I imagine there’s a ton of ways you could answer that, but to me it’s kind of a snippet from a life – fictional or otherwise. The once upon a time rarely starts with the birth of the main character, and when it does, there’s usually a fast forward to a point where the child has grown up before the action really starts. Likewise, the happily ever after rarely ends with the MC’s death – I guess not a lot of ever after to be happy in if it did.

So, what defines the snippet? A story usually focuses on a particular set of related events. It starts with the first event that changes the course of a life and ends with the resolution of all the changes that happen. Either the situation is fixed, or the characters come to terms with the new reality.

I’m kind of into stories.

My own starts the day I won a prize for writing one.

It was one of those sorts of “voluntary” competition that you get in schools, you know where everyone is “encouraged” to take part, and generally there are consequences if you don’t. It didn’t bother me much, but then I was probably one of a small minority who enjoyed the challenge.

Yeah, it was a writing competition. One of the school’s attempts to improve literacy, an area where the last OFSTED visit had said they were failing. It wasn’t the greatest of successes given that probably a third of the kids in my class still struggled to write much more than their names – well okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but most of them genuinely couldn’t fill much more than a page in a lesson.

They thought they’d encourage us by letting us write about whatever we liked, fiction or fact, local or global (or beyond). If anything, that helped contribute to the overall failure of the venture, because not only were most of my contemporaries lacking in will and skill when it came to writing, but they also had seriously underdeveloped imaginations.

Some of the least awful entries, as I understand it, where attempts to recreate favourite TV shows or computer games. Most couldn’t even be called fan fiction given that they didn’t stray beyond the existing story line.

In the end, out of the two hundred or so students in my year there were only a couple of dozen entries that were in with even a vague chance of winning.

And mine outshone them all – apparently.

“Take a risk,” we’d been told. “Write about the things you’re passionate about, write about something new, something different.”

So, I did, and I did. Not so much the last one, but I did allow someone to read what I’d written which was probably the biggest risk of all.

It was a fantasy adventure I’d been thinking about for some time where the brave knight is transformed by an evil magician into a beautiful damsel and forced to be his consort. She learns the secret of his power and succeeds in destroying it, sacrificing her only chance of ever being changed back, but saving the land from the sorcerer’s tyranny. The story ends with her coming to terms with her new self and discovering that she’s gained more than she’s lost.

I called it “Knight in White Satin”. Kind of after the Moody Blue’s song, but not with the same meaning, obviously.

So yeah, there’s another thing about me, and this is where the risk came in. I have a kind of trans thing going, which for all sorts of reasons has never surfaced, the main one being that it would be the end of my life at school if anyone ever found out.

There was this kid a couple of years ago came out as trans. He started coming to school in a skirt and insisted on being called Jenny. I don’t think she made it through a whole day the rest of the year. The girls resented her and wouldn’t talk to her, the boys in her year would beat her up whenever they could, and even the kids in the younger years would laugh at her and call her names. I felt sorry for her, but there was no way I could talk to her without becoming a target as well. Besides, I was a couple of years younger than her and she probably wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with me. She lasted half a term before her parents withdrew her from the school.

I never did find out what happened to her. I can only hope she found a kinder part of the world to live in. It was enough of a warning though, so I kept my own confused thoughts bottled up and only let them out through my writing.

I’m not sure what I was thinking handing in a piece of TG fiction, but I had a good relationship with Mrs Meredith, my English teacher, and I trusted her to be discreet.

It turns out that wasn’t so much an option for the competition winner, and my offering was so much better than anything else that was handed in. It was about fifty thousand words for one thing, which made it five times longer than the next longest offering, and to use my teacher’s words, “it was a real page turner, a genuine pleasure to read, unlike most of the other submissions.”

She wanted to play down the content of the story, but she wasn’t the only teacher on the judging panel. Somehow the head heard about it, and with LGBTQ rights being the current major focus of political correctness in the education system, he insisted on announcing my win at the last assembly of the year.

