This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism, and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.

The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.

This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don't read it.

Unfortunately no politicians were injured or killed in the writing of this story, and no one else was either.

If you enjoyed it, then please Email me and tell me. If you hated it, Email me and lie.

I will always welcome contact.

tanya_jaya@yahoo.co.uk

The legal stuff.

This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Permission is granted for it to be copied and read by individuals, and for no other purpose. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited, and may only be posted to free sites with the express permission of the author.

Synopsis.

A wealthy and beautiful Spanish Countess prepares for a private dinner party with her husband and children at the White House with the President and First Lady.

As she arrives, she casts her mind back to a very different life.

Jim, a young boy, is brought up in a deprived and abusive home in London's East End. Aware of his TS condition, he suffers abuse and humiliation, culminating in a homosexual predator taking advantage of him.

Finding himself in jail, undergoing special ‘treatment' to combat his ‘anger' problems, the young man finally is abused by the state.

When you hit the bottom, there is only one way to go. And a girl called Jemma decides to go up.

WARNING: SEXUALLY EXPLICIT.

Please enjoy.

Tanya

A Fairy's Tale.

.

By T.J. Allan

My thanks to my Editor…You know who you are!

Prologue.

There was a knock on my door.

“Come in.”

It was Diego, the butler. He took one step into the room and then stood there, immobile.

“Yes Diego, it is time?”

“Si, Condesa, Frank has brought the car round, and is waiting out the front of the house.”

“Gracias, Diego. Is my husband ready?”

“Si Condesa. He is in his study with Carlos.”

“Then I'll be down directly.”

Diego bowed his head and withdrew, closing my dressing room door gently.

I was seated at my dressing table as I put the finishing touches to my make up. My long blonde hair was up for this evening and the large diamond tiara with matching earrings and necklace had come from the vault especially for this special event. The necklace lay on my breast, as the low cut ice blue silk evening dress exposed more of my ample cleavage than usual. The dress cost me $10,000 on my last visit to New York and it really was exquisite. I slipped on the shoes that had cost me a small fortune in Milan eight weeks ago.

I stared at my reflection, attempting to fault the person who looked back at me. Clarissa had done my nails to perfection, yet again, so I was pleased.

I'm thirty-eight now, yet I thought I looked to be in my early thirties. I still have that cracking hourglass figure I had when Francesco had first met me that day in London. I had been twenty then, but now I had to spend two hours a day in the gym and swim half a mile in our pool before breakfast in order to keep it I smiled as the mature, beautiful woman smiled back. I winked one eye very slowly, sharing the joke with myself.

“You look fantastic, ma'am,” said my personal assistant, Stephanie.

“Thanks, Stephanie, but what did I say about calling me Jemma?”

The girl reddened slightly but smiled.

She was in her mid-twenties and slightly taller than I was, about five seven, but very slender. She had long brown hair, fashionably styled and was dressed in a fawn skirt with a white blouse. She was strikingly pretty, with very large green eyes.

“I'm sorry, Jemma. I find it so much easier. Otherwise I forget when we're in company.”

I stood up, picked up my evening bag and wrapped the white fox stole around my shoulders. I walked over to her and gave her a hug.

“Stephanie, my love, you're family, you know that.”

Returning the hug, the girl smiled.

“I know. You've done so much for me, but I still find it awkward.”

“I know, but you know how I hate fancy titles?”

“I know.”

“How's Frank?” I asked, changing the subject to her husband

“He's fine.”

“And the kids?”

“There're with their mother for the holiday. We'll see them in a week or so, in time for school.”

“Any news about the baby?”

The girl blushed again.

“We passed the vetting procedure, we hope that we will have one in a month or so.”

I smiled. “That's so exciting. I'm so pleased. It must be like a dream come true after all you've been through?”

“It certainly is. I just can't thank you enough. After all, if it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't be here now and I certainly wouldn't be married to such a lovely man!”

“You are a sweetie. You have no idea how pleased I am at how things have turned out.”

“Thanks.”

“As I said, you're family now!”

I turned, walking out of the room with her behind me down the large marble staircase to the huge hall below. My stepdaughter was waiting, looking up at me with that lovely smile I'd come to value. She was eighteen and a real Latin beauty. Her gorgeous long hair was almost jet-black, and when her huge brown eyes flashed, she could melt a man's heart at a hundred paces.

The bright red evening dress she wore was superb, as we had bought it at the same time as mine in New York. Hers was $1000 less expensive. The diamonds she wore were almost as large as mine and she looked simply ravishing.

“Mama, you look very beautiful, I think,” she said.

“Well, thank you, Chita, but I fear you put me in the shade every time these days. You look absolutely stunning, my dear. Your mother would be so proud of you. I know I am.”

She smiled coyly.

“I hope so. But as you have been my Mama for most my life, I am pleased you are proud of me.”

“Oh, Chita, you know I am.”

We had a gentle hug, as neither of us wanted to mess our makeup or hair.

Conchita had been only eighteen months old when I had married her father, so she had no memory of her real mother. I had tried to be a good mother to both my stepchildren, and was proud of how they had both turned out. Conchita had graduated from her private school in New England in the summer. I was so proud as she was going to Oxford in the autumn to read English and dramatic art.

My stepson Carlos, or Chuck as I called him, had just graduated from Harvard with a degree in Business studies. He was twenty-three and had been nearly five when we had married. He wanted to spend some time in the military, but his father had persuaded him to finish his studies first. It had been a shrewd move, as he had met a delightful American girl called Kirsty, to whom he was now engaged to be married. Thoughts of joining the army had been shelved for the time being.

Footsteps sounded to our left and my husband and stepson appeared. Both were wearing evening dress. Francisco, my husband, wore a red sash and several of his orders and decorations. Chuck had a modern-style evening dinner jacket with the high Russian style collar. He was about two inches taller than his father, and at six three, was a very handsome young man. Both were wearing white ties, and Francisco wore his tails with panache.

My dear husband was eighteen years my senior; however, at fifty-six, he still retained his youthful looks. The only hint of ageing was the silver flash above each ear in his otherwise fine head of dark curly hair. His proud Spanish heritage shone through, with his aquiline nose and fine aristocratic features. I love him to bits.

“Jemma, my darling, you look ravishing, as always,” Francisco said, holding out his arm, which I took, kissing his cheek. His accent was almost Queen's English, with just a hint of Castile. Then, having been educated at Eton, Oxford and then Sandhurst, it was in his breeding and background.

“Is Kirsty going to be there tonight?” I asked my stepson.

He grinned.

“Sure, Mama, she'll be there.”

He had a clear New England accent. Yet a keen ear could just about detect that Spanish accent of his youth. He was broad in the shoulder, having played American football for Harvard. He was a superb example of manhood. The pair of them warmed my heart, no less than had they been my own children.

“ ¡Avance, mi familia, el Presidente espera!” said my husband, and we, the Count and Countess of Valdarez and our two fine children stepped out into the Washington sunshine and into the limousine that was to take us to the White House for a private dinner with the President of the United States and a few select guests.

As we entered through the main gates, I smiled, the bars on the gates reminding me of the Young Offenders Institution in which I served eighteen months many years ago.

Different life, different world and a totally different person.

James Thomas Gardner, the wrong person, in the wrong place at the wrong time and in the body of the wrong gender. Who'd have ever dreamed that one day I would be who I was now?

Not I, for one.

1.

The Soviet Socialist Republic of Hackney, or in layman's terms, the London Borough of Hackney, lies to the north east of the City of London. The German bombers devastated it during the Blitz of WW2.

Gruesome estates were raised out of the rubble in the 1950s and followed by the equally gruesome concrete tower blocks of the 1960s. It was to one of the former that I was brought home weighing just over 7lbs in 1956. My mother already had six children, so the three-bedroom flat was over populated even by slum standards.

My father was a dockworker in the London's docklands, which meant his days in work were numbered. The rise in union power had allowed him a vision of freedom, or a perception of freedom, as he was about as far to the left as one could go. He was hardly a fine example of the socialist dream; an Irish, lapsed Roman Catholic who drank or gambled most of his pay, leaving pennies for my long suffering and far from well mother to bring up seven children.

I had three brothers and three sisters, but my mother had been convinced that I was to be a fourth daughter. I was christened James Thomas Gardner, and so I began my squalid little existence in that squalid part of the London sprawl.

My early years were actually fine. My brothers and sisters were, for the most part, at school, and I was at home with my mother. My sister, Susan tells me that I was a perfect baby, content to simply sit and play quietly, hardly moving from one spot. I rarely cried and was very little trouble.

In 1959, the eldest of my siblings, Kenneth, who was sixteen, was already working in the docks as an apprentice welder. My father, being a stevedore, realised that a skill or trade was the most important thing for a young man to possess. He was only skilled in the loading and unloading of cargo from the huge ships that used the docks and wanted his sons to have the skills to get jobs outside the docks if it came to it.

The next in line at thirteen was Terry. He was still at school and my mother had high hopes for him. He was bright, God knows where he got it from, so he was possibly going to stay on after he was sixteen, thereby breaking the family tradition. Then came the twins, Nancy and Carol. At ten, they were a real pain in the proverbial. They were both quite pretty, both blonde and identical in all the worst ways. They made a young boy of three quite miserable, as they used to dress me up as a bloody baby all the time.

John was next, at seven, and he was the real tough nut. He was already at the boxing club and was always coming home bleeding after fighting at school. Lastly, and nearest me in age, was Susan. She was dark, unlike the rest of us, and I always thought she was my mother's special one. She was five, so was just two years older than I.

We were quite close, so when I was very young we used to play together a lot. Later, it came as a shock to me that I wasn't supposed to play with dolls and have tea parties. I realised that my mother's conviction was right, but for the wrong reasons. I should have been a girl. I think I was about four when I realised it properly, but I was somewhat confused for a year or so.

When I was five, I tried to remedy the mistake with scissors and sticky tape. At the hospital, the doctors unfortunately succeeded in saving the parts. I was destined, therefore, to continue being a boy, at least for the immediate future. I never lost the realisation as to what or who I should have been.

School was an utter nightmare. Added to by the fact I was one of the youngest in the year group. The word had yet to be in general use, but Dyslexia was not really part of the educator's vocabulary. I couldn't read, so I was considered an educational loser. I was called stupid, thick, dense and everything else that had similar meanings. Not only that, I was small and relatively weak.

Our diet was pretty awful, with my dad and Ken taking the lion's share as they were working. My portions of food were pitiful. I was undernourished and as a result I was a slow developer in every aspect. Not only that, I was dressed almost exclusively in hand-me-downs. Most were the girls' clothes, as the boys wore theirs out too quickly. I didn't mind. In fact, one day I was playing in the communal area at the foot of the stairwell with Susan when the postman came past.

“Morning girls, having fun?” he said.

I was so happy, as someone had seen me for what I believed I really was. I adored that postman from that day on.

The 1960s in London was the time of the beatnik and the Teddy boy. Violence was a part of everyday life, and it permeated down the ages to the primary schools. I was beaten up regularly and as a result my father sent me to boxing club in Hoxton with my brother John.

I hated boxing, and was forever coming home with a bloody nose or a black eye. I learned to look after myself. I found this out when I first experienced a time of red mist.

I was thrust into the ring with a small boy who was obviously related to a primate group that was so far uncharted by zoologists. Sufficient to say he proceeded to pummel me, and I suppose I just had enough.

I don't recall the incident, but my brother John, who had the dubious honour of holding my towel, related the incident thus:

“Robbie (the primate) was weighing in to Jimmy and Jimmy had both gloves up protecting his head. Robbie called him a girl and Jimmy lowered his gloves and stared at Robbie for a second. Then, with tears streaming down his face, he came out flailing indiscriminately with both arms. Two consecutive flails connected with Robbie and down he went. He was counted out by the ref, but Jimmy was unaware and tried to take out the ref.”

I did not make many friends at school, so it seems I was destined for the lowest stream of the low. My reading ability was totally abysmal, but I would take myself off to the local library, and with the help of a lovely lady called Samantha, I learned to read.

Samantha was the daughter of the local vicar of St John's church in Lower Clapton Road. She worked at the library and took pity on me. That girl was a saint. So it was only thanks to her I managed at least to read a bit.

Commando magazines were popular amongst all the boys at school, and for a shilling , one could buy a 50-page booklet with illustrated adventures of the great British soldiers, sailors and airmen against the despicable Jerry and Jap. Most boys could read one in fifteen minutes. It took me all day, but I refused to give up until I had read every word. However, I really preferred my sisters' magazines, so by the time I was ten it was even more apparent to me that I was very different than other boys.

The local Roman Catholic Church managed to imprint such a guilt complex upon me that I vowed to avoid church for as long as I lived. The black clad priests and black hearted nuns terrorised me until I spent many an evening wearing my knees out praying for God to forgive me my thoughts and pleading with him to make me think normal thoughts.

He didn't. The thoughts remained, as strong as ever. My prayers changed to wanting to be a girl. I figured if the thoughts hadn't been taken away, that is what I should be. I was twelve when I started cross-dressing. Not an easy task in such a cluttered house as ours. We had moved to a new council house, which had four bedrooms. Ken and the twins had left home. Ken was married and lived just down the road. He was hoping to get a job with Fords at Dagenham as the docks were dying. The Port of London was dying, as the day of the container was dawning and my father had been laid off.

Terry had joined the RAF, even though the Tories abolished National Service. He was training to be a radar technician. And the twins were both due to get married very soon. Carol was already expecting.

I was 13 when 1970 arrived, and the fashions became totally different from the 1960s. The Beatles led the way, hair became longer and clothes became colourful and way-out. Suits and winkle pickers were a thing of the past; flares and sandals were in. I started to grow my hair and gradually the names started - fairy, fruit, queer, queen, iron (Iron hoof = poof. Cockney rhyming slang) poof, faggot, and many more. The East End was not the place to be anything other than the macho stereotype. There was no doubt that I was effeminate, but I knew that this was because underneath it all I was actually a girl. I may have had the body of a boy, but I had the heart, soul and mind of a girl. The hand-me-downs were still there and I would always choose the girls' stuff. But I could not wear the skirts and dresses, at least not outside my bedroom.

By now John, Susan and I were the only siblings left. I was to share a room with John, while Susan had a room to herself. However, although we were in a nice big house, Dad was drunk for much of the time, and would lash out at any one of us.

At the same time, Mum's health was deteriorating rapidly. She had cancer, but refused to go to the doctor until it was too late. She died when I was fourteen. It was a real blow to me, as I was already terrified of my father. When dad was sober, he was fine, but he was rarely sober. John was eighteen and had already been arrested several times, as had my father, for drunkenness and violence.

The social services were looking at us critically, although I was blissfully unaware of this. John was sentenced to two years for robbery, leaving Susan and me alone with Dad.

My cross dressing was serious now, and I had my own secret cache of girl's clothes. Susan found me when she returned unexpectedly one day, and far from being surprised, she told me that she had suspected it for years. It became our secret, and she christened me Jemma. She helped with makeup, clothes and everything. One day, when Dad was in the local nick for being drunk, she took me out dressed as Jemma. I had a mini skirt and high heels on, and we had stuffed socks down my bra. It was the best day of my life, until a man groped me at the bus stop. It scared me, yet in a way it excited me. I then started to fantasise about having sex with boys.

In the summer of 1971, I was nearly fifteen, and we went to Southend for a week's holiday. It seems the social services thought we could do with a break. I had never been on holiday before, and it was the first time I had seen the sea.

I took a few bits of Jemma with me, just in case. Dad would spend most of the time in the pub, so Susan and I were free for much of the time. Then Susan met David.

David was a local lad. His Dad owned the fish and chip shop near our boarding house. He saw Susan coming in a few times, and fancied her. This was hardly surprising, as Sue was a very pretty girl. So he would watch for us and one day he invited her to the pictures. I was happy to let her go, and decided to sit on the front and read. I had a book about Christine Jorgensen, the American Soldier who had a sex change in the 1950s. I was totally captivated by her story and it was as if a door I never knew about was suddenly revealed.

I was sitting on a bench by the beach when I became aware that a man was on the bench next to me. I looked up.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” I replied, somewhat guardedly.

“What are you reading?”

I showed him the book, slightly embarrassed.

“Oh, brave woman, it is a fascinating story,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

He was in his late twenties, I suppose, and was dressed in jeans and a white shirt. He was quite well spoken.

“I have a few books like that at home. Would you like to see them?”

“Like this?”

“Yes, of boys who want to be girls.”

The warning signals should have gone off, but I was too intrigued. It was amazing, as I thought I was the only boy who ever wanted to be a girl. I went with him.

He lived in a nice flat a little way from the beach.

“I thought you were a girl when I first saw you,” he admitted. I did have long fair hair and my jeans were flared and the pink tie-dye tee shirt was hardly butch.

“What is your name?”

“Jim,” I said.

“Hello Jim, I'm Mike,” he said, and then shook my hand.

He gave me some orange squash, and brought a photo album out. He put it on the table by the sofa and I sat next to him. He opened it, and I saw black and white photographs of boys dressed as girls. I got an erection almost immediately.

“Do you like dressing as a girl?” he asked.

I nodded, captivated by the pictures. They were all so pretty, and wore make up and everything.

“Would you like to dress up for me?” he asked.

I looked at him.

“My clothes are at the boarding house,” I said.

He actually looked surprised.

“You dress up as a girl?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“I have some here that would fit you,” he said.

He took me into the bedroom, and showed me the clothes. They were fantastic, all frilly and sexy. I was very excited, and it then dawned on me what he was after. I could have run then, but chose not to. I was too interested in what was going to happen.

He left me alone and I dressed for him. I put on a black bra and panties, with stockings and a suspender belt. There was a mini dress, and sexy high-heeled boots. I brushed my hair out and put on some mascara and eyeliner. I glossed my lips and pouted at my reflection.

I tried to wedge my penis between my legs, but it kept springing out, and it annoyed me.

“I can stop it doing that,” Mike said, he was watching me. He was wearing only his shorts and his erection was as evident as mine.

He got onto his knees and put my little cock into his mouth.

I wasn't long. I ejaculated within seconds and he licked me clean. My cock subsided and he tucked it away in my panties.

He stood up and kissed me, forcing his tongue into my mouth so I tasted what was in his mouth. I found myself hugging him tight, and holding his enormous erection with one hand.

“I want to fuck you,” he said, pushing me onto the bed.

He pulled my panties off, and I opened my legs. He took off his shorts and I stared at his cock. My mind was in a whirl. Everything told me this was wrong. Yet this was what girls did. I had seen this in porn mags, and I wanted so much to be a girl.

“Don't hurt me,” I said, but wanting him inside me.

He took out a tub of jelly and told me to smear his cock with it. I did and I loved seeing him writhe and hearing him moan as I touched his cock. It gave me a feeling of power over him. It was as if I controlled him, at least for a while. Then he smeared some up my crack, and into my bum. It hurt.

Then he lay on top of me and I held my legs so he could penetrate me. It hurt and I cried out.

“Relax. I'll go slow,” he said.

It hurt very much. So I did what he said and it was better. Soon he was up to the hilt . And then he started thrusting into me and withdrawing.

“You are a beautiful girl, so beautiful. I love fucking you. You are so tight, so good,” he said as I held his back as he fucked me.

The pain subsided and I started to enjoy the sensation. I felt a warm glow spread over me. I saw there was a mirror on wardrobe door and I watched his bum as he thrust inside me. It looked like he was fucking a girl and I was the girl. My little cock started to get hard again. He was fucking me hard now and it was really nice. Suddenly, he gave a lurch and a grunt, thrusting deep inside me, as we came together. My spunk was all over my suspender belt and I felt him slide out of me.

He kissed me. “That was so nice. Did you like that?” he asked.

I nodded.

He went and wiped himself, picking up a camera and starting to take pictures of me. I rolled onto my tummy, blowing him a kiss. I was a girl, and it was lovely.

He fucked me three times that afternoon and I was so naïve that I thought he loved me. By the end of the week, I was ready to leave home and move in with him. We had fucked every day at least twice and I wanted to be with him forever. I told him this.

“Fuck off! Queer little boys like you are ten a penny on the sea front.”

I had gone to see him before going home. I was standing in his doorway and I could see another boy in girl's clothes on his couch. There was a window lever on the landing, so I picked it up. I don't really know why. The red mist came down. The next thing I knew he was lying bleeding at my feet. I ran away, but it was only a matter of time. The Essex Police arrested me, taking me to Southend Police station.

Mike had conveniently lost the photo albums. He was a teacher, and so as such was a respectable member of the community. I had attacked him for no reason and, using a weapon, I had inflicted grievous bodily harm upon him. They charged me with attempted murder, but it was dropped to GBH at the Crown Court.

Surprise! Surprise! There were no other witnesses. Yet I was convicted. I couldn't tell the truth without telling everyone, including my father, that I was a homosexual catamite.

They kept me in custody for three months on remand, which was in a young offenders' institution. Being on remand wasn't too bad, as we could wear our own clothes and even had our own rooms. I kept to myself, and as the turnover was rapid, people never got a chance to make friends or enemies.

When I finally got to court, it sentenced me to two years in a Young Offenders Institution. I said nothing to anyone all the way through. My Dad washed his hands of me. But Susan knew the truth as I told her what really happened just before I was hauled away.

The plain green Ford Transit with bars on the inside took me to the place I was to stay for the next two years. It was 1971 and I was only just fifteen.

From the outside, Garside looked exactly what it was, a place to lock people away. Built by the Victorians to lock up lunatics, it became a prison after the First World War. It had been used during that Great War for soldiers suffering from the after-affects of gas attacks in the trenches. After the last soldier had been discharged, it was used as an over-spill for the London Prisons, later becoming a borstal.

The old gothic Victorian part was hideously functional. Typically Victorian, it let hot air out in winter and stifled in summer. There was a new wing bolted onto the side, constructed in the 1950s and imaginatively called, ‘the New Wing'. It was a red brick monolith, devoid of character and with small soulless windows, heavy with metal bars visible from the outside.

My soul cried out in anguish, yet no one heard!

In those days, twelve pennies made a shilling and twenty shillings made a pound. Now, with decimalisation in 1969, one hundred pennies to the pound, so a shilling would be five new pence.

“Stand with your feet behind the line!” the warder bawled at me. He shouted, yet I was only a foot away and, apart from the other warder behind the desk, we were alone. I looked down, noticing a faded yellow line painted on the bare floor. I shuffled my feet back so to be behind it.

“Name?”

“Jimmy Gardner.”

WHACK

Something hard hit me in the ribs. I was winded, but resisted the urge to cry out in pain and surprise. I stumbled forwards, inadvertently stepping over the line.

WHACK!

“Stand behind the line, you 'orrible little runt!”

I staggered behind the silly line again.

“You will use only your surname and you will prefix and suffix each sentence with the word ‘SIR', do you understand, runt?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Name?”

“Gardner, sir.”

WHACK!

“Uh! Sir, Gardner, sir.”

“Date of birth?”

“Sir, 12 th August 1956, sir.”

And so it went on.

“Right, Gardner, strip.”

I stripped everything off, standing, shivering with cold and embarrassment, naked behind the line.

A bored looking man in a white coat and thick black-rimmed spectacles came out and gave me a cursory examination. He treated me like an object, prodding and poking me, occasionally asking me to cough or whether I was in pain. Not that he cared!

“Bend over,” he said, finally.

I complied and felt his breath behind me. He was examining my bum.

“Hmm, queer boy?” he asked.

***********

Red mist time.

***********

When I came round, I was in the infirmary.

“You little bastard. You attacked the doctor!” The medical orderly informed me.

I had broken the good doctor's spectacles, yet I had a cracked rib and purple bruises all over my body. I had also been unconscious for three hours. They must have been very valuable spectacles.

The next morning, dressed in my ill-fitting new blue uniform, with hairy blue shirt, I was marched into the governor's office.

“Gardner, sir. Two years for GBH. Attacked Dr Goodson yesterday,” said the warder escorting me.

“Thank you, Mr. Simpson. Is the Doctor alright?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. Now, young Gardner, what am I to do with you?”

I stared at a spot over his head. Frankly, I didn't care and I was thinking of ways to take my own life.

He picked up a piece of paper from his desk.

“I wonder?” he said.

I stared.

“Mr Simpson, please ask the good doctor to join us. There's a good chap.”

“Yessir.”

Warder Simpson marched out, returning a few minutes later with the doctor. He stared at me, but kept his distance. I noted sticky tape held the two halves of his spectacles together.

“Ah, John, thanks for coming. I have received this from the Home Office. This case seems to fit the criteria. What do you think?”

The doctor read the document, and nodded.

“If it curbs his violent behaviour, why not?”

“Right, I'll leave the details up to you,” the governor said and then he turned his attention to me.

“You will understand that I will not tolerate violence towards any of my staff. Do you understand?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Good. Now I was going to punish you, but it seems there may be another way. There is a revolutionary new treatment for violent young men, and you will be the first to try it here. You will be given a drug that will stop your violence and calm you down.”

“Sir, no sir.”

“No? You don't have a choice. You will have the hormone injection every week. Whether you like it or not.”

“Hormone?”

WHACK

“Sir, hormone, sir?”

“Yes, you will be given oestrogen every week until you calm down.”

I could hardly keep the smile back. That was the female hormone that Christine Jorgensen took to change her gender.

“Sir, yes sir.”

“So I should think. Mr Simpson, take him out.”

“Yessir. Gardner, about turn, quick march. Left right left right.”

He marched me directly to the infirmary. The good doctor used the bluntest needle in his box, jabbing it nastily into my bum.

“Doctor, what is it?” I asked.

“A mixture of androgens and oestrogen. Not really appropriate, but it will calm you down,” he said as he looked at me with something almost resembling pity in his eyes.

I nodded, as they took me back to the main wing.

The main wing was in the old building and contained convicted prisoners with either a history of violence or long sentences. It consisted of three floors with an open central landing, with eight cells on either side of the landing, on each floor. Each cell had a double bunk and toilet bucket with a lid. There was a table and one chair, despite the fact that two boys shared each cell.

The New Wing contained dormitories where twelve boys were bunked in each room. Only remand and short term, non-violent prisoners went to the New Wing.

Being all under eighteen, the longest sentence any of us got was two years. But for teenagers that was a long time. I was the youngest and smallest, but arrived with a violent reputation. They put me in a cell with two bunk beds. An older lad was on the top bunk smoking a cigarette.

He was about six foot and dark. His hair was past his collar. He had a good-looking, but hard face. There was no doubt in my mind that he was here because he probably deserved it. He held himself with an arrogant, self-confident air, as if nothing scared him. I tried to emulate him, but probably looked even more scared. I put on a brave face, but inside I was terrified.

I put my stuff on the lower bunk and sat down. He turned and looked at me.

“You the lad who hit the doc?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“He called me a queer.”

The lad laughed.

“He calls everyone queer when they arrive,” he said, “Smoke?”

He held out the cigarette packet.

Knowing that cigarettes, or ‘snout', were the main currency inside, I declined.

“I don't.”

“You will. Wot's yer name?”

“Jim.”

“Well, Jim, I'm Larry Sparks. Wot you in for?”

“GBH.”

“No shit?”

“It started out as attempted murder, but got dropped to GBH. You?”

“Forgery and deception. Forged my own prescriptions and then some cheques,” he said, grinning as if it was some great feat.

“Oh, when are you due to get out?” I asked.

“Six months, if I'm good, otherwise at least a year. How long did you get?”

“Two years, but I already done three months on remand.”

“You will be out in eighteen months. What did you get for hitting the doc?”

“Some drug treatment to calm me down.”

He looked at me.

“You poor bastard. They tried that at Bovingdon and the kid went loopy.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, it was some form of LSD or something.”

“Well they are not giving me that. It's hormones or something.”

“How old are you?”

“I was fifteen yesterday. You?”

“Seventeen. You poor little bastard. You'll have to be careful, looking like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like a girl, with the hair and everything.”

“Oh,” I said, rather indifferently.

“There are a few guys here who like pretty boys.”

“So, there are people out there who like them too.”

He looked at me, nodding. I knew what I was and now he had guessed.

“Whatever turns you on,” he said.

“Look, as long as no one interferes with me, I will just mind my own business,”

“So, got a bird?”

I shook my head.

“No thanks?”

“Ever had one?”

I stared at him, and with a smile shook my head again. He stared into my eyes and nodded, slowly. Then he lay on his back and blew smoke at the ceiling.

“I got a bird. She is called Marie-Anne.”

“Good for you,” I said and he looked at me again.

“This is going to be a tough place for you?” he said.

“And out there wasn't? I'll cope.”

“You ain't that tough. There are people in ‘ere who'll eat you alive!”

“Out there wasn't exactly fun!”

He stared at me again, but then smiled.

“Relax, I'm not gonna hurt you. You need all the friends you can get in here.”

I could feel the tears well up behind my eyes, but I was determined not to cry. I think he could see that, so he stood up.

“Come on, I'll show you around.”

Larry showed me the ropes, and the main ones were who to avoid.

“All the screws are bastards. Don't trust any of them. The main lags to watch are those on C wing. Gary Kemsley is in for rape, Mark Lewis for robbery and Karl Hoener, he's a German kid, and he did over a girl pretty bad. They all have a taste for pretty boys, so watch them.”

“Do they bother you?” I asked.

“Nah, I'm a black belt at Karate. Gary tried to push me around, but I put him in the infirmary. We have an understanding.”

“Could you teach me?”

He looked at me.

“If you want. It's not easy.”

“I want. I need to be able to protect myself. I accept what I am, but I don't want to be raped,” I said, brushing my hair back with my hand. I was conscious that many of my mannerisms were feminine, so could be red rags to testosterone-laden bulls in here.

He nodded.

“Okay, I'll teach you, but want do I get in return?”

I smiled and looked at him from under my lashes.

“What do you want? There's not a lot I can offer. Just what you can see.”

He stared at me, and I could tell he was tempted.

“Shit, that easily?”

I shrugged.

“It's all I have.”

Larry didn't become my lover that night. It took him three days.

I was in the canteen on the third day, when, having just collected my food tray, I was looking for somewhere to sit. One large boy, I found out later it was Gary, pulled his chair back and showed me his lap. His erect cock was out, and he pointed to it.

“Come and sit here girly-boy,” he said, and the two guys with him laughed. I turned away, noticing Larry watching me.

“I'll see you in the showers later, darling,” Gary said, as I sat down at a space some distance away.

Larry collected his food and sat next to me.

“Fuck off, Gary. Hands Off,” he said.

Gary stared, then nodded and left shrugging his shoulders.

That night, I was in bed, as Larry was on the upper bunk. I wasn't asleep. I was trying to work out how to avoid getting raped in the showers.

Larry swung off his bunk and relieved himself in the bucket provided, closing the lid when he'd finished. He stood there for a second, and I could tell he was watching me in the darkness.

“Shift over,” he said. So smiling, I moved over. I slept in the nude in any case.

He slid in beside me and I reached out and felt that he already had an erection. I was hard as soon as I touched him and he wasn't as big as Mike, so it hardly hurt. In fact, I enjoyed it much more than with Mike. He was slow and gentle, and I think I got more pleasure than he did. He used some Vaseline, sliding into me really slowly from behind. I felt like a girl when he was inside me, feeling a warm feeling deep in my tummy. I enjoyed being able to please a man. That gave me more pleasure than the physical feelings that the penetration gave me.

The second night he came to me, I made him lie on his back so I knelt astride him. I was able to watch him as he fucked me. On the third night he actually kissed me and that sent shivers through my whole body.

We were now lovers. He would fuck me most nights and then return to his bunk.

After a couple of weeks, he started to stay with me , and we would sleep cuddled together. I began to do little chores to try to make myself pretty for him. I would have liked some make up, but I only had felt pens, so I would redden my lips with them.

It didn't take the other C wing lads long to notice me, but Larry warned them off. It became publicly known that I was his and a sort of peace reigned.

I went to work in the kitchens. Although I washed up miles of plates and peeled millions of potatoes, it wasn't hard and so I almost enjoyed it. My favourite chore was when he got in from the farm where he worked. He had a shower and returned all clean in his towel to the cell. I would dry him off, take his cock in my mouth and suck him to orgasm. I made a point of taking a really long time about it, making him squirm with pleasure until he begged me to bring on his climax.

I loved the feel of his cock as it was just about to ejaculate. It sort of quivered, so I knew he was coming. I always swallowed his spunk and licked him clean. I then liked to kiss him , so he could taste himself in my mouth. It turned me on so much.

I settled into the routine, work during the day and then sex at night. Larry was very gentle and loving. In the spare moments he taught me Karate and I was quick to learn. I actually found a degree of happiness for the first time in my short life. However, I knew that I would only really be completely happy once I was a girl.

It was strange, but I was in no doubt even then, that I would achieve this improbable ambition. How? I had no idea, but I knew that I would.

Every week I would get my injection, and after a few months, I noticed some changes.

My nipples were growing and the area around them was sensitive and tender. I thought I was developing fatty tissue on my bum and hips, and my muscle tone was not as well defined. I was developing a feminine figure and I was thrilled. Although I was acutely aware of the potential risks once it became too obvious. My voice hadn't broken in any case and still did not seem to want to do so. Plus, I was still lacking facial and body hair.

I started to learn to sew, making myself some tailored feminine clothes. I even made a miniskirt and matching top out of some old black material. I kept it hidden in the cell and wore it one evening for Larry.

He took one look and fucked me so passionately , that I thought I would die of pleasure. He began to call me ‘ Missy' and I loved it.

I tried to keep the pretence of being masculine, but it became increasingly difficult. My mannerisms, voice and sheer presence was so feminine that it was a real effort to keep concentrating on being as male as possible.

Things came to a head one day, and predictably, in the showers. I used to take my showers either very late, or very early. That way I would avoid the rush and get some peace and quiet. One evening, late, I was in the shower, when I head a voice. It was Gary and the other two. They had towels wrapped round their waists, but when they took them off, their intent was more than obvious.

“Well, well, well, if it isn't Larry's kye-tye,” said Gary.

I was standing, so naturally assumed the ready stance in karate.

“Ach, she sinks ve be avraid of her now she plays silly kung fu games,” said the German, Karl.

The other lad, the big black Mark Lewis, rolled his towel and flicked it, hitting my bum and stinging painfully. Before I could react, they had my arms and Gary's bad breath was in my face.

“I am going to have your pretty little arse, Missy, and then my mates are. You have been shoving it into our faces for the last two months, so now, you are going to have some real men,” he snarled.

Karl and Mark held me face down against the cold hard tiles. Gary soaped his cock and rammed it into my arse. It hurt, despite the fact I tried to relax and much as I could. He was pounding away, when he suddenly stopped and came out.

He hadn't come, but my right arm was freed. I didn't think, I just lashed out at whoever was on my left, Karl, I think, and heel palmed his chin with all my strength. He went down hard.

I turned round to see Larry rendering Gary unconscious. Mark had run to his clothes and was returning with a blade.

“Larry, knife!” I shouted, picked up a towel, flicking it at Mark's head.

It got him in the eye and he screamed, dropping his knife. Larry kicked him very hard in the groin when presented with the opportunity. Mark went down.

“Out of here, now!” Larry said, and I followed him. I grabbed my clothes, dressing while still wet. I noticed I was bleeding from my behind, and it hurt.

The screws arrived after we'd gone and the guys were in front of the governor. They remained silent, as did I. After that, a peace of sorts ruled. They respected me for keeping quiet, but I knew that if I was ever alone, they would exact revenge.

My bum got better, but Larry didn't fuck me for a few weeks. He didn't even come to bed with me. I felt dirty and abused. I would cry myself to sleep. Then one night, he came to me again, and was so gentle that I cried for a different reason. I think fell in love with him a little then.

After the first six months, the main antagonists were released, and there were no real threats to me. I was sort of accepted as a strange girly boy, as Larry's reputation protected me. Then Larry was told he had three weeks to go , and he seemed to lose interest in me. In fact, he began to distance himself from me. I accepted it and understood. For some people, their life went on hold inside , and they did things that were out of character for them outside. Now that he was going back out, he slowly purged himself of the bad habits he had acquired and I was one of them.

He didn't touch me and I didn't ask him to. Finally, the night before he was due to be released, he apologised.

