Chapter Text
Yardley Wood, Birmingham, March 1953
He ran down the street, unable to stop his crying. His mother had put him in a dress again, and he decided to run away, rather than face another day in another dress that he was sure he was never meant to wear. He was most certainly not a girl, never felt he ever was one, and his mother's inability to cope with that had made his life miserable. He'd told her he was a boy on his third birthday, three long years ago, but it hadn't helped. All it did was make them all mad at him.
He wasn't sure where he was going. He just needed to get away from the loud, noisy house where there was no room, too many people, not enough food, not enough of anything. Where they wouldn't cut his hair short, and kept putting him in dresses. He pulled the ribbons from his hair as he ran, letting them fall to the road. The dress was harder to dispose of, but he tore at it as he went, hating how it clung to his body. His bare feet, bloody from the sharp wet stones on the road, kept him going.
He slipped into a back yard a couple of streets away, if only because the gate was open, and he made his way to the shed, shutting himself away in the dark in the hopes he wouldn't be found at all. He finally took the dress off, and left it on the floor. He didn't care how cold it was. He would rather freeze than wear a dress. Curling up on it, he shivered and cried, unsure what else to do. He wasn't left alone for long. He buried his head under his arms as the shed door opened, and a matronly woman gazed down at him.
"What're you doing hiding out here, pet? You'll catch your death out here. Come on, come inside. You tell old Mary what's wrong," she said.
He shied away at first, but he was cold, and hungry, and perhaps she'd be nice enough not to take him back to his house, at least, not right away. Drying his eyes as he got up, he left the dress behind as he took her hand and followed her back inside.
She wrapped him in a blanket and set him by the fire with a mug of warm milk. He wasn't sure he trusted her just yet, but she didn't ask for explanations, and just let him sit and warm up on his own, occasionally checking in to see if he was alright. It did feel good to be warm, though. The icy chill of winter was still hanging in the air, and the wind still froze him to the bone, lying out there in the shed. His house was cold, too. He always felt cold. He didn't know why she was being nice to him, though. He wondered what she wanted from him. Maybe she would just hand him back to his parents anyway. That's generally what happened when people were nice to him. They were trying to make him behave.
He watched her guardedly as she came into the front room and took a seat nearby. She looked nice enough, but he just couldn't bring himself to trust her, not yet. He wanted to, though, if she didn't hurt him.
"You got a name, pet?" Mary asked.
He shook his head. "Jus' a bad name."
"What's bad about it? Don't you like it?"
"'S a girl's name. 'm not a girl."
Mary offered a curious glance. "Oh, aye? Is that so? So what do you call yerself then?"
He shrugged helplessly. "Dunno. Nothing, really."
"I've got to call you something. If you're not a girl, we'd better find a nice boy's name for you, hadn't we, pet?" Mary said.
He shrugged again. "I 'spose. Dunno why I need a name. No one ever uses it. No one believes me when I said I'm a boy."
Mary seemed to accept this. "Alright. How do you know you're a boy, then?"
"I jus' - know. I don't like being called a girl. 'm not a girl. But no one believes me," he said. "You're not gonna send me home, are you? I don't wanna go home. I don't like being at home. No one likes me. They hurt me."
"I can't keep you here forever. I'm sure your parents can take you back whenever they like. They're your parents, after all. But you can stay a while, if you like. It's nice to have a child in the house again. I've missed my boy so much since, well, since the war," Mary said, her voice softening with melancholy.
He looked up at her, confused. "What happened to your boy?"
"Same as happened to many. But you're too young to have your head filled with that nonsense. How bout I call you John? That's a good name for a boy," Mary said.
"Was your boy named John?" he asked.
Mary nodded. "He was, yes. You're a bright lad, aren't you?"
He shrugged. "Maybe." He thought a moment. "Jus' call me 'Boy', 'm not ready for names yet."
"Suit yourself, then. Now, how bout we get you some clothes to wear? You must be freezing," Mary said.
He almost wanted to say no, but she didn't call him a girl, even though he'd told her. Perhaps she might be a friend to him, after all. She lifted him to his feet and took him off to wash him, getting rid of the dirt. She also cleaned and bandaged his cut feet, and while they hurt a little to walk on, he did begin to feel better about it. He'd never had anyone tend to his injuries before, either, nor had anyone ever bathed him, not like that. It was a strange experience, one he was not sure how to accept.
He sat on the floor by the fire once he was cleaned up, and wrapped himself in the blanket again as Mary sat nearby, sewing him a new pair of trousers, a shirt, and a jacket. He was scared about wearing them home, because he knew at some point, he'd be going home. He was afraid he'd be beaten again. His mother would probably ruin them so he couldn't wear them again. Maybe he should keep them here instead, and come back for them. Maybe he could just wear them at Mary's house, so they'd be safe. Maybe he should just stay with Mary. She would take care of him.
As he looked up at her to see how she was getting on, he saw one of his sisters through the window approaching the house, and he scrambled behind the chair, hoping he hadn't been seen.
Mary turned to him. "You alright, lad? What's scared you?"
"Is my big sister. Don't let her take me away. I wanna stay here with you," he said, keeping his voice low.
There was a knock on the door then, and Mary reluctantly got up to answer it. He stayed where he was, cowering under the blanket. He pressed his hands over his ears, hoping he wouldn't hear them having an argument again. He didn't like it when people started shouting.
"Alright, come here, ya mardy bab. Mum's so mad at you," said a voice as he felt his arm being grasped tightly through the blanket.
"No, no, I won't go. Don't take me home. I wanna stay here with Mary," he replied, eyes wet with tears.
His fight was in vain. His sister was too strong, and merely picked him up in her arms. He tried to fight her, but he thought that might just get him beaten even worse. He took one last look at Mary as he was carried off, wondering if he'd ever see her again.
He ran to the attic once it was all over. He hadn't need to be banished there, not this time. He found his way in the darkness to the thin mattress lying near the far side of the space and curled up on it, dragging a blanket over him as he wept.
He'd been kept close by all week, just to make sure he didn't run off again. He didn't understand why his mother suddenly seemed to care where he was. It's not like she'd really cared before. He'd spent days wandering off, and hiding away, and she hadn't cared. But she did now, and if she wasn't keeping a close eye on him, his siblings were. He wished he didn't have an older sister at school with him, because she made sure he came home every day, and stayed home. She wouldn't be at school with him much longer, because she was in her final year of primary school, but that wasn't the point.
Feeling trapped like this was a new feeling, and it made him irritable, which in turn made everyone else irritable. The house had been a stressful wreck all week. When he could sneak down to the front room, he would sit in the window, and stare down the street, wishing he could escape and go back to Mary's house. It was all he wanted. He knew everyone would be happier if his mother just let him go live there, but she insisted on keeping him in, and then blamed him for all the arguments. He felt he couldn't really win, no matter what he did.
He'd spent a few days in the attic when he wasn't out at school. He needed the relative peace it brought, and it kept him from getting in his mother's way. It was the warmest part of the whole house, and he hid things up here where his mother couldn't find them. He hid tins of food and toys and books, anything he could get his hands on and squirrel away for another day. He was lucky no one else ever went up there, because he felt confident no one would ever find his things. Everything he cared about was hidden up there, because if he left it back down in the house, it might get wrecked or thrown out, because they didn't care about his things, anyway. It made him sad, but at least he had his secret place.
