As the car turned off the lane leading to Niamh’s house, and onto the road towards ours, I saw the security light outside our house come on. My heart sank: This could only mean one thing; my father had just driven or walked into the farmyard. For some reason, this was a much more troubling prospect than been seen by my mother wearing one of the Twins cheerleading skirts. She had, presumably been given an explanation by Niamh so would have expected to find me dressed like this when she called to collect me.

“Does he know?”

The “he” in my question was obviously my father. Having no brothers and with my elder sister attending boarding school there was no one else that would be expected to be around to set off the security light.

“No, I haven’t spoken to him since I heard from Niamh. He was in the machine shed.”

My fears confirmed by my mother’s answer, I could only await his reaction with mounting apprehension. Not being a natural mechanic, he tended to get a bit tetchy when he was working on the machinery. Most local farmers did a lot of the maintenance themselves as going to a garage or getting a specialist mechanic would have been too expensive.

The car pulled into the farmyard; the security light was still on. I undid the seatbelt, grabbed my bag with my wet clothes and tried to speak to my mother as if all was normal.

“OK, I’ll go and get changed.”

“First you get those wet clothes into the washing machine! A rinse and spin will do.”

I didn’t argue even though this would have meant my staying in the skirt and subject to my father’s probable disapproving eye for longer. Maybe he’s gone back into the machine shed? I opened the door and tried to get out without flashing my underwear…

“Knees together and swing your both legs out at the same time. Remember that next time!”

Again, that ghost of a smile as my mother watched me trying to climb awkwardly out. What did she mean by next time? Maybe Niamh had told her about the planned girl group? Not possible; Niamh hadn’t been aware of this herself until she had joined us after study and must have made the ‘phone call before that. I filed this in my mind as something to resolve another time and swung my two legs out, smoothed down my skirt and stood up. Just then my father walked out of the house and back towards the machinery shed carrying an insulated mug of tea: He was planning to spend a few more hours working on the tractor, or whatever; never a good sign. He looked at me, stopped, looked at my mother, then back at me, started to speak and then stopped. My mother must have put her finger to her lips behind my back.

“OK, get those clothes into the washing machine and put on some milk for the cocoa.”

My mother and I had a habit of drinking slightly sweetened cocoa at night, neither of us liking the overly sweet drinking chocolate available in the supermarket. I headed into the house, past my father, trying to walk normally and aware of his eyes following me. Once inside, I quickly put my wet clothes into the washing machine, stuffed my shoes with newspaper and left them in the drying room. This room had been added during a recent renovation of our now somewhat rambling house in order that wet coats, boots, waterproofs etc., could be taken off and left to dry before anyone got into the kitchen. Anyone familiar with West of Ireland weather will know the advantage of this facility. My mother came in from the machinery shed, where she must have been telling my father the background to my arriving home dressed as an American female cheerleader, just as I had finished sorting my clothes and shoes and was heading to my room to change.

“Come on, slowcoach!” she said as she hung the car keys on the keyboard. “Let’s have our cocoa. Your father won’t be in for a while.”

I assumed this to mean that she wanted me to start preparing the cocoa before I changed so I turned back from the door, got two mugs, measured the milk into a saucepan and started to heat it while I mixed the cocoa and sugar into a smooth paste in each mug. She busied herself setting the table and soaking porridge for breakfast the following morning. These days she would probably be regarded as belonging to the “slow food” tribe. Prepared or instant foods, frozen peas excepted, rarely crossed our threshold. I was happy to stay in the skirt now that she had seen me in it and my father wasn’t in the room beside me. Cocoa prepared, we sat at the kitchen bar on two high stools.

“Remember, knees together”, she reminded me.

I tugged at the hem of my skirt and complied.

We chatted for a while, school stuff mostly.

“The girls are thinking of doing a girl band act for the Christmas concert”, I eventually said, delicately broaching the subject.

“Oh, that sounds good, whose idea was that?”

