5. CHOOSING A BRA

Coming to terms with being a widow...

“He created a fuss in the fish and chip shop,” said the policewoman as she sipped her tea whilst hopefully not upsetting the person she thought must be the late lamented Mr Bramble’s wife.

“He did?” asked Ivan/Evana, raising his/her eyebrows, forcing herself to keep in character as a recently widowed woman.

If being told by a woman I’ve never seen before that I insulted her is causing a fuss, then maybe I did. But the truth is I’ve never been in that shop before and the b***h picked on me!

But he didn’t say any of this, much as he wanted to. Because they’d lock him up, that’s what they’d do, if he tried to explain that it was him and somehow he’d grown a pudgy bosom and lost his willy during the night. And yes, other things had happened, like his voice losing an octave or two and his Adam's apple disappearing into the void of dreamland. Instead,

“I wouldn’t mind some fish and chips myself,” he said.

“What? Now?” asked the policewoman, “they won’t be open yet!”

“After I’ve done some shopping,” he said, and added, cheekily he thought, “I need a new bra.”

“Oh.” That took the wind out of her sails! Though she can’t have any idea of what happened to me during the night that has made me think of buying bras…

“If I … if he was in that fish shop yesterday, how come he’s lying dead in the flat next door, and has been like that long enough for maggots to be crawling out of his nose?” he asked, thoughtfully.

“I was wondering that myself...” she frowned. “It does seem, what would you call it, inconsistent. Dead men donlt develop maggots for weeks, surely?”

“The flies have got to lay their eggs and the eggs hatch out,” he said, helpfully. “Mind you, it was warm in there on my, I mean on his, electricity, and that would have speeded them up a bit.”

“Good point,” she murmured, frowning.

“I think the heating’s coming on here too.” He was sure he could sense it. The kitchen wasn’t anywhere near as cold as it had been.

“They’ve probably reconnected the electricity,” nodded the policewoman. “I’ve got to ask you, how long have you known Mr Compton?”

“The man next door? The dead man?”

“The same.”

“I’ve lived here for about six months and I think he was already living next door then. But I’ve only seen him, very briefly, a couple of times. And he’s not Mr Bramble, my er… you know? He’s Mr Compton.”

“Are you sure of that? I mean, the electricity woman recognised him and she’s had quite a few dealings with him.”

“So have I,” murmured Ivan meaningfully, and he/she moistened her lips almost erotically.

“He’s got to be called Compton. Mr Bramble lives here, with you, and according to reputation upsets everyone he meets!” The policewoman was sounding as though she knew him.

Ivan decided to change the subject. He didn’t like himself being talked about as if he was someone very different from the real Ivan Bramble, who he thought, knowing himself as well as anyone would, was a generous, kindly yet down-trodden individual. Why, hadn’t he put up with no heating in his wretched flat for six months and yet paid the most almighty electricity bills for the pleasure and with barely a murmur of protest? And this policewoman never saw him at work, at the comprehensive school where he taught louts how to spell and imbeciles how to punctuate. If she had she’d look on him as some sort of saint.

And didn’t he need a bra before his new mammaries reached his belly-button? That thought smacked him in the face. It was easier to deal with than the inconsiderate and quite inaccurate opinions of others.

“How do you go about buying bras?” he asked the policewoman, and that question almost floored her.

This Bramble woman has got to be fifty, she thought, consulting her notebook to make sure, so she must certainly know how to go about buying bras! Why, even my husband knows how to do that, when he’s shopping for me, though he doesn’t always get the one I’d choose for myself. He’s a darned sight to fond of lace for my liking...

“Er, I go to Marks’s,” she said as if that was enough.”

“And size? I’d say you and I were about the same size, so what size do your buy?”

“Mrs Bramble, that’s personal!” snapped the policewoman, “and I must be back on duty. I’m sure you’ve bought enough bras in your life to know about choosing the right one!”

And she stood up to go.

But I don’t know… The thought horrified Ivan. He’d bought bras for Maureen when they’d been together, even once or twice venturing into shops on his own to buy them, but she’d told him all about sizes and stuff like that and written them down on a slip of paper. All he’d done, really, was choose the right shade of white…

The policewoman looked at him oddly as she made her way through the kitchen door.

“I’ll see myself out,” she said, somewhat tartly, and then she said, as though their conversation regarding Mr Compton had never been said, “it must have come as a bit of a shock, finding Mr Bramble dead like that.”

And she was gone.

I’m not dead! And I’ve never been in the flat next door, not once in forever. And I’m not a woman. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Have I gone mad? Is that what’s wrong, and I’m still the same Ivan Bramble that I’ve always been, not a woman at all and only imagine that my willy’s gone and my chest has sort of expanded, and sooner or later I’ll be back to me again…?

And dead… I’m not dead, am I? That bloke next door, he’s not me, he can’t be, can he? He’s very, very dead and I’m not because, hell, I need a new bra…

When Ivan had moved into the flat six moths ago it was because he’d split from Maureen and being the good sort he’d left her in their family home because it was the right thing to do. So all of her stuff, her clothes, her personal effects, her jewellery, even her antiperspirant, all those things had stayed with her. But…

When I packed my stuff into our holiday suitcase there might have been a few of her things in it already. In fact, I know there were and I wanted to keep them out of … anger, jealousy, something like that. I wanted to remember some of the things I’d done for her, like popping to the shops for underwear…

FOR UNDERWEAR!

He raced into the bedroom as if time might stand still if he didn’t, and pulled the large suitcase from where it was perched on top of his wardrobe. It was a small flat and on top of the wardrobe had been the only place he could think of putting it out of the way.

Inside were a few of his own odds and ends, braces for trousers that didn’t have loops for a belt, a posing pouch that Maureen had bought him one Christmas as a joke and which he’d only tried on briefly before deciding it wasn’t him at all, not even in fun, and half a dozen handkerchiefs…

And a bra and two pairs of Maureen’s most modest knickers!

He wasn’t sure how to go about wearing bras, but he pulled his tee-shirt off and slowly, fumbling and rather ineptly, he fastened the bra until his breasts were encased by the cups and felt fifty percent comfortable.

The size seemed about right after he’d loosened the straps a little, but he was a bit squashed.

Serve me right for having such big b***s, he thought, and grinned at having to even think such a thing.

Then he pulled his jeans off, removed the boxer shorts that seemed all wrong bearing in mind his changed physiology, and looked at where he manhood should be.

I could weep, he thought, I could really and truly weep… I had hopes for the future, real hopes when I found the right lass, for togetherness and love and, yes, sex…

And he slowly pulled on one of Maureen’s more wholesome knickers, and almost wept.

© Peter Rogerson 14.12.18