Up there, he planned his future, if he was able to make it all come true. He'd run away and find that nice lady to live with, and she'd take care of him better than his mother would. He'd find himself a good name, a boy name, and everyone would believe him when he said that's what he was. He'd never be cold or hungry or unloved ever again, and he'd grow up to be the best boy he could possibly be, and prove his mother wrong. He'd play football for England, go to university, do something amazing no one in his family had ever done before, because he was better than them. He needed to believe things would get better now, or he'd cry, and he'd done so much crying over the past week. It had never really helped, and it hadn't brought him any comfort, but he still cried, and still hoped for something better. There had to be something better. His life wasn't going to stay like this, would it? Or would he rot away in an attic because his mother hated him? Maybe he should look for a way out, an escape route, should he need to run away.
He snuck down and stole some more food as he made his plans. He couldn't get out of the house, as the doors were locked, and he knew he wasn't strong enough to open a window and climb through. So he would have to find another chance to escape. When he saw his mother leave one Saturday morning, he thought he'd found his chance. His siblings were out playing, and his father was away again, and now his mother had left him alone in the house. Gathering his things, he crept down and tried the door. He was able to unlock it, and sensing his freedom, he snuck out, and without looking back, made a run for it, heading back down to Mary's house.
He snuck around the back, and went over to the shed, where he planned to hide away. He had just opened the door when he heard Mary calling from the back door.
"And where might you be going, pet? You going to hide in my shed again?"
He froze, and hoped she wasn't angry at him. He heard her come over to him, and she rested a hand on his shoulder, just waiting. "Mum's been keeping me locked up. Didn't want me seeing you. I just wanted to see you again, cos you were nice to me, and you're the first person like ever who believes me. I'd rather be here with you."
She sighed, and rubbed his back, understanding his dilemma. "Where's your mum then, is she out? Is that how you got out?"
He nodded. "I was up in the attic. I saw her leave, and took a chance. It was then or never, I reckon."
"Come on in, then. You can stay til your mum gets back, alright?" Mary said.
He looked up at her, and smiled back, glad for her offer of safety, if for a while. She led him inside, and he felt so happy to be called a boy. Mary cooked him a proper breakfast, and gave him hugs, and he was sure he never wanted to leave. He made himself remember everything that happened, every single happy thing, so that later when he was back up it the attic, nursing his wounds, he could remember what it felt like to be happy.
"So, do you still want me to call you, 'boy', then? Or should we pick a better name for you? If you're going to keep turning up, I'd at least like to have a name for you, something you pick that you're happy with," Mary said.
He frowned at the suggestion. It wasn't as if he hadn't been thinking about it. He'd spent some time in the attic writing out a list of names he liked. "I dunno yet. I still haven't decided yet. I made a list, though."
"Oh? And what names were on this list, then?" Mary asked, intrigued.
He got down from the chair, and rummaged around in his pack for the list he'd made. Returning to his chair, he flattened the piece of paper and read the names he'd listed. His handwriting wasn't particularly neat, but everything was spelled correctly. "Um, James. Maybe Thomas? John. Christopher. William. I also had, um, Daniel. Maybe? I don't know. I don't know which one I like. Do you like any of them?"
Mary took the list and considered his choices. "I think you look like a Christopher. What do you think?"
He tilted his head to the side as he thought about that. He'd got the name from a book he'd read at school, about a bear and his toy animal friends and the adventures they'd had in the woods. The toys belonged to a boy named Christopher Robin. He'd read the book many times now, always dreaming of finding them in the woods and playing with them. Anything to escape the attic.
"Christopher? Maybe," he replied.
"I think it's a good boy name for you. You can shorten it to Chris, if you want," Mary said.
He took the list again, and silently mouthed each name, trying to see if it fit him. "Christopher James. I like those two the best," he said eventually,, pointing shyly at the names on the paper.
Mary smiled, approving of the name. "Christopher James, hey? I think that suits you very well. Do you want me to call you Chris or Christopher?"
He shrugged. "I guess Chris will do."
Mary nodded. "Chris it is, then. That's a bit better than just calling you 'boy', isn't it?"
He supposed it was. "Yeah, I guess."
"Take your time getting used to it. I think it's a lovely name," Mary said.
"An' it's not my girl name either. I hate my girl name. It's horrible," he said.
"Aye, it would be for you. Don't fret about it. I won't use it if you don't want me to. I'll call you whatever name you like. You just let me know," Mary said.
"Thanks, Mary. Thank you for - for listening to me, an' fer letting me stay, for a while. I won't be any trouble, I promise," he said, reaching for another hug.
Mary brought him into her arms, hugging him tight. He smiled, and for a moment, his eyes seemed to sparkle with life. "You're welcome any time, pet. If you ever need me, just come running, and I'll be there, alright? You look like you could use a friend in this world."
Sparkhill, Birmingham, May 1953
Peering out from behind a tree, Bev grinned as she spotted her friends, Mark and Bill, manning the barricades of the castle they'd built out of an old wooden pallet, and some bits of timber they'd found lying around. It wasn't a very sophisticated castle, but it did have a ditch for a moat, and a draw bridge, and it sat on a high point such that bombarding enemies was easy to do, if you saw them coming. Bev was hoping they wouldn't see her coming this time.
She let the small pebbles run through her fingers as they sat idly in her coat pocket. She never tried to hurt them, of course, but she'd sported just as many bruises from them that they did, which made her feel proud. She could fight just as well as they could. Glancing to the side, she checked to see that her companion was in place. Tony lived down the road from her, and Bev was almost willing to admit that perhaps she coerced him to play more than anything, but if he would let her order him about...
She signalled to Tony to move ahead, and as silently as they could both muster, they crept forward, advancing down the tree line to get a closer shot, and to find better cover. They would not be met with a welcome, so finding the best spot to attack from was half the chore of victory. She'd sighted a spot off to the left where they weren't quite able to see properly. If she could get a few lobbed in there, and take them by surprise, she could distract them while Tony ran up the other side.
"Oi, are you going to attack any time soon? It's nearly time for tea," came a voice from the castle.
"Yeah, we ain't got all day, Bev. Unless you're too chicken to attack us. We're brave strong knights, us, aren't we?"
Bev smiled to herself, grabbed a nearby stick to use as a sword, and crept round into position. Her dynamite plan to creep up and distract them was clearly not going to work this time, so she would just have to see if force would work instead. She sent one last order to Tony, and got ready to pounce.
"Surrender, or we'll blow you to pieces! For England!" Bev cried as she charged forward, Tony not far behind her.
"Over our dead bodies! Vive le France! You'll never defeat us!" Bill shouted in return, preparing to launch their defence.
She was met with a hail of pebbles, but she wasn't hit. Clambering up the hill, she returned fire, and tried to find the easiest place to storm the castle walls. Noticing the ground was wet, she made some impromptu mud pies to throw, and that caught them by surprise. Tony made it through, and Bev was close behind him, as they made it over the walls, and took the castle for themselves.
"Alright, alright, we surrender!" Mark said, capitulating as Bev wrestled him to the ground. "You fight so dirty for a girl, you know."
Bev smiled as she pinned him, grabbing the pennant from him to seal her victory. "Never said I was much of a girl, did I? You just need to fight better. Or are you afraid of being beaten by a girl?"
