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.

1.

“Russell, you are such a wanker!” Mike Paterson told me, as, yet again, I allowed the opposition forwards to get past me and score a goal.

Mike was the goalkeeper, and although I thought he was pretty crappy at the job, I always seemed to be blamed when he let goals in.

He was supposed to be my friend, but I realised that friends were becoming a scarce commodity these days. It wasn't as if I wanted to be bad at sport, but I just seemed to be naturally inept at any team game I had attempted so far.

I loathed rugby. It was an incredibly violent sport, and I seemed to be always on the receiving end of a good pummelling when the referee wasn't looking. Not being particularly large or strong, it seemed to me to be a sport that favoured the more physical sportsmen.

I loathed cricket, as either larger boys flung exceptionally hard balls at me, intending to maim me, or I spent hours getting bored. I was now beginning to loathe soccer, as I appeared to have two left feet, and no matter where I was on the pitch, everyone ended up blaming me for anything that went wrong. It wasn't that it wasn't my fault, it usually was, but I was tired of being useless.

I enjoyed badminton, but I wasn't allowed to play that. You had to be in the sixth form to take up that one. I loathed cross-country running, because it nearly killed me. However, at least other people didn't interfere with me physically, or mentally abuse me.

The thing I really adored was music and singing, but needless to say, in the macho world of the public school, this hardly made me flavour of the year!

I still had a perfect treble voice. I had sung many solos in the chapel choir, and the last had been Handel's Halleluiah Chorus. Everyone said that my solos were the finest that they had ever heard, but they still treated me like shit.

I was nearly sixteen, and not large for my age, I was only 5'6”. I was a skinny kid, and much to my embarrassment, my voice had yet to break. I loathed the shower time after games, as I was acutely aware that all the other guys had bigger willies than I did, and most of them were getting hairy.

I had grown a little pubic hair, but my legs and arms were still lacking any masculine hair. I put it down to me being very fair, and my blonde hair, was probably going to spread to all my other parts, so to speak.

Like all fifteen year olds, I was suffering from the usual insecurity problems, including, in my case, a sexual identity crisis. I was not happy at the all-boys boarding school, but when my father died, he had left enough in his will for a ‘good education'. Which meant my mother could send me away for the benefit of sadistic teachers to treat me like shit, while she found a toy boy in Monaco, and lived in my father's villa without a care in the world.

I found that I had few friends, and to be perfectly frank, I was utterly miserable. I was reasonably bright as far as academic work was concerned, but in this establishment, Monksreach Hall, unless you were capable of representing the school in some violent sport or other, then your status was about as low as you could get. Thus, my status and morale were both as low as my socks - at the bottom.

I was an only child, and my mother was a bitch. It sounds horrible, but that is the only word for her. My father had founded and managed his own company, which was something to do with engineering. He had specialised in some new technique involving aviation design utilising new alloys. I never pretended to understand it, but it had made him a fortune. He had met my mother on holiday in France, and they had married a few months later. She saw in him a golden meal ticket, he was in his late fifties, and she was twenty-six.

However, she fell pregnant, which was very bad planning on her behalf. My father was delighted, as he had thought he would die childless. When I was born, his joy was complete - a son and heir.

The joy was short lived. I was eight when he died, and my darling Mama packed me off to boarding school almost immediately. My father had, however, left me most of his wealth tied up in trust and my mother couldn't touch it. He had left her wealthy in her own right, but she resented the fact that I would get anything. She received the interest of the trust, but when I attained the age of twenty-one I would inherit the lot, leaving her with a reasonable pension. However, his idea of a reasonable pension, and hers, were two completely different things. Instead of saving what she had now, and investing for the future, she spent everything, and plotted to take my share as well.

My father had been shrewd enough to see a little of what might happen. After about six or seven years of marriage he had discovered she was having an affair, and this had hurt him deeply. He had worshipped her, and now she had betrayed him. He challenged her, and she had lied. To my father, an honest God-fearing man, this was the ultimate insult, and it started to kill him from the inside.

I was seven at the time, and he took me to his lawyer's office in London. I don't remember much, just that it had a funny clock outside, with an eagle above it.

