CHAPTER 1
Oh no! The ball had gone into the Witch’s garden.
I didn’t quite believe them, but the older kids said that she was a witch. She lived in an old cottage with a run-down garden, quite different from the modern estate which came up to it, where we lived.
They bullied me into going and knocking on the door, while they stood clustered outside the gate. I told myself I wasn’t afraid, and knocked.
The old woman came to the door. (Actually she wasn’t that old, but to us she was.)
She had a long black skirt which was witchy, but a pullover which wasn’t.
“Please, Missus, can we have our ball back? It went into your garden.”
“Why, of course,” she said. “Come through and help yourself.”
I saw some of the other kids shake their heads, and Mary Jones sucked her thumb like she does when she’s worried, even though she’s nearly eight.
I drew myself up to my small height and marched in. She let me out through the back door.
Dad would have had a fit at a garden like that. It was all overgrown, so it took me a while to find the ball. I wiped my feet as I came in, and she nodded approvingly.
“You’re welcome to come any time,” she said. “you and your friends. I’ve got some biscuits if they’d like to come in and have a chat.”
We went through, and she invited them in for a drink and biscuits. Mary Jones was shaking her head and looking horrified. I knew what she was thinking, but witches didn’t really exist, and if she kept me to eat me, then my parents would come.
The bully who had sent me took the ball and tried to look casual as he turned away, and the others followed him.
“Well,” said the old woman. “If it’s only you and me, would you like some cake? I don’t have any lemonade, but I could offer you some tea, if you’re old enough.”
That did it. I was only allowed to sip a little tea sometimes, so I said I liked tea, and went inside.
It was an old house, not like our modern ones. She had no telly or proper cooker, just a black thing in the kitchen with a fire it. I was sorry for her.
She said I could ring my Mum if I wanted to ask if it was all right, and pointed to an old black phone. I said it wasn’t necessary, feeling very big and independent.
I took a big gulp of the tea, and was sorry because it was too hot, so she gave me some cold water. When it cooled down, it was all right. The cake was nice — sponge with jam in it, nicer than the ones Mum buys.
“If you want to come again, then do any time. I don’t always have cake, but I always have biscuits, and I’ll make a cake if I know you’re coming.”
“Would you like another slice?” she added, seeing my hungry gaze. I nodded.
When I needed the toilet, I was amazed to find it was outside, and instead of a handle there was a tank above it and you pulled a chain. But there was proper toilet paper and it all seemed very clean. I told her about our modern one and she was impressed. Still, I thought hers was more fun.
She was interested when I told her about school, and some things I’d seen on the telly. Much more than Mum and Dad were.
Then she said I had better be going, and I went home. As it was Saturday, Dad was watching football, and Mum was busy, so I couldn’t tell them until teatime.
I was so excited.
“I went to the witch’s house,” I said, and Mum and Dad thought it was some kind of game.
“No, really. The old cottage down the end. Larry Biggs kicked the football into her garden and I went and got it. Then she gave me tea and cake, and we talked, just me and her!”
“You what?” said Dad, angrily. “What have we told you about strangers?”
“Steady on, love,” said Mum. “It’s not like getting int a car with a man. I’ll go and have a word with her tomorrow.”
When she did, she came back with a couple of jars, one with blackberry jam, and one with something called chutney, which Dad turned out to love.
“Mrs Hogg seems a very nice woman,” Mum said, as she took off her coat.
“You can visit her if you want, but don’t be a nuisance.”
She turned to Dad.
“Look, Ashley doesn’t have any grandparents, and Mrs Hogg doesn’t have any children, so she said she wouldn’t mind children visiting her. They can call her Nanny if they like.”
A couple of days later, she said something to both of us.
“I asked around. It’s a bit sad. When the first people came onto the estate she had just been made a widow and was dressed in black. That and her cottage, I suppose, meant that kids said she was a witch.”
CHAPTER 2
I told the other children that the old woman wasn’t a witch. She was going to be my Nanny since they all had grandmas and I didn’t, but I would let them visit her sometimes. They had to call her Mrs Hogg.