"You're not much of a girl, if you're anything to go by. It's hardly that humiliating," Mark said, trying to glean some respectability from the jaws of defeat.
"Yeah, I don't know any girls like you. You fight like a boy. Maybe you are one," Bill said.
Bev grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment. You should know, after all. You did teach me everything I know about how to fight like a boy."
"Oi!" Mark cried and attempted to fight back, but Bev was in a better position, and kept him pinned down. "Alright, alright, you win, I surrender."
Satisfied, Bev got to her feet and helped Mark up. Their rivalry was always over once the pennant was taken. Then they were just mates.
"You coming round for tea, then? Mum said you're welcome. Besides, you're all covered in mud," Bev said.
Mark glanced at Bill. "I think we'd better, hey? Mum'll kill us if we turn up looking like this."
"Least you got a mum," Tony said, the slightest hint of bitterness in his voice.
"You've got Bev, ain't you, Tony?" Mark joked.
Tony offered a bashful expression, and Bev grabbed his arm. "Come on, you're coming too. I ain't leaving you behind. Got in trouble for that last time."
Extracting themselves from the castle, and aware of the growing dark of the sky, they set off through the woods back home, Bev celebrating her victory with a certain amount of pride and a string of all the insults she knew, as well as a few she'd just made up.
"Oh, Beverley, you were clean and presentable when I sent you out to play, and now look at you. I hope you don't expect to come in like that."
Bev grinned as she greeted her mother, who was out on the front step waiting for her. She was used to the look of disappointment on her mother's face when she came home covered in mud, but she rather took it in her stride. It wasn't like her mother ever stopped her playing with her friends, or from playing in the woods. She rather felt that her mother would keep her inside all the time if she really cared that much about how dirty she got.
"Oh, no, of course not. Do you want me to go round the back?" Bev said.
"You'd better. I don't mind you getting filthy, but your father does. You and your," there was a sigh as she saw Bev's friends looking equally as filthy, "friends had better go round and get cleaned up. Tea's in fifteen minutes. Mind you don't go getting mud everywhere. And clean your shoes this time, you hear?"
"Yes, mother!" Bev called as she headed down the back, leading her friends with her.
Slipping through a gate, and heading across next door's yard, Bev took them into her back yard, where they were allowed to throw off their muddy clothes and get changed. It happened so often they all had spare changes of clothes at Bev's house, which Bev's mother washed for a couple of shillings in return for feeding grubby children. It seemed a fair exchange, particularly given Tony's dad worked late, and wasn't always able to get home in time for tea. His mother had died a few years ago, leaving them to soldier on together. Sometimes, Bev felt Tony was a surrogate sibling, given how often he stayed over at her place.
Bev was sure she was meant to feel some sort of shame as she undressed with her friends. The girls at school would never have dared to do what she was doing, particularly when boys were present, but Bev rather thought they didn't have as much fun as she did. She was used to it, anyway, and there was no sense in being shy about it, not when tea was at hand. She left her dirty clothes in the tub outside and cleaned her shoes to her mother's satisfaction.
"You always look so weird in a dress, Bev," Mark said as he watched Bev awkwardly pull her clean dress on.
Bev did her best to straighten the skirt. She felt she looked weird, too. "I know, but I can't hardly go clambering 'round the woods in this, can I?"
"Who'd be a girl, hey?" Mark teased.
"You, you bloody lout!" Bev shot back as she splashed him with water from the tub.
Mark shielded himself, but it wasn't much use. He splashed her back, and she laughed, and then she started chasing him round the yard as he tried to get his shirt on at the same time. To their credit, by the time they were called in for tea, they were still mostly clean, an achievement Bev was very pleased with, even if she was wearing a dress.
"Sometimes, I don't think I'm really a girl," Bev whispered into the darkness. She turned to Tony's sleeping figure, lying on the floor beside her bed, hoping he was still awake.
Tony seemed to spend a moment thinking about her words before he turned over and looked up at her. She sat up, and he crawled up onto her bed. It was late. They were both meant to be asleep by now, but it always took them a while to get to bed. Bev sometimes had to talk about things that she couldn't talk about to her parents, and without any other siblings, Tony was usually subjected to them when he had to stay over. The topic of this particular conversation was not new, either; they had discussed this many times, though they'd never really found any answers.
"What do you mean, you're not really a girl?" Tony asked.
Bev drew her knees to her chest. "It's just ... sometimes, when we're out in the woods, I forget I'm a girl. I'm just a kid out there. But then I remember when I put a dress on, and I feel weird about it."
Tony scratched his head. "So be a boy then? I mean, you do look weird in a dress. Even your mum thinks so."
"Mum says I'm tall for my age. Maybe that's why I look weird. I'm taller than all the other girls in my class. She has to keep lengthening the skirts so they fit me properly," Bev said.
"It's not that. You don't wear 'em right, either, not like the other girls. You sit differently, like a boy," Tony said.
"I dream about being a boy sometimes. I have a boy's body, short hair, that sort of thing. That's weird too. I don't know if that's really me, either. Sometimes I wonder if my dad would've preferred a son rather than a daughter. I mean, it's not like he loves me any less as a girl, but maybe we'd be closer," Bev murmured, unsure. She thought a moment, then sighed. "Maybe I should've been a boy."
"Well, you don't really act much like a girl. Sometimes I forget too. You're not like the other girls, anyway," Tony said.
Bev scrunched her nose up. "Well, I don't really like the other girls. They're so boring! None of them ever want to play. They want to sit around with their dolls instead having tea parties. They got these daft little faces. I don't like them."
"Yeah, I don't understand girls," Tony said.
"Yeah, me neither."
None of this particularly helped Bev at all. She still felt like a girl who acted like a boy, and who was also not really committed to being either. She didn't really see a girl or a boy when she looked at herself in the mirror. She just saw herself. She felt those labels were what other people called her, rather than something she'd chosen herself. But she didn't really know what to do about that.
Yardley Wood, January 1955
Chris found himself gazing out the classroom window again. The snow was beginning to fall, covering the grounds with a thick white blanket. It made him shiver at the prospect of having to walk home in it. It wasn't a long walk, but that wasn't the point. It would also mean leaving school, and going home. He never liked going home. He felt he might've been happier if he'd been able to see Mary more often than he had. His parents and his siblings watched him like a hawk now, stopping him from escaping to her house very often. He'd made it a few times, though, and he held onto the memories of those visits, when Mary would make him boy clothes, and sing to him, and talk to him as if he were her son. It was the only place he ever felt loved and cared for.
School was a distraction, more than anything else. He was a loner; not necessarily pushed around, but more often ignored. That he had to wear a girl's uniform didn't exactly help matters, but he felt powerless to protest. He'd tried in the past, of course, but it had just got him caned for his disobedience, so he'd decided it wasn't worth it. He spent most of his time off in his own little world, and while he was a decent enough student, and got decent grades, he was still prone to inattentiveness and he did skip school more often than he might have admitted. It wasn't because he didn't like it, but because he needed to get away from everyone. He needed to get away and walk the streets, and find places to hide. If his dad was home, he'd stay with him, and they'd build memories together. If he wasn't, he'd disappear to his safe places for a while, and return home when he felt less like the whole world was out to get him.
