Julian quickly changed back into his jeans and tee shirt and I helped him to remove all traces of the makeup he’d been wearing, without further comment on my part. (It was just as well that, he’d not got as far as painting his finger nails when I burst in to the room.) We went to the garage together, again without saying anything. As we got in the car I cursed that I’d not thought to change into some more sensible shoes, but it was now too late, we’d wasted too much time already. I kicked off my high heels and drove him to the hospital in my bare feet. Fortunately the roads were fairly empty at that time of night, as was the hospital car park when we arrived. We were therefore able to pull up next to the main entrance a few minutes later. Julian was out of the car and through the front door before I’d even had a chance to retrieve and put on my shoes. I therefore followed him a little later and then had to find my own way to the Intensive Care Unit. By the time I’d done so, he’d been there for a few minutes talking to the sister in charge.

‘Mum has taken a turn for the worse, they don’t think she has long to live,’ he said, as I entered the ward.

There were tears in his eyes, and so I pulled him towards me and gave him a long hug, this time towering over him because of those stupid heels that I was wearing.

‘They think I should go and see her one more time, before she dies. Will you come with me Jenny?’, he asked with a trembling voice.

‘Yes of course I will,’ I answered.

‘I just wish I hadn’t chosen to dress myself as quite such a slapper tonight of all nights.’

We entered his mother’s treatment room.

‘I’m afraid it won’t be long now, I’m so glad you made it in time,’ said the nurse who then left us alone for a few minutes.

I saw Julian’s mother for the first and last time. She was a shortish, fairly slim woman in her late thirties, with a dressing on her head and an oxygen mask which presumably was keeping her breathing. There were various monitors attached to her and it was clear that her other vital signs were erratic. I felt awful, seeing her like that, because I used to refer to her as ‘the Vegetable’, and to her son as ‘the Runt’, even though it was only to myself. Life was so unfair, she would never now see Julian grow up, just because some idiot had been driving too fast round a bend and had crashed head-on into her husband’s car.

‘Why don’t you hold her hand,’ I suggested to my brother who was just staring at her without doing or saying anything.

He did so, and I took a few steps back to let him say his goodbyes. I then brought up a chair so he could sit holding her hand and another one for me to sit with him. She died shortly after one o’clock. The monitor alarm sounded and the nurse rushed in, then seeing the flat line, she turned off the machine, called the doctor, and removed the breathing mask. His mother had been a nice looking woman and there was a clear facial resemblance to Julian.

‘I’m very sorry,’ the doctor said to Julian. ‘I’m afraid it was inevitable given the seriousness of her head injuries.’

He nodded and then said vacantly, ‘I suppose I’m on my own now.’

‘You do still have a sister,’ I responded gently squeezing his hand.

‘I hope you don’t have cause to regret saying that Jen.’

There was nothing more to be done at the hospital in the middle of the night, so after he had a little time to get over the immediate shock, I led him away and drove us both to his home. He didn’t want to go to bed at first, so I made us a drink of hot chocolate and we sat together in the kitchen for a while, holding hands but not saying very much. I half wondered whether I should say anything about the unusual situation in which I’d found him earlier in the evening, but what would I say? I could think of half a dozen clever or cutting things to say, but for heaven’s sake, the poor kid had just lost both his parents. I’d leave it for him to raise the subject with me when he was willing to do so. Eventually at about 3.30 am I put my arm round his shoulder and gently led him upstairs to his bedroom to try and get some sleep. Before he went in to his room, I told him to wait for a second. I went to my room and came back with my large black teddy bear.

‘He has always been a great comfort to me in the past,’ I said handing it over.

He gave me a faint smile and took it in his arms and went to bed.

I doubt whether he slept that night, and I know that I certainly didn’t, wondering about what was going to happen to this strange young man whom I met for the first time a week ago, but whose life now appeared to have become enmeshed with my own.