Mum made arrangements, and I visited Nanny once or twice every week, and sometimes invited other kids if they were nice to me. She was amused at my ownership but went along with it.
The kids were disappointed that she didn’t have a cauldron or pointy hat. Her broom was an ordinary one like you get in shops. There were glass jars but they had jam or chutney in them, not ingredients for potions. Everyone wanted to use the toilet.
We kids told her about witches and she pretended not to know and was amazed and worried with some of the stories.
She said if she had a magic wand, she would like to be a good witch and do helping spells
“I wish I was a witch!” I said, and Mary Jones laughed.
“Silly, it’s not for boys. Only girls can be witches.”
“Boys can be wizards,” said Larry Biggs and pretended to make exploding spells.
“Witches are better!” said Mary Jones, and May Harris agreed, so Nanny offered more cake.
Kids have little idea about age and no tact. I worried that she might die.
“Not for a long time,” she laughed. “I shall live to be 94 and you’re going to live to be 100!”
I just accepted it.
Growing older but no more tactful, I asked her one day “How do you know how old you will live?”
“Because I’m a witch!” she said. “We all do!”
As the years went on the witch game sort of petered out. The other kids stopped coming when the novelty wore off, but she was my Nanny, the only one I had, and I loved her as much as any grandma.
But she was also wise and interesting. Her back garden was not overgrown. It was more like a nature reserve. Brambles and thorns kept cats, dogs and foxes out, but allowed hedgehogs and mice in, as well as birds. When I was bigger I helped her trim it to maintain the correct environment. It was quite scientific.
Rotting logs and mulch provided a home for insects which in turn provided food for birds and hedgehogs. We would check the sleeping hedgehogs and dormice in Winter, and carefully watch the nests of the mice and birds in Spring and Summer. In her front garden she had some traditional English flowers as well as herbs and some vegetables. Solitary wasps made their nests in the roof of the outhouse, and birds nested on the upper windowsill behind a creeper or under the eaves.
Nearby were the tiny remnants of a wood on which the estate had been built, where we picked mushrooms, and watched the limited wildlife.
“It’s called the Ferrywood estate,” she told me, “though there aren’t any ferries around. It used to be called the Fairy Wood, but they thought people would laugh. It was part of the Wychwood Forest (that’s W Y C H) and there were protests, but they went ahead. There were three other cottages they knocked down, but I refused to move.”
Sometimes she would help a wounded creature. It was almost magical how she could tell if it would recover, or if it was best to end its pain. What a delight to see a bird with a hurt wing soon able to fly off. I also learned that death was part of life, and sometimes it could be a kindness.
Occasionally people brought injured pets to her, and she would tell them if it was something that would get better or really needed to go to the vet.
As a teenager I recognised that is what a witch was. A wise woman and healer with some plant extracts and knowledge. She was happy to accept this type of witch for herself. She had some friends she visited or sometimes came to tea, and she joked they were part of her coven.
I was fascinated by the world of plants and tiny creatures she showed me.
So much so that I went to university and did a degree in biology.
I loved most of the course, but I wasn’t one of the best students. Biochemistry was my main downfall. Virology was difficult, though it was for everyone. (The lecturer had some theory which was not in the textbooks and he could not get published, but was in the exam. Fifteen years later it was accepted but someone else got the credit. Modern vaccines depend on it.) I did pretty well in ecology and animal physiology, but miserable in animal behaviour. I wasn’t the only one.
“Girls!” said the lecturer. “Sorry, Ashley.” Most of the class were female, and I was the only male who was making this mistake.
She was embarrassed, and I was sorry for her as she blushed.
“Ladies and Gentleman. What you are doing is anthropomorphizing. You are giving rats emotions like humans. What you must do is record the behaviour. Stimulus response; stimulus response. Apply the stimulus, note the response. Don’t say the rat looked happy when you gave it a biscuit…”
“But it did!” said one girl and most of us laughed. Rats really liked biscuits as a change from their standardized rat pellets, and I was not the only one guilty of having given them a piece of digestive. We knew not to give them chocolate ones. I could certainly tell when they were happy.