He actually read an excerpt from my story to the whole school body, and said how proud he was that a pupil in his school should write a story with an LGBTQ character in the leading role. I think maybe he was overcompensating for the way things had gone with Jenny, but whatever his misguided reasons, he ended up hammering a fistful of nails in my coffin with his address.

I cringed through it all, but I was well aware of the evil glares directed my way from pretty much everyone sitting around me. Fortunately, the assembly was the last thing that happened before we were let loose on the world for the summer. I was called up on to the stage to accept my prize, then ushered out of the hall by Mrs Meredith.

“I’m so sorry,” she said to me. “I tried to tell him it was a bad idea, but he just wouldn’t listen.

“It’s a slight bending of the rules, but you should go now. Grab your bag and go home. Hopefully by the time the summer’s over everyone will have forgotten. In the meantime, I hope the prize will make up for at least some of this. It really was a good story, Gavin.”

Yeah, as if I didn’t have enough to live down without a name like that. We don’t have anyone named Stacey in the school, but it seems that’s not enough of an obstacle to the truly moronic, and I’ve spent most of my time at school enduring a more or less constant onslaught of, “Where’s Stacey, Gavin?” and similar.

I told you the school population isn’t long on imagination.

I have to accept some responsibility for my predicament. I’ve never been confrontational and could probably have saved myself a fair amount of heartache if I’d simply stood up to the taunts on my first day, but I just don’t have it in me.

I mean it isn’t even an insult. What gets me is the incessant repetition. I’ve no personal experience with Chinese water torture, but I have to believe it works on the same principle. It left me screaming inside, but I was convinced that if I did fight back, especially after all this time, it would escalate the hostilities directed my way.

Mind you, that ship had now officially sailed. However much Mrs M might hope for this to blow over, I couldn’t share her optimism.

The head start wasn’t that much use. My bus left the same time regardless, but with some luck there would be other people waiting when I reached the bus stop, and that might be enough to keep any of my Neanderthal peer group from getting physical at least.

My luck did hold that far. I was awarded a few suspicious looks from the half dozen or so older people already waiting, but they turned somewhat sympathetic when a mob of numpties from my year came charging up a few minutes later. Not all of them rode the bus, but they arranged themselves around me and started with a variation on their usual jibes.

“Hey Gavin, or do you prefer Stacey?”

“Yeah, Gavin is Stacey, who knew? Hur, hur.”

I mean who laughs like that?

“Enjoy your Summer, Stavin, or do you prefer Gacey?”

“Yeah, Gacey. Gay-cey, get it? Hur hur.”

“You are dead meat, hear me? Dead. Meat.”

Those last two words were accompanied by a shove each. It was enough to prompt a response from the other’s waiting in the queue. Not much more than a slight shift in position and a distinct glower – I mean this is England after all, what do you expect? It was enough to get the haters to back off though.

“Hey, Gacey-Stacey, what did you win?”

Fortunately, I’d made use of my short reprieve at the stop to tuck the envelope into my bag, otherwise I’m sure I’d have been playing piggy in the middle with it. I ignored the question and prayed for the bus to arrive soon.

“Hey Gavin, I asked you a question.”

The arrival of the bus saved me having to respond. I endured a couple more half-hearted death threats while I waited my turn to board. The downstairs was full, apart from one aisle seat next to a middle-aged lady of substantial girth. I would normally prefer to go to the upper deck for this ride, but today I was glad of any opportunity to avoid my peers. I apologised and settled on what remained of the seat next to her. She gave me a withering look and graciously offered me a couple of additional inches. The rest of my class headed upstairs leaving me to my somewhat cramped but very welcome peace.

The next challenge would be getting off the bus. Wayne Barnes lived around the corner from me and would get off at the same time. There was unlikely to be anyone at the bus stop when I got off, which meant he’d have his chance then. I could stay on to the next stop, but then he might do the same just to spite me, then he’d have the whole half mile walk back to make my life misery. The stop before wasn’t an option as it was a full two miles from home.

