This Ain't Kansas Toto

There is something magical about 'The Wizard of Oz'. It is a technicolour dream. One that comes round on a yearly basis, usually at Christmas. Dorothy is obscene, with her big breasts and bright, red lips. A young girl trapped in a woman's body. I can identify with that

'Big school' was upon me, like a snarling lion. Everything there was in mammoth proportions compared to my primary school. The toilets, for example, were full sized. The hall was enormous. The canteen was a riotous area filled with gossip and bad behaviour. We were allowed to choose our own food. I was not allowed to choose my own food. Mother made me a packed lunch.

It had been decided that I attend an all girls school. This was a better educational environment. Boys equalled distraction. I had failed my eleven plus, so entrance to grammar school was denied to me. I was simply not good enough. Mother wrung her hands. My reading age was so high. I must have made mistakes in the test. I must not have read the questions properly or formed my answers correctly. She had tutored me, for months on end, prior to me sitting the exam. She took my failure as some sort of personal insult.

School was not very far from where I lived. I was thrust out of the house at 8.10 every morning, not a moment sooner or a moment later. I had a bus to catch. I was not permitted to walk. Mother could not drive me. She had never passed her test. This was due to father's poor teaching method. He used to take her to a disused airfield once a week and shout at her. Frazzled, she decided she would rather walk everywhere.

I arrived at school in good time. I was never late. Punctuality was a virtue, similar to virginity. The uniform regime was strictly enforced. Skirts were to be knee length, not above the knee, not below the knee, but on the knee. At the beginning of every term we knelt on our desks so our form tutor could check the length of our skirts with a cursory glance. Blazers had to be worn from autumn until after the Easter break. They matched our skirts. Cornflower blue. I had never seen a cornflower. Apparently, they are blue. White shirts. Ties, navy blue with gold and white stripes. Navy blue V neck jumpers.

Make-up was strictly forbidden. Any girl found to be wearing make-up was sent to the science labs immediately, where it was removed with acetone. Similarly, nail varnish. Jewellery was allowed. Two small studs, or sleepers, one in each ear, and a crucifix. Fortunately, we were all Catholics, good catholic girls, supposedly.

When moving between lessons silence had to be maintained, at all times. We shuffled along, like mute cattle. If travelling north, we walked on the left, on the right if southward bound. There were two staircases, one at each end of the school. You went up one and down the other. You did not deviate from this dictate and cause a rugby scrum. That would be very unladylike and earn you a tongue lashing from the headmistress, Miss Brown.

Scrupulous politeness was required at all times. When a teacher entered the classroom we stood. “Good morning Miss Whoever,” we said parrot fashion, except if it was after lunch, then we said, “Good afternoon Miss Whoever,” except if it was a male teacher, then we said “Good morning/afternoon Sir”. We were not allowed to call a male teacher by his name. I don't know why. And the standard response was “Good morning/afternoon girls”.

Straitjacketed by rigid discipline was an advantage. Routine is everything to children. If you know where you are then you know what you are doing. Inconsistency breeds a chaos that, if left unchecked, causes things to breakdown. Children like boundaries, as long as they are not barriers. Clearly defined boundaries allow the child to understand what their role is, how they are expected to behave, and what the consequences will be if they misbehave. And boundaries have to be fixed. It is no good if they are jelly. A child has to run into a wall in order to stop, not get swallowed up by gelatinous authority. Negotiation was not an option. We were told who, what, where, how and why. The rules were not arbitrary. They served a purpose. We were made aware of this.

Consequence is everything. If this, then that. Do your homework, or else you will be in detention. Do not abuse the canteen privileges, because you will barred. Clear definition was one of the strengths of my school, however, I still managed to get it wrong.

There was this one time, when Penelope Somebodyorother, deserved a good slapping, and I gave it to her. The previous day, walking home from school, she had laughed at me, at my clothes, my general demeanour. She humiliated me. At registration the following morning, as she was leaning, head first, into her locker, I jammed her head between the two metal doors. She struggled. I smashed the doors into the side of her skull. She started crying. I felt very hot. I had not really thought the whole thing through.

“What on earth did you think you were doing?”
“I don't know.”
“That's not an answer,” said Miss Miles, thundering down on me from her desk.
“I'm sorry.”
“That's not an answer. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn't thinking Miss.”
“Why weren't you thinking?”
“Because I was angry Miss.”
“Yes, well, you see the problem then.”
“Yes Miss.”

To be honest, I could not really see the problem. If you are angry then you hit out. This is how it worked at home. At first there was sniping, closely followed by shouting, then the resolution would arrive when he hit her, or she hit me. It was a pattern. I could trace it along with my finger. It repeated. I understood the whys and wherefores. Consistency is everything to children.

