As usual, I spent the remainder of the evening milling around the house wearing my Brownie uniform. Mother said it was ‘sweet’ how I keep tending to my white knee socks, making sure the tops are even and the patterns are straight. “How’s about we go shopping on Saturday for some new shoes?” she suggested.
“OK.” I said. The toes of my brown school shoes are getting a bit scuffed. However come Saturday, it quickly transpires that Mother wants to buy me some new shoes to wear for Brownies and not for school. She was keen on me getting some T bar sandals because they’re a unisex style, but I’m yet to see a boy over the age of six wearing them. Mother browsed around all the high street stores before taking me back to the first one to try on the style she liked the best. They’re clearly girl’s shoes, having heart shaped details cut out of the toe section, a detail that is echoed with a heart shaped silver buckle too. The lady in the Debenham’s school wear department asked if I was a petticoatee. Mother told her that I wasn’t but she did tell her that I’ve recently joined the Brownies, which is why I’m getting girl’s shoes. The correct size was boxed and given to my mother who wanted to browse the rest of the department before paying. “What’s a petticoatee?” I asked.
“A boy who wears girl’s clothes.” Mother replied. “Benjimin and Antony are petticoatees because they both wear dresses every Sunday.” she reminded me. “Would you like some new undies?” she asked, picking a pack of girl’s ‘boy’ shorts from the display.
“I’d rather have boy’s undies.” I said. Mother said I’ve got plenty of boys undies and claimed that girl’s are nicer. “I know but I’ve got loads of girl’s ones too.” I claimed.
“You’ve not got that many.” Mother said. She picked me up a pack of socks too; white, knee high and clearly very girlie. I’d have preferred boy’s socks but I don’t mind my girlie ones so much… I only wear them with my Brownie uniform and I know that boy’s socks wouldn’t look right.
When we got home, Mother had me try on my new shoes. Father said they were ‘smart’ and Judy said they looked ‘cute’. Mother unpacked my new knickers and admired a pair. Then she routed in a drawer for my roll of name tags, cut seven off, gave me a needle and some thread and told me to stitch one into the back of each pair. “Can’t you do it?” I asked.
“You’re perfectly capable of sewing them in yourself Vincent.” she replied. “You can do it in your room if you prefer.”
I did prefer, but even in the solitude of my bedroom I felt like I was betraying my boyhood as I stitched my name into a pair of frilly white knickers. When I’d done all seven pairs, I put them in my drawer and made the uncomfortable realisation that I now have more pairs of knickers than I do undies.
After the next Brownie meeting, we concentrated on making more paper flowers with which to decorate the float and thankfully didn’t do any prancing practice, but at the end of the session, Brown Owl did make an uncomfortable announcement. “I’ve got some excellent news girls… Barbara’s ballet teacher has agreed to coach you all in the art of graceful walking.” She handed out a letter for us to give to our parents, and explained that we’ve been offered a free class, one hour a week for the next four weeks at Miss Jarovski’s School of Ballet. “Don’t worry if you don’t have any dancewear…” she said, glancing at the three boys. “…because the procession fund can pay for that.”
When Mother collected me, I gave her the letter and with a heavy heart said, “I have to go to ballet on Saturday.”
“Oh how lovely!” Mother said. “Will you have to wear a tutu?”
“I hope not.” I moaned. My parents and sister have all told me that it’s fine for boys to do girl things if they want to. But going to ballet is just another thing the kids at school can tease me about, I figured. When we got home, Mother read the letter properly and wasted no time in measuring me and telephoning Brown Owl with my sizes.