Dad’s New Dress

By Molly Anderson

An email wings its way across the sea and the desert arriving in Suzie's inbox one normal Wednesday afternoon.

What she discovers about her father in this email comes as a surprise to say the least.

Follow her story as she struggles to cope with her emotions in the present and her memories of the past.

Feel her turmoil as she examines her family relationships and tries to cope with the changes in her life.

Will Suzie come to terms with her new-fangled father? Will they start to rebuild a relationship?

Find out in this story, full of light and dark moments, about an ordinary woman with an extraordinary father.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035844722

Molly Anderson

Molly Anderson lives in a small town in Wiltshire with her husband and their cat. She is very involved with her local community and, when she isn’t writing, volunteers for a number of charities and organisations. One of her passions is sustainability so she and her husband work hard at reducing their impact on the environment. She also enjoys gardening and spends a lot of time outside tending her flowers and encouraging her plants to produce fruit and vegetables.

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About the Author

Molly Anderson lives in a small town in Wiltshire with her husband and their cat. She is very involved with her local community and, when she isn’t writing, volunteers for a number of charities and organisations. One of her passions is sustainability so she and her husband work hard at reducing their impact on the environment. She also enjoys gardening and spends a lot of time outside tending her flowers and encouraging her plants to produce fruit and vegetables.

Dedication

To Davina, who has led an extraordinary life.

To my long-suffering husband who spent many hours alone while I focused on my characters instead of him.

To my friends who read and re-read the various versions of this novel.

To the members of DWG3, you know who are, who supported and encouraged me throughout the long writing process. I’d never have finished the book without you.

Copyright Information ©

Molly Anderson 2024

The right of Molly Anderson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035844715 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035844722 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Part One – The News

Chapter 1

The email from her dad was in her inbox; Suzie found it shortly after she’d got home from work.

It was a typical Wednesday afternoon. After work, she’d been for her fortnightly pedicure. She liked to keep her feet neat which was a continuous battle when flip-flops and sand play havoc with your heels. Jack’s living room was hot and airless so she switched on the air conditioning then wandered into the kitchen fanning her face with her hand. Carefully, she held her glass under the water cooler then sliced a lime from the fruit bowl and squeezed it into her glass. Returning to the living room, she flopped on the beige, military-issue sofa, pulled her laptop lazily from the side of the sofa, switched it on and put her feet up on the coffee table, wiggling her toes to admire the sparkly pink varnish.

There were three notifications on her email account, one of which was from her dad. She rarely received any communication from him so immediately suspected the worst. Was he getting married again? Had his prostate cancer returned? Had he gone bankrupt? She wondered as she clicked the email and read.

I’ve sent the attached letter to your sister too. Read it and think about what I’ve said.

Suzie shook her head and tutted. "This is all a bit dramatic," she thought as she clicked on the attachment, watching as the circle on the screen turned ever so slowly around and around. Frustrated, she suspected that their internet was being tapped by their neighbours over the compound wall, yet again. It was siesta time so the ex-pats had shut up shop to eat, sleep or stream Indian cricket; all the locals had come home to eat, sleep and pray; and the westerners were either still working or playing golf, like her partner, Jack.

While the circle continued its slow rotations, she ran quickly up the stairs and into the bedroom to change out of her work clothes into something cooler and more comfortable. Wearing a light summer dress, she eased back down onto the sofa, took a mouthful of her water and peered curiously at the words which had appeared on the screen. Three short sentences:

Dear Louisa and Suzie, I’ve been living a lie all my life. Now I’ve turned 70, I’ve decided to live the rest of my life as a woman. My name is now Davina. Love Dad.

Suzie looked at the screen again to re-read the lines, shook her head then read them one more time. She pushed the laptop away, stood up and sat down, hysterical half-laughs escaping. "For God’s sake! This must be some sort of joke, it’s too weird to be true," she said aloud to the empty room. She jumped up from the sofa, a sense of dismay rushing coldly through her veins. She swayed slightly as she walked around the room, feeling as if she had been punched in the stomach. Her head exploded with thoughts that ran down labyrinthine rabbit holes and up mountainous molehills.

