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.

3.

The next morning, Saturday, I awoke at a little after eight. I had slept well, and I was pleased that I was still a girl. My worst nightmare would be to wake up a boy again, and be back in Monksreach Hall.

But I wasn't, I was a girl, and I was in my lovely bedroom in Little Mudsley. It was snowing hard outside, the cold snap was here with a vengeance. I grinned, as I knew that, at school, the boys would be out doing cross-country running in weather like this.

I got up, and had a shower. Then I dressed in my underwear and a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. My hips were most definitely broader, as I had to lie on the floor and arch my back to get the jeans on. But they did up easily enough. When I looked in the mirror, I saw that they fitted very tightly around my bum, and crotch. There was no doubt as to which gender I now belonged.

The tee shirt was one of my old ones, and it was quite tight. It seemed really weird to see myself it now I had breasts. I got a little kick out of it. I put on my old trainers, as they were dry now, and applied a little make. I grabbed one of Caroline's pink fluffy pullovers, and then I went down stairs.

Mary was already up, and was washing the kitchen floor. I sat on the stool with my feet folded underneath me, lotus style, and ate my cornflakes.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Mmm,” I mumbled, nodding with my mouth full.

“Those jeans look a little tight. They don't leave much for the imagination,” she noted, and I grinned.

She laughed, “I had forgotten what it was like to have a teenage daughter,” she said.

I finished my cornflakes.

“I don't mean to pry, but what happened with Caroline?” I asked, prying.

Mary finished the floor and put the mop and bucket away in the utility room. She put the kettle on and sat next to me.

“It is all rather silly, really. When Caroline was about your age, she went through a rebellious stage. Now I know that most teenagers do, but this was really bad. I suppose being the vicar and his wife made it that much worse. Worse, because we had to be this shining light in the community; and worse, because she had more to rebel against. I don't think it can be easy being the daughter of a vicar, I think everyone expects you to behave well all the time.

“Anyway, it was the eighties, and the punk era hit, and she went at it whole hog. She had the Mohican hair, the body piercing, the gothic makeup, and those terrible clothes. I have to confess; I threw all those clothes out, when she left. We used to have terrible rows, and I just didn't know how to handle it. I loved her dearly, but she just seemed to want to hurt us with every move. I was very depressed, and Mike was angry at first, and then just very sad.

“I know now, that we should have just seen that it was her way of declaring her independence, but we couldn't see it, then. We should have just ignored the outer images, as awful as they were, and loved the little girl underneath. But as soon as she could, she left home at sixteen, and we didn't see her for three years. Occasionally she would ring, and we would have a chat, but she never came home.

“Then that terrible day. We got a phone call from the police. They had done a raid on a flat in Hammersmith, and she had been there. She was drugged up on heroin, so they took her to hospital, and she was very ill. We went down, and sat by her bed for a week. Not one of her so-called friends came in at all. She looked dreadful, she was just twenty, and she appeared thirty. She weighed only about six stone, and looked simply awful.

“When she was discharged, we drove her home, and she just cried in my arms all the way. Gradually, she got back to being almost her old self, and we felt quite confident about the future. It took six months, but then she started talking about going back to London. She went on about how dull it was here and how dull we were, and that she wanted some excitement in her life.

“Mike suggested she enrol in a college course, and get a job. She knew that she needed money to lead a more exciting life, and that at the time she had a few GCSEs, but nothing else. She enrolled in a fabric design course, and got an HND. She found herself a job in MK, and met this New Zealander, Stewart, Stew to his friends. He was basically bumming round Europe, and was working in a nightclub, behind the bar.

“She fell for him, hook, line, and sinker, and when he went home, she went too. She found herself a job, and had a little boy by him. Then and only then did she realise what she had done to us, and we spent hours on the phone. She cried for most of it, but still wouldn't come home. She felt so guilty, that she actually believed that she would no longer be welcome here. Can you believe it?