Wayne came down well ahead of the stop just to make sure I was still there. The look he gave me didn’t bode well for my immediate future. All I could do was endure the onslaught for however long it took to get home.

Except there was someone waiting at the stop. Not much of a reprieve as I imagined they’d be getting on. I made my way to the front of the bus where Wayne stood close enough to be intimidating and to stop me from making a break for it as I’d been hoping.

Then I recognised who was waiting at the bus stop and I wasn’t sure if I was more relieved or mortified. For some reason, my mum had come to meet me.

The door opened and Mum smiled at me as I stepped down. “Hello Sweetie,” she said, “Mrs Meredith phoned to say you had some good news. I know you don’t like me doing this, but I was just so curious, I had to come down.”

Wayne stepped off behind me and walked past, making throat slitting actions behind Mum’s back.

I let out a sigh, unaware I’d been holding my breath. I had my reprieve after all. I forced a smile for my saviour and tried for some enthusiasm.

“I won a prize for a writing competition at school. The head presented it to me at assembly.”

“Well, what is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s in an envelope. I thought I’d wait till I was home before opening it.”

“Well, let’s get you home then. I’m proud of you Gavin. I know you don’t like it much at that school.”

Master of the understatement my mum.

I stared at the letter with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. I’d read through it three times so far and it still hadn’t sunk in.

Mum plonked a mug of tea in front of me, along with a plate of biscuits – it seemed this really did merit a celebration.

“Well?” She picked up a biscuit and nibbled at it delicately.

I’ve always wondered what it must be like to eat a biscuit like that, but it’s not really something I could try in public without someone passing comment. I took one of my own, bit off half of it and swallowed it down with a mouthful of tea – still a little too hot.

“It’s a week’s summer school in creative writing at Marlborough College. All expenses paid. They have other activities going on that I can do if I want, but that would be extra.”

“Marlborough, that’s in Wiltshire I think.” Mum reached for her tablet and tapped away. “Wow, it looks rather up market. Are you sure that says all expenses paid?”

I passed the letter over and let her read for herself.

“This isn’t for a few weeks yet,” she said. She looked up at me and melted into a smile. “I’ll talk it through with your dad. It doesn’t look like it’ll mess up our holiday plans, but we’ll have to make arrangements to get you there and back. I don’t need to ask of it’s something you want to do, do I?”

I shook my head. For the first time in a long time, the smile on my face reached all the way up to my eyes. This might even be worth what I had to look forward to when I went back to school.

“So, can I see this piece of writing that everyone’s so impressed with?”

Some joys are short lived. My veins filled with ice and my brain went into overdrive.

“Mrs Meredith has it,” I said. It was something of the truth. She definitely had a copy, but the original was sitting on my computer upstairs.

“Don’t you have it on your computer?”

“I deleted it.” Okay, that wasn’t so much brain in overdrive as in panic mode.

“Why would you…”

“Mum, it’s really not that good.”

“Your teacher seemed to think it was, and they wouldn’t be sending you to this place if they didn’t think you deserved it.”

“Mum, please.”

She can be slow to take the hint sometimes, but she does take it eventually, usually. She did this time.

I buried the chance of her looking for a different approach by stuffing down the rest of the biscuits.

“Gavin, don’t spoil your appetite.”

As if I could. I spend most of my life hungry. Both Mum and Dad comment regularly on how much food I eat and how little there is to show for it. Probably another reason for trying to keep my head down at school – I’m something of a scrawny runt.

I finished my tea and headed for my room. The summer started here, and I didn’t really want to be stuck in my school uniform for any longer than I needed.

I felt in too good a mood to write, so I fired up the Playtendo Box for a bit of escapism. Most of my stories grow from my discontentment, and I felt anything but that at the moment. For all that I wasn’t looking forward to going back to school, that was six weeks away and not a problem for the present.

