When Peter arrived home, his mother asked if he’d had a nice time. He said he had but felt weird having to tell them little lies to hide the truth. “What kind of lies?” his mother asked.
“Nothing major.” he replied, “Just little things like… I mentioned going for bike rides and John asked what the bikes were like, so I said mountain bikes.”
“And they’re not mountain bikes?”
Peter shook his head. “Of course not, they’re girls bikes with a basket and a bell.”
“Well that’s understandable.” his mother said reassuringly. “But the problem with lies, no matter how small they are, they may come back and haunt you,” she warned. Peter nodded. She couldn’t help but imagine him pedalling away in his little skirt… his pale bare knees bobbing up and down… white knee socks and Mary Jane shoes… all on a bike with a basket! Even if they did have mountain bikes… he wouldn’t look anywhere near as sweet, she thought as a smile swept her face. . “Do you like going for bike rides?” she asked.
“It’s better than walking everywhere,” Peter replied. “We can ride down to the river in about five minutes… or walk down in twenty-five.”
“And what do you do at the river?”
“Not much… skim stones…”
“Climb trees?”
“You can’t climb trees in a skirt mum,” he replied. “It’s bad enough climbing the stairs.”
“I guess not.” she smiled. “When I was a girl we used to tuck them in our knickers to climb trees.” she reminisced. “I suppose yours is a bit short for that.” she supposed. “It’s good you’re getting out and about and aren’t always confined to the grounds.”
“Yeah…” he replied thoughtfully. “Sometimes we ride up to Compton Crag and you can see the whole valley… and there’s a really steep hill on the way back and we can go really fast,” he added excitedly
“Well, you be careful… it’s one thing going as fast as you can but if you come off, you’ll be sorry,” she warned.
“Judy Rogers came off her bike and broke her arm,” Peter announced, recalling the local gossip.
“It’s her I was thinking of… coming down Mill Lane… she broke it in three places.”
“Crikey. What happened?” Peter asked.
“She was going too fast and came off.”
Maybe I will be more cautious next time we come back from the crag, I figured.
“Did they ask about your uniform?”
“Nah, they just thought it was like theirs I guess… they couldn’t believe we have to wear it all the time though. They said it sounded like a prison.”
“Well if you’ve never been to boarding school you’d never know,” Mum said. “Lots of boarders in lots of boarding schools wear their uniform all the time,” she stated
“Yeah, I know. I kept worrying that I’d slip up and let something out though,” he said mournfully. “Micheal was laughing about a boy at school whose trunks came off at swimming class, and I wanted to tell them about the boy whose PE skirt fell off playin’ ‘ockey, but I couldn’t.”
“Playing hockey.” his mother corrected. “Poor boy. What happened?” his mother asked, trying to visualise the scene.
“He didn’t notice at first.” Peter chuckled. “And just carried on chasing the ball in his gym knickers… the look on his face.” he laughed. “It was so funny. Now we all check the buttons before PE.”
“A lesson learned eh.” his mother smiled.
“They also said that they keep trying to flick up the girl’s skirts and thought it was hilarious,” he said in an almost disparaging tone. “…and I just wanted to say ‘well if you had to wear short skirts you wouldn’t find it so funny, but I couldn’t because…”
“That’s hardly an admission.”
“I know but…” he paused for a moment, “…it would’ve felt like one.”
His mother smiled at him reassuringly. Peter smiled back. They shared a short comfortable silence before Peter asked, “Can you tell I’ve been wearing make-up?”
His mother looked hard at him. She cocked her head this way and that before saying, “Not really. Why?”
“Mrs Pierce gave me a funny look and said I looked ‘nice’.”
“I think you worry too much. She probably meant your hair.” mum said as her gaze flicked between my fringe and my eyes. She smiled. “What do you fancy for supper?”
“I dunno. Sausage and chips and beans?” I suggested.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah… I haven’t had chips since I left… or beans.” I replied, visualising the food at St Ursula’s. “Not tinned ones anyway…. they’re into ‘five a day’, healthy eating and all that.”