Over the next four or five days I think I must have earned every penny of my wages several times over. I’d no idea there would be so much to do when someone died, and I was amazed that my young brother had already coped with the death of our father two weeks previously, largely on his own. The following morning I drove Julian to the hospital to collect the medical certificate showing the cause of death, and his mother’s belongings. We then went in to town to register the death. In each case the officials looked to me, as the adult, rather than to my brother; even though it was him who provided the answers, it was me who signed all the forms. He also knew the ropes and had the good sense to request five registered copies of the death certificate; we would need them all over the next few weeks as we sorted out all her financial affairs. At every stage we had to listen to the officials say how sorry they were, and then make appropriate responses.

As soon as we had a death certificate we contacted an undertaker and arranged for him to collect the body from the hospital and then come to the house to discuss the arrangements for the funeral. It was the same firm who had dealt with the cremation of my father the previous week. There were all kinds of little decisions we had to make about where the funeral would take place, the order of service, the hymns, whether we wished anyone to speak, whether there would be a notice in the press etc., most of which we left to the undertaker to decide. As far as Julian knew she didn’t have many close friends, just a few colleagues from work: her life had been centred on her family.

We spent much of the next few days on the telephone or writing letters notifying so many people of her death — her employer, various insurance companies, the utility companies, the local authority, her General Practitioner and a hundred other official bodies. I even rang the sister in Canberra and broke the news to her, and re-assured her that Julian was ok and that I was looking after him. Together we went to see the staff of her bank, to notify them and explain Julian’s awkward financial situation. There had been a joint account which had passed into his mother’s name when his father died. This would now be frozen until the Grant of Probate, although they would continue to pay the standing orders and direct debit instructions which his parents had established for utility bills, taxes etc. and also the account from the Undertakers when it came. They couldn’t offer Julian an overdraft facility in his own name as he was too young, but fortunately I used the same bank and so they were prepared to grant me a  £4,000 overdraft on the basis that I’d eventually be receiving a legacy from our father.

‘It’s just as well that I managed to transfer enough money to keep us going for about four or five more weeks, before she died,’ he said. ‘I just hope that Dad’s probate will have been granted by that time and so you won’t need to use the overdraft facility.’

‘So do I, but it’ll be a useful to know it’s there just in case,’ I replied.

‘I’ll have to start collecting the information we’ll need for the Grant of Probate for my mother, as quickly as possible. Unfortunately this time the process will be quite a lot more complicated and there’ll be inheritance tax to pay,’ he said to me afterwards.

‘Are you sure you want to do it yourself?’

‘Yes, I know what to do and I want to stay in control of my finances. However, I’m afraid it’ll have to be done in your name again.’

He was right. We discovered that we first had to get a grant of representation to myself giving me the right to act in place of the named executor — my late father. This involved an application to the Probate Office giving full details of her will, the surviving family and explaining that the only closer living relative who was of an appropriate age lived in Canberra. This had to be accompanied by the relevant birth and death certificates and would have to be supported by my swearing an affidavit. The process would inevitably take some time. On the other hand once we’d paid the relevant death duties, his mother’s will was straightforward — basically it all went to Julian. Because his mother had inherited the bulk of his father’s wealth, as well as her share of the house and her own personal savings, Julian would become a fairly wealthy young man once it was all sorted.

In some ways, coping with all of this red tape was a good thing for Julian as he threw himself into the task and it took his mind off his other problems. Once again he became the calm, intelligent and rather calculating young man that I’d first met at our father’s funeral. Over the next few days he spent some time on the Probate Office telephone helpline finding out what we would have to do to nominate me as the administrator of the estate. But there were times when he lapsed into a depression and a look of utter bleakness would spread over his face. I’d then try to take his mind of things with some lame joke or perhaps a hug.

As word got around about his mother’s death, there was a succession of visitors to the house; former colleagues, family friends, and neighbours, who came to offer their condolences and to ensure that Julian was coping all right. They all had to be given tea and the opportunity to say how sorry they were and what a dreadful tragedy had befallen the family. Most callers seemed to be relieved to learn that there was an adult (me!) on hand, even though, more often than not, it was Julian who told me what needed to be done. Even my parents called round to offer their condolences to Julian and to see that I was coping alright. This must have been quite awkward for my mother. I think they were pleasantly surprised to find me wearing a dress and even a little makeup. (I’d rather got in the habit of doing so over the last few days as we were never sure who would call next.) I also noticed my mother looking inquisitively round the house, presumably wondering what might have been, if things had worked out differently. As always, my dad was basically kind and understanding, if a little lacking in the finer social graces. As they left I walked with them out to their car.

