“I’m going to miss us having breakfast together.” Peter’s mother says as they sit opposite one another at the kitchen table. “Is there anything nice you’d like to do today… since it’s your last full day before you go back to St Ursula’s?”
“Erm… I don’t know.” Peter replied.
“Have you finished all your homework assignments?”
Peter thought for a moment. “I think so,” he replied. “I guess I should go through it later on.”
After washing his dishes, Peter returned to his room and got dressed in his new clothes. He spent a moment looking at himself in the mirror that hung from the inside of his wardrobe door. He glanced at his dress and wondered if Sarah would approve of his new outfit. He sat in his bed, opened his handbag and began to apply his make-up. “This’d be a lot easier if I had a dressing table.” he thought.
Not surprisingly, his mother told him he looked nice when he returned downstairs. “I wish I could wear this at school,” Peter said as he ran his hands over the ruffled ra-ra skirt.
“Well I don’t think they’d approve.” his mother stated. “And nice as you look, your uniform is far smarter.”
“I know… but, it’d be better if we could change into our own clothes after school… and at the weekend.”
“I’m sure it would Peter… but rules are rules.” his mother told him. “And even if you could wear your own clothes at the weekends, I think something like your prairie dress would be more suitable.”
“I’d rather wear my uniform than that.”
“Well it’s a good job you do.” his mother replied.
Peter spent Saturday morning watching children’s TV. It felt like a rare treat as television is strictly moderated at St Ursula’s and Saturday mornings he and the others spend thoroughly cleaning their rooms and en-suite, cleaning the main dorm room and if it’s his turn on the rota, mopping the corridor outside. Peter flicked from channel to channel trying and failing to find something that sparked his interest. The hands-on the clock seemed to move slower than ever. If there’s one thing to be said about St Ursula’s, time passes much more quickly there.
Over lunch, Peter’s mother asks him if he’d like to do anything special today, seeing as he’ll be going back to school tomorrow. He can’t think of anything, in particular, so his mother says, “I could take you to the pictures tonight if you like?”
Of course, this sounds like a good idea, so they go through the movie listings for the local cinemas. There’s the new Marvel film which he’d like to see… but his mother doesn’t think it’s suitable due to all the fighting and violence it’ll inevitably feature. Maybe Peter should have thought about that before he got his hopes up. The other offerings in his age range don’t really tickle him, being romantic comedies, or films for kids. As well as the multiplex, there’s a couple of small independent cinemas… one showing a French film; apparently very good but judging by the synopsis it’s dull as dishwater, and the other showing old Ealing comedies as part of a ‘Best of British’ film festival.
Disheartened by the available choices, he passes the ‘whats on’ guide back to his mother. She reads through all the listings again, hoping something will jump out at her. But nothing does. One would have thought that the full-page advertisement on the opposite page would have grabbed her attention sooner, that being the purpose of a full-page ad. But when she sees it, it’s perfect.
“Swan Lake’s on at The Palladium,” she says, holding up the guide to show him the large advert.
Peter gulped as he looked at the image. Seeing all those girls in their leotards and tutus reminded him of possibly his least favourite class… classical ballet. Now there’s nothing wrong with boys doing ballet… the film Billy Elliot showed us that. But at St Ursula’s the boys, like the girls wear pink satin ballet shoes, soft pink ballet tights, a black leotard with thin shoulder straps, a little white see-through skirt (not a tutu) and a little pink wrap-around cardigan that they fastened with a bow at the back.
“One night only,” she adds as he just gorps at the picture. “You did say you liked ballet didn’t you?”
“Er…” Peter croaked. He may have told her that he ‘did’ ballet but has no recollection of saying he liked it. “I don’t know if I’d like to go to one though,” he replied. “We have to do it at St Ursula’s but I don’t really enjoy it,” he explained. “Plus it’ll just be loads of girls… I don’t fancy being the only boy in the audience.”
“I’m sure plenty of boys go to the ballet to Peter.” his mother stated, “But you don’t have to be a boy.” she smiled, looking at his clothing, “You could go as you are,” she suggested.
Peter looked down at himself; deep purple leggings, black-spotted ra-ra skirt, purple and lilac top… it may well be an outfit to his liking, but wearing it in public?! “I dunno… what if someone sees me?” he said.
After a moment of thought his mother said, “What if someone sees you?”
Peter glanced down at his skirt and visualised his make-up. “They’ll think I’m a girl.” he sighed.
“Exactly.” his mother smiled. “They won’t see a petticoated boy will they?”
