Free Becoming Myself: The True Story of Thomas Who Became Sara by Sara Jane Cromwell Page B

until I come back.’ She went up to her office and returned with a bottle of perfume and proceeded to spray it all over me. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘that’s much better’.
    The months and years passed, until I reached the age of seventeen. I had been promoted to the position of auxiliary weaver, but was still stuck in the packing and dispatch department. Then, I was approached by the production manager at about 8.30 on a Monday morning.
    ‘Thomas, what age are you now?’ I replied that I was seventeen.
    ‘Then would you be interested in training to be a weaver?’ I couldn’t believe it. Of course, I accepted immediately, especially as it meant leaving the packing and despatch department for good. It also meant a significant increase in my wages, which delighted me, especially as I thought it would please my mother. She seemed indifferent to my news and when I asked for a pay increase she told me I could have an extra £1! I was so disappointed and angry, especially as around this time, I learned that my other brothers were handing up a great deal less then me.
    What made this even more unfair was the fact that I was earning far more than any of them and worked very long hours to do so. I was determined to rectify this situation and bided my time. A few months after starting my training I started shift work, which meant another significant wage increase and left me as the biggest earner in the family, but still, after I had handed my wages over, I was the lowest paid. The only good thing about all of this was that it meant being away from the house more, especially with my other work on behalf of the Peace Corps.
    But no matter how much I had appreciated the promotion there was always going to be one major downside; I wasn’t able to have my conversations with the girls and I did miss them a lot. I thoroughly detested the manner in which the men spoke to the women or spoke about them behind their backs. I was mortified by the pictures of nude girls in the Mirror and the Sun and the calendars on display in the maintenance workshop.
    One of the most embarrassing experiences of this period was when one of the weavers asked me if I ever had wet dreams. I had heard about them but wasn’t sure what they were, so, rather than display total ignorance, I replied that, ‘I do wake up sweating sometimes!’ That was a cause of great mirth as was my speech impediment — I had a lisp. I would be in the canteen or the rest room when some one or other of them would say, ‘Thomas, say “chlicken and clchips”.’ There was no malice in it, though it was embarrassing. Many years later I was to regret losing my lisp after being told that it made me sound very feminine; just another of those ironies, I suppose.
    The experience of the wet dreams made me more determined than ever to pin my parents down and get them to tellme the facts of life. I went home from work having spent the day preoccupied with how I was going to broach the subject with them. I decided to ask straight out: ‘Mam, would you please tell me the facts of life? I’m seventeen now and still don’t have a clue, and it’s getting embarrassing with the fellas at work asking me questions about wet dreams and stuff. And I still don’t know how to ask girls out.’
    She just told me to speak to my father, that he was in the shed and that it would be the ideal time to catch him, especially as he was in a good mood. So off up the garden path I went towards the shed, with my stomach in knots, and asked Dad the same question. And now I was to receive my father’s wisdom on women and how to treat them: ‘There are just two things you need to know about women. First, make sure you never get VD , and two, make sure you never get into a joint bank account with a woman.’
    That’s it? I thought. I was dumbfounded. With my ever-growing sense of detachment from being a male, I couldn’t relate to what he just told me, particularly given my innate dislike for being a man to