Part 900 (75 Dozen)
Copyright© 2010 Angharad
All Rights Reserved.
Getting the girls to bed was difficult—they were clingy with me as well—even after kissing and hugging each one, and the usual story reading—they still wanted me to stay with them. In the end, I had to lie on the bed for half an hour until they’d gone to sleep.
The boys were a problem too—I had to see them to bed and tuck them in, and sit and talk with them for half an hour as well.
Everyone seemed clingy, wanting to spend time with me—I’d only been away one night, for goodness sake. I sent Julie off to bed about ten thirty, and spent an hour chatting with Stella and Tom; neither of whom seemed in a hurry to go to bed. It was I who had to call it a day, when I had a fit of the yawns and went up to bed.
Then I had a surprise, Julie was fast asleep in my bed. This had to stop, but I was too tired for any arguments tonight, so I slipped in alongside her and was soon asleep.
Amazingly, I managed to sleep all night without waking for a toilet visit, and when the radio came on at seven, I was surprised to see Julie with me until I remembered the previous night.
“Morning, Mummy,” she purred at me.
“What’s wrong with your bed?”
“Nothin’, Mummy, I just like yours better.”
“This is the last time—okay?”
“But it so much nicer sleepin’ with someone.”
“Tough, you’ve got your teddy, so that’ll have to do.”
“You’re such a hard woman, Mummy.”
“Am I? In which case, why didn’t I throw you out last night?”
“’Cos I’m so loveable?”
“Sez who?” I challenged her cheek.
“Me,” she smirked.
“Well, Miss Loveable, you can get up and help me get the kids ready for school.” I threw back the duvet and she tried to grab it as I pulled it off the bed. However, I was too quick, and I rolled it up and took it into the bathroom with me. When I came back from showering, she wasn’t there. I woke the girls and, as their hair looked okay, I had them wash themselves, whilst I went to get the boys up.
Danny was dressing himself and Billy was in the shower—it seemed Julie had got them up, then gone to her own bed. I gave the boys a wet flannel each and told one to wipe her face and the other to rub her feet with the damp cloths.
The squeals and swearing, plus threats were quite amusing to hear. The boys came dashing out with Julie in hot pursuit still yelling at them. Once she saw me waiting, she stopped and began laughing.
“You, Missy can get yourself organised and help me get breakfasts ready.” I was downstairs making tea when she finally arrived—she did make sandwiches for the boys, but with some reluctance.
She came with me to take the girls to school, and helped me with the food shop afterwards. I informed her that she was cooking dinner and what did she want to make?
“I can’t cook, Mummy.”
“It sounds like it’s time you learned then.”
“Will you help me?”
“Yes, but you do all the work.”
She gave me a sour look but nodded. “What shall I do?”
“What d’you fancy eating?” I asked.
“Easy to what—digest?”
“No, easy to make.”
“I don’t know, Mummy, you’re the expert.”
“Only because my mother made me do it.”
“Oh I see—come from a long line of child abusers, do you?”
“Ha ha, now what are you going to cook?”
“I dunno—you suggest something.”
“Beef stroganof and raspberry roulade for dessert.”
“Very funny—how about something easy, like egg and chips?”
“No. No chips.”
“This is dinner, the main meal of the day and you’re proposing boiled eggs?”
“Yeah, lots of ‘em—that’d fill you up.”
“Try again,” I insisted.
“I dunno—um not eggs—um, how about chicken something?”
“Coq au vin, chicken chasseur, chicken curry, chicken stew, roast chicken...”
“Um—how difficult is roast chicken?”
“For the chicken—very traumatic, for the cook quite simple, unless you get into complicated glazes or stuffings.”
“Um no—simple roast chicken.”
“It’s easy, so is that it—roast chicken?”
“What veg are you doing?”
“I don’t know, do I?”
“What do you normally eat with a roast dinner?”
She scratched her head, “Um, spuds, carrots, cabbage?”
“Roast or boiled potatoes?”
“Which is easier?”
“Neither are rocket science—which do you prefer?”
“Okay, we’ll do roasties.” It was like pulling teeth, but it was a new experience for her and required some cajoling to make her believe she could do it. We chose the vegetables, carrots and cauliflower with some broccoli. I also got some mushrooms to roast with the meat and some Spanish onions.
“You’ll have to show me what to do, Mummy.”
“I’ll watch you—I’m not here to humiliate you, I’m here to teach you. While that’s cooking, you can help me with the ironing.”
“What? Do that as well?”