About this time last week, Peter had just arrived back in Beckford. He recalled the moment when Judith had collared them near the train station, and how embarrassed he felt being spotted in his school uniform. Then something Sarah said on Monday popped into his head; I didn’t recognise you at first… If your mother hadn’t said anything I’d have just thought you was a girl.
“And if anyone asks…” his mother said, “…I’ll just tell them you’re my niece.”
Peter gulped. The thought of going somewhere so public dressed like a girl terrified him… but the thought of passing for a real girl he found strangely thrilling. “Your ‘niece’, Peter,” he replied with a nervous smile.
“Well I wouldn’t say Peter.” his mother replied, “Petrella maybe.” she grinned.
“That’s not even a proper name!” he retorted.
“I know.” his mother replied. She looked at the advertisement again. “So what do you think?” she asked. “Are you game?”
Peter was clearly full of apprehension. He gulped and nodded. “I think so.”
His mother grinned the broadest of grins. “I suppose I’d better check they’ve got some tickets left,” she said.
As his mother made the call and booked the tickets, Peter wondered if he could actually go through with it or not. Butterflies filled his stomach with just the thought of going to the ballet of all places, dressed like a girl of all things. If he’s this nervous now, how will he feel later? But then he figured that if his nerves do get the better of him, he could always go as a boy instead and just hope that nobody sees Peter Jackson going to the ballet.
His mother replaced the receiver and told him she’d booked. “We were lucky… they only had a few tickets left.” she grinned. “Oh I’m looking forward to this.” she squealed, almost like a little girl. “I’ve never been to the ballet before,”
“Me neither.” Peter gulped. “What time does it start?” he asked.
“Seven o’clock.” his mother replied. “So half six just to be safe I guess.”
Peter glanced at the clock. He had five and a half hours to wait.
Throughout the afternoon, Peter couldn’t help but wonder why he’d agreed to go. In spite of the fact he does an hour of classical ballet each week at boarding school, he’s no interest in going to see a performance. And he’d rather not leave the house wearing his girl clothes, especially to a place that’s likely to be packed to the brim of real girls. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d decided to tell his mother that he’d rather go as a boy instead, but backed out. Since his first day at St Ursula’s some nine weeks ago, he’s been a boy dressed as a girl… and tonight is the first time he won’t be a petticoated boy. Instead, he’ll be a girl. His mother’s imaginary niece. His own make-believe cousin.
They ate supper earlier than usual, and afterwards, his mother went to get herself ready. She entered the sitting room and asked him how she looked. Peter said she looked nice as she gave him a twirl. “Right… we just need to put our faces on and we’re ready,” she said.
Although Peter already had his make-up on, he knew he’d need a touch up so went to his room to fetch his handbag. Mum had her vanity case open on the kitchen table, so instead of doing it in his room, he joined her in the kitchen. “You’ve got loads of make-up,” he said as he looked inside her large vanity case. Peter only had one lipstick, his mother had about twenty. He has only on eye shadow whilst she has a whole range of different tones and colours. Same with eye-liner and mascara… he has one of each, his mother has too many to count.
“Probably too much.” she smiled as she applied her lipstick with a small brush. He inquired as to why she used a brush instead of just doing it like he does, direct from the stick. “One can be a bit more precise with a brush,” she said as he opened his handbag. “Why don’t you try some of mine?” she suggested.
“Erm…” Peter replied. “I’m only allowed to wear this,” he stated as he removed his eye-shadow, liner, mascara and lippy. When starting at St Ursula’s, each child has their make-up applied for them before their photograph is taken. This photograph adorns their ID card and is used as a reference when they apply their own make-up. Each child is given a small selection of cosmetics that are tailored to complement their natural colouring. Under no circumstances are they to swap or share their cosmetics with other pupils, or to apply their make-up in a way that deviates from the image on their ID card. Doing so is considered disobedience and that carries a punishment Peter is keen to avoid.
His mother is fully aware of the rules of petticoating, as well as the consequences for breaking said rules. “Well it’ll be OK just this once,” she says.
“Oh I dunno,” he replies. “I’d like to but…”
“You don’t want to break the rules?”
He nodded and gulped.
“Well, we could break the rules and keep it between ourselves. Nobody at St Ursula’s need know about it.” his mother suggested, “Or if it makes you happier, we could still break the rules and you spend the night in your nappy.”
His face dropped at the prospect of spending the night wearing his nappy. Since his first day at boarding school, he’s made a special effort on a daily basis to not endure the punishment for disobedience, and so far he’s succeeded. “But it’d be lying if we don’t say anything,” he mumbled.