I’m more of a puzzle games person. I don’t have the aggression for first person shooters, unless it’s Lara Croft of course, and even then, I mainly play the game for the thinking side of it. Whenever I have a combat challenge, I usually end up looking for walkthroughs to get me past them. Yeah, it’s cheating I know, but I kind of freeze up and fail hopelessly while the grizzly bear or T-rex or whatever tears me apart. I’d reached one of the good bits though, where it was all about climbing around a largely deserted ruin, looking for all the hidden passages and secrets. I kind of lost myself in it for over an hour before Mum called up the fifteen-minute warning for tea.

It’s a fair compromise. Mum gives me enough warning to reach a save point and I keep to the time limit she sets, that way she doesn’t get mad because tea’s getting cold while I’m still playing, and I don’t get mad because she comes upstairs and pulls the plug on me losing half an hour’s progress.

Yeah, it took us a while to reach the compromise, but things are better now we both talked it out.

Mum and I talk through most things.

Not my stories – that’s kind of private. I’m not ready to talk to them about the trans bit of me, not yet – maybe never.

“I hear you’re a budding J K Rowling,” Dad greeted me as I came into the kitchen.

Yeah, we eat in the kitchen. The house isn’t that big and we prefer to keep the lounge/diner as a large lounge. The kitchen’s fine, means the food hasn’t got so far to go, and it’s big enough for the three of us.

J K Rowling? I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t know if my stuff would have such a wide appeal. Besides, with all her recent terf rhetoric, I’m not sure I particularly want to be associated with her.

I was ready to eat, and managed to shovel a few forkfuls of bangers and mash into my face before Dad switched from declarative to interrogative.

“So, what’s it about, this story of yours?” At a guess Mum had put him up to the fishing expedition.

“Kind of fantasy,” I managed with as much nonchalance as I could squeeze past my mouthful of food. “Brave knight fights the evil magician, wins the day, lives happily ever after. That sort of thing.”

“Oh come on, there has to be more to it than that.” Yeah, Mum definitely had him fishing.

So, I switched to my first line of defence. I started going into some fairly tedious detail about how the magic was supposed to work in this story. I talked about my concept of the dragons of old, that rather than dying they all went to sleep, and when the last and youngest of them became too lonely, she settled into her own final resting place. I described how millennia later, the magician dug the foundations for his castle into the hill where aeons of time had buried her, and discovered one of her tears, which became the source of his power and the means he used to overthrow and oppress the land around him.

I could see both parents beginning to glaze over and I wasn’t even close to introducing the more embarrassing bit. I took pity on them. “Anyway, more like that,” I said, “until the brave knight comes along, faces the perils of the magician’s magic and wins the day.”

You could see Dad was happy to be off the hook. Mum had a look about her like she’d been duped but couldn’t figure out how. I kind of bit back the smile which was fighting to take over my face and eased the conversation down new, if vaguely related, lines.

“So, do you think I could go on this course, Dad? I’d really like to.”

Dad looked to Mum, diplomatically sharing the responsibility. She shrugged, so all was well. “I don’t see why not. We’ll have to figure out how to get you there and back…”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” I said. “I could take the train. The one to Marlborough leaves from King’s Cross which is the same station I’d get into going from here, so the change would be easy.”

Okay, I confess, I didn’t spend all my time playing games. I read up a bit on Marlborough College – including how to get there – before firing up my console. Marlborough Mound had me intrigued, and I wondered what my favourite archaeologist/tomb raider might have made of it.

“Well… I suppose.”

“It would make things easier,” Mum added her approval to the idea, which more or less sealed it. Not that it wasn’t pretty much a done deal anyway.

“Your Mum and I have been talking,” Dad added. “We won’t have to feed you for the week, so we should be able to afford a little extra. If you can see anything else going on there during the week, we should be able to subsidise one or two additional activities if you like.”

“Really?” The excitement was back, no need to fake anything, and I’m guessing from their smiles it was pretty obvious.

