He looked out of the window.
“Dad, ..”
He held up a hand, but I saw tears in his eyes.
“It is my fault. I was not the father I should have been,” he said, still unable to look at me.
“No Dad. I felt this way long before Mum left,” I said.
He looked at me then.
“Really?”
I nodded.
We talked then, for the first time ever, really talked as father and child. I told him everything. It just poured out, and my words got jumbled in my haste to tell him everything. Or nearly everything, I kept quiet about David. It took quite a long time, and by the end, he was almost in tears too. He then shared with me. He told me how much he had loved my mother, and how it was his line of work that caused her to leave. She had given him a choice, and he was too tied into something to change at that moment. So she left.
I was very quiet. I wanted to ask whether he had anything to do with her death, but didn’t have the courage. It just wasn’t the right time.
Without a word, he got up, paid the bill, and went out to the Jaguar. I followed, and he drove home in silence. He parked the car and opened the front door. He walked straight in and poured himself a large whisky. He turned and faced me.
“So, what do you want me to call you?”
“My friends call me Sandi.”
“Right, go and show me what you should look like.”
I was surprised, to say the least.
“What?”
“You heard. If I’m to have a daughter, then at least let’s see her dressed properly.”
Shaking, I turned and went to my room. I continued to shake for a long time, but managed to change. I wore a smart skirt and blouse, with a cardigan, stockings and smart high heel shoes. It took me a while to control my hands to apply my make up, and then I brushed my hair out. I put in some simple hooped earrings and varnished my fingernails.
I went downstairs in some trepidation. I heard my heels on the marble floor in the hall, and went into the sitting room. My father was staring out the window at the sea.
I stood by the door.
He turned and stared at me.
I lifted my chin and stared back, as bravely as I could manage.
He paled, and then seemed to crumple slightly. He put his glass down, holding the back of the armchair.
“My God,” he said.
I almost lost it, so was about to flee to my room.
“Alex, no, Sandi. Stay,” he whispered.
I turned and faced him.
“Come here, please love,” he asked, his voice ever so gentle now.
I walked towards him, conscious that my movements were purely feminine.
He reached out a trembling hand and lifted my chin, very gently.
He looked me up and down.
“How could I have been so blind?”
I frowned.
“Forgive me?” he asked.
That was it. I burst into tears and hugged him round his middle. He held me gently round my shoulders, and we wept together.
3.
Jenny gaped at me as I got onto the bus on Monday morning. I was a new Sandi today. I was wearing a skirt for the first time. I also did not need breast forms anymore, as my own breasts were evident with no help at all. Indeed, I filled a B cup bra with no padding.
I was wearing make up and even earrings. My father had given me a huge selection of jewellery and I had to suspect that some of it was still hot.
I sat down next to her, and she still gaped.
“What?” I asked.
“You are….”
“Yes?”
“But your dad?”
“I told him yesterday, and he didn’t kill me.”
“So?”
“He’s cool.” I said, and grinned.
I told her all about it, and when we arrived at school, my appearance caused quite a stir. I smiled and managed to ignore it all. Dave saw me, and came over to me at lunch. He stared and smiled.
“Hi babe. You look hot,” he said. A silence seemed to spread to everyone around us, as others strained to overhear what was said.
“Hi,” I said, and slowly and deliberately, he bent over and kissed me. There was a moment’s stunned silence in the cafeteria. I smiled at him.
“Thanks,” I said, very quietly.
“No problem,” he said, and walked off.
I never looked back.
The meeting was held, and my father was at his most charming to everyone, and gave his consent, even though at seventeen I would not need it. The Head decided that I was to wear female attire from this day on, and records at the school would be altered to show me as female.
I went into hospital on a Friday evening, so on the Saturday morning I had my useless testicles removed, and the doctor told me that it was just in time. A growth was on one of them, and although benign, she suspected that it could have turned malignant quickly. I had my meeting with the psychiatrist, and I was dressed as a girl. He agreed that SRS was the only valid option, and I met the consultant Mr Rogersen.
He was charm personified, and he explained everything he would do, and why. It was actually far more involved as I had naively believed, and would put me in hospital for nearly a week, and with several weeks’ recovery thereafter. He told me that I had youth on my side, and I should heal quickly. He had done the same procedure on people in their sixties, and then it was a major operation.
A date was set for the end of July - only four months away.
Dad asked me to pop into Woolworths and get some passport style photos done of me as a girl. I knew enough not to ask any questions, so simply did as I was asked.
The Easter Holidays arrived, so I spent a lot of the time working at the hotel. So much so, that I would often get up in my waitress outfit. Dad accepted me now, and we talked more now than at any other time. I enjoyed keeping house for him, and even my culinary expertise moved up to the ‘edible’ stage. He used to tease me and call me his ‘kept woman’ or his ‘hand-maiden’. I actually liked it, as he had come to terms with me far better than I had ever hoped.
One day, Dad had gone out, and I was at home changing the beds, one of my many chores about the house.
I was wearing my waitress skirt and top, as I was due at the hotel in an hour, and I heard voices in the hall. I went out on the landing, and saw three strange men standing there.
One saw me, and he pointed and the other two came running up the stairs.
I retreated into my Dad’s room and tried shutting the door, but it was forced open, and I was grabbed.
I was dragged, kicking and screaming down stairs and held in front of the first man.
“Shut up, you silly tart. Where is he?” he asked. He had an East End accent.
“Who?”
“Johnny Lake.”
“I don’t know. He left earlier today, I think.”
The other men were going through all the rooms.
“Where is the boy?”
“What boy?”
“His son, Alexander?”
I shrugged.
“Who are you?” he asked.
It dawned on me that they didn’t know who I was. I thought quickly.
“Sandi. I work at the hotel up the road as a waitress and a maid. I get paid extra to come here and I make the beds and stuff.”
“Fuck.”
“No one here, Bruce,” said one of the men.
“You related?”
“To whom?” I asked, and he laughed.
“Not to fucking Johnny, speaking like that. When are they due back?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, listen close, darling, we’re going to wait here for them, so you keep nice and quiet and you won’t get hurt. Okay?”
“I’m due to be back at work at the hotel. If I don’t go, they’ll come looking and may even call the police.” I said.
“Bollocks.” said one of the men.
The man called Bruce looked at his watch.
“All right, you go. But if you call the police, or tell anyone about us, I will find you and I will cut your fucking throat. Get me?” Bruce said.