She went on to remind us of the things which a rat might do and which we could record.
“It’s fine to have empathy,” she finished, “but don’t let it cloud your observations and your conclusions. There are people who can care for animals but also observe them scientifically.”
I wasn’t really one. And I was sorry when a batch were sacrificed for an experiment. I understood the reason and the importance for medicine, but I knew I could never be a scientist that way.
I got my degree and so did a lot of other people. A lot more than there are jobs for biologists, as the Careers Advisor warned us.
I ended up working in an office without actually using the content of my degree, like lots of other people. But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
I kept up my membership of the Royal Society of Biology, and went out observing nature when I could.
And I was glad to see Nanny, to tell her about what I had learned.
I learned something about myself, which I didn’t share, not immediately.
CHAPTER 3
You have to understand this was the 20th century (though not much left of it). No Wikipedia, and transgender was not a thing anyone talked about. If they had, then I would have got counselling and support.
I knew about gays, and men in drag, but that didn’t seem to be me. There was something else about the girls in my class at university which made me feel I belonged. I had never had sex and didn’t really want it. I just wanted to be a woman. In fact, I just felt I wasn’t a man. It was like some terrible mistake had been made.
I was a graduate biologist and I knew about XX and XY chromosomes. They can’t be changed. Puberty had confirmed what I was, but I wasn’t really happy about it. There was a book I read about psychology and the development of the brain and how hormones before birth and at puberty affected it. There was a difference between a typical male brain and a typical female brain. However, it seemed from psychology that some women had something close to a male brain and some men had a rather female brain. (There were no MRI brain scans then.) Not everyone agreed, but it seemed to me that maybe my brain was more female than most men.
I couldn’t tell my parents of course.
So I told Nanny, all the feelings I had had for years. I was crying with frustration by the end, and she gave me some home-made fruit wine.
“Do you really want to be a girl?” she said in a way which didn’t seem mocking.
Did I?
I realised this was someone I could trust.
“Yes, I really wish I was.”
She took my hands in hers.
“It’s not easy, but if you want to, you can.”
“I would do anything!” I said, as she looked deep in my eyes.
She looked away, thinking.
“Well, the first thing you need is a magic dress.”
“Have you got one?” I said in surprise, then thought how stupid I was being and went red.
She smiled.
“No, I don’t keep such things. But there’s a shop at the end of the High Street called Magic Dresses. If you’re brave enough to go there and try one on and buy it, then you’ve taken the first step. Bring it back to me, then we’ll see what we can do.”
Thinking about it later, I understood. There were men who became women. Or at least dressed and lived like women. If they persisted they sometimes got hormone treatment. It wasn’t magic, just determination. This was the first step. If I could do it, then maybe I could do the rest. For practical everyday purposes I could forget my biology and be an ordinary woman.
If I could take the first step.
It was just a small dress shop, and I didn’t see any customers. I hesitated, took a deep breath, and went in.
There was a middle-aged woman sitting on a chair reading a book, which she put down and stood up.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Hello,” I said.
And there the conversation stopped until she said “Can I help you?”
“I want to buy a dress,” I said, hardly believing I had managed it.
“For myself,” I added, cheeks burning.
She opened her mouth as if to say something, then stopped and waved me towards the displays. We were both at a bit of a loss, I think.
She recovered first.
“Do you know your size, or would you like me to measure you?”
“No,” I said. “I mean yes. I don’t know, so yes.”
She measured me and said “Hmm,” in that way that people like mechanics and dentists do when things aren’t right.
“Come with me a moment,” she said and ushered me into one of two changing rooms.
“I’ll sort out a few things which might do.”
I sat down and waited. Eventually she came back.
“Sorry, there’s only one dress that might be possible, though I could do you a skirt and top.”
She had the three garments on hangers.
Then the shop bell went.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll just deal with these others.”