‘How is Julian coping with everything?’ asked Dad.

‘It’s difficult to say, but on the surface he seems ok most of the time, but is still in a state of shock. I’m glad to be here though to keep an eye on him.’

‘I’m glad you are as well Jen,’ he said, ‘In fact I’m very proud of you.’

‘Heavens above! that’s the second time I can remember someone saying that to me in the last month! ’

‘When’s the funeral?’ asked Mum.

‘Next Tuesday, but there’s no need for you to attend.’

‘No, … it wouldn’t be appropriate,’ she answered, (my mother loves using that word).

‘After all, you only ever knew Julian’s mother as the woman who stole your first husband.’

‘I’ve washed and ironed your black dress for you,’ she said, changing the subject.

‘Thank you, I’ll call round and collect it on Monday.’ I replied, giving them both a quick kiss on the cheek - the first time I’d done so in about a year.

Then there came a succession of visits to the house by officialdom: the police liaison officer, who explained they were still investigating the accident but were waiting for the recovery of the other driver involved. A local clergyman called to offer consolation, as did Julian’s form teacher from his school and a member of the Social Services Department, all enquiring into Julian’s situation and his plans for the future. I could now see why he’d been so keen to install me in the house as his so called ‘guardian’ when he did, otherwise he would quickly have been carted off to a local children’s home, and given a short-course in glue-sniffing and shoplifting by the ‘inmates’. Fortunately, he wasn’t due to sit any school examinations that year and the summer holidays were only a couple of weeks away, and so it was agreed that, in the circumstances, he wouldn’t be expected back at school until the beginning of the next academic year in September.

The Social Worker spent almost an entire afternoon with us asking a series of detailed questions, about what would become of Julian, where and how he would live until he came of age. I did my best to sound mature and sensible. As previously requested by Julian I mentioned my applications for various part-time jobs in the area, but said nothing about my University place in September. In the end she seemed happy enough with our answers to her questions, no doubt relieved that she wouldn’t have to deal with one more problem on her case-load. As I was eighteen and he was nearly sixteen, Julian wouldn’t be made a Ward of Court but rather left in my care.

During all this time neither Julian nor I made any reference to his unusual choice of clothing the previous Tuesday night. The incident became the ‘Elephant in the room’, which neither of us seemed willing to address. I was hoping he would say something so there would be an opportunity for me either to make light of the whole thing or else to re-assure him that it didn’t really matter to me what he chose to wear in the privacy of his own home; but he didn’t do so. I couldn’t think how to raise the subject myself without upsetting him further, particularly at this most difficult time. My memories of the night also began to take on an unreal quality and I even half-wondered whether I’d imagined the whole thing. However, on Saturday morning he announced that he would be going to Woodley Library to return his own and his parents’ books. I offered to drive him there, but he said he would be happy to walk and would only be gone for about an hour and a half. As soon as he left I had a quick nose into his bedroom. Sure enough there were a couple of dresses hanging in a corner of his wardrobe and one or two other female garments, but there was no sign of any cosmetics, jewellery, wig or anything like that. Presumably he’d been using his mother’s supplies of makeup when I burst in upon him last Tuesday. I noticed that he’d also bookmarked a couple of websites on his computer — nothing even mildly pornographic, just sites giving advice to the transgendered. There was no doubt that my younger brother was a closet cross-dresser, although apparently not a very confident or experienced one.

OK, so now you know for sure Jen, what are you going to do about it? I asked myself.

At that moment I’d absolutely no idea.

(Next time - I work out a plan.)

Thanks for all the encouraging comments and kudos for the first two chapters. I am pleased that so many people have enjoyed the story so far and hope they continue to do so. Louise