Queers.

_

Can I tell you something?

Strictly entre nous.

I am not what I seem.

I am not a man.

That is to say, I was not born a man,

but I do not wish to be a man, no.

I like the costume, I like the ease,

I like the way I'm able be in the world, but I am very much...

... female.

Space.

A gentleman must take up space.

Head erect, shoulders back, chest proud.

No hint of apology, no fluttery hands

or silly, unnecessary gestures.

One must enter the room and know that one is instantly

the biggest thing in it.

Expect that.

One must sit with a wide stance, knees an acre apart.

As much to say, "I am the emperor here and you must make room

for my enormous appendage."

If you'll excuse me.

Keep it under your hat, old bean.

It's just our little secret.

She is not what he seems, and she, as he, can rattle around

as he pleases, and if he so pleases to indulge in a bout

of beard splitting, then so be it.

No-one will bat an eyelid and one can carry on being

a cake-eater till one has had one's fill.

Did you clock it?

If so, how so?

I am a renowned gentleman, you know.

I pass.

I pass terribly well.

Although it seems not as well as I'd hoped.

Not when it matters.

She's late.

I've always been outdoorsy.

My poor old Ma used to say,

"Ellen Mary Page, you'll be the death of me!

Get inside and scrub them knees... you look like a regular Tom!"

I was always out playing.

With Lizzie, mostly.

Up and down Mare Street, nicking whelks off the one-eyed man

with the seafood stall.

And she'd distract him by asking for a pint of prawns

and a blank stare and I'd blindside him

and pocket a fistful of cockles.

Oh, I adored Lizzie!

And she adored me.

Every night, when we dragged ourselves away from each other,

I'd say, "Cash or cheque?"

And she'd say, "Cash."

And I'd get a kiss on the cheek.

Our favourite game was wedding day.

She was always the bride, of course, and I would be the groom.

I'd get my dad's best coat.

Grey tweed, leather buttons, smell of sweat, coal.

Bits of dried-up tobacco in the breast pocket.

I'd have to wait for her at the end of the aisle,

the back alley where our mothers would hang the washing.

And I'd watch her, holding my breath,

as she picked her way through the grey sheets and stained drawers,

a huge, stupid smile on her face.

And when she reached me and put her arm through mine...

... I fair exploded.

I loved her.

I knew that.

I longed to take her in my arms and kiss her neck.

Would she allow it?

Could she?

I just didn't know.

Then bloody William Foyle turned up.

All big muscles, crooked smile and twinkly-eyed.

And she fell for him straightaway.

He bought her a tuppence bag of aniseed balls and she was lost.

I was heartbroken.

She still said "cash"

when we did manage to see each other, but...

... I could see her heart wasn't in it.

She looked sad.

But not for her, for me.

"Don't be like that, Ellen," she'd say.

Touching my arm.

Once, she took me in.

She took pity on me.

And we sat by the fire.

I had my arms wrapped around her waist.

And...

... I just let my hand drop lower and lower

until it was resting in her glorious lap.

I moved my hand slowly, slowly.

She froze...

... then relaxed.

I waited.

Minutes groaned by.

She let me.

She...

let me.

And then, all of a sudden, she jumped up,

grabbed her shawl and ran out the back door.

I called after her, but she didn't turn back.

It was exactly two weeks later that I ran into her

buying a loaf of bread.

"Lizzie," I said, "I'm sorry.

Please, please speak to me."

"Don't," she said.

She sort of hissed it.

I searched her face for a sign of softness, but there was none.

There was only fear.

Only fear.

She turned on her heel and marched off.

"Cash or cheque?" I shouted after her.

She didn't miss a beat.

"Cheque," she said, over her shoulder.

And then she was gone.

Into the fog.

I was 16.

My life was over.

Ellen Mary Page...

... was dead.

I moved away after that, went south of the river, found lodgings,

didn't speak to anyone or go out at all at first.

I had very little money, of course.

Only what I could make as a skivvy.

I washed pots morning, noon and night,

set fires, peeled potatoes.

Bored rigid, I was, but dead inside, so it didn't matter.

"Is this it?" I'd think to myself.

Then one day, I was told to throw some of Sir's old clothes out.

Apparently, he was trying to become more a la mode

and wanted only brogues and Oxford bags.

I took the package up the scullery steps...

... and opened it.

The smell of old sweat, tobacco, soap.

And I...

I pressed the white dress shirt close to my face and...

... breathed it in.

Trousers, too, high-waisted,

black satin trim down the legs.

White silk bow tie, long-line tuxedo, top hat... the lot.

I stuffed the parcel behind the bin and grabbed it on my way home.

I went home and I put it all on.

It was like...

... a sacrament.

I felt wonderful.

And the second night, I got daring and looked in the mirror.

I must have posed for hours.

You know, tilting my head this way and that, practising my walk.

I really thought I was the cat's particulars.

The frog's eyebrows.

Well, the third night, I got bold and went out.

I couldn't look at anyone, I couldn't breathe!

I was sure, at any moment, someone would point and laugh.

You know, shout at me, call me, "Nancy boy!"

But I am tall and broad-shouldered, with a bosom like two bee stings.

I know the gas light helped, it was foggy and, well,

the top hat was a touch too big.

It kept falling down over my eyes.