  WORKING IN THEATRE

  I’ve made more bridal and race day outfits than I could possibly count over the years, but in the 1970s I had the opportunity to branch out. After all the years of puppet shows as a Welfare boy, I could start to really indulge my penchant for drama.

  Working in theatre was a perfect fit for me, and as a bonus I was usually able to work from my home, which meant happily avoiding the hothouse atmosphere of the theatre costume workroom.

  In 1975 the Christchurch Operatic Society was staging a production of My Fair Lady, directed by Julie Blumsky. I was asked to make copies of the Cecil Beaton creations Audrey Hepburn had so famously worn in the movie version. The producer gave me three days to create both the black and white costume from the Ascot scene, and the gorgeous ball dress that made Audrey want to dance all night.

  I called a halt to all other work and, voila, two perfect copies of the requested gowns in the almost impossible time frame. When I called to say they were ready for delivery, I was told I was to take them to Wellington for the once-over by promoter J.C. Williamson’s agent at the Opera House (oh alright then!) then bring them back to Christchurch.

  The Williamson people were very pleased; but when I finally took them to the head of wardrobe at the Operatic Society back in Christchurch, she winced. I’d soon learn this was to be her response to all my work. As I left I overheard her say to her underlings, ‘We’ll just use them for the final dress rehearsal, and then never again.’