“You don't need to. I understand,” I said. “You've been good to me. I wouldn't have survived without you.”

He nodded.

“Nothing personal, but I've a life to pick up,” he said.

It was my turn to nod, but I could not help the tear from sliding down my cheek.

“Oh don't cry. I never meant for this to happen.”

“This?”

He stared at me.

“Missy, you don't want a shit like me. You deserve a bloke to love and cherish you. I'm a shit-bag, so I'll probably be back inside soon.”

“This?” I repeated.

“Missy, I like you a lot. You have brought me tenderness where I never expected it, even love.”

“Love?”

“Yes, you stupid girl, love.”

“Girl?” I asked, smiling.

“You are more a girl than half the girls I've been with, so forget the queer crap. You've brought me love and I'll never forget you.”

We made love for the last time that night, and we wept together afterwards.

He was gone by 9 am, and I cried.

I reported for work in the kitchens as usual. Returning to a lonely cell, I cried myself to sleep.

The next day, I reported to the doctor as usual, and he said he was not going to give me the injection.

“I think you are cured now,” he said.

I stared at him.

“If you don't give me that fucking injection, I will fucking go for you and I won't stop until you are dead,” I screamed.

He gave me the injection.

I had accumulated a little cash through my work , as and they sometimes allowed me to buy things at the limited shop inside the prison. Occasionally, a catalogue would be circulated, and postal orders could be purchased and goods sent for. I sent off for some make up, nail varnish, sexy girl's underwear and a couple of skirts and tops. I even ordered high heel shoes. The screw on mail screening asked me what I wanted them for, so I told him I was in the drama group and needed makeup and costumes. He knew I was lying, yet still passed the order.

“You'll have to let me see you once you get into costume,” he said, with a strange look. I suddenly twigged. He fancied me! I hadn't thought about trying my luck with a screw, but now the opportunity presented itself.

“Okay, is that a general viewing you'd be after, or in private?” I said with a flash of eyelashes.

He swallowed and looked around quickly.

“Private?” he said, questioningly.

“I could do with some decent nylon stockings and some perfume,” I said, and he nodded.

I walked away, conscious that he was following me with his eyes. I smiled. It had never occurred to me to use my body to get favours from the screws.

Therefore, I joined the drama group, volunteering for the girl's parts. Over the next few weeks I began to wear make up and nail varnish, and even started wearing my altered clothes. I took to tying my shirt front tails under my breasts, and had someone pierce my ears so I could wear earrings. The warders tolerated it, and if I went beyond the bounds, they told me and I backed down.

The screw, whose name was Mr Smith, (yeah, I swear it's true) found me in the laundry room one day. I was reading a magazine and it was taking up all my concentration as always. I didn't notice him for a while, and then he thrust a small package into my hands.

“Your order has arrived,” he said.

He stood there as I opened it. In it was makeup, some girls' underwear, a couple of pairs of nylons, and a surprise, a suspender belt and a crimson basque. There was also a bottle of perfume.

I took out the lipstick and immediately applied it to my lips.

“Well, can I thank you now, or what?” I asked.

He shut the door, and I undid his fly.

It was the first of many such rendezvous and my cache of gifts multiplied amazingly after that.

I arranged to stay behind after one rehearsal for a play. I was still dressed in a dress, with all the sexy underwear and made up beautifully. My longhair was flowing and I know I looked good. Mr Smith met me in the dressing room and he locked the door. He was ever so nervous, as it was well known he was married. His bisexuality was deeply hidden, and I now had him over a barrel, even though he enjoyed having my ass that night!

After one short play, in which I played the lead female, I started getting more attention than I wanted. Now Larry was gone, there were even some fights as to who was going to have me. I saw Mr Smith every week at least once and he started to pay me in cash.

“For your discretion,” he said.

In return, he kept an eye out for any trouble. I knew I wasn't bullet proof, but I did feel a lot safer.

I told them all that I wasn't interested and they backed off. Occasionally, I would crave a particular boy who took my fancy and I would let him fuck me. I had a supply of condoms, and insisted they use them. Despite my experience with Larry, I had been reading a good deal, educating myself about sexually transmitted diseases. I was terrified of disease. With the condoms I felt in control and had a male harem of fifteen good-looking boys that I could dip into whenever I felt like it. They all would give me little presents of sweets and cigarettes.

I still didn't smoke. I had built up quite a cache of cigarettes to use to get cash and other luxuries. I realised that I was little better than a prostitute. For in return for sexual favours, I would receive luxuries and bartering items, such as cash and cigarettes.

For the first time in my life, I was actually not afraid and I was making the system work for me. I liked the female persona that I had created and nearly everyone called me Missy now. Occasionally there were fights over me and I was probably a real bitch. I enjoyed the attention, as they treated me as someone special.

Mr Smith suddenly left. No reason was given, and in a way it was a shame. I was now relatively wealthy by the standards of the institution and it had been good while it lasted. He was even quite affectionate and treated me with some respect.

One evening I returned from the kitchens to find a young lad in my cell. I had been by myself for several months and had come to like it. I felt mildly annoyed, but realised that my luck would never have lasted forever. I was wearing some mascara and my nails were looking particularly good. My long hair was tied back and I shook it free as I walked in. He stared at me, his mouth hanging open. He was about the same age as I had been when I came a year or so before, and was equally shocked. He was about 5'8”, so was two inches taller than I was.

“Hi, I'm Missy,” I said, taking off my prison issue trousers. I was wearing black silk panties underneath, a last gift from Mr Smith. I took off my shoes and socks. My legs were hairless and my toenails were crimson. I slipped on a skirt and sat at the table, taking out a nail file. I quickly smoothed the nails and looked at him. He hadn't moved. He was staring at my crimson toenails.

“Do you speak?” I asked.

“You are a girl?” he said.

“Shh, don't tell anyone,” I said, smiling.

I took off my hairy blue HMP shirt and he stared at my chest. My breasts were visible now, a firm A cup and swelling, with large nipples and brown surrounding aureoles.

I put on a black padded bra and slipped on a black blouse. The bra gave me the appearance of at least a C cup, and I had a fair cleavage.

I then applied my make up.

“So, what's your name?” I asked, as the mascara went on.

“Pete,” he managed to stammer, staring at my breasts.

“What you in for?”

“Burglary.”

“How long?”

“Eighteen months.”

“Well, Pete, I hope you manage to relax, otherwise we are going to have a boring time.”

I then picked up a woman's magazine, and had my daily hour of reading. I still struggled with reading, but made myself do at least an hour a day.

He just gawped at me. I always dressed like this in my cell as it made me feel good. I knew I couldn't dress like this anywhere else, so it gave me a little spell of being Missy.

I read an article about a man who was given too many female hormones to try to combat violent rages. After five months, his testicles started to shrivel and he was rendered infertile, permanently. He sued the doctors, winning a lot of money.

I wrote my first letter.

I wrote to my sister. I told her everything, and asked her to get me a solicitor who specialised in civil litigation. I saw my way of exacting revenge of the system that was abusing me. My balls had ceased to function ages ago and I was rarely able to experience even a partial erection any more. My cock had shrunk too. So, I was never going to be a real boy again.

I was actually pleased, but they didn't have to know that.

I addressed the envelope, putting the letter into it. We normally had to submit letters for censorship, but there were ways and means. I took off my skirt and blouse, slipping on my uniform over my bra and panties.

“Come on, Pete, let me show you round,” I said.

I took his arm and gave him a guided tour. Everyone whistled as I passed. Even some of the warders called me Missy these days. I headed for the kitchens where I introduced Pete to the chef supervisor. All the kitchen help were inmates except the head chef or chef supervisor. He was called Ron Clarke and was an elderly retired warrant officer from the Army Catering Corps.

Ron was on his second marriage when he found his pension wasn't enough, so he had come back to work. He was a kindly old guy in his late fifties. He was over-weight, smoked and drank too much, but over the months he had built up a soft spot for me. He was one of the first to realise what I was and, apart from Larry, was the first to call me Missy and treat me as a girl. Unlike Mr Smith, there didn't appear to be any sexual motive for his attitude. He realised what I was and I think he felt very sorry for me. He always treated me with respect, even pity at times.

I started off resenting his pity, but realised that he wasn't patronising, he just felt I didn't belong inside, as I wasn't like the others at all. I initially thought he fancied me, suggesting we go to the storeroom for a quickie. He stared at me as if I'd slapped him and then walked away. He didn't speak to me for three days, but when he did, he apologised.

“I'm sorry. I've been naïve, as I hadn't realised what they've turned you into. You poor soul!”

After that Ron used to bring me little treats, girls' magazines, items of makeup or clothes. He also taught me the rudiments of his trade. When it was quiet he would teach me some cookery skills. In him I found the father that I'd never had. My drunken bastard didn't count!

The kitchens became a special place for me, as I had a genuine interest in learning a skill. Reading was hard for me. But doing things with my hands--that was different! I enjoyed creating, and creating finished dishes from basic ingredients was a challenge. Not that the food was that good or imaginative, it was still challenging. Trying to feed that many people with the limited budget and types of supplies was hard.

As I breezed in, Pete seemed bemused that everyone accepted my makeup and effeminate manner.

“Hi Missy, how's things?” Ron asked.

“Ron, darling. This beautiful boy is Pete. He is my new roomie. So be nice to him, there's a love,” I said.

“Pete, you behave yourself, and don't be giving my girl any trouble,” Ron said. He was putting his jacket on, just about to get ready to go home.

Pete was completely bemused and simply nodded.

I slipped Ron my letter, which disappeared quickly into his jacket pocket.

Pete looked away when I kissed Ron's cheek.

“Thanks Ron, you are a love!”

We continued our tour. Returning to the cell, I stripped off my hated uniform, putting on my Chinese wrap. I lay on my bunk, reading my magazine. I adored reading about high society and dreamed of being a duchess or countess. Pete stared at me.

I lowered the magazine and looked at him.

“Look, Pete, I have no designs on your body, unless you are in the market. So we have got to at least try to communicate on the same level, otherwise, it is going to make time drag something awful. If you want to ask me anything, then ask. But don't just stand there staring at me.”

“Sorry. But you look like a girl.”

I explained the hormones and that I was changing, regardless of whatever I wanted. I also told him that, sexually, I was attracted to men . So, in more than one way I was a girl.

He began to relax and told me of his experiences. He came from an estate in Harlow, Essex and they had never had any money. He had two sisters and his dad had buggered off after the younger one had been born. He was the eldest, so his mother relied on him a lot. However, she met another man and they all moved in with him. He was a lazy, abusive man who sent Pete's mother to work as a cleaner while he did nothing , except gamble and drink.

I smiled; we had that in common at least.

The girls never had clothes or anything, so Pete started to break into houses to raid the coin boxes attached to the gas meters. He gave his mother the money to pay for shoes for his sisters and things seemed to be okay. However, there was always a need and one day he got caught.

On the seventh time, he was found in a house of a local magistrate, so he was sent down for eighteen months.

I told him my story and he looked shocked.

“The bastard, and he's a teacher?”

“Yeah, so guess whose children are not safe?”

“Did you hurt him bad?”

“He had a four inch scar across his face, and I broke his jaw and a tooth. He's disfigured for life.”

“Would have been better if you had killed him.”

I shrugged.

“How long have you got now?”

“Eight months for the full sentence, but I should get out in two or three.”

“What will you do?”

“I don't know, have a sex change and take my chances in the world. I am certainly not coming back inside,” I said.

He smiled.

“What?”

“I never thought I'd be sharing a cell with a girl,” he said.

I smiled.

“You are sweet, but I am not quite there yet.”

“You are, it is just your body hasn't quite caught up.”

It almost made me cry, so I turned away.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you,” he said.

“You didn't offend me, you just said the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me.”

We got on very well after that. He was not interested in me, sexually, that is, but we became friends.

3.

Stuart Collins was a neat man, his suit was always pressed and he wore a different shirt and tie each time he came to see me. I noticed things like that.

The governor was a bit wary that I was seeing a solicitor, but he could not stop me, and neither could he force me to tell him why I wanted one so near to my release date.

We sat in a small room, called ‘Solicitor's interview room', showing that imagination was not lost on the Prison Service. It had a table and two chairs. I sat opposite him, with a warder outside looking through the glass. He couldn't hear us, but at no time was I out of his sight.

I deliberately did not wear any make up, jewellery, or female attire. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and tried to look as ordinary as possible.

“I have asked an independent doctor to come and examine you. But certainly, I believe that you have a case. If the medical findings show you are irreparably infertile and chemically castrated by the treatment, regardless of the alleged provocation, the Home Office is guilty of several illegal acts upon you. Your basic human rights have been impinged, as you signed no consent forms.

“I have sought advice on this matter from chambers and one of the top QCs is willing to take this all they way.”

I smiled, a little sadly. I wanted him to be convinced that this was all a terrible thing to happen to me.

“So what can I hope for, not money, but medically?” I asked.

“There is a problem. The doctor I have asked to examine you, Dr. Marcus Brown from Barts, is one of the top men in his field. He has been involved in the development of sex reorientation surgery over the last few years and he tells me that if you have been rendered useless as a male, then there are only a couple of options.

“One, they can give you testosterone boosts, but this may never bring you sexually back to being an active male, but you will have the appearance and outward signs of a male. So your build and voice will be more masculine.

“Two, you can insist that they finish what they started and demand that a full sex change be conducted, at least giving you some form of normal existence. It is really up to you.”

“You mean I'll never father a child?” I asked, even managing to squeeze a tear out, but inside I was screaming, ‘Yippee.'

“I don't know, but if you have been on the hormones for as long as you say, then in all probability, no. I'm sorry.”

I looked down, so he could not see my grin.

There was a knock on the door.

It was Mr Simpson, the warder I particularly loathed since he beat me that first day.

“Mr Collins, a Doctor Brown is here. The Governor has had him shown to the infirmary. I am to take you and Mr Gardner to him now.”

Mr Gardner. Normally he called me, ‘the little Queer.'

The examination was the most thorough I had ever experienced, particularly the rectal examination.

“Have you had anal sex?”

“I was raped in the showers several months ago, why?”

“That would explain it. You have scar tissue here, which would indicate forced penetration. Have you reported it?”

“Don't be stupid, how long do you think I'd have lasted if I had?”

He looked at me.

“My God, I never realised. You poor child.”

“You have no idea what it is like in here, have you?” I asked.

“No, perhaps it is time the world did.”

“Don't be naïve. The world doesn't give a shit. We are the scum. Innocent or guilty, we are the scum of the earth.”

I then told him why I was here, I told him about Mike, however, I insinuated that I was tricked and repeatedly raped, being blackmailed into allowing it. I told him about my attack on the doctor, who was just outside the door. He was amazed and very shocked.

He finished his examination.

“Well?” I asked.

“My findings will be made known to your solicitor. But I can confirm that you have been the victim of state sponsored torture. I will do my damnedest to see justice is done and that you receive some compensation. Though, no amount of money will ever make good what they have done to you.”

I was taken back to my cell and life went on.

One day I was working in the kitchen, when a screw came to fetch me.

“Gardner, Governor, now,” he said, so I was taken up to his office.

As I stood in front of his desk, I could tell he was an unhappy man.

“I have been told that you are taking me and the prison service to court. You would have been out of here next month. However, now it looks like you will have to stay for your full term. Unless of course you wish to drop this silliness.”

“Sir, may I speak to my solicitor, please sir?”

He stared at me.

“No, you may not.”

“Sir, please record your refusal to allow me my rights, sir.”

He started to shake, and I knew I had him.

“You little shit. How dare you sue me? I have been scrupulously fair to you, so tell me, why?”

“Sir, go fuck yourself. Sir.”

He went red in the face and slapped the desk with his hands.

“How dare you speak to me like that? For that insolence I am refusing your release any earlier. You will stay here for your full term, do you understand?”

For the first time, I stared at him, right in the eyes, and he looked worried.

“You do what the fuck you like. Do you think I care? You pathetic little creep. I have you fair and square and as soon as my solicitor hears about this little exchange , that will be an extra ten grand and you can kiss your precious pension goodbye. So, kiss my ass.”

I turned and walked out. He was screaming for me to come back in, but I just left him alone. I went straight to the pay phone in the hall. A warder was standing by it and he tried to stop me. I just looked at him.

“Can you afford to lose your pension, too?” I asked.

He frowned, turned, and walked away.

I called my solicitor, told him what had happened and left him to deal with things.

Things happened very quickly. A Home Office Inspector of Prisons arrived, the governor was suspended on full pay pending an enquiry , and the doctor was replaced. The tabloids got wind of a scandal and my case was instantly reviewed. I was informed I was to be released in three weeks.

I panicked. What the hell would I go?

Things tightened down as tensions became high inside. Rumours were rife. But in a short time everyone knew that I was suing the Prison Service. Lads who had never spoken to me now became aware that I had been forced to take hormones. So I was received support from nearly everyone.

It hit the newspapers. There were no real specifics, as because of my age they were legally bound to leave my personal details out. The Home Office announced that all drug therapy for anger management in prisons was suspended.

The replacement governor called for me.

Mr Collins and the doctor who had examined me were there, as were a man from the Home office and a man who was introduced to me as my barrister.

We sat in a small conference room with the man from the Home Office chaired the meeting.

“The purpose of this meeting is to try to offset the expensive and embarrassing option of a lengthy court case. So quite simply, I will make you an offer which I hope will compensate your client. But I should make it clear that in doing so the Home Office in no way accepts liability or any wrongdoing, but makes the offer in good faith to avoid disorder in Her Majesty's Prisons.”

I looked at the barrister. He simply sat there, twiddling his thumbs.

“The Home Office is prepared to pay your client the sum of ten thousand pounds.”

My barrister simply stood up.

“See you in court,” he said and made to leave.

“Mr Carmichael, be reasonable, please. We are only thinking of your client. This is a considerable sum and this way he may be spared the indignity of having the details splashed across the newspapers.”

“Mr Robinson, my client will be happy to spread this iniquitous story across the papers. Indeed, I am instructed that a full press conference is planned when he is released. For a start, there is a good chance that this story will be worth a fortune for him. Secondly, we will not consider any figure below one million pounds as an out of court settlement, together with full surgical restorative procedures to render my client in as near normal physical state as he requires.”

They were standing across the mahogany table from each other and I was captivated. It was so exciting.

“Fifty thousand and the medical procedures.”

“I am sorry, the sum is not negotiable. One Million,or we go to court.”

“I am not authorised to offer that amount.”

“Then we are all wasting our time. I suggest that the Home Office find someone who is authorised to negotiate. Good day.”

Mr Carmichael nodded to me and walked out.

Mr Robinson stood there, looking pained. He had hoped to avoid court, but one million. I gasped. I was aware that the solicitor and barrister would take a fair slice, but the surgery - that was what I was after. The money was a bonus.

In a side room, Mr Collins told me that he had arranged for me to stay with a family in Windsor. He advised me to change my name by deed poll as soon as possible and keep my head down. I asked him about the doctor's report.

“I am afraid it is not good news. You've been totally emasculated, so there is nothing left to recover. So you have to consider the two options I gave you last time I was here.”

I looked down, some choice.

I pretended to give in some thought.

“Mr Collins, I have no wish to be a pretend person, male or female. I have been feeling very odd, and I now identify myself more as a girl than as a boy. If I go to being a man, then I will be a pretend man, but if I become a girl, then I can lead a fully normal life except for having children.

“I have thought about little else, so I have decided that I want a full life. I would prefer to be a girl.”

He nodded and smiled.

“I thought you might. It is hard to look at you as a boy, as everything about you is so feminine. But it will not be an easy road. You will get a lot of stick from the press and life will become very hard. Notwithstanding the surgery, which is extensive and painful.”

“I am prepared for that. My life has hardly been a bed of roses so far,” I admitted and he smiled.

He collected up his papers, putting them in the briefcase.

“Would you like me to arrange the change of name for you?”

“Possibly.”

“What do you want to be called?”

I smiled, I had thought about this too.

“Jemma Yvette Adams.”

“Why Adams, the Jemma I can understand, but Adams?”

“Adam was the first man and from his rib Eve was made. Well, it is kind of symbolic for me. Also, I want to be at the top of lists, instead of being half way down.”

He laughed.

“I will set that in motion. I have brought deed poll form. If you sign it, I will complete it and submit it on your behalf.”

“Can I think about it, and do it later?”

“Why?”

“Well, deed polls are open and one can leave a record. I want to try to disappear, so as to leave no trace of my past. So the fewer people who know about this, the better my chances of starting a completely new life.”

“I understand, but it will be bloody hard to just disappear.”

“I realise that. But I want to keep my options open.”

He smiled, at stood up to leave.

“Mr Collins?”

“What?”

“Will they settle?”

“Mr Carmichael thinks they will, and we will be asked to sign a non-publicity agreement. They have an awful lot to lose, as the judgement will open a floodgate. So it will be cheaper for them to settle out of court.”

“What, a million quid?”

“Yes, even that. The cost would take any award over that in any case.”

I was stunned.

I went back to my cell and found Pete was anxious for me.

“Are you okay?”

I smiled, as he was becoming quite fond of me, despite our platonic relationship.

“Fine, I was offered fifty thousand and a sex change.”

“Did you take it?”

“No, my barrister is holding out for a million.”

“A million quid. Fucking hell!”

“That's what I thought, but I am out of here in any case.”

“What will you do?”

“Take one day at a time.”

The three weeks dragged, but I noticed that my standing inside had changed. Having been considered a bit of a deviant, I was now patted on the back and was generally popular. I had not worn my makeup or female attire for ages, but my body was still changing.

My breasts were a good 34B, and I had a very narrow waist. But my bum and legs were the most feminine features. I ached to be a real girl, and knew that it was now just a matter of time. I had an appointment with the same doctor, Dr Brown, as soon as they released me. He would get things in motion. It all depended on the Home Office. Mr Collins told me that delays were not to their advantage.

The day came, a Monday, so I got up on my last morning feeling very nervous. I had been inside for nearly eighteen months. I was now sixteen and it was February 1973. I had breakfast, experiencing conflicting emotions. Although I hated this place with a passion as they had shut me away from the world, this place had protected me, after a fashion. It had also enabled me to discover who I was and enabled me to educate myself a little through reading. It was a very different thing being free and I didn't know if I was prepared for freedom.

Old Ron Clarke gave me a big hug and told me to come and visit him anytime. I burst into tears and promised I would, but I knew I probably would never see him again.

I went back to my cell where I collected my personal stuff. I then went to the office to have my release papers signed. The screw looked miserable and hardly spoke to me. He gave me an envelope with £156.50p back pay and the clothes I had worn when I came in. I put the money in my bag with all my makeup, clothes and few personal belongings. I had managed to save £300 that Mr Smith had given me for sexual favours.

I dressed in my jeans and tee shirt which hardly fitted me any more. The jeans were far too tight in the bum, and yet the waist was loose. I slung on my old green parka with the fake fur round the hood. I handed back the hated uniform and walked out.

My father had not even written to me and I had not had any visits from anyone. Susan was now engaged to Dave from the chip shop, but she didn't want to advertise she had two brothers in prison. John was now in Brixton for armed robbery, with eight more years to do. I had lost track of the others; however, I knew Dad was very ill.

As I walked across the courtyard towards the gate, there were shouts and whistles coming from every window in the place, so I turned and blew them all a kiss. A huge cheer rose and I almost cried again, the hormones were a real sod. This bloody place was the nearest place I had ever had to home. I approached the big gate and the screw opened the small door.

“Good luck,” he said.

I stopped.

“Can you pass a message on to Mr Simpson for me?”

“Sure.”

“Tell him he was a first class shit and I hope he gets raging piles,” I said, walking through the gate to the open air.

There was a ladies toilet in the archway for visitors who might get caught short whilst waiting to gain entry to see their loved ones. I went in and dressed in a skirt and top, tights and high heel shoes. I let my hair down, put my makeup on, did my nails and walked out without looking back.

I left James Thomas Gardner behind in that toilet. He was never to see the light of day again.

4.

It was bloody cold. There was snow left from a fall a few days ago, with a cold wind blowing in from the northeast. I was wearing girl's clothes that were more suitable for summer than winter and an old parka. A taxi was waiting. I walked over to find the driver was reading the Sun and drinking coffee from a flask.

He wound the window down and seemed surprised to see a girl coming out of a male institution.

“Hi, are you waiting for me?”

“Dunno luv, are you the one going to the station?”

“Yes.”

“Hop in then, luv, it's fucking parky.”

I got in beside him and I saw he looked at my legs.

“I was expecting one of them little shits. What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this, with loads of young villains? It's hardly the place for an attractive girl like you.”

I almost burst out laughing at the cliché he had just come out with.

“I was just visiting,” I lied; well I had been, for eighteen months.

“Cor, just as well they didn't let you inside with the inmates.They'd eat you alive.”

“I might just have enjoyed it,” I said, and we laughed together.

He took me to the railway station, as I had a travel warrant for Windsor. However to get from Essex to Berkshire, I had to change mainline trains, underground trains and buses. I finally arrived, tired and cold, at a big detached house in Windsor. It was getting dark, as it was about five o'clock. It also started to rain.

I rang the bell nervously and nearly turned and fled before the door was answered.

However a pleasant, middle-aged lady opened the door and stood looking at me.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“Mrs Jameson? I am Jemma. Mr Collins told me you were expecting me.”

She looked at me. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She opened the door, stood back, and I gratefully came out of the cold.

“Dear God,” she said.

I looked at her. She was about my height and a little plump. Her hair had been brown, but was now greying and was cut quite short. She was wearing trousers and a big woolly cardigan over a floral blouse. She had a kind face and nice eyes, which were green.

“You poor child. I had no idea. It's a terrible thing they've done to you.”

I said nothing, but took my coat off. She gasped when she saw my clothes, or rather when she saw my shape in the clothes. Her hands flew to her face.

“Oh dear Lord.”

“Actually, I'm okay, really,” I said, my teeth chattering a bit.

“Oh, come in. I'll put the kettle on. Come by the fire and warm up.”

She took me into a lovely sitting room, sitting me in a huge armchair by a roaring fire. I looked round the room. It was bigger than most homes I had been in and was tastefully decorated. It was the kind of room I would have liked to have had as a child. I don't know why, but I started to cry. Mrs Jameson came in and sat by me, cradling me in her arms.

I was like that for a while, while great sobs came from me. I had lost control and I just opened the floodgates as sixteen years of anguish poured out. I cried for my mother, my broken relationship with my father and my lost siblings. I cried for me and for Larry, Pete, and all the other lost boys. Mainly, I cried for me.

Finally, I managed to stop and Mrs Jameson just held me to her ample bosom.

“I'm sorry,” I said, sniffling.

“Never mind, it had to come out, so better sooner than later.” She handed me a box of tissues.

“Now, shall I get that tea?”

I nodded.

She left and I followed her to the kitchen and she put the kettle on. It was a lovely modern kitchen too.

“You have a super home. I am sorry if I am putting you out.”

She looked at me and her face softened.

“When Stuart told me about you, I was not really that keen on having you to stay. He told me that you were more a victim than anyone he had ever known, so I agreed. Now I am glad I did.”

“You don't know me yet,” I pointed out.

She smiled, “Stuart assured me that you were really a very nice person, so I trust his judgement.”

“You're Stuart's aunt?”

“Not really. His mother was a dear friend of mine, so he has called me aunty all his life.”

“He is very nice and a good solicitor,” I said.

“Yes, he is. Here, get the milk out. There's a dear.”

I opened the fridge and took out the milk. She made two mugs of tea and I added the milk.

“Sugar?”

I nodded, “Two please.”

She put in two teaspoons in one mug and a saccharine tablet in the other.

“Have you eaten today?”

“I grabbed a sandwich at one of the many stations.”

“My husband will be home from work soon, so you can help me make supper if you like?”

“I'd like that.”

“Do I call you Jemma?”

“Please.”

“Then you can call me Lynette. None of this “Mrs Jameson” business. It makes me feel so old.”

We went back into the sitting room where I poured out my tale of woe, holding nothing, and I mean nothing, back. She sat there stunned, and then I saw her crying.

“Oh, you poor, innocent little soul. How cruel can life get?”

“Don't feel too sorry . I can be determined when I want to be and I probably am a horrible person.”

She shook her head.

“Don't you dare believe that! If you believe that, then they have won. You are the victim of a horrible injustice and I hope and pray we can make part of it right. That horrible teacher from Southend will have to have his comeuppance.”

I shrugged. It was all in the past now.

After tea, she showed me to a lovely bedroom with floral curtains and a matching bedspread. Even the sheets and pillowcases had pink flowers on them. I almost lost it again.

“Where is your luggage?”

“This is all I have.”

She gaped at me again, tut-tutting through her teeth.

“My daughter is grown up and married now, but some of her old clothes are in the attic. So if you help, we shall see what we can find. Otherwise, you and I are going shopping tomorrow.”

The attic was easily accessible through a hatch with an extendible stair. It was a huge room, full of boxes and even an old rocking horse.

“How many children have you got?” I asked.

“Three. James is 27, an army officer in Germany. He is married with two young children. Mark at 24 is at medical school and will be a qualified doctor next year. And Susan is 22. She just got married and is working as a legal secretary in a local solicitor's here in Windsor.”

“Do you see much of them?” I asked as she was rooting about in an old box.

“Not as much as I would like. James will be back in the UK next year, so that will be nice. Sue comes here with John, her husband, for lunch every Sunday and Mark is rarely in evidence.”

She pulled out an old suitcase and opened it.

“Perfect. This was Sue's stuff when she was about your age. You're much the same size, so take this down, there's a dear, and we'll have a look downstairs.”

I lugged the case down to my bedroom as she put away the stairs. She joined me, and together we examined the contents.

There were two nightdresses and several skirts and tops which I liked. Some of the dresses were a bit too posh for my taste, but Lynette told me that I had to bring my taste up, as I was such a pretty girl.

“I have a sister called Susan,” I said.

She looked at me, “When did you last see her?”

“Before I was sent down. I never got any visits, except for Mr Collins.”

“Oh you poor soul, life just is so unfair at times.”

There was a nice black coat, so I happily agreed to chuck out my old green parka. As it was still winter, I was grateful that there were several pullovers and sweaters. I felt blessed by this sudden windfall. Unfortunately, her feet were a size smaller than mine. I was a six and she was a five.

“Well, it looks like we will have to go shopping tomorrow doesn't it?” she said.

I just smiled, as that sounded fun to me.

As she helped me hang up the clothes, her hand rested on my shoulder.

I stopped and looked at her.

“I don't mean to pry, but I can't really seem to grasp this. Are you really a boy, under all this?” she asked.

“Yes and no. I've been a girl inside my head for as long as I can remember. In a way, the prison service did me a favour by giving me hormones. I look and sound like a girl, but apart from a small piece of useless skin and the fact I can't ever have children, I am a girl.”

“You are far to pretty to be a boy. I do hope this all works out for you.”

I smiled, almost bursting into tears once more.

She gave me a hug and I felt almost loved properly for the first time in my life.

She suggested that I change into a slightly longer skirt, as the one I had was a little short. I smiled and did what she suggested. The one I chose was only a couple of inches longer, but she seemed happier.

“It's George's blood pressure, I don't want him too excited,” she said, and I giggled.

“How long am I to stay with you?” I asked.

“As long as you want. But if you stay longer than a couple of weeks you will have to either get a job, go to college or something. I won't have you hanging about doing nothing.”

“That sounds fine to me. I hate doing nothing anyway.”

“So what did you do in that place?”

“I taught myself to read a bit better. I'm dyslexic, so I find it very hard. They used to call me thick at school and even my teachers would ridicule me. I got a job in the kitchens, so learned quite a bit about catering. I love cooking, so I would be happy getting a job in a kitchen somewhere.”

“I have to ask. How do you feel about what they did to you?”

“You mean the hormones?”

She nodded.

I shrugged.

“In a way they simply accelerated what I might have done anyway, but I was not given a choice. I would have liked to have been given a choice, particularly as it was all done on a base of lies. But I did have an anger problem and they did cure it. So I should be thankful for that.”

“But what lengths to go to. Do you really want to become a girl?”

I looked at her and smiled.

“What do you think?”

She smiled at me.

“Silly question. Well, if your looks are anything to go by now, you will have no problems at all.”

That made me feel very pleased and I said so.

The front door opened.

“That will be George,” she said, standing up and going to greet him in the hall. I stayed put, feeling rather nervous. I heard their voices, muted, in the hallway.

Then she returned with a tall grey haired man in a dark blue pinstripe suit.

“You must be Jemma. I'm George. I hear you've had a bit of an ordeal?” he said and held his hand out. I stood up and shook it.

“That's one way of looking at it. I prefer to see it as an adventure, and I am overdue for a good bit.”

“What a mature view. How refreshing. Well, I must say, you are not exactly as I had imagined.” he said, and I smiled.

“Aren't I? So what did you expect?” I asked.

He became rather flustered. “Well, ah, when young Stuart explained the circumstances and asked whether we would be willing, I had imagined … Well, I hadn't imagined a pretty girl like you.”

I almost started crying again. Lynette noticed and stepped in.

“Jemma and I were just going to get dinner started. So George, make yourself a drink and we will be in the kitchen.” She took me by the hand, whisking me to the kitchen.

We spent a pleasant evening. They were a very nice, middle-class couple, who had no idea how many of us lived near the poverty line. But after supper, I made my excuses and went to bed. I enjoyed a bath for the first time in nearly two years.

My body was so feminine now that I could hardly believe it. The only flaw was between my legs, and they were so small now that they made little difference. I dried myself, slipping on a soft cotton nightdress. I snuggled between the sheets and was asleep in no time.

The next morning, I wore tights and a black skirt that came to just above my knees. I chose a pale green blouse and a thick black pullover with a roll neck collar. I only had one pair of shoes and they were black with high heels. I put my make up on and regarded the girl in the mirror with some satisfaction. I actually felt free for the first time in my life.

It was eight o'clock when I went downstairs, and George was having his breakfast. I made myself some tea and popped some bread in the toaster.

“Did you sleep well?” Lynette asked.

“Brilliantly, thanks. I can't remember when I slept so well.”

I may not have been very good at reading, but I had a real ear for accents. People would class you by what you looked like and then by what you sounded like. So I had trained myself to adapt to environments, and soon my East-end accent was slowly being replaced by a more educated accent. George remarked on it.

“You sound different today?” he said.

“I want to lose my background, and my accent is a dead giveaway.”

He smiled.

“I understand. I have always found the East-London accent very unpleasant.”

“I don't know whether it is unpleasant or not. But it immediately places me at a disadvantage and I never want that to happen again,” I said.

“So what are your plans?” he asked, to change the subject.

“Well, Jemma and I are going to do a bit of shopping. And then this afternoon, Stuart is coming over to talk to her. Tomorrow, she is going up to Barts to see Doctor Brown. Then we will see what happens,” Lynette said.

George went to catch his train into London. He worked in a bank, and it sounded very dull. Lynette and I caught the bus into Windsor town centre where she introduced me to shopping, a la femme.

I had a little money and I spent quite a lot of it.

I bought shoes, clothes, makeup and jewellery. And then I bought Lynette a big bunch of flowers for being so kind to me.

We had lunch at a little wine bar where I found myself at the receiving end of flattering glances by several young men. I found I enjoyed the experience and flirted at them with my eyes.

“Jemma, nice girls don't do that.” Lynette said.

“Do what?”

“Make come-on signals with their eyes at all the men.”

I blushed.

“It may be fun, but it could end you up in deep water,” she said.

“Sorry. Thanks, I need as much advice as I can get. I'm a bit new at this.”

“Jemma, don't kid yourself. You probably know more about it than I do. Just don't get into trouble,” she said, with a knowing smile

We returned to their home and I put away my new clothes. I heard someone arrive, assuming that it was Stuart.

When I appeared, he was in the dining room, setting out the papers from his brief case.

He stared at me when I came in.

“God. Jemma. You look,… well, you look different.”

I laughed and so did he.

“Shit, you surprised me. You look really pretty,” he said.

I sat down, grinning.

“Okay, first you should think about being legally Jemma Adams. If you have signed the deed-poll form, that would take care of the name. Secondly, there is a meeting at chambers between the Home Office and Mr Carmichael tomorrow morning. The word is they want to settle, and soon. We have instructed Mr Carmichael to accept anything over £750,000, and the surgical restoration to your satisfaction.”