Her thoughts crystallised into a conclusion. She stopped still in the middle of the dining area clinging to the back of a chair: How will I tell Jack? We’ve only just met, what on earth will he think? How will I tell Michael and Peter?

Suzie looked at a family photo at her son Michael’s graduation ceremony the year before at military college. She ran her finger over each of them: Peter, Louisa, Michael, herself and her dad. Each one of them smiling proudly in a line in front of the magnificent building. She recalled that her dad had loved being there because he had also been a military man…exactly, a military man.

Her heart was palpitating, and her head was full of unasked and unanswered questions. What had happened to him? Had the desire to live as a woman always been there? How much had he been hiding for his entire adult life?

Standing upright and erect, inhaling and exhaling a few times, Suzie opened and closed her eyes while her brain attempted to sort out what needed to happen next.

Louisa, her sister? Has she read this email yet? She grabbed her phone from the coffee table with trembling hands and scrolled to find her number. It rang and rang. There was a four-hour time difference so she must still be at work. Suzie stabbed at her phone, Have you read Dad’s email?

Walking around the room, random words escaped, disappearing into the empty room, "Dad, a woman, that’s fucking ridiculous. He likes model trains. He does DIY. He fixes cars!"

Suzie looked at her hands; they seemed to belong to someone else, someone older with the shakes. Her stomach was churning and a wave of nausea started in her middle working outwards. Her eyes settled on her handbag on a hook by the front door. She delved inside, rummaged around and found her tobacco and lighter. Standing at the kitchen worktop, she managed to scrape together the last few straggly flakes to make one thin prison stick. Turning around, she spotted the fridge and yanked the door wide open. A box of wine invited her in. She picked it up and gave it a shake. It was reassuringly heavy. Suzie held her glass under the tap and pressed watching the cool, yellow liquid flow slowly; tasting it before it even reached her lips. She took a big gulp and took her two worst habits out to the back garden step.

The first drag went straight to her knees, wine and tobacco are a powerful combination. Her hands became clammy and she immediately felt nauseous. The second drag worked through the initial, physical shock of the tobacco. Her head swimming with the delicious mixture of toxins, she contemplated the enormous, invasive and dangerously beautiful bougainvillaea climbing over the back garden wall and across the shed roof, the thorns hiding between the papery, pink petals could take your eye out. Her eyes settled on the lemon tree in the corner; she stood up and walked over to it, pulled the leaves aside and peered at the fruit ripening on the branch.

Why have you only got one fruit, Mr Lemon? I’ve cut the thorny bugger back so you have plenty of light. You need to try harder, she said to it. She looked down and focussed on the black irrigation pipes running through the beds like snakes then wandered to the tap at the wall and turned it on. Immediately, spray flew out every which way, wasting the precious water. She hurriedly pushed the pipes further into beds, again speaking to inanimate objects.

Stop it, get in there, spray on that blooming lemon tree, it needs some help.

Satisfied with her work, she returned to the step, downed her first glass of wine and stubbed out her rollie in the ashtray by the step, twisting it thoroughly until the last orange spark was out. Her mind would not allow her to be distracted for long and drew her back to the question in point.

She spoke aloud to the wall, the steps and the plants, "Who can I trust with this information? Who can I call? Who will be supportive? But more to the point, what will I say? Hey, you know my dad, the one with the complicated life? Well, he’s just told me he wants to live as a woman."

It was mad. Suzie had to work out how she felt about it first, beyond this immediate feeling of confusion and disbelief.

She returned to the fridge and refilled her glass. She looked at her watch and then at the clock on the wall. It was still only three thirty in the afternoon. She had to occupy herself or she’d be pie-eyed by dinner time. Besides, in her experience, wine for dinner never ends well, especially on a school night. Slightly befuddled, she decided information was power. Back in the living room, she eased herself onto the sofa and lifted her laptop slowly from the coffee table. She closed the letter and typed with shaky hands: ‘Men living as women’. Slowly, but surely the Google results loaded. She worked her way down the page clicking on each site, and each time the message, ‘This site is unavailable’ appeared. She screwed up her mouth and breathed out, frustrated, remembering she was currently sitting on a sofa in a Muslim country.