School was also terrible because they kept using the name he'd grown to hate. It had taken a few months to get used to calling himself Chris, but he quite liked it now, and he wished other people would use it when he corrected them. But he had no friends, so it didn't really matter. It did matter, of course, but he felt powerless to choose, and enforce his name. He knew well enough that his family would never accept him as a boy. They constantly belittled his choices and identity, refusing to believe he was who he said he was. His brother had increasingly tried to beat it out of him, but it didn't work. Nothing ever worked, not for that.
He was shoved and jostled as he fled the classroom at the end of the day. It was partly his own inattentiveness, lost in his own thoughts as he was. He wasn't exactly paying attention to where he was going, and everyone pushed past him. He was shoved into the door frame, which was enough to alert him to the fact he was now in pain, and had a graze near his ear and a sore shoulder. Withdrawing from his classmates, who roundly ignored him, he found his way out and fled, a wounded creature, looking for somewhere to hide.
It never took much to make him flee. Sometimes a light shove into a door frame was all it took. The snow didn't really help, of course, and he hardly felt like he was warm enough. Nowhere was warm, not really, except Mary's house. That thought propelled him forward, and he tried to remember the back way round so he could slip into her house without passing his own. It wasn't always an easy thing to do, as if he wasn't careful, someone would see him from a window, and come and get him.
He was lucky that day. Clambering over the back fence into the back yard, he managed to make it without being caught. He sat on the back step, watching the snow falling. He didn't know if Mary was home; sometimes, that was never the point. Sometimes, he just needed to be near her house, to know it was a place that held happy memories for him, even if nowhere else did. He huddled into himself as the wind picked up. He noticed there was a hole in one of his mittens.
"Must've caught it on the fence," he muttered as he covered it up with his other hand. He blew into his hands, in a bid to warm them up. "Maybe I'll nick another pair later. Don't like cold hands."
He brought his knees to his chest, fighting off the cold. There wasn't any protection, not really, and the snow was beginning to fall harder. Maybe he ought to go home. He'd freeze out here if he wasn't careful. At least he might've been happy, at least for a moment, as he thought about Mary.
"Jus' wanna be loved. Jus' wanna be me. 's not too much to ask, is it?" he murmured, unwilling to leave just yet, even though he could feel the snow falling on him. He wiped his tears away, not wanting them to freeze.
He got up as the door opened, and he turned to see Mary standing there. She didn't speak, but brought him inside, out of the cold, brushing the snow off him. He took the hug she offered once the door was closed.
"I thought you weren't here. I jus' - I needed you, an' I thought I was going to freeze to death. 'm not going to freeze to death, am I?" he said, finally able to breathe, knowing he was safe and warm.
"Oh, no, pet, you're not going to freeze just yet, not while I'm here. You should've knocked, I'd have come running, pet," Mary said. "Did something happen then? That why you came running here?"
He shrugged, half-heartedly. "Jus' - I needed to get away. Too much of that name I hate. Too much of everything."
Mary didn't question his words. Sometimes, he just couldn't explain why he needed to flee. "Come on, pet, let's get you warmed up."
He didn't want to let go of her as she took him through to the kitchen. She made him some warm milk and they went to sit by the fire together in the front room. He didn't need anything more than her company at that moment. He sat on the sofa, and she sat at her treadle sewing machine, finishing off the last of the shirts she'd promised to make for him last time he'd come round.
Slowly, he warmed up. He listened to the sound of the crackling fire, and the whirr of the sewing machine, along with the clanking of the gears. It had become a comforting sound, to know there was someone caring about him. Mary stood him up after a while to see if he still fit his shirts, and then proceeded to make a few more adjustments.
"You need to come round more often. You've half grown out of these shirts already. I'll have to measure you up again," Mary said, though she wasn't angry at him.
Chris had to smile a little at that. "Least I'm growing. Mum never made me any clothes I liked."
"Go on, stand straight, arms out. I want to get this one right for you," Mary said, fishing out her measuring tape.
Chris did as he was told, and stood as still as possible while she measured him again, nothing them down in chalk on the now too small shirt she had been working on. "You can fix it, though, right?"
"Of course I can fix it. It's very important to make shirts you can resize easily. It's saved me a lot of money over the years when I needed it," Mary said.
"Have you been making clothes that long then?" Chris asked.
"Since well before you were born, lad. My mother taught me how to sew, and she taught me how to cook. She knew how to make sixpence last a fortnight, if given half a chance. Came in handy during the war. It got me through when nothing else did," Mary said.
Chris looked curious. "I don't remember any of that. Was it really terrible? My oldest sister said it was awful, like, when the city was bombed."
Mary nodded. "Awful doesn't even begin to explain it. I was stationed here during the bombing, working in the munitions factories. Nothing prepares you for seeing a city almost flattened overnight." She looked away for a moment, smiling forlornly. "But you don't want to be filling your head with my bad memories. It's enough that I have them."
"I can't sleep sometimes, because of bad dreams," Chris admitted. "They keep me awake. I dream of awful things."
"I bet you do, pet. Come here, and tell old Mary all about them. I'll make them all go away," she said, gesturing for him to sit on the sofa with her.
He curled up beside her, and as she held him close, he told her about his bad dreams. No one had ever listened to his bad dreams before. No one had ever listened to his good dreams, either, though he couldn't really remember if he'd ever had any good dreams at all. But Mary was listening. Mary kept all his secrets, and told him everything would be alright. She told him silly stories, and told him that wishing upon a star was a good way to get good dreams. She stroked his hair gently, and sung him lullabies, and when he began to drift off, she gently set him to sleep on the sofa, and wrapped him in a warm blanket, so she could watch over him as he slept.
It was late when he woke. The soft whirring of the sewing machine had woken him, but he didn't mind. He smiled as he saw Mary where she'd been before. She was still there, sewing things while he slept. As he sat up, he saw his oldest sister sitting there silently. He was suddenly panicked, and backed away, afraid of being taken from the one place he felt safe.
"No, what're you doing here? I'm not going back. I'm not. You can't make me!" Chris said, pulling the blanket up around him as a form of protection.
"Calm down, will you? It's alright. I wondered where you were after school, and when you didn't show for supper, I went to look for you. I didn't think you'd gone anywhere else. Mrs Kilburn's explained it to me, about why you're here. I don't blame you, though. It really is quieter here, isn't it? You certainly seem happier. I don't think I've ever seen you smile before," she said.
"She cares about me. None of you care about me. You just hit me and call me a girl and throw me up in the attic. I'm not a girl. I'm not. I know what I am. Why won't you believe me?" Chris said.
"Are you still going on about that? I thought you'd grown out of it. Isn't that the sort of thing every young kid goes through? I remember being a horse one summer when I was little," his sister said.
"He's not every kid, my dear, trust me. When did you realise you were a girl, then, hmm?" Mary said, offering a challenge.
Chris watched his sister process that question, and offer up a confused and partly angry expression. "I just - I've always been a girl," she said, finally.
"He's always been a boy. You can't explain why you know you're a girl anymore than he can explain why he knows he's a boy. Even I can't explain it. But he's far less trouble when you just believe him, and treat him with a bit of love, you know. That's not too much to ask, is it?" Mary said.
His sister stood then, and grabbed Chris by the arm. "Come on, we're going home. If you're good, I won't tell mum where you've been."