The hard thing was getting through the next few weeks. We had a couple of weeks camping in the south of France, which was exciting enough, but I was filled up with the prospect of spending a whole week in a place like Marlborough College, living in the shadow of Merlin’s final resting place.

Okay, that was probably just wishful thinking, but it was still food for a fantasy writer. I found myself exploring different ideas in my head. I’d read a piece of TG fiction online at some time in the past about a place called the Hemlock Stone. The writer had suggested it as the location of Morgan le Fay’s tomb. In the story the witch had reawaken and turned the main character into a young girl before being defeated.

My head swam with different ideas. I loved the thought of Albion’s heritage including some form of powerful magic. The sensible side of me insisted it was all make-believe, but I’ve learned that a healthy dose of fantasy helps you to survive if you’re stuck between worlds like me.

I enjoyed France, swam, surfed and soaked up a ton of sunlight, tried my first taste of wine – not overly keen – ate all sorts of weird things – again not keen on snails or frog’s legs – overall did all the things you do on holidays and came back feeling as rested and relaxed as my mum and dad seemed to be.

I know they worried about me not having friends. They kept suggesting I invite some of them round, which I countered by saying they lived a long way away. I did head out most days once we made it back home, saying I’d arranged to meet with friends in town. That was as bald a faced lie as I ever told though. If I’d been unfortunate enough to meet anyone from school, I’d have done anything to make sure they didn’t spot me. Fortunately, they were pretty much all glued to their computers and consoles, so I had the town to myself most days. It wasn’t time wasted, I got to wander around the shops dreaming impossible dreams and putting together ideas for stories, some of which I started once I was home and in front of my computer. I had them all in a hidden directory, which was no major piece of security, but beyond the technical capacity of my Mum at least, and hopefully not something Dad would think to look for. On one of my shopping expeditions I’d invested a lump of accumulated pocket money in a decent sized memory stick. One of the features I liked about it was that it had an application on it that allowed me to encrypt part of the memory. My more personal stories went in there and a few less incriminating ones went into the open area, just in case snooping eyes came anywhere near.

Finally, the day arrived. Mum lent me her tablet, which was an amazing sacrifice on her part. It had a separate keyboard so I could use it as a computer. Apart from that I had clothes enough to make it through the week, washing things, and a selection of extra things they suggested on the off chance I had an opportunity to try something new and different while I was there. Dad gave me a stack of spending money, which he said was for addition activities if I found anything I was interested in, and they sent me off with my phone charged and topped up. No excuse not to call.

The train journey was relatively uneventful. I had the packed lunch Mum had sent me off with, along with a few packets of biscuits (wouldn’t melt in the summer heat like chocolate) so I had supplies enough to see me through till I reached my destination. It was a typical train journey on Britain’s railways, which is to say long, tedious, dirty to the point of being disgusting, but otherwise endurable. There was a minibus waiting at Marlborough train station, which was where I found I’d actually been sharing a carriage with several other kids going to the summer school. They seemed to know each other though and kept to their clique, so I let them and stayed in my clique of one.

My room was clean if a little sparse. The view from my window looked out on a central, immaculately maintained lawn. Once I’d unpacked and called Mum to let her know I’d arrived, I headed out to explore the grounds. I knew when and where to go for dinner as they called it – tea in my household – and I’d been told my time was my own until then.

It didn’t take long for my feet to find their way to the foot of the Marlborough Mound. It wasn’t as impressive as I’d hoped, but it was still pretty cool. Definitely round in shape, maybe sixty feet to the top (actually I already knew from my research that it was nineteen metres tall). There was a path spiralling round the base and up the side to a circular path at the top. It only took a half hour or so to explore the whole thing, including finding the grotto entrance on the South East side (can something that’s circular have a side?). The grotto entrance had a locked grill in front of it, so no exploration possible. Besides, it only dated back to the seventeenth or eighteenth century whereas the mound dated back to the same sort of age as Stonehenge, twice as long ago as when Jesus was around, and I can’t even get my head around that long a time.