“Yes, it’s what housewives do all the time—so unless you can afford to pay someone to do it for you, you’d better start learning quickly, hadn’t you? It’s the joys of womanhood.”
“Um—what if I went back to stay as a boy?”
“I’d still make you do it—the boys will learn basic housekeeping too—I won’t be there forever to look after them, and it’s a good thing to know.”
“Okay, I surrender—but you will watch me, won’t you?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
She nodded but looked excitedly anxious. I remembered when I started, I used to get anxious, but there was also an excitement in learning something new which involved a risk of spoiling it. I think that was where she was at that moment. Before we left the supermarket—a large Morrisons—I got her to choose an apron, which would be hers to wear when she was cooking or cleaning.
We were busy pushing the trolley out to the car when we literally bumped into someone else’s trolley. Julie was pushing it, still complaining about cooking when going down a small slope in the car park, she let it nudge into someone else’s trolley, an empty one but which was being pushed up the hill.
It was a middle aged couple whom I didn’t know from Adam—but Julie did. “Oh shit,” she said.
The bloke at first said, “Careful love,” then paused after Julie spoke and said, “John, is that you?”
There was an uneasy silence, then the insults began. “What are you doing dressed like a girl?” he said loudly—loudly enough to attract the attention of passers-by.
“Julie, who are these people?” I asked stepping next to her.
“Who are you? Some sort of pervert, dressing my son up as a girl. Call the police someone.”
“Mr and Mrs Kemp, I presume? How nice to meet you.” I extended my hand hoping it wouldn’t be accepted unless I had somewhere to wash it afterwards. I was however determined to stay calm.
“I want my son back—not some bloody queer—what sort of woman are you?”
Julie had burst into tears and to their disgust she reached for me to console her not her parents. “A woman who has a bit more understanding and sympathy for your child than you do.” I replied calmly but coldly.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” added Mrs Kemp.
“For what? Rescuing a child who’d been beaten up, and who faced another beating if she went to her parents’ house? If that constitutes a shameful act, then yes, I’m guilty as charged.”
“You should be charged as a pedowotsit.”
“I think not—I’ve been vetted by the CRB, have you?”
“You stole our son.”
“No, I gave refuge to your daughter.”
“That’s a boy—not a friggin’ girl, do you need your eyes tested,” her father looked as if he was about to burst a blood vessel, he was so red faced.
“I can’t see a boy there, can you?” I asked a passer by who walked even faster after I spoke to them.
“You bitch, you know I’m right—you’ve enticed him away, you bloody pervert.” Mr Kemp was nearly apoplectic and his spittle was frothing a little.
“Nice to have met you, Mr and Mrs Kemp—come along, Julie, let’s go home.”
Kemp made a grab for her or maybe even me, but I pushed his arm away and pulled the trolley between us. A small crowd was gathering and I drew Julie way with our groceries to our car. Mrs Kemp, kept her husband from attacking me, and the crowd parted to let us through.
I quickly dumped the stuff in the car and abandoned the trolley. Julie was very distressed as one would expect and she was sobbing loudly.
Kemp came rushing towards the car and I started it and drove off just before he got there, narrowly missing another car as we moved towards the exit.
Once free of the irate pair, I was able to pat Julie on the knee and say comforting things. “We’ll be home soon, I’ll make us a nice cuppa and you’ll feel better.”
She simply sat and sobbed. “Why does he always have to spoil it?”
We got home and an astonished Stella stood by the door as I threw her my keys and said, “Can you unload the shopping?” before following the sobbing teen up to her room.
She lay on her bed and hugged her teddy, weeping profusely. I felt sad and angry at the attitude of her ignorant parents. How I felt like thumping him, even though I knew it would serve no useful purpose apart from personal satisfaction.
I half expected a visit from the plod—he’d have seen my car registration. So I asked Stella to sit with her when she came up to see what was going on. “We bumped into her parents in a supermarket car park—quite literally.”
“Oh—I see, I’ve put the kettle on.”
“Sit with her will you? I’m going to try and get hold of Andy Bond.” I ran down to the phone and called the local cop-shop, they promised to get him to call me back.
He did about ten minutes later, and whilst I was talking to him, I saw a plod mobile turn into the driveway. Andy said to ask them to wait, he was on his way.
The doorbell rang and I opened it, “Tea or coffee?” I asked as I opened the door.
“What? Exclaimed the young policewoman.
“Would you prefer a cup of tea or coffee?” I repeated.