Dragged to his feet, he was put in his coat and boots, as his sister dressed him. She gathered up his things, and led him out the door. He was able to say a quick goodbye, but then Mary's house began to be ever further away, and he felt like his heart had been ripped from him.
He cried the rest of the way home, and ran to the attic, refusing to speak to them. He sung the lullabies Mary had taught him in a bid to calm himself, but all it did was make him miss her, and he clutched his bear close to his chest as he tried to sleep, trying to remember what it was like to be lulled off to sleep by her. How she gently touched him and sang to him, and cared for him. No one would do that here. They wouldn't come and sing to him and then tuck him into bed. They would leave him here, and ignore him. That was how it had always been, and he was sure that's how it would forever be if he stayed there any longer.
Yardley Wood, Birmingham, April 1955
He'd feigned illness to avoid going to school again. His father was home for once, and he wanted to spend some time with him. He was sure he was the only one who preferred his dad to his mother. He understood him. His mother just used it as an excuse to tell him how mad he was because he spent so much time with his dad. Chris just thought she was jealous that he understood him better than she did.
It had been three months since he'd last been to Mary's. His mother hadn't exactly stopped him going, but he'd been watched too closely to be able to escape again. It had made him miserable, but at least he knew he had somewhere safe to run to if it got bad enough he had to leave for good. He'd never admit he'd been planning for that eventuality for a year now, but it was always in the back of his mind. Leave, and go to Mary. Leave the family who didn't care about him behind.
He'd always hesitate at that thought. His father was the one person in the house who didn't hate him. Leaving him for good would be hard to do, and he felt it might be why he never did leave home properly. As long as he was still there, he'd keep coming back. One ally in the house was better than none at all. He was sure things would be much worse for him if his father wasn't around to temper things.
His dad was on the sofa, listening to the radio. Chris sat beside him, smiling at him. His dad was sick. There was something wrong with his head. That was how his mother had tried to explain it to him. He didn't really understand, and he wasn't sure he cared. His dad had never hurt him so why should he be afraid of him?
His dad was talking again, staring into space. Chris curled up beside him, and his dad brought an arm around him. They talked in the only way they knew how to talk. They shared a language that no one else knew. Chris understood him.
His dad would always tell him stories about all sorts of magical places. Chris loved hearing about them, and he had his favourites too, like the land with the violet grass and the birds that grew strawberries. It had three suns that shone down on the land, and everyone was happy. They sung all the time, and if they weren't careful, they could sing things into being. Chris loved that idea so much he'd tried singing his own spells, but nothing ever happened.
Sometimes, his dad said he could hear things. Sometimes, Chris was sure he could hear them too. He had told his mother about that once, but she'd said he was just imagining it. Chris wasn't so sure about that.
He'd never been the best dad, and he wasn't always around because he was sick, but he was the only person in the house who'd ever showed Chris an ounce of kindness. He called him his son, and Chris could never quite find the right words to tell him how much he appreciated that. His dad believed him, even if no one else In the house did. Chris could forgive him his faults, just for that alone, even if his dad wasn't really with it half the time, lost in his own world of dreams. Chris liked escaping too, and he wondered if he wished hard enough whether he might finally turn into a proper boy. That would be nice. Then maybe his mother would like him. Then he wouldn't need to wear dresses anymore.
The moments he spent with his dad were always peaceful. The house was finally quiet because no one else was home. They could both finally hear themselves without the screaming taking over. Chris could finally hear himself think and silence the madness in his head. They didn't always talk, sometimes they didn't need to, but Chris liked being with him because he didn't call him names or say he was mad. He didn't hit him or try and make him be a girl. They understood each other.
Sometimes, his dad got scared, and sometimes he pushed him away a little, but Chris just held his hand and said everything would be alright. He didn't know what else to do. His dad would bring him close and whisper to him how much he loved him, and for a moment, Chris felt like he belonged.
Sparkhill, Birmingham, May 1955
The summer of 1955 had not begun well, in spite of the fleeting glimpses of sunshine. She'd done her Eleven plus, though she wasn't entirely sure how well she'd done. She felt if that was all she'd been worried about, maybe she'd have laughed a little. But not even daft exams mattered anymore, not since her dad had died. Bev wasn't sure how to feel about that. She kept expecting him to come home, but he never did. Her mother cried a lot, though Bev suspected she wasn't meant to know about that. But she could hear it through the floorboards, and she hugged her dog Remus close to her, wondering when things might get better, if they ever did.
The sound of the stones hitting the glass was almost imperceptible, but the more it went on, the more Bev was sure it wasn't just her imagination. It seemed far too early to be awake, but her clock said it was 7am, so maybe that was just her reluctance to wake. She sat up, and listened to the sounds all around her. The house was too quiet now. The radio was never turned on, not now. There was no music to drift up from the kitchen, along with the sound of her dad whistling. It was strange to hear the absence of those sounds she had grown so used to hearing. She had always assumed they would be there, and now there was nothing but silence, and the stones cracking against the windowpane.
Leaving her bed, she went to the window and saw Mark and Tony standing in the street outside her room, looking up at her. They smiled, but even she knew there was no happiness there now. The endless days of playing in the woods without a care in the world were now gone. Bev hadn't been out to play for days, not since the funeral. There had been many people there she hadn't known, and many she had, but no one told her what she was meant to do, or how to feel, except that she had to be a brave girl and take care of her mother now.
She'd spent a lot of time thinking about her dad. There had been times in her life when she'd thought she'd rather be a boy. She remembered talking to her dad about it one day. She asked him if he would've rather had a son instead of a daughter, and he'd said he'd have loved her anyway, whether she was a girl or a boy. She thought about that for a while too. If it didn't matter if she was a girl or a boy, did she really have to pick one? Couldn't she be both? Her father just told her to be herself, whatever that was. It didn't help, because she didn't know what she was, apart from herself.
She opened the window, and looked down at them. "Haven't you got anything better to do?"
"Come and play! It's no fun without you," Mark said, doing his best to convince her.
"But I don't want to play," Bev replied, and she didn't, not really. She wanted to sit and read, and get lost in her own mind. She didn't want to run around and play.
"Then come down and we'll go to the store then. I'll buy you some chocolate. Dad's orders. Said it always makes him feel better when he misses our mum," Tony said.
Bev had to smile at that. If there was anyone who might understand how she felt, it was Tony. Here she was, their pillar of strength, and she was sitting in her room, not wanting to play. "Alright, just for you. I'll be down in a bit."
That made them happy, and Bev went to get dressed. Perhaps she had been shutting herself off from the friends who might help her make sense of these things. At least, they would make for a good time, and that might help her feel better. She pulled on some trousers and a shirt and jacket, barely pausing to greet her mother before she met them in the street.
Tony gave her a hug, pleased to see her again. "It's alright. I don't miss her so much anymore. Dad said it gets easier, he did."
"Thanks, man. Now, didn't you promise me chocolate?" Bev said, doing her best to cheer up.
"You promised us all chocolate. You'd better deliver, Ton. I don't want to have to tell your dad you've been going round breaking promises," Mark said, though he wasn't as serious as his words sounded.
Tony pulled away from him, as if he was holding his money out of reach. "He gave it me. Said it was for Bev, not you." He stuck his tongue out at him before running down the road away from him.