“She then had a daughter, and his parents, bless them, suggested that they get married. So they did, but at a registry office, and we were told a week later. I must have cried for a week. We have never seen the grandchildren, she sent us photographs, but we have never seen them in the flesh.” Mary broke down, and started to cry. This was becoming a general pastime in this house. I stood up, and hugged her.

“Why don't you fly out and see them?” I asked.

“With what? Mike doesn't earn enough, and besides, he is on thin enough ice here at the moment any way,” she told me.

Mike, it seemed, was under scrutiny, as he had not really been performing at his best, and with regard to the circumstances, I could understand. However, the world is an unforgiving place, and it expects its professionals to be made of steel.

It all seemed so unfair, and I said as much.

“Who ever said life was fair?” Mary asked. “We just have to make the most of what we get dealt.”

“Then it is time to stack the deck in our favour,” I said.

“If only!” Mary said. “Come on, you can help me do some baking.” She stood up, and handed me an apron.

We spent all morning making cakes: big ones and little ones, some with fruit, and some without. It was all very new, and I found it fun.

“I thought that I could get a job in the village, and it would help pay for my keep. I can't expect you to pay for me,” I told Mary.

“There is not a lot in the village, what could you do?” she asked.

“I don't mind. I could work in the pub, washing up or something,” I said.

“Well, I can't deny the extra cash would come in handy, but I think we need to get you back into school,” Mary said.

“I suppose so,” I said, and I know my voice was hardly expressing boundless enthusiasm.

Michael came back from wherever he had been. He was looking pleased with himself.

“What have you been up to?” Mary asked.

“I have been to Buckingham. I went to see Gwen Teesdale,” he said.

“Oh, why?” Mary asked.

“I had a thought about young Emma here, I explained that she was a talented singer, and she was keen on drama. So I went and asked her advice,” he said, as he put the kettle on. “Something smells jolly nice, what have you two been up to?” he asked.

“Who is Gwen thingy?” I asked.

“Gwen Teesdale runs a small college of performing arts in Buckingham. Her husband had cancer a little while ago, and Mike helped her through a very difficult time. Peter died about six months ago, but she has become a good friend to us. When Mike had a little disagreement with the Bishop, she wrote a lovely letter, which helped him no end,” Mary explained.

“Gwen wants to meet Emma, and would be willing, subject to the interview, to enrol her on the two year diploma course. They tell me that a Teesdale College Diploma is not to be sneezed at,” Mike said.

“It would be expensive,” I observed.

Mike and Mary looked at each other.

“Gwen said that if she is good enough she might offer her a scholarship of up to 75% of the fees.” Mike added.

“That is still too much. I will have to get a job, I don't want you to even offer to meet this,” I was quite certain about this.

“Well, lets cross one bridge at a time. She wants to see you this afternoon. So once we've had lunch, I'll take you there,” Mike said.

We had a snack lunch, and I went up to change. I put on the suede outfit once more, with the boots. I used my new makeup, kept it discrete, and was quite pleased with the result. I was getting better.

It only took about twenty minutes to get to Buckingham, and we had to pass the entrance to Monksreach Hall. It felt really funny passing so close, and not having to go back. I looked down the drive but couldn't see anyone.

The Teesdale College of Performing Arts was an old Manor House, set in its own grounds on the outskirts of Buckingham. It had a lot of ivy growing up the front, and the gardens looked lovely, particularly with the snow on the ground.

Mike parked the car, and we walked in the front door. The hall was huge, with oak panelling and a gorgeous sweeping staircase with ornate banisters.

A woman came out of the side room to the left. She was about sixty, quite tall, about 5'8”, with a neat figure. She was dressed in grey, and was very elegant.

“Hello Michael. You must be Emma? I am so pleased to meet you. Michael tells me that you have a wonderful voice,” she said, shaking my hand.

“Oh, I don't know, but I have been told that it's pretty good,” I said smiling.

“Well, lets go and see. Michael, we shall be about an hour and a half. So wait here if you want, or come back at, say three thirty,” she suggested.