“I thought we were asking for a million.”

“That was our starting point. Mr Carmichael thinks that it would be unlikely that a court would award that amount, but hopes that the Home Office are afraid of the publicity a court case could bring. The government have enough embarrassments without another scandal.”

“Thirdly, I submitted your affidavit to the Essex Police, where a team observed the man you knew as Mike. He is a teacher and he is respected in the Southend community. Or was, as their investigation has exposed him as a paedophile. He was arrested this morning with a twelve year old boy in his bed, having subjected the lad to anal sex.”

“Good.”

“This means that your conviction is being reviewed and the reasons you gave for keeping silent have been accepted by the judicial review.”

“What does that mean?”

“If your conviction can be viewed with doubt as to it's safety, it will be quashed and your record will be made clean. You may be in line for compensation.”

“Can we not deal with that all together?”

“That is what Mr Carmichael hopes to do tomorrow. The prison service is anxious to clear this up, as is the Home Office. We have the distinct advantage here.”

“I can't hang about, as there is a danger that my bits will get nasty.”

“You mean cancerous?”

“Yes.”

“That is another factor, but hopefully Dr Brown will be in a position to set things in motion tomorrow.”

We went through various legal technicalities and he explained what I needed to go through before I could be legally a female.

“In this country, you will always be considered the gender you were born with. And unless an accident of identification, verified by medical evidence, is the case, you will never be a legal female. This means you can't marry a male, and so hold no rights as a legal wife. Some countries do allow such marriages, but not very many. I can see a time, in fifty years or so, where most countries will have to allow them, but for the moment, this one does not.

“You may hold a passport, National Insurance and National health certificates and driver's licence in your apparent gender, but your birth certificate will always stay the same.”

“Roberta Cowell changed hers.” I said.

“If I remember, she had medical evidence that she was female or partly female. In any case, it is not the same as your case.”

“So I find a country that does.”

“Or obtain a new identity,” he suggested.

I looked at him.

“That's impossible,” I said.

“Technically, yes. But I am told that it can be done.”

“Is it legal?”

“Not really.”

“But you wouldn't know about such things,” I said.

He smiled.

“Of course not. But I know a man who just might.”

“How much?”

He smiled.

“I honestly don't know. I have never asked. But it would be interesting to know if it could be done, in theory, that is.”

“Yes, it would.”

“Right. Let's leave it there for today. I will be at the meeting in chambers tomorrow at the same time as you see the good doctor. Who, incidentally, has been so shocked by your case, that he states that regardless of the outcome of the legal side, he is willing to undertake your surgery, whether you win or lose. When the information about the teacher from Essex was passed to him, he became really quite upset.”

“It really is very kind of Lynette and George to have me here. I realise that I'm a real burden, so I want to compensate them somehow.”

“Lynette was saying what a little darling you were, so let's not worry about this just now. Okay?”

He packed away some papers and I had to sign a couple relating to my judicial review. Then Lynette brought in two mugs of tea and some cake.

“We've just finished, so we will join you in the sitting room,” Stuart said. And we did just that.

I felt more relaxed than I had in a long time and, as I sat on the sofa, I actually dozed off. Lynette woke me to tell me that Stuart had left and that George was due soon.

“Would you like to help me with supper?”

I did, and she showed me how to make pastry. We made an apple pie, and I found it good fun.

Once again we spent a pleasant evening , and I went to bed early. I lay awake as there was a lot on my mind. What would tomorrow bring?

* * *

“Right. You can get dressed again now, Jemma.”

I gratefully did so, and when I came out from behind the screen, Dr Brown was writing notes in a file on his desk. I sat in the chair in front of the desk.

He seemed to write for ages; finally, he looked up and smiled.

“Well, I have seen everything I need to. How do you feel?”

“Not too bad. I get mood swings and seem to cry at the drop of a hat. Some days I wake up and feel slightly sick. But it passes quite quickly.”

“Any pain from the groin?”

“No.”

“Good. Well, you have developed all the secondary characteristics of a female and you seem to be much more female than I anticipated. I was right, as you are completely infertile as a male. Your testicles should be removed as soon as possible as they are simply a risk to your health. Ideally, I should like to do that this week.”

“I'm not doing anything now.” I joked.

He nodded.

“You may be in some discomfort, but I can do it under a local anaesthetic. But you are only sixteen and I would need a parent or guardian's consent.”

“You know that is impossible.”

“It is a medical emergency.”

“Then do it.”

An hour later, I was seated in front of him again, a little tender in the groin.

“None too soon, the left testicle was ready to do something nasty.”

“So now what?” I asked.

The telephone interrupted us. He answered it. He stared at me, and said ‘yes', and ‘no' and ‘I understand' a few times. Then he handed the phone to me. It was Stuart.

“Jemma, we've won. They settled out of court.”

“Great. What, and how come so quickly?”

“£800,000 and your SRS. However, it seems that this does not include the judicial revue, so there may be more coming. So you can have your surgery. They settled quickly because of the storm in the press, and the government is anxious to avoid a scandal.”

“The doctor says that I need a parent or guardian to sign a consent form.”

“Lynette has been appointed your legal guardian until you are seventeen.”

“Oh.”

“Look I am coming to dinner at the house tonight, so I will explain everything then. You will need to sign to accept it and there is a clause about no publicity.”

He hung up.

“As we were saying, I am happy to conduct the surgery, but I would like you to see a colleague of mine first.”

“You mean for psychiatric evaluation?”

He laughed.

“You've been doing your homework,” he said.

“I expected it. But is it really necessary in my case? It is not as if I have a choice any more, is it?”

“Not strictly, but it is good practice.”

“When?”

“Now?”

“What, now?”

“Yes, he is just along the corridor and is free for an hour or so.”

So I had my first and only session with a psychiatrist. William Hardcastle was a tall, very thin man with a quiet voice and a slow smile. I liked him.

He made me go through my whole history, so I did so, the special edited version, whereby I was a victim of the brutal state and circumstances. But as far as wanting to be a girl, I laid it on thick. I spent an hour and a half answering his questions, as honestly as I could be.

He then wrote a quick note to Dr Brown, placing it in an envelope and giving it to me to give to him.

I went back to see Dr Brown and sat in front of his desk again. The small wound in my groin was itching abominably now.

“Would you like to see what he wrote?”

“My reading is not very good, particularly if it is a doctor's writing.”

“He says; ‘Jemma is a delightful person, and is not suffering from many of the usual self-doubt problems linked with gender dysphoria, she is wholly psychologically and emotionally a female. Her physiological attributes appear to be in line with the rest of her, with one minor exception. In my opinion, in view of her extraordinary circumstances, it would be unkind and unethical to allow her to remain as she is for any longer. SRS recommended at the earliest opportunity.'

“So, when can you come in?”

“I'm free now,” I said, and grinned.

5.

Unfortunately, he wasn't.

I had to wait two weeks for the full medical team to be assembled. But the good news was that my blood tests were clear, so I had not picked up any nasty Sexually Transmitted Diseases whilst inside. It had worried me a bit, so it was a relief to be clear.

I was visited by a plastic surgeon who recommended that I have my nose made smaller and my lower jaw ‘shaved' to make my face more feminine. I had no Adam's apple to speak of, and so, the only other little work would be to make my lips slightly fuller. He told me that he would do it at the same time as the main surgery so no one would recognise me as being the person I used to be.

I was booked into a small clinic in Sussex. Lynette drove me down so I was not alone and sat with me in my room while they conducted tests. Finally, with a sign, ‘Nil by mouth' on my door, I was left alone.

I was excited and couldn't sleep, as the ever present bustle of a hospital was designed to keep everyone awake for as long as possible. I finally went to sleep, holding that little penis for the last time.

A nurse woke me at some ungodly hour. She made me change into a hospital gown that tied up the back and showed my bum to anyone in the right place. She took my temperature, blood pressure and inserted an IV needle in my left hand.

Then Dr Brown popped in to see me.

“Ready?”

I nodded and grinned.

“Right. We'll have you up in a few minutes and you will be back here in a few hours. You will hurt a lot, but there will be pain relief available. So don't worry.”

I wasn't worried. He had explained what he was going to do previously, so I knew what I had to do afterwards. There was a box of five dilators on the windowsill. Number five looked massive.

I was wheeled up to the theatre and I lay on the trolley as the anaesthetist fiddled about with my hand.

“Try to count to ten,” she said.

I got to eight, and everything went black.

* * *

The first thing I remember seeing when I came round was the light. It was set into the ceiling and was square. Dead insects had accumulated on the inside of the cover and it needed clearing out. The next thing to occur to me was a mule had kicked me in the crotch. That, and my numb nose and fat lips made me particularly miserable. The numb sensation wore off and I almost doubled up as the pain crept up on me until tears came to my eyes.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.... Ooooh. That fucking hurts!”

“Jemma, can you hear me?”

I stared at the head that tried to swim in front of my eyes.

“Yes, but that fucking hurts.”

“Okay, where are you?”

“Hospital, please take the pain away.”

“Okay. The operation went fine. You will be taken back to your room soon, and we are giving you something for the pain.”

I felt a cold sensation in my wrist, and within seconds the pain was gone and I was floating. I started to giggle.

I tried counting the ceiling lights all the way back to my room, as they wheeled me along the corridor, but after eighteen, I lost count. I then remember waking up in bed with a big bunch of flowers beside the bed, in a vase.

There were two drips feeding into my arm, and a nurse was tidying up.

“Hi, how are you feeling?”

I thought about it for a second or two.

“Sore, woozy, a little sick, and detached. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Well, the pain is normal, and it will get better, I promise. The woozy is partly the anaesthetics and partly the morphine, which will go as long as you don't use too much pain relief. Feeling sick is a combination of everything and is quite normal too. As for the detached, that will be the morphine again.”

“Oh, goody,” I said, and she laughed.

I dipped in and out of consciousness all day. When I awoke properly, Lynette was sitting by the bed reading a book.

“Hi Lynette,” I croaked, and she looked up and smiled.

“How are you?”
“Been better. But pretty good considering.”

“The doctor popped in, but you were out of it. He will be back soon.”

“Oh.”

“He said everything went well.”

“Good.”

“Quite a step, the end of an era?”

“Not really, it is just the beginning of my dream. I can now be me, for the first time.”

She smiled, and I saw that more flowers had arrived.

She looked at them.

“There is a big bunch from Stuart, and some from your sister, Susan.”

“Susan, how did she hear about it?”

“I think Stuart tracked her down and told her. Anyway, she said she is going to try to come and see you.”

“Gosh. I haven't seen her for years.”

Doctor Brown came in.

“Ah, the patient is awake. How are you?”

“You tell me,” I said, and he laughed.

“Well, everything went very well. I was able to create everything as I told you, so you should be able to have a perfectly normal sex life. Your vaginal canal is almost as long as a genetic female, so you will have no problems at all. We spoke about the importance of the dilators, so that has to start in a couple of days. The facial surgery went very well, so you should be right as rain in a couple of weeks.”

“What about hormones?”
“You're going to have to take oestrogen for the rest of your life, as you just don't have what it takes to produce your own. We're trying out a recent innovation, and I have inserted an implant in your upper thigh. It will release the right level of female hormones for twelve months, but then you will have to have it replaced. There may be a few you have to take orally, as well. As I said, this goes on for the rest of your life, I'm afraid.”

The nurse came in, so Lynette left as my dressing was removed and the area inspected. I took a peek, and thought it looked pretty good considering.

“The sutures will dissolve and once the swelling goes down, you will hardly notice any difference between you and a genetic female. Only by an internal and by not seeing a cervix, will anyone know you have not always been a girl. I am very pleased with your breasts. Normally, secondary growth is nowhere near the normal female growth. In your case, you have developed a very fine pair of breasts, so will not need any enhancement.”

That news made me feel quite proud of myself, and not a little pleased.

“Your implant will have already started releasing hormones, so you will feel some symptoms of this as your body starts to adjust. It is medically more aligned to your needs, compared to what you received in prison. You will feel similar symptoms to normal menstruation, so do not be alarmed.”

I wasn't alarmed. I was feeling very female and happy.

“I have packed out the cavity that I have created and that packing will come out in a day or two. Then you must start with the dilators and it is very important that you do it regularly.”

I smiled. If he had told me that once, he had told me a hundred times.

He then left me, and the nurse explained the self-administered pain relief system. I had a catheter attached to my waterworks, and she asked me whether I wanted it out, or to wait for the morning.

I opted for it out as I was dying to be able to get up.

I regretted it, as after an hour I wanted to go for a pee.

I rang for the nurse, she helped me up, and the drips came too. It stung a bit and it was very odd not having a certain something. It was actually disconcerting, as I realised that I really never would have it again. I grinned at the thought. At least I could use my arse for the right purpose from now on. I sat and thought about the men who had fucked me, wondering what it would be like with two men at once, or even three, if I took one in my mouth at the same time.

I found the thought very erotic, and almost began to feel aroused, but not in the same way as I used to. I smiled; I was going to enjoy being a girl.

I wiped, as I had been instructed, noticing that there was a little pink on the tissue. I hobbled back to bed, informing the nurse about the show. She smiled and said that was perfectly normal, and that actually passing urine was a good sign. I watched a little TV until the nurse brought me some tea and some food.

I progressed quite quickly. On the third day, the doctor removed all the packing and I started dilating. It was really weird, watching this silver dildo disappear up inside of me, into an opening that hadn't been there before. I managed to get through numbers one and two with no trouble, but then number three was a little more of a challenge.

I persevered and moved onto number four.

This was the 1970s, looking back, I realise now that I was almost breaking new ground in terms of the surgery. Sex changes were still quite rare, and over the next twenty years, I would see amazing developments and progress in the field. They kept me in hospital for quite a long time, three weeks in all. Partially because they were aware of the potential interest by the press, so the Home Office wanted me to appear as normal as possible before venturing out.

My facial wounds healed quickly. My lips settled down first, having just had an injection of fatty tissue. My jaw was sore, but visually fine, as it had been done from the inside, most of the swelling subsided over the time I was there. My nose took slightly longer. But when I saw my new face in the mirror, I was staggered. I was completely different. I agreed no one would connect the feminine boy from Garside with the person I now was.

I was off the drips and moving around quite well. I was now getting dressed and was venturing around the clinic. I made some friends of some other girls who were in the same boat. Several seemed surprised to find that I had been through SRS, thinking that I was a genuine girl and a friend of someone who had, and was just visiting. I was still sixteen, and therefore was a lot younger than most. The fact that I had managed to change before puberty had completely changed me meant that I had not developed strong masculine characteristics.

One new ‘lady', Michelle, was fifty-four next birthday and she had waited for her partner to pass on before taking the plunge. It was very sad really, as she had wanted to be a girl ever since she could remember, but society made her lead a ‘'normal' life as Michael. He had joined the army during the war, and even won medals for bravery. He had married and had three children. His wife had died of cancer and it was his children who had told him to just get on and be happy for the last bit.

She told me she envied me my youth, so I looked round and asked where he had got to. That made her laugh, but laughing hurt. She had had her operation a couple of days before me, but was taking nearly twice as long to heal.

I teased one of the girls, Jeanette, by putting on a white coat, and a stethoscope round my neck, and pretending to be a doctor. I went into a real comedy routine, taking off Dr Brown and his fascination with dilators. I had her crying with laughter, so I tried it out with the next room, with Candy. There was a nurse with her, and they both got the giggles.

I returned to my room and found a young woman sitting reading a magazine by my bed.

“Hi. Can I help you?” I said, as she looked up. It was my sister, Susan.

“Sorry, I am waiting for my br… my sister, am I in the right room?”

I realised I was still wearing the white coat and stethoscope. I laughed, and took the coat off.

“It's me. Hi Susan, how are you?” I said.

She stared at me, looking me up and down.

Then we were hugging, and both were crying.

“My God! Look at you. You look amazing, you sound so different, really posh!” she said when we finished the hug.

“You look good too,” I said, and she did. She was a very attractive girl, but as I smelled the fish and chip shop, I smiled to myself

“So, still with Dave then?” I said, and she smiled.

“It's the bloody smell, isn't it?” she said and I nodded.

She laughed, sitting next to me on the bed, still holding my hand.

“What do I call you? Jimmy doesn't seem right anymore,” she asked, looking me up and down. I noted her eyes lingered at my obvious bust.

“Jemma, it is close enough, it's what you used to call me, remember?”

“Oh, I did, didn't I?”

“Anyway, it is what most people have been calling me for a while.”

“I couldn't believe it when your solicitor called me. He said that you were out and you were suing the Prison Service for overdosing you on hormones. He also told me that you had settled out of court for a substantial sum. Then he informed me that you were actually having the operation. So I brought the paper in for you.”

She opened a carrier bag and showed me a cutting of the previous day's paper.

PRISON SERVICE SETTLE OUT OF COURT

By Robin Hawksmith

A Home Office spokesman confirmed last night that they have made an out of court settlement with a previous inmate after it is alleged that serious health problems were caused by unauthorised drug therapy for anger management. The subject, who cannot be named for legal reasons, served eighteen months for an offence of violence, and whilst in Garside Young Offenders Institution was given the drugs without his consent.

The treatment caused irreparable damage to his health, and he is rumoured to be having emergency surgery at this time. The Governor of Garside, and the doctor, have both been suspended pending an internal enquiry. The Prison Service state that all drug treatments for various behavioural difficulties have been stopped, and they are said to be concerned with what has taken place at Garside.

It is not known how much the settlement actually is, but there was mention of a figure of close to £1,000,000.

Various groups have welcomed the action, and a spokesman for Stonewall, said, “It is high time that prisoners' rights were upheld, and this example of state sponsored torture belongs in the Third Reich.”

It is also rumoured that the subject has agreed to a non-publicity contract, on the grounds that his identity needs to be protected, as much as the Prison Service want to avoid a scandal.

“Gosh, fame at last.” I said.

“Your solicitor also said that there is some review or something, looking at your case?”

“Yeah, the bloke I hit was caught buggering a twelve year old boy. They found photographs of hundreds of boys he has had over the years, including me. I told the police that he blackmailed me into having sex with him, in that he threatened to tell my father if I didn't go along with it. I also said that I didn't want my dad to know that I was gay.”

“But you are not.”

“Not now, no.”

She frowned.

“Does that mean you were?”

“Shit Susan, I don't know. I am a girl now, and I suppose I always was. But I had the body of a boy. Do you have any idea what it is like in that place?”

She shook her head.

“I had a lover and I was raped in the showers. It could have been worse, but my bloke stepped in and saved me half way through. I have been having regular sex with men ever since that man in Southend, even a bloody warder, for fuck's sake. So, as a male I suppose I was gay, but as a girl? All I know is, I used to fancy blokes, I still fancy blokes and I have never fancied girls. I don't really know, as all the edges got a bit blurred.”

“Was it horrible?”

“Not really. At the start, it was bloody scary. I was frightened, Sue, very frightened. I was only fifteen and small. There were big bastards in there, and if I hadn't had Larry, God knows what would have happened. Larry and I just got it together, so it was quite settled, almost domesticated. I was almost happy for a while.”

Susan looked out of the window. I saw she had tears in her eyes.

“How's Dad?” I asked, to change the subject.

“Dad's not at all well. He's in hospital. His mind has gone. He's violent and unpredictable. He is in the F wards at Hackney Hospital.”

These wards in the old Victorian Hospital were renowned for mad people.

“Oh. Would he know me if I went to see him?”

“Probably not, he doesn't recognise me and I go at least twice a month.”

We chatted about the rest of the family. John was still in Brixton Prison and Terry was now a flight sergeant in the RAF. Both the twins were splitting up from their husbands, and each had one child. Ken was doing well at Dagenham, having just been made a shift foreman. He had three kids now, the picture of respectability.

“No kids yet, Sue?” I asked.

“I am expecting our first. I was told last week.”

“Brilliant. If you need a Godmother, give me a shout.”

“Yeah, maybe,” she said, hesitantly.

“I'm joking. I know what I represent, but I do wish you well. One day I'll be the respectable one and I'll be ashamed of you lot,” I said, and we both laughed.

We went to the canteen together and had some tea. It was so good seeing her again. We chatted as if we had never been apart, although she kept giving me funny glances.

“I can't believe you are the same person. You've even lost the accent.”

“Onwards and upwards, my dear,” I said, in the most educated voice I could, causing her to giggle.

“Seriously, Jemma, you are really gorgeous, no one would ever know.”

“Thanks sis, but I know.”

She took my hand.

“I do too, but it makes no difference, you've always been my sister.”

We both cried a little and I was sad when she left. It was a long way for her to come, and I knew she would not be back. I wondered whether I'd ever see her again.

I went home after another few days.

“You are my finest example,” Dr Brown said on discharging me.

“Thanks.”

“You have managed the dilators in record time, so you are well on the way to recovery. Remember no sex for many weeks.”

I smiled, nodding, as I was in no rush now.

Lynette drove me home, where I took it easy for a few days. Then I decided to look for a job.

I was sixteen, it was April 1973, and good jobs were not that common, but if you weren't choosy, there were plenty. I went out to look and I decided that it would be better if I were a little older.

Stuart helped me along by arriving one Saturday for lunch, announcing that the judicial review had decided that my conviction had been unsafe, overturning the original verdict. I was now free to sue for unlawful imprisonment and lots of other things besides.

He stated that if I made the right noises another out of court settlement would be offered.

The money from the first one had yet to materialise, so when it finally did, I was amazed at how much had been taken by ‘interested parties'. Nevertheless, I had £600,000 and immediately found a financial advisor and invested the bulk in property in the South East. I kept £50,000 in my bank account, as I wanted a flat of my own.

One day, while at home with Lynette's, Stuart appeared.

“Got a mo?” he asked.

“Hi Stew. What's up?”

He looked rather furtive.

“Do you remember a conversation we never had?” he asked.

“You mean the one where we didn't discuss alternative identity papers?”

“That's not the one. Well, there is a man who may be able to help anyone who, theoretically speaking, of course, may be in the market for such an item.”

“So, theoretically, how would one meet such a person, and how much would it cost, theoretically?”

“Ah, one would be at the Fox and the Pheasant at seven pm this evening.”

“Where?”

“Stoke Poges.”

“Okay. How much?”

“Ten.”

“Grand?”

He nodded.

“Risks?”

He shrugged.

“I've checked him out as best as possible. There is an Irish connection, as the papers seem to be Irish. There are no terrorist or criminal links that I could find.”

“So, is it worth it for me?”

He looked at me for a while.

“It depends, being a transsexual can have its drawbacks, whereas being an ordinary, if infertile, female, is a whole different thing, legally speaking.”

“Shit Stuart. What do I do?”

He looked at me with a serious expression on his face.

“If I wanted a future, free from scandal and with a past that was not going to bite my bum every time I was not expecting it, I would seriously consider it. One needn't use it, but the investment may pay off in the long run.”

“Okay, any chance you could give me a lift?”

“If you like. I'll pick you up at six. I'll book us a table in the restaurant, I hear it is quite good.”

I went back looking for work, via the bank. I withdrew £10,000. It was terrifying; I had never held so much cash in my life.

We arrived at the pub at six fifty, and sat in the bar with a drink, perusing the menu. It was a delightful pub, on a quiet country road between Slough to the south and Gerrards Cross to the north. The car park was almost empty, with only a couple of other parked cars. The interior of the pub was old beams and bare brick, with a small bar at the front and a restaurant to the rear.

A tall well-built man came in. He was smartly dressed, looking to be in his forties. He was well spoken, but I detected a slight Southern Irish lilt to his words. He bought a Jameson's whiskey and sat at the next table to ours. He took out the Times and started to read it. I looked at Stuart, who nodded, leaving me to get another drink.

I moved and sat in the seat opposite the man.

He looked up.

“What can I do for you, my dear?”

My father was from Dublin, so many of his friends had been from different parts of Ireland. I had a friend inside who came from Belfast, thus I was able to put on a perfect Belfast accent.

“That depends,” I said, and he smiled.

“Ah, do I detect a trace of the North about you?”

“Maybe, just a wee bit.”

“So, am I right in thinking you'll be wanting to be someone else?”

“No, I want to be me, but I want to be me properly.”

He frowned.

“Go on.”

“I need to be legally who I am, and not who I was, if you get me?”

He nodded.

“I need a name and a date of birth. And the fee, of course.”

I passed over my name and date of birth on a piece of paper. He didn't look at it. He just put it away. The date of birth was two years older than I really was, 10 th August 1954.

“The fee.”

“Half now, with half on delivery,” I said, accent still in place.

He smiled, and nodded.

“You are a chip of the old block. Belfast girls are the toughest in the world.”

“You'd better believe it.”

“So, history?”

“Illegitimate daughter of an NCO in the British Army, Irish Guards or such like. Mother not British, a German girl, or some such. Mother killed in a car crash in Germany, Dad died in same crash, not sent to army schools, but obscure foster homes, something like that.” I had had a lot of time thinking up the best story, and one which would be nigh on impossible to verify or otherwise.

“No problem. I'll need a passport photograph.”

“It is in with the money,” I said, passing an envelope with £5,000 under the table.

He surreptitiously counted it and looked at the photographs. They had been done at the railway station on the way up to the pub, just twenty minutes ago.

“Very fetching. It is not my place to pry, but I need to know. You wouldn't belong to a certain republican group now, would ye?”

“Absolutely not,” I said.

He smiled.

“If I could believe you.”

“Listen, I am not and will never have anything to do with terrorism, or freedom fighting, whichever side you take. I just need a new start.”

He looked about him.

“Lastly. If you are with the police, do you think you can call them now? I am too old to fuck about.”

“No police, just me.”

“There is something about you.”

“Yes?”

He sighed, looking me straight in they eyes.

“You are a very pretty girl, but I ask myself what can have happened to one so young and pretty as you to warrant such drastic action. Why?”

“I have a destiny.”

He smiled, raising his glass.

“I'll drink to that,” he said, draining his whisky.

“Give me four days. Then meet me back here, same time,” he said, and was gone.

“Well?” said Stuart, after the man had gone.

“Time will tell. If anyone is trying to screw me for my money, they'll regret it. I can be very nasty when crossed.”

We moved into the restaurant and had a very pleasant meal. Stuart wasn't married, as he took his job too seriously. He didn't cover criminal law as there was more money in the civil side, but he had various strange contacts. Over the years, these would prove very useful.

I kept catching him looking at me in a way that wasn't client-lawyer appropriate.

“Stuart, we are not going to fuck, so stop leching at me, okay?”

He stared at me and than burst out laughing.

“Can you mind-read, or what?”

“I have been fucked by blokes since I was fourteen, so I know what the signs are. The fact you prefer girls makes little difference, the look is the same.”

He looked more serious. “I'm sorry, but looking at you sitting here, so pretty and poised, it is hard to remember what you have been through.”

“Stuart, just for a moment, please try to remember that for the most part, with one real exception, I wanted to be fucked, and actually enjoyed it. So stop feeling so sorry for me. Okay?”

He looked a little shocked for a second, then shook his head and smiled. I then realised what it was about me. He was curious to know what it was like to fuck a transsexual.

I wondered how many others were like him.

I was not going to be a curiosity.

We finished the meal, so he drove me back to his aunt's place. We sat in his car outside for a moment.

“So, same time in four days, then?”

“I can do it on my own if you are busy,” I said.

“No, I'll take you. I actually enjoy being with you. You are so different and you make me laugh. I find it very refreshing.”

“You also want to fuck me,” I added, and he laughed.

“I don't know if I do. But I don't normally have such conversations.”

“Look, Stuart, you have been great. But then you have had a fair chunk of the prize money. I am not the slag I used to be, and I am not going to be an easy lay ever again. I am reluctant to just let anyone and everyone fuck me, just because I can. You know my past, and my future, so you hold power over me. But if you ever try to abuse that trust, I'll castrate you and feed your nuts to the pigs on the prison farm. Get me?”

He stared at me.

“I'm not some willowy blonde who has no idea of life. I have grown up the hard way. I learned to box when I was seven and I learned Karate to help prevent myself from being raped in prison, which still happened. I may look dainty and soft on the outside, but I'm hard as nails on the inside. So each time you see the pretty girl, remember what is underneath, and be afraid, be very afraid, for this girl never forgets or forgives.”

He paled slightly, yet still stared at me.

“Now, still want to fuck me?”

He shook his head.

I continued, but the edge had gone from my voice. I was appreciating what a manipulative cow I could be.

“Thank goodness for that. I am so glad, because I want and need you as a friend as well as a solicitor. So I need you to keep focussed. I hope you aren't offended at my methods of keeping you focussed?”

He smiled, or tried to, but I had shaken him. I don't think the poor man had seen this side of me. I was hardly the kind of girl he could take home to mummy!

“Stuart, you are a decent bloke. Decent blokes don't know the things about their girlfriends that you know about me. It would never work , and your family would never forgive you. I am a one bloke girl, so if we did get it together, do you really want the past always there ready to bite your bum?”

He shook his head.

“You're ten years older than me, in age anyway. So get real. I'm not the shag you thought I was, and you will do much better than me. And, as I'm only just sixteen, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

I leaned across and kissed his cheek.

“Goodnight darling, take care now,” I said, and got out. He didn't move for a long time, eventually driving away.

6.

I collected my Irish birth certificate and passport. My mysterious contact assured me that they were genuine. I found out some time later , that he was something with the Irish Embassy in London. I passed over the rest of the money, so now Jemma Yvette Adams had a whole, new past. Her future had yet to be written.

I was born on the 10 th August 1954, in Osnabruck, W. Germany, to Rachel Brunner and James Adams, Lance Sergeant in the Irish Guards. My birth was registered with the Irish Consul in Bonn, and baptised in the Catholic chapel by the Roman Catholic Priest attached to the Irish Guards.

Both my parents died in a car crash in Germany whilst on holiday. Their daughter, Jemma, was quite seriously injured, and as a result the poor girl is unable to conceive or carry a child of her own. She was educated at a string of schools and convents across Europe, and was found to be dyslexic.

By avoiding the deed poll, I had buried James Thomas Gardner. So there was no link to Jemma Adams, no records - nothing. James had vanished, and Jemma was real and she was nearly nineteen.

After a series of relatives and foster parents, she finally settled in Windsor, and the rest has yet to happen.

I found a job as a sales assistant in Daniels, a department store in Windsor. I gave my new name, and as I was technically nearly nineteen, they accepted me with no reservations. They put me on the cosmetic counter and I loved it. I attended a short sales techniques course and was thrown in the deep end. There were three of us on the counter and we worked all day. We each could take an hour break, but never at the same time. As long as two of us were there at all times, the management was happy. In August, I was officially nineteen, and it was as if I had always been Jemma. I had blotted out my life before my operation and I was the happiest that I had ever been.

My happiness had a knock-on effect, as I was constantly cheerful and polite. The other girls would tease me for always smiling.

“My god! You make me sick!” Sally said, one day. “How come you are always so bloody happy?”

“Because, Sal, life is just bloody wonderful!” I replied with a huge smile.

Gradually, I came to have my own customers who actually asked for me so I could advise them. I read up on all the latest products and tried them out on myself to see whether their claims were correct.

I still hated reading, so it took me ages at night to keep up. I often wouldn't turn my light out until gone midnight. However, my dedication paid off. The store wanted someone to go on a beautician's course to start a dedicated department in store. There were twelve applicants, but they selected me. I was sent to Birmingham for a two-week residential course.

It was great fun. I was still the youngest, but it didn't matter, as no one could tell. I was certainly the most worldly and found it easy to mix with just about anyone. Each day I learned new stuff, and when I explained my reading difficulties, everyone helped me, even the staff. I had never had such help before.

I passed the course, returning to the store to set up my own beautician's department. It was very popular, and I saw all my familiar customers queuing up for treatment. It was so popular the manager asked me whether I could train someone else to work with me. I thought I could, so Sally Moss started as my trainee. She was seventeen, coming from a well-to-do family. Her main interests were horses and blokes. She wasn't the brightest bulb in the family box, having left school after O levels. Her ambition was to marry a rich bloke with his own stud, and ride and shag her way to old age. She was a real hoot and we got on really well. Neither of us took life that seriously.

I sensed that although Lynette was happy with me lodging with them, particularly as I was paying my way, she was anxious that I spread my wings and get a place of my own.

Stuart was scrupulously polite to me, and there was no trace of the lust he displayed on the last occasion. I was pleased, as he was not a likely or sensible candidate for a romantic liaison.

One lunchtime, I walked into an estate agent and asked to see any flats on the river. The third they showed me was delightful, but the asking price was an extortionate £15,000 for a two bedroom flat. It did have a garage and a small rooftop garden. I smiled and put in an offer of £14,500. It was accepted.

Much to their surprise, after contracts were exchanged, I handed over £14,500 in cash. So a few weeks later, I joined the property owning classes. I moved out of Lynette's home, and was eternally grateful for their help and support.

Lynette was in two minds over my departure. I had been clean and decent, and had always been helpful around the house. So she said she would miss me, but I was a cuckoo in a way, and there was always the possibility that I would upset things. They conveniently forgot my past, never referring to it, and we all pretended it never happened. The fact they knew it made me feel uncomfortable, particularly as I had my eyes on improving myself and my position in life. Their knowledge always lurked in the background, so it was a relief to leave.

I moved into my flat, gradually furnishing it in the best possible taste. I applied for my driver's licence using my new Irish identity. A provisional licence arrived, so I started driving lessons. I took my driving test, and passed. So, to celebrate, I went out and bought a bright red Mini Cooper.

Work went on, with Sally flourishing under my careful eye. She was as randy as a rabbit, with about six boys drooling after her. She turned eighteen and had a huge party in her garden. It was late September, so a marquee was hired and about five hundred Hooray Henrys and Henriettas were invited. So was I.

I was her new best friend, and as such, she invited me to stay at her parent's home, where she still lived. They lived at Bray, on the river Thames, in a huge house, obviously having pots of money. We went out shopping for clothes. I bought a divine evening dress that cost a small fortune. Yet money had no meaning for Sally, as she spent more money in a day than we both earned in a month!

I drove her to the house on the Friday evening after work. The party was on the Saturday. The marquee was already in place and the caterers were due in the morning. Actually, it was a double party, as her older brother, Clive, was twenty-one and they were combining the events.

I was dressed in a smart skirt and blouse with matching jacket. I was immaculate, as always, looking mature, sophisticated and well to do.

Her father was ‘something in the City'. He was called Roger, and was a pompous ass. As soon as I met him, he held onto my hand for ages and said, “Well hello, where have you been all my life?”

“Well,” I said, “for the first thirty years, I wasn't even born.”

He laughed, but I could tell it smarted.

Her mother was an attractive woman, but I discovered she was as thick as her daughter. Yet, she had achieved her ambition, she had married a rich man who shagged her as much as she wanted, provided her with everything she needed and two children besides. One can't complain, can one?

They both thought I was wonderful, as Sally had painted this picture of a paragon of virtue. The fact that I had no boyfriend was due to my new bits and not the fact that I didn't want one. There was also the fact that I had yet to meet one who piqued my fancy.

We sat down to dinner around a huge table with just the four of them and me. I felt out of place. I couldn't help but recall the squalid conditions in our old flat and later the council house with the greasy fish and chip papers and the smell of suet. (A fat based product)

As I gazed at the fine pictures on the walls, the silver cutlery and the crystal glasses containing finest French wines, I had no regrets at all.

Clive was quite good looking, but he had red hair, and I was always wary of red hair. Gary, the bastard who'd raped me, had red hair. But Clive was charming and quite funny. He was at University at St Andrews in Scotland, reading History.

I used my neutral accent, trying to sound as educated and as middle class as possible. I found it harder than the Belfast accent.

“Tell me, Jemma, what about your family?” her mother, Eileen, asked.

“I am afraid my parents died when I was about eight. Relatives looked me after until I left school. Unfortunately I'm dyslexic, so University and A levels were out of the question for me.”

“What did your father do?” Roger asked.

“He was in the army, Irish Guards,” I said.

“Oh, splendid, fine regiment. Archie “what's-'is-name” was in the Irish Guards.”