I made my way to the top and found a quiet place to sit and look out over the Wiltshire countryside.

“Hey lads, what do we have here?”

I looked over my shoulder to find a group of boys of about my age but substantially more than my size. I’ve already mentioned, that’s not hard, but these guys were solidly built even for kids our age. They wore Marlborough College uniforms, which made this their territory and not mine. I did wonder what they were still doing here, but it was a passing thought since they had ideas of their own regarding me.

I sighed and stood up. “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Well you should have thought of that before coming here, shouldn’t you?”

Why did I always seem to attract people like this?

“I’m here for the summer school,” I offered.

“Well duh! We all are. What are you here for, weightlifting? Or no, maybe it’s the ballet. Did you remember to pack your tutu?”

As usual there was just the one of them speaking. The rest seemed to be there for the cheap laughs and to act as a sort of human barrier. In next to no time they had me surrounded.

“Please, let me go.”

“He’s not very friendly is he lads?” The alpha gave me a gentle shove. It acted as a signal to the others who joined in.

There was only one thing to do under circumstances like these. I crouched down and wrapped my arms around my chest. That and try not to cry of course. Blood in the water that was.

“Ah, he’s not worth it,” chief among the nasties said. “There’s nothing left of him to pick on.” He gave me a shove with his boot and I dutifully rolled over, tucking into a foetal position.

They sauntered off and I stayed where I was until I was sure they’d gone.

“Why do you let them push you around like that?”

It wasn’t a young voice. I rolled away from it and onto my feet, brushing down the dead leaves and bits of grass that clung to me. The man was old, but I couldn’t tell how old. Old enough to be retired, definitely. His hair fell over his shoulders in a silvery cascade, his eyes were grey, watery and kind, his clothes old but clean and well kept.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Only politicians and statesmen answer one question with another. You, I don’t think, are so impolite usually.”

“Erm,” It took a moment to remember what his question had been. “I don’t know what else to do. I don’t like fighting. It seems easier just to let them have their fun.”

“Even though it upsets you?”

“They didn’t seem particularly bothered about that. I did ask them to stop.”

“Yes, you did, didn’t you? There are times when it’s not enough to ask though. Sometimes you have to command.”

“And why would they obey me?”

“A good question. I knew someone a little like you once. He started off a scrawny little pup. He was much the same, did whatever he was told, suffered the abuse of those who sought to have fun at his expense.”

“What happened to him?”

“He grew up. Learned to be strong, to command.”

I hugged my arms to me and looked down at the ground.

“I don’t see that in you though. It’s always been a problem with young boys. I’ve seen it time and again. The sooner they find their strength, the sooner they find their arrogance and conceit. It was the same with the young man I mentioned, though it took him longer. I wonder if you’ll be different.”

“You still haven’t told me who you are.”

“You’re right. Would you believe me if I told you I was a friend?”

“I’d prefer it if you told me your name.”

“Why? Would it make that much difference to you? You haven’t told me yours.”

“It’s Gavin.”

“Ah, Gawain. A fine name indeed.”

“No, I said Gavin.”

“Gawain is it’s original form. It’s Welsh, for what that’s worth. It means white hawk, or sometimes God-send, though quite why it should have two such different meanings is beyond me. Well Gavin, I believe it is nearly time for your evening meal. You should run along if you don’t want to be late, and it would be impolite to be late on your first evening here don’t you think. We’ll see each other again soon enough, now off you go.”

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“You’re definitely more astute than most. Good evening to you, Gavin.”

He wandered off down the hill muttering my name. It almost sounded like echoes distorting. “Gavin, Gawain, Gwen, ah, Gwen.”

The refectory was easy enough to find. Getting through the door was another matter. I stood in the doorway staring at a vast room filled with row upon row of tables and chairs, most occupied by eagerly chattering boys and girls of different ages. I caught sight of the group I’d encountered earlier on the mound. One of them sneered at me and shook his head slowly. No welcome there, not that I’d expected one.

“You must be Gavin.”