“It’s to your credit that you hold honesty in so highly.” his mother smiled. “If I’d stuck to the rules you wouldn’t have been allowed to wear boy’s underwear at all this week,” she admitted. “But I don’t think that’s fair when you’re with your friends.” she smiled. “It’s OK to bend the rules a little when you’re at home because home rules are my rules, not school rules.”
“OK,” Peter replied. Using his make-up wipes, he removed all his make-up to give his mother the blank canvas she wanted, before she applied his make-up for him. She didn’t give him a grown-up, glam or tarty look… far from it in fact. Instead, she made him look as pretty and girlish as she could.
“I really do look like a girl!” he exclaimed as he looked at his reflection. His eye make-up was a little more weighty than he was used to, and instead of his usual pale pink lipstick, he wore a ‘soft rose’ colour. But it was the subtle blusher on his cheeks that made the most significant difference.
“You almost do.” his mother grinned. After a little more fettling, she announced “Now you look like a girl.”
Peter gulped as he looked at his chest. Slipped inside his training bra was two thin slithers of sponge. They didn’t give him a bust of any significant size, but just enough for a girl of his age.
“You ready?” his mother asked.
Peter looked at himself once more in the large hallway mirror. He wondered what happened to the petticoated boy as all he could see was a girl… a proper one!
He wore an old brown leather look bomber jacket as lots of girls wear bomber-style jackets, his mother told him. “And if anybody asks, your name is Hannah, and you’re my niece,” she said.
“Hannah?” he asked as his mother opened the front door.
Yes.” His mother smiled as he nervously stepped outside. “It was one of the names I had in mind if you’d been born a girl,” she said as they walked down the drive to the car.
“Does that mean you’re Auntie Pat then?”
“Yes, love… I’m Auntie Pat.” she grinned as she started the engine.
The foyer of The Palladium was packed, and as he’d predicted it was largely girls and mums. Most of the girls wore pretty party style dresses with broad satin sashes and netted petticoats. Peter in his short sassy ra-ra skirt, deep purple leggings and lilac plimsolls looked and felt very casual in comparison. Not that that meant he’d have rather worn his blue prairie dress… that, being so old fashioned would have made him stand out all the more!
As they filtered onto the auditorium, he noticed that some of the girls must be wearing shoes with heels for the first time as they failed to walk with the same elegance and grace that both boys and girls at St Ursula’s have mastered. Once they’d taken their seats and the lights dimmed, he finally relaxed.
The orchestra was loud and stirring. The ballet itself was far more dramatic than he’d ever imagined. Some sequences went on far too long but others really stood out. Especially The Dance of The Little Swans early on. “Did you enjoy that?” his mother asked as they all shuffled out to the noise of chattering and gabbling mums & girls once the second act had finished.
“It was good.” he replied. “I didn’t really know what was going on in the story but… it was very loud and the dancing was amazing!”
“Would you like to come again?” she asked.
Peter thought for a few seconds. “Maybe not… it was good but, I expect they’re all pretty much the same.”
“Yes you’re probably right.” his mother replied as they entered the cavernous foyer once more. “Shall we have a look at the merchandise?” she suggested.
Peter looked over to the distant stall selling programmes, posters, books, DVDs, t-shirts, hats and hoodies. Around it was a highly concentrated group of girls and mums. “I’ll wait if you want to look,” he said.
“OK.” his mother smiled. “Don’t go too far,” she advised. “And if you need the toilet…” she added, leaning in close to him, “…use the ladies and sit down,” she said quietly so only he could hear.
“I’m OK,” he replied. Even if he did need to ‘go’, he’d have hung on til home. “The ladies is no place for an imposter.” he thought.
He watched his mother disappear into the crowd that surrounded the merchandise stall, the looked around the foyer. It had very grand high ceilings with ornate gilded plasterwork. Stood around the foyer were groups of all ages chattering or waiting. Distinguished gentlemen, well-to-do ladies, mums and dads and lots and lots of girls. Boys were a definite minority in the sea of dresses and tailored suits, although there were some. He glanced around at the girls in their posh frocks and pretty shoes and couldn’t help but feel under-dressed. Although he’d rather be dressed as he is than in some of the monstrosities he witnessed. “Some look nice though.” he thought. Particularly the dark purple satin dress with a contrasting lilac satin sash worn by a girl about his age.
He looks away as he notices her looking back at him. He glanced back and she’s still looking. He looks away again, this time focussing on the large Swan Lake poster and tries his best not to glance back. But he can’t help himself, he looks once more and she’s right in front of him. “Do I know you?” she asks. “You look familiar.”