I smiled, as we lost Roger for a while as he tried to remember who Archie was. I almost got the giggles, which set off Sally, which set off her mother. I controlled myself, but they went off on one and Clive looked at me blankly. I shrugged and pretended I didn't get the joke. This caused Sally to start braying, and her mother neighing. I couldn't help it and started to laugh, as did Clive, and Roger was muttering, “Archie, Smith, no, Archie Baker, no….”

By the time he yelled “Archie Henderson!” the rest of his family were having hysterics.

I helped clear away dinner. Afterwards, Sally and I took the retriever for a walk along the river.

“You have a strange family,” I said, and she agreed.

“I never knew you were Irish. You don't sound it?”

“I'm not really. My Dad was, so he registered my birth with the Irish consul in Germany. But I am more English than Irish.”

“Oh, can I ask you a personal question?”

“What?”

“Have you ever done it, you know, with a bloke?”

“You mean have I been fucked?”

“Yah.”

I thought about the truth, deciding she couldn't handle the truth.

“Not yet, but I live in hope. Have you?”

“No, but I've given some blow jobs.”

“So have I, but that doesn't count,” I said, as I remembered all the blokes I had had through my clutches. It seemed like a different life. It was.

The next day was chaotic, what with the caterers, the florists and the cakes; it just got worse. I helped, remaining calm whilst everyone else went loopy. Eventually, with an hour to go, everything was ready, so I went and had a shower and changed.

My dress was a long black silk number, with a bare back and a deep V down the front. I didn't wear a bra, so it was very sexy. My hair was very long, having a natural wave to it. As it was white blonde with golden highlights, the dress set it off even more.

I spent ages getting my make up just right, and knew I looked very hot.

Sally looked very good, with a sleeveless white long dress that threatened to show everyone her ample breasts before the evening was over. I went down to find Roger in the sitting room with a double whisky. He was wearing his dinner jacket and a black bow tie.

“Ah, Jemma. My heavens. Look at you, you look absolutely stunning, my de-ah.”

“Thank you, you look very smart too. You must be very proud of your children.”

“Quite, absolutely proud. Fine pair. Fine Pair.”

I smiled, but felt awkward, as I found him difficult to talk to. His wife was no better, for I was convinced she had recycled cotton wool between her ears. Gradually, the guests started to arrive, so I sort of floated around the fringes. I knew no one, and as soon as one of Sally's boyfriends arrived, she was off and I knew I wouldn't see her for a while.

There were loads of people, but very few approached me to even attempt a conversation, and I was too shy to just walk up to a stranger and talk to them. Whenever someone spoke to me, I'd try hard to talk with as neutral accent as possible, adopting the upper-class nasal twang.

Clive found me and asked me to dance. So I smiled and accepted. The disco was pretty lame. I found the sight of lots of Ruperts dancing in dinner jackets faintly silly, but still, different folks, different strokes.

I danced, finding that, as a girl, one didn't worry about looking a complete pillock, one just wiggled one's boobs or bum, and everyone thought one was great.

After that first dance, I found a queue of randy young bucks all wanting to dance with me. I smiled, as it was as if I had died and gone to heaven. The fourth, or maybe the fifth guy was different to the rest, and when he opened his mouth it became apparent why. He was American.

We danced, as conversation was impossible with the level of sound.

Then he asked me if I wanted a drink, so I nodded. He took my arm and we squeezed off the dance floor. We crossed the garden and entered the peace and tranquillity of the house. The food and drink were laid out in the dining room, and he poured me a glass of fruit punch.

We then sat on the terrace, cooling off.

“Say, you dance real purty.”

“Thanks, I don't really, but you are kind to say so. I just wiggle my boobs and my bum, and they do the trick. Testosterone does the rest,” I said.

He started to laugh, and I thought he was about to have a hernia.

“Hey, it wasn't that funny,” I said.

“You English, you crack me up.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but actually I am not English.”

He stared at me.

“I'm Irish.”

He frowned.

“It's like saying a Canadian is the same as an American, or a Mexican. Same continent, different nationality,” I explained.

“Oh, but you sound English.”

“To me you sound Canadian.”

“Oh, I get it.”

“Thank God,” I said, and he was off again.

“I'm Jemma. I am a colleague of Sally.”

“Howdy Jemma, I'm Matt. I met Clive on his year out. My Dad and his Dad do business and he stays with us in Texas whenever he's over.”

“Ah, how nice for you.”

He started to laugh again, shaking his head.

“You ain't like the other English girls.”

I looked at him, and he smiled, realising his mistake.

“Ah, that's why, you're Irish. But okay, I'll rephrase it. You ain't like the other girls I've ever met, either here or back home in the States.”

“Oh, what is so different about me?”

“You are cool, but something else too. It's like you have a different set of rules, but no one knows the rules but you.”

“Ah, an astute young man, go to the top of the class.”

He smiled.

“You see, you speak differently, like you tease everyone, and play a different game.”

I stared at him. For all his large frame and boyish charm, he was quite switched on.

“Do you want the truth?” I asked.

“Will I like it?”

“I don't know, perhaps not.”

“Go on.”

“I am a fraud. All these people, all rich kids with money and ambitions, I came from nothing, having had to claw my way to get half as far. I resent the belief they hold that they are superior through an accident in breeding, and it pisses me off mightily.

“Oh, I look sophisticated and as toffee nosed as they do, and can sound it if I want to, but it doesn't work, I can't pretend to be a snotty bitch.”

He smiled. “My dad was nothing either. He worked his way up selling second hand cars. We had a small two-bedroom house on the wrong side of the tracks. But he bought some land he wanted to farm, but he found oil when he tried to dig a well. I was fifteen when he became a millionaire, and you know what, I still prefer people from the wrong side of the tracks,” he said.

“Matt, take me back and let's dance,” I said.

We danced together all evening, stopping now and again for a drink or a snack. Then the slow ones started and we melted together. He held me to start with, without trying anything. I grabbed his head, kissing him and forcing my tongue into his mouth. He was the first man I had close to me since prison. It was if I had set off a firework. His hands started on my bum, he pulled me tight against him, and then he had one hand inside the front of my dress, caressing my nipples. I moaned, rubbed myself against him, as I felt his erection attempting to escape.

Finally, I could wait no longer, so I pulled him off the dance floor and up to my room. He was putty in my hands. I shut and locked the door, turning to him. He was standing there, breathing heavy and looking a little uncertain.

I took his jacket off, and started on his shirt buttons. He was trying to get his shoes off, and eventually I had him down to his underwear. I pushed him onto the bed and slipped out of my dress, I had only my panties, stockings and suspender belt on. I slipped my panties off, and looked down at him. He was staring at my breasts.

“You like them?” I asked, cupping them. He nodded. I stepped up to the bed as he sat on the edge. He started kissing and licking my tits. I moaned in pleasure, holding his head tightly against me.

“You want to fuck me, Matt?”

He nodded.

“How bad do you want to fuck me, baby?”

“Real bad.”

“Show me.”

He took off his shorts and his cock stood ready; it was big and beautiful.

“You want to put that inside me?”

He nodded, and he was still kissing my belly.

He moved south and his tongue touched my clit. I almost screamed.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Christmas?” I said.

He was fumbling for a condom in his pocket, so I showed him the one I had in my hand.

“A good girl guide is always prepared,” I said, rolling in onto his engorged cock. I pushed him back, knelt astride him, surreptitiously inserting a little lubrication inside my vagina. I then slowly lowered myself onto him as he impaled me with his lovely cock. I sank down until he was right inside me, up to the hilt. He was panting and giving little moans.

“You like that, Matty baby?”

He nodded and started thrusting, so I moved in time with him, faster and faster, until he was grunting and pounding deep inside me, kissing my tits at the same time.

I thought of Larry, as he had kissed my tits the same way, but the feeling I got now was so different to being taken up the ass. It was just as nice, but felt more right, somehow. I watched Matt as he was obviously approaching his climax. I went faster and faster, feeling this warm glow starting to spread until a surge of pleasure hit me. It left me physically gasping for breath. At the same time, he grunted, thrusting deep inside me, and ejaculating. I let my hair swish across him, as I kissed him passionately. I felt him subside, so I allowed him to withdraw. The condom was a protection against disease, as pregnancy was not a concern of mine.

“Okay lover?” I asked.

“That was amazing.”

“Yeah, pretty good. How do I rate against home grown American girls?”

He flushed, looking embarrassed, so I started to smile.

“First time huh?” I asked and he nodded sheepishly.

“Like it?”

He grinned and nodded.

“So did I, and it was my first time too, so lets celebrate.”

He gaped at me.

“You were a virgin?”

“Yup, I swear that no man has ever been where you have just been.”

“Shit, you seemed to know exactly what you were doing.”

“I did, but don't you worry about that. Ready for another round yet?”

He grinned and shook his head.

“Men! No stamina. Let's go get a drink.”

We dressed and returned to the party, smooching a little on the dance floor. Then I felt him rising to the occasion once more.

“Oh, guess who's woken up again?” I whispered to him and he grinned. We slipped upstairs and this time I let him go on top, but I sucked him a little first, just to prime him.

By midnight, we had fucked four times, and once he had taken me from behind in the shrubbery. I was very pleased, as I discovered that I was actually capable of creating a little of my own natural lubrication. The doctor had not been hopeful, stating that it occasionally happened, but it did with me.

By two am, there were bodies everywhere, and Mat and I were naked in bed, having just fucked for the fifth time.

“Jemma, you are truly amazing,” he said , as he kissed me.

“You ain't so bad yourself, Matty boy.”

“I can't believe we've done it so often.”

“So where are you supposed to be staying tonight?”

“Here. I was staying in the spare room over the garage.”

“No you aren't, you are staying here with me.”

“I ain't gonna argue with you, ma'am.”

“So I should think. Ready yet?”

“No, but soon I guess.”

“Wake me up when you are,” I said, wrapping my arm around his naked chest.

He woke me a couple of hours later, and we made it six. Then we both passed out.

I awoke with a pain in my left arm. I opened my eyes to find Matt lying on it. I looked at the clock, nine am.

I moved my arm and he awoke. I smiled as I saw surprise, shock, confusion, and then recall hit his face all within a few seconds.

“Hi lover, how are you?” I asked.

“Good. You?”

“Ready for more.”

“I gotta pee,” he said, romantically, and I smiled.

I went with him and held his cock for him. It rose after he had finished, and I held it in my teeth as I sat and peed.

We made it seven and then showered together. We went down separately at ten and ten past ten. I dressed in blue jeans which were so tight that they looked sprayed on, and a black boob tube that was the fashion.

Not many others were up, so we made ourselves some breakfast.

“Mornin' Jemma . Have you met Matthew?” said Sally's father

“I think we saw a bit of each other last night. Hello,” I said and Matt almost got the giggles.

“Matt's father did a bit of business with the old firm a few years back. Oil, don't you know?”

“He did mention it,” I said.

We spent the Sunday recovering. I was delighted, as I now had a devoted slave in Matt who worshipped the ground I walked on. He found out from Sally that I was only nineteen, and was astounded, as he thought I was older than he by a couple of years. I thought it just as well he didn't know my real age. In the end I had to drive home to my little flat in Windsor, telling him if he was ever at a loose end to come and stay.

I had been back for forty minutes, when the doorbell rang.

I went and opened the door. Matt stood there in his white shirt, bootlace tie, cowboy boots and Stetson. His suitcase was on the step.

“Excuse me ma'am. I lost my horse and I was a wonderin' whether you seen it hereabouts?”

“Well, I don't know, perhaps you had better come in and have a look round.”

I closed the door.

He took me in his arms and literally picked me up and carried me into the bedroom. He stripped my clothes off, and screwed me so hard thought the walls were going to cave in.

We spent the rest of the day, evening and night in bed. I lost count of the amount of times we fucked and we ran out of condoms. He looked hurt and I explained that I was not fertile, so if he didn't have any disease we should be fine.

The first time without a condom was amazing and the very thought of his spunk sliding inside me gave me an orgasm on its own.

Eventually we slept. The next morning I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed and went to work. Sally was bouncy and bubbly all day, and I could have killed her. She had met a new boy at the party; his name was Stephen and he was a trainee solicitor. She had given him a blowjob, he had sworn his everlasting devotion to her and they were set for a date on Friday.

“So, what happened with you?”

“I met an American, and we fucked all night. Seven times before breakfast,” I said, as I went to see a potential customer.

Sally was dying to know whether I was joking.

“He said his name was Matt and he was from Texas and that he was a virgin. Well he ain't no longer,” I said.

“Oh my gosh. He went missing yesterday afternoon, just after you left. Where do you think he has gone?”

“Think? I know. He is in my flat. He got a taxi and arrived just after I did. We fucked all afternoon, evening and all night. I am completely knackered. The man is a sexual giant.”

“Oh God. You didn't?”

“I did, and boy is he good!”

She stared at me, with an expression of awe combined with unmitigated jealously.

It was a quiet day, and I knocked off a little early. I stopped off on the way home and bought some groceries. When I got back to the flat, the table was laid and there were some good smells coming from the kitchen.

“Hi.”

Matt appeared, wearing his hat, boots and an apron. He looked so bizarre that I laughed.

“By laughing at my appearance, you have deeply offended me, ma'am, for that I am gonna have to screw you rotten.”

And he did, there on the living room carpet. I didn't even have time to argue.

He cooked steaks and what he called French fries (Chips). It was a lovely meal.

We ate and went to bed. But, thank God, he slowed down a bit, and we took a long time making luxurious love. We explored each other, discovering where we liked being touched, and where it tickled.

As we lay there, I was enjoying just being held.

“Jem?”

“Hmm?”

“I know this is early and all, but do you think we should get married?”

“No.”

He was quiet.

“Matt?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to know why not?”

“Yeah.”

“One, we are too young. Two, you need a wife who will give you kids, and I can't. Three, I like you and we fuck very nicely, but that is no basis for a lasting relationship. Four, ask me again in a couple of years if we are still screwing each other, otherwise let's just enjoy what we have today.”

He never asked me again.

We had a wonderful week together and he went back to the States to finish his college course, a very changed young man.

7.

“Knees together, and push, push, push.” Franz was the epitome of Arian manhood. He was also my ski instructor.

Sally insisted that we go skiing to Austria together. So here we were with Erna Low Ski holidays in Obergurgl, in the Austrian Alps, it was Easter 1975.

I was eighteen now, but twenty as far as the world was concerned and had grown up quite a lot since marvellous Matt. He would call me occasionally and we would still make each other laugh. But we both knew that we served each other's purpose for a brief period and were necessary for only that period. He told me he had met a girl at college, and I was pleased for him. We had something special. It had been beautiful for that short time and no one could ever take that away from either of us.

I thought back over the last year or so. I had met a couple of boys, but they were not what I wanted. They were boys and I needed a man. I think I scared them a bit.

Stuart came through with the last lawsuit. In my case against the powers that be over my arrest and unsafe conviction I was awarded damages of £90,000. I accepted and kept quiet. The papers tried to trace the mystery James Gardner and could find no trace of him since he was released from the YOI.

The Solicitors managed the sum and it was invested without the mystery lad coming forth to be identified. Some of the tabloids started a reward system for anyone who knew of Jimmy Gardner's whereabouts. I called in to say I had seen him in Sydney, Australia and watched them flounder in the dark for ages.

Then there was that mistake. The day I went to track down Larry.

I had thought about it, deciding that I would just go and look, but not actually do anything else. I knew he came from Colchester and that he had headed back there after his release. I knew his name was Larry Sparks, and I knew roughly which area he used to live in.

I drove over there on a day off, stopping by a phone box. I found three Sparks, and copied the addresses down. The first one was a West Indian family, and the second an old couple. The third was in grotty area, and I knew that this could well be it.

I went to the pub, and asked if anyone knew Larry Sparks.

“Wot you want him for, darling? You ain't the old bill are yer?” asked one man.

“Do I honestly look like the police?” I asked.

This caused some mirth, and several heads to shake.

“I have a friend who knew him and he wanted to know how he was doing?”

“Well, last I heard he was wanted for dealing drugs,” said the barman.

“Oh,” I said.

“Here, what's a nice girl like you looking for a little shit like him?”

“I promised a friend I would find him.”

“Well, his old man lives up the road. And last I heard they had a flat over a curry house on the Huntington Road.”

“Thanks,” I said, and left.

I drove to the Huntington Road, parking opposite the only Indian restaurant. I didn't know what I was going to do, or say. I just wanted to see how he was getting on. He was, after all, the first boy I ever loved.

There was a small shop just down the road, a general store, so I locked the car and went in. There were a few people in there, and I was conscious that I was dressed in a way that set me apart. I had a long mauve jacket on, with a dark skirt and a pale blue blouse. I had knee length boots and I would have looked perfectly at home in Chelsea or Windsor.

I picked up a Daily Mirror, and read the article on the lower front page.

Bastards!!!

Then I saw Larry. He looked like shit. He was probably using heroin, as was the girl he was with. I wondered if she was Marie-Anne. His clothes were stained and unkempt, while his hair was dirty and matted. She was little better, and she looked pregnant.

He was not the boy I remembered. And I bitterly regretted coming back.

He pushed open the door of the shop, glancing my way. For a second our eyes met and he then looked straight at my tits. I flushed, turning away, pretending to look at the magazines on the racks.

He was thin and drawn. His eyes were bloodshot and there were great dark circles around them. His face was pale and he hadn't shaved for several days. I felt an ache for him, as he looked so ill. By his looks, he would sell his soul for £10,000, let alone my whereabouts. I put the paper down on the pile and walked out with out another glance. I went straight to my car, got in and started the engine.

I wondered what I'd seen in him in the first place, and was so pleased that he hadn't recognised me.

I drove home crying, promising myself that I would never ever go back, look back, or try to return to what was once before.

Work went very well. Sally and I went on a Swedish Massage Course, which was followed by a Sports Massage Course. Three more trained beauticians joined the team, so we moved into a purpose built salon next door. Much to my surprise and disgust, the store didn't appoint me as manager, instead appointing a snotty woman who hadn't a clue.

I lasted two months, but then I just had had enough. I didn't need the money, so I just walked out when she was being particularly snotty.

Within a few weeks, she'd upset everyone else. Sally and two of the girls, Rosie and Sharla, followed me. The store tried to apologise and offered me the manager's job as an enticement to return. I declined, as I wanted to start my own business in competition, with Sal and the other two. The store shut their parlour down, so the last girl came to work for me. I went out and bought the leasehold of a ground floor shop at the bottom of the high street, with a view of the castle. Previously it had housed a travel agency, and we had a hilarious week decorating and getting all the equipment installed.

We called the place, ‘The Windsor Beauty and Therapeutic Massage Centre.' as I hoped to avoid the rather dubious reputation that certain massage parlours managed to attract. We already had a small, but loyal client case and it soon expanded.

By Christmas 1974 we were doing very well. The joy was that we were all under twenty, and were making a very healthy profit. I made sure that everyone went on the courses and we were able to offer a variety of services from manicures, massages and beauty treatments. We also sold beauty products and make up.

By the February of 1975, we had had many requests for specials. I had erected a sign in the main reception, ‘NO SPECIALS.' I also insisted on certain extras to protect the girls from those who should wish to take advantage. Despite this, one day when I was in one of the five massage booths, a male customer came in for a full body massage. I was well into it when he asked how much we charged for hand relief.

I stopped and looked at him, then continued with what I was doing.

“I'm sorry, what are you on about?” I asked.

“Look love, don't piss about, just give me some hand relief and I will make it worth your while. If you go all the way, I'll even give you twenty notes.”

“If you came here for sexual relief, then you came to the wrong place. We don't do that here,” I said.

“Listen, if you don't I shall go out of here and tell everyone that you did. Let's see how that goes down with the good people of Windsor,” he said, with a particularly nasty smirk.

I stopped the massage and looked at him. He was about forty and slightly overweight. He sounded quite well spoken, but he was not what he tried to be.

“Making unwarranted demands with menaces. Last time I checked the statute books that rated at least five years. It's also called blackmail. Do you wish to repeat what you last said, or shall we stay with the first recording?” I said.

He stared at me, blinking a few times.

“What?”

“Get up and get out. If you think you can come in here, make disgusting threats like that and get away with it, then think again. You are not messing about with some nice little girly who never uses her pretty head for anything important. You are dealing with me, this is my business and I will fight very hard to protect it. I installed recording equipment in each booth. I have you clearly making an indecent request, and then making unwarranted demands with menaces. Now you have two choices, either you can get out and never come back, or you can call my bluff and talk to my friends at Windsor Police Station, called the Thames Valley Police.

“Which is it to be?”

He was the naked man on a couch, and I was the angry blonde with a glint in her eye.

“Why you little tart. Who do you think you are?”
“Me? My stupid naked friend I am your worst nightmare. Not only am I not the tart you so eruditely called me, but I am a female with brains, and sufficient of them to protect my girls from beasts like you. I am pleased you selected option two, as now I get to try my alarm system,” I said, pushing the little button on the wall.

A little bell rang by reception and that was all.

The man smirked and said, “Impressive.”

“Yes, isn't it? You see, that's the signal to contact the police, and that is exactly what my receptionist is doing.”

His face contorted through disbelief to anger. He struggled to get up.

“You cunt! I'll fucking have you,” he snarled.

“Get away!” I shouted. The door was opening as he swung a fist at me. Sally shrieked as I Karate punched him in the centre of his chest, causing him to fly off the bench and onto the floor.

We stood over him, as he tried to get up.

“Stay there or you'll regret it,” I warned. My voice had a hard edge to it. So he lay there, showing us his insignificant flaccid little penis.

A pair of bemused officers arrived and they allowed the man to get dressed. Then, in my office, I played the tape to them, as he sat there with his head in his hands.

He kept muttering, “But I'm married, what will I do?”

I had been careful to keep my language perfect, no swear words and no smutty remarks. It sounded brilliant when I heard it played back, particularly the bit where he threatened me and attempted to assault me. My ‘Get away!' sounded almost terrified. I would have to work on that a little.

“I just sort of pushed him on the chest and he fell over onto the floor. I was so afraid he was going to hurt me,” I said, flashing my eyes at the sergeant.

Sergeant Martin Harris arrived faintly amused. But, after hearing the tape, he left an angry man. He took exception to men who tried to take advantage of women. He made a point of coming back, after depositing the man in the cells, to take a very lengthy statement from me. His colleague took a statement from Sally. I was given the impression that he was stringing things out, and was after a lot more than the statement. So much so, that at closing time, I let everyone go, as he finished the statement. He was about twenty-seven, tall with short brown hair. He was well built and quite dishy. I caught myself wondering what he'd be like in bed.

“Well, I think I have enough. I hope he pleads guilty, so then you won't have to give evidence,” he told me, packing everything away in a folder.

“So, do I. I've never been in a court,” I lied.

“Look, I finish work at ten. Is there any chance we could meet for a drink, or something?”

“Won't your wife mind?”

“I'm not married. I was, but she couldn't take the job. It lasted three years.”

“Any kids?”

“Fortunately not.”

I smiled, agreeing to meet him for a quick drink at ten in a pub just up the road.

I went home to my flat and made myself something to eat. I actually liked living alone. For a while, I couldn't get used to it, but I realised that I had never been alone before. Home in the East End had been chaotic and unpleasant, so I had sought solitude in the library. I had never been alone in the detention centre, except for a period after Larry left and before Pete arrived. Even so, the screws had constantly watched me so there was never any real privacy.

So, once I got used to it, I enjoyed it. I ate what I liked, when I liked, doing what I liked, when I liked. Even so, I was forever having one or other of the girls round and, sometimes, if there had been an argument or something, Aunty Jemma had them to stay in the spare room.

So I put my feet up and had some scrambled eggs on toast. I watched a bit of TV, almost forgetting my date.

I prettied myself up, slipping into a slinky black dress, with some nice stockings. As it was bloody cold outside, I wore my ‘fuck-me' knee length boots, with 4” heels, and a really warm long black coat, with a velvet collar.

I arrived at the pub just after ten past ten, and went in. It was quite crowded, so I had to look about.

“Jemma, over here!” I heard a shout. I saw Martin with some colleagues round a table right at the back.

I smiled and went over. He met me half way.

“Hi, thanks for coming. What are you drinking?”

“A glass of white wine, dry, please.”

I stood with him as he ordered and paid for my drink. Then I went with him as he returned to the table. There were eight of them, six men and two girls. I was introduced, but in my nervous state I instantly forgot all their names.

“Take your coat off, sit down and relax,” said one of the guys. I think he was called Ted.

I took my coat off, smiling slightly as I got the desired reaction from the males.

I sat next to Martin, and was immediately bombarded with questions about myself. I answered most of them, but changed the subject to the guy who had been arrested earlier.

The man, whose name I discovered was Ronald Brewer, was charged with attempted blackmail, attempted assault, and something to do with attempting to procure sex or some indecency offences. He was a married man, and was a regional manager for a courier company.

“Bail was refused, so he is in court in the morning,” Martin said.

“Does that mean I will have to give evidence?” I asked, slightly worried.

“Not yet, if he pleads not guilty, we will get an adjournment. But if he pleads guilty, then it will be heard in the morning.”

“Am I allowed to watch?”

“Do you want to?”

I nodded.

Several of them grinned, so there followed a series of stories about court cases, each trying to out do the other. I just relaxed and settled down.

It was obviously a ‘police pub', as closing time came and went. Yet, it seemed to matter not to the landlord or the clientele. I discovered the landlord was a retired detective and most of the customers were police officers or friends. The till was locked and some local arrangement was made to use cash pooled before closing time.

I had several wines, so was quite relaxed when Martin offered to walk me home at midnight. He was about as obvious as he could get, and I decided to play hard to get. He knew I was only twenty. Yet, I could tell he was smitten. We walked along the half-mile or so, our breath visible as clouds of vapour in the chilly air. Frost was making the grass and twigs sparkle in the streetlights, and the air was very still. We reached my flat, and I stopped.

“Thanks, that's the first police escort I have ever had,” I said.

“You're welcome. You are the prettiest person I have ever escorted.”

“You are sweet, but you could choose better chat up lines,” I said, and kissed his cheek.

I opened the door, without inviting him in.

“Jemma, can I see you again?”

“Martin, you are seven years older than I. Is it wise?”

“I'd like to. You don't come over as a twenty year old.”

“If you want, yes. I'd like to see you again.”

He grinned like a schoolboy.

“How about lunch the day after tomorrow. I have a day off.”

“I'm working, but I suppose I could take an hour off. Come by the salon at one.”

He reached out and kissed me on the lips and I almost relented. But I smiled and said goodnight. I wanted him to think I was a good little girl - at least for a while.

The next day was quiet, but we ticked by. I went to court and saw Mr Brewer plead guilty. He looked very different to that arrogant abusive sod that had confronted me in the booth. He was meek and mild and his voice was so quiet that no one could hear him. The court decided they couldn't sentence him so he was remanded into custody, committed to the Crown Court for sentencing. I wondered how he would like prison. Martin spoke briefly to me, and I noticed the press were hanging about so I retreated quickly.

It was still quite quiet at the centre, but things changed on the following day.

I was in early, and the girls were still buzzing from the afternoon two days before. Sally was embellishing how I had beaten the living shit out of the man, and that given a flat enough pond I could probably walk on water.

The day settled down and business was quite slow to start with, yet it picked up nicely towards mid-morning. We had more than our usual number of phone enquiries and bookings for the forthcoming week appeared to be up. Then a female customer came in to make a booking.

“I wasn't going to, but then I read about the incident in the paper. So I realised that if your standards were that high, then I knew I would be safe,” she said.

“I'm sorry, where did you read this?” I asked.

“In the local paper, I think you are so brave to stand against all this corruption. And your photograph was very nice,” she said, and my blood went cold.

Sally rushed out and bought a copy of the Windsor and Maidenhead Gazette. We were on the front page, the lead story. And horror of horrors, a photograph of me leaving the court.

“Fame at last,” said Sally with a huge grin.

“My bloody hair, it looks awful,” I said.

I had mixed feelings. So much for keeping a low profile, but it was good publicity, and although we were managing to pay our way, we could do with a boost like this.

By one o'clock, the place was heaving. We were booked up for three weeks in advance and every booth was full. The manicurist was working flat out and we had sold more products in one morning than the last three weeks put together.

Martin walked into chaos.

I was on the phone, as we were trying to find a supplier to meet our sudden demands for certain products.

“Bad time?” he asked. I shook my head and finished my call.

“No, not really. Thanks for the free publicity. We haven't stopped all day. When did you speak to the papers?”

“Just after you left. They wanted to speak to you, but I told them you were busy.”

“Thanks. This has made us even busier. Half of them are curious, as they all want to know what happened.”

“Still on for lunch?”

“Sure. Just let me tell Sally.”

I found Sally in mid-massage, and I told her that I was off to lunch.

“Fine, never mind us workers, you just bugger off with your fancy man,” she said with a grin. I left, but knew that if things kept like this I would have to take on more staff.

We walked through the town and over the bridge into Eton. He took me to a tiny restaurant and I watched the Eton boys in their tailcoats walk past. It was a lovely little place, but I smiled. He'd obviously used it before for romantic liaisons.

The food was nice and I enjoyed the wine and his company. We chatted about trivial stuff. Yet I sensed he was after one thing, but I wasn't going to let him have it easily. I portrayed the intelligent, but sexually naïve twenty year old, and played him like a salmon.

On our walk back, he bought me a set of earrings that I had admired in a shop window. I kissed his cheek, so he put his arm around my shoulders. When we arrived back at the centre, he kissed me and asked whether I would like to have dinner with him and go to the theatre.

“Martin, you are working awfully hard,” I observed and he grinned.

“Well?”

“I'd love to. When?”

“Tonight. I'll come by your flat at six thirty.”

I smiled.

“Okay, and thanks for lunch and the earrings. This is getting expensive for you,” I said, and he grinned.

“Maybe it's an investment.”

“Maybe, but then, maybe your return will make you a happy man.”

He stared at me, unsure how to take that. So I kissed his cheek, leaving him confused. It didn't take much.

The day actually beat all records at work. I decided to advertise for two more beauticians and another masseuse. I arrived back at the flat at half past five, completely knackered and somewhat regretting accepting the invitation to dinner and the theatre.

But after a hot bath and a glass of wine, I felt ready for anything. I dressed in a pretty navy blue dress and jacket, and spent some time getting my make up just right. I had the perfect technique, whereby I could make myself look five years older and very sophisticated. By shading my cheekbones, I could manage a sort of Nordic look, and was pleased with the result.

I was just ready when the doorbell went at six twenty nine.

I answered the door.

“Hi,” he said, kissing me and giving me a bunch of red roses.

“Come in, I'm almost ready,” I said, taking the roses into the kitchen. I put them in a vase.

“What are these for?”

“Down payment,” he said, so I smiled.

“Do you want a drink?”

“We ought to go, as the play starts at seven thirty. So if you want to eat, we'd best get there soon.”

I went into the bedroom to put my earrings on.

“What are we seeing?” I said, through the open door.

“I haven't a clue,” he said, and I laughed.

“You have a nice place here. It must have cost a bomb.”

“Thanks, it wasn't cheap, but I inherited a few bob. But I need the business to help pay it off.”

“You are doing very well for your age.”

“Well, I had a tough start, but it made me determined,” I said, returning to the living room.

“You look fantastic,” he said, and I smiled.

We arrived at the Chinese restaurant ten minutes later. It was next door to the theatre, right in the shadow of the Castle. We had a delightful meal, but rather rushed.

We managed to get in to our theatre seats just as the lights were dimming. It was a farce and, as I sat engrossed, I realised that this was the first proper play I had ever been to. I started to wonder whether I should like to be an actress, but decided that one performance was enough, - my life.

We went for a drink in the interval, where we met some people he knew. I was introduced to them and could see the non-verbal signals immediately. They had obviously known him when he was married, so I was rather shutout. When we returned to our seats, he apologised.

“They used to be friendly with Jane. They still keep in touch, so this will be back to them immediately.”

“What, that you are trying to get into my knickers?” I asked, and he stared at me, but then he laughed as the lights dimmed for the second half.

“Was I that obvious?” he whispered to me, squeezing my hand.

The play was great and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I loved the whole atmosphere and I knew that I would be back often. We walked home, just as it started to snow. My boots were warm, but the heels made them quite prone to sliding, so I held on tightly to Martin's arm all the way.

When we arrived back at my flat, I had to make a decision.

I looked at him, and he was watching me like a hawk.

I smiled.

“Okay, I give up. Do you want to come in for a coffee or something?”

He smiled.

“If you really don't mind?”

“I mind terribly. Look, it's cold, I've had a bloody hard day, so I am not going to piss about. Do you want a coffee or not?”

“Sure, I'd love one.”

I opened up and he followed me in. The central heating was still on, so the place was snug.

I hung up my coat, and put the kettle on.

“Coffee or chocolate?”

“Coffee.”

“Do you want a whisky or something?” I asked.

“No, I'm fine with coffee, thanks.”

I made him a coffee and I made a hot chocolate for myself. Then I went and joined him in the sitting room. We sat together on the sofa.

“You are different to most girls I've met.”

“Oh, in what way?”

“I don't know. It's almost as if you are very innocent one minute and yet incredibly worldly the next. You look and sound like a polite, well-educated girl, but then you say some outrageous things, but never quite clearly outrageous. I feel you are playing a game with me, yet I don't know the rules.”

I smiled. He was astute, this one. Not a copper for nothing.

“Well, I've been through quite a lot. I don't really want to dig up old memories, but I had what is known as a ‘damaged youth'. I lost my virginity some time ago, so I am very selective with whom I form relationships. You're right, as I am very worldly, but not well educated. I'm dyslexic, so I never managed any academic qualifications. But I am bright and intelligent, and I can learn very quickly. I speak well because I was fostered with a well-spoken family for some time and they taught me how to speak properly. I lost my working-class accent, so now feel confident that I can communicate without any disadvantage.”

He nodded.

“So, where in Ireland are you from?” he asked.

“I'm not, not really. My dad was Irish, but I've lived all over Europe. He was a soldier in the British army, yet he was fiercely Irish. I went to so many different schools that I can't remember them all. I went to one for only four weeks.”

He stroked my hair away from my face.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, kissing my neck. It sent shivers down my spine, so I closed my eyes and let him keep going. I felt my nipples harden. At that moment I knew that I would go to bed with him.

He stopped.

“I'm sorry,” he said, and I frowned.

“What for, it was quite nice?”

“I am not very good with girls any more. I seem to confuse their signals. I think it was my ex who screwed me up.”

“How?”

“She pissed off with some else.”

“Did you know him?”

“Had it been a him, I would be fine. She left me for another woman.”

“Oh, nasty. What happened?”

“I was on the area team, a crime squad, specialising in burglaries and car crime. I was doing loads of overtime, as we had a big mortgage and I thought we were going to start a family. Anyway she was getting more distant and sex seemed to dry up. I came home early one day, unexpectedly, and I found her in bed with her best friend.”

“What happened?”

“We had a fight, and I threw her out. She tried to come back, but the trust was gone, so we divorced. She was in work and earning as much as me, so financially I was okay. We sold the house, splitting the small profit. She moved in with her friend and I occasionally see them around.”

“Does she live around here?”

“No, she's moved to Reading, but she still has friends here.”

“When did you split up?”

“It's been a couple of years now, nearly.”

“I'm surprised you haven't met someone else, a good looking fella like you.”

“I've met loads, but I get to this point, and seem to just fizzle out. I'm sorry, but I just sort of run out of courage.”

I half turned on the sofa and looked at him. I tried to guess whether this was a line. He looked so miserable that I decided that it wasn't, and he was genuinely suffering from a crisis of confidence. I smiled, as I loved a challenge.

I finished my chocolate , and put the mug down on the table.

“So, what is it that you feel unable to do?” I asked.

“Everything. I can meet girls, and make and go out on dates. But then I get to this stage, and it is as if everything freezes. I feel so fucking silly. I've not actually told anyone this before.”

“So, why tell me?”

“I don't know. I guess I feel that you will understand somehow. Shit, Jemma, I am so sorry, I feel a complete idiot.”

“I tell you what, why don't I give you a massage? That way, you won't have anything to do except lie back and enjoy it. And if anything happens, just let it. How about it?”

“I don't know. What kind of massage?”

“One that I don't normally give to clients.”

He looked frightened.