I got undressed down to my underpants, and looked at the clothes. The dress was nothing special. Green, sleeveless with a pleated skirt.
I put it on.
Somehow in the back of my mind there was a little child hoping for a magical transformation. Of course, that didn’t happen. I was just wearing some different cloth on my body.
Then the women that came in wanted to discuss dresses they wanted for a party. I could tell they were holding up things and talking about them intermixed with discussions about boys and other girls. It was different from the way they talk in mixed company, and I was fascinated.
They tried them on in the changing room next to me. The shop woman told them my room was full of some things at the moment. Finally, they bought something and left. I heard the tinkle of the bell.
“It’s OK,” I heard the shop woman say. “You can come out now. I’ve put the closed sign up.”
Strangely, it just seemed all right to do so.
“Hmm,” she said. “Better than I expected. Suits you. Is it comfortable? Shoulders, waist?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Very.”
At the front of my mind, I was embarrassed and sad to think of this silly man dressing up, as if that could change things.
But at the back of my mind, I knew this was what I wanted. To be a woman, if not properly, at least a bit. And a dress helped.
She looked at me strangely — as she was fully entitled to, I thought.
“I’m sorry, I’ve not come across this before,” she said, her hands on my shoulders, “but I sort of understand. I’ll help you with clothes and makeup if you like.”
“Tell me honestly,” I said, “how do I look?”
She pursed her lips.
“Like a man in a dress.”
The she smiled.
“But with a woman inside, waiting to come out!”
As the shop was closed, she suggested I stayed with her for a while. I insisted on buying the dress first. That gave me enough confidence to try on the skirt and blouse, which were fine as well.
I took my purchases to Nanny, and she kissed me and said well done.
I took to visiting Nanny and dressing up. Sometimes I stayed the night. The woman from the dress shop, whose name was Lily, was a friend of hers, and visited as well. Nanny didn’t wear makeup, but Lily did and taught me how to do it. She also got some other clothes for me, including underwear and a nightdress. She was more interested in that sort of thing than Nanny.
It was just in that cottage, or in the back garden, but for a few hours I could pretend I was a girl with my grandmother. We talked about much the same things as before, but I was happier. It was just a fantasy but they told me about periods as if I was a girl on the way, and talked about dating and getting married. It all added to the pretence.
It was pretty much every weekend. Sometimes I even stayed the night. And another of Nanny’s friends sometimes joined us. Just two or three women chatting together over tea and cake. I learned to cook, and Lily taught me sewing so that I could do some basic adjustments myself.
One day when there was a big event on TV, so shops were mostly closed and people were inside watching, the two women took me for a walk down the street. I felt so good.
“You’ll have to tell your parents,” said Nanny.
Dad got drunk. Mum was surprisingly understanding.
“If that’s what you want, dear. Just in private. But you know how some people feel about homosexuals.”
“Queer bashing,” said Dad. Yes, they got beaten up in some places.
“Anyway,” he said, “what are we going to call you? Pansy?”
“Ashley can be a girl’s name,” said Mum.
“Get away!” said Dad. “My Grandad and Great Grandad were both Ashleys!”
“No, really,” said Mum. “There was an American visitor at work, and her name was Ashley.”
“Huh, Americans!” said Dad. “You sure it wasn’t a bloke in a dress?”
Next day he said he was sorry.
CHAPTER 4
It took a while, but Mum and Dad got used to me as a girl at home, and Mum helped me, telling me how things were, and getting me to act more female.
Finally I managed the big step.
I went to my employer and said I wanted to come into work dressed as a woman.
“Fucking hell!” he said. “I always reckoned you were queer, but can’t you put on drag in your own time? Isn’t there some club you can go to?”
“No,” I said, “it’s not like that. I just want a quiet life and not to bother anybody, but I would like to dress like the other women.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” he said, then leaned forward and said in a quiet snarl “Listen, you make your request in writing, and I will formally agree to it, whatever you want. Otherwise I know I’d be had up for discrimination. But if the others treat you badly, I may not be able to help. And when I find a way to get rid of you that doesn’t look like victimization, I will.”