I near jumped out of my skin causing the man who’d spoken to me to step back holding up his hands disarmingly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He dropped one hand and held the other out. “My name’s Peter Ambrose. I’ll be running the creative writing course this week. I apologise for not being there to welcome you from the train. Something came up that needed my attention.”

“It’s alright. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“But I wanted to meet you. Your teacher, Mrs Meredith sent me the piece you wrote that earned you your place here.”

If I’d felt like a deer in the headlights before, it was nothing by comparison. “She did?”

“Yes, but Gavin, please don’t worry.”

Easy to say.

“Really, don’t worry. I’m the only person here to have seen it, and so things will remain unless and until you feel happy to share it with others. For my part, I don’t judge other than to say it was a captivating piece of writing. If you wrote it from the heart, it shows great courage, if as a piece of pure fiction, it shows great insight. Either way, I’m impressed and that’s not easily done.

“Now I imagine you won’t know anyone here. I get the feeling you’ve met Lance and his cronies,” he waved vaguely towards the idiots from earlier, “which is unfortunate because they are in no way representative of what we’re trying to achieve here. I’ve been trying to gather all the creative writers together on one table. You’ll meet them in class tomorrow, but you may want to join us so we can make a start on getting to know each other. If you head over to the servery over there, you’ll find a stack of trays. Load up with as much as you want to eat and join us. Cutlery’s on the table as are glasses and water. If you want anything else to drink, add it to your tray.”

He gave me a gentle push in the right direction, and taking it for the permission it evidently was, I headed over. I piled my tray perhaps a little higher than might be considered polite, but I was hungry, and made my way back to the table where Mr Ambrose sat with a dozen or so people my age. At first glance it looked like I was the only boy there which left me blushing more than a little, especially when I heard a snicker from the direction of Lance and his friends.

“I might have known he was one of the girls,” Lance said loud enough for me to hear. Mr Ambrose looked ready to storm over, but I caught his eye and shook my head. He subsided, but from his exoression, he was not ready to let it go. Lance must have caught sight of it as well because he quietened down.

Two of the girls shuffled apart making space for me. No escape, not that I really wanted one. It felt oddly pleasant to be invited into the group.

“I’m Alicia,” the girl to my right said. From there they went around the table. “Mandy,” “Judith,” “Myfanwy,” “Gillian,” “Sarah,” “Also Sarah,” “Helen”, “Gretchen, Gretch,” “Zoe,” “Stacey.”

Of course, there had to be a Stacey.

“I’m, erm. I’m Gavin.” I felt my face turn beet red and I couldn’t face the girl to my left. Everyone else seemed to find the contents of their plates of particular interest.

“Fair enough, we have a Gavin and Stacey in our midst.” Mr Ambrose said. He’d obviously been aware of our names before this evening, so he at least was forewarned. “It’s nothing but a coincidence and things like this happen more often than you might imagine. Just because the two names are linked in the title of a fairly mediocre sitcom doesn’t mean that they have to be here. What do you say ladies? Gentleman?”

“I get the Gavin and Stacey thing a lot at school,” I said, “Even though we don’t have anyone named Stacey. I can’t say I’ve ever felt like watching the program.”

Stacey smiled. It was a ghostly thing and it didn’t look like it haunted her face often. “I get the same,” she mumbled. “I would think it’s worse for you though. My name’s a lot more common than yours.”

“I get Alicia in Wonderland,” Alicia offered.

“Mandy Pandy,” From, well from Mandy evidently.

“Wanamaker for me,” Zoe said.

“People kind of mime bucked teeth and glasses to me,” Gretchen chipped in. “You ever watch Recess?”

Gretchen didn’t look anything like her namesake. Blond curls and one of the prettiest faces sitting around the table.

“Fine,” Mr Ambrose said. “For this week you get to choose what names you want to be called by. If it’s your actual name that’s all well and good, but if you’d like to reinvent yourself for the week that also is fine by me. I for one will only settle for you calling me Peter. This is a voluntary class after all. You’re here because you want to be, at least I hope so, so let’s break the mould a little.”