Mark and Bev gave chase as Tony cried that he'd race them to the shop, giving himself a head-start. It wasn't much of a head-start; Mark and Bev were able to outrun him easily, given he was younger than them, but that day, they didn't take delight in snatching victory from him. Instead, they let him win, and he stood on the step, triumphant. Seeing him so happy, Bev could feel things beginning to feel better, even if she didn't think they ever would be the same again.
"So what're you going to do now?" Tony asked as they sat in the park on the grass, sharing the chocolate between them.
Bev shrugged. "About what?"
"Well, you don't got a dad now. Is your mum going to be alright?" Tony said.
Bev shrugged again. "I dunno. Dad wasn't always around. I miss him most in the mornings. But the rest of the time, I don't miss him that much. Mum just cries a lot. I help her when I can, but it's hard. It's not like I can go out and get a job to help her out."
"I guess this makes you the man of the house now. You can stop wearing dresses," Mark said with a grin.
Bev laughed at the suggestion, though it wasn't as silly to her as it appeared to him. She'd been thinking that thought all week, unspoken, in her mind, trying to make sense of herself. It was the first time she'd seriously asked herself whether she'd rather be a boy instead of a girl, for her mum, to help her out. Every now and then, she tried to imagine what she'd look like as an adult, but she didn't seem to be either a boy or a girl, but neither. But that wasn't possible. Everyone had a gender; you couldn't be born without one, could you? But she knew there were things she could do as a boy that she couldn't do as a girl, things she really wanted to do. Maybe being a boy was what she ought to do.
"I wonder if mum would even let me," Bev mused, as much to herself as to her friends.
Mark's expression softened, turned more serious, as he heard Bev seriously consider it as an option for the first time. Maybe it wasn't such a daft idea, after all. "Why not? It's not like you're not halfway there. You'd be a terrible girl. They don't like you, that's why they don't play with you. You push them around too much, or so I've heard. You belong with us more than you belong with them."
"I guess. Would anyone care, I wonder, if I went out as a boy? It might be fun for a while, like so I can help mum," Bev said.
"I wouldn't care. You're hardly a girl anyway. Why would they care?" Mark said.
Bev wasn't sure. There was a voice in the back of her mind that suggested that yes, some people would care very much, in the same way that some people cared very much that Bev did not wear dresses very often, and played in the woods with boys. She had been told before that she should be more of a girl, and the girly toys she'd been given by distant relatives for Christmas in a bid to appease a young girl had gone unnoticed and unloved. Bev had never cared for them.
The girls at school cared too. A couple of them had decided that trying to bully her was the best way to make her conform, and when that didn't work, they bullied her for being different, as if she might care about that. And Bev did, to a certain extent. She was pushed around, and her hair grabbed, and sometimes, she was physically hurt. But she'd learnt to hit back, and while it had got her nearly expelled from school for punching a particularly obnoxious girl in the face because she'd tried to trip her up and push her into a puddle, she'd learnt to just accept it as part of life. It was what happened when you were different in their eyes. They made sure you remembered it.
And it was in that moment that things crystallised for her. For him. He'd never been much of a girl, anyway. It wouldn't be that much of a loss to be a boy, would it? It's not like the girls would ever accept her. His high school years might be easier as a boy than as a girl. He knew boys. He knew how to deal with them. Girls, well, girls were a foreign country entirely.
"I think this is what I've wanted my whole life. I think that's who I really am. I was always meant to be a boy. What do you think?" Bev asked eventually.
Mark shrugged. "Why'd you want to be a girl, anyway? Girls are so boring. You come and play in the woods with us. None of the other girls do that."
Tony agreed. "Yeah, you make more sense to me as a boy."
It made sense enough to Bev, too. If he wasn't much of a girl, perhaps he'd better be a boy then, before his body started turning into a proper girl. Yes, he would be a boy now, because he had to be the man of the house now that his dad was gone. His mum would need him now. It was the only thing that made sense to him, that made him feel happy and safe. He still wasn't entirely sure he'd settled on what he was, exactly, but what else could you be except a boy or a girl? There wasn't anything else, so if he wasn't a girl, then he must be a boy. It made about as much sense as anything else did. It was as much of the world as he understood, and the more he thought about it, the more he was sure it was what he wanted to do. Now all he had to do was tell his mother she now had a son.
"You've been a while. Did you go out today, then? I was beginning to wonder if you would stay up there all summer."
Bev shrugged at his mother's comment as he arrived home later that afternoon. He had been out all day, because it had seemed better than going home and brooding over how he would become a boy, now that he'd decided that's what he wanted to do. Mark and Tony had offered commentary, and good distractions, and they'd had a good game of football with some other boys from their street as well, which helped Bev take his mind off things. He was the only girl - in body, at least - who played football, and he was good at it, too. He'd become quite adept at stealing the ball off an opponent without causing an obvious foul, even if he sometimes did foul, and sometimes did it on purpose. Everyone wanted him on their team, and it had made him quite popular, if only amongst the boys who cared more that he could play than whether he was a girl. Well, he had been a girl. Had he? Or had he always been a boy, and just not realised it? The answer wasn't entirely clear to him.
"Yeah, I went out with the boys. Went down the park, played a bit of football. Um," Bev hesitated then, unsure whether to continue. It wasn't that he was afraid, but perhaps it was too soon after losing his dad to bring that up just yet. But if he didn't, if he had to be a girl much longer, and watch his body change, well, did he really want to do that? He wasn't sure he did. "Mum, I need to tell you something. Something important."
His mother looked up from the stove, where she was cooking dinner. "What's on your mind?"
"I'm a boy," Bev said, before he chickened out. "Like, I'm not a girl, never have been. I'm a boy. Can you make me a boy, mum? I want to be a boy from now on. Cos dad's not here, and you need a man in the house, and I don't want to be a girl anymore."
His mother gave him a quizzical look, though she didn't look as shocked by this admission as Bev thought she would. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised, the way you behave. Are you sure you want to be a boy, then?"
Bev nodded. "I do. The girls don't like me anyway, and I don't understand them. I might punch one of them again once I start high school. At least if I punched a boy, no one would really care that much."
His mother offered a withered look, but didn't object. "Let's wait and see which school you're going to before we decide on the benefits of punching boys over girls, shall we? Not that I condone that sort of behaviour, even if they are being mean to you."
"No, mother, of course not," Bev said, not entirely sure he wouldn't do it again if he had to. Being able to fight back had become a necessary skill when he was different, and people wanted to bully him about it.
"Well, go on, go get cleaned up for dinner. I can see the dirt all over you. I hope you left your shoes on the porch."
Bev realised he hadn't, and carefully stepped out of his shoes, that were now covered in dirt and grass. Being careful to refrain from trailing more dirt through the house, he left his shoes on the porch, and went to clean up the mess he'd made. There were some muddy prints in the kitchen and down the hall, and he made a point of leaving the floor sparkling, and the carpet vacuumed, before he went to change for dinner.
He looked in his wardrobe as he tried to decide what to wear, now that he was going to be a boy. It was a strange thing to look at now. He had a lot of girl clothes, because in spite of his tomboyishness, he had still never entirely minded wearing them. But he knew, in that moment, that he would hate wearing them now. They belonged to someone else, someone he wasn't anymore. He grabbed them and pulled them out, throwing them in a corner of his room. He was left with some shirts, a few trousers, and a couple of jackets. He'd need more clothes, and more shoes. He scrunched up his nose as he threw aside his pretty shoes. They were dark red, and glossy, with a little heel on them. They were the most expensive pair of shoes he owned, but he didn't want them anymore. They clattered to the ground, discarded.