“I'll go home, thanks Gwen. Emma, I will see you later, good luck.”

“Thanks.” I said.

Gwen took me into a long room with the most ornate ceiling. The walls at the ends and on one side were oak panelled, and there were four large casement windows on the other side. Pictures of famous singers and actors and actresses adorned the walls. The floor was highly polished wood, and was a lovely golden brown colour. There was a grand piano at the far end, and a collection of other instruments.

“Do you read music, Emma?”

“Yes.”

“Do you play any musical instrument?”

“Yes, I am almost up to grade 4 on piano,” I said.

“Well, lets hear you. See if you can play the piece of music on the piano.”

I sat on the stool, and adjusted it so I was comfortable. I looked at the music. It was without a title, and I was not familiar with it. I read the music down the page and tried to imagine how it would sound. I was a rather nice melody, and I looked for clues as to tempo, and feeling. There were none, and then I realised that this was part of the test.

I read the music again, and tried to get a feel for it. I looked at my hands, and surprised myself as I noticed my red, varnished nails.

I looked at the music, and began to play. I didn't look down at my hands, and tried to make the piece as lively as I could. I reached the end, and stopped. I didn't think I made a mistake.

“That was lovely, Emma. Tell me, why did you play it at that speed?” Gwen asked.

“I don't know really. I tried to imagine it faster, and it didn't seem right, and even slower - the melody seemed to want to go a little quicker. Also, I could cope with that speed,” I said, as honestly as I could.

“Well, I wrote it, and you played it exactly as I had imagined it. As you guessed, I deliberately left off all directions to see if you had a feel for music. I can tell that you have. Incidentally, that piece is at least a grade five.”

“Oh,” I said, rather pleased.

“Right. Michael tells me that you have sung The Messiah, so I have the music here, lets see if you are as good as he says,” she said, handing me the music and words.

For the next hour, I sang my heart out. I sang classical, I sang opera; I sang modern and everything in between. By the end, my throat was getting rather dry.

At last, she closed the piano, and said, “I have heard enough. Let's go and have a cup of tea.” She stood up, and we went out the way we came in. She gave me no indication as to whether she thought I had done well or badly. She took me into the room she had originally come from, and it was a comfortable sitting room, with a large desk at one end.

She showed me to the sofa, and rang a bell, then down sat beside me. A woman came in.

“Yes mum?” she said.

“Ah Brenda, could we have a pot of tea, please, and bring an extra cup, as the Reverend Strong will be here any minute?”

“Yes mum,” Brenda said, and left.

There was an extensive bookcase along one wall, and I tried to read some of the book titles.

“Do you read a lot?” she asked.

“Yes, I love reading,” I said.

“Anything in particular?”

“Not really, I love reading anything.”

“Well we have an extensive library here, and I encourage eclectic tastes. I believe it broadens the mind,” she said.

“Oh,” I said.

“Emma, I have to be honest. When I offered Michael the 75% scholarship, it was because of who he is.”

“Oh,” I said, again.

She laughed. “Don't look so miserable, child. That was before I heard you sing. You have the most superb voice. I heard the piece you sang from the Messiah only just before Christmas at a local boys school. The boy who sang it had the most wonderful voice too, and you reminded me a little of him. Only you have a much richer voice, with a far greater range.

“That, together with your undoubted potential on the piano, has convinced me to offer you a full scholarship. But there is one condition,” she said.

I grinned, as I was ever so pleased. I thought I had better not tell her that the boy had been me. Brenda brought in the tea. Gwen thanked her, and poured me a cup. It was the most lovely porcelain tea service, and felt so fine that I was afraid it would break in my hands.

