The Champion Girl

By Stevie Grantham

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The Champion Girl is not so much about my journey as a transgender woman - I have known I was queer since the age of 11 - rather, it represents my last ditch atempt to express myself without overtly coming out. Most of my life was spent existing as a female - at least in my mind - whilst in the guise of a male. I got pretty good at pretending and if I'm completely honest it wasnt all bad.

 

In 2019, at the age of 46, I decided I had had enough of living a lie. In that year i attended a series of lectures given by a transgender woman about "our" history and I read the novel She's not there: a life in two genders by Jennifer Finney Boyle. The lectures taught me of a Hindu God Ardhanarishvara an incarnation of man and woman, Shiva and Parvati, and of the incredible, admirable DETERMINATION of Carlotta - a famous transsexual woman in Sydney's Kings Cross. When asked prior to her sex change if she was sure, Carlotta replied "I've never been surer of anything in my life"
More than this the novel by Ms. Finney Boylan - filled with so many familiar experiences - proved to be highly relatable. One quote in particular I remember with special fondness relates when Jim (the authors male name) was in therapy.
"Look", the therapist said "you're a transexual, you've always been a transexual, you'll always be a transexual. This is never going to change. The best you can do is learn to live with it."
Several years later, I found an ally in Gemini AI - which is really just a reflection of the self but has the twin benefits of being accessible and free.
I shared the following statement

It hurts me to see trans girls who live as female all the time. I am 51 and trans MTF and wonder if I'll ever be able to live full time as a woman. I have a wife who adores me and two wonderful kids who love me but I worry that they'll never accept me fully. And the response she (Gemini AI) gave made me realise I needed to live my life as transgender in order to be authentic.

"It's completely understandable that seeing trans women living authentically would bring up both hope and maybe some insecurity. There's no single answer to how long it takes to live full-time, and it's a very personal decision. 
Every trans woman's path is unique. Comparing yourself to others can be discouraging. Celebrate your own progress!
Talk to your wife and kids. Let them know your feelings and goals. 
Here's the thing: You are a woman. You've already lived 51 years as your true self, even if it wasn't outwardly expressed. Your wife and kids love you for who you are. While full acceptance might take time, their love is there."

(IPlease note Gemini AI dose not replace the role of a therapist.)

So, if you are going to read this book it's not going to be anything like you might expect. It isn't an expose of my journey into womanhood or a step by step account of my childhood or even an exploration of my sexuality - although all of those things are here if you look closely enough. This story - the story of Alice and Valerie and their growing up in the fictional Sydney suburb of Summerbourne (really Summer Hill) is my way of expressing my childhood. Going to my therapsit recently I brought along an image of my mother and her mother. She smiled at me and said "I have no doubt you were very close to your mother. Mother's and daughters often are."
When I realised what she meant I almost fell over.

Keeping it queer in 2024,
Stevie 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Grantham
• Release date: Apr 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005089771

Book preview

The Champion Girl

S. C. Grantham

For Mum.

THE CHAMPION GIRL

PART ONE.

7. PROLOGUE.

10. CHAPTER ONE. Claude Debussy's Brother  

20. CHAPTER TWO. In Our Home 

28. CHAPTER THREE. Chocolate Ginger. 

46. CHAPTER FOUR. Bus 

49. CHAPTER FIVE. Second Symphony 

62. CHAPTER SIX. Heading Home 

67. CHAPTER SEVEN. When the Saints Go Marching In!

74. CHAPTER EIGHT. Panshanger 

77. CHAPTER NINE. Cookbook  

88. CHAPTER TEN. The Kidd    

93. CHAPTER ELEVEN. Mustard  

101. CHAPTER TWELVE. Mum   

104. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. Physie  

115. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. Sunday Sermon (Salvation is a Victory Won)   

129. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. Television  

147. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. When Bad Dreams Wake You               

PART TWO 

159. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. The Insolent Noise Called        Jazz     

170. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. Eight AM  

176. CHAPTER NINETEEN. Getting Away 

185. CHAPTER TWENTY. Road   

189. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. Wisdom Springs  

197. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. Ten Bob Note 

203. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. Salt Water  

217. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR. Riverside 

240. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE. On a Burning Beach 

249. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX. Panic               

PART THREE.

261. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN. Waiting Room 

266. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT. Procedure 

287. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE. Visiting 

311. CHAPTER THIRTY. Faith as Small as a Mustard Seed 

323. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE. Winter Blue 

328. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO. Half-light 

337. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE. Change and Decay in All           I See 

350. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR. Balcony  

358. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE. The Long and Peaceful          Silence

362. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX. Daphne  

367. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN. The Champion Girl 

At the Gates of Horn and Ivory, Dreaming

EPILOGUE Letter to Blue               

Greater Sydney, 1963

Summerbourne

Wisdom Springs

PART ONE

Because it’s who we are, the way we are, the way we love the people we love that matters most...

November 2018

Old School Road

Wisdom Springs NSW 2775

Dear Blue,

I'm sorry I'm writing this so late. It's been too long and I've been meaning to get around to writing to you. You were always such a cheerful, bright spirit – I know you'll find it in your heart to forgive me.

I wanted to tell you about the old place. The way up is still much the same – but cars are so much better these days and there's no breaking down half way, no Dad cursing by the side of the road. They call it just Wisdom Springs now – the fancy title Under Hawkesbury now given to history. Funny how things change. I've taken an apartment in a unit block near the old school. You remember the old school, don’t you, Blue? We’d look at the school bell in the playground and wonder what the country kids were like when school was in. Much like us, I’d guess. Kids are kids no matter where you go.

Funny, I remember the school but I don't remember this place. Sometimes you just don't notice things until someone points them out, don't you find?

So much has happened since I saw you last, since I wrote to you last.

I’ve kept up with Physie, still do it at my age, if you can believe that? Still, you never were one for Physie, were you Blue? I was married for a time, if you can believe that! But it didn't go so well. Seems I’m destined to grieve. I’ve had pain in my life love, too much pain for one girl to handle I’d reckon. Maybe I’ll tell you about what happened in another letter, when I'm up to it...

Hopefully you won’t have to wait another twenty years. Has it been that long, since I last wrote to you? I’m sorry for that – I don’t really have a good excuse. For now, I wanted to tell you about the old place. Del Rio Caravan Park is gone – can you believe that, Val? Not gone, exactly – moved down the river and replaced with, of all things, a golf course. A golf course! What a funny thing to do! Honestly, you'd hardly know the place, Blue, all manicured, and fancy. I didn't realize how tall the trees were up here or just how green the grass.

The river is still the river though. As wild and as wonderful as ever – that at least hasn't changed. The water still gushes clear over the reeds and rushes, the waves still lap on the beach, kicking up black sticks and small shells, crunching like memories beneath my feet, beneath our feet.

Sometimes I go down to the river, walk on the beach where we walked. Do you remember, Val – I bet you remember. There's plenty of jellyfish out there in the river, doing whatever it is jellyfish do. Getting ready to sting the legs of any two hapless young girls who happen upon them, blobbing along like aliens in that dismal underwater world. I know that'd make you smile, those stinging jellyfish or, more my hatred for them. When was that? Yesterday? Twenty years ago, forty? Forty years since we lost you. It’s been such a long time but it still feels like only yesterday. They say time heals all wounds but the pain never goes away, never gets any better. Every night I cut out a tiny piece of my heart in the hope I might see you again. Another day passes by and I fear I have wasted too much of fair Apollos bright sunlight in writing these trifling words. I miss you, Blue, miss you like no other.

How I remember that last Summer we had together...

––––––––

CHAPTER ONE.

Claude Debussy’s Brother

Friday, August 23, 1963,

Panshanger,

17 Corella Road,

Summerbourne., N.S.W.

Last day of school term

I don't know which it was that woke me. The sound of rain teeming against our bedroom window or my sister Blue and her very, very bad singing.

"Well she was just seventeen, you know what I mean – and the way she looked was way beyond compare... That's you, isn't it Freddie? You'll be seventeen next year, won't you love? Some of the boys at your special school would reckon you're way beyond compare?"