I can’t say it went well.
Coffee got spilled on my desk and chair. People would hand me papers and accidentally drop them. Things were said behind my back, but so that I could hear. They only spoke to me if they had to, and very brusquely. The boss gave me unreasonable workloads, and criticised wherever possible.
I just put up with it. Nanny said that was all I could do.
Till finally one of the secretaries, said very loudly to two of the men “For heaven’s sake, leave the poor girl alone, you great bullies! She’s not doing any harm, but you are.”
Another stood up and said “And if you don’t cut it out Arthur, you can forget about Friday night!” which caused a few sniggers.
Arthur didn’t like me, but treated me OK from then on. One of the others apologised, and the women took some of the extra work I was being given.
It took about a year, but I started to get compliments from the women how nice I was looking, and one took me to her hairdresser to get what she thought was a better style.
I told Nanny how happy I was.
“We make our own magic,” she said, and I agreed.
It was the hair I noticed first. I had started to go thin on top like Dad, but now my beginnings of baldness seemed to have gone. I didn’t need to shave so often.
Was my penis smaller, or was it wishful thinking? I wasn’t exercising it — so use it or lose it would be good.
Eventually there was no doubt.
My testicles had gone back into my body and my scrotum was different. There was almost nothing to hold when I had a pee. It seemed the hole had migrated down.
It was with a mixture of excitement and terror, that I went to Nanny. I was sure.
“You are a witch,” I said. “You really can do magic!”
“Yes,” she said, “if that’s what you want to call it. Is something wrong?”
“What’s happening?” I said.
“I think you’re getting your wish,” she answered. “You can stop any time you want. Just stop wishing. Otherwise concentrate on the woman you want to be.”
As a biologist, I was fascinated. The process resembled embryology in reverse. People are basically female, but testosterone triggers the formation of male genitals. Slowly they vanished and a crease developed, which deepened. My voice grew a little higher.
I had ceased to shave and my pubic hair had vanished. I was more like a girl than a woman. Then I went through puberty, but without my height changing. It took two years, but my breast buds grew until I could fill a small cup of a bra, my hips broadened and my waist narrowed. I told people I was getting hormone treatment.
I got pubic hair again.
Then blood and pain.
Incredible! My first period!
Both Mum and Nanny cried and hugged me when I told them. I had to get tampons and pads. There was no way I could explain it. Mum didn’t know it couldn’t be caused by hormones.
Even the boss at work had given up treating me as special. I was just one of the women. He was a sexist oaf, but I was glad to be treated equally in this respect.
I went out with the girls and danced with boys. My breasts grew to be similar to my mother’s.
CHAPTER 5
I was so taken with my success I scarcely noted how much older Nanny was.
One day we said goodbye, I asked her if she was ill, and she laughed.
“What me? No, I’m never ill. Now remember, come and see me next Thursday at 3 o’clock. Not earlier, because I’ve got some things to do.”
Next Thursday I knocked and opened the door to let myself in, but there was no answer when I called. She was not in the garden or downstairs, so I went upstairs.
There she was in bed, looking asleep, but I knew at once. She was cold.
Somehow, I didn’t feel sad, just disappointed. She had told me she would live to be 94, but surely she wasn’t that old? I made myself a cup of tea and looked around. The house was clean and tidy. There was almost no food, but there was half a bottle of milk in the fridge.
Maybe she really did know when she was going to die, which is why I had been asked to come at this time. Perhaps witches only know quite close to death.
I went into the garden, and admired the scents and the sounds of birds and insects. Then I heard the doorbell, so went back through.
There was a man in a black suit and tie.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss, but fortunately Mrs Hogg had a funeral plan with us, so we know her wishes and there will be nothing to pay. May I see the deceased?”
“She’s upstairs,” I said. “Excuse me, but how did you know?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were the lady who phoned this morning. Ashley? Is that right?”
“Yes,” I said, and was going to say more, but stopped myself. Had she arranged her own funeral?
I took him upstairs and he got a form out of his bag. It had my name on it.