“The condition is something I always insist upon with my scholarship students. You see, I will need to protect my investment, so I will ask for a contractual agreement with you for a period of five years; beginning on the day you enrol. I will undertake all responsibility as your agent for that period, and in return, I will receive 40% of all net profit that you make on performances only. Regardless as to whether you obtain your work through me, the college, or independently. You will find that I will be in a position to greatly assist your career. Should you go and work in a bank, or an estate agent, then I will have no hold over you, but should you sing in a pub, or on a TV show, or get a part in a play or movie, then I will claim.

“Now should you wish to terminate the contract early, due to various unforeseen circumstances, I will negotiate a set fee, dependant upon time elapsed, and the individual circumstances. It is not my intention to cheat anyone out of their rightful earnings, but if I spend two years bring you to a high standard, all at my cost, I have to be able to pull something back.

“I want you to talk it over with Michael, and if you are willing, then you may start this coming Monday. What do you say?” Gwen asked.

I was speechless, it was far more than I had ever hoped for. Before I could answer, Brenda showed Michael into the sitting room.

“Ah, Michael, that was well timed. I had just offered dear Emma a full scholarship, and a five year contract as her agent,” Gwen said, and poured him a cup of tea. He sat in an armchair, next to the sofa.

Michael stared at her and then me.

“Is that good?” he asked, rather naively.

“Yes Michael, it is,” Gwen said, laughing.

“Well, Em, what do you reckon?” he asked.

I smiled and nodded. “It sounds too good to be true,” I said.

Gwen stood up. “Let us have a look around, and we will talk as we go,” she said. Michael finished his tea, and we went on a tour of the college.

She showed us the students' rooms, and I thought that they were much more spacious than I anticipated. All students lived in, and each had their own bedroom. There was a large wardrobe, as it was likely that we would collect a fair amount of costumes as we progressed through the course. There was one bathroom for every four students and a large communal kitchen for the same four, with enough room to sit and eat. There were eight rooms on each corridor, and a maximum of thirty-two students altogether, sixteen boys and sixteen girls. Each corridor had a huge lounge and a games room. The girls were on the second floor and the boys on the third, the top floor. There was a dining room, and all meals were included, but if one wanted to eat in one's own area one could.

There was a very well appointed, but rather small theatre, a ballroom, and the concert room in which I had had my little test. There was a small, but up-to-date recording studio, and a film studio, with full video editing suite.

“As you can see, we take ourselves very seriously. In the first year, we give you a thorough grounding in all the performing disciplines. We are not here to be judgemental over each aspect. Everyone is different, and we must recognise that for some the theatre is the objective, and for others a singing career. However, a truly versatile performer can make a success as a singer, a dancer, and an actor, or actress, in front of either a camera, or a live audience. I see no point in limiting one's chances of success by only being useful in one medium.” Gwen was justifiably proud of her college, and the list of famous performers on the wall proved her success rate.

“In the second year, we allow the student to specialise in their chosen field, and if they want, we can offer some extra time in a second field. Therefore, for example, you might wish to be a singer, but also become proficient in dance. This would give you an advantage when applying for roles on some of the more lively musical shows, where both singing and dancing is required.

“The drama input in the first year, is usually sufficient for most who need some dramatic input, even if their main field is of song or music. We have six students who have come back for a third year, to take their advanced Diploma in another specialised subject of their choice.

“Not including the third year, we are running at twenty-six students at the moment, so there is room for you to join us immediately. You will bring up the girls to fifteen, and the boys are now at eleven. Normally there are sixteen in each year, but we are light in both years at present, due to a couple dropping out. Your year, the first, has eight girls now, with you, and six boys.

“Unusually, we run from January to December, with a Christmas week of concerts, plays, reviews and general fun. I have found that by not following the normal academic year, we actually have an advantage. Primarily, we can pick up those who missed the bus in September, or did not want to take a whole year out. In addition, whereas other graduates become available in June, ours are available in December, and I can usually manage to get bookings for the leavers onto shows and pantomimes around the Christmas period.

“We have a very friendly, family orientated atmosphere here, and the emphasis is not on competition but mutual assistance. There is enough competition out there, in the real world, and we do prepare students to fight hard for themselves. However, while they are here, we instil attitudes of giving and selflessness, and share our skills in order to assist in mutual development.