We went into an office with lots of dark wooden panels, and the lawyer did something very strange. He took my fingerprints. I remember it, because afterwards I took ages scrubbing the ink off in the washroom. The soap was the clear amber soap, called Pears, and I still remember the smell to this day.

When I went back to the office, I overheard my father saying, “I wouldn't put it past her to substitute someone else to try and cheat Russell out of what is rightfully his.” I went in, and the conversation stopped, but I never forgot it. I knew he was talking about my mother.

We went home on the train, and my father was always very kind to me. He said, “Russell, who knows whether I will be around to see you when you are twenty-one. But if I am not, all you have to do is turn up there, and prove who you are, and my fortune will be yours.”

A year later, he was dead, and my misery began. My mother made no pretence that I was anything other than an impediment to her social life. My father had no close family upon which she could dump me, and she never admitted to having any family of her own. If she had, they were somewhere in France, and I don't think she ever was in contact with them. She never talked about them, in any case.

I would return to her in the holidays, and she would employ an endless stream of very nice, but rather ineffectual women to look after me. Monaco was a playground for wealthy adults, and there were other young people, but I tended to keep to my own company. As a result, I became quite used to being on my own, and not very good with other people. My mother and I rarely spoke, and she would parade an equally endless stream of different young men past my bedroom door, every night.

There was one distant cousin of my father, who ran a kennels in Devon, and once discovered, I was frequently sent down to stay with her. She was very nice, but over the years had become more dog than human. I grew to love the company of dogs, as, for a long time, they were my only companions.

There was little love lost between my mother and me, I tried – I really tried, but she just didn't want to know. By the time I turned eleven, I gave up trying, and that was almost my lowest point.

When I was twelve, I had learned to ignore emotions, and by thirteen, when I was one of the eldest in my prep school, my morale was somewhat restored. Now, having been elevated to senior school, and as one of the lowest of the low, I was back to being bloody miserable again.

The football game finished, and as usual, they all blamed me for losing. We made our way back, in the rain, to the changing rooms, and I sat on the bench to let everyone take their showers first, again - as usual.

I had my shower, alone, and quickly changed into my school uniform, of grey trousers, grey shirt, house tie, and tweed jacket. I was combing my hair, and Mr McLean, the teacher on duty came in.

“Hurry up, Drysdale. You will be late for tea. And get your hair cut, you look like a girl,” he shouted at me.

“Yes sir,” I said. ‘Bastard,' I thought.

He walked out again, and I thought of what he had said. I combed my hair back, and pulled it together at the back. It was almost long enough to make an eight-inch ponytail, and I did look effeminate. Maybe that was what was wrong; perhaps I should have been born female. I certainly wasn't hacking it as a boy. The thought had crossed my mind almost daily. I thought that it was only me wanting a different life, but maybe it went deeper.

I had no sexual experience with girls, but then I had hardly had any social experience with girls, for that matter. I had been in all-boys schools since I was eight. I certainly hadn't even any sexual experience with boys, and wasn't aware of any such activity.

I often would feel more at home in girls' company, on those few occasions when I did meet some. I knew I wasn't gay, the thought of certain physical activities made me squirm, and I never looked at boys like that. I have to admit, I often would fantasise about being a girl, and wearing girl's clothes, and then, and only then, as a girl, did I look at boys in a different light. That was only in fantasy, as they say, beggars can't be choosers.

I combed it as I normally did, and went to tea. I sat by myself, as usual, and went over to the common room for our evening study period, called prep. I did my work in a quarter of the time, and read my book. It was a science fiction book by Robert Heinlein, called I will fear no Evil . It was about a very old rich man, who has his brain transplanted into the body of a beautiful young woman. Her soul is still there, and together they have an amazing year. I had read the book several times, and could identify with the central character.

Monksreach Hall had dormitories for the 13 – 14 year olds, and then individual study/bedrooms thereafter, but we could only sleep in them. When we got to the dizzy heights of the lower and upper sixth forms, then we could leave the common room, and could study in our rooms. Still, it was a refuge, and the one place in which I felt safe.