“Look, Martin. Face your demons. I won't bite, and I am not after your body. I am a big girl; I am free and happy. I am not looking for a relationship, but of one comes along, I may catch it like a bus. I'll take it as long as it goes my way. So you have nothing to lose. Besides, you bought me earrings, flowers and a lovely evening out. Consider this the payback.”

I pulled him to his feet and led him to my bedroom. I pulled back my duvet from the king size bed, placing a large bath towel on the sheet.

“Get undressed, lie on the towel, face up and put this smaller towel over your important bits,” I told him and then I went into my bathroom and stripped off. I put on my short Chinese wrap, the same one I had had inside. I was naked underneath, and I went back out to find him on the bed as instructed. I oiled my hands, and started with his right foot, working up to his knees and then the other foot, then his arms, and chest. I massaged his temples, and neck. I felt him relax.

“Turn over.”

He rolled over, and I kept the towel over his bum. I stood beside him and oiled his back. I massaged him properly for a while, but then I got onto the bed, kneeling astride him and taking off my wrap. I felt the muscles in his shoulders and neck relax and he had his eyes closed. I moved down and massaged his buttocks; he never noticed the towel had gone. I then massaged his thighs and calves. He was making little pleasure noises, purring like a cat.

“Turn over.”

He rolled over and still had his eyes closed. I knelt astride him as his cock rose to the occasion. I massaged his shoulders again and then he opened his eyes as I kissed him. His erection was strong and straight. There was nothing wrong with the mechanics. I had smeared oil all over my body, so I rubbed myself against him.

He was kissing me, passionately and his hands were busy. I rose slightly, reaching below me and helping him slip into me. I sank down, letting him impale me up to the hilt.

I rocked back and forwards gently, as he was caressing my tits.

I found the place where his pubic area was directly below my clitoris, and the rocking movement brought me to orgasm.

He started to screw me, slowly and with delicate precision, and we moved in time with one another. Faster and faster, we just kept the rhythm going, he kissed my tits, and sucked so hard that I came again and again.

Then he stuck a finger up my ass, and I went mad. I rode him so hard, that I lost count of the amount of times I came, and finally he shuddered and arched his back, forcing himself as deep inside me as he could go. I felt his spasms as he shot his seed inside me.

I kissed him and felt him subside inside me, and slither out as he shrank.

“There, that wasn't so bad, was it?” I asked.

He reached out and held me, pulling me towards him and holding me close. We were both wet with sweat, oil and natural juices. It was very carnal.

“That was amazing. I have never experienced anything like that. Thank you so much,” he said, kissing me very gently.

“Come on, let's shower, otherwise we will muck the sheets up.”

We showered together, and he was so damn loving. He washed every inch of my body, and kissed it to make sure. By the time we got out I wanted him again. I was as horny as hell.

He then insisted on drying me, and kissed each part to check he had done it properly. I would have let him do anything to me by this time.

He dried himself off, and I literally dragged him back to bed. I pulled the old towel off the sheet, and lay down on my tummy, with my ass in the air.

“Fuck me, doggie. Just fuck me!” I said, and boy, did he!

I awoke when my alarm went off at eight, to find him gone. We had been still screwing at four when he muttered about being on early turn. I then went unconscious, but now he had left me.

I staggered to the bathroom, and a single red rose was on my towel, with a note.

“Soppy sod,” I said, stepping into the shower.

I arrived at work on time, to find things already getting going. The appointment book was full, so I went off to recruit some more hands. I dropped into the recruitment agencies and employment office, leaving cards everywhere. I had just got back when the first hopefuls were contacting me.

Most were girls who had been the other kind of masseuses , and I was not interested. But two girls were qualified and were also beauticians, so I took them on. One bloke applied. He was called Darren and he was an ex-squaddie who was given a course on his discharge from the army. He was quite well qualified, but had no experience. I also suspected that there was something else, as he didn't respond to me as most blokes did.

He didn't tell me, but I instantly knew. It was the way he looked at me and the other girls, or rather the way he didn't look at us! He was about 5'10”, well muscled and good looking, with very short hair. In 1975 only the police or military had short hair. But he had something about him with which I could identify and it was like an inner anger and fire that needed quenching.

“So, Darren. How long did you do?”

“Five years.”

“What were you in?”

“REME. I serviced tanks, Chieftains mainly.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“All over, Germany with the 17/21 st . Tidworth with the 4 th /7 th , and Catterick with the 3RTR.”

“So, why did you leave?” I asked, and he flushed slightly.

“I'd done enough and I wanted out.”

“Darren, you don't have to answer this and I don't intend to offend you, nor is it any of my business. But did you leaving have anything to do with, you know what?”

He stared at me. He blinked, and I thought I had misjudged him.

“You can tell?”

I nodded.

He looked down and seemed to crumple slightly.

“Darren, it doesn't matter. Gay or straight, as long as you can do the job and leave your private life at home, then why the hell should I care? I'm not your mother, so as long as you are good at your job, you won't ever fall foul with me. You've got the job. Okay?”

He looked at me, frowning.

“You know what I am, yet you still give me the job. Why?”

“Don't you want it?”

“Of course I want it, but I don't understand.”

“Darren, lots of things in life seem cut and dried, and other things aren't. Let's put it this way, I don't care what you are, as I want you to find some happiness. If I can help you do that, then I will find a little too. Life is a right sod when it wants to be, so one has to make the best of what one has. When one can't, then one must fight for what one wants and needs.

“Here, you can be the person you have always wanted to be. We won't judge you and we won't hurt you. You can be among friends and relax for the first time in your life.”

He surprised me then, as he broke down and wept.

I gave him a cuddle until he got it together again. Then he gave me a grin.

“You have no idea how hard the last five years have been. Even longer, as I became aware that I was gay when I was in my early teens. I have not had a steady relationship ever, but I saw your advert and thought, yes, that might be just what I could do with.”

“Darren, when it comes to hard, believe me, you have nothing you can teach this girl.”

He looked at me, frowning slightly. I relaxed and smiled.

“Okay, can you start soon?”

“As soon as you like, how about now?”

“How about tomorrow? A month's trial, so if you don't like it, or if we find you are not up to it, then neither of us lose too much.”

“Fine, that sounds good to me. I appreciate this.”

“Darren, we could do with a bloke around, as we've already had one nutter who tried to get nasty.”

He frowned.

“What happened?”

“I took care of him, but it might not be me next time.”

He stared at me and smiled.

“You look very capable.”

“Oh, I am, Darren. Believe me, I am.”

Darren grinned, shaking my hand as he left. I shook my head sadly, there were so many screwed up people out there. I was pleased I wasn't one of them any more.

Life settled down. The rush died back, but to a satisfactory level that justified our new staffing levels. Darren was exceptional, adding a fresh dimension to our family. Once he lost his military starchiness he was brilliant and he was just another one of the girls.

Business was so good, that I reviewed salary levels, giving everyone a slight increase. I spent a very interesting day with my financial adviser/accountant, Robert, and was told that I was doing very nicely, thank you very much. In fact, I was doing so well, I bought the flat above the centre, converting it to expand the business to create a small fitness centre. We shuffled things around, moving the beauticians and massage booths upstairs, making the ground floor the fitness centre.

Then, in March, Sally and I pissed off to Austria for a skiing holiday.

8.

Franz had the biggest cock of all the men I had been with so far. He also had an excessive libido and ego.

I had never been skiing before, well, to be honest, I had never been on holiday before. I don't count Southend-on-Sea. I had arrived in the Alps with a fresh view and I adored the place from the moment I stepped off the bus. The air was crisp and clean, and the views were out of this world. Our chalet was a picturesque Alpine cabin, tucked up high in the town, and twelve of us were together, and all looked after by a very nice English girl called Sarah. We were all girls of a similar age.

Sally and I shared a room which was quite small, but sufficient for our needs. There was a pair of bathrooms, a living room with dining area, and a kitchen with breakfast bar into the dining area. Once settled, we went off to locate all our equipment.

We collected our skis, boots and ski passes, and headed off to meet our instructors at the ski-school.

Sally had skied before, but I was in a beginners' class of spotty kids who were all about fourteen. Most were British, but a couple were from other strange parts. I had spent far too much money on a canary yellow set of ski pants and ski jacket, with matching hat and all the extras. I looked so professional, until I put on my skis.

I spent most of my time on my arse with a serious case of the giggles. Yet, I hadn't even managed to reach the nursery slopes. A very firm hand grabbed my arm, and I was upright once more. My rescuer was very big, very blond and very beautiful. Square of jaw, and bronzed to a deep golden brown, he wore his ski instructor's pullover with aplomb. He also wore a very fetching white cap, which no one else managed to copy.

He grinned at me, showing me his beautiful set of pearly white teeth.

“Guten tag, fraulein. My name ist Franz. I hope ve enjoy each udder,” he said. As he let go of my arm he managed an almost perfect pirouette in front of me. I smiled, tried to look sophisticated and sexy, but promptly fell over again and got the giggles.

That first day, he taught us firstly how to stand and walk about in skis, then to go up small rises, and then down small rises. Once we mastered that, he taught us the snowplough. It was a really hard two hours. And by the end of it, I was completely knackered.

I was the worst by far. Firstly, I was the oldest in my class. I was also the most prone to giggle and be silly, but I was also the prime target for Franz's libido. He would tease me and try to charm me at the same time. The others just managed to swish away and get down the gentle hill with little difficulty. By the time I tried, I was half hysterical with laughter, and just completely inept.

If God had intended me to ski, he'd have given me longer feet. But, thankfully, the end of the morning lesson arrived , and Franz led us to a small café where we had lunch. He sat his ample body next to mine and told me how wonderfully I was doing.

“Bollocks,” I replied, which threw him completely, but caused my spotty classmates to giggle.

He bought me a beer and kept up his charm all through lunch. At the end he bought me a small glass of schnapps. I knew exactly what he was after, but shrugged and drank it anyway. By the jealous looks some of the fifteen year old girls were giving me, they knew what he was after as well.

I smiled, as he knew that I was more likely to give it than they.

The afternoon lesson went much better. I was relaxed, and didn't give a toss if I fell or not. As a result I only fell once and progressed to being the third worst in the class. After an hour of fannying about at the bottom of the slopes, he took us up my first ski tow.

I looked in trepidation at this inverted T bar affair which took two people at once with the T as a sort of arse-hook. I watched the others fall left, right and centre, and then it was my turn, and guess who came as my partner?

Yup, Franz.

We managed to reach the top. A great day in the annals of sporting achievements as far as I was concerned. It was my greatest sporting moment since I unwittingly knocked out the missing link at seven years old in a boxing ring.

It was still the nursery slopes, but the exhilaration I felt skiing down my first longish slope was amazing. I was hooked, and from that moment on my attitude changed completely, so I progressed much more quickly.

As we met up at the bottom of the hill at the end of the day, I was very tired, and yet on a high. We gathered round Franz like ducklings around a mother duck.

He smiled round the group.

“Vell. A gud day. Ja? You all did vell. Tomorrow you com back, und ve go up a bigger hill, ja? Ve hav de lunch at ze top of der mountain, und ski all ze vay down again.”

Some tittered, others just smiled, and he caught my eyes.

“I sink ve enjoy each udder very much.”

I smiled and raised one eyebrow, and he grinned.

“Zat's it. Same time tomorrow.”

They all turned and raced away, several falling in the process. I slowly turned and he was beside me before I managed to get very far.

“Jemma, you have not skied before, no?” Suddenly his English was much clearer, almost fluent, but with a discernible American accent.

“No, never,” I said.

“For the first time you did very well, once you lost your fear of falling.”

I stopped, as I found it hard to talk and ski, albeit slowly.

“Franz, you're a fake. You speak perfectly good English.”

He grinned.

“Of course, I spent three years teaching ski-school in America.”

“So why the outrageous accent?”

He laughed.

“The kids expect it. I am just an exotic foreigner.”

“You're full of bullshit.”

“Of course, why do you think I drop it with you?”

“Probably because I am the only one you can legally fuck, and the only one who looks as if she might actually know what to do and enjoy it.”

He stared at me for a second, and then burst out laughing.

“Oh, you English girls, you are so direct. The American girls flirt and then run. The German girls look sexy, and then when you are almost past the point of no return, they want you to marry them first. But you say what you mean and treat sex as a sport.”

“Well, isn't it?” I asked.

He chuckled.

“Well, can I buy you a drink later?” he asked.

“Why not? When and where?”

He named a bar, giving me directions.

“Can I bring a friend?”

“Girl or boy?”

“Girl. Anyway I don't date boys.”

He stared at me frowning.

“Don't look so worried, I only date men, never boys.”

The smile returned, and he skied off, leaving me to attempt to get down without falling over.

I got back to the chalet, thereby bagging the bathroom first. I had a very long luxurious bath, and only got out when the others threatened to burn the door down.

I then changed into some warm but very sexy après-ski clothes and told Sally that we were going to the instructors' bar for a drink. She grinned and was changed in a quarter of the time I took. Sarah cooked us a superb meal and then we were off.

We found the bar, and went in. This was obviously the place the instructors took the girls they had selected for extra-curricula activities. It had twice the atmosphere than the standard tourist bars.

Franz was watching for me, and when he saw Sally too, he nudged his companion, another bronzed instructor-god sitting next to him. They both grinned. If they ever broke their legs, they could always sell toothpaste.

Soon we were ensconced at a small booth for four with Franz and his friend Reinhardt. I was not a great beer drinker, my liquid capacity was never that great, but the German beer was quite nice. But when the schnapps started, I stopped. I knew exactly what was going on, so I wanted to be sober enough to appreciate it.

But Sally was game for anything, and she drank anything they put in front of her. Franz met my eyes, and I frowned and shook my head. He whispered to Reinhardt, so they stopped before the poor girl brought up her supper.

The disco started and most got up and danced. Sally was one of the first, her few inhibitions were completely lost by this time. I declined a dance from Franz.

“I want to conserve my energy for later,” I said.

We made some small talk, until the music slowed.

“Will you dance now?” he asked. I nodded, so he stood up and held out his hand. I took it, and he almost lifted me off the ground. His strength was immense.

We smooched for a few dances and we kissed. He was a good kisser, loads of practice I thought. He knew exactly which buttons to push and I reached that point whereby I knew exactly what I wanted and so did he.

I glanced at Sally and smiled. She would be lucky to find a bed in time. She was so latched onto her blond demi-god, I thought they'd be copulating on the dance floor.

Franz took me to his room. It was a cosy room above the bar, very well placed, I thought. He literally undressed me, and was very experienced. He was also exceptionally well endowed, and more than ready. I was a little perturbed; as he was bigger than anyone I had yet taken to bed.

But he got me to such a state that I was more than ready for him. He laid me on the bed, slowly entering me as if he knew that his size was a concern to us ladies. He was a very considerate lover, and very strong. He had wonderful stamina and by the time he eventually climaxed, I was wringing wet and almost giddy with pleasure. We lay entwined and I loved to feel such a big man in my arms.

We said nothing, as there was no pretence at love or even affection, as it was purely animalistic and sexual between us. I just lay there feeling sated, feeling happy that I could satisfy such a man properly. It gave me a warm feeling knowing that the only difference was that I could not conceive a child. For that I still felt sad, but was still more than prepared to live with it. I was supremely content with my gender.

That night I tried positions that I had never dreamed of. Franz was truly a giant , and even screwed me standing up. I simply wrapped my legs around him, and he held me under my bum, and it was amazing. Eventually, in the small hours, I left him, making my weary way back to my chalet. I crashed out, and only just managed to get to the class on time at ten.

The fortnight was totally exhausting, yet the only consolation was that Sally was as knackered as I.

We skied all day and screwed all night. Franz and I forgot all about the bar, drink and dancing. I ate my meal with the others and then went straight to his room where we just got straight down to it. Sally could be heard through the thin walls. She was a screamer, in that whenever she had an orgasm, she wanted everyone to know it. If she was a virgin when she arrived, she certainly wasn't when she left.

I even progressed on the ski slopes. Maybe not to Olympic standards, but certainly I was no longer a beginner. I was sad when the holiday came to an end, but quite pleased to be going back home for a rest.

On the last day, the afternoon was a sort of free for all. We had a little competition, and after that there was about an hour of doing what we wanted. Franz took me up the highest chairlift, and he showed me a delightful run through the trees. We came to a secluded spot, took of our skis and clothes, and then made glorious love in the snow. He thoughtfully brought a small blanket so I didn't freeze my bum.

“You come back next year?” he said, as we dressed afterwards.

“Maybe,” I said.

“It would be good if you did.”

“I'm not stupid, you find a girl in every class.”

“No. You are the first this year.”

“I don't believe you.”

“It's true. I usually have the beginners, so most are too young. But you are different. You and me, we are very good together.”

I couldn't argue, as we were. Neither of us demanded anything else from each other, and it was a perfect arrangement. But it was not something I wanted to continue. There was more to life than sex. I actually wanted love. I don't think I had ever really experienced it. I thought I had, with Larry, Matt, and even Martin. But it was not really, and I could see that.

“No Franz. It was great while it lasted, but I have learned never to go back. I change, you change, and the world changes. If I come back, then it will never be the same.”

I clicked on my skis, smiled at him and skied out of his life.

Sally and I returned to find that the business was still there, and life went on. Martin, who became quite a common feature in my life, was now transferred to the CID at Maidenhead, so I saw less and less of him.

One day, I was just locking up the centre, he appeared.

“Hi Jem,” he said.

“Well, well. Hello stranger. What have I done to deserve a visit from one so esteemed?”

He smiled, but I knew exactly why he was here.

“Come on, take me to the pub, and you can tell me about her,” I said, and he gawped at me.

We popped into the king's head, and he bought me a gin and tonic.

“Well, who is she?”

“How did you know?”

“I'm not stupid, Martin. I see less and less of you, and when I do see you, you are distracted and not really with it. Look, we were lovers, not husband and wife. We have both had a need met in each other, and we move on. In this case you are moving on first. So, who is she?”

“You don't mind?”

“Of course I fucking mind, you stupid man. But I don't bloody own you. If you had said you loved me and had sworn undying love to your dying day, then I would have reason to get really pissed with you. But neither of us has got that far, and quite rightly too. So, who is she?”

“I work with her. She is a WDC at Maidenhead and, well, I think I love her.”

“Good. Then you are cured, so I can take you off my books,” I said, draining my drink.

“You're angry,” he said, looking guilty and sheepish.

“No, I'm not angry, not really. I'm hurt, yes, but not angry. Not by you, but by me. You see; I'm fond of you, Martin, but obviously not enough. Only by losing you to someone else, do I learn how fond, and what it means to lose someone. In a way I'm relieved, as we both know that our lives follow very different paths, as I could never be a copper's wife. But I will miss you, and I respect your honesty. Have you slept with her yet?”

He looked at me sharply and looked down.

“No, she wanted to, but I told her I wouldn't. Not until I had spoken to you.”

I took his hand.

“Martin, I give you my blessing, for what it is worth. I would like to stay your friend, but I guess having me around may cause embarrassment.”

He shook his head.

“Never. You are the most gracious and lovely woman I know. The main reason I haven't taken our relationship further is that I feel unworthy.”

“Unworthy? Martin, how daft is that?” I said, genuinely surprised. I was the one who felt unworthy and a fraud.

“You don't see it do you?”

“See what?”

“You are on a different level to most of us. I just feel humble that we have enjoyed the time together that we had.”

“You soppy sod. Go on, go and live your life. But invite me to your wedding.”

He stood up, and kissed my cheek.

“I can never express the thanks to you for what you have done for me and what you have meant to me. In a way, I really do love you.”

“Bastard. What a time to tell me!” I said, and he smiled.

“Goodbye Jemma, when you meet your knight in shining armour, I hope he is good enough for you.”

Then he was gone.

I seemed destined to lose men.

9.

“Are you sure, Jemma? I mean you spent so much building the business up and everything,” Sally asked.

“Sally. The fun was building it up. Now it's going well, I have sort of lost interest. Besides, I will still be part owner, as I retain a quarter share in it, only I won't be around for the fun.”

Her father had helped her buy half the business from me, so she was now set up for life. Her father was delighted, as she had passed his expectations he had for her. As a result, he was effusive in his praises for the way I had mentored her and given her a bright future. It was just as well I didn't tell him about the bedroom antics we got up to in Austria.

She was staying on and running the place and I was off with new ideas as to my future. The other staff members had all bought the remaining quarter, so everyone had a vested interest in keeping it going.

Darren had really blossomed, as he had a list of clients as long as your arm. Most were women who adored him, but I noticed that there were more and more men on the list.

He had met a young man with whom he was now living in a little terraced house on the outskirts of Windsor. His hair had grown slightly, and he was now smiling most of the time. Sally and I had gone round for dinner with them and they were a very cute couple.

Morris was a chef in one of the big hotels near Heathrow, and so dinner was superb. He was a slight boy, the same age as Darren, and with his long hair and effeminate gestures, he reminded me of someone else. He adored Darren, and they were very tactile once they became used to our company.

I got onto the subject of gender and sex change, and both were quite clear that they were perfectly content as males.

“I can't understand anyone who wants to change,” Darren said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well, would you ever consider becoming a male?” he asked me.

I smiled. If only he knew.

“Nothing would ever make me want to be a male. I'm totally and blissfully happy as I am,” I said honestly.

“I wouldn't mind being a bloke for a day. I'd love to know what it's like,” Sally said.

“I couldn't cope with the bleeding and stuff,” said Morris.

“If you changed, you wouldn't have any of it,” I pointed out.

“You would have to take hormones all your life,” said Darren.

“So, what do you think the bloody pill is?” I asked.

“True, but you stop if you want a baby,” Morris stated.

Sally looked at me, as she was aware that I couldn't have children. I had told her the accident story, so she knew that I was sensitive about that subject.

Darren noted the look, and nudged Morris, who looked questioningly at him.

“Morris, I can't have children. I was in an accident some years ago. Although they saved my life, I can't get pregnant.”

“Oh, Jemma, I'm so sorry. I didn't know.”

“There was no reason for you to. Don't worry, as I'm okay with it. So, I must be like a sex change case.”

“Come on Jemma. You are the last person who could possibly have been a bloke. You are the most perfect girl I have ever met. If I had to go straight, it would be for someone like you,” Darren said, and I smiled. Praise indeed.

“Aw shucks, gee thanks, Darren, what a compliment.”

“I must say, I do sometimes wonder what it would be like being a girl,” Morris said.

“You wouldn't have Darren if you did,” Sally said.

“Mmm, but it must be nice to dress in those pretty clothes and just be, well, just feminine.”

“It's great,” I said.

“Have you ever dressed up?” Sally asked Morris.

“Once, I went to a party and it took some people ages to realise that I wasn't a real girl,” he said with a grin.

“Did you like it?” I asked.

“It was okay. I didn't get turned on by the clothes, but I liked the attention I got from the men.”

I smiled, different folks, different strokes.

“Did you ever wish you had been born a girl?” Sally asked.

“When I first realised I was gay, yes. But when I came to terms with it, I am quite happy being male and a gay male.”

I couldn't identify with that. But then I knew that underneath it all, I had always been a girl. I didn't want to just be an effeminate boy, it was either a girl or, or nothing. It was at that moment that it dawned on me that I would have achieved my ambition, whatever the cost and whatever the pain.

Luckily someone changed the subject, so the conversation lightened a little.

As Sally and I left, Darren was effusive with his gratitude towards me giving him the chance.

“I was about as low as one could get, so it was simply brilliant to come into the centre and to just be open about who and what I was. It has meant so much to me.”

I kissed his cheek.

“Everyone needs freedom to be themselves. And no one should be alone. Who is to say what is right or wrong? One day we may find out. I say look after yourself, but be nice to everyone else along the way.”

Sally dropped me off and I went to bed. Although I didn't have anyone in my life, I was content. I was very secure with who I was and was in no rush to change things too fast. I faced my future with excitement, as everyday brought me more joy as I grew as a person.

It was strange not rushing in to work on the following day. I had a lazy morning just pottering around the flat doing those little jobs I had always been too busy to do. It was early June, so it was a nice warm day. I had no rush to do anything in particular.

I went to see Robert, my accountant and money genius, and he told me that my finances were very healthy. I had a lot of money invested in property, blocks of flats and commercial properties in and around the South East. He'd been stung by stocks and shares a couple of times, and reckoned that property was the thing to have your money in.

I had made a nice profit on the business, having walked away with thirty thousand in hand as well as still owning one quarter of the business. My tax returns were always spot-on, so I was looking for something that I could take an interest in.

I kept in touch with Stuart, and every now and again I visited George and Lynette. But I had moved on and I saw them as little people leading such little lives. I was amazed at myself, as it was clear to me that my destiny lay in a different direction. When I first went to stay with Lynette, I had thought she was so much my social superior that I was very self conscious and rather ashamed of myself. But in a very short space of time, I had elevated myself, both in age and social standing to a different level, and one in which I felt completely at home. My voice was indistinguishable from a girl who had been sent to the best schools and had had her coming out party at the Hurlingham Club in Chelsea. My clothes, make up and general appearance were the best, so I looked every inch a delightful debutant.

Sally helped. As she had the schooling (despite not finishing), the voice and was due to have her party at the self same club. As I spent quite a lot of my time with her and her family, I moulded myself into the type of person I wanted to be. I kept a little hard or rough edge, as I did not want to be quite so precious as some appeared to be. I was a human chameleon. Such was my experience that I was able to blend with whatever environment I happened to find myself. I could adopt and adapt accents very easily and was used to assessing those around me quite accurately.

I followed, with interest, the decline in the media's interest in Jimmy Gardner; that is except for one journalist called Robin Hawksmith. He worked for the Sun, and every now and again he asked the question, “Is this Jimmy Gardner?” showing a photograph of some unfortunate kid.

I was interested in this man, so one day, with nothing better to do, I set off for Fleet Street. I had not been into London for a long time, and certainly not as Jemma. I travelled in by train, took a cab from the station and alighted at Fleet Street. I walked around, looking at the various papers and checking the pubs out. I chatted to the bar staff, to discover which one Robin preferred. He was known in all of them, but tended to favour one in particular. The Duke of York was a small rather scruffy pub, and when I first saw Robin, I thought, how appropriate.

He was small and scruffy, and could do with a new suit. He came in and sat by himself in the corner. He dug a novel out of his pocket and read while he drank his pint of bitter. Another pair of younger journalist came in and, on buying their drinks, sat at the table next to him. I pretended to be considering a university course in journalism, so engaged the couple in conversation.

“Is it a career for a woman?” I asked.

“No reason why not. As long as you have an eye for a story and can write well,” said one.

“No,” came an emphatic answer from Robin.

I looked at him, feigning surprise.

“Oh. And why not?” I asked.

“No disrespect to you, or your fair sex, but to be honest, no woman has the grit and determination to make it in journalism. It is simply a matter of strength of character and will.”

The two guys I sat with shook their heads and looked at him as a bit of a joke.

“So Robin, what makes you such a good journalist? Name one good story that you scooped an exclusive of,” one asked. I could tell he was teasing the man.

“How about the Gardner story?” he said.

“What was that?” I asked.

The pair laughed.

“Come off it, that was a nothing. You found that some kid had been fucked about inside some detention centre, and then another one who had been convicted wrongly, and put them together.”

“I tell you they were one and the same.”

“Maybe, but where is your evidence?”

“What was this story?” I asked.

“Several years ago, a young man was convicted of assault and was sent down for two years. Whilst inside, he was treated with drugs or hormones to control his violence to the point whereby he was sterilised by the state. He was released and sued the prison service. They settled out of court, and because he was under age, he was never named.”

“How much did he get?” I asked.

“Again, the sneaky bastards settled and didn't have to disclose the amount, but I was told that it was almost a million quid.”

“Gosh, he must have been a happy boy.”

“Happy or not, he promptly vanished, and then another kid, James Gardner, has his conviction, also for assault as it happens, overturned as the man who made the allegation was a paedophile. It turns out that he blackmailed the lad into having sex with him. Again, the state settled, but revealed that he got £90,000. But there is no trace of Gardner, he simply walked out of the detention centre and vanished.”

“So what happened to him?”

“I have a theory,” said Robin, and was obviously not going to say any more. The other two laughed at him and they got up and left.

“I think this is fascinating. It must be so exciting to be able to work out things like this. You are so clever,” I gushed, and he smiled humbly.

“So what do you really think happened?”

He looked around, continuing with a lowered voice.

“I think he was done away with and the state kept the money.”

“Really? How did they manage it?”

“Well, on the day he was released, everyone saw him walk to the gate. Now, there was only two ways to get anywhere from that place, by car or by bus. The station is about four miles away and he was booked on a train to London. There was a warrant to Liverpool Street. It was used, but it wasn't used by Gardner.

“I traced a taxi driver who had the only pick up of the day, but he picked up a young woman who had been visiting someone. He was quite sure that the girl was definitely a girl, so I ruled out disguise.”

“Why?”

“The driver said that she had nice tits, because during the journey she dropped her purse, and when she bent over, he saw down her cleavage, and that amount of flesh is not something you can grow overnight.”

“Oh.”

“So, she had a ticket, as I spoke to the conductor , who remembers her. But no one remembers who cashed in the warrant. So what happened to Jimmy?”

“I don't know, do you?” I asked, concerned at the detail he had managed to reveal already.

“He was taken out by van. The bastards took him out before he reached the outer gate. There are two gates, so he was simply bundled into a van and then driven away. He's probably lying in a shallow grave somewhere deep in the Essex countryside.”

Now I knew that the outer gate was rarely closed and on the day I left it was open. The toilets were located between the two gates and I should know.

“What if you are wrong? Are you sure the girl wasn't him? If he had been given hormones, wouldn't he look like a girl, boobs and all?”

Robin stared at me, frowning slightly.

“I thought of that. But I spoke to the taxi driver, the ticket man and the conductor. They all stated that she was no way a boy dressed up. Now, they are all mature men, some with daughters of their own. So I hardly think that some poor boy with too many hormones would fool all three. One, maybe, but not all three.”

“So, if not, and he did get out, where is he now?” I asked.

“Probably abroad. If they didn't bump him off, they could have simply helped him bugger off to Australia, having given him a new identity.”

“As a boy or a girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. But why are you still interested?”

“Because, and this is at the heart of your original question, I want to know. It is important to me that I know. I hate not knowing, and I resent the lengths that the state go to try to prevent me from knowing.”

“What if he simply made his mind up to disappear, and the state didn't have anything to do with it?”

“Don't be silly. Do you know anything about him?”

I shook my head.

“He was only sixteen, he was ill-educated, couldn't even read, according to his last English teacher. He was weak and had a terrible temper. He had no common sense and little imagination and no friends at all. His solicitor, Stuart somebody, was a smarmy shyster , who simply did what he was told. No, young lady, mark my words, Jimmy Gardner was too stupid to disappear by himself. He had government help.”

“What about if he changed his name? Aren't there records one could check?”

“Good thinking, yes there are, and I've checked them. There are no records of James Gardner changing his name to anything from around the time he was released right up until last week. I check regularly.”

“Gosh. How clever,” I said.

“You see, I've spent twenty years in the business. So it isn't something you can learn in a few years at university. I've researched everything about him. I found out he had a boyfriend called Larry from Colchester. And so I even sat up watching his flat for months in case he should come and call. Larry is a junkie and I even paid him a retainer to give me a nod in case Jimmy called him.”

“So he's gay?” I said, thanking God that I never went near Larry's flat and that Larry never recognised me.

“So it would appear.”

“I can see that it would be very hard to fool you. So if he was to come up to you, do you think you would recognise him?”

“Oh yes. I have a photograph of him when he was fourteen, the last one before he was arrested. Do you want to see it?”

My heart almost stopped.

“Yes, very much,” I heard myself say.

He opened his wallet, taking out a grainy photograph of a complete stranger.

“His sister gave it to me.”

I stared at it and saw it was me, but it was like looking at a complete stranger. I had been thin, very thin, and so my face was haggard and drawn. Great dark circles were under my eyes and I had a haunted look. I remembered it being taken. It was the second day at Southend-on Sea. My father had a box brownie and he took the photograph during one of his sober moments. I had stomach cramps that day and had been very unwell for 24 hours.

“Gosh, so what does he look like now?” I asked, looking straight at him.

He shrugged.

“God knows, but I think I would instantly know if I should even get a glance.”

I smiled and offered him a drink, which he accepted. He then went on to give me all kinds of helpful hints about my choice of career. Finally, he said something for which I almost hit him.

“You see, for a fine girl like you, with good looks, private education and obvious breeding, there is no real need for you to worry your pretty head with a career. You see, once you meet a good looking chap and settle down to have babies, your job to nurture and bring these children up is far more important than any silly idea about being a journalist.”

“Well, maybe you are right, or then again maybe you aren't. But what ever happens, I hope I have more to show for twenty years than you do. Goodbye, Mr Hawksmith, and thank you for your time. I think I agree with your theory about Jimmy whatsit. I think he is probably dead.”

I turned and walked out, confident that he was as far away as ever, but knew that I should never get complacent.

I decided that while I was in London to have a brief look down memory lane and look at where I grew up. I got on the Central Line of the Underground, got off at Bethnal Green and travelled up to Mare Street by a 256 bus.

As I looked at familiar streets, it was as if I had never been away. But, at the same time, they looked foreign. The estates looked as bleak as I remembered, but smaller somehow. I got off the bus and was going to walk through the estate where we used to have a flat in the Pembury Road. But I was stopped by a police officer.

“Sorry love, but you can go in for a bit,” he said.

“Why not?”

“There's been a stabbing, so it's a crime scene. Do you live here?”

“No. I was trying to track down a friend from way back, and I was hoping to find her here.”

“Well, I'd advise you to come back another time. Sorry.”

I smiled, but walked away, grateful really that I was spared the pleasure of looking at my old flat. I walked the short distance into Clarence Road, and up to where the house was. I stood and looked at the boarded up front door and windows. Obviously after Dad went to hospital, the place fell into disrepair and there wasn't enough money to refurbish it. The whole area was pretty awful, and I realised that I had dragged myself out of this gutter, at least temporarily.

As I turned and walked back towards Mare Street, a police car pulled alongside.

“Hello. Are you lost?” said the young police constable who was driving. It was a different one to before.

“No, I am on my way out,” I said.

“Not the best place to be walking about by yourself. Do you want a lift to the station?”

“Thanks, but I'm okay.”

“Seriously, there are muggings here every day. It is no problem, I'll take you to the tube. I have to go that way anyway.”

So, I accepted and was not surprised when he tried to chat me up and ask for a date. I managed to get to the station without getting engaged, but thought that the Metropolitan Police should consider putting bromide in the tea.

It was still only lunchtime, so I decided to do a little shopping in Oxford Street. I had a bit to eat in a small bistro and then spent a lovely afternoon increasing my wardrobe. I had a wonderful time, but as I watched couples mosey amongst the crowds, I felt a pang of loneliness. I actually wanted to be part of a couple.

I had my hair done at a really expensive salon. After a makeover and manicure, I left and bought the most outrageously expensive dress that made me look like a million dollar move star. It was pale yellow and beautifully cut. Tight down to just above the knee, with a single slit up the back to allow the legs some degree of movement. It tapered in to accentuate my slender waist and was cut low across my breasts in such a way as to bring perfect definition to my already beautiful figure. Over the months my breasts had now stopped growing, having settled at a nice 36C. I was more than content, as any larger would have induced a little sagging. My hair was lovely, shaped and styled to look carefree, yet controlled, with the natural pale highlights giving it a shimmering gold effect. I also bought a wide brimmed white hat with matching yellow band, and yellow high-heeled sandals. I thought I looked like a ray of golden sunshine, adoring the feeling the effect had on me.

I left the shop and walked down the pavement, conscious of the male heads turning as I passed. I caught my reflection in the windows as the beautiful girl carrying several carrier bags grinned with unrestrained joy. To say I was happy was the understatement of the century. The sun was out and I felt on top of the world.

I decided to take a taxi to the station, so I could get home with my new acquisitions. I had heard that a cream-tea at the Grosvenor House Hotel was the ‘thing' to do, so I decided to treat myself. I went in, asked the girl at the cloakroom if she could look after my bags, and went to the tearoom. There was a six-piece band playing old style waltzes and the atmosphere was totally surreal. I imagined that this was how things were between the wars. There were lots of people sat around the dance floor, and many of the tables were taken.

