127B Claude road

Moving away from home to attend college had been hailed in my family home as a new and exciting prospect. My parents happy to see me spreading my wings and flying the nest to open a new chapter in my life, especially my father. I smiled and agreed however the excitement I felt inside was for entirely different reasons. 

Packing my suitcases for the journey South to Cardiff was tricky, precious bits of Charla wardrobe and many of her so so outfits had to be jettisoned - only her best stuff was secreted in amongst my civvies. My parents drove me down in the old Rover 2000 pulling up outside 127 Claude Road in a cloud of blue exhaust fumes one late September afternoon. Claude Road had seen better days it's long collection of anonymous mid victorian terraced houses in the west of the city were pretty run down. As we stood emptying my belongings out of the boot onto the pavement outside 127, my mother looked around nervously clucking and fretting about the parlous state of the exterior. The building was a three story terrace and did indeed look a little down-at-heel but when we finally struggled through the dingy hallway and up the two flights of narrow stairs, Flat B was a little dog eared but actually quite cosy inside and my poor mum finally seemed to relax a little and to my alarm rolled up her sleeves to help me unpack. It took a stroke of luck in the form of a booming female voice calling from downstairs to avoid her discovering my black stilettos and shimmery halter top. She hurried off to see who was source of the operatic voice, returning with a grin, 'You've got a proper old battleaxe of a landlady, Mrs Randolf I think she said her name was....we certainly don't have to worry about you getting into mischief here,' she chuckled, 'the funny old bird has invited us down for tea and biscuits, come on'.

My heart sank as I traipsed after the parents into Mrs Randolph's ground floor flat. It was like stepping into a time warp of the thirties, rich deep burgundy wallpaper and heavy lace curtains seemed to blur every edge, crystal chandelier grandly twinkled in the light of two old standard lamps and a slightly sweet sickly scent hung in the air. We perched on the overstuffed settee and watched the strange old lady wheel in a trolley that tinkled gently with willow pattern china cups and saucers and a silver cake stand. I was struck by the magnificence of her outfit, a dark green chiffon dress layered over a gold pashmina of some antiquity, from her ears dangled gold hoops, a large diamond stud was set in ear ear lobe and her iron grey hair was mostly covered by an outrageously grand turban of orange silk. My father was dumbstruck and quietly sipped his tea whereas my mum chattered happily away allowing me to take in the atmosphere. In one gloomy corner was a large bronze statue of two rather junoesque naked women erotically entwined, then as if the flood gates had been opened I noticed more and more oddities, an unmistakeably phallic ivory objet 'd'art stood proudly on the credenza, elsewhere risque prints and statuettes formed a major part of the decor. As I sipped my tea unsure of what to make of Mrs R she nimbly crossed her legs and I saw a flash of fishnet stocking and immaculate silver peep toe sandals. Not your run-of the-mill battleaxe landlady perhaps.

The first few weeks of term flew by in a whirl of social engagements, meeting new friends and parties but I was careful to maintain the sanctity of FlatB. It was wonderful to have my heels and remaining precious outfits hanging freely in a proper wardrobe instead of scrunched up and hidden away. Resources were scarce but I had manage to scrounge a basic make up kit off Morris before the Oasis debacle. So it was on quiet evenings I could make up and dress up in confidence, it was a wonderful landmark.

On a bus journey returning from a Museum outing my eye was caught by a familiar logo emblazoned on a shop corner, 'Sue Ryder'. I made a note of the address and looked forward to a saturday visit. The week boringly dragged by only enlivened by my first encounter with MrsR. She was on guard at the garden gate, where she curtly informed me that thursday was bin day and in future make sure that any rubbish was neatly disposed of on that day. I felt her gaze on me the whole way to the end of the street, quite an odd feeling.