Other people did not think like this. There seemed to be issues around communication. Apparently, it was possible to talk through how you felt. Why? How you were feeling bore no relation to the other person. They continued being in their space. Nothing I ever did could intervene.

One night, when they thought I was asleep, there was a terrible fight. Rosie came home, as she often did, to raid the cupboards and biscuit tin. Mother asked her some questions. Rosie did not answer them to mother's satisfaction. Voices were raised. I heard doors slamming. I crept out of bed. Quietly, from bedroom to hall way. Tiptoeing through the sitting room. Shhhhhhhhh. There they were. Mother looked quite flushed, through the crack in the kitchen door. She was moving her arms around as she spoke. Rosie had her back to her. Mother shouted. Rosie shrugged. Mother shouted again.

“He's a married man!”

Without apparent warning she removed one slipper. She had nice slippers, black, with feathers and diamanté on the front and little, pointy heels underneath. Despite the fact that she had feet like old moo cows, her slippers were gracious.

“Did you hear me?”

Rosie had heard her.

Mother launched herself across the kitchen, slipper in hand. Rosie ducked and covered her head, but it was no use, because there were gaps. One, two, three, four, five, and Mother was hitting home, holding the toe of her slipper, smashing the heel into Rosie's head. Father had told me that was the most efficient way to break something. “If you're ever in a fire, look at the window, usually they'll be double glazed or strengthened glass. Hit it hard, not in the middle, people always make the mistake of going for the middle, hit it at the corner, with the heel of your shoe, hard as you can.” This is what mother was doing to Rosie.

I went back to bed.

I heard her in the bathroom, Rosie, about 10 minutes later. She was crying that quiet cry, when all you hear is sniffing. Sliding out from under the covers I went to her, remembering Rive Gauche and the cancan girls.

“It's nothing. I banged my head. Left the cupboard door open. Caught it right on the corner.”
I watched her blood swilling down the plughole. It had seeped into her finger prints. She wrapped a towel around her head and made a turban. She washed her hands. Within seconds everything was white again, all white, alright.

Tommy arrived. Mother was sitting in the kitchen, on the stool with the fold out steps. She was wiping her nose quickly and her eyes were pink. Tommy and Rosie left. I knew they were going to the hospital, but I did not say it. In our house, if you said something then you made it real. Lots of things could happen, but as long as you did not talk about it, and it stayed all sealed up inside, then it was as if it was imaginary.

Events were like dreams. They happened somewhere else, in a murky space that was neither night nor day. Dream time was not real time. You could not remember your dreams. They were other, not like shepherds pie or the television licence. Dreams were nonsensical flights of fancy. Then this happened, then this happened, then this happened, and I woke up and it was all a dream. But I was not asleep. I convinced myself in the end. Mother would laugh, “Such an imagination”. Tommy called me 'little dolly day dream'. Sometimes he sang the whole song. “Pride of Idaho”. I did not know where that was, or why anyone would be so proud.

School was kind of fun, particularly as I had no idea what fun was. One year the whole class decided to do the 'walkathon' for charity. It was like a marathon, but instead of running, you walked, 26 miles, all day long, around the outter ring road of Birmingham. Being a bit of a show off I said I would do it in fancy dress. I scrounged the only thing I could find, a flame coloured tutu, and eagerly awaited the big day.

I got up early. The assembly point was at the boys' school opposite ours. We had to register, get our number badges, and set off by 9.00am. I went into the bathroom, that had a pale blue suite. Half asleep I sat on the toilet. In a daze I wiped myself. The tissue felt hot and very wet. I looked at it. Pressed into my fingers, so I could see the ridges, was a wad of blood red. I was surprised at the amount. If it had been a wound I would have thought I was bleeding to death. I knew what is was, of course I did. My sister, Paulette, had even provided me with a packet of sanitary towels, that I kept in my bedside table drawer.

I washed my hands. I got the sanitary towels. They seemed thick. I stuck one in my pants. Between my legs a wodge. I felt it against the top of my thighs, in the golden triangle. It filled up the space. I was damp and squishy. I worried that I might smell. I changed into my tutu. It was tight and squeezed the pad right up against me. I felt safer that way. My costume was crimson, with the occasional lick of orange and yellow. I put my hair in plaits. I painted roses into my cheeks. I pouted at myself in the mirror. My face looked young, oddly caroused by the stage make-up. I dared not even touch my cunt, let alone look at it. I felt like I had been cut in two. My head, still a child, but I was leaking the truth. I was a girl, stuck in a woman's body.