She tried a different question: ‘What is a transvestite?’ She sort of knew the answer to that; she’d seen the film Kinky Boots. This time it worked and she read aloud, A transvestite is usually a man who likes to wear women’s clothing but still wishes to remain a man. Transgender refers to any person who wishes to live as their non-birth gender.

Thank you, Google, she said to the empty room.

All she needed now was to know which of these her father was. The only way to know was to ask. Therefore, she had to acknowledge the email.

Chapter 2

Before Suzie was able to write anything, she needed another fix. In the kitchen, the contents of the pouch on the worktop revealed only a few stringy bits. She remembered that she’d bought a box of five pouches at the duty-free last time she’d come through the airport. Scrabbling through the drawers and cupboards, she triumphantly held up a fresh, new packet.

After topping up her glass, she returned to the back step to roll up while composing a few unsuitable emails in her head. "Dad, will you wear dresses all the time or only at the weekend? Or Dad, are you still Dad?" or Does this mean you are going to have that op where they turn your penis inside out?

She slowly shook her head, thinking, Good Lord, this is going to be difficult.

The confused cockerel in the neighbouring garden was crowing, he was at it all day and most of the night. Sipping her cold, white wine and dragging slowly on her roll-up, a couple of memories came back to her that hadn’t really meant much at the time.

The first was at a party about fifteen years previously with the theme of vicars and tarts. Dad and his wife of the time, a Japanese woman called Hoshiko, came up from London to her house on the train. He arrived in the garden calling out, We’re here! stopping in a ta-da pose, one arm up and one arm down. Her dad was dressed in a black, PVC mini-skirt; a low-cut, black satin blouse over an obviously stuffed bra; black, fishnet stockings and high heels; the look was completed with a black wig which he kept flicking from his face during the course of the afternoon. He’d evidently made a tremendous effort. At the time, they thought it was simply part of the party fun. While in charge of the barbecue, he looked comfortable and contented and posed eagerly for the camera clearly relishing wearing women’s clothes.

The second incident happened the previous summer. Suzie had rented a small property close to her dad’s place in Spain, her youngest son Peter and his girlfriend were joining her there for a few days. After dropping them off at the airport at the end of their visit, she drove up to her dad’s where she would stay for another day or two. She was a little earlier than anticipated so waited at the gates and beeped the horn. The dogs went mad which clearly attracted her dad’s attention. Suzie saw a figure coming around to the front of the house. She screwed up her eyes to see better, the person was wearing what appeared to be a black thong and slip-on sandals. "Has Dad got a lover?" But no, that wasn’t a woman in bikini bottoms. It was her father. He glanced up the drive at her then dashed inside. A couple of minutes later, he strode up the drive fully clothed in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, called to the dogs, opened the gates and let her in. Nothing was said by either of them. Suzie was too stunned. Goodness knows what her father had felt.

Suzie now realised that together these memories were very significant and with them fresh in her mind, she returned inside, sat down on the sofa yet again and started an uncomfortable email:

Dear Dad. Thank you for your letter. As you can imagine, it is quite a shock and it will take me some time to get used to the idea.

As her fingers stumbled over the keyboard, she felt even more nauseous and slightly inebriated. She shook her head and leant back against the cushion and took a deep breath, thinking, There’s no way can I do this now. I just can’t find the words. She saved it in the drafts folder and shut the laptop, closed her eyes and sighed, letting her breath out slowly and deliberately.

Suddenly, she remembered the washing she’d put out that morning on the upstairs terrace. She made her way slowly up the two flights of stairs and out onto the terrace to the washing line. The leftover smell of lunchtime chicken drifted upwards combined with the ever-present, heady scent of luban, a type of frankincense which was burnt in every Omani household. The minaret of the local mosque with the four loudspeakers, one directed straight at their compound, was almost within reaching distance. There was a familiar click as the Muezzin switched on the sound system and began the azan for the Maghrib prayers. What he lacked in tunefulness, he made up for in volume and enthusiasm and the deafening din drowned out her complicated thoughts. Having lived in Oman for a few years and having heard the call to prayer five times a day, she knew many of the words that she now muttered under her breath as she unclipped the pegs and folded the clothes, placing them carefully in the basket. She and the Muezzin finished their tasks at the same time.