“It kinda just emerged… we were talking about doing something for Christmas and that was where we left it.”

I let that sink in. My mother must have sensed that I had more to say.

“And what would you be doing?”

“They want me to join them. I suppose most groups have 4 or even 5 girls.”

My mother never mentioned the obvious; I wasn’t a girl!

“What did you say?”

“That there’s only 3 girls, but they thought I could fill in to make up the numbers.”

“And what do you think of that?”

How do I answer this question? How do I get to where I want to be, without making it obvious that I desperately wanted to be a part of this, dress as a girl, hang out with the girls even more than heretofore, be like a girl?

“I suppose they’re my friends; I don’t want to let them down.”

Sometimes I even surprise myself by coming up with plausible answers to difficult questions!

“And what about the rest of the school? Especially the lads. What would they say?”

My mother had identified one of my two big concerns: I decided to name the other.

“More importantly, what would Dad say?”

“I don’t know”, she mused thoughtfully. “Anyway, it’s time for bed”.

We put the cups into the dishwasher and I headed off, reluctantly taking off and folding my skirt and top. My mother waited up; she normally did when my father was working late. He’d usually arrive in covered in grease and nursing a cut hand from a spanner slip, or some similar injury. He was great with the animals; the machinery frustrated him. Later that night I caught pieces of conversation as they talked, mostly his voice which carried further…

“I don’t know… I wouldn’t want him to be seen as a Nancy-boy…”

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School passed off as normal the next day. Ciara’s mother drove us there and my mother picked us up at 4pm. Nobody mentioned the events of the evening before; in fact in school we never spoke of our study arrangement directly. None of us were really sure how this had come about but it was probably to avoid being seen as “swots”, an illogical fear as most of the townies were participating in the School Study Club. My mother dropped the twins off first and Ciara and I left our schoolbags in the old barn. She dropped Ciara off next, then on to our house, the furthest into the valley. I had a quick snack, changed into shorts and started off for Niamh’s house, carrying a waterproof jacket this time along with my jeans. My mother stopped me at the door and handed me a plastic shopping bag. I glanced inside; the skirt, top and underwear were neatly folded and smelled very faintly of fabric conditioner. My mother had laundered them sometime during the day. The shoes were also in the bag, wrapped in another bag.

Arriving at the barn at 5:25pm, the twins, Ciara and Niamh were already there, messing around with the DVD player. The Black Valley broadband was somewhat erratic and could not be relied on for streaming. Niamh had managed to get some DVD’s of some girl groups so the idea was that we would watch the DVD, miming along trying to follow the dance moves and develop a routine from this. I handed Niamh the bag with the clothes and thanked her. She took the bag and left it down on the study table. The Twins were wearing their cheerleading outfits; Ciara was in shorts.

We started off with the Spice Girls “Who do you think you are?” performed live. This was probably too ambitious as a start point. We found it hard to make any sense out of the choreography and, after about 15 Minutes, Niamh called a halt.

“This isn’t working girls; let’s try something else.”

I didn’t mind being referred to as one of the girls, in fact I was delighted. I rationalised this to myself as, being a prospective member of a putative girl group, it made sense. Niamh went to search through the pile of music DVD’s that she had obviously acquired from a charity shop, then stopped, picked up the bag of clothes she had left on the table and handed it to me.

“Let’s start by getting the look right first; you get changed. Saoirse, can you get a skirt for Ciara?”

I pretended to hesitate, then the three of us headed into the house. Saoirse and Ciara disappeared into the girls’ room and I headed for the bathroom to change. At least I’d have my own dry clothes to go home in tonight. Back out in the barn, Niamh had selected “Walk like an Egyptian” by the Bangles, not a live performance, more like an official video. The Bangles were a “real” band, their live performances were basically standing up and singing as they played their own instruments. The video was better to work from as, unencumbered by instruments, there was enough movement to give a semblance of a show. This attempt went much better and after about 20 minutes, Niamh, who had clearly taken over as leader, music director and choreographer, called a halt. It was now 6:15pm and we were late starting study. Aoife suggested that we do one more session at our break. Everybody agreed, and it seemed almost natural that we stay in our practice clothes at least until that session ended.