“We need to be able to support and encourage each other, yet we do not lie, and we do not sell ourselves short. The world is full of people who lie and cheat, the world of show business is as bad as any other, yet our graduates will be prepared to face critics and admirers in a mature and appropriate manner.”

We had concluded our tour, but as it was Saturday, none of the students was in class, but a few were in the rooms. Everyone seemed very friendly, and relaxed. They key element was that everyone here wanted to be here, and was good enough to be here. I felt proud and a little humble to be permitted to come here.

“Mrs Teesdale. Thank you for your time. I have really loved seeing round. I would very much like to join your college, and I accept, without question, the contract you propose. I don't need any time to think about it, and neither do I need to talk it through with Mike. Thank you for considering me worthy of the scholarship. I only hope that I will prove worthy of the faith you have both put in me,” I said.

“Oh, Emma, that is awfully formal. But thank you. We will see you tomorrow evening, and you can settle in. There are no uniforms here, and as you have seen, it is not like school. You will be free to go home every weekend, unless you are putting a show or something. And, please call me Gwen,” she said.

Mike and I left, and he drove us home. I didn't say much, as I was very excited with the twist that my life had just undertaken. I was rather getting used to twists now.

I watched Mike as he drove. Something had happened to him over the last couple of days. I know he was tired when we had first met, but his eyes had a sort of lifeless look about them. He had a spark in his eyes now, and he had a spring in his step. It was as if he was taking on a new lease of life, and he seemed happier.

We got home, and I considered that I now thought of this house as home. I had only been here for a couple of days, and yet it felt like home.

We went in and Mike told Mary my good news. Mary seemed genuinely thrilled, and gave me a big hug. When Mike told her that I would be living in, and would be starting tomorrow, she seemed almost disappointed. I sensed that she had found in me another daughter, and rather liked having me around.

I turned to them both, and said, “Thank you. Thank you for everything. You have been an answer to prayer, because without you, I don't know where I would have ended up. Some day, some how, I will make sure that I can go some way to repay you for your love and kindness. I know that I have not been here for long, but I feel that I have known you for a very long time. So much so, that I feel that this is my home. I feel safe here, and I have found love here for the first time in my life. Would it be alright if I were to come and stay with you at the weekends, and during the holidays?”

Mary crumpled in her chair, and openly wept, and Mike smiled with tears in his eyes.

It was a subdued meal we enjoyed that evening. It was if we had formed a new bond between us. I now saw in Mary the mother, whom I had never had, and in Mike, was the Father I had been denied. I didn't need to tell them as they seemed to just know, and when I said goodnight, they hugged me as if I were indeed the daughter they had loved and lost.

I undressed, in my room, and hung my clothes in my wardrobe. I put my nightie on, and went to sleep in my bed. I was truly happy.

I woke up on Sunday, quite early, and had a shower. There had been another snowfall overnight, and I loved the white view from my window.

I knew that being Sunday, I would have to go to Church, and so I dressed up smartly. I put on the black skirt, a white blouse, and a pretty, sparkly waistcoat. I put on some thicker tights, as I remembered that most English churches had a tradition of being cold enough to keep everyone awake, but just warm enough to keep them from dying.

There was a pair of black leather boots, with really quite high heels, about three inches. I thought they looked very smart, but perhaps a little too sexy for church. Tough, I wore them anyway. I had discovered a nice black jacket, and I spent ages getting my makeup just right. I wanted to look a lot older than I really was, without looking tarty or a vamp. My hair was settling down nicely, and it was very little trouble. My nails were a little chipped, so I cleaned them off, and took the varnish down to the kitchen with me.

Mary was only just up, and was surprised to see me so early. I kissed her on the cheek, and settled down at the kitchen table to do my nails.

She poured me a glass of milk, remembering that I wasn't keen on tea or coffee.