“It says here that you were the person who called…”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s been quite upsetting and I get a bit confused.”
“Of course. Now do you have the death certificate?”
As I looked non-plussed, he said gently “A doctor has to come and certify death. I know it’s obvious, but if you ring up your GP…”
Just then the doorbell went.
It was my doctor. The practice knew I was living as a woman, but I hadn’t been ill enough to need them since I bought the dress.
“Oh, hello,” he said. “So you’re Mrs Hogg’s friend. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her as a patient, but we all have to go sometimes. I know it’s upsetting, but I won’t be long. Where is she?”
“Upstairs,” I told him.
“Just wait down here,” he said, kindly. “I’ll be very respectful.”
I heard him greet the undertaker as a friend, which is understandable. They came down together.
“Natural causes,” said the doctor. “Here’s the certificate. You’ll need to register it, but Mr Fisher here will take you through the procedure.”
The telephone rang, and I identified myself.
It was the solicitors handling the will.
“Thank you for calling earlier. I gather Mrs Hogg left you a note.”
There it was, by the telephone. It said ‘In the event of my death please call the following:’ and gave the numbers of the doctor, the undertakers and the solicitors, plus me.
How long had it been there? I didn’t know, but it was the kind of thing a sensible old woman might do.
“We have made an appointment for tomorrow at 11, at Mrs Hogg’s house, as requested.”
People said how sensible I had been as well as brave. I signed forms and they took ‘the deceased’ away. It had all been paid for and specific arrangements made. All I had to do was to notify people from a list she had made and which was in the first place I looked. There was a folder of bank statements, utility bills and other documents, including her birth certificate. She was 74.
Next day the lawyer turned up, quite a pleasant young man. She had left me everything. The cottage was freehold and there was some money in the bank, though not a lot. It was simple.
He asked to look around the cottage.
“It’s wonderful,” he said. “It should sell for quite a lot. Do what you want, of course, but there’s an estate agent we can recommend, and of course we could take care of all the legal matters.”
“I’m not going to sell it,” I said. “I’m going to live here.”
I hadn’t thought about it. It was just at that moment.
“Lucky you!” he said. “I’ve often fancied it. I really like the natural garden with all the allowance for wildlife. I don’t have a garden myself, but I like nature at the weekends.”
I made him a cup of tea, and we had a nice chat. It didn’t seem at all wrong. In fact, nothing after her death seemed morbid. People live, they die. It is all part of the nature that Nanny had loved.
He had been an amateur naturalist and had wanted to study biology at university, but his parents persuaded him to do law instead. He asked if it would be all right to attend the funeral, and I said it would be fine. His name was Terence, not Terry.
CHAPTER 6
It was a cool but sunny day for the funeral. The cortege went from the cottage to the cemetery and crematorium — some Victorian churchlike buildings in the middle of a lot of graves and trees. Apart from the modern graves, a lot of it was not trimmed too much, and it was noted for wildlife.
The ceremony was secular but (I suppose) a bit pagan. I was surprised to see that it was conducted by Lily from the dress shop, in a simple long white dress and flowers in her hair. There had been no flowers by request, but there were a number of other women who were also in white, who each laid a single flower, herb or sprig of something on the coffin.
At Nanny’s request, I was wearing the green dress. The undertakers and the crematorium staff were nearly the only ones in black. Terence had seen the instruction and was in a light-coloured suit.
It wasn’t really a ceremony at all, just a sort of appreciation of a kind woman who loved nature and helped people. Lily called her ‘our sister Gita’. Then the women in white sang a nice song about nature, as the coffin moved away under a curtain. There were about a dozen of them altogether. Not a choir, just a group of women, but sort of better that way. Natural, like her garden.
Afterwards, the women in white came outside, and introduced themselves. I recognised a couple of names that Nanny had mentioned in passing. They were obviously her closest friends. Lily asked me did I have anything to tell her.
I was puzzled, but she said “Never mind. I’m glad to see the dress worked out so well. Gita was very fond of you, you know.”
