Kicking Up My Heels...in Heels

by Liam Livings

  This was one of the exercises in confidence and heckling practice Ian had given me.

  Mum had been horrified when I’d announced I was going into the big Tesco in town wearing that outfit.

  “Love, at least go to the Waitrose, you get a better class of shoppers there, so I’m told.”

  “Whatever, I’m going. Leaving now.”

  “I’m coming with you. I can’t bear for you to be on your own if people shout at you and whatever else they do.” She gathered up her things, put her shoes on and stood by the door, arms folded across her chest. “I’m coming with you.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of doing it on my own. I’ve had a lot worse shouted at me. I went to the sports bar in town as Ginger Spice.”

  “You never did!” She put her hand over her mouth. “When was this?”

  I told her about the half term I’d met Jo and Kieran.

  “I remember now you mention it. Just something you felt like doing you said.” She pursed her lips, held her handbag to her chest. “How about I sneak behind you when you do this little exercise of Ian’s?”

  We got the bus into town, Ian had suggested it would give me more opportunities to fend off heckling and comments, and he wasn’t wrong. A group of teenagers, obviously bunking off school, sat at the back of the bus. Mum and I sat a few rows in front of them.

  One of them said, “Looks like the circus is in town,” then threw a sweet wrapper at me, which hit my head.

  Another said a few minutes later, “You seen the state of his makeup? Looks like a fucking clown.”

  Then, after a pause, long enough for us to pass through a small village, one of the girls said, “Poof. Queer. Bent.” Again and again, gradually getting louder and louder.

  But I easily ignored them, deep in conversation with Mum about what she needed to buy from Waitrose she wouldn’t have been able to get from the other supermarkets, keeping one ear open for their shouts. I explained to Mum, this was exactly the point, the ability to ignore the low level, to brush it off, to rise above it, and not to give them any satisfaction knowing they’d affected me with anything they said.

  And it had all been going so well, until another one said, “Look, he’s with his mum, dunno which is worse, him or his mum,” with an evil cackle afterwards.

  And that was it. Something inside me snapped, and it wasn’t the underwire bra digging into my rib cage, full of my chicken fillets. OK insulting me. OK insulting my mediocre makeup and wig—although I happened to know I was pretty good at the old makeup and wig department, but that wasn’t the point. But insulting my mum, oh no you don’t. I walked to the back bench, right at the rear of the bus, where the group of teenagers sat, blowing bubble gum, flicking their hair, and throwing each other cigarettes. I sat in the middle of the group, two either side, flicked my hair over my shoulders, moved my sunglasses from my head to my face, then said, “All right, girls. All right lads. What was it you were saying about my mum?” I pulled my tight top down slightly, revealing a bit of fake cleavage. “Anything?” I cupped my hand around my ear.

  One of the girls flicked her hair back, trying to out-flick me, blew a large pink bubble, which popped and she ate it back into her mouth. “What ya doing it for? People don’t wanna see this, on their way to town. You should keep it away.”

  I looked her up and down, gestured to her whole body. “People don’t wanna see this neither, but you’re here too. Why shouldn’t I do this if I want to? I’m not doing anyone any harm. Sat quietly with my mum, talking about what we’re gonna buy. And here’s you lot shouting and playing back here, looking all messed up.”

  “Free country innit.” The girl spat, with a sneer.

  “Yes. It is. And nothing says I can’t come here and wear whatever I want. Next time you wanna slag me off, how about you keep my mum out of it, all right?”

  One of the boys, he must have only been a few years younger than me, stared at me, quickly chewing the gum in his mouth.

  “Can’t take your eyes off me, can you?” I stared at him. “Interesting isn’t it? Bet you’re getting a bit excited as I sit here. Not sure whether you want to fuck me, whether I’m a pretty girl or a big strong man. Getting a bit mixed up in the head, are you?” I patted my lap. “Nothing wrong with being a bit confused. All those hormones running through your body. Giving you spots, and erections sat on buses. I know what it’s like. I was you. I used to be you too, sat on the bus, not knowing what to think about what I wanted.” I smiled, then licked my lips.

