It has a pair of small hooped handles rather than a shoulder strap. It felt uncomfortable hanging from his fingers. “Do I have to take this?” he whined. “I feel like such a girl.” he moaned. His mother gave him one of those looks. “Well you know what I mean.” he said. “Boy’s don’t use handbags.”
“They do when they haven’t got any pockets to put their things in.” his mother informed him.
“I’ll have my coat pockets.”
“You’ll be wearing your cape.” she told him.
“I’d forgotten about that.” he frowned. “It’ll never be warm enough… it barely covers my elbows.”
“It’ll be fine.” his mother grinned. “I can’t wait to see how it looks.”
“I’ll freeze.” he frowned.
“You’ll be as warm as toast.” his mother claimed. “It’s only a ten minute walk.”
“In the middle of winter with just a pair of tights covering my legs.”
“We managed perfectly well when we wore skirts and frocks.” she reminded him. “…and we were supposed to be weaker sex.” she added.
They still had an hour before heading round to the Robson household for Christmas dinner and Mark donned his new shoes so he could get himself accustomed to wearing heels. “Do they fit OK?” his mother asked as he stood. “Not too tight?”
“No they fit fine.” Mark replied. “Apart from being high.” he said. “I feel really tall.”
“You said that last time too.” she recalled before suggesting he make them both a coffee.
Mark cautiously strode to the kitchen in his new high heeled boots. Dressing like a girl feels so very different than wearing boys clothes and it’s been a good while since he wore a skirt. Unlike the high heeled sandals he had to wear in the summer, his new boots make hardly any noise at all on the tiled kitchen floor, but they do make the kitchen worktops seem significantly lower. In the days running up to that wedding, Mark’s mother had him wearing the high heeled shoes she’d loaned him as often as possible so he got quite accustomed to them. Today is the first time he’s worn heels since then and it’s all coming back to him; back straight, head up, walk from the hip and know where your heel is. His new shoes, or ankle boots which is what they really are resemble walking boots, albeit walking boots with a high chunky heel. The green suede matches his frock and his ivory tights lead neatly into their sheepskin lining, and having laces rather than buckles, they’re not really that girlie… unlike the sandals he wore for George & Betty’s wedding. His weighty frock swished and swirled as he walked from fridge to cupboard to kettle. His knitted tights slid and stretched over his legs. For a dress, it didn’t feel so bad but he’s indoors with only his doting mother to see him. It’s going to feel very different when he’s out in the cold December air and when visiting the Robson’s and his schoolmate Jacob for Christmas dinner. With that in mind, Mark begins to feel nervous once more.
“Ooh thanks Love.” his mother smiles as he hands her a nice hot cup of coffee. He placed his own cup down before sitting, scooping his frock first and keeping his knees together. “Those glittery tights do look nice.” she tells him, and not for the first time.
Mark gulped and smiled. He wasn’t at all keen on them, but didn’t want to appear ungrateful on Christmas day of all days. He reached for his coffee and took a sip. “You’d think they’d be able to make one that doesn’t come off like that.” he said, noticing the imprint of lipstick on the rim of his mug.
“They probably could.” his mother said. “But then you wouldn’t have to keep re-applying it and they wouldn’t sell as much.” she cynically suggested.
“Yeah true.” Mark replied. “Don’t you miss wearing make-up?” he asked.
“Not really.” she replied. “I used to like it but it was a chore because we were expected to wear it all day everyday… not just for special occasions like boys do.” she said. “Do you like it?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” he replied. “It’s weird because I can’t see it, but I know it’s there.” he said. “I can feel the mascara on my lashes.” he added, wondering if that was just an illusion or not. A tiny amount of mascara can’t weigh anything at all but he can feel it.
“They look lovely and long.” his mother said as he fluttered them. “I’ll bet the young women at school would be queuing up for a date if they could see how nice you look.”
“Oh I dunno.” Mark bashfully replied. “We’re not allowed make-up at school.” he stated.
“No but… out of school.” his mother said. “Going ’round town on the weekends, trips to the cinema or the bowling alley.”
“They’re hardly special occasions Mum.”
“No but if you want to stand out from the other boys…” she mused.
“Hmm.” Mark gulped as he visualised a scene; Saturday afternoon in market square, dolled up to the nines as he totters about on his heels, swinging his dainty little handbag with some girls from school cooing over him, and some boys splitting their sides in laughter.