As if that wasn't enough, he also threw any other remnants of his girly side onto the pile of clothes. A boy wouldn't have those things, so he ought to get rid of them. There weren't many, if he was being honest. The lost presents and other things he'd hung on to because he hadn't minded having them. Even the Girls' Annuals were thrown on the pile. He didn't want any of those things anymore. The only thing he kept was a small bear with a pink ribbon around its neck that his father had given him three Christmases ago, along with the pink blanket it had been wrapped in. For a moment, he held the bear to his chest, missing his father. He wouldn't be there to see him become a man. He wouldn't even be there to show him how to be a man, to start with. How would he do this on his own, anyway? He hadn't even thought of that, and for a moment, he wondered if it wasn't too late to take it all back. But the prospect of growing up into a woman, and allowing his body to do what it was naturally wanting to do, wasn't an option, not now. He had to find a way to make it stop.
"You really mean it, don't you? Wanting to be a boy."
Bev looked back to see his mother standing in the doorway, surveying the mess that now dominated his room. He got to his feet, nodding, unsure how else to make it clear to her that it was what he wanted. He didn't know how you went about becoming a boy, but he was sure his mother would know.
"Imma boy, mum. I can't be a girl anymore, I just can't. It's not who I am. Make me into a boy, will you?" Bev said, taking a step towards her.
She came over to him and brought him into a hug. "You're all I've got now, and if this is what you need to be happy, that's alright with me. You take the summer to dress how you like, and be who you want to be. If it's still what you want in September, once we know which school you're going to, then I'll see what I can do, alright?"
Bev nodded. It was the best he could hope for, really. Magical fairy godmothers didn't exist who could just magically grant your wishes. Still, it was better than nothing. His mother still seemed to love him, and hadn't tried to throw him out, but given his mother's tolerance for his behaviour over the years, it would've been very strange if she had.
"I promise I'll take care of you, mum, I promise," Bev said, not wanting to lose her too.
Moseley Grammar, Moseley, Birmingham, September 1955
In many ways, it felt like the summer had been a pleasant one. Certainly, he'd taken advantage of his new-found freedom, and had spent the summer doing all the boy things he could think of. Many he'd been doing before he'd decided to be a boy, but it felt different to do them as a boy. Only his friends knew he was now a boy, but at least he was glad he'd be going to a different school where he might not know anyone, and he'd be able to blend in without worrying someone might know his past.
Mosely Grammar School wasn't where he'd been initially offered a place; on the not-unreasonable assumption that he was a girl, he'd been placed at the sister Girl's School next door. Bev had to admire his mother's skills in convincing the school that they'd made a mistake and that Bev was a boy, and probably ought not to be going to a girls' school. Making a case for an administrative error seemed easier than the alternative, as Bev wasn't sure he wanted to have to undergo medical and psychological examinations to prove he was better suited to a boys' school. A fortnight and several meetings with both schools later, and Bev had a place at Moseley Grammar, as well as a new birth certificate that said he was male, just to prove his case. Bev had never been so pleased in his life. He might pull this off, after all.
On the first day of term, Bev gazed around the grounds, wondering if he might make any friends, now that he would get his chance to be who he really felt he was. His mother had made sure he understood how lucky he was to be going there at all, and he was determined not to let her down. He'd need a job soon enough, if he was to help look after his mother, but until he was old enough, he'd have to make do with helping in his mother's shop. This had always proved a good way to make friends, given the books, toys, and sweets his mother sold. Bev sometimes felt guilty for exploiting it as much as he did, but it was a good way to bypass those who might otherwise have hated him for being different if he bribed them enough to leave him alone. For once, it hadn't led to his first friend at his new school, though. That had happened by chance, and Bev found there was a lot to like about Jasper. He felt far less daunted about how he would survive now that he had a friend to back him up.
Yardley Wood, February 1956
Mary's house had become Chris' refuge. His mother had given up trying to stop him sneaking out to stay there, because one less difficult child in the house was better than having to deal with him. He was also close enough that it didn't feel like he'd run away. They knew where to find him, anyway, if they ever actually needed him for anything. In many ways, it made everyone happy. He didn't particularly like that he had to have another home to begin with, but Mary was there when he needed her, and sometimes, he didn't go back to his house for weeks. No one missed him, but that was beside the point.
He loved the times he got to spend with Mary. He was able to be a boy when he stayed with her. She had allowed him to cut his hair short so he wasn't teased for having long hair. She gave him all the love his own mother wasn't able to give him, and it settled him. He went to school more regularly, because she was willing to encourage him. He had his own bed, and his own clothes, and a safe place to live. The house was quiet, and for the first time, he felt he could think clearly. Mary didn't stop him doing what he wanted to do, and while she did scold him now and then, it always lacked the harshness that he'd always had back at home, when he would get yelled at and slapped and thrown in the attic. She'd chide him gently, and she'd smile, and he never felt like she was being mean to him. Her care made him want to be good for her, too, so when he did get in trouble, he was always quick to learn from it, so it didn't happen again.
Sometimes, he dreamt about what had happened back home, when he'd been thrown in the attic. It had happened for as long as he could remember. He would wake up crying, and crawl into Mary's bed, needing her comfort. She would hold him close, and tell him stories to make him forget his bad dreams. He was still an anxious child, though, and had become quite scared of loud noises. He flinched at sudden movements, and instinctively attempted to defend himself if someone came too close to him too quickly, or if a stranger touched him without asking permission. Not wanting to go home had made him paranoid, even though he was sure they didn't want him back home anyway. Still, he avoided walking anywhere near his house if he could help it, so he wasn't snatched off the street and brought home again. He never went home unless he had to, and that was only when his oldest sister came to ask him to come back, just for a while. She had become more sympathetic towards him over the past few years, though he didn't know why, but at least she was there to stop him being hurt too much while he was there.
He never stayed long. He went back for Christmas, because his sister asked him to come back, and while it wasn't a truly joyous affair as his uncle had got drunk and started shouting at everyone, at least it had been better than it had been. He felt, for once, that no one really hated him. They might not have liked him there, but at least they weren't being openly hostile to him. Perhaps the time he spent at Mary's house had done them all some good, and taken some stress out of their lives.
He felt it would've been almost perfect if they'd acknowledged him as a boy, but they still wanted him to be a girl, and it was distressing to hear them still calling him a girl, calling him by his girl name, and giving him girl toys. They would tell him to grow his hair, and stop wearing boy clothes. He did cry a bit at it, but his kind sister had done her best to stop it turning into a war by giving him a model Spitfire kit, which did help broker a peace, of sorts. That was more like it. He settled, and he might have even smiled at the gift. The finished plane sat on his window sill at Mary's house, along with another smaller model of a Spitfire. He had come to like the planes rather a lot since then, and kept asking for them every time he saw a new plane in the shops when Mary took him out. She didn't always give in to his demands, but he forgave her for that. It was easy when she hugged him, and smiled at him, and told him she loved him. At least, he began to feel he wasn't alone in the world, not completely.