“I’m sorry, madam, this is a serious matter.”
“What choosing between tea and coffee, I agree absolutely.”
“Is that your Audi A3 outside?”
“Yes, but you know that from your computer link.”
“Exactly, a woman matching your description has been reported abducting a teenage boy dressed as a girl from a supermarket, and driving away in that car.”
“Do come in, I have spoken with one of your colleagues who knows the background to this—he’s on his way, so shall we have a cuppa while we wait for him?”
“You realise these are serious charges against you, um, Lady Cameron?”
“Aren’t you the one who did that film on dormice?” asked her colleague.
“Yes, I plead guilty to that, but not to abducting anyone. The young lady concerned is upstairs with my sister in law who is a nurse.”
“The Kemps said the child was a boy—their son.”
“He’s GID.” At the look of confusion on both of their faces, I explained. “John, who prefers to be called Julie, by the way, is gender dysphoric—transsexual?”—they nodded.
“So he wants to be a woman?” asked the WPC.
“Yes. I found her some weeks ago lying beaten up on a rubbish dump while dressed provocatively as a female. I brought her home because she wouldn’t allow me to take her to a hospital. It was freezing at the time and I couldn’t leave her there. This is all documented, by the way. It involved an ex-colleague of yours as the attacker.
After I checked she was physically okay, I spoke to the police and social services. They were both in agreement that she should stay with me, as her parents were very unhelpful regarding her gender status—her father has beaten her several times.
“So the only people who might need to know, who didn’t, were her parents. I did phone them, with Julie, as I wanted them to know she was alright. They swore at her over the phone and also at me. So I disconnected the call. We’re ex-directory so they couldn’t trace us”.
The two coppers were looking totally out of their depth when Andy Bond arrived. “Lady Catherine, how nice to see you again.” He nodded to his colleagues. “Where’s Julie?”
“Upstairs, crying on her bed. Stella’s with her.”
“Okay, can Rita go and check she’s not here against her will or has been injured?”
“That’s me,” said the WPC.
“Sure, Andy the kettle has just boiled, can you make the tea while I show Rita up to Julie’s room?” I led the young woman up the stairs.
We entered Julie’s room, where Stella was hugging the distressed teen. “Julie, we need you to speak with this police officer.”
Julie clung on to Stella even tighter and shook her head.
“Julie, please talk to this nice young lady—she’s very worried that you’ve been kidnapped and are being held against your will. I need you to talk to her or she’s likely to arrest me, and you’ll have to cook the dinner.”
Slowly she released Stella, and we both left the room to the two youngsters.
“Are you going to call Stephanie?” asked Stella.
“I could—I wonder if she does visits?”
“For a fee—you bet.”
“Let’s see what happens next; oh, Andy Bond’s here and is making the tea, I’d better go and see to things. Can you be ready to hug Julie again if necessary?”
“As long as Pud doesn’t need me.”
“She won’t, I strangled her earlier.” I smiled sweetly and dashed downstairs.
The two men were chatting amicably and sipping mugs of tea. “I hope there’s some left for the workers?” I said as I went into the kitchen.
“Plenty,” he said, ignoring me and continuing his conversation—which transpired to be a joke.
“Have you brought your colleague up to speed?” I asked.
“Yes thanks, Lady Catherine.We’ll have to check with Social Services but otherwise everything’s okay.”
“Cor, she is upset,” said WPC Rita as she came back downstairs. “She’s here because she wants to be, says Lady Cameron is her foster mother, and she hates her father, who used to hit her for being a poof.”
“I’m glad you called her by the preferred pronoun, it’s so important to her.”
“That’s no boy, I don’t care what her parents said—oh—she also said I can talk with her psychiatrist, Dr Stephanie something.”
“Steph Cauldwell, yes, I can give you her number. In fact I think I might ask her to pop by and see Julie.”
“Is that NHS?” asked Rita.
“No—an arm and a leg job. The state she was in when I found her couldn’t wait until the NHs could supply a shrink with experience of gender dysphoria or transgenderism. So I went private.”
“I know where I’ve seen you—in the bank.” Rita declared with glee.
“Yes, on the poster holding a dormouse.”
“Her father in law owns it,” offered PC Bond.
“What the poster?” asked a perplexed Rita.
“No, you twit, the bank—her husband is Simon Cameron, the banker.”
If you liked this post, you can leave a comment and/or a kudo!
Click the Good Story! button above to leave the author a kudo:
And please, remember to comment, too! Thanks.