“Mike is over conducting the eight o'clock communion service,” she told me.

“How many services are there on a Sunday, then?” I asked.

“We normally have three, the eight o'clock communion service, at which only half a dozen usually turn out to. Then the main communion service at ten, and then evensong at six thirty.”

“That seems rather a lot, do you get many in the evening?” I asked.

“It depends on the time of year, and the weather. At Christmas and Easter it picks up, but at this time of year, and as it is so cold, we don't get many.”

I ate my breakfast, painted my nails, and waited for them to dry.

Mike came in, at about 9am, looking very vicarish. He had a twinkle in his eye, and I could tell that this was a new vicar and that Little Mudsley had better watch out.

Mary made him a coffee, and he popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

He sat down next to me, and munched his toast and marmalade.

Mike finished his coffee, and asked me whether I would join the choir for the service.

“Why not? Yes, I'd love to,” I said.

“Come on, let's go over, and I'll show you round.”

“How many do you have in the choir?” I asked.

“On a good day, six,” he said.

I put on my coat, and followed Mike round to the church, which was about 80 yards away. It was about nine thirty, and it was really cold.

They had put the heating on in the church, the main part, which was about sixteenth century, was the end with the tower. There were older parts, but most had rebuilt after the civil war.

The pews had hot pipes running under them, and there were some electric heaters in the roof, pointing down. Even so, it was still cold enough to see one's breath.

Mike took me into the vestry, and gave me a white surplice to wear, three other people arrived and Mike introduced me to them.

“Morning troops,” he said. “This is Emma Pearson, she is studying at the Teesdale School of Performing Arts, and has very kindly agreed to add some weight to our numbers this morning. Emma, the rogue in the corner is Edward Carpenter, he is our organist. The girl with the enormous scarf is Cathy Burns, and the man with the red nose is Wally Mitchell. I am hoping that we can scrape a couple more before the service starts.”

I shook hands with the three others. Cathy was a little older than I, and the two men were both over 40.

“Are you planning an anthem this morning, Mike?” Edward asked.

Mike looked at me; I shrugged and nodded. He grinned - he looked very school-boyish when he grinned.

“Why not, Emma will do a solo,” he said.

We quickly selected an anthem that I could manage. Luckily, I had sung a good few in the school chapel, and they were all quite familiar to me.

We had a quick practice, then the congregation started to arrive, and we went back to the vestry. While we waited, two more choir members arrived. They were young girls, Sally who was thirteen, and her sister, Jacquie, who was fourteen.

Once ten o'clock came, we walked out, and the service began. It was very strange singing in such a small choir, but it was fun, and the anthem went well. I was very conscious that my voice seemed very loud, and I could hardly hear anyone else at all. The acoustics in the little church were very good, and I just loved to sing.

Mike's sermon was not a long one, but his theme was ‘judge not lest ye be judged.' It held nothing back, and there seemed a bit of squirming in the Gregson pew.

When the communion came, I took the bread and the wine gratefully. It was very meaningful to me, as I was truly a new person, and had a new life ahead of me. As I knelt in front of the alter, I looked at the stained glass window behind it, and Christ's eyes seemed to be looking straight at me. I fancied I saw him smile at me.

After the service, several people came up to me and told me they liked my singing. They were very sweet, and I was happy that I could give something back for Mike and Mary. I saw Mike in deep conversation with a woman, and I assumed she was Cheryl. He waved me over to them.

“Emma, this is the PCC secretary, and my only ally, Cheryl Lamb. Cheryl, this is Emma Pearson. She has brought a little light back to our dark little lives. She has agreed to fill the singing spot for our charity event,” Mike explained.

We talked over what I was willing to sing, and I stated, “Anything.” Therefore, we went through a medley of some classical songs, including the Halleluiah Chorus, to some contemporary songs. She agreed to make a poster on her computer, and rushed off to get her roast potatoes on.

Mary came over.

“That solo was simply super, Emma. Thank you,” she said.