Breaktime came, some quick toilet breaks and, instead of practicing a dance routine, Niamh began by checking our voices. Fortunately, my voice hadn’t broken and I would easily manage two scales. The twins likewise had good singing voices; Ciara struggled but was, by Niamh’s definition, passable. Niamh then proposed that, instead of just miming, we should try to sing to a backing track. This would make for a much more authentic show, but would be much more difficult to perform. We agreed to give it a try. We did another hour’s study, then one more session of routine practice, and it was time to change back into my own clothes and head home. Niamh headed up to her studio to smoke her nightly herbal cigarette. I presumed that these cigarettes were hard to buy in the shop as Niamh rolled her own, somewhat crudely having to twist the ends to keep the herbal stuff from falling out. I thought to tell her some time of a box one of my English uncles had when here on holidays. There were compartments for the tobacco and paper. To make the cigarette, the paper was put into a slot, filled with tobacco and the lid closed: A passable cigarette appeared out of the slot at the top of the box.

Ciara’s mother drove us home the following day. She followed the normal practice, first Niamh’s house where she would drop off the twins and our schoolbags, then drop me at my house and finally back to her own. As we were turning into the laneway leading to Niamh’s house, we had to wait as another car was coming out. As it passed by, I recognised the car and driver as being our local Garda (police) Sergeant. He was wearing a civilian jacket over his Garda shirt, not unusual for him. We arrived at the house and got out to drop off our schoolbags in the barn. When we climbed back into the car we had to wait for a while as Ciara’s mother chatted to Niamh, then we drove off towards my house.

“I wonder what the Skip was doing in Niamh’s house”, Ciara mused. The Sergeant was known as the “Skipper”, “Skip” for short. This had been the naming practice for years and probably arose from the more junior Guards (police constables) giving that name to their local boss.

“He was just doing a crime prevention call”, Ciara’s mother replied.

I reckoned he must have called to all the houses; he would hardly just pick one out. We got to my house and I got out of the car. My mother and Ciara’s had a quiet quick word before the car drove off again.

“What did the “Skip” say?” I asked as I was having my pre-study snack, warm potato cakes.

My mother hesitated just for a minute.

“Eh, not much, we should have the key-box in a less obvious place and the shotgun should be locked up in a gun safe.”

I changed and headed off to study. Ciara and the Twins were there, no sign of Niamh. Ciara was wearing the same skirt that Saoirse had lent her yesterday. Aoife just handed me a bag with “my” skirt and top, told me to get changed as quickly as possible so as not to delay practice. This was becoming normal, and I wasn’t at all perturbed. I didn’t even feel the need to feign reluctance.

We practiced the routine for “Walk like an Egyptian” and got down to study on time. Niamh appeared at the break and handed out sheets with the song words printed. She played the DVD and we all sang along as best we could, our voices masked by the vocals on the tape. Niamh seemed preoccupied, a little “ratty” (short-tempered), unusually for her. We did the routine again after study, Niamh was there but didn’t go for her usual herbal cigarette afterwards. I changed and headed home.

The tractor and all the rest of the machinery must have been ok as my father joined my mother and me for cocoa and scones before I headed off to bed.

As I was going to sleep, I heard his voice…

“She’s lucky to have gotten away with a warning… you can get in trouble for using that stuff…”

I had no idea what he was talking about, maybe someone using marked agricultural diesel in their car?

“Shssss…”. My mother wanted him to keep his voice down so that I could go to sleep.

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Question: How can you tell that it’s summer in Ireland?

Answer: The rain gets warmer.