Saturday arrived and annoyingly I awoke late and by the time I had navigated my way to the Roath Park branch of Sue Ryder's charity shop it was a-buzz with the blue rinse brigade. I didn't panic, Morris had taught me that we were after completely different items, even if the old biddies fancied the glam stuff they couldn't fit into it in a million years so I could relax and browse. The shop was a treasure trove of amazing garments, and soon I had an armful of booty including a pair of practically new red patent sling backs with a kitten heel and a silver lame swoop necked top. My haul safely bagged and content to walk back to my flat having spent every penny I owned! I swung around a scrum of old biddies as I made for the door I caught sight of none other than my landlady, a wash of cold sweat flashed on the back of my neck. I darted outside and trotted around the corner questions flooding my mind, had she seen me choosing silver lame tops and kitten heeled sling backs? What would she make of that? I had images of being evicted for immoral activities, the shame! I walked home distracted by depressing thoughts that my idyl had potentially been destroyed, as if to rub it in it began to rain heavily and by the time I reached my door I was drenched. I spent the evening sitting on my bed like a penitent trying to do course work but really waiting with bated breath for that booming contralto voice to summon me to account. I awoke with a start, my text books sprawled over the duvet still in my jeans and sweat top, it was two in the morning. I searched for a cup and ran a drink to water, the ancient pipes sounding like a distant Viking horn as they delivered the water. As I stood sipping I was sure that I could hear the faint sounds of a party coming from....MrSRandolph's. Surely the old girl couldn't be still partying in the wee hours? I silently opened my front door and crept down a flight of stairs, yes there was definately music and genteel ladies laughter coming from 127A. 

Sunday was grey and more rain fell from the heavens, my mood had lifted despite the terrible weather and by evening I had decided that MrsR couldn't spotted me at Sue Ryder's. I was in the clear! With glee I laid out my make up and new acquisitions to have a modelling session. The silver top worked beautifully and I loved the way it moved, I had a black pencil skirt that Morris had altered giving it a daring thigh high slash, the new red kitten heels didn't quite work with the black and silver but my trusty black court shoes were just right. A prized fifties wide black patent leather belt tightly buckled to accentuate my waist finished off the outfit perfectly. Another parting gift from Morris had been, as he described it a 'Bimbo look wig, not very Charla at all'. It was longer than shoulder length with platignum blond tumbling curls. I smiled as I adjusted it in the mirror the effect was a shock, suddenly there was an entirely different Charla smiling excitedly back me. I made a mental not to look in the junk shops along Wellfield road for a big mirror to parade myself in front of. I strutted around the room tossing the curls around like a moody bitch and giving myself fits of giggles. Then came a rapping of knuckle on my door. Oh my god, I froze then after a moment of sheer terror I realised that actually this was not my bedroom at home but MY flat and I was safe! 

I took a deep breath and called out, 'Yes?'

'Ah so, you are in', it was that heavy contralto of my landlady.

'Yes, but I'm afraid I'm busy at the moment Mrs Randolf, I'm....' 

'yes, yes, yes....all dressed up in your new heels and finery' she cut across my fib before I could even make it up. 'well dearie we have the house to ourselves so you can come downstairs for a sweet sherry and show me what you look like'. 

'I......" but my voice trailed off lamely as I heard her footfalls receded away down stairs.

My tummy full of crazy butterflies, I sat on my bed. This was a bolt from the blue putting it mildly, what the hell should I do? I was torn between; a quick change and fibbing denials or what? What was my other option? From downstairs music wafted up from MrS R's parlour where she no doubt sat like a giant spider in the midst of her web.  This little fly was well and truly trapped and eventually tiptoed carefully down stairs in her heels and 'Bimbo' wig to knock meekly on 127A's door. A giddying cocktail of emotions that coursed through me as I heard , 'Come in dear'. As my hand reached down for the door knob and I sensed that this was, like spotting the wig, like meeting Morris, one of those milestones in my crossdressing life.

That first frightening step into Mrs Randolf's parlour seemed a life time ago. The fear was misplaced as Mrs Randolf or Milly as I was to now call her was to take up the cudgels from Morris and take a keen interest in my femme developement but into realms I had not dreamed of.