There was a large square dance floor with pillars at each corner, supporting the high ceiling. There were a few tables surrounding the floor, but most were set higher on the raised area that surrounded it. A marble rail and posts encircled the area, and indoor plants gave it a very colonial feel.

I was shown to a table and ordered a full cream-tea. There were half a dozen couples dancing and they looked very graceful. I envied their skill, wishing I could dance like that.

My tea arrived, with two scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam. I sat and indulged myself, taking care that I didn't spill anything on my new dress.

People came and went, with new couples dancing. I ached a little, as I was reminded that I was very alone. I suppose I may have looked a little wistful, but I jumped when a cultured voice snapped me out of my reverie.

“Señorita, is this chair taken?”

I looked up to see a tall, broad man who had a dashing Latin look about him. He could have been anything from thirty to forty, with very dark curly hair that just touched the tops of his ears and curled over his collar. A very strong aquiline nose featured just below two piercing, unusually grey eyes. With a firm jaw line, I thought him the most handsome and fit looking man I had ever seen.

He was wearing an open white shirt and cavalry twill trousers, with what appeared to be square-toed cowboy boots on his feet. He looked very Spanish. He had draped a dark blazer casually over his shoulder.

I was rendered almost speechless, so I waved vacantly, nodding like a fool.

“Thank you. Do you mind if I join you, as there is so little room?” he said.

“No, please, I'm alone,” I managed to stammer, anything but the sophisticated lady about town.

He placed his jacket over the back of his chair and sat down. The waiter appeared and he ordered the same as I had.

We watched the dancing in silence, while my heart was racing. Why?

“Would you care to dance?” he asked.

“I am afraid I have never learned. I would just make a fool of myself and ruin your afternoon,” I admitted.

“Then I should be happy to teach you. If you look, you will see others learning, so please, just enjoy it.”

He stood and held out his right hand. I found myself being helped to my feet and led onto the floor. We stood at the edge. He showed me how to form the correct stance and what to do with the feet.

“Listen to the music, forget everyone else, and go with the music. The feet follow a repetitive sequence, so I will lead, so,” he said, as we went through the basic waltz steps.

I nodded, uncertainly.

“Señorita, someone as beautiful as you was born to dance. So just relax and allow me lead you to your full potential,” he said, and we were off.

For the first few moments, I was rather stiff and concentrating hard.

“Relaje, mi belleza.”

I smiled. I may not understand Spanish, but I worked out ‘relax' and guessed the rest. I relaxed and lost myself in a whirl of music and dance. There were mirrors on some of the pillars by the edge of the floor. So I kept catching a brief vision of a golden girl and her swarthy dark partner, and I just smiled. My heart soared and I met his eyes.

He was smiling a little, a sort of amused twinkle, but his grey eyes were so soft and gentle that I almost felt myself falling into them. We turned and moved in time with the music, yet we never broke eye contact. His smile seemed to change from one of mild amusement to almost a frown.

Still we held stares, and I found myself smiling with genuine joy. A laugh welled up and I started to laugh, in which he joined with me. So we laughed as we twirled; my joy was without bounds.

We danced several numbers, until he saw his tea had arrived. At the end of the fifth waltz, he stopped. We still had our eyes locked.

“¡Mi Dios. ¿Cómo se llama?” he said, as I stared blankly at him. He shook his head slightly, looking sheepish.

“I am sorry. I forget myself. What is your name?”

“Jemma. Jemma Adams.”

He led me off the floor as another waltz began.

He escorted me to the table, even holding the chair for me, sliding it in as I sat. Still holding my hand, he sat close to me, bringing his chair round the small table to do so.

“Jemma, I am Francisco Juan Carlos Maria De Valderez, I am Spanish, and I think you dance beautifully.”

“Thank you, but that is because I had a wonderful teacher.”

He kissed my hand and released it.

He poured himself some tea, as mine was cold, he offered me some of his. I declined.

“With all those names, what do I call you?”

“Whatever you like, I will forever be your slave.”

I was lost as he was so different to everyone I had ever known. He was mature, cultured, intelligent and ever so handsome.

“Jemma, when I was at Oxford, they called me Frank. But at Sandhurst they called me many names, most unrepeatable.”

I laughed, finding him staring at me again. I looked down, as he made me feel almost naked.

Then, looking up at him, I met and held his stare.

“Then I will call you Francisco, as your mother intended.”

To my surprise I saw tears well up in his eyes.

“I am sorry, I have upset you,” I said, feeling dreadful.

“No, not at all. It is nothing,” he said, but looking away.

He watched the dancing for a moment as I gazed at him. Many emotions flitted across his face as he struggled for control. Here was a man, not a boy, but a man who was hurting. In my short life it was one thing I knew about: hurt, and trying to deal with, or hide the hurt from the world.

“You look so sad. Life had not been kind to you?” I said

He looked at me sharply; smiling with his mouth, yet his eyes showed me that I was right.

I reached out and took his hand.

“I understand hurt. At one point in my life I was an expert. But, you can't keep it in forever,” I said.

He finished his tea, looking into his cup.

“My mother is English and she can tell me my fortune from the tea leaves,” he said.

“Is she accurate?”

“She told me I would meet the mother of my children at a dance.”

I flushed, this was a very corny line and I knew that I could not have children. Before I could say anything, he continued.

“She was right, as I met Maria at a dance near our hacienda in Southern Spain. She also told me never to take her to a hot climate in the East.”

“Oh, why?”

“I had some business in Thailand and so we had a holiday at the same time. Maria caught a parasite and died, as it destroyed her liver, and causing her renal failure. Our children were just two months and three when she died. It was six months ago now.”

“Oh my God, how terrible. I am so sorry.”

“It has been a hard time for the three of us. Luckily the children were very young. But still it has been awful.”

“No wonder you look so sad. It is a wonder you came dancing.”

“I wasn't going to. I was in the lobby of the hotel and I saw you come in. Something made me follow after you. I am sorry.”

“Me? You followed me? For goodness sakes, why?”

“Because you are the most beautiful woman I have seen for a very long time. You walked in like a ray of golden sunshine , and your smile lit up my heart.”

I was totally speechless. I flushed a deep red. I looked down in embarrassment.

“Now I have offended you, I am sorry,” he said. Our hands were still clasped together. I squeezed his slightly and smiled.

“Don't be silly, you haven't offended me. No one has ever said anything quite so nice to me, ever.”

He smiled back at me, as we just sat in silence, holding hands like teenagers.

My mind was in turmoil, yet my heart had already been lost. I knew what I was, what I had been, and yet I so wanted to be what he wanted me to be.

“You frown, why?” he asked.

“I am confused,” I said, truthfully.

“What about?”

“Me, you, and everything.”

He laughed.

“Tell me a little about yourself,” he said.

Shit; what would I tell him?

“My father was a soldier in the Irish Guards and he and my mother were killed in an accident in Germany when I was young. I was brought up by a variety of relatives, and left school as soon as I could. I am dyslexic, so reading was hard for me. But I persevered. I got a job with a big store in Windsor, and trained as a masseuse. We sort of fell out, and I started my own business.

“But I felt tied down, as if my destiny was elsewhere, so I sold all but a quarter share of the business and left. I have a little capital and I am now enjoying being a solvent young woman.”

Francisco ordered some more tea for us both.

“You baffle me,” he said.

I laughed. “I baffle myself all the time. But in what way?”

“When I first saw you, I thought you were in your mid twenties. But now you seem both older and younger. It is rare for me not to be able to guess someone's age.”

“Try.”

“You speak with age and maturity. Yet your eyes, which can be so sad, are full of youth and joy at this moment. It is quite hard. So, let me see. Twenty?”

I smiled.

“I will be twenty-one in August.”

“You are very beautiful.”

I looked into those grey eyes.

“Much of my past is not,” I said, dying to tell him the truth, yet terrified of doing so.

“Everyone has a different road to travel, some pleasant, some not so pleasant. Roads cross, and lives are changed. The last six months have been very difficult for me, so bad that I never thought that I would see light again. But you have brought light into my life,” he said.

I felt very strange.

“You don't know me,” I protested.

“No, that is true. But I would like to, if you permit?” he said.

His English was very good, almost perfect. But sometimes his phraseology gave away his Spanish heritage.

“I'd like that, but I fear you may not like what you find.”

He smiled. When he did his eyes scrunched up, transforming his face, so he ceased looking sad. He was so handsome, yet I wasn't immediately thinking of sex, but something far deeper. I could honestly say he affected me like no other man I had ever met.

We drank our tea, while he told me of his life.

Born to an aristocratic Spanish father and his English bride, he was the elder of two children. His sister, Consuela, was married to a surgeon in Barcelona and they were in touch regularly. His father was dead from a heart attack a few years ago and his mother still lived in Monaco for much of the time.

They were a wealthy family, having homes in Spain, Monaco, the UK and America. Francisco had been educated in England and, after Sandhurst, had been in the British army for a spell and then the Spanish Army as an officer. Due to his mother, he had dual nationality, yet looked every inch a Spanish Hidalgo.

His marriage had been short, yet sweet. Maria had been a delightful creature, small and dark, with a fiery temper. But they had been a blissfully happy couple, going everywhere together. Thus, the tragedy was twice as hard when she died so young.

“Why did you get emotional when I said I would call you what your mother intended?” I asked.

“I was with my mother a few weeks ago, dropping the children off. She had looked at me and told me that I would meet a girl,” he said, staring into his empty teacup, as if to see the future revealed to him.

“So?”

He looked at me, with his face serious and his voice slightly quivering.

“She would be the colour of summer and bring sunshine back into my life. She would become the mother of my children, as she could not have any of her own. And she would always call you what I named you.”

Tears sprang to my eyes and I must have gone pale. Goosebumps prickled me all over my body.

He frowned.

“What is the matter?” he asked, concerned.

“I can't have children,” I said, as a single tear rolled down my cheek.

He stared at me, and slowly reached out his hand, gently wiping the tear away.

We sat just staring into each other's eyes, not understanding what was really happening, but recognising that something certainly was.

“So, where are you going now?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“I was going home,” I said.

“Was?”

“I don't know any more.”

“Will you join me for dinner this evening?”

I nodded.

“Of course,” I heard my voice answer all by itself.

He smiled.

“You will?”

“Unless you don't want me to.”

“I want you to, so much,” he said, raising my hand to his lips.

“What has happened?” I asked, confused.

“You too?”

I nodded.

He shook his head.

“I don't know. It is very strange. It is as if the rest of the world has suddenly ceased to matter and we are alone,” he replied.

I stared into those grey eyes.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” I asked.

He smiled.

“I do now,” he said. He looked around us, smiling.

“We should go,” he said, asking the waiter to bill his room for the tea, mine included.

I started to argue, but he just looked at me.

“Yes, dear,” I teased, but he went pale.

“Madre de Dios!” he said.

I held his arm and we walked out together. I felt so right with him.

We stood in the lobby, as he held my hands in his.

“Jemma, this is happening so fast, please tell me if I offend you.”

“Why should you?”

It was six o'clock, but he seemed at a loss as to what to do or say.

“Francisco. I have some shopping in the cloakroom. Perhaps I could put it in your room, so then I will know it is safe.”

“Of course, good idea,” he said. So I collected my bags and he took me to his suite.

It was a wonderful room with fantastic views over Hyde Park. As I stood at the window, I felt his arms encircle me from behind.

He held me tight, and I felt warm and secure, if a little light-headed.

He kissed the nape of my neck, so I bent my head allowing him free access. Tingles ran through me and I felt myself becoming aroused as at no time in the past.

He stopped.

“Forgive me. I exceed myself,” he said.

I turned and faced him. Looking up into those marvellous grey eyes.

“Francisco, I think I love you,” I said, and he kissed me.

The kiss was like no other kiss I had experienced. Every part of my body ached to be possessed by this man.

Again he broke off, staring at me with a strange and tender expression on his face.

“What have you done to me? I feel like a boy on his first date.”

I reached up and drew him to me, kissing him with a passion that threatened to explode.

He stroked my cheeks and caressed my hair , as I moaned and clung to him as if my life depended upon it.

He broke off again.

“Jemma, I….”

“Shh,” I said, starting to unbutton his shirt.

He unzipped my dress, so I stepped out of it, as he undid my bra. I swung free, my nipples as hard as acorns.

Soon we were naked and I led him to the huge bed. I peeled the covers back and pulled him down next to me. He kissed me from head to toe. I wanted him so much that I almost screamed. When he entered me, it was like coming home and we lay still and quiet for a moment, fitting exactly together like a fine Toledo sword in its sheath.

We made slow and luxurious love for a long time, each of us lost in a world of joy and sensual ecstasy. It was more than a meeting of bodies, but a meeting of souls. When he finally climaxed inside me, I had lost count of my orgasms. My surgeon had said that it was theoretically possible for me to experience such things, but he doubted that in practice I would ever actually do so. Well, I had news for him.

Yet, even though he had come, he continued to kiss and caress me, and I him. We lay thus entwined for an hour, until he began to become aroused once more.

This time I pushed him onto his back, as I kissed him all over, sweeping my hair across his torso and kissing him wherever I could reach. I knelt astride, sinking onto him. We made love again, more energetically this time.

With a scream and a shout we climaxed together, lying holding each other as the passion subsided.

We showered together and I dressed in a black dress that I had purchased earlier. Hardly a word was exchanged between us. There seemed no need. My fear was that now he had had me, his interest would die.

Thankfully, I was so wrong.

I was putting my make up on, seated at the dressing table, when I noticed he was watching me. I smiled, turning towards him.

“What?” I asked.

“Marry me?” he said.

I stared at him, as we had only met a matter of a few hours ago.

10.

I nodded.

“Yes,” my voice answered, as I calmly turned away and continued to apply my make up.

It then dawned on me what I had said.

I turned and looked at him, and to my surprise I noticed that he was crying.

“Francisco?”

He came to me and we simply held each other.

“Did you mean it?” I asked.

“Si, yes of course. Did you?”

I nodded, as I didn't trust my voice as it had a habit of dropping me in things.

“Are you sure?” he asked me.

“No, but then no one has proposed to me before.”

He let me go, so I could finish brushing my hair. While I did so, he was looking through his bags.

“Ready?” he asked. I nodded and stood up.

He looked at me and smiled.

“You look fabulous. Let's go eat.”

I expected to go to the Hotel dining room, but we left the hotel and caught a taxi. It dropped us up a side street in the West End. A small restaurant was tucked away off the beaten track. It was called ‘El Lugar del Come'.

“What does it mean?” I asked.

He smiled.

“The Eating Place,” he said, so I smiled as well. That appealed to my sense of humour.

“Hola Jose,” Francisco said as we entered.

“¡El Conde de Valdarez. ¿Cómo está Francisco?” a large portly man said. He was balding, with a huge Mexican bandit style moustache and a large striped apron tied round his ample middle.

“Jose, this is my fiancée, Jemma Adams. My love, this reprobate is Jose Sanchez. He and I have known each other for many years.”

Jose took my hand, kissing it. He stared into my face and then turned to his friend.

“Like father, like son. I approve Franco. She is a true English rose, just like your mama. Your father would be very pleased.”

I smiled, deciding not to correct him. I was only half Irish anyway.

We were shown to a small booth and given two glasses of Sangria and a plate of Tapas.

The meal was superb. I never saw a menu at any time. Dish after dish arrived, it was all lovely, and I ate far too much. The Sangre de Torro red wine made me very relaxed.

We were enjoying a coffee and some Calvados, when Francisco pulled something from his pocket. He placed it on the table in front of me and opened it. It was a ring box with a divine ring inside. A huge blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds set on white gold stared at me.

“Everything has happened so fast. I will ask you again, and properly. Jemma, will you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?”

I stared at the ring and then at him. His grey eyes seemed to appeal to me on their own.

“Francisco, mine is the honour, so I would be happy to accept,”

He took my left hand and placed the ring on my ring finger. He then raised it to his lips, kissing it.

“It was my grandmother's ring, and she wanted me to use it for Maria, but it was not possible. Before she died I told her that my next bride would have it.”

We left the restaurant after midnight, taking a taxi to the hotel. I had no nightclothes, but I didn't need them. We went to bed and made love, falling asleep in each other's arms afterwards.

Francisco was not only a considerate lover, but he was a charming and attentive fiancé. I was made to feel so special that I almost told him the truth so as to prevent him from making a terrible mistake. The next few days were like a dream for me. He had various meetings to attend each morning, so I would go shopping and we would meet somewhere for lunch. In the afternoon we would do something together, like go to a gallery or walk in the park.

As time went on, we grew closer together, but my love for him was all consuming. I hated him being away from me and as soon as I saw him again, I was complete. He told me that he felt the same; I was so happy.

One afternoon, we were taking tea by the dancers in the Grosvenor House.

“I will have to go home and get myself sorted out a little,” I said. As I had been literally living out of a suitcase, buying new clothes every day.

“May I come with you?”

“Of course, if you want to.”

“I do not like being apart from you, ever,” he said, and I almost cried.

So, on the Saturday we took the train to Windsor, and I showed him my little flat.

He stared out of the window at the river.

“It is very pretty here.”

“I am sorry, it isn't much.”

He turned and smiled.

“Wherever you are is like paradise,” he said.

I grinned, as he had way of saying the corniest things in such a lovely manner.

The telephone rang. I answered it; it was Sally.

“Jemma. Where the hell have you been? I've been so worried.”

I stared at Francisco who was smiling at me.

“I've been in London,” I told her.

“For a week?”

“Yes. I've met someone.”

“Oh. That explains it. Was he juicy?”

“He IS juicy and he is with me now. We're engaged.”

There was silence on the other end.

“No?”

“Yes. It was love at first sight.”

Francisco came across the room and held me, nuzzling my neck. He knew it drove me wild.

I moaned.

“Jemma?”

“Sally, I can't talk just now. Meet me later and we'll go for a drink.”

I was just able to put the phone down before we made love. I cooked him a simple supper, which we ate at my little table in candlelight.

“I am so happy,” I said, and he kissed me again.

We went to the Castle pub at nine, and found Sally and her current boyfriend, Grant, were already there, as were Darren and Morris.

I was wearing my yellow dress again and we made our entrance with Francisco on my arm.

I heard Morris's voice, “Oh my God, he's gorgeous.”

I couldn't help grinning.

I introduced him and all but Grant ogled him outrageously. I bought a round of drinks, which Francisco helped to carry to the table.

I had thought that my Latin lover would be like a fish out of water, but he was so gracious. I realised he would be able to fit in almost anywhere.

The conversation seemed fixed on the speed in which we had met and become engaged. I stayed silent, content to simply hold his hand. Sally started making funny faces and gesturing for me to go to the ladies, so I made my excuses and joined her.

“My God Jemma, he's absolutely gorgeous; but marriage? He must be nearly twice your age.”

“He is only nearly sixteen years older than I. But so what? He is everything I want in a man and I get to be the mother to his children.”

Sally knew that my one regret was the inability to have children of my own, and smiled.

“He's lovely, and you certainly deserve a little happiness. You do look gorgeous together! Good luck,” she said, giving me a hug.

“Will you be my head bridesmaid?” I asked, and she burst into tears.

We returned to my flat after the pub closed, going straight to bed. Our lovemaking had taken me into another dimension, almost. It was as if we merged into one every time and I just adored feeling him inside me. I wanted his children so badly it almost hurt.

Afterwards we lay together, his arm around me, as I snuggled in close to him.

“Jemma?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you come with me to meet the children and my mother?”

“When?”

“I was going there on Monday, but whenever you feel happy doing it?”

“I will go with you on Monday if you want.”

He kissed me.

“Thank you. I will not tell them, so it will be a surprise.”

“If they don't like me, we will call it off.” I said.

“They will love you.”

“I mean it. Your children have the last say.”

“If you say so,” he said, kissing my temple.

“I say so,” I said. Sounding more determined than I felt.

The plane touched down at Nice airport a little after 12 noon on Monday. It was very hot, so I was pleased to be in a light cotton dress. We left the cool first class cabin, making our way through the throng to collect out luggage. The bored immigration officer hardly glanced at my Irish passport and I was through.

A porter, obviously well trained at spotting wealth, was at our side in seconds, gathering up our cases on his trolley. Francisco took us to a cream left-hand-drive Rolls Royce Cabriolet in the car park , and tipped the porter generously. In moments, the top was down , and we were speeding away towards Monaco.

I tied a scarf over my hair, and put my sunglasses on. I smiled, if only the screws at Garside could see me now.

As we approached Monte Carlo, I grew increasingly nervous. What if they all hated me? What if his mother immediately saw through me, and recognised me for what I really was? I became terrified.

The car pulled off the road into a large gateway. The gate opened automatically and he drove up the block-paved drive to a huge villa. I stared in wonder. It was the most luxurious place I had ever seen. Bougainvillea and azaleas were blooming everywhere; it was a mass of colour, with the white villa and pillars, with its red roof. I imagined it was rather Romanesque. I fell in love with the place immediately.

As soon as we came to a halt, a smartly dressed man appeared and almost bowed at Francisco.

“Good to see you back, your Excellency,” he said in very good English

“Thank you, Diego. I come back with good news. Jemma, this is Diego, my mother's butler. Diego, you have the honour of being the first to meet the future Condesa de Valdarez.”

I don't know who was more stunned, Diego or me.

Countess?

Fuck.

Diego's face spilt into an enormous grin, and he took my hand and kissed it.

“Señorita, congratulations. I am so pleased for you both. Your Excellency, your Mama will be so delighted.”

“Yes, she will,” said my beloved.

He took me into the cool house. I could hear children's laughter and splashing from beyond the house. As we walked through, I was amazed at the sheer size of the place. It was all so beautiful; I could hardly take it all in.

“Francisco, what is this about being a countess?” I asked.

“Later. It is of no consequence,” he said, leading me to the sound of childish laughter.

No consequence?

Oh yes, it bloody well was!

We stepped onto a patio, where I saw a large kidney shaped swimming pool in a super garden. A little boy, about four or five, with dark hair and a very brown tanned little body leapt off the spring board, bombing a very elegant lady with white blonde hair lying on a sun-lounge nearby.

A little dark haired girl, with enormous dark eyes, was in a paddling pool, looked up, shrieking with delight when she saw her father. She was the prettiest little thing and could only be about nine months old. Her long dark hair made her look like a little doll.

She shrieked with delight, holding her arms up to him. Francisco bent over and lifted her out of the pool, holding her close, despite getting his shirt soaked in the process.

Conchita hugged her father, but looked over his shoulder and saw me. Her lovely eyes blinked a couple of times, and then she smiled at me.

“Franco. Darling. Why didn't you call to warn us you were coming?” his mother said as she got up. She had on a very stylish one-piece swimsuit and slipped a very elegant wrap over the top when she saw us. For sixty she looked wonderful. Her figure was still really trim and she was a very attractive woman.

“Hello Mama,” Francisco said, giving her a big hug.

Little Carlos pulled himself out of the pool and ran across the lawn to his father.

“Papa, Papa. What did you bring me from 'Gland?”

I smiled at his word for England.

Francisco picked up his son, so he was now holding both children. His mother smiled and then looked at me with an obvious question on her face. I was standing watching Francisco and I glanced at her. I saw her gaze drift down my body and back up. Then I saw she noticed the ring on my finger. Her eyes widened and she looked at her son.

“I have some little things in my bag that I'll give to you later, but first I want to show you someone special whom I found in Granny's country.” He looked at me and smiled. He reached out a hand and I took it.

“Mama, ‘Chita, and Carlos. This pretty lady is Jemma. Jemma has graciously agreed to become my wife. So, I have brought you kids a new Mama from Granny's country.”

“Oh dear Lord. Thank God,” his mother said, promptly bursting into tears and flinging her arms around me.

To say I was surprised was an understatement.

Little Carlos looked at me with a very serious expression on his face.

“Will she read to us in bed?” he asked.

“You will have to ask her,” his father said.

“Of course I will,” I said, dreading it. My reading was still very poor.

“In Spanish?”

“No, only English,” I said, and he frowned even more.

“Can you play football?”

“Of course, can you?”

“Yes. What else do you do?”

“I can box and I am a brown belt in karate”

“Cor, really?”

“Yes.”

“Will you teach me?”

“If you like, but don't tell your Papa.”

He giggled, as little 'Chita simply held her arms out to me. I took her from her father and she wrapped her arms around my neck.

“Mama?” she said, looking at her father.

“Yes, Mama,” he said.

It was my turn to burst into tears.

Little Carlos grinned and ran back into the pool, shouting, “Watch me, Papa. I can bomb Granny.” Which he promptly did. But as Granny was standing next to me, I was drenched as well.

Francisco, ran into the house, coming out moments later with his swimming trunks on. He jumped into the pool, much to the delight of his children.

Diego appeared with a tray of chilled Champagne.

“Sit by me, child, and tell me how you have brought my son back to the world of the living?” said his mother.

We sat at a table as she poured me a glass.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling very awkward. She smiled, but seemed to understand.

“You must call me Roz. You have no idea how much I have been praying for him to meet someone.”

“We met by chance in London just a couple of weeks ago. I went to the Grosvenor House for tea and he was staying there. He saw me and followed me in. He came and sat with me, and asked me to dance. I fell in love with him then and there.”

I felt really odd, as it sounded so trite and silly.

She laughed.

“Oh, how typical. Tell me what were you wearing?”

“A pale yellow dress, why?”

She smiled and nodded.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Is it about having children?” I asked.

She paled visibly.

“Why?”

“I can't have children. Francisco told me that you had said that he would meet someone who couldn't. Well, I was in an accident some years ago and lost my parents. I also lost any chance of having children of my own.”

She smiled.

“You probably think it is nonsense. But it is a sort of gift I have. But, there is one thing I have to ask, and I have never told Francisco this. It is embarrassing, and I don't mean to pry. No, perhaps I shouldn't,” she said.

“I don't mind, I have only the usual skeletons in my closet,” I said, cautiously.

“Jemma, have you ever been locked up?”

Despite the warmth of the sun, a chill ran right through me and I felt a little sick.

I couldn't meet her eyes.

I nodded.

“I was young, it was a mistake and I have since been exonerated, as the conviction was overturned by a judicial review, but I was in for a while. I prefer not to talk about it. It is part of a different life. I have a different name and everything now.”

I looked at her.

“Shall I leave now?” I asked her, as I stood up.

“Oh, you poor child. Of course not.” She was out of her chair and held me in a close hug. The tears welled up and I started to cry.

“Jemma, I am so sorry. It was so beastly of me to ask that. I promise that I will never speak of it again to anyone, particularly to Franco.”

I still sobbed. I knew it had all been too good to be true.

“Listen, Jemma. All I know is that the girl I dreamed that Franco is to marry had been locked away for a short time. I don't know or care what for. Oh dear God, I am so sorry. I am a meddling old cow.”

I managed to stop and she persuaded me to sit down.

I cleaned my make up with a tissue, and sipped some Champagne.

“You are so young. How old are you?”

“I will be twenty-one in August.”

“Are you sure that this is for you? After all he is almost middle-aged.”

“I was, but now I am less sure,” I admitted.

She laughed, but with little humour.

“Oh, I am so sorry. You are such a pretty child, it seems such a waste to marry at such a young age.”

“My life has been far from happy. Your son has given me more happiness in a few weeks that the rest of my life put together. But how about what he feels, what he wants?”

She stared at me, and her face broke into a smile.

“You are a strong young woman,” she observed.

“I've had to be.”

She nodded.

“You will need to be if you marry Franco, as he needs a strong woman to keep him in line.”

“I am strong, you really don't want to know how strong I've had to be.”

“Have you a swimsuit?” she asked, completely changing the subject.

“Yes, why?”

“Then go and put it on, dear, and join your family.”

I smiled, and did exactly that.

I helped Francisco put the children to bed, even managing to read them a story. Fortunately, the book was an easy one, so I coped. We then dressed for dinner, finding ourselves being joined by several of Roz's friends, whom she had invited for the meal. I was grateful that I had bought some really chic dresses in London recently, as this lot was loaded.

They were mostly English ex-pats, or other wealthy residents, all of whom spoke excellent English. I was able to conduct myself well in all the conversations during the pre-dinner drinks and found my trick with the accents very healthy. The Hurlingham Deb was shining through, but several of the men made very un-subtle passes at me.

But whenever possible, Francisco would try to be with me, as I was formally introduced to the smart Monaco set as his fiancée.

We sat down as twenty for dinner, with Francisco sat at the head of the table and his mother at the opposite end. I sat to his right, so we played footsie for most of the meal.

After the meal, I retired and went up to bed. It was assumed that I would share Francisco's bed, but nothing was said. I undressed and looked out of the window across the Mediterranean. I had come an awfully long way in a very short time. I could hear voices coming from underneath the balcony. It was Francisco and his mother. I stepped onto the balcony and heard them talking about me.

“She is so young, Franco. Are you sure?”

“Mama, she has set me free. She is a delight. Her smile warms the core of my heart and her laugh makes me feel young and without a care. I knew she was the one as soon as I saw her across the hotel lobby.”

“But, how much do you know about her?”

“Enough. She has had a hard life and I know that there is much she will not share with me for a long time. She has such scars, Mama. I have heard her cry in her sleep and she is too young to have such scars.”

“Are you sure she cannot conceive?”

“She tells me she can't and she takes no contraceptives. I believe her. I know she weeps for the fact , and I so wish she could, but I do believe her.”

“She is a child and you are nearly twice her age.”

“Believe me, she is no child. She is more woman than any I have ever met. Including my dearest Maria.”

His mother laughed.

“Oh Franco, I'll grant you she is very pretty and a strong girl. But she is to be the Condesa of Valdarez.”

“You were, so she will be. You are both strong women. I would hate to cross either of you. But she was like a ray of sunshine and she can't have children. But regardless of your dreams, Mama, the main thing is that we love each other, and I will have her as my bride.”

“Then I shall love her too. For I can see she has brought you back to me. She is just so young, Franco. I pray she will not grow tired of you.”

“Mama, she told me she wanted a man, the boys she has met bored her and she did not like their petty childish games. Jemma is a woman, forget her age, she will be the mother my children need.”

“Then, Franco, I am so happy for you. For she will make a truly beautiful bride.”

“Goodnight, Mama.”

“Goodnight, my sweet.”

I stepped back into the room, closing the balcony door. I was sitting at the dressing table when he came in.

“I thought you were never coming to bed. What were you doing, finishing the brandy?”

He laughed, and came over to me. I stood and he took me in his arms.

“No, my mother was grilling me about you. She thinks you are too young.”

“I happen to like dirty old men,” I said and he grinned.

“My mother is torn.”

“Why?”
“One the one hand you meet all her funny little dreams, yet on the other, she imagined someone older. But I think I have won her round.”

“Talking of dreams,” I said.

“What?”

I was almost ready to tell him everything, but then at the last moment, I chickened out.

“Do I cry out in my sleep?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“I had a bad dream the other night, and I dreamed that I cried out. Did I?”

“You quite often do. You seem to be frightened of someone or something.”

“Francisco, my past is not a pretty one. There are things there that are better not known about. But I will not live a lie to you. If you want me to tell you, I will. But I fear that if I do, you will no longer love me, and everything we have will be lost.”

“Then I need not know. Jemma, I have only just found you, so as we grow together, I hope you will come to trust me. But for my own peace of mind, I need to know where I stand. Just answer me five questions.”

“Yes?”

“You told me you can't have children, now I accept that, but, have you ever had a child?”

“No, you know I cannot. I never have been able to, and have not the necessary equipment any more. Oh, Francisco, I wish I could, above all things.”

“Have you a criminal record?”

“No, and that is the truth. Many years ago I was once in trouble, and I was accused of something. I was sent to a detention centre for a bit, but they overturned my conviction, so I do not have a criminal record, not any more.”

“Have you taken drugs?”

“Only those given to me by a doctor.”

“Do you love me?”

“With all my heart.”

“Will you marry me?”
“Of course.”

“Then I am content, and never want to know about those things that trouble you, unless you choose to tell me.”

I wrapped my arms around him, hugging him so hard. I didn't deserve him.

11.

We stayed in Monaco for a month, as Roz gradually introduced me to her social set. From hobnobbing with criminals, I was now associating with royalty and the very wealthy. Suddenly, I was one of the smart set, and this set looked down on the film stars and sports personalities.

We often entertained Prince Ranier and Princess Grace and were invited to the palace on numerous occasions. I began to be photographed in these surroundings and the gossip columnists started asking, “Who is this girl?”

I kept very quiet and Francisco was equally silent, but this encouraged the vultures. When our engagement was made public, in Spain, France, England and Monaco, there was a flurry of interest amongst the press. Maria's tragic death had made the papers in Spain, so they led with our engagement.

As always, the British tabloids were curious and smutty, as one photograph, through a long distance lens, was of me sunbathing at a friend's villa. Thereafter, they hounded me at every turn. The Sun produced a piece on me, entitled, “Luck of the Irish.”

I found out by accident, as I was in Menton one day and saw the paper on sale near a hotel that catered for English tourists. I was horrified, and almost couldn't go out, but Roz brushed it aside as if it were of no consequence.

“Jemma, you have to realise that we are now fair game for these bastards, but we do get the better deal.”

“Better deal? How?”

“We get to sue their asses every time they print something untrue.”

I smiled, but inside I was terrified. When one lived a lie, then it didn't take much to expose it.

Life went on. The children were wonderful and I grew to become very fond of them. I read to them every night, and they both started to call me ‘Mama'. Francisco and I discussed dates for the wedding, so I started looking at wedding dresses.

I knew that my luck would not last. I got a phone call from Stuart Collins; the one man who knew enough about me to destroy me completely.

“Ah, Jemma. You have no idea how difficult you are to find.”

“I know exactly how difficult I am to find. What do you want?” I asked.

”You don't sound pleased to hear from your old friend.”

“I'm not particularly. You belong to part of my life I would rather forget. What do you want, Stuart?”

“Well, this is a bit tricky. It seems that, well with the mortgage rates and everything, I seem to have somewhat of a cash flow situation.”

So, that was what the bastard was up to. Blackmail.

“How much?”

“Well I thought fifty thou should cover it?”

“Or what?”

“Well, I could find myself dropping certain information off to all kinds of people. And I am sure your fiancé's family would not be best pleased.”

“You utter bastard, Stuart. This is blackmail.”

“I know what it is, I just reckon you owe me.”

“I paid you.”

“Call it a bonus.”

“I'll think about it. Call me tomorrow.”

“What's to think about?”

“Lots of things. Call me tomorrow,” I said, and hung up before I said something I'd regret.

Francisco found me silently weeping.

“Jemma, what is the matter?”

I shook my head. I just couldn't bring myself to speak.

For an hour and a half, he just stayed with me, as I was beside myself.

Finally, I took off my engagement ring, placing it into the palm of his hand.

“Francisco. I'm being blackmailed,” I said.

He stared at me for a moment and then nodded, slowly as if he half expected it.

“Your past?” he asked, and I nodded.

“It is truth time. My story is not a happy or nice one, but I intended to tell you before, and each time I have chickened out. But I will tell you now so you have the opportunity to rid yourself of me, or not as the case may be.

“If you turn round and decide that I will not be a suitable person for you, I will understand. It will devastate me, but your happiness means everything to me, and if that means life apart, then I accept that. Please believe me when I tell you that I love you with all my heart, and if I have been dishonest, then it was because I didn't want to lose you.”

I paused; he frowned at me, looking at the ring in the palm of his hand.

I then told him the truth - The entire, absolute, whole rotten truth. By at the end I was crying so much, I had to run up to my bedroom. I convinced myself that he would hate me and want me to leave.

I had managed to tell him about the blackmail attempt, and that was it. I flung myself on the bed, weeping. Then I got up and started to pack, wondering how I would face the children, and what I could say to them.

I was sobbing so much I did not hear him come in.

“Jemma,” he said.

I jumped, as he startled me.

I stood, staring at him, tears running down my cheeks, with my make up streaming and eyes all blotchy.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his face grave and his voice stern.

“Packing.”

“Why?”

I stared at him.

“Because you won't want me any more,” I said, as the tears started again, even stronger.