Winter was closing in. This is not the continental winter of long, dry cold spells punctuated by occasional snow. It was an Irish winter, lots of rain, sometimes warmer, sometimes colder. Farm work was reducing to a routine of care and maintenance. The milking, reduced to once a day in October, now ceased as the grass growth lessened into November. Dairy in Ireland is a seasonal business. Our grass-fed cattle give the best butter in the world, but grass feeding is only possible when the grass is growing and the land is dry enough to bear the weight of large animals standing on relatively small hooves. Even then, the milk at the start and the end of the season is generally used for the production of butter for the food industry, not the table.

Our routine changed. It was agreed that, coming from school, we would all be dropped off at the barn as opposed to going home first. My mother and Ciara’s would provide our pre-study snack on a loose, mutually agreed roster. It was felt that as Niamh was providing the location, cutlery and tableware, as well as looking after the washing up, she would have contributed more than enough. It worked out a little differently as we students quickly took on the job of clearing up and filling the dishwasher after we had eaten, and Niamh occasionally cooked. The arrangement worked exceptionally well as it meant that we were generally able to start practice at 5pm. It also worked academically; all four of us did very well in the midterm examinations and there was some muttering amongst our classmates about the Black Valley Brainboxs. As we tended to hang out together, we had developed a reputation of being a bit cliquish and I occasionally drew some flak for hanging out with the girls as opposed to playing soccer in the school yard.

We were also getting good at what had become, by now, a very sophisticated Karaoke act. Niamh had sourced a 4 microphone system with external sound connectivity, on Amazon. We had mostly moved off our original preferred groups keeping only “Who do you think you are?” from the Spice Girls and “The Song of the Underground” from Girls Aloud. We concentrated on some earlier groups: The Bangles gave us “Walk like an Egyptian” and “Walking Down Your Street”; from Banarama we picked “Really Saying Something” and their cover of the Doobies “Long Train Running”. We would probably only have time for two or three numbers for the actual concert. We each learned to lead on at least one number; I had two, “Walking Down Your Street” and “Really Saying Something". My voice was probably the strongest and I was a little disconcerted when Niamh remarked on the Castratos having the best voices in the 16th & 17th Centuries.

By the third week of November, we had four songs and routines picked for the concert and were well on our way to perfecting them. There would be various acts from four of the years; the state exam years, 3rd and 6th were not expected, or even allowed, to participate. It was decided that my mother and Ciara’s would negotiate our slot with the organising committee; for some reason Niamh was not regarded as being as influential with the school staff. Before doing this, they were to come over and see our act.

Thus it came to pass that, at 5pm on a wet and windy Wednesday evening in this third week of November, all three mothers came to see us perform. The twins, a year older and much more advanced than Ciara and me, as well as being natural show-offs, were at their very best. Ciara carried her lead number off adequately. I was a disaster! I had grown quite accustomed to dressing as and playing a girl’s role with my three classmates and Niamh. To have to do it in front of the other two mothers was somewhere between embarrassing and terrifying. What would they think? They knew I was a boy! This last point was not entirely logical as so did everybody else, but I did not see it that way at the time. My moves were wooden, I struggled to stay on key, I kept tugging at the hem of my skirt as I was overcome by a new, though overwhelming, belief that it was far too short.

The girls tried to console me, saying that I had just had an off-day, as the mothers conferred. Conference finished, the adults, in their infinite wisdom, diagnosed a severe case of double stage-fright brought on by my first time performing before an audience, albeit very small, and appearing in public masquerading as a girl. A remedy was proposed. We needed stage outfits and these were most likely to be sourced in Galway, a small city about an hour’s drive away, or if not there, Dublin. Niamh would bring the four girls to Galway on Saturday. Yes, four GIRLS. I was to be dressed, made up and coiffed as a 13 year old girl in order to get used to being seen as one in public. The Twins looked at each other and grinned; they were going to enjoy this! Despite my abject failure to perform adequately at the demonstration, I was both excited and nervous about the prospect of appearing in public, really in public, as a girl.

An additional remedy was also proposed. A dress rehearsal before an audience of neighbours, and whatever relatives could be drafted in from around the county, would be held on the evening of 7th December.