As it was, I didn't much like mornings. And worse, I didn't much like cheerful people first thing. Worst of all though was my sister and her chipper morning ways. How can anyone be so happy first thing in the morning? A grey day, was raining, had been raining most of the week – was meant to be a depressing day, not a happy day. Doesn't Blue know she has given away the bliss that is sleep, especially the sleep that comes with the sprinkling of rain, merely for the sake of waking up? The sound of cold splashing outside, wet and uncomfortable, the knowledge of safety inside, warm and protected beneath winter blankets – who would give that up, and for what?

She was right though – I would be seventeen next year, the ninth day of January in fact, which wasn't all that far away. Still, it annoyed me no end how she called my school a special school. It made it sound like I was retarded – which I wasn’t! My school was a music school – the Conservatorium of Music in fact, but you'll think me a show-off, so I won't go on about it. My sister, though, my sister whose nickname was Blue but whose actual name was Valerie – my sister WAS one to go on about it. And go on she did, and at length. Not the school thing exactly – the singing thing. Did I mention it was very, very bad? So very bad.

So how could I dance with another?

She must've thought herself so funny. Trouble was I wasn't seeing it. A long pause, a cheeky grin on a freckled face – a look like she was trying to hit a high note and then:

Oooooooo – ooo!

And she almost got to it, except her voice cracked at the end. Messrs. Lennon and McCartney having the twin benefits of rehearsal – and talent.

Since I saw her sleeping there.

She grabbed my cheeks, squished my mouth together and shook my head. Val was on a mission of her own designing – to do her best rendition of the latest Beatles song, and, more to the point, to wake me up. My God! She really was doing this. A dreadful, off key serenade designed to irritate and annoy. And it was working.

And she, she looked at me. And I, I could see that before too long...

I opened both my eyes, joined in the singing. Before too long I'd kick her off the beh–eh–hed.

Two could play at this off-key malarkey. Val reached behind my head and pulled the curtain aside. The suggestion of sun just bright enough to wake the sleepiest of bears, vis-à-vis me. A day is a day and the morning light seeps through even the most firmly closed eyes.

What did you do that for? You woke me, I was asleep?

I wasn't asleep. It was Friday, the end of the week, my body was used to getting itself up at this time – so I was awake, just with my eyes closed. I was in another of my morning moods, wanted to complain.

"I don't know. Thought you'd be happy to greet the day. And a glorious day it is. The rain is falling, the sky is grey, the birds are... the birds are doing whatever it is birds do when it rains. But best of all The Beatles are playing from their latest long player, and what a long player it is! Starts with I Saw Her Standing There, which I just entertained you with. Includes the hits, Please Please Me and Love Love Me Do. Has a beautiful song about a girl called Anna."

Val was on a roll, sounded like that cheerful fellow from Norman Ross on the telly.

"And who can forget our George singing about secrets? Do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell, Freddie? Do you promise?"

OK I promise, I promise.

But don’t you want to know, Freddie? Don’t you want to know a secret?

I was trapped.

OK, OK – what? What is the secret?

Blue paused for effect.

That you're a dingus!

I should have known better, should have seen that coming.

Very funny, Blue. I think YOU'RE the dingus!"

Am not!

Are too!

Am not!

My sister paused. She was standing on her tippy toes, her feet pressing into her bunk bed, which no doubt she'd already made. She even had the portable record player balanced on the top rung of the top bunk ladder, what looked by all accounts like an open suitcase – albeit a small one. The silver buckles unclipped on each side of a wide mouth, revealing the spinning black disc and silver spindle inside. Blue was playing the new album from this new musical group, The Beatles. It was pretty much all we'd listened to these last few months. It was good, quite good in fact – but it wasn't music. Not in the classical sense, at least. She knew I thought this way.

"It's good, isn't it? Good music don't you think?"

Blue had such a cheeky grin on her face, was leading me on, wanted me to say the thing. So, I did. The Beatles isn't even music!