Suzie looked across the warren of houses below to watch lines of male family members in their unfeasibly white dishdashas traipsing out of their homes towards the entrance of the mosque where they would kick off their sandals and wash their feet. Their lives are so simple, nothing like mine. She turned to walk back into the house with her basket of clothes and headed down the stairs in slow motion to their bedroom to put them away. As she opened the drawers and cupboards, memories were released and fluttered around her head like butterflies.

Her parents had bought a house to try one last time to make their marriage work and live together as a family. Sadly, things hadn’t worked out, so they’d had to sell it. Her mother wisely invested some of her portion in accounts with the Post Office for Louisa and Suzie. Their father, escaping the failure of their marriage, went to work as a nurse on one of the many oil worker compounds in Saudi Arabia at the time. During one of his breaks, he arranged a holiday for the three of them to Greece and Egypt. The year was 1978. Snippets of that holiday returned to her as she walked around their bedroom.

***

Suzie is proudly swinging her new bag, long-handled with a fringe along the bottom, a copy of an Athens guidebook stuffed inside.

The three of them are climbing over the stones around the Acropolis and the Temple at Ephesus.

She is happily dancing the Cha-Cha-Cha with her dad on the small cruise ship called the ‘City of Andros’, benign smiling faces of elderly passengers watching as they twirl around the dance floor.

Louisa and she are sitting on old leather chairs in the waiting room of the Egyptian Embassy while their dad is in an office with a stern man in uniform trying to get their visas.

A sense of claustrophobia overwhelms her as they bend over double to shuffle up the tunnels to the chamber inside the pyramids.

They’re at the dining table in the hotel and she is eating her first-ever pomegranate with a toothpick, the splashes of red juice land like blood on the white tablecloth.

Her stomach pains are followed by an acute bout of diarrhoea on the train from Cairo to Luxor and the stench of urine and faeces in the toilet cubicle plugs her bum for ten hours.

Louisa looks so grown-up in her purple bikini as she lies on a sunbed by the fancy hotel pool in Luxor.

Then, a conversation around the dinner table in Cairo on their last night. She twists her hair in her fingers as she says:

Daddy, I’d like to come back with you.

What do you mean, Suzie?

After the holiday, I want to come and live with you.

Don’t be silly, Suzie. You can’t go and live with Dad; he lives in Saudi Arabia. Louisa puts great emphasis on the name of the country.

So, I can still live with him. She pouts and pulls a face at Louisa.

You can’t, Suzie, sighs Dad.

Why not? I won’t be naughty.

Suzie, there’s no space in my flat, I only have one bedroom.

I’ll sleep on the floor, I don’t mind. Really, Suzie’s voice is quavering, and the tone of her voice rises slightly with each word.

You can’t go to school there, Suzie. And I have to go away sometimes, there’s no one to look after you. You just can’t come with me, love.

But why not? I really want to. The tears fall slowly and roll down her cheeks. She sniffs loudly, I really miss you when you’re away all the time.

What about Mum? She hears Louisa’s voice, You’ll miss her if you’re living with Dad. And she’ll miss you.

Mum’s got Bill and you. She won’t miss me. Daddy hasn’t got anyone. The tears are falling faster now and her nose is running. She wipes her nose on her sleeve.

Come here, love. Her dad rises from his chair and holds out his arms. She leans into him, her head on his warm, firm stomach as he puts his strong arms around her. She can smell his familiar Old Spice. She is sobbing by now and the tears and snot are leaving wet marks on his checked shirt. She’d tried to be with her dad but had swiftly lost.

The next day, they are at Cairo Airport. Louisa and she are flying back to London with British Airways and Dad is returning to Riyadh on a later flight.

Hi there. I need to check my daughters in. They’re flying back to London on an accompanied flight. They’ve been here with me on holiday. He is smiling