I went to bed that night, and I was about as miserable as I had ever been, I gave a cry to God, which came from the very depths of my soul. “Oh God. If you exist, please do something, anything! I don't care what. I just need to get away from this place,” Then I dreamed of having my brain transplanted anywhere, as long as it was away form here.

The next day brought no nice surprises. It was a wet, cold, grey February day, and I woke up with a real sense of depression and gloom. I always tried to wake up before anyone else, because, that way I got a hot shower in peace and quiet.

I ambled along the corridor to the shower room, and stripped off and stepped into one of the six shower cubicles. I just stood under the shower, and enjoyed the feeling of the hot water on the top of my head. I soaped myself, and noticed that my chest seemed very sensitive for some reason, particularly around my nipples. When I washed my willy, it seemed particularly small today, and I reasoned that it was because of the cold weather.

As I was drying off, some of the other boys came for showers, and I managed to scuttle back to my room before they teased me about my small willy. I dressed, and read for a while before breakfast.

The day went as most others before it, except that I seemed to attract more than the usual amount of abuse from staff and boys alike. Once again I surpassed myself on the soccer pitch, which became so bad, that at one point my team captain said, “For God's sake, Drysdale, why don't you just fuck off and find some other girls to play with.”

I went bright red, and felt so hurt, but couldn't show it. In the showers afterwards, the teasing started again. One of the boys pointed to my willy, and made a remark that I missed, but someone else said, “If it wasn't for that pathetic little thing, he would be a she, because she is growing breasts.” I was horrified, but I looked down and noticed that the area around my nipples had swollen slightly.

Once again, I went bright red, and dressed very quickly, by the time I went for tea, I was even more miserable than ever.

I went to bed that night, with my mind in torment. I don't think I could last another day in this hell. I had never before considered taking my own life, and it was only the thought that my mother would win if I did, that prevented me.

My prayer that night was a real cry from the heart, and I was crying.

“Oh God, I don't deserve this, make me what I should be, so I don't get teased, and can live my live as it should be lived.”

I woke up early, it was not yet light, February is a dark month anyway, and so I knew that it could be anything before half past six. I felt funny, but that was nothing new. I got up and went to the bathroom. I stood at the urinal, and fished into my pyjamas for my willy. I couldn't find it, and I experienced the cold sweats and that sudden lurch of the heart as panic set in.

I pulled my pyjama trousers down, and I stared at what was between my legs. Or rather, what was not between my legs!

I was not very sexually aware, but I had seen enough soft porn photographs to recognise female genitalia when I saw it. I was certainly not used to seeing it on me.

I then woke up enough to realise that something strange was happening up in my chest area as well. Even before I undid the buttons, what I feared became a reality. There, looking as if they were perfectly at home, were two small, but perfectly formed female breasts, with larger nipples and aureoles. When I say small, they looked huge to me, but I suppose they were average for a fifteen-year-old girl.

I still had the problem of requiring a pee. I had the added problem of risking discovery at any second.

I dashed into a cubicle, and locked the door. My heart was racing, and I could feel my pulse throbbing in my ears. I now looked at my watch. It was only four am. I pulled down my bottoms again, and opened my shirt. I noticed that my hips seemed wider, and my waist narrower, but maybe that was my imagination.

I sat down, and released whatever I usually released. The sensation was at once familiar, and yet different.

I sat for while, and my mind was racing. What was I to do? Was I dreaming? Would it return to normal if I went back to bed? Could I stay? Should I stay? Should I go? Where would I go? How would I go? What would I do for money? How would I get clothes and food?

It slowly dawned on me that I had received what I had asked for. Now it had, did I want it? The whole scenario was very unreal.

How the hell could I have changed into a girl?

I mean, this sort of thing just couldn't happen.

Could it?

I had to look again, just in case I had made a mistake.

No, no mistake.

No willy, just a very delicate and soft little slit and, oh shit. I had tits.

I had tits, and whatever, down below, and I was in a boys' school.

I wasn't so worried about teasing now, because in a funny sort of way, I'd quite like someone to call me a girl.