Just at that moment there was a screech of brakes and a yowl. A car from the next funeral had hit a cat, and I ran across.
I grabbed the scruff of its neck like a mother cat does with a kitten, to hold it, and felt it, as it mewed plaintively. But there was more than my fingers told me. I knew from my degree just what was in that little body, but more clearly than ever before. Somehow I knew exactly what was wrong. The skin of a cat is very elastic, so it can be badly injured inside without bleeding from a wound. It could limp away but in two or three days it would be dead.
There was a mixture of sorrow, anger and love. I can’t explain it, but I somehow pulled the hurt from that little body into myself, and pushed the damaged tissues together till the internal bleeding stopped, and the ripped ligaments joined together.
Then I could feel it struggling. It no longer hurt and wanted to get away, so I released it, getting a scratch as it scrabbled free.
“It’s all right,” said Lily to the people looking on. “Nothing broken.”
Then she spoke quietly to me.
“Don’t get up too suddenly. I’ll help you. Come and sit down for a moment.”
She took me back inside and I sat down while one of the staff gave me a glass of water.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” I said to Lily.
“No need,” she answered. “I know you know.”
She shooed the staff and other people out of the room, saying I needed a little time to myself. They probably thought it was grief, though it was anything but.
I was a witch. I don’t know how long it took, but gradually I understood it all.
I knew how long I would live.
It would have been a little longer if I had not helped that cat.
Magic comes at a price, which is why witches only do good. Every child’s hurt, every bird with a broken wing could be mended, if I was willing to give up some of my own life.
I remembered the time I had hurt my ankle, and heard a crack. She had examined it and put a cold compress on it, and told me to tell my Mum it was a sprain. I was now sure it had been broken. She had not fixed everything, which would have been too obvious. In any case, she told me that we should not expect or seek a life without pain. Some things like a fever were part of the healing process, and should be allowed.
Nanny had mended me in making me female, but it had been at huge cost. To change a human body from male to female, not superficially, but completely. She had had to think it through and imagine it, all the while diminishing herself.
She knew she would live to 94 when she first told me of this ability. That is why it was a surprise when she died at 74. Perhaps not all of those twenty years had been given to me — I don’t know what else she might have done — but I think most of them. As I got more experienced, I would know the price of the magic.
Lily and the others said they had never heard of any healing which had been so great, and at such a price.
It was always a choice. To pay or not to pay. Which is why it is better to work with nature and medicine to prevent the need to pay.
We cannot predict the future, we only know our natural life, and to some extent that of others in which we get in contact. An accident or violence could end things sooner.
As sure as I was of my death, I knew I would have two children.
But that was also a choice. That was the natural flow of my life. I didn’t have to take it. I could live without children.
But if I went with the flow, it was inevitable that I would have choices to make. Children have accidents and diseases, and I would feel the need to take some of the hurt for myself.
What was I going to do?
It was as clear as if it had been written in her will. The best way I could thank her for her gift was to enjoy life as a woman as completely as possible. To have lots of sex and to love my children.
I was sure that Terence would be able to help me. No magic — just woman’s intuition.
CHAPTER 7
My parents had been waiting in the car, but came back to see what the delay was. Mum said it was understandable that I was upset, and I almost laughed.
“Overcome with emotion, Mum, but not upset,” I said, kissing her.
“It’s just I really know who I am now. I’m your daughter and Nanny’s granddaughter, and I am so glad to be me!”
I could see she was thinking of something she wasn’t saying, and had an inkling of what it might be.
Instead of going home, I asked to be taken to the cottage and said I would stay the night.
“But there’s no food,” said Mum, and I said I would manage.
When we got there, there was a bottle of milk on the doorstep, and a bag with some groceries from the Co-op grocer. Someone had told the milkman to start deliveries again, so there was another bottle in the morning.
That night I lay naked in Nanny’s bed, just feeling the warmth of her love surrounding me.
