In which our heroine sets out on a quest
As Baz steered her mobility scooter into the intersection, the screech of a horn almost gave her a heart attack. The driver turning left was trying to cut in front of her.
Heat flushed her cheeks. She opened her mouth to apologise but before she could say anything, a person walking in the opposite direction bellowed at the driver. ‘You’ve got a red, mate!’
Sure enough, when Baz looked up, she found that pedestrians and vehicles heading straight on had the right of way. Drivers turning left still faced a red. ‘What a confusing intersection.’ She wasn’t sure whether she was speaking to herself or to the angry driver. To the Good Samaritan she added, ‘Thank you.’
The pedestrian nodded and carried on walking. Baz squeezed the scooter’s accelerator with the fingers of her right hand.
Before long, she was wending her way along Deptford Broadway, heading west. If she followed this route for another six kilometres, she’d end up somewhere in the vicinity of London Bridge. It still amazed her how close to the heart of London she was.
But she wasn’t going nearly that far today – just a short jaunt.
In the last few months, Baz had accepted a sizeable financial settlement, signed divorce papers, sold half of her former house to her now ex-husband, left her job, said goodbye to all her friends, moved her entire life thousands of kilometres away, and bought a new flat.
Oh, and she’d come out of the proverbial closet to live as the woman she’d finally accepted herself as.
To say she felt a bit lost and alone in the whirlwind would be something of an understatement. Would her old self have immediately apologised to that driver without knowing who was in the wrong? She wasn’t sure.
Five minutes later, Baz parked her scooter on the little strip of pavement next to Wellbeloved Café’s outside seating area. It was a beautiful September day, the sun shining brightly over south-east London. The pain bit into her knee when she stood up and she tried to hide her grimace. She smiled at a young man walking past and gave a cheerful wave to his toddler.
‘W.H. Wellbeloved: Butchers & Graziers’ proclaimed the sign on the pebble-dashed south wall. Baz found herself wondering how long it had been since a butcher had actually occupied the building. She walked the few steps to the door but paused outside and took a deep breath.
‘Come on, Baz. You can do this.’ She pursed her lips, ever-so-slightly smearing her rose-coloured lipstick. ‘They’re not monsters.’ She cast her eyes to the window to her right. ‘Look at them.’ Why did making friends have to be so hard? Children did it all the time – why couldn’t adults? And, more specifically, why couldn’t she?
Adjusting her shoulder bag and smoothing down the fabric of her lavender cotton dress, she took one last deep breath and pushed open the door of the small coffee shop. Ever since she’d started hormone therapy a few months back, her senses had become stronger, more vibrant. The scents of the shop filled her with warmth and comfort. Freshly roasted coffee was the dominant aroma, but it mingled with cinnamon and sugar and fresh-baked pastry.
The young woman behind the counter – Olena was her name – looked up and smiled. ‘Morning.’ She held a hand out for the expected takeaway cup. ‘The usual?’
Baz had been visiting Wellbeloved every day for the past two weeks and the staff – two women – had already learnt her order. They worked hard to make her feel so comfortable and accepted. She held out her empty hands, palms up. ‘Yes, please. Though I think I’ll stay in this time.’ She could do this, she reassured herself.
Olena nodded and rang up the order. ‘Go ahead and take a seat.’
Waist-height and below, the walls were painted a very fashionable green. Higher up, shelves were lined with pieces of art. There were small, framed paintings and photographs, knitted goods, pottery. All sorts of lovely things. Overall, the effect was vibrant but tasteful. The creativity on display brought a smile to Baz’s face.
She took a deep breath. Putting a hand to the solid stone wall, she ducked through the door into the shop’s second room – originally a separate building, she suspected. The place must have been several hundred years old; the walls were thick and the door between the rooms wasn’t quite high enough for modern adults. At five foot seven, Baz wasn’t exactly short – but she was hardly tall. She could probably walk through without smacking her head on the lintel – just. Better to be safe than sorry.
You can do this, she reminded herself. Not aloud, of course. She didn’t want anyone to think she was a bit batty. It was enough that some people assumed that just from looking at her.
People could be so judgemental.
But her loneliness pushed her to overcome her fears. Pulling her shoulders back, Baz approached the three women sitting nearest the window. ‘Good morning, ladies. My name is Barbara, um, Baz. I’m new to Deptford and I wondered if I might join you?’
Just then, what Baz had taken for a heavy carpet lifted up off the floor. And up … and up … and up. After a few moments, she found herself face to face – well, more like crotch to face – with the biggest, most beautiful Alsatian she’d ever seen.
He wagged his tail and licked her hand. Smiling, she scratched his head. He reminded her of her own dog. Well, her ex’s dog. For a while, after they’d split up, he’d brought the dog to Baz’s on weekends.
Gosh, she missed that dog. If she wasn’t careful, she’d burst into tears. And then what would these women think of her?
A full-figured Black woman with a knitting project resting on an ample bosom looked up at her. ‘In my day,’ she said in a local accent, ‘men were men and women were women and—’
Baz felt heat rise in her cheeks. She knew that – to most people – she looked like a man in a dress. As much as she knew to the very core of her being that she was a woman, she sometimes feared the world would never see her that way.
‘In your day, Madge,’ said an elderly white woman with spiky hot pink hair and an equally spiky choker necklace, ‘nurses weren’t allowed to have sex. Never stopped you.’ With an encouraging wink, she grinned at Baz. Her tartan jacket was covered in pins and badges. Baz couldn’t read them from even the short distance between them – though she was sure she spied a rainbow flag.
The pink-haired punk woman addressed Baz. ‘Pay Madge no heed. I promise she’s not actually transphobic – she just likes to stick her sanctimonious nose into people’s business for no reason at all.’
‘Sanctimony doesn’t come into it.’ Knitting needles still clicking away, Madge studied Baz. ‘What I meant was I would like to understand – are you a woman or are you not?’ She waved a hand, still clutching her knitting, in Baz’s direction. ‘I’m not asking what’s in your pants – just how I should think of you. I’ve never met a transgender person before and I’m not up on all the newfangled terminology. If that seems rude, I apologise.’
Baz’s stomach twisted inside her. She wanted to flee. Or to argue back. But her fight-or-flight instinct was firmly stuck on freeze. Alas, the arrival of a young woman served only to further cement Baz’s inability to move.