Then I could drop my pants and show them.

I knew I couldn't do that.

It was like a very strange dream.

I knew that I wasn't dreaming, and if I stayed, I would be discovered, and then the circus would start. The school would call my mother; she would take me to a series of doctors, and try to sue anyone and everyone. She would then try to make money out of me, and I would end up like a freak on a sideshow.

What could I do?

I was beginning to get cold, so I went back to my room.

I sat for a long time, I had pulled the covers around me, and I was trying to keep a hold of my sanity. I was now a girl. I kept repeating this repeatedly. Thinking that, perhaps, if I did it enough, I would eventually come to terms with the fact.

I took my pyjamas off, and stood up. I had a small mirror, and could see most of myself, if I stood on the bed. There was no doubt; I was now a girl! The funny thing was that I was actually quite pleased. I was surprised, certainly, but I was not frightened, neither was I worried. It was almost as if I was happy for this to happen.

I tried to bend over and see my new bits, but I would have to be a contortionist to manage that. I explored with my fingers, and having never felt a vagina before, I could only assume that mine was perfectly normal. I felt strange sensations that were very pleasurable, and I became rather excited, and decided to leave it alone for a while.

I then dug out my own clothes. We were allowed a few of these, and I had jeans and tee shirts. I pulled on a pair of briefs, and a couple of tee shirts. I put on a pair of jeans, and noticed that my hips were bigger, as I struggled to get the jeans over them. The waist was slimmer, because I had to put a belt on.

I pulled on a baggy pullover, and my favourite short leather bomber jacket. I put my trainers on, and pulled out my rucksack. I filled it with as many of my own clothes as I could, including socks and wash kit. I dug out my wallet, and noted that I had my cash point card, and a phone card, and about £50 cash. I knew that I had about £300 in my account, but was aware that £350 would not last very long.

I had some chocolate, and fruit in my locker, so I put that in my bag. I pulled on my black woolly hat, looked round the room that I felt was a prison cell, and walked out.

Monksreach Hall is about eight miles south of Buckingham, almost midway between Buckingham and Aylesbury.

I had no home in Britain, as my mother inherited the house, but had sold it immediately. The villa in Monaco, however, was part of the trust, and she couldn't touch that. She could live in it, and indeed was doing so, but that was all.

I crept quietly through the sleeping school, and down the stairs. I walked through the main courtyard, and out the front gate. The main road was about half a mile away, and I reached it uninterrupted. At least it wasn't raining.

I didn't know which way to turn, left was Buckingham, I knew no one there, and right was Aylesbury, I knew no one there either. I saw headlights left, so I turned right, away from them.

I started walking. A couple of cars and lorries passed, and I was walking for an hour before the rain started. After another twenty minutes, I was soaked, but I just kept walking. I could see a village about a mile ahead of me.

A car pulled along side of me. It was a blue Vauxhall Astra, and I got worried. I looked at the driver, and saw that it was a vicar. He looked to be at least fifty, and I had never seen him before.

“What are you doing out in this weather at this time of day?” he asked.

“I missed my lift. I was supposed to get a lift into Aylesbury, so I could catch the train, but I overslept,” I said, with my mind racing. My voice had changed too, the tones were softer and in line with the rest of me.

“You looked soaked, get in, I'll take you to the station,” he said.

I hesitated, but in the end, the damp lost, and I got into the car.

“What is your name, child?”

“Um, Emma, Emma…er… Pearson,” I said, I had had enough time to think of a name, and this one was the first name that I had liked. I thought Emma was a nice easy name, and I thought an Emma was a fun loving girl with a smile and a sense of humour. As for Pearson, I suppose it was the Pears soap that gave me the idea.

“Hello Emma, I'm Michael Strong, I am the vicar at Little Mudsley. Do you know where that is?” he asked.

“Yes, it is off to the left somewhere,” I said.

“So, why were you going to the station at this time of day? Shouldn't you be in school?” he asked the questions that I was dreading.

“I'm sixteen, I have left school, and I was going to London for a job interview,” I said, and then I sneezed.