Then I got up and looked through the documents. There was a birth certificate for Gita Jones, and a marriage one for Gita Jones and Eric Hogg. Too soon afterwards there was a death certificate for Eric Hogg, who had been a soldier. There was a wedding photograph which I looked at for a long time.
We can’t see the future. She would have been able to feel what her husband’s natural life would be, but it was ended much sooner by a bullet.
Gita was an Indian name, I thought and the young woman did look a bit Indian, perhaps with an Indian mother. Now I thought of it, Mum might be a bit Indian. She didn’t know who her parents were, having been brought up in foster homes, but we had guessed Spanish or Italian. Did they look similar?
And the dates were possible. Had a young unmarried Gita had a baby and been forced to give it away? It would be feasible for Mum’s birthday. Did she later marry the young soldier?
I had no way of knowing. So far as I could tell my witch knowledge extended to myself and the world I handled.
But it was a nice thought that Nanny really had been my grandmother. Had she known or guessed?
My breasts were about the same as the young Gita, I thought. Was it genetics? Or had she made my body from knowing her own? Either way was wonderful.
I went back to bed and slept happily.
In the next few days we moved some of my things into the cottage.
While we were doing this, I asked Mum if she had had any premonitions.
“Well,” she said, “There was one. I was convinced that I was going to have two children, a boy and a girl. We had you, then there was a problem and I knew we weren’t going to have any more. Yet funnily enough, I think it’s come true. I love you both.”
We were both a bit tearful as she hugged.
“I dreamed I would live to be a hundred,” I said. “Did you get anything like that.”
“Oh, just nonsense,” she said. “Just after I started my periods, I told my foster mum that I was going to live to be 87. Then later on it was 83. See, it’s just random.”
“That was just after your Dad had his back problem,” she added. “I think we’ve still got the X-rays. They were going to do all sorts of terrible surgery, but it sort of mended itself. You were only little, so you won’t know about it, but he was in awful pain, and they thought he might be in a wheelchair.”
“I kept thinking about it, looking at the X-rays, massaging him and wishing I could do something, but you can’t of course.”
I thought about it. I had the idea that being a witch was inherited. Maybe Mum was a witch as well, in which case Nanny probably was my grandma. I wouldn’t start that conversation just yet, though.
Still, she thought it was possible that Nanny had been her mother, and said it was a nice idea for both of us. Why not believe it?
CONCLUSION
Lily and the others helped me to learn the gift. There is not some simple tariff, just a general awareness of the penalty of intervention. Witches are never seriously ill, because we manage infections, putting our bodies right at the early stages when the cost is low. We could fix injuries such as a broken bone, but that is a greater cost. With some injuries or illnesses it is not worth doing anything but letting the doctors do their work. We trust vaccines and antibiotics, the modern magic.
An injured animal may have little natural life left, anyway, so the best thing can be to end it quickly. But a mother animal who is still making milk for her young is worth a little of my life. A treasured pet may be worth some help, but warning the child that it will not live long, and that is natural and right.
We always feel how much natural life we have left, but as we near the end it changes from years to months, then days and hours.
Terence and I knew we were for each other right away. There was no magic — it was just ordinary love. But we had to go through the process of getting to know each other, like everything else. Sex as a woman was something so natural it was a privilege to experience it.
The doctors agreed my sex had been misidentified at birth, so a certificate was issued and I was able to marry.
Mum now understands her gift, but only uses it on Dad. She says it is quite a relief to know when they both will die naturally. Women tend to outlive men, so he will be first, which she says is best, because he would be much more distressed the other way round. She says it is a blessing that she can make his final years and days comfortable and happy with her. She will be careful not to give up too much of her life to ensure this.
I had a natural birth with both my children. They were not painless, but it was a natural pain and an easy price to pay for bringing a child into the world. I thanked Nanny for that pain and joy and the gift of motherhood.
My breasts were not there for decoration, though Terence certainly appreciated them. It was a privilege to feel them fill with milk, and to feel my love pouring into a tiny baby. So natural and so wonderful.
I have a son and a daughter, who are fine and healthy young adults, and I know I will not see my hundredth birthday, or quite a few before.