  He sat, open-mouthed, staring at me.

  “Cat got your tongue. Something to think about. Bit close to the bone was it?”

  “Fucking queer. Leave me alone, you fucking queer.”

  I leant forward, inches from his face. “I’ll give you a good fucking. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You’re actually a queer like me. I can spot it miles off. I was you. I used to be you.”

  He jumped up, banging his head on the ceiling of the bus. “Come on, let’s get off here. Walk the rest. Get away from this freak.”

  The others furrowed their brows, not quite sure what to make of what I’d said to him to make him jump up so quickly. The bus stopped, they all got off, still far from the city centre. The two I’d not spoken to stuck out their tongues, one flicked me the v’s. The two I’d spoken too stared at me, through the dirty bus window, as the bus left them on the pavement, getting smaller as they disappeared into the distance.

  I sat back next to Mum. “Not long now. All right?”

  She nodded. “I am now, love. I am now.” She smiled, clutched my hand and held it all the way until we arrived at Waitrose.

  There were a few comments as I pushed my trolley around the shop. The odd “look at that” and some “it’s a man” and one person who said “I wouldn’t have put that top with those jeans” which was one of the guys I knew to nod to at the Duke, so I turned and smiled before continuing with the tour around the shop.

  I went to the deli counter and asked for some wafer-thin ham and cheese.

  The man serving me didn’t say a thing. His eyes widened when I handed him my ticket, but he continued to serve me as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

  I was by the freezers, deciding on which ice cream to buy, and a couple of lads walked past, who’d been following me around the shop.

  One of the lads shouted, “It’s a bloke. He’s a bloke, look!” He pointed at me.

  I retrieved the ice cream from the chest freezer, flicked my hair back, turned to him, then said, “What’s wrong boys, never seen a transvestite before? What a small sheltered life you’ve both led.”

  “It is, look it’s a bloke in a dress. Look, I can see his stubble!” More pointing and laughing.

  I was prepared for this. I felt my jaw, in fairness, there was a bit of stubble coming through the foundation, a basic and unforgivable mistake. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. I walked towards them, leaving my trolley behind me and said, “What do you want? A closer look.” I thrust my face right into theirs, turning my face from side to side. “Close enough. Any closer?” I moved a step closer.

  They stepped backwards.

  “Didn’t think so. Now you’ve had a good look, anything you want to ask me?”

  They both shook their heads and walked away, one paused to stick his tongue out, before disappearing behind the shelves.

  I paid for my shopping and met Mum outside the entrance.

  “You all right, love?” she asked, looking me up and down, pulling my face towards her for signs of trauma.

  “I’m fine. Nothing. Just little kids. Same all the time, ask them something back and they soon disappear.”

  “If we get a move on, we can get the next bus back.” She pointed to the bus stop.

  “I don’t think so; I’m not done yet. I’m on a roll. I can feel my inner roar coming back. I want to go to the ultimate, the black hole of these people, to really test myself out.”

  She put her shopping bags down and stood, open-mouth
ed. “Where, love?”

  “The sports pub in town. Next to the river.”

  She shook her head. “I think that’s going too far. Maybe another day, let’s go while we’re ahead shall we?”

  “I’ve done it before. I told you. Dressed as bloody Ginger Spice, meeting Jo and Kieran. Went down well actually. Had a fabulous time. If anyone asks, you’re my mum and I’m your daughter. Think I can get away with it, or is the stubble too obvious?” I pulled my head from side to side.

  She rolled her eyes. “Maybe pull the hair around your face a bit more.” She looked me up and down. “Nothing I say is going to change your mind is it?”

  I shook my head, picked up the shopping and strode toward the city centre. “Nope.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  WE WERE HAVING a marvellous time, Mum and I, at the bar in the sports pub, we’d gathered quite a crowd. Since I’d marched in asking for a gin and tonic and a rum and coke the barman had raised his eyebrows and asked what brought us there.

