Sunday, Jul 6, 2008
Robert Pine was a man until age 64, when he became Rebecca. It started when he was a young boy, and loved his sister's underwear.
Mar 28, 2001 |
By education most have been misled; So they believe, because they so were bred. The priest continues what the nurse began, And thus the child imposes on the man.
-- John Dryden in "The Hind and the Panther"
Oldbury, Midlands, England. 1937
The seven-year-old boy stood at his bedroom window and stared out at the empty street.
It was a hot July day and he loved the feeling of warmth and freedom. Wearing light shorts and his favourite shirt, matching ankle socks neatly folded, just as Mother had taught him. The final symbol was permission, requirement even, to wear his sandals, all brown leather and heavy side buckles. This was surely summer and holidays. Time for play.
On the way, he had skipped and hopped, avoiding the lines and escaping the bears.
Reaching the gate he stretched up and pushed the metal latch free. He had to be careful passing through the front garden where children were not allowed. Watching his toes take every step, he followed the path around the side to the yard at the back. As he passed the gable end, the girls' chatter swelled and increased into voices and an involuntary skip escaped his guarded toes.
Robert was too innocent to notice the looks of exasperation passing between the girls. Instead he heard only the words that they would play hide and seek and he was first. Leaning against the shed door, arms covering his head, eyes clamped shut, he counted slowly and deliberately. Robert Pine played fair just as Father had taught. "Here I come, ready or not!" and off he searched in all the usual places. Searched and searched and searched. Then he looked in the most unusual places. Along the street to the edge of parental limits and hovered there looking up and down the busier thoroughfare. The girls should not have gone that far. It was against the rules.
The girls were gone. They did not want Robert with them. Robert wandered home, dragging his sandals on the pavement, using his toes to slow him down. The child's despair increased, realising the scolding he would get from Mother that night for the scuff marks on his footwear. Homewards to his room where he would soon forget the girls, for the moment.
Robert usually played with his sister, Bettina, and her friends. Played with them all, joining in all of their games. The best times were when they could be all together, like now in summer or weekends. They would play skipping rope and queue up in long lines, jumping in on turn, and the verse of the rhyme would change, sing-songing on for ever, it seemed; or houses when they made believe they were a family each with his or her part. The themes would go on all day and sometimes the next. This was one of his favourite games and he did not mind much who his character was -- mother, father, daughter, son, shopkeeper, neighbour. While the others bickered he would set about the props and the outfits. Laying out the empty Ovaltine tins, Persil packets, tobacco tins, jam jars and the chipped cups, he busied himself till the others steeled and the game began.
Rain and confinement indoors did not bother him at all. Then they would read, dress up in the oversized clothes of dead relatives and, when allowed, listen to the wireless. As the youngest, Robert felt privileged to be part of the group. In summer he'd wake up with a buzz of anticipation, whirl through his ablutions, gulp down breakfast and go looking for his friends, the girls. As he had that morning, only to be excluded.
Alone in his room he quickly forgot the slight. Robert forgave the girls most things. When they giggled and whispered to each other he did not mind or make a fuss. He giggled and whispered too, though he did not have their secret and they would not share it. Robert admired the girls.
Opening the drawer, Robert touched his sister's clothes. He drew his hand across white and grey socks, over folded, white underwear and on to the blouses decorated with raised flowers at the borders. Leaving the drawer open, he crossed to the large, shiny wardrobe, the one shared with Bettina. Standing on tiptoe and twisting at the key, it hurt his hand, as always, leaving angry red ridges on his thumb and fingers. Using two hands was easier, but still hurt. Mother would lean a shoulder against the door and unlock it with a quick, crisp click -- one-handed as her other arm cradled the freshly ironed clothes, still smelling warm and welcoming.
Clunk. The wardrobe door sprung open as he leaned over and rubbed his hands together between his legs. Blowing on hot fingers as he had seen workmen do as they bent to lift picks and shovels and excavate deep, mysterious holes in the road, he approached the clothes hanging in an orderly queue. To the left, his Sunday best. To the right, his sister's finery and dresses too long to fold into drawers. Stepping into the darkened cell he felt its dark, musty atmosphere engulf and comfort him. Reaching up, he pulled a dress and hanger down and held it to his body.
Leaving the bedroom, he turned and checked, "Drawer closed. Wardrobe shut and locked." All was as it had been. The secret was important though Robert did not know why.
Get Salon in your mailbox!