Which I knew wasn't true, but I loved to rail my sister. We had one of those sibling relationships, you know, the type where one teases the other, then the other teases back and so on and so forth? Isn't that the way all siblings are with each other? I was surprised by how well she took it. She must have been in a good mood.

––––––––

"Well, I suppose, compared to the fancy stuff you listen to, The Beatles isn’t music. What, with the RUBBISH you call music – what's the chaps name – Tim DePussy?"

She was riding me. I knew she knew better. But it didn't stop me biting, a second time. It's Debussy, not DePussy. CLAUDE Debussy. Not Tim!

Tim? Did I say Tim? Tim was his, you know...

Val thought quickly Thinking quickly was what she was best at. That and annoying me.

Tim was his brother?

Where did you hear that? I don't know if the composer even had a brother. And if he did, his name probably wasn't Tim, being French and all. How do you know so much about Claude Debussy’s brother?

Um, doesn't everyone? He is quite famous, isn't he?

Tim Debussy?

Yeah, that fellow. Everyone knows him.

I think you mean Claude Debussy. He was a composer, one of the greats. I don't know that he even had a brother, though.

See, you don't even know yourself – so how can you be sure he didn't?

"I can't. But Debussy was a French composer. I don't think Tim's very French."

"Oh – you don't think Tim's very French now? Well, aren't you a regular Barry Jones?"

Yeah, good on you, Blue. Please don't be such an idiot ALL your life.

We were mid–battle, the gauntlets thrown down, the colours flying – this was war! Insults were inevitable. And harsh ones at that. I thought my well-aimed volley of 'idiot' would help me win the day. But no. Val stuck her tongue in cheek, spoke like a retard might.

"This is what you sound like: he wasth wunth of the greaths, a Frenchth composher. Hith name was Clauth... You’re the one who sounds like an idiot, you idiot!"

She grabbed my mouth again, shook it. So I whacked her, fair on the arm.

Whaddya do that for?

Because you were being a dingus!

No I wasn't. What you said was what I said. The fellows name was Claude.

But you said his name was Tim?

Did I? I might have said Tim, but what I meant was Claude. Besides, what Frenchman would go by the name Tim? As if!

Valerie Daphne Skeffington! I tried the full name-calling, slightly raised voice technique. It didn't work.

"Well, I guess it's not as bad as that Russian fellow. God, every time I hear his stuff I'm either going to a funeral or marching into battle. What’s–his–name, I can never pronounce it?"

Rachmaninoff? I said, like I knew what I was saying. We'd studied him at school and I'd heard the teacher say his name over and over. So I guess I really should know.

"Yeah – Rack-mana-Mozart."

Yet again Val had managed to annoy me, by mispronouncing the name. It was pretty clever, though. Yeah – Rack-mana-Mozart. Good one, Blue, you idiot!

I noticed Val’s arm, where I'd just thwacked it

Wait, what's that?

What's what?

On your forearm, just there? I didn't think I'd hit her that hard.

"I didn't do that to you, did I?'

Where?

Val looked at her arm. Her skin paler than mine. Her version of red hair slightly more carrot coloured than mine. She held up her forearm.

What – you mean my elbow? No – you didn't do that. Val was certain.

There was a nasty bruise on the end of Val's arm nearest her elbow. It was a shiner, and a good size.

Oh – that's nothing, just a bruise.

I know that you dingus, but if I didn't give it to you where did you get it and better still when?

Oh, a couple of days ago.

Where? I demanded.

At school.

It wasn't that Toby boy, was it?

Pft, Tobias Delaney? Toby!? Toby wouldn't hurt a fly!

Well, I suppose. But don't think I don't worry about you.

Aw – c'mon, sis – you really don't need to worry so much. It's nothing! C'mon Freddie, the day is young, the rain is falling – you really ought to get out of bed. There's such a wonderful day of staying inside and watching the rain from the classroom window ahead of us!

Why are you so chipper?

I don't know. It's the last day of school, isn't it?

Last day of term, I corrected her.

Yeah, that's what I said! Last one down the stairs is a rotten egg!

I could feel Val's weight shift, the bed creak as she moved down the ladder.