  “Same as anyone else. We fancied a drink,” I replied, with a smile, and a flick of my long blonde wig.

  The only chink in the armour was a very drunk stout man in a shiny football shirt who stood between us at the bar, took one look at us both, belched then said, “What’s this, Hinge and Bracket out for the day?”

  Mum ignored him, and I busied myself with the straw of my drink.

  He banged on the bar, shouting for the barman, then said, “Look at these two, you seen the sight of ’em? You gonna stand there and serve ’em are ya?”

  The barman, John, who we’d already introduced ourselves too, and were now on first-name basis with, leant forward on the bar, looked straight into the beery man’s eyes, and said, “Their money’s as good as yours. And you, sir, have had enough. I’m not serving you. Best you go back to your seat. How about a water?”

  He banged his hand on the bar, pointed to us. “A fucking water? You not gonna do nothing about these two? It’s not right. It’s making me sick. It’s turning me right off me beer. Can I speak to the manager?”

  John said, “I am the manager. And as the manager, I suggest you leave, with a water, and stop harassing my customers.” He waved into the corner where the man’s friends sat.

  “Customers! You call these two freaks customers?”

  “At the moment you’re the only one in danger of being thrown out.” He smiled, handed the man a pint of water and nodded as a large bouncer who was stood by the door appeared to escort him back to his seat. He turned to us. “You were saying…”

  I was in the middle of telling him about why I’d come there, and the drunk man had done me a favour really.

  “You know what, I think it’s great. Takes all sorts I know. I’ve got a gay cousin, so I’m not prejudiced. Dunno if he’d come in here all dressed up. Actually, I don’t think he goes in for all that dressing up lark, but fair play to you, Kev, coming in here. I’ll try to get to see you perform some day. Watch where you walk on your way home—there’s been some massive fights outside this place, police ambulances, blood on the pavement everything. Almost lost our licence once. Once you’re out there, the bouncers can’t do anything for you.” He winked, then moved on to serve another customer.

  WE SAT IN silence on the bus home, both of us a bit wobbly from the few drinks we’d had. The bus had a few teenagers shouting and drinking loudly at the back. Mum and I sat at the front near the driver. I felt I’d had enough stands and fights for the day. The teenagers gave me a look as they got on the bus, then continued to the back returning to their alcohol-fuelled singing.

  As we reached our stop, Mum looped her arm through mine, patted my arm and said, “I’m so proud of you, love. You know that don’t you. So proud. Don’t matter what your dad thinks or doesn’t think. I’m here, and I couldn’t be prouder not if you were the prime minister.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I HAD MY new bookings diary open on the kitchen table, a mug of tea and a cigarette on the go, as I looked through my bookings for the next three months. The Plan 2000, thanks to Ian, was really happening.

  I had half my bookings for places I’d already played, and the other half were new bookings Ian had got me with a combination of his contacts, schmoozing, and undeniable charm. The next three months, I was working between three and six nights a week from a short three-song set to a whole evening of an hour and a half, with audience interaction, chatting, mixing with the crowd, and a bit of stand up in between. Contrary to what I’d believed, when I had doubled my rate, I’d only lost a few venues “Because, love, you really are worth it,” was Ian’s mantra. And those venues were the ones where I had to change in the gents’ loo, on a wet floor, having parked out the back behind the bins and walked through the back entrance through the dirty kitchen, so really, I wasn’t going to miss them much.

  We had quite a system going, did Ian and I: he called me with the details of the venue, location, date, timing, and a contact for the venue, then I rang them direct to talk about the sort of show they wanted. Was it all show tunes, some modern stuff, could I be a bit rude and swear on stage, or did they want it family friendly, so only the odd double entendre like a Carry On film? The more I performed, the more important I realised getting that right was. The more it led to more bookings, through friends of the venue, or people I met at the show. Often, I’d have a customer come up to me at the end of the night, asking if I did weddings, birthdays, or hen and stag nights? “I’ll do anything as long as you pay me and it’s legal,” was my usual response, with a smile.