He wished very much that he didn't have to keep going home, but it was part of the deal, or so Mary kept saying when his sister came to get him. His mother wouldn't stop him going to see Mary, but he had to come home every so often. He was still a child, after all, and she was his mother, and until he had another, he knew he'd have to go home if she said so.
He'd come home just before the end of term. He hadn't wanted to, but he hadn't been back since Easter, and Mary felt enough time had passed that the arguments would have dissipated. He went in through the kitchen, sullen and unhappy to be back. No one greeted him, and he was ignored as he went to his old bed, where he left his bag, which had his clothes and books in it, along with a teddy he'd come to need in order to survive going back home.
He sat on his bed, wondering how bad things would get this time. His absences had made things better, but without a reason for everyone to be civil to each other, like Christmas or Easter, he knew things went back to the way they had been before. The arguments always returned, and he found himself feeling threatened and afraid again. He forced himself to cope, because that's how he'd learnt to survive, and left as soon as he could, but he could never relax until he was back at Mary's house.
"I see you're back again. You took your time," his mother said from the doorway.
He looked up at her and nodded. "Didn't wanna cause trouble. Y'know. From before."
"You've been saying that yer whole life, and all I ever got was trouble from you. Now, your dad's away again, so I want no trouble this time, y'hear? You keep your tongue civil, and do as your told. And no more of that boy nonsense. I've half a mind to send you away to get your head fixed, the way you're going. There's something not right with you, like your dad, you are. All wrong in the head." She sighed, and the anger in her expression lessened. "Jus' - behave yourself. Don't make this harder than it has to be. I'm run ragged right now, and I don't need you making this hard."
He nodded sullenly, but understood. "Yes, mum, I'll be good. Promise."
She didn't offer anything more, but left him alone, telling him to come down to dinner in an hour. He decided to stay where he was, and lay down on his bed, wondering if he ought to just leave before he caused more trouble. He always seemed to cause trouble, particularly at home. It wasn't like he did it on purpose. It was just that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, no matter what happened. He was stuck with a family that didn't particularly care for him, and it made it hard to feel welcomed, and to feel like he was safe. He ran away so much because he didn't feel safe or accepted. He wondered if he ever would be welcome here. Perhaps he was better making his luck elsewhere.
He hated that he was sharing a room with his sisters. It had always been like this, shunted away into the farthest corner. He was surprised they still kept his bed there, given how much he'd disappeared lately. Maybe one day he'd come back and it would be gone, and he'd be left with the cupboard under the stairs, or the attic, or wherever else he could find. Maybe they'd send him back to the attic permanently.
He didn't like that thought, and a chill ran down his spine at the thought of sleeping up there. It was cold, and dark, and the walls creaked in a horrifying manner. To a small child with an over-active imagination, who saw persecution everywhere because that's how he experienced the world, it was a scary place. The only window looked out over the street, and he dared not look down, lest he fall through and break his neck. Instead, he would curl up, and listen to the sounds of fighting and police vans, hearing all the violence no one talked about, because they thought no one was listening.
And yet, it was also the only place he felt safe, because they all left him alone. They left him up there by himself, and left him in peace. Maybe that's why he courted trouble so much, so he could go up there and think, for a while, and enjoy the relative silence. He rose, and went to go up there on his own, just for some peace, but his sister grabbed his arm and brought him downstairs for dinner.
He didn't speak to them as he ate. They didn't speak to him, either. He'd learnt to eat quickly, because he might not get to finish if he took too long, or it might get stolen by his brother. His father wasn't there, which he regretted. He was the only one able to hold back the hostility. Without his father's presence, he just felt he was unwelcome. Once he'd finished eating, he slipped away, knowing they wouldn't notice or care, and went to the attic.
He didn't normally go up there willingly, but he needed the peace. Taking his duvet and pillow, and his bag, he decided it was better to stay there than try to stay out of trouble. He pulled the mattress over towards the window, seeking the light it offered. He didn't pull it over all the way, as he didn't want to fall out, but it was close enough for him to feel safe, that he wasn't in a dark place. He went to bed, though he didn't sleep. The noise of the house drifted up to him, and the arguments continued. He pulled his teddy bear close to his chest, and tried to feel brave, but it didn't much help.
"You love me, don't you, teddy? Don't you?" he pleaded, unsure of the answer.
That he could even doubt a toy loved him back wasn't a strange thing to him, but he could never take it for granted, not even with toys. The bear remained silent and didn't reply, but he held it tight, and fought back his tears. Soon, he would leave, and go back to Mary's, and go back to the one place he was actually loved without question.
Morning came, but he didn't particularly care. Dark thoughts were churning around in his head; the product of his lack of sleep, he felt. It had been a noisy night, and the police had been called to a house across the street. There had been shouting, and smashing glass, and he hadn't been able to settle his mind enough to sleep. The dark thoughts brewing in his head had been so loud he hadn't felt safe enough to sleep, and lay there in the dark, wondering how he might kill them, if he couldn't kill himself first.
It wasn't the first time he'd thought that. Everyone would be glad if he killed himself, wouldn't they? They wouldn't get mad at him then. They told him to die, anyway. Always, they said he should go and die, when they hated him particularly badly. His brother was particularly fond of wishing death on him, particularly if he touched his things. 'I wish you'd never been born,' his mother would say, and he believed her.
He felt it can't have been all his fault that his birth had caused so much trouble for his mother. And yet, who else's fault could it have been? She'd been carrying him, and when she'd given birth, he'd almost killed her. He'd been aware of this for as long as he could remember, because no one would ever let him forget it. His mother's health had never really recovered, and he felt everyone resented him for that, as if he'd done it deliberately in a bid to harm them. He'd tried pleading, but that didn't last. It hadn't worked. That underlying resentment was always there, and he felt cast out like an angel from Heaven, powerless, alone, and unloved.
He didn't really know how to kill himself, though, when he thought about it. He might jump in the cut, and try drowning himself, but maybe someone in a narrowboat would see him in the water, and fish him out. When the thoughts got particularly strong, he'd tried holding his breath, but his body refused to let him suffocate, and it gave him a headache in return. Once, he tried wrapping a scarf around his throat, but he couldn't get the knot tight enough. The only thing that ever stopped him properly trying now was Mary. He had Mary now, and knowing there was even one person in the world who would miss him terribly if he died was enough to temper his actions, for now. If she ever left him, he wasn't sure he'd be able to hold back anymore.
He didn't come down all day. He heard his family get up, and go about their business, but no one came for him. No one cared that he wasn't there. He did sneak down at around 1pm, when he heard his mother leave, and he was sure the house was empty, to find something to eat, but he went straight back to the attic, and hoarded what food he felt he could get away with stealing. The less he had to see them, the better. He had brought a tin of baked beans from Mary's house, because he was well aware he might not get fed at all if they didn't want to deal with him. He wasn't going to stay long, but he had learnt from experience that he couldn't just leave the next day, either. He didn't quite understand that; they hated having him around, but they wouldn't let him leave, either. That sullen thought accompanied him all day, and he lay in bed, left with nothing but his thoughts.
He did eventually fall asleep late in the afternoon when the struggle to stay awake was overcome by his tiredness. He didn't sleep particularly well, and was woken every so often when the sound got too loud, but it was better than another sleepless night. Maybe he'd go home in the morning, if he could find a chance to escape.