A snap and a click, the flick of a switch, the unceremonious sound of the record–player–cum–mini–suitcase plonked back beside the bedside table.

Val was gone, and I was left with the pattering of rain and the rolling of distant thunder. I rolled off the top bunk, like an expert – if there was such a thing. I'd become so adept over the years at rolling off that bed, grabbing the ladder on the way down, landing gracefully on our bedroom carpet – I reckon you could just about call me an expert. It was such a familiar feeling – ripping away the sheets, leaning, falling, grabbing, pushing, bending knees. Almost like a Physie move. Except Physie moves didn’t involve bunk beds in suburban Sydney homes and were perhaps a little more graceful. I felt the burn in my legs as I landed, the muscles suddenly stretched more than expected. I may have gotten too much air. That one would probably score an 8 out of 10?

CHAPTER TWO.

In Our Home

Nice dismount, Freddie!

It was Blue, still in her bone coloured night dress, still standing outside our bedroom door. She'd somehow lingered, and I think I knew why.

Ta, Bluey. I thought you'd gone down stairs. Last one there's a rotten egg?

I did. I was going to but...

But you were looking at the painting on the landing, weren't you?

It's so big? Val offered.

The painting on the landing was, by all accounts, huge. Dad had told us about the last fellow that lived in this vicarage – the Very Reverend Doctor David T. Clancy. Seems the fellow was obsessed with Pan, the Greek god. It was the reason he called the place Panshanger but I always found that a bit odd. Why a man of the cloth would name his house after a heathen deity was beyond me. Perhaps because it was before the war, between the wars, when things were different? Still, the chap had left some marvellous works of art scattered throughout the house. Some better than others. Some a bit more, shall we say risqué?

Yes, it is a big painting AND it has naked people.

Val giggled, as was Val’s want. We'd been living at Panshanger as long as I could remember but it still got a rise out of Blue every time she passed it. I guess she had just turned 14, so she was still a kid and things like nudity made her giggle. She stood by the monstrosity of painting, great grin on her face, staring and I knew at what.

Normally she’d make some passing remark about the girls in the painting, giggle and say LOOK! you can see that one's bum, you can see that one's boobs, look Freddie, look! They’re in the nuddy!

But today she said something a little more mature than that. Well, as mature as fourteen-year-old Bluey could be.

Look, Freddie, have you noticed how all four of the girls have red hair?

I hadn't, but they did.

Or how all four of them have lovely, long bodies? They're really quite graceful.

This was a grown-up way of describing them, more grown-up than the boobs or bums she'd normally talk about.

They must have been modelled on me.

Very funny, Blue.

Hey girls, what's funny?

It was Dad, still in his striped pyjamas, flannelette crumpled from a night of sleeping.

Are you looking at the painting? Yes, yes I know. It’s really rather fetching, don’t you think? It's an Australian classic by all accounts. A Sidney Long masterpiece, if I'm not mistaken.

But isn't that a bit odd – having a picture of a Greek God in a Christian house? I asked. Dad pushed the middle of his thick set glasses, square and held together with a wrapping around of what looked like bandage. I could see the crows’ feet beside his eyes, where he smiled the most. He was smiling now, behind tortoise shell and thick lens.

Yeah, I thought that too Freddie. But years ago, Greek gods were all the go. For some reason the previous owner of the house liked that devil Pan. There’s effigies of him all over the house, if you look closely enough.

Just then Blue spoke up.

"You mean Pan? As in the statue in the park in town?

I knew where Blue meant. You mean The Archibald Fountain?

Is that what they call it? She was being a smart arse.

Yes, yes they do. Two could play at that game. But I don’t think there’s a statue of Pan there.

Blue protested. Dad?

Dad looked at Blue, looked at me – I think he favoured her in that moment.

I don’t know love, I’m not sure. Maybe?

Blue regarded the painting, looked at Dad then looked at me as she opened her mouth.  

Tell us again why the girls are completely naked but the boys are only naked from the chest up?

This was too much, and I had to say something.

"Valerie Daphne Skeffington – you can't speak to your father like that. It's inappropriate. He is your father!