She looks familiar too because he spent three years at junior school with her. “Er…” he bites his lip, too afraid to speak. He gulps and looks at his shoes, before coyly looking back at the girl.
“Peter Jackson?!” she realises as her eyes open to the size of saucers. “Mum… Jenny, look… it’s Peter Jackson, dressed as a girl!”
“Oh no!” Peter thinks as he begins to panic.
The girl thankfully failed to get the attention of her mother and sister, so runs back to them. Peter looks towards the stall for his mother. He can’t see her. The girl has disappeared into the sea of frocks and suits so he moves just a few feet to where a large pillar stands. From here he can see the stall and hopefully the girl can’t see him. Thankfully his mother emerges from the crowd with a carrier bag in her hand. He gets her attention, waves her to hurry and together, they exit the building to the safety and obscurity of the busy city street.
Meanwhile, the girl has dragged her mother and sister away from a conversation they were having to ‘show them something’. “It’s very rude interrupting like that.” her mother says sternly as she dragged out of the crowd and into the open part of the foyer.
“Oh where is he!” the girl says as she looks around.
“Where’s who?” her sister asks.
She tells her mother and sister that she just saw Peter Jackson of all people, “And you’ll never guess what.”
“What?” her mother and sister reply in unison.
“He was dressed like a girl!” she announces. Without proof, neither of them believe her and insist she must be mistaken. She insists she isn’t. She insists it was him. She said “He was right here!” as she looks around, desperate to spot him and validate her claim. “He was here.” she insists as her mother tells her not to tell tales. “But he was,” she claims once more when they flat refuse to believe that some boy from junior school was here and that he was dressed like a girl.
“No wonder you were so keen to leave.” his mother said when he told her about the chance meeting.
“What if she tells everyone though?” he asked.
“They probably won’t believe her.” his mother assured.
Peter hoped with all his heart that that would be the case. After all, she did have a reputation for telling tales at junior school.
“Oh, I bought you a t-shirt.” Peter’s mother said when they got in the car.
Peter opened the bag and unfolded the t-shirt on his lap. It was black with a large picture of a ballerina and the words Swan Lake in ornate lettering. “Thanks,” he said before folding it up.
The following morning Peter’s mother makes a big deal of the fact that this is their last breakfast together until he returns home at Christmas. Instead of toast and cereal, she makes bacon and eggs with fried bread, tomato and beans. “What time are we going?” he asked.
“Oh mid-afternoon I guess.” his mother replied. “They want you back by six at the latest but I’d rather not drive down in the dark so… set off about three?”
Peter nodded his reply having just filled his mouth with bacon. He looked at the clock. It was eight-thirty so he had about six hours left before he has to wear his uniform for the next six or seven weeks. As usual, he washes and dries his breakfast dishes in his nightie, before asking if he can get dressed.
“Of course dear.” his mother smiles. “Do you want to wear your dress one last time?”
“I’d rather wear my new clothes,” he replies.
“Well you wore them yesterday and Friday… so no, they’ll need a wash.”
“Can I just wear my boy clothes then?” he asked.
“I’d like you to wear your dress.” his mother stated in such a tone that suggested she wasn’t really asking in the first place.
Five minutes later they were both in Peter’s bedroom. “I’m going to miss doing this.” his mother said as she fastened him into his prairie dress. “I’m so glad I took you out of Park Crescent and sent you to St Ursula’s,” she said. “You really are the best of both worlds.”
“What do you mean?” Peter asked as he felt his dress enclose him, button by button.
“Well I’ve got a lovely son whom I can buy pretty dresses for and take to the ballet… just like an I would have you been my daughter.”
“Do you wish I was a girl instead,” he asked as the final few buttons were fastened.
“Not at all.” his mother exclaimed as she turned him around to face her. “Petticoated boys are much more fun than girls are!” she smiled.
Peter didn’t know what to say so he just smiled. He did little but mill about the house until early afternoon. After having a long hot bath, he got ready to go back to St Ursula’s. His mother gushed over how smart he looked in his school uniform for almost an hour before they finally set off. Thankfully he was being driven all the way to St Ursula’s rather than taking the train. He got the feeling this was because he wasn’t trusted to actually change trains at Denbury and instead run away. “Fat chance of that! I don’t want to be anywhere but Compton dressed like this.” he thought as he looked at his short Douglas tartan skirt and pale legs. He looked forward to a few weeks of not having to worry about petticoating, for at school as he can just get on with it.
“See you at Christmas.” were his mother’s parting words when she dropped him off.