“You must be soaked. Look Emma, I know that this is not exactly the right procedure, but what do you say to a warm bath?”

I was really worried now. I had only been a girl for a matter of a few hours, and here was a randy vicar trying to get me into a bath.

My expression must have shown, because he laughed.

“You misunderstand, I propose to take you to my vicarage, and my wife is there. You can have a bath, and we will try to find some clean and dry clothes for you. Our daughter has moved away now, but I am sure that some of her old things are around somewhere,” he said.

My teeth were chattering, and I just nodded, weakly.

He told me that he had been visiting a sick old man, who had died while he was there. He had waited for the doctor and the undertakers, and now he was heading home.

He took the next left, and after about ten minutes, he pulled into the driveway of a big old house. He got out and opened the front door. I was a little scared of getting out. A woman came to the door, and I saw them talking, and it was she who came over.

She opened the car door. She was in her late forties, and I could see that she had been pretty when a little younger. Now she looked tired and weary. Tired, because of the time of day, and weary, because of the trials that life had dished up. Her hair was quite short, and beginning to go grey. She was about my height, and a little plump. She had a lovely smile, which seemed to make all her weariness dissipate.

“Hello, I'm Mary, Michael tells me you are Emma. You look awfully wet, why don't you come and dry off?” she said, smiling.

I got out of the car, and followed her inside. The house had a lovely smell to it, sort of fresh bread and flowers. Clean and warm. For no reason I started to cry. I stood, dripping a puddle of water onto their hall carpet, and cried.

Mary put her arms around me, and I just sobbed and sobbed. Michael took my rucksack, and Mary led me upstairs. She peeled me out of my wet clothes, and they landed on the floor with a damp ‘splat.' She gave me a huge towelling dressing gown, which smelled of lavender.

I was careful to keep my wallet hidden, and managed to hide it behind the lavatory cistern, while she ran the bath.

“Do you want to tell me anything?” she asked.

I shook my head. What could I tell her, she wouldn't believe it anyway?

“I know that whatever you are running away from may seem horrible, but believe me, you are safe here.”

She turned off the taps.

“There, that should do. Jump in, if you want any more water, just help yourself,” she said.

She left, and closed the door. I went and locked it. I took off my dressing gown, and stepped into the bath. There was a full-length mirror on the wall, and I watched as a total stranger stared back at me.

Oh, she had my head, but it was someone else's body. As I looked, I could see that even my face had changed. My nose seemed a little smaller, my lips a little fuller and my cheekbones seemed a little more pronounced. I used to have a very large Adam's apple, and that had gone completely. My body was totally alien. My breasts were perfectly formed, and seemed a little bigger even since four o'clock. I noticed the way my whole body just seemed so completely feminine, as it went in and out in all the right places. I sat down in the nice hot bath, and soaped myself all over. The soap, it was Pears, and I instantly remembered our trip to the lawyers.

There was a shampoo bottle on the side, so I shampooed my hair, and rinsed everything off. I got out and dried my wonderful new body so much that I tingled.

I put on the big dressing gown, and went and unlocked the door. Mary came up stairs, and she was carrying a tray. On the tray was a steaming cup of hot chocolate, and a piece of apple pie. She took it into the room opposite.

“Emma, if you come in here, I think I have found some clothes for you,” she said.

I followed her into the room. It was a big bedroom, and very pretty. The floral wallpaper was super, and the curtains were green velvet. There was a big bed, with a canopy over it, with matching green drapes spreading out from it. There was an antique dressing table with a mirror attached, and some pictures on the walls.

“This was Caroline's room. She is our daughter, and she lives in New Zealand now with her husband,” Mary said. “I brought you some hot chocolate, and a piece of pie. I thought you might be hungry.”

“Thank you. You are very kind. I am sorry if I was rude earlier. I am a little out of my depth,” I admitted.

“Oh, Emma. Is there anything we can do?” she asked, her face a picture of concern.

“Not really. I'm sort of in a bit of a jam, and I have to get myself out of it. You see, I can't tell anyone, and even if I did, it wouldn't help, because no one would believe me,” I said.