“A good wholesome diet never did anyone any harm.” his mother said wisely as she filled a tray with oven chips. “so what else are you looking forward to this week… apart from chips?”
“Not dressing like a girl.” he mused.
“Oh.” was his mother’s melancholic retort. “There’s your new dress remember.”
“Oh yeah,” he replied. “Not dressing like a girl… every day then.”
“Well sorry to break this to you love but petticoating is a daily undertaking, so you will at least be wearing a nightie for bed.” she added.
“Every night?”
“Of course,” she replied. “A petticoated boy is a perfect boy remember,” she added.
I’m more than familiar with the saying as my teachers use it on an almost daily basis. It seems unfair that there is no equivalent saying for the girls, but seeing as there appears to be virtually no bullying, boisterous behaviour or adolescent bravado from the boys at St Ursula’s, it’s a saying I’m inclined to agree with. “I only wish it didn’t mean dressing like a girl all the time.” I thought as I slumped on the table and sighed. “They wouldn’t know if didn’t wear a nightie,” I suggested.
“I’d know.” mum said. “Plus I’ve bought them now.” she smiled.
I visualised my nighties at St Ursula’s. Like my uniform, I’ve grown comfortable with them but at first, I along with the other boys hated wearing such a short garment that left our legs entirely exposed. The overall length of our white cotton nighties is an inch or so shorter than its sleeves, so our super-short ‘night-knickers’ or bloomers with elasticated legs remain clearly visible. Trimmed with frilly broderie anglaise on every edge, there is nothing remotely boyish about them. “What are they like?” I asked.
“Well I think they’re nice.” mum smiled. “…and if you can’t wait until bedtime, they’re in your pyjama drawer,” she said. “Or your former pyjama drawer.”
Although intrigued, the boy inside stopped me from going to look. The idea of seeing nothing but a few nighties in my pyjama drawer seemed a little depressing. And if I’m not mistaken, Mum has just made it perfectly clear that there are no pyjamas in that drawer. The best I can hope for is to try not to think about being petticoated until bedtime.
Although the meals at St Ursula’s were of a relatively high standard, nothing compares to a home-cooked chip. Peter washed the dishes and pots. His mother retired to the lounge for some Saturday night telly. I dried my hands and joined my mother in the lounge. She looked at me thoughtfully. Her eyes narrowed, forcing me to wonder what she was thinking. “So… when are you going to show me how that dress looks?” she asked.
I slumped my head into my shoulders. “Oh mu-um… I’ve only been a boy for a few hours.” I moaned. She frowned. “Maybe tomorrow,” I suggested.
“OK.” she grinned.
Come 9 pm… Mum took me to my room to show me my new nighties. I also noticed in the drawer they are kept, one of the very same nappies they use at St Ursula’s. I audibly gulped at the sight of it.
“It’s only there if you need it.” his mother smiles reassuringly.
“Why would I need that?” I recoiled.
“Well… for one you might wet the bed… and two, as I understand it, disobedience results in one day and gross disobedience results in three days,” she said, quoting the school rules almost verbatim. (Yes, we do Latin too). I gulped. “Now…” Mum said excitedly. “…which one do you want to wear first?” she said, lifting the whole bundle out of the drawer.
My new nighties are almost identical in style to those I’m used to; being way too short and with little frilly bloomers.. But these are worse. One is baby pink with white lace trim, paired with contrasting white bloomers with a baby pink trim. The next is white with baby pink spots and contrasting bloomers, and the third is white with a pink and green floral print and matching bloomers, both also have lace trim on every edge. They look horrendous. They are horrendous.
I reluctantly chose one, then spent the next hour in the sitting room watching TV with mum and longing for bedtime. The slidy sateen fabric feels weird. I’m almost afraid to touch it, but come bedtime, as I slid beneath my duvet, I soon realise that it’s far nicer than cotton to sleep in.