“Thanks, it was fun. Can I join the choir for every weekend?” I asked.

“Are you sure?” Mike asked.

“I'm sure, if you will have me?” I said.

“Of course, I didn't think you would want to,” he said.

“It was fun, perhaps I can persuade some others to join us,” I said.

Mike looked at Mary and just smiled.

We went back and had a lovely piece of roast lamb. Then after lunch, Mary helped me pack. She gave me an old suitcase that had been in the attic, and let me take as many of Caroline's clothes as I wanted.

“They are yours now,” she told me, and I hugged her.

She gave me a couple of towels, and some other toiletries. Then she sat me on the bed.

“Emma, this is a little awkward for me, but I need to talk to you like a mother for a bit. You are a maturing young woman, and you can expect a little visit, I suspect very soon.”

I stared blankly at her for a moment.

“Emma, you will become an sexually fertile girl, and something will happen, and I don't want you to be frightened or surprised by it,” she said.

My expression did not help, and then it began to dawn on me. I had never even considered having a period.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, with a nervous laugh. “ I feared I might have to go into graphic detail.”

“I have put in some towels, some panty pads, and some tampons. I can't say when you will start, but I don't suppose it will be too long. I have noticed you develop very fast over the last few days. Somehow your body is catching up with itself,” She told me.

“Does it hurt?” I asked, suddenly rather worried.

“For some it is quite painful, like a bad tummy-ache, but others have no pain at all. So, everyone is different. I used to have a hell of a time. The worst was a sort of sweaty feeling, and just feeling down,” she said.

“Oh,” I said.

Mary laughed, “Look, don't worry, all women have it, and to my knowledge, it is rarely fatal.”

I smiled, a rather pathetic smile. Maybe being female had its down side.

“And, while we are at this mother – daughter thing. I suppose I had better talk about contraception,” Mary said, clearly becoming embarrassed.

“Oh?” I said again, a little more interested.

“Oh. Indeed,” she said, smiling a little. “Emma, you are a very pretty girl. Young men like very pretty girls, and young men, and lots of not so young men, want to show their affection to very pretty girls. I know that you are very new to all this, and it is fun, and all very exciting. Men of any age can be led straight up any path you want to lead them, but there comes a point where you lose that control, and things can get dangerous. Passion and sexual pleasure get confused with love and affection. You have something very precious, and you really want to save yourself for someone very special, and make sure that your first time is the best it could possibly be. You only have one first time, so make sure that it is very, very special!” Mary said.

I realised that this was the speech she had wanted to give to her own daughter, Caroline, but circumstances prevented it. I also became aware of how much I had come to mean to this woman, and how much she meant to me. For someone who had never had a mother who cared, and who had always displaced emotions, I suddenly felt a weight of affection and love, that it physically crushed me. Mary really cared.

I reached out a hand to her, and she took it.

“Thank you.” I said. “Thank you, - Mum.” I burst into tears, and so did she. We just hugged each other.

Mike came up and found us like that. He stood by the door, and when I saw the look on his face, I cried and laughed some more.

We managed to pull ourselves together, and Mary wiped my face with a tissue. She laughed. “You will have to redo your mascara, it has all run,” she said.

I laughed, and went to the dressing table and wiped my makeup off with some cotton wool and remover, and then I made my face up again.

I packed all my makeup, and checked round the room, I had very little of my own, and yet I felt very well off.

Mike carried my bag down stairs, and put it in the car. I put on my suede coat, and hugged Mary. There was nothing I could say that could express the depth of gratitude that I felt. Yet, I knew that I didn't have to say anything. She handed me my old rucksack. It still had my chocolate and fruit in it, I laughed.

“That doesn't belong to me. That belongs to another life,” I said, and threw it into the dustbin.

I got into the car, and opened the window.

“I will be back next weekend,” I said.” If that is okay?”

“Of course. This is your home now,” Mary said.

Tanya Allen

© 5 December 2004