“Where are your parents? Won't they be worried?” she asked, as I sipped the chocolate.

“My father died about seven years ago, and my mother is not living in this country,” I said, quite truthfully.

“Oh that's terrible,” she said. “How old are you now?”

“I'm sixteen, my birthday is the 4 th of February,” I said, and managed to squeeze a tear out.

“That's today,” Mary exclaimed. “You poor little thing. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you. But it is not as bad as it seems. Actually, this is about the happiest birthday I can remember,” I admitted. I had some pie. It was very good.

“Well, I have managed to dig out some clothes for you. Caroline is a little bigger than you, in the bust, that is, but I have some of her stuff from when she was your age. It's silly, but I never throw anything away, you never know when it will come in handy.”

She passed me a pile of clothes, far more than I needed.

“Thank you, you needn't, I have my own clothes,” I protested.

“Pah. They are all in the drier. And besides, those clothes would only go to Oxfam in any case.” Mary said.

The left me alone, and I looked at the clothes.

There were so many, and all were rather unfamiliar to me.

I selected a bra, and worked out how to put it on, eventually. There were several pairs of plain white knickers, and I put one pair on. I noticed a pair of tights, so I slipped them over my knickers, as that seemed logical. The feel of the sheer tights gave me a little thrill. I put on a plain white blouse, and a black, knee length skirt. There was a black v-neck pullover, so I pulled that over the top. I sat on the bed and finished the pie and chocolate. I saw a hair dryer on the dressing table, so I used it to dry my hair. My hair seemed a little thicker than I remembered, and it was tough to brush. I brushed it back, and tied a black scrunchie band around it, in a ponytail.

I opened the top drawer in the dressing table, and noticed that there was a small makeup case there. I opened it and saw a mascara brush, lipstick, eyeliner, and little tubs of different colours.

I used the eyeliner and mascara brush as I had seen them used in commercials. Then I put on a little lipstick. I had to use a tissue to clear up the smudges, and then I got bolder, and dabbed a little blue stuff on each eyelid - not much, but just a little.

The transformation was quite astounding. Gone was the waif, and instead, a very pretty girl looked back at me. She was a very different me, but I smiled, and I felt very good about what I looked like.

I stood up, and gave a little twirl. Something deep inside of me felt really fantastic, and I got a tingle of excitement at seeing myself. It was strange, but it was almost like coming home.

I looked in the cupboard, and found several pairs of shoes. I found a plain black pair, with two-inch heels. They were very elegant, and they fitted perfectly.

I picked up the tray, and opened the door. I went down stairs, and followed the sound of voices. I saw my reflection in the hall mirror, and a knot of excitement hit my stomach.

I found Mary and Michael in the kitchen. The clock showed six o'clock.

I carried the tray over to the sink, and washed up the plate and the mug. I dried them up, and asked Mary where they lived.

“Leave them, Emma. Come and sit down. You look an awful lot better now,” she said.

“I feel better. Thank you so much. I hadn't realised how much I needed help,” I said.

“My, you are a pretty girl. Seeing you now, I feel a little better. When I first saw you, I must confess, I thought you were a lot younger than sixteen. Mary tells me it is your birthday today. Happy birthday,” Michael said.

“Thank you. And thanks for the drink and pie, they were both delicious,” I said, smiling.

“Oh, you look so much prettier when you smile. That is the first one I have seen,” Mary said.

I smiled again, and looked down at my hands.

“So, what are you going to do?” Michael asked. “There is no job in London, is there?”
I shook my head.

“Have you any qualifications?” he asked.

“I have four GCSEs, but I should be taking more this year,” I admitted.

“Should you not go back and take them?” he asked.

“I can't,” I said, and although I didn't want to, I started to cry.

Mary came over and put her arm around me. She handed me a tissue, and I dabbed at my eyes. I so loved the make up; I stopped crying so as not to spoil it.

“Why can't you go back?” she asked.

“You wouldn't believe me, even if I told you,” I said, and in my frustration, I felt the tears build up again.

“Try us. Please Emma, try to tell us. We are really quite experienced, and very few things surprise us any more,” Michael said.