  I’d had one disaster with a stag night some friendly looking guy had booked me for. It was his brother’s stag do, and they thought it would be fun to have me camping it up while they swilled beer and sang football tunes. I should have smelt a rat when they asked me to do, You’ll Never Walk Alone and didn’t know it was from a musical originally—Carousel. But no, I’d ploughed on, and during the show had bottles thrown at me, shoes narrowly missing my head, and when a bottle whizzed past my ear, smashing on the stage of the working men’s club I was performing in, I picked up my dress, told the music man to stop, and said, “That’s it. You can all fuck off. If you’re not going to respect me, I’m not respecting you. A laugh, I’m up for. A joke, that’s fine. But fucking glass bottles whizzing past my head, I don’t think so. It’s like a fucking war zone here. And I’m not getting danger money.” I dropped the microphone and walked off stage to a chorus of boos.

  After that, I always checked out a bit more who the crowd would be, where the venue was, and if I felt uneasy, unsafe, I politely declined, saying I’d checked and was afraid I had another booking that night. No need for a big showdown about homophobic bullying or anything like that.

  Between bookings, I practised, learnt songs, and made new costumes in response to requests I’d had at previous shows. When I had a quiet day, I’d catch up on my least favourite part, the paperwork. Ian had suggested I buy a computer and keep it all on that, but the thought of the wires from the computer to the printer and the screen with the little boxes asking me if I wanted to do something I didn’t understand, and was that OK or to cancel, brought me out in a rash. “I’m sticking with the diary and plastic folder of receipts. I can’t bear all the typing and writing.”

  Some weeks I had three or four nights of performances in a row, and occasionally if it made sense, I stayed in hotels rather than always coming back home. If it was cheaper to charge the venue for a hotel stay than the mileage all the way home, that’s what I opted for. I felt like a drag gap year student backpacking around the south coast of England with my makeup bag, suitcase of clothes, and box of shoes thrown into my boot. I supposed it was the nearest to travelling around the world like Jo and Kieran had done in Australia, but in its own way it was pretty exotic, very exciting, I always had the same butterflies in my stomach before going on stage, even if I’d done that venue loads of times before.

  “That’s good, love,” Ian said. “Shows you care. Shows you want
to do your best. As soon as you walk on with none of those emotions, you’re going through the motions. Time to pack it in. Daisy’s always throwing up in the loo minutes before she goes on.”

  “Really.” I couldn’t believe Daisy, a professional performer of forty years would do that.

  “Don’t tell her I said though.” He zipped his lips.

  I copied him, with a smile.

  Now, I closed my diary, checked I had everything I needed: shoes, wigs, costumes and makeup, said goodbye to the house, mum was at work, and I drove to Margate for the first of three nights away that week. After leaving Margate to applause and shouts for more, collecting my fee and handing out a few business cards—another marvellous thing Ian had sorted for me, bless him and his marvellousness, and drove along the coast to stay in a hotel in Brighton ready for the next day’s show.

  I rang Mum to see how she was. Even when I was at home, I’d been so busy and leaving again this morning without saying goodbye had been hard. I’d left her a little note saying where I would be, and my mobile phone would be on and I loved her, and I’d call when I could. I did always try to call in to check how she was doing with me away. She always played it down, saying things were fine, and I didn’t need to call, but it was lovely to hear from me. Sometimes I didn’t call, because by the time I’d gone from one place to the next, finding the hotel with a map on the passenger’s seat in the dark, after being on stage for a few hours, it would be too late to call her.

  Tonight, I arrived in Brighton in plenty of time, and after doing the “you didn’t need to call,” “how has the show gone,” “what you performing tonight,” I said what I’d wanted to suggest to her for a while. “I think we should get someone to help you out at home.”