“Did I say that?”

“No, but..”

“No, but what?”

“I know that I am not the right sort of person for you.”

“Since when did you know my mind better than me?” he said, quite sternly. I had never heard him angry before.

I stood, just looking at him, feeling so miserable, that I wanted the ground to swallow me up.

He smiled slightly and without an enormous amount of humour.

“Your story surprised me, most of it did anyway. But I actually knew you were slightly different than most girls and that is one of the reasons I love you so much.”

I noted he said ‘love' and not ‘loved'.

“How?”

“Little things. Nothing important on their own, but together they made me ask certain questions. Like, why there were no photographs of you as a child? Why so many things seemed so new to you? Why you never spoke of friends or family, except those from recent times, and why you avoid the press and publicity so actively?”

“Oh.”

“But never did I ever dream you had not always been a girl.”

I smiled, a little sadly.

We were standing, about two metres apart, and I was holding a pair of dresses that I was going to put in the case.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you want me to do?”

He shook his head.

“I'm not sure. Why don't you put those down so we can go for a walk and discuss our options?”

I put the dresses on the bed. And he held his hand out to me.

He pulled me to him and stroked my cheek.

“You look a mess.”

“I feel a mess,” I said.

He smiled and allowed me a few moments to tidy myself up.

Then we left the house, setting out for a walk along the side of the huge marina. We talked about everything. I was able to lay myself completely bare before him, and it was very cathartic. It was as if a huge dark beast had been freed from my soul. As he held my hand, I gripped it with all my strength.

We came to a little café, so we sat and he ordered some coffees.

He looked at me so tenderly that I felt the tears start to well up. He smiled, squeezing my hand reassuringly.

“All right. It is decision time,” he said, and I nodded, still fighting back the tears.

“Option one. You leave my life, and we never see each other again. Your blackmailer still has the opportunity and I am still open to the dirt he could release.

“Option two. We stay together, and you simply become my lover. I find another wife and we drift apart. Still we would be vulnerable to this man.

“Option three. You become my wife and the mother to my children. We face this man, and you let me deal with him. End of story.”

“Which option do you want?” I asked.

“Logic tells me I should have nothing to do with you. But, I find myself in a strange situation. After revealing what you have to me, I feel that I should be shocked, manipulated, offended and disgusted. But, in fact, I find myself feeling none of these.

“Indeed, what I feel is sympathy, compassion and sadness at the way you have been treated, and at the abuses you have received. I find that, despite the realities of your past, I still love you, if anything a little more than I did before. I see nothing of who you were, but only who you are and what you mean to me. If you accept, then I will repeat my proposal, and this time, if you accept, there is absolutely no way I will ever allow you to back out.”

“You still want me?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Perhaps I am very foolish, but, yes, I do.”

I stared at him, and while I sat there, stunned into silence, he slipped the ring back onto my finger. Never had I dreamed that he would have reacted like this. My heart soared, as the tears were of joy this time. I let out a whoop of pure happiness, jumping up and sitting on his lap, hugging him as if my life depended upon it. The little chair threatened to dump us on the ground. He simply stood up, holding me off the ground.

“Well, it would appear that we are engaged again,” he said.

“Oh yes. I am so sorry to have brought this on you.”

“It is just another challenge along life's path. Mr Collins is going to regret his greed.”

We walked back to the villa, arm in arm. I would have happily given my life for this man, right now.

We found his mother concerned about us, so Francisco told her an edited version of the truth. My original gender was one of a few truths that he carefully omitted.

“The little shit,” she said, “and him a lawyer to boot.”

The three of us sat down and discussed how we were going to respond. Finally, Francisco suggested that when he called back, I arrange a meeting with him in London. I agreed. So he went to make some calls.

Stuart was obviously impatient, for he called early the next day.

“Well, made your mind up?” he asked.

“Meet me in London, in three days,” I said, as per instructions.

“Why London?”

“Why not? It's where I have my money.”

“Okay, where?”

“You choose,” I said.

“Somewhere public, how about Trafalgar Square?”

“Fine, noon in three days,” I said.

“Okay, and don't get any silly ideas, I have enough to hang you out to dry.”

“You are a greedy bastard, how do I know you will stop at fifty thousand?”

“You don't. But then that is not my problem, is it?” he said, hanging up.

I looked up and Francisco nodded. The man with him switched off the tape recorder. The two of them spoke rapid Spanish to each other.

“Are you ready?” Francisco asked.

I nodded.

“Then let's go,” he said, and we left the house. Our bags were already in the car, and the black van that followed us to the airport looked very suspicious. Only I knew that it contained friends.

At Nice airport, we drove to the Private Terminal where a Lear jet was waiting on stand. Within twenty minutes eight of us were on the plane heading northwest for London. My fellow passengers were all dressed in dark clothing, speaking only in Spanish. They rarely looked at me.

My only concern was for Franco. He saw my expression and smiled.

“These are friends of mine from my days in the military. Let's say it is the ‘Spanish old boys' network.”

We landed at Heathrow, cleared customs and immigration. A van and a large Rover were waiting and soon we were heading out on the M4 to Windsor. The van pealed off and Francisco and I returned to my flat.

“What happens now?”

“We wait,” he said.

I went out and did a little shopping and we had a simple lunch of bread, cheese and some soup. He spent all afternoon on the phone, once going out for a couple of hours. My nerves were frazzled by the time he returned. But he simply kissed me and told me not to worry.

I cooked us a meal in the evening. He spent some more time on the phone. He took me to bed and make love to me in such a way that I cried at his tenderness. I held onto him for most of the night.

The next day, I awoke early, as I had not slept well due to everything on my mind. I made him breakfast and we sat together on the bed, munching toast.

“What's the plan?” I asked.

“If you don't know, then you have no worries,” he replied, enigmatically.

“You aren't going to kill him, are you?”

“Oh no, much worse.”

I worried more, so he took me in his arms.

“Look, this man has decided to take us on. He will regret it.”

I stood by one of the lions at the base of Nelson's Column, dressed in a summer dress, a white wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. It was nearly noon on Wednesday, as agreed.

Stuart was in his usual suit, and he ambled over to me.

“Well, look at you, all tanned and glamorous,” he said.

I turned to him.

“Stuart, you're a bastard! You realise that if there is any way I can get you back I will?”

He laughed.

“Silly threats from a silly girl. You don't frighten me.”

“No, I realise that. So, what do I get for my fifty thousand?”

“My silence.”

“Not enough,” I said, and he frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I want anything you have. Documents, photographs and everything. Otherwise, you get nothing.”

“Don't be silly, that's my insurance. I need to stay safe, after all, you have threatened me.”

“I never threatened you. I made you a promise,” I said, taking off my sunglasses.

He stared at me. I think this was the moment it dawned on him that this was not going to plan. He actually looked a little worried, as I was too calm and too self-assured.

“Look, don't even think about doing anything. I have everything in a safe place. If anything happens to me, it goes public.”

I opened my bag and took out a sheaf of papers and photographs.

“You mean these?” I asked.

He stared at them.

“These were in a safe deposit box in a bank in Watford. There was a key at a certain address in Chorleywood. You see; you made two mistakes. The first was to assume that I would even consider paying you, and the second was to underestimate my resources. So, how much is your life worth, Stuart?” I said with as much menace as I could.

“I have other copies,” he said, but rather uncertainly.

“You mean the ones that were in your office safe?” I asked.

He stared at me. The colour drained from his face.

He looked around, becoming aware that six men, all dark and Spanish looking, were standing at different points around the square. Francisco walked up from behind him.

“You haven't met my fiancé have you Stuart?” I said, as he spun around, looking very nervous.

The two men looked at each other.

“May I present, Count Francisco de Valdarez. Francisco, this is my ex-solicitor and the man who is blackmailing me, Stuart Collins.”

“This woman is not what she appears,” Stuart said.

“I know all about her past. It is your future you should be concerned about,” Francisco said, his quiet voice full of hidden menace.

As Stuart stared in terror at Francisco, I slowly and calmly reached out, injecting him with the hypodermic I had in my hand.

He jumped, staring at me, his terror slowly disappearing, as unconsciousness took hold. He slumped and would have fallen, had not Francisco caught him. Three men appeared, and within seconds he was on the ground. Two of the men were wearing ambulance service uniforms. An ambulance pulled up and Stuart was placed on a trolley and within seconds was away.

The crowd in the square were hardly aware of anything happening, so Francisco and I casually walked through the bemused tourists and jumped into the Rover as it pulled up. Moments later, we were heading out of the centre of London towards Heathrow. No one questioned the poor man in the ambulance being flown to Barcelona for critical surgery. His documents and papers were all in order and the Lear Jet landed at a small airstrip in Spain an hour and twenty minutes later.

When Stuart came to, he was lying on a cot in a small cell. I was on the other side of the door, looking through the eyehole. He put one hand to his head as if he had a headache and groaned. One of the men came to the door and grinned at me. He was wearing the green uniform of a member of the Guardia Civil. Using a noisy bunch of keys he opened the door, as Stuart struggled to sit up.

The man went into the cell, standing over the bedraggled lawyer. He spoke rapid Spanish at him. Stuart gaped stupidly up at the man.

I walked in and stood by the door. He saw me and paled.

“Stuart, I once told you never to judge me by my looks and never cross me. You stupidly chose to disregard my warning,” I said.

“You can't do this to me. I have rights.”

“Señor, you lost those rights when you decided to blackmail this young lady,” said the Spanish officer, in very good English.

“Where am I?”

“You are in jail in Spain. Your attempt to blackmail the family of the Count of Valdarez was perhaps the most foolish thing to do. The Count was a Colonel in the Guardia Civil Special Unit and he has many friends,” the Spaniard said.

Stuart looked frightened and started to shake.

“Jemma. Look I'm sorry, you must help me,” Stuart said.

“Had you asked me for a loan, I may even have given it to you. But, no, you had to get nasty. I owed you a lot and trusted you, but you betrayed that trust. These people play for keeps and they are my people now. If you want to live, you need to have something worth bargaining with,” I said, and turned and walked out. As the door was slammed in his face, I head him start to sob.

I went upstairs, into the main office of the police station. I was amazed that each of the ‘kidnappers' was a police officer, each of whom, at some time or other, had served with Francisco.

Francisco was drinking a glass of wine with the local area commander in his office. The latter poured me a glass as soon as I walked in.

I smiled, and kissed Francisco's cheek.

“Perfect, exactly as you planned. How did you find out everything so quickly?” I asked him.

“Well, my colleagues are experts in counter-espionage and counter-terrorism. They simply utilised those skills normally reserved for such activities,” he said.

In my presence he burned all the documents that Stuart had collected.

“What will happen to him?”

“That is up to you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. After all, it is you he has wronged.”

I thought for a moment.

“Enough people are hurt in this world. I want him to learn, but I can't live with blood on my hands,” I said. I noticed that Francisco winked at the commander.

“Okay, what was that for?” I asked.

“My little love, I told my friend that you would say something like this. He seemed to feel you would want him more permanently dealt with.”

“I do want it permanent, but not through violence. When I needed someone to help me, he was there for me. His greed must be punished though.”

“Will you trust me to deal with him?” my fiancé asked.

“Of course.”

“No questions?”

“None.”

“Then I shall. Please go and wait outside,” he said, so obediently I did so.

Half an hour later he joined me.

“Right. Home,” he said, and we got into the car.

I was silent all the way to the airport.

“Don't you want to know what happened to him?” he asked, as we boarded the Lear.

“Yes, but I agreed to ask no questions.”

“You would obey me to that degree?”

“I would give my life for you, if you asked me to,” I said.

We sat together and he took my hand.

“Never have I met anyone quite like you.”

“You are never likely to again,” I said, with a smile.

“That is very true. Mr Collins told me a little of your life since you left that place. You seem to have been remarkably resourceful for one so young.”

“Needs must,” I said, and again he smiled.

“You trusted me with everything. It must have been very hard for you?”

I nodded.

“The hardest thing I have ever done. I risked everything for you to know the truth.”

“Never must we have secrets. You see, you are not the only one with secrets,” he then told me something of his military career. I should have guessed when I observed the style in which his ‘friends' worked. Sufficient to say, I was impressed, slightly shocked, and yet enormously respectful of this gentle man, who had as much in his past as did I.

“I have never told anyone this. So now we are even.”

My love for this man was so strong, that I simply cried and held him close. He did me the honour of crying with me and I felt that, at last, I had come home.

12.

“Senorita, telephone call for you. Señor Collins,” Diego said.

“Thank you Diego. I'll take it in the study,” I replied.

I walked through the villa to the study. It was late October 1975, and I was now relaxed and much more at peace with the world. The wedding was set for the next June, as Roz wanted me to be a June Bride. Francisco was currently in America on business and I had become very fond of my mother-in-law to be. Roz and I formed a relationship that was as close to mother and daughter that two unrelated people could ever hope to achieve.

A couple of months after the blackmail attempt I had told Roz the whole truth. To my surprise, she had been as accepting as her son. I was very humbled by the whole experience, knowing full well that I did not deserve such wonderful people.

I had not asked any questions of Francisco over the Collins affair, until eventually he told me what he had done. I was so surprised, that I had had to sit down.

“I offered him a job. But I told him that if ever he betrayed any trust again, he would be very, very sorry indeed.”

“A job?”

“I need a good lawyer, who asks no questions sometimes. My business is legitimate, but some of the dealings I undertake are with persons who are not as legitimate as I am. I need to be safe from any legal repercussions. What better than to have a hold of a man so thoroughly, that he would never dare betray my trust?”

“I accept your decision and admire you for it. I'd have castrated the little shit.”

“You had the option, yet you shied away from it.”

“I know, my love. Really, you have done the best thing.”

“Mr Collins?” I said on the phone.

“Miss Adams. I need to contact the Count.” Stuart was ever so formal with me.

“He is in the States. How urgent is it?”

“It can keep for a couple of days, but I need to speak to him by Friday.”

“I will tell him when he calls me tonight.”

“Jemma?”

“What?”

“I just want to apologise.”

“You already did.”

“I know. But I still feel bad.”

“Good. You were a stupid greedy little bastard. Because of that, you have lost a perfectly good friend.”

“I know. But I also wanted to say thanks.”

“What for?”

“For not doing to me what you could have done.”

“That wasn't me.”

“Yes, it was. The Count told me that you decided not to have me done away with.”

“So?”

“Thanks. I mean it. I have this job and all. So, I just wanted to say sorry again.”

“Apology accepted. But trust is a fragile thing; so don't expect me ever to trust you as I did before. What Francisco does with you is different. But, never think things will ever be the same.”

“Okay. If it makes any different, I think I have finally learned my lesson.”

“Yeah,” I said, and he laughed.

“You always were a hard little cow,” he said.

“You'd better believe it.”

I hung up.

The tabloid press had tried digging up facts about me, but were not successful, and as other more startling and spectacular news to cover, like the IRA bombings on mainland UK, and industrial unrest. So I slipped into the murk of disinterest.

Except, there was one journalist, coincidentally, the man who was convinced I was worthy of investigative journalism, and the same man who was interested in James Gardner; a certain Robin Hawksmith. told me he never liked not knowing , and he did not like not knowing about me.

I shared my disquiet with Francisco, who smiled.

“Would you like my friends to deal with him?”

“No, that wouldn't help. He is a journalist, so he's totally different to corrupt greedy lawyers. I shall have to deal with him another way.”

“I have a suggestion.”

“Yes?”

“Give him what he wants, only through an untraceable source.”

I frowned, was he mad?

“Not the truth, but a story, that is so unreal as to be believable, but once published, leaves him open to be sued by everyone.”

“Go on.”

“At present, your past is vague, military father, no fixed school, no set of relatives, or guardians, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then give him a different past, one with a father of high office, a politician or even Royalty -with an illegitimate birth and government cover-ups. He will take flimsy evidence, publish, and be open for litigation, but not by you. Let everyone else threaten to sue, and you keep quiet. That silence will convince him that he is correct, so he will embarrass himself out of a job.”

“I can't do that. I don't have the resources or the contacts. And even if I did, I can't risk my real past being discovered.”

“I have certain resources at my disposal,” he said, smiling that gentle smile.

I just shrugged and left it at that. It was one of those conversations that one has and I thought no more of it.

Then, one morning, Stuart called.

“Jemma?”

“Hello Stuart, do you want Francisco?”

“No, it's you I want to speak to. Have you seen the Sun this morning?”

“Even if I wanted to, I am hardly in a location where everyone has instant access to one.”

“You are on page two.”

“At least I'm not on page three.”

“It isn't funny. You should read what they say.”

“Go on.”

“It says, ‘The Sun has exclusive evidence that beautiful blonde Jemma Adams (21) is hiding a great and embarrassing secret. Recently engaged to dashing Spanish Count, Francisco del Valdarez, the sexy Jemma's past is very secretive and until now has been mysterious and unknown.

‘This reporter is in possession of information that proves that Jemma is the illegitimate daughter of a very prominent figure, and not, as is claimed, the daughter of a dead British serviceman. Her father is alive and well, and if the full facts are published, he is likely to be caused great embarrassment, and indeed, he is known to be married and has several children.

‘Photographs reveal the young Jemma playing in the grounds of Balmoral Castle when about six or seven, add fuel to the speculation of he highly placed father.

‘Miss Adams was unavailable for comment, and a palace spokesman said this was highly speculative and fictional rubbish. More tomorrow.'

“What do you think?”

“What bollocks,” I said.

“The photographs actually look as if they could be you, a sort of young version. They have a recent picture next to it.”

“You know it's bollocks,” I said.

“Jemma, it looks like you.”

“It isn't me. You know that is impossible.”

“So how did it happen?” he asked.

I remembered my conversation with Francisco.

“Don't worry about it.”

“Do you want me to start legal proceedings?”

“No, we will simply deny it to another paper and let Hawksmith dig a bigger hole for himself.”

“How did you know it was him?”

“I can guess. He always was an arse.”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“Call the Times on my behalf. Issue a statement to the affect that it is untrue and that Hawksmith should be very careful what he says about other people.”

“Is that all?”

“Unless your contact in the Irish embassy wants to get arrested, that is enough, don't you think?”

“He is not there now.”

“Oh, am I in danger?”

“Hardly, he died of cancer three months ago.”

“So?”

“All the records have been transferred to central registry in Dublin, including yours. You are legal.”

“Completely?”

“Absolutely.”

“How do you know?”

“Your fiancé asked me to check. So I did.”

“Then offer to show the Times my birth certificate.”

“Okay.”

I rang off, not a little troubled.

Francisco came and found me, and I turned on him.

“You could have bloody warned me,” I said, quite angry.

“I was going to, but things got out of hand. Hawksmith didn't even wait to verify the information; he just went ahead and published. I am sorry Jemma, truly I was going to tell you about it, and the other things.”

“Other things?”

He smiled.

“Come with me,” he said. I followed him to his study, still angry and frightened.

He went behind his large desk, and sitting in the big red leather armchair, he opened a drawer, taking out a folder. He passed it over to me.

“All you need to do is deny it and offer some proof of identity. This may help.”

“Already done?” I said, reaching out for the file.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Good, now let nature take its course.”

I opened the file.

My birth certificate was there, as was a photograph of a man in the uniform of a British Army Sergeant with Irish Guards insignia on his uniform. A pretty woman was seated on a bench in another photograph, and there were several photos of them with a baby girl, and a couple with a little girl who looked remarkably like I should, or could have been at that age. There was a series of different school reports and photographs of school children with a pretty blonde girl in each. They were very well done, and I was amazed.

“By the way, who is supposed to be my father?”

“I thought the Duke of Kent was quite a good choice.”

“Franco! No?”

He smiled.

“Don't worry, there is no way the source can be traced and the photographs are very well done.”

“Who is she?”

“She is a young girl in Canada, one of my friends thought she resembled you very closely. The photographs were adjusted accordingly. No one will suspect, so don't worry.”

Over the next few days, the Sun continued the story, never actually printing the name of my supposed father, but the hints became stronger. More photographs appeared, as the London Times issued my denial and the threat of legal action. Upon close examination, one could see that the photographs in the paper were all of the same girl, but it was as if she had been pasted into the background photograph. They looked false, good ones, but still false. The Sun was going to have egg on its face.

As soon as mention of my birth certificate appeared and verification was completed with Dublin, the Sun closed the story. I imagined that Hawksmith's services were about to be downgraded.

I called the Sun.

“Robin Hawksmith's editor, please.”

“Who is calling?”

“Jemma Adams.”

There was a mild panic on the other end.

“Mark Ritchie, Assistant News Editor.”

“Mr Ritchie. My name is Jemma Adams. For some obscure reason a reporter from your paper has got it into his head that I am the illegitimate daughter of someone famous. I find this fascinating and highly amusing, but the joke is wearing a bit thin. What do you propose to do about it?”

“That really depends on you, Miss Adams.”

“You want to know whether I am intending to take legal action, don't you?”

“Are you?”

“Well, I understand that further supposed evidence is being published soon, if Mr Hawksmith is to be believed. Although intrigued as to the inventiveness of this desperate hack, I don't actually believe that his false evidence will do the unfortunate famous person, your paper or me any good whatsoever. How he is kept on, beats me.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“Put it this way . I know that the evidence is false and I can prove it. I have the original photographs from which these were taken. I don't know how Hawksmith got hold of them, nor do I know who tampered with them and altered them. But even I can see that they are constructed. So, if a full retraction and an apology are not forthcoming within three days, I will. Is that fair?”

“Three days? That does not give us much time.”

“How long does it take to kill a story and print a few lines, or would you like the sight of my birth certificate and all the school reports that Mr Hawksmith doesn't want to use, in case he loses his precious story?”

“You'll get your apology.” Mr Ritchie said.

“Oh, and Mr Ritchie?”

“Miss Adams?”

“I have been hounded by your paper for long enough. I am a simple girl, who just happens to have been lucky in love. If Mr Hawksmith ever even thinks about doing another story on me, I will take it very personally. And, I now have quite a considerable legal resource at my disposal.”

“Point taken. You need not worry. Mr Hawksmith will not bother you any more.”

“Don't misunderstand me. I am quite open to press coverage where I am involved. But really, my formative private life is an open and very dull book. But I do strongly object to lies and fiction made to look like fact and my fiancé will see it as a personal insult should it happen again.”

“I accept that, and believe me, this paper will ensure that any story is properly verified.”

“Thank you. I look forward to seeing that in print,” I said, and hung up.

Sure enough, two days later the Sun published a full retraction and an apology to all those involved, both named and hinted at. Mr Hawksmith's services were dispensed with, and I felt slightly more relaxed. I had learned never to become complacent.

13.

The wedding was over in a flash. My feet never touched the ground, although I was in a complete daze throughout most of it.

It took place in Spain at the local church, where generations of Valdarez ancestors had been baptised, married and buried. The main hacienda hosted the reception, with worthies coming from all over the world to attend.

My dress was the most magnificent creation that Roz's friend from Paris had ever produced. Yvette Blanchfleur was a leading independent dress designer, who had won awards some years ago. Specialising now in wedding dresses for the rich and famous, her creations were often five figures or more.

The ceremony was conducted by the local priest in Spanish and English. The church was full to overflowing, so the hall next door was used as an overflow with audio link. At the moment when the priest asked if any person present knew of any just cause why we should not be wed, the pause seemed extended to me. Someone coughed, and I had to resist the very strong urge to turn round to see the culprit. However, to my relief, we were declared man and wife, and that kiss that sealed the vows was, to me, the most wonderful kiss ever!

One thousand people had been invited and after shaking hands for what appeared to be an age, I guessed that not many declined the invitation. The handful of my friends who did make it, were completely awe struck at the splendour of the occasion. I dreaded to think what it had all cost. The hacienda had been transformed into a floral wonderland, and Roz had enjoyed herself immensely in organising the arrangements.

George Jameson had been completely overcome when I had asked him to give me away. Lynette dissolved into tears, and they had both made the trip. They were the only other people, apart from Stuart, who knew the truth. Both had sworn to secrecy, and as they had given me the helping hand when I was at my most vulnerable, I loved them the more for it.

Sally and my three friends from the old Massage Centre days made wonderful bridesmaids, and I was tempted to ask Darren's Morris to don a dress just for a laugh. When he turned up dressed as a girl, completely convincing, I almost died! He was in a powder blue twin set suit, of a silk blouse, bolero style jacket and skirt. He had grown his own hair and had it styled in a neat bob. He looked wonderful, fully made up and with exceptionally long crimson fingernails and teetering on stiletto heels. He even sported a cute blue cowboy-style hat, and he looked so relaxed and feminine.

It turns out he had changed his mind about dressing as a girl. He wasn't going for a sex change, as Darren liked certain parts as they were, but he just adored the clothes. He had already had breast implants, and looked about as feminine as one could get.

When he and Darren came forward to be introduced to Francisco and Roz, we kissed cheeks and Darren introduced him as Marissa. He took the kiss from Francisco, who arched his eyebrow. He had recognised him, but said nothing.

It wasn't a formal sit down occasion, and once the speeches were concluded, it turned into a wonderful celebration that went on deep into the night. The speeches were short and witty. George Jameson was very nervous, but he was excellent in the end. He had stood up, stared at the vast sea of faces and put his notes back into his pocket.

“Your Royal Highnesses, my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen. My humble speech is of no consequence in such august company.

“As I stand here, in loco parentis, for the lovely Jemma, I am humbled beyond belief. Jemma came to us with nothing. She was a desperate child of tragic and unhappy circumstances. Such was her will and determination to make something of her life, I am not in the least surprised to now find her amongst Europe's titled nobility.

“It is rare to find someone with such a damaged past, whose temperament and character has allowed her to rise above that past and we have all marvelled at watching her become the lovely young bride of this wonderful occasion. I feel privileged to have been part of her life, and that part of her life which has witnessed her rise up and accept the challenge to succeed.

“Her amazing ability to adapt, her incredible determination, her exuberance and infinite capacity to love, has no doubt made her the charming girl she is today.

“I would be proud if she was my own daughter, and I am honoured to be standing here on such an occasion.”

The speech ended with a toast, and I felt at one with the world.

I circulated amongst the guests, stopping finally at the small but very select English group.

I sat next to Morris, giving him a hug.

“You look simply wonderful! How long have you been dressing like this?” I asked.

“Well, a week or so after that conversation we had in the pub, Darren and I went to s special function at a club. There was a glamour competition for T-girls and the one that won it was really quite butch. Darren bet that I'd make a more convincing girl, so I tried it the next time. I won, so took to dressing more often. It's now so much me that I live all day and every day en femme and Daren loves it, don't you lover?”

Darren grinned and nodded.

“We went to a pub in Camberley the other day. Marissa was like this and I bumped into two blokes I knew from the mob (army). They had suspected I was gay, but when they saw Marissa, they changed their minds. It is such a buzz, being able to kiss my boyfriend in public, as no one turns a hair,” he said, still with a huge grin on his face.

“It really turns me on, too,” said the sexy Marissa, as he fondled Darren's leg.

I so wanted to tell them the truth about me, but knew it wasn't either the time or the place. I also knew it was no longer important.

Sally disappeared at eleven with one of Francisco's cousins. They were headed towards the stables, and I knew Sally wasn't interested in the horses!

After the cake was cut and distributed, my husband and I went and changed. I was reluctant to change out of my fairy princess dress, but the going-away outfit was almost as expensive and equally stunning. A helicopter landed on the polo field, and whisked us away. I waved at all the faces below, finally able to relax with my husband. From there we went to the airport, and ended up, many hours later in the Maldives.

We spent two weeks in the sunshine, enjoying the sea and each other. Wearing clothes rarely, we acquired all-over tans and I became my husband's devoted and willing slave. I worshipped the ground he walked on and there was nothing I wouldn't do for him. I loved him completely and utterly, which he reciprocated in every way. We made love often and experimented with numerous new positions and sensations. He had been a slightly staid lover as far as that was concerned. I shocked him a little with my obvious skills at oral sex.

He was well endowed, not as big as my ski instructor, but still he filled me comfortably. He seemed to exist to please me and was the most unselfish lover I had ever had. In turn, I sought new ways to please him, so we both experienced new heights of pleasure. In giving we each received a hundredfold!

“Jemma?” he asked, as we lazed on the beach, one day.

“Mmm?” I said, rolling over so I could look at him.

He was regarding me closely, smiling as I made eye contact with him.

“Are you sure you were ever a boy? You seem all woman to me.”

I smiled, but said nothing. It was still painful to me and I didn't like being reminded of it. We had rarely talked about it, but I knew that we would have to, eventually.

“He's dead. He died inside that place.”

“I'm sorry, but it seems so far fetched that that person is the same as you are now.”

“He isn't.”

He moved closer to me, and with his index finger traced the line of my breasts down to my belly button, and then down to my fine pubic hair. I shivered in anticipation.

“Was it very bad?”

I nodded.

“How old were you when you realised that inside you were a girl?”

“I can't remember, very young. Four, five, I guess.”

He shook his head slightly, catching a tear on his finger as it fell from my eye. He placed it into his mouth.

“What was it like?”

“What, knowing I was a girl inside a boy's body?”

He nodded.

“Incredibly frustrating, depressing and painful. The bum really isn't designed to take men, you know?” I said, trying to inject a little humour into a depressing subject.

He rested his hand on the flat of my tummy, by my belly button.

“You had many men, that way, I mean?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

I shrugged.

“Because I was a girl, and that's what girls do, they let men come inside them.”

“Did you enjoy it at all?”

“Sometimes. It isn't bad once you get used to it, and have the right technique. Why, do you fancy it for a change?”

“No, my love. I'd like to think that's one place I have no desire to go.”

“I wouldn't mind, as long as you're gentle,” I said.

“Don't even think about it. You've everything I need right here!” he said, caressed my labia.

“I went through a lot to have that, so I adore you wanting it!” I said, opening my legs to allow him to caress further. I held his hand tight against me.

“When I think of what you went through, I get so angry. It was barbaric.”

“Yes and no. If they hadn't done what they did, I wouldn't be the person I am now. I'd never have met you and gone to heaven!”

He smiled.

“Is that how you feel?”

I nodded, tears falling freely now.

“You have made me feel like a complete person. Your unconditional love has freed me from my demons. I just feel so dirty when I think of my past and what I did just to survive.”

“Don't! You have risen above all that, as you are now a beautiful woman whom I adore. You were right, the person you were died, and I think we should bury him forever!”

He kissed me so tenderly, I cried as he pulled me towards him. I went willingly and sighed with contentment as he entered me. I adored feeling him inside me, yet I felt a little guilty that I had quite enjoyed the anal sex all those years ago. However, this was so much better, there was no comparison and no going back now. Thank God!

It was the last time he ever mentioned my previous existence, and I hoped that in the past it would remain.

We returned to real life and became a family. Roz was relieved to pass responsibility for the children over to me and picked up her old social life once more. We set up home in London, although Francisco's business empire was truly international, he was happy to base his family in London for a while.

I was now moving in a whole new world, and as my wonderful husband spent most of his time travelling on business, he left me to organise the children and their education. Carlos was an energetic young man, who thought up many different ways to test and assess his new stepmother. I taught him the rudiments of Karate, which seemed to meet with his approval. I never thought that something I learned in prison to defend myself from sexual assault would come in handy as a mother!

Conchita was a solemn little two year-old, yet she was the exact opposite of her hyperactive brother. Whereas Carlos would be active from the moment he first awoke, until he went to bed, Conchita was content to just sit wherever I was, playing with her dolls, colouring or looking at books. I think she was confused about me. One moment she had a dark mother, and the next moment a blonde one appeared. She was quite clingy, and didn't like being separated from me very much. I adored both children, but was quite relieved when Carlos went off to pre-prep school, and peace rained in the house for a short time every day.

I was still very young, and so we employed a Norland Nanny to assist me. Rachel McGuire was from Dublin and was in her late twenties. She was a big girl, ruddy of complexion and with flaming red hair, which she put up whilst at work.

I explained that I was not into strict regimens as far as childcare was concerned. I expected discipline, but I wanted it nurtured through love and creative freedom. She looked at me with a strange expression.

“I had a very deprived childhood,” I explained. “These kids have everything . I want them to learn the value of people and things so they take nothing or no one for granted. The real wealth is in those aspects of life that money can't buy and that is what I want them to learn. I want them to learn self-respect and to respect others, no matter how humble their origins. I want no notions of superiority to rub off on them. They may be privileged, but they must learn that that is a responsibility not an advantage.”

Rachel's face broke into a wary smile.

“Yes, Ma'am,” she said.

“And another thing, my name is Jemma. I never want to hear you call me anything other than that, is that clear?”

She looked a little pained.

“Is that a problem?” I asked.

“Not with me, ma'am, but the agency wouldn't approve.”

“Stuff the agency. You may have been trained by them, but you are paid by me, and as far as I'm concerned, you call me Jemma, okay?”

“It will be a pleasure, ma…Jemma.”

“And don't be getting any funny ideas that just because I'm a bloody Countess, I don't know what happens in the real fucking world!” I said, in the best Dublin accent I could manage.

She gaped at me for a moment, but then her smile threatened to split her face in two.

“My Da was from the old country!” I explained.

From that moment we became friends as well as employer and nanny.

The house in Kensington was huge, and with a staff of three, not including the Rachel, I was soon bored when Francisco was away. My husband was very wealthy and even my own investments had grown beyond all projections. The first couple of years were exciting. Francisco encouraged me to accompany him on many of his business trips, which I did and thoroughly enjoyed. Travel was one experience that I had never had, so I made the most of it.

I began to get an idea as to my husband's business at the same time. His main concern was the realisation of opportunities. By that I mean, a client wanted to start a venture, Francisco's company identified the optimum site for the factory, the most appropriate market and the most effective distribution location. He'd actually buy land and sell it, conduct market research, and gauge employment markets. He'd end up reselling the land, charging fees on successful completion of business, retaining consultancy options with the many companies he worked with.

Life in Kensington was good. I didn't have to try to form friendships. Francisco's established position in society and business meant we were constantly socialising with the rich and influential. I found many powerful men had highly intelligent and equally ambitious women behind them. I also found out that many of these men and women were hardly discrete about their extramarital affairs. Several men, and I include cabinet ministers amongst them, made overtly obvious passes at me, even when Francisco was in the same house.

When he was away on business, I was surprised at the amount of male callers who turned up at the house on some pretext or other. All claimed to have forgotten, or were allegedly unaware Francisco was away, and then proceeded to attempt to get me to go to bed with them. It took some time, but eventually they all got the message that I wasn't interested, and would tell Francisco after each attempt. He would use this information when forming new business deals, and those who I had rebuffed sexually, would find themselves suddenly out of favour in the financial field.

By the time I was twenty-five, Conchita was in school too. It was 1979 and although I was blissfully happy and Francisco's Countess, I wanted to do something constructive with my own life. I began to look for ways I could make a difference. I found that many charities were always on the lookout for famous or titled people who could patron their charity. As the Condesa de Valdarez, soon I was inundated with offers.

I was opening my mail one morning, as the children were getting ready for school. Another charity was seeking to add my name to a list of patrons in order to increase it's standing in a highly competitive field.

Five Fingers was: - ‘Dedicated to helping those young offenders who come from abusive backgrounds, or have been the victims of sexual abuse whilst institutionalised, in order they might have a better chance of leading near normal lives.' The stylised five fingers, or helping hand was shown reaching out to those in trouble.

This struck a chord. So as soon as I dropped the children off at school, I drove my Range Rover to call on the charity at their registered address.

The executive officer was a retired nursing officer called Richard Mabley. He'd worked in the Prison service for many years and had seen first hand the abuses of sexual assault and ritualistic rape.

I couldn't tell him my story, but he was rather at a loss as to how to deal with me.

“Um, your, um Countess, um Vald….”

“Richard, my name is Jemma, so forget the countess crap and use my name. It will make life much easier,” I said, and he was stunned into silence.

I laughed.

“I was born to poor circumstances and suffered abuse. I can understand what these young people are going through, and will keep on going through, unless something is done. Too many people turn a blind eye to a corrupt and overtly abusive system, in the mistaken belief that those who run these places actually care. You and I know that they are paid to keep offenders off the streets, and only that. The courts sentence them, so they lock them up, and rarely is there any thought to rehabilitation or education.