I looked him and then at Mary. They were good, kind people, and they had an air of love about them. I took a deep breath, and told them the truth. I told them about my father, my mother, the trust, my school, and how I came to be here and how I came to be Emma. I told them how my mother would like to get rid of me so she could inherit. I told them about how miserable I had been, and how desperately I had pleaded with God to work a miracle and make it all better. Now, I believed He had, but I did not want to become a sideshow freak.

When I finished I dug out my damp wallet and showed them Russell's photograph, and all his cards.

Michael sat looking at the photograph, and then at me. Mary just sat and stared, her mouth slightly open.

“See, I told you that you wouldn't believe me,” I said.

“Emma, Russell, no Emma, it is not that we don't believe you, but, well, you've certainly surprised us,” Michael said.

They both sat there, not saying anything.

I stood up. “My clothes may be dry now, I will leave these in the bedroom. Thank you for helping me,” I said, I started to leave the kitchen, and Mary came after me. She held me in her arms, and I felt the emotion welling up inside me again. This time I wasn't able to hold it back and I just sobbed and sobbed, for a long time.

“Sit down, Emma,” said Michael, at last.

I sat, and Mary held my hand.

“Emma, we believe you. I am aware that there are people born with confused genders, and sometimes they turn out to be different to what they believed they were. I don't know how it happened and I don't know why it happened, but I believe it happened, and now we have to work out what to do next,” he said.

He stood up and walked over to the kettle, peeped in to check the water level, and switched it on.

“Now, the first thing is you must not use any of those bank cards. They can be traced, and we want to keep you from being traced. The second thing is to get you some form of official identity, and that will be rather tricky. But the most important thing will be to get you back into school, so that you don't miss out on your schooling,” he said.

“We can't just enrol her in a local school, there will be questions, and we won't have the right papers,” Mary said.

“I could get a part time job, and perhaps go to college in the evenings,” I suggested.

“I know,” said Mary. “Emma, I used to be a teacher, and was considering going back into teaching. How about if you stay with us, work with me, and get a part time job in the village?”

“I don't know. What is the point in getting exams, if I don't exist?” I asked.

“Don't worry about that,” said Michael. “I have an idea. We have Missionaries who disappear all over the world, and have children in the most awkward places. I will try a little double whammy, and get you registered a little after the fact, and take it from there.”

“How?” I asked.

“Don't worry about that now. But, I think it might well work,” he said.

“What subjects are you taking at GCSE?” Mary asked.

“I already have English Language, English Literature, Maths, and French. I am going for Spanish, geography, history, RE, Science, IT, and design and technology,” I answered.

“Oh,” she said.

“Is that a problem?” I asked.

“You may be a little out of my league,” she said.

“Most of the stuff is on the internet, so you don't need much,” I explained.

They looked at each other.

“You do have a computer, don't you?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Michael, rather hesitantly.

I looked at him.

“We haven't got it out of the box yet. We promised Caroline to get one, so we could use the Email thingy. But it is rather beyond us,” Mary admitted.

“Show me,” I said.

They took me into his study, and sure enough, there was a very modern PC and all the accessories, still in its box.

It took me about twenty minutes to put it together, and switch it on. It was loaded with Windows 98, and all the other programs were already loaded too. I connected it up to the phone system, and accessed the Internet, utilising one of the service providers that it came with, Freeserve.

“What is Caroline's email address?” I asked.

Mary gave me a little book, and she had written it next to her daughter's address.

I sent her an email, saying, “Hello Caroline, we are now on line, and waiting to hear from you. Lots of love Mum and Dad.”

“Does she call you Mum or Mummy?” I asked.

“Mummy,” said Mary.

I altered the message, and sent it.

Michael stood and stared at me.

“It was never that easy?” he asked.

I smiled.

“Look, you teach us about this machine, and we will get you sorted, deal?” Michael said.

“Deal,” I said, and we shook hands on it.

“One thing,” I said.

“What?”

“Russell Drysdale no longer exists,” I said.

“Who is Russell Drysdale, Emma?” said Mary.

I cried again.

Tanya Allen

© 5 December 2004