St Ursula’s adjoins a small picturesque village called Compton whose railway station and the rural branch line survived Beeching’s Axe in the nineteen-sixties. I cantered through the narrow streets as quickly as I dare in my two-inch heels. One hand held my case and handbag, the other clamped my school beret to the back of my head. The train was already approaching the platform as I trotted up the ramp and onto the platform. Breathless, I dropped my case, regained my composure and thanks to the window of a blackened room, made sure my hair and beret were neat and tidy. As the train slowly ground to a halt, I double-checked I had my ticket and within a couple of minutes, I was seated and on my way home.

I straightened my short skirt on my lap and breathed deeply, partly due to running to the station, partly through fear that I was going home in my uniform. Since I began at St Ursula’s, I’ve surprised myself just how accustomed I’ve become to dressing as a girl. I guess it helps that at St Ursula’s all the boys dress in a girl’s uniform, even those who don’t board.

Of course, I didn’t choose to attend St Ursula’s… far from it. Out of all the boarding schools my mother could afford, this was the bottom of my list. Unfortunately for me, St Ursula’s was at the top of my mother’s list because she was impressed with their record and intrigued by the concept of petticoat discipline that the school had adopted decades ago.

On the upside, being a border means I don’t have to travel to and from school on a daily basis in my skirt, knee socks, and Mary Jane shoes. On the downside, the boys who don’t board can change into their own clothes when they get home whereas us boarders have to wear our school uniform all day, every day and on the weekends too… it’s no wonder I feel so normal in my uniform. Even in Compton, the village on the edge of which St Ursula’s is situated, schoolboys dressed as schoolgirls is a common sight. Nobody bats an eyelid in and around Compton.

But I’m not in or around Compton anymore. I’m headed for Denbury where I change trains for Beckford. The last thing I wanted was to be spotted in my St Ursula’s uniform in Beckford where I grew up. I looked at my case and in particular, the sticker Miss Holbeck had applied. It had the school crest on each side and a ‘do not remove’ statement. Again I toyed with finding the toilet and changing into my own clothes.

I felt stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea… be potentially ridiculed in my hometown, or face the wrath of the school on my return. I gulped and opened my handbag. I flicked open the vanity mirror and checked my makeup. Maybe nobody would recognize me, I thought. Maybe they’ll just see a schoolgirl and not me. “I am kind of pretty…. and I don’t really look like ‘me’.” I thought as I arranged my fringe and observed my even-toned skin, subtle eye make-up, and pale pink lips.

“Tickets Please.”

I jumped out of my skin as the guard appeared immediately to my left. I looked up at him fearfully.

He smiled. “Sorry Miss… didn’t mean to scare you,” he said as his face quickly returned to neutral.

I gulped, looked down, and closed my vanity mirror. I placed it back inside my handbag and retrieved my ticket. I said nothing but smiled as I passed it to him. “Please don’t realize I’m a boy.” I wished as he clipped the ticket and passed it back. A simple silent nod and he left. I breathed a sigh of relief as he neared the end of the half-empty carriage. I gulped. On the upside he called me ‘miss’… but did he instantly realize his mistake and clam up?