“If only government would place sufficient resources into that sector, then some good could be done. If offenders didn't re-offend, then the police and courts wouldn't be so busy and the prisons wouldn't be so full. There just aren't enough votes in such radical action!”

Richard shook his head.

“I'm speechless, Jemma. I had no idea you were so passionate about this. Certainly, nothing in your manner would indicate a deprived childhood, and I am so surprised to hear that you suffered abuse.”

“I don't seek to advertise the fact, and as you see, one can successfully rise above it.”

He showed me round their head office and I then drove him to a halfway house where eight youngsters were staying. They'd all been released from one institution or another, and were suffering from varying degrees of trauma.

I sat and chatted with the kids, all boys. I cried a little as each one told me their tale. Notwithstanding the obvious embellishments, their stories were such that I could identify with each one.

I stayed and had lunch with them, returning to the office with Richard afterwards.

“Would you be willing to join an inspection team?” he asked.

“What team?”

“We've been asked to supply a member for a Home Office inspection team to visit various Young Offenders Institutions, to compile a report for the Home Office Minister for Prisons. Would you be interested?”

“You bet your life, I would.”

He seemed relieved.

“Well, that is one worry less. We are so short of reliable staff that I can't afford to release a permanent member. Your arrival on the scene is a Godsend. If I give you all the information, I'll put your name forward on behalf of the charity, if that's okay?”

“Perfectly, only don't give me too much reading, I'm dyslexic, and will never wade through reams and reams of bumf.”

I never realised that in a few short weeks, I'd cross the threshold of Garside once more.

14.

As the bus drew close, it was as if some invisible demon had his claws into my heart. The last time I had travelled this road, it had been on my release in the winter of 1973. It was now April 1980, I had been married for a few short years, yet my life was completely different. Hell, I was completely different!

Five Fingers had developed and had joined with another charity and now called itself Helping Hands. I had not really been asked to do much. I had attended a few fundraising events, dinners and concerts , for the most part. There'd been a couple of meetings, where a faintly patronising civil servant from the Home Office had lectured us on his view of what the Inspection Team should be looking for.

I had my agenda, but was not overly impressed with the other team members:

There was an elderly Judge, who had prostate problems and kept having to go to the loo.

Then there was a very snobby housewife from Guildford called Natasha, who still believed in the birch, and kept loudly proclaiming that hanging was too good for some people.

A retired Anglican Canon moaned about the permissive society and stared at my tits and dribbled at every opportunity.

A social worker from Brixton called Ruth, seemed so highly strung, that if the coach backfired, I thought she'd have a heart attack.

Roger was an alcoholic retired detective Superintendent from Birmingham, and he spent all his time dozing and waiting for his next drink.

Wesley Phillips was a Jamaican outreach worker from Lambeth. He was a lovely God-fearing man, with three sons and two daughters. The eldest of whom was my age. He was a kind and gentle man, and the only one who actually shared my agenda - to see what we could do to help these abused kids and give them a chance in life that would otherwise be unavailable.

“Most of these people have no idea what kind of world these kids have to exist in!” Wesley said. We were sitting together on the bus, and Garside was only three miles away. This was our fourth visit to a YOI, and the one I had hoped not to have to make.

I stared out of the window. The rain lashed the side of the coach, and the grey day made the whole experience seem even more depressing.

“Are you alright, Jemma?” the kindly man asked.

I stared at him and smiled.

“Yes, sorry Wesley, I was miles away for a moment.”

“Now, take your good self, how much do you really know about these kids?”

I looked at him.

“You'd be surprised, Wesley, believe me.”

“You think you know, but in reality, your upbringing and whole experience of life can never give you a feel of what it is like.”

I sighed. I yearned to tell him the truth, but I couldn't. We, that is, my husband and I, had agreed that the past was dead. My life now consisted of a complex fabricated version, into which much time and money had been invested to appear convincing. I stuck to it like glue.

“Wesley, I may look and sound like someone born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but I promise, I'm not! I was abused as a child, and although I don't want to go over old ground, let me just say, there is nothing in there that will either surprise or shock me.”

He looked at me over the top of his spectacles. I could tell he didn't believe me.

“Let me explain. My father was a drunk and beat the living shit out of me. Then while I was supposed to be in the care of the state, I was raped when I was fifteen. Need I say more?”

His greying eyebrows shot up his mahogany forehead.

“I don't want to talk about it any more, but just accept what I tell you. I want to help these kids because I've been there, not out of some egalitarian sense of noble philanthropy.”

We pulled up at the outer gate, which I observed, was now firmly shut.

A uniformed prison officer got onto the bus. I half expected it to be bloody Mr Simpson. It wasn't.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Garside Young Offenders Institution. We will proceed immediately to the staff canteen where some refreshments will be available and the governor will address you. He will give you an overview of the facility. Please be advised, we will ask you to leave certain items at the reception, which you may collect when you leave.”

I alighted from the bus with a degree of dread in my heart. The place seemed smaller and shabbier than when I left a few short years ago. Only this time, I was wearing a luxurious Kashmir dress, a very smart coat, nylon stockings and high heels. I may look like and behave the Countess that I was, but in my heart, a very frightened little boy was all but crying.

We walked through the small door in the large blue outer gate straight into reception. The ladies had their handbags searched, and one or two lost items like scissors and nail files. I hadn't brought anything, knowing what had happened on the previous visits to similar facilities.

While I waited, I looked round. This was where I had assaulted the doctor on my first day, and it had hardly changed at all. Noises echoed around the bare walls and floors and there was an atmosphere of hopelessness and gloom everywhere. Paint was peeling from the walls, while someone had obviously attempted to clean some of the place, much of it was hardly touched.

Memories were sharp, and I could remember everything that happened to me on that first day. When the screw had beaten me for not answering properly and supposed insolence. I looked down at the scruffy yellow line painted on the floor. It was still there. And, as I stepped forward to have my bag searched, I put my toes over the line.

I half expected to be shouted at, yet when I wasn't I was surprised.

“Are you sure you can cope with my toes over the line?” I asked the officer.

He looked at me blankly, and then looked down at my toes. His eyes met mine again, and he frowned. I didn't recognise him, but that meant little. There was always a quick turn round of staff, so he may have been here when I was.

“I'm sorry, Ma'am?” he said, still frowning.

“Isn't this where you bring inmates on the first day, and make them stand behind the line?”

“Oh, that doesn't happen any more, Ma'am.”

Yeah, like I believe that! I thought to myself.

“Oh, when did that practice cease?”

“Some years now. We find that young people respond better to a more positive approach.”

“I don't think a bit of discipline hurt anyone, do you, Countess?” Natasha said.

I turned to look at this middle class matron. She had lived in blissful ignorance for years and I suspected she believed every unconvincing platitude spouted by countless rightwing politicians eager for her vote.

“Discipline? No, I believe that discipline is an important part of life, but state sponsored torture and sanctioned sexual abuse isn't quite the same thing, is it?”

There was an embarrassing hush, as my voice echoed around these bare walls. It had a hard edge to it, and Wesley touched me on the arm.

“Gently, Countess, gently,” he said, ever so quietly.

I smiled sweetly at Natasha, turned and took my handbag back from the officer who had been searching it for files, chainsaws and rope ladders.

We followed the officer out and into part of the facility in which I had never ventured before. We found ourselves in the canteen and they served us tea in china cups.

I saw the officer whisper to the governor and both looked at me. I must learn to keep my bloody mouth shut. The governor was relatively new. He was a tall man in his forties and had a pleasant smile that never touched his eyes. He had hard eyes, born out of working for the prison service for twenty years, no doubt. His smart suit was undermined by his rough London accent. Although in his speech he welcomed us to ‘his' institution, I could see that he clearly didn't want us here and couldn't wait for us to leave. I didn't listen to his empty words, I was eager to get this unpleasant experience over and done with.

They split us into two groups and took us on a tour of the place. Some inmates had apparently been selected to meet us in the recreation hall, so were there so we could talk to them without intervention or interruption.

As soon as we went through the familiar double barred gate into the main wing, the whistles started. I smiled. These whistles were the last memory I had of the place when I had left. I had blown kisses to those I left behind, and I was keen to do the same again now. I restrained myself.

“Show us yer tits, darlin'!” came a voice.

I was temped to shout back, ‘Only if you show me yours first!'

This was very hard.

We reached the hall and the officer remained outside. There were half a dozen boys in the hall, looking nervous and uncomfortable. I tried to imagine the kind of pep talk that the officers would have given them before our arrival. There were semi-private booths, set up so we could have private conversations.

I immediately was drawn to a slender young lad who was sitting on his own. His body language screamed at me -‘effeminate! He had long hair drawn and tied back in a ponytail. His prison uniform hung off his slim frame, while his slender wrists and hands seemed languid and very fluid in their movements. He was immature for his age, which must be fifteen or sixteen.

I went and sat opposite him.

“Hello, I'm Jemma,” I said, aware that my cultured voice immediately created a vast gulf between us. I sounded educated and sophisticated, and despite trying not to, I'd been doing it for too long, and was unable to lose it.

“I'm Stephen,” he said, eyes widening as he looked at me, taking in my youth and clothes. I smiled, and he frowned.

“'ave you go a fag?” he asked.

“No, I'm sorry, they wouldn't let us bring any in with us. But I don't smoke anyway.”

“Fuck , all else we can do.”

“I know it must be pretty fucking awful!” I said.

He looked at me sharply. “Sounds odd, a classy woman swearing like one of you lot, doesn't it?”

“Wot you trying to prove?”

“I don't have to prove anything; not any more. Tell me, does old Ron Clarke still work in the kitchens?”

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

“'ow do you know him?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah, the screws told us, you're a fucking Countess of sumfink.”

“And he told you not to tell me how it really is, didn't he?”

The boy's eyes flicked to see who was watching or listening, then flicked back to me. He nodded.

“You don't need to tell me anything. I already know. Someone who was here once, he told me everything.”

“Who's that then?”

“Ever hear of Jimmy Gardner, or Larry Sparks?”

He shook his head.

“How about the kid who sued the prison service for giving him drugs?”

“Yeah, I heard of him. He's fucked off. Got a fair old pay-out from the government and no one knows where 'e is.”

“Well, I've met him and he's in good shape. He's very happy.”

“Is it true, then?”

“Is what true?”

“The drugs they gave him, they turned him into a girl?”

“Is that what you heard?”

“Yeah. They said he was more a girl than a boy when he left. The bloke who shared a cell said he even had tits.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I couldn't possibly comment, except to say, he's found happiness.”

His eyes widened and he actually smiled, almost.

My eyes warned him not to react too much, so he stared at me, willing me to say more.

“Let's say, he's become an acquaintance of mine, and leave it there.”

“I hope he's okay.”

“Oh, he is, believe me.”

“Good. Life can be shit, sometimes,” the boy said, his face looking more forlorn than ever.

“Do you identify with him?” I asked.

“You what?”

“I'm not blind. It must be tough in here if you aren't macho like some of them.”

He nodded but his eyes were wary.

“Look, if I could read you within seconds of walking in, so can most people. It is really bad?” My voice was soft and I tried to sound caring. It must have worked, as tears started welling up in his eyes. I could see him trying to fight his emotions, but they were too strong for him.

“How old are you?” I asked to give him space.

“Sixteen.”

“How long have you known?” I asked, looking at his long slender hands. His nails were nicely shaped and pointed.

“Known what?”

“That you should have been born different?”

He frowned and looked uneasy again.

“Wot you mean?”

“Your nails. They're a lovely shape,” I said.

He looked panic-stricken for a second, then he thrust his hands into his pockets.

“When do you get out?”

“Eight weeks, why?”

“Have you a home to go to?”

“Yer joking, ain't ya?”

“No, why?”

“I'm in ‘ere for setting fire to my folks place.”

“Oh, I didn't know. Was it your dad?”

“Was what my dad?”

“Let me make it easier for you - My dad used to beat me,” I said.

His eyes narrowed again, then he relaxed and looked down. It was like a cloud left him, as he finally lowered his guard. The tears started, and I handed over a tissue.

“I knew I should have been a girl when I was about six. When I was eight or nine, my dad found me dressing in my sister's clothes and damn near killed me. I was careful after that. But he caught me again and put me in hospital. That was just a few months ago, now. When I got out of hospital, I burned the fucking place down. I wish I'd killed him, but he lived. They said I was mentally unbalanced due to the beating, but he did more than beat me, the bastard!”

“He sexually abused you, didn't he?”

Stephen looked up in surprise.

“I was raped when I was fifteen. So, I know what it's like,” I said.

“By your dad?”

“No, not that bad. Why?”

“I don't know. He said if I wanted to be a girl that bad, then I should feel a real man! He was drunk, but he shouldn't have done it, should he?”

“No he shouldn't. What happened, did you tell the police?”

“I couldn't. My mum made me promise not to say anything. Why did he do that to me?”

I took his hand, but he was weeping almost uncontrollably now.

“Shh, I'm so sorry, sweetie. Maybe he did it because it was done to him by his father. He's sick, you're not!”

“Not sick? I want to be a girl, for fuck's sake! They all tell me how sick I am.”

“So, what's wrong with that?” I said, and he stopped crying. He looked at me with a strange expression.

“Huh?”

“You want to be a girl, then become one!”

“How?”

“When you get out, call me. I'll come and get you, and give you a job. Okay?”

“Why?”

“One day I might tell you, but pretend it's my way of getting back at a crappy system.”

“Are you on the level?”

“Don't you trust me?” I asked.

“I don't trust anyone, why should I?”

“I've nothing to gain and nothing to lose. You don't have to call, but believe me, it could make a difference to you.”

He looked at me suspiciously. I didn't blame him in the slightest. I remembered how I felt not that long ago. Good things just don't happen to people like us!

“Stephen, please call., I really can help!”

He looked at me with those big, moist eyes. I could see he desperately wanted to trust someone, so he nodded, still not entirely convinced.

“Is the food okay, or still awful?” I asked, changing the subject. He frowned again.

“Still awful, have you ever tasted it?”

“As I said, I've spoken to lads who have been here before.”

“Oh, it's okay, I suppose.”

“Any chance of seeing the kitchens?”

“Dunno, I could ask, if you want.”

“Why not?”

I stood up and walked to the door. I knocked and it opened. An officer stood there.

“Is it possible I could see the kitchens?” I asked.

“I'll check, ma'am, please wait here.”

He went off to phone, returning a few minutes later.

“Ma'am, if you come with me, the governor has approved your request.”

I accompanied the officer through the facility. Memories came flooding back, as the place had hardly changed. The inmates glared at me with a mixture of disbelief, sexual desire and contempt. I tried to look as if I cared, but was only too well aware that to them to care was to be weak.

Ron Clarke had hardly changed.

Still fat, sweaty and red in the face, his good humoured laugh and booming voice echoed down the corridor before I turned the corner and caught sight of him.

I paused for a moment, reliving all the hours I had spent in this particular kitchen. I had actually found a degree of peace and contentment here, so I didn't hate the place as much as one would expect. To see Ron standing there brought tears to my eyes. I had to look away to gather my thoughts.

“Mr Clarke, word of your culinary expertise has travelled far!” said the sarcastic prison officer. “The countess here has specially requested to visit your hallowed portals.”

Ron wiped his hands on his filthy apron.

We locked eyes and he frowned. Somehow, a spark of recognition had come alight in his mind.

“Mr Clarke, this is very kind of you to allow me a glimpse behind the scenes,” I said, my voice at its poshest I could manage.

He was still frowning as I approached.

“I am La Condesa de Valdarez, but please call me Jemma,” I said, offering him my hand.

He took it, shaking it very slowly. He retained it after we had shaken. The escorting officer wandered off, peering into a steaming vat.

“Condesa? Is that foreign?”

“Yes, I am married to a Spanish Count.”

“You aren't Spanish, are you,…ma'am?” he asked, adding the ma'am as an afterthought.

I laughed.

“No Ron, I'm not Spanish,” I said. “I was born in the East End of London. I was just very fortunate to marry well. In fact, my early life was pretty bloody awful. Is it hard to get good help in the kitchens, these days?”

“Good help?” he repeated, still frowning.

“Still trying to get a quart out of a pint pot?” I asked, using one of his favourite phrases.

I walked along the row of ovens, peering through the dark stained glass fronts.

“Looks like steak pie, it must be Wednesday,” I said, turning to look at him. I flicked my hair back in the same way as I used to when I'd been working here.

His eyes opened wide, as the truth slowly dawned on him. He looked about, as if frightened of discovery. I released my hand from his slightly damp clutches.

“So, Mr Clarke, what's on the menu for today?”

He went through the motions of showing me his kitchen and the preparation of the food. He waited until we were away from eves-droppers.

“You seem familiar, ma'am, just how is that?”

“Come on Ron, you know me, surely?”

“How? My God, it's unbelievable!”

“Where there's a will!” I said, smiling enigmatically.

“It is you, isn't it?”

“Oh yes, although I'd deny it if anyone asks. Fancy claiming the reward?”

“My God, no. Every time I read about how Jimmy Gardner has fooled the press and can't be found, I said to my wife, ‘Good for you'. Are you really are a countess?”

“Absolutely. I just wanted to come back and say a special thank you for being the only person to treat me properly.”

“My God, you're taking a risk!”

“No, Ron, that's all in the past. I'm now able to do something about what happens in places like this. So, my special friend, thank you from a very grateful lady!”

“I often wondered about you. I had no idea you were, you know who. My wife reads all the society gossip, so she told me about your engagement and marriage. The missus gets all the magazines, as you were in the colour supplement when you got married. I never twigged, and yet I suppose I knew you as well as anyone. The press came snooping after the pay out.”

“I thought they might. Did anyone say anything?”

“Shit no. It was more than their job was worth. The new governor told us that anyone who spoke to the press would be dismissed. I don't think anyone expected this!” he said, looking me up and down.

I smiled.

“No, me included. How have you been?”

“Okay, pissed off with the job, but while I've mouths to feed and a mortgage, I need to keep working.”

He shook his head, a huge smile on his face.

“I can't believe this! You look so, … shit, … so fantastic! No one would ever guess you were that poor soul.”

“That's my hope.”

The warder came over, so I thanked Ron for his kindness.

“Thank you so much. I hope we can manage to persuade the powers that be to improve the budget for food.”

“No, thank you, Countess, you've made an old man very happy!”

With a smile, I left him grinning after me, returning to the group, which was now doing a tour of the training facilities. These were new since I'd been here. There was a fully functioning machine workshop and engineering shop. It was in full use, but I gathered by the obvious ineptitude of those young men taking part, it wasn't in use very often.

Wesley, bless him, asked the question about how often the place was used.

“As often as possible,” came the reply.

Wesley then asked one of the boys the same question.

“I dunno. This is the first time I've been here.”

The visit was soon over, so we boarded the bus to the outside world, once more. I never got to speak to Stephen again, but I doubted he'd contact me. Fear and mistrust are always difficult to shake off.

15.

It took me a long time to get over my visit to Garside. I hadn't realised how much of an impact the place had on me. The over-riding emotion I experienced was anger. I was angry that society treated these kids like this, I was angry that the parents had allowed the kids to get to such a state and I was angry that the kids allowed themselves to be manipulated by bad role models and their environment to get into such a situation.

However, with my lovely family, I was able to retreat from my anger, and provide them with as much love as I could. The visit produced a report, which, in my opinion was tempered too much to be of any use . But I was able to get my oar in and instigate an improvement in the catering budget.

Government cut-backs and efficiency savings meant that little constructive work could be done in the attempt to rehabilitate those poor kids who would be left to fend for themselves whilst inadequately prepared for what life would throw at them. I was not naïve enough to think that there weren't those who deserved to be locked up, and no amount of rehabilitation would make a scrap of difference. However, if we, as a society, could actually reduce the likelihood of those ever getting to that stage, we'd be helping future generations.

It was with some surprise that I got a call about ten weeks later. It was early evening. The children had just gone to bed and I was settling down to watch TV. Francisco was abroad on business, Brussels , I think. But as it was only a two-day trip, I had declined to accompany him.

It wasn't Stephen, but a casualty nurse from Whipps Cross Hospital in East London.

“Hello, I'm staff nurse Carol Green, could I speak to the Countess Jemma? I'm sorry but that's the only name I have.”

“I am the Condesa Jemma de Valdarez, how may I help?”

“Um, I'm not sure. We've just had a young lad brought in having taken an overdose. We don't believe it was a serious attempt, as he didn't take enough of anything to do much damage, but there is no doubt the poor kid is at the end of his tether. I asked if he had anyone who cared about him and he said you were. He had ‘Countess Jemma' and a phone number on a piece of paper. He has no one else and I was hoping you'd know what we could do.”

“It's Stephen, isn't it?”

“Stephen Bayliss, yes.”

“I didn't even know his surname. I'm involved in a charity that helps ex-offenders and so I met the poor kid on a prison visit a couple of months ago. I told him I might be able to help him when he came out, but he never called. I'd assumed he'd forgotten.”

“Can you help?”

“What's the situation?”

“It appears he's homeless, undernourished and very depressed. We can't keep him in for longer than a day or so, as he's no longer on the danger list, and the psychiatrist doesn't believe he's a danger to himself or anyone else. There's no psychotic illness that can be treated, so we will discharge him.”

“Just like that?”

“That's why I called. The poor child needs some TLC, and the NHS don't provide a lot of that in these circumstances.”

“He's only a child!”

“I know. Look, I'm a mother too, but I can't do anything for him. I was hoping you'd know what to do.”

“How is he at the moment?”

“He's asleep. The doctor gave him something to calm him down. That's part of the problem, he hasn't been sleeping well of late. His mind keeps him awake, he says, and in the dark hours he thinks about all the bad things that happened to him.”

“I can identify with that,” I said.

“You? I'm sorry, I just didn't think…”

“No, it doesn't matter. I wasn't always a countess, that's all. I'll be there in an hour.”

“Are you sure?”

“My children are in bed. I have someone who can watch them.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to come out. I just thought that you'd know someone who could help.”

“Sometimes, we must do what we can. As I said, I'll be there in an hour.”

I found Rachel in her sitting room and told her what had happened. She was no longer a nanny, having left Norland and taken up full time employment in my service. Her official title would be ‘household manager', but in effect she was my friend and confidant. She was also on the point of becoming engaged to Miles, Francisco's English chauffeur.

“Don't you worry about anything, as I'll get the children to school if you're not back. Just take care of the poor soul!”

Taking the Range Rover, I drove through Westminster and the City, and out towards the east. I parked the car in the large car park at the hospital, which was an uninspiring edifice on the fringes of Epping Forest.

I went to the reception desk in the busy casualty department.

“Hello, I'm the Condesa de Valdarez. I've been called by Staff Nurse Green. It's about a Stephen Bayliss.”

The fraught looking receptionist looked up at me with tired eyes. Taking in the smart clothes, the cultured accent and expensive jewellery, she nodded wearily.

“Please take a seat, madam, I'll call the nurse.”

It was only a few minutes later that a nurse, much the same age as myself, came out of a door marked, “Staff Only”.

“Hello, Countess?” she asked. Several of those waiting glanced over at me.

“Call me Jemma. Are you Carol?”

“Yes, thanks for coming. Please come through.”

I followed her through the doors and found myself in an area of curtained cubicles.

“Stephen's been admitted to a ward, but it's only for the night. Beds are very scarce, yet there is no reason to detain him any longer.”

I went with her to a long ward. Stephen was in an end bed, by the window. He was so thin he hardly made any impression on the bedclothes. His hair was slightly longer and unkempt. His pale face looked gaunt and haggard, with large dark rings around his eyes. His chest was rising and falling slowly, but it was the only thing that showed he was alive. Taking his hand, I noted his skin was very cold to the touch. The poor child looked almost like a corpse.

“I'll stay with him for a while,” I said, sitting in the chair next to the bed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. If he comes round, he'd like someone to be here.”

“Thanks, you don't have to, you know?”

I stared at the pathetic boy.

“Yes, I do.”

Carol walked off, leaving me with the boy.

He seemed at peace, but then strange expressions flitted across his face. He frowned and moved, moaning softly.

“It's okay, sweetie, you're safe now,” I said, feeling inadequate and rather useless.

Surprisingly, he calmed down and seemed to be sleeping peacefully. I simply sat and held his hand. I found his breathing almost hypnotic, and rested my head on my other arm.

I must have dozed off, for I was wakened by Stephen speaking. His voice was soft and was full of surprise.

“You came?” he said.

I smiled at him. He was still holding my hand. He was holding it very tightly, but now he increased his grasp.

“Hi, yes, it seems I did. How do you feel?”

“Why?”

“Because I care, why else?”

He began to cry silently. Tears just rolled down his face.

I cradled him, letting him cry into my shoulder.

“I just wanted to die!”

“I know.”

“I can't face my life. I'm so unhappy!”

“I know.”

“What can I do?” he asked, despairing.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to be me!” he said, a real cry from the heart. I knew that cry so well!

“Then will you trust me to help you find out who that person is?”

He nodded.

“Then, go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up tomorrow and you will come home with me. Your old life is over. Tomorrow, we'll start your new one.”

“Don't leave me!”

“I have to go home to my children. But I promise, I'll wait for you to go asleep and I will be back tomorrow morning.”

“You have children?”

“A boy and a girl, why?”

He shook his head.

“I dunno. I thought maybe you were the boy we talked about.”

I smiled.

“Really?”

He smiled an embarrassed smile of someone who realised he was wrong.

“I'm sorry, it was foolish of me. I just hoped if it happened to you, it could happen to me.”

“It might at that. Just go to sleep.”

He smiled and relaxed. Within a few moments he was asleep again, this time with a faint smile on his lips.

I returned home, updated Rachel as to what was happening and we prepared a bedroom on the second floor.

I was back at the hospital at eight the next morning. Carol wasn't on duty, but had told the duty staff nurse to expect me. I was to wait in the reception area while the doctors did their rounds. It was twenty past nine when this frail form appeared clutching a small plastic bag of belongings.

“Hello Stephen, how are you?”

“Confused. Did you come to me last night?”

“Yes, why?”

“I don't really remember. They'd doped me up to make me sleep, so I thought I dreamed it. Are you really taking me home?”

“Unless you don't want to?”

“No, I want to. I'm just tired of running away from everything.”

I gave him a cuddle and led him out to the car. The poor child was so thin and frail that I thought if a strong wind came along, he'd blow away.

He was silent on the drive across London, until we left the City and travelled through Westminster.

“You've got lovely nails,” he said, out of the blue.

I glanced at my long varnished nails. I should do, I spent enough time on them.

“Thanks.”

He looked out of the window at the passing scenery. I was so used to this part of London, I no longer really thought about it.

“This is posh. I've not been here before. Where do you live?”

“Kensington.”

“Is that the posh bit?”

I smiled.

“Some of it is.”

“I like the car. Are these leather seats?”

“I think so.”

“It smells nice, like you do.”

I smiled again.

“You know, you told me I could become a girl?”

“Yes.”

“Were you on the level, or were you pulling my plonker?”

“I was on the level. You can, you know?”

“Yeah, but what would I look like? A bloke in a dress?”

“No, you'd look fine.”

“Yeah!” he said, sarcastically.

“Really, you'll be fine. First, though, we need to feed you up a little and take you to see a doctor.”

“Why? I'm not ill.”

“No? How often did you have anal sex in Garside?”

“So?”

“Disease has a habit of being transmitted a lot that way.”

“Oh.”

“Also, we need the doctor to find out whether you should be psychologically evaluated.”

“Why?”

“Stephen, you might feel that inside you're a girl.”

“I do!”

“I know, but before a doctor will start you on any course, they need to know it's the right thing to do.”

“Why? I know I should be a girl!”

“Yes, I know you do, but it's irreversible, so they like to make sure it's the right course of action.”

“Why?”

“Because they have to prescribe you the necessary hormones for the change.”

“What change?”

“The sex change, silly!”

“Oh.”

He was silent for a while.

“How does it work?” he asked.

“The change? First, you see a doctor, then you see a shrink, who makes an assessment of you and whether it is justified and essential. Then you get put on hormones to block your male development and other hormones to bring out the girl in you. You have to live as a girl for about a year, as your body changes and you grow breasts and things. Once all the doctors agree, the surgeon cuts off the old bits and makes you a set of girl's bits.”

“A whole year?”

“It sound a long time, but really it isn't and it'll go very fast.”

“What will I do?”

“I said I'd give you a job, so I will.”

“Doing what?”

“I have in mind to make you my Household manager's assistant.”

“What's that?”

I smiled.

“General dogsbody. You can help around the house. My husband and I entertain a lot of influential people, so we need people to serve food and drink, tidy the place and help in the kitchens. It might not be rocket science, but you'll be kept busy.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. I glanced over and he was staring at me.

“Because no one else will and I care about you.”

“Why?”

“Because I was once at the bottom of the shit heap, so I know what it's like.”

“You?”

“Me.”

“When?”

“When I was your age. Only there wasn't anyone to help me. Some people did a bit, but if I hadn't made an effort myself, I'd still be down there in the shit.”

“But you're posh!”

“I haven't always been, I promise.”

Further discussion came to a halt as we arrived outside our town house. I took the car to the underground garage and parked.

Stephen's eyes were as large as saucers as we entered the house through the basement. It was a lovely house and, had I come straight here from Garside, I would have been completely bowled over.

As it was, Lynette's house had seemed luxurious to me, but now I took it all in my stride.

We went up to the kitchen where Rachel was preparing some pies.

“Hi Jemma, the Count called. He'll be back tomorrow at about noon. He asks if it would be alright to have a small dinner party tomorrow evening for eighteen people.”

“In other words, we're having a dinner party, so get on and make it happen!” I said.

She chuckled, and then saw Stephen.

“Hi there, you must be Steph?” she said, pronouncing it to rhyme with ‘F'.

The boy glanced at me.

“Rachel is my manager; you'll be working closely with her. She knows what I know about you, so we've no secrets here,” I said.

“Oh.”

“Sit yourself down, let's get some breakfast inside you,” she said.

I left them to make a couple of calls.

My surgeon, Mr Brown, and William Hardcastle, the psychiatrist, were the only other men to know the truth about my previous life. I trusted them implicitly and knew my secret was safe with them. I'd rarely spoken to them over the years, but as I was hardly out of the public eye and we'd met socially on a few occasions. I knew I couldn't hide from them.

It was they whom I called now.

I explained the circumstances of Stephen and his predicament. Both were sympathetic and we came to an arrangement. They needed a referral from a GP or specialist, so I called my own GP, James Clarke. He was willing to drop round at the end of his surgery this very afternoon.

I returned to the kitchen, made myself a coffee and sat down by Stephen who was eating a large breakfast as if his life depended upon it. He looked up with those big green eyes of his watching my every move. I sat down next to him.

“Right, first we need to decide what to call you!” I said.

**************

The next few days passed very quickly. Dr. Clarke was a lovely man and, despite feeling nervous and unwilling to be examined, Stephen actually warmed to him and allowed a full examination. This led to a visit to the surgery on the following day for blood to be taken for various tests. There followed a series of letters and consultations.

Stephen, or Stephanie, as she decided she wanted to be called, went through a thorough medical and psychological evaluation. As I already knew, she was severely gender dysphoric, so they had no trouble diagnosing her as a transsexual.

As her father and mother were still technically her legal guardians, we waited the three weeks for her to turn seventeen before starting her on the hormone regimens. It was actually quite fortunate, for the doctors discovered she had a serious infection of the bowel, which had to be treated by a course of antibiotics. Any hormones at that time would have been a complication, so we simply fed her up and let her relax at home.

She was keen to dress as a girl, but was terrified of going outside where anyone might see her and immediately tell she was a boy dressed up. So Rachel and I spent the time gently reassuring her and helping her with makeup and small dressing adventures, which she had never even attempted before. Her sexual experience was as passive recipient of male sexual ardour. She had no particular desire or curiosity about girls, so she was determined to be a girl in everything but birth.

Rachel was a little unsure why I was doing this, so I explained that I just felt I had to.

“Rachel, there was a time when I was an unhappy youngster too. I was very fortunate in the way things happened, so I want to play the Lady Fortune for this poor kid.”

“But a sex change, isn't that taking things a bit far?” asked the staunchly Catholic Rachel.

I smiled.

“Sometimes nature makes a mistake, so rather than let someone destroy themselves, I feel that I have a duty to help that person find their true self and reach unforeseen potential, don't you agree?”

Rachel shrugged and accepted my decision, helping all she could in our efforts to turn poor bedraggled Stephen into a girl called Stephanie. She took some measurements and then went to Marks & Spencer's to buy a selection of clothes that would suit a slender and very shy almost female teenager.

Francisco returned on time, to a house with a new addition. It wasn't long before he was informed of my pet project by the bubbly Chita.

“Daddy, Mummy has found a boy and is keeping him in the attic until he turns into a girl!”

Francisco looked at me with his aristocratic eyebrow raised.

I explained everything to him, and he looked thoughtful.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Good or not, it's something I have to do!” I said, rather defensively.

Placing both hands up in mock surrender, he smiled.

“Jemma, my darling, I am not trying to stop you, I just wonder where this will end. Will you have to help all foundlings you come across, or is this a one off?”

I looked down, as he had hit the nail on the head. I hadn't thought it through to that extent.

“I think this is a one off. Perhaps I can set up a charitable foundation that can offer help to others after this one.”

He nodded.

“Okay, that sounds a good idea. My suggestion would be to find an organisation that already exists and offer some small financial assistance. That way you will not draw undue attention to yourself.”

Reminding me that the press may still become a pain in the proverbial, he was wisely in touch with reality.

“Yes, dear,” I said, meekly.

He laughed as he drew me into his arms.

“Oh, you pickle, of course I approve. When do I meet this unfortunate creature?”

“When she feels ready. I have to say, she is rather more shy than I ever was.”

“Then I look forward to it.”

He went off to play with the children and I went to see how Stephanie was faring in her room.

I found her wearing a denim skirt and a pretty top, kneeling on the window seat staring down into the garden at Francisco and the children.

“Your husband is very handsome.”

“Thanks, I think so too.”

“Will I ever be able to lead a normal life?” she asked, turning towards me. She was wearing a little makeup, looking remarkably pretty, if still a little forlorn.

“Of course. Why shouldn't you?”

“I'll never look like a real girl, will I?”

“Haven't you looked in a mirror recently?”

“Yes, why?”

“Then didn't you see the real girl look back at you?”

She smiled coyly.

“You're only saying that.”

“No, honestly, I'm not. That day in Garside, I could see the girl and you were trying to hide her. Well, she's out now, and as we progress, I hope to see her blossom.”

Blossom she did. Within a week she was confident enough to meet the family. Once the hormones started, she would venture out with either Rachel or me for a walk around the local vicinity.

A month later I took her shopping and then to have her hair done. This was a crucial point, for here the hairdresser, a gay young man called Pierre, was effusive with his praise of her colouring and features that she blushed a very rosy red. Pierre never had a clue as to her real identity and therefore her confidence grew enormously.

She lasted the course, underwent the surgery and became Stephanie in truth and fact. I never told her my secret, but it was an unspoken understanding we had. As soon as she discovered my children were my step-children, she twigged, and looked at me in a different light. We were close, almost like mother and daughter.

A couple of months after the surgery, I gave her the option to seek her fortune out in the big wide world. She declined.

“No, you have given me my life, so if you don't mind, I'd like to stay and repay some of what you've given me.”

So it was. She is still part of my life. As we drove to the White House for dinner, I imagined her going back to her apartment to wait our return. Frank was a good man and an excellent chauffeur. He was also very much in love with his pretty little wife. He was another scarred soul swept up on my beach of life. Francisco used to tease me about the waifs and strays I collected, but he never questioned my decisions. I smiled as I realised that I also managed to find wives for all my husband's chauffeurs.

Stephanie was a success, so much so that I created a trust fund for girls like her. Anonymously and quietly I helped some of these girls try to find a life for themselves, but it was expensive and lengthy, and I couldn't help them all!

Stephanie's tale is such that I should never presume to tell it all. One day, she shall tell it herself. Once she has settled down with her own adopted children. Who knows, maybe there's more to my story, yet to come!

The car pulled up at the side entrance and a liveried servant opened the doors. I alighted, and accompanied my family into the White House. The smile on my face said it all.

FIN?