“Would you mind calling me Aly?” Alicia asked.

“Amanda,” Mandy said.

“Gretch is fine,” Gretchen said. “Just no face pulling.”

“I don’t mind Zoe, but no Madam Hooch references.” This unsurprisingly from Zoe.

“There’s not much you can do with Stacey,” Stacey said. “I know some people shorten it to Stace, but that’s not me.”

“You can have any name you like,” Peter encouraged.

“No, I’m good thanks. How about you Gavin?”

The last muttered words I’d heard from the old man were reverberating in my head. Almost involuntarily I opened my mouth.

“Gwen.”

Everyone stared at me, Peter with no small amount of concern.

“Gawain,” I said, feeling like a coward. Gwen had felt right, but I couldn’t. “I believe it’s the Welsh equivalent to Gavin.”

“You have quite the appetite Gawain,” Stacey said. Her smile was less of a ghost now, more genuine. Gawain and Stacey were definitely not a thing.

“I’m kind of hungry all the time,” I said, the redness returning to my features. “It never seems to go anywhere though.”

“You’re lucky,” one of the Sarah’s said. “I’d love to be able to eat that much, but I’d be the size of a Zeppelin before the end of the week.”

“I don’t know if he feels that lucky, do you Gawain?” This was Helen. “I mean you could do with a bit more meat on your bones.”

The ice was broken. We’d bonded. It was an unusual and exciting feeling for me, marred only slightly by the odd sense that I should have stuck with my first choice of name. Peter seemed happier with me as Gawain, so maybe it was as well to let the cards fall as they may.

For now.

It was a spectre of a thought, whispering at the back of my mind, so quietly I wasn’t even sure I heard it.

We'd all had a long day's travel. Myfanwy was the first to yawn, I think, and started before I'd quarried my way through my mountain of food. The yawns became contagious though and quickly made their way around the table.

Peter bit back on a smile and suggested we might want an early night, especially as breakfast started at the ungodly hour of seven-thirty. None of us argued.

I heard a few indistinct noises from behind doors on the way back to my room, but otherwise saw no-one. It didn't take long to get ready for bed and, despite the summer sun still being well above the horizon when I put my head down, I didn't last long before zonking out completely.

At least that meant I was well rested when my alarm went off and made it down to breakfast in good time. Not that I was the first to get there.

“Gawain!” I turned to see Alicia – Aly – waving at me from a table. Most of the rest of the girls were already there. Peter wasn’t, but that just made the invitation all the more special.

I heard a laugh from the middle of the room and there was Lance and co mouthing my adopted name and rolling about like they’d heard the funniest joke ever. I felt my face flush red and hated that it would betray my emotions like this. I waved an acknowledgment to Aly and went to load up a tray with breakfast. I restrained myself a little in what I took, but still ended up with more than twice the amount of any of my table companions.

On my way past Lance’s table, it came as no surprise when a leg shot out in front of me just as I approached. Something rebellious in me wanted to stamp down on it, but I quelled the feeling and stepped over the leg without so much as breaking stride.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with idiots like that,” Myfanwy said as I settled into my place.

“What do you suggest I do?” I asked. “If I try to stand up to them, they’ll just pick on me more. It’s easier just to ignore them.”

“They’ll keep picking on you until you give them a reason to respect you,” Gretchen said.

“And how might I achieve that?” She was echoing the words of the old man the previous day, and she was right. It still didn’t help much. “Neanderthals like that only respect strength and I don’t have any.”

“Neither do we,” Judith said.

“It’s different for you.”

“Because we’re girls?”

“Well, yeah.”

“So why do you think they respect us?”

“I think they’re scared of you. Girls talk to each other, and if just one said something to give a guy a bad reputation that pretty much nixes any chance he might have of getting a date, at least within a particular group of girls.”

“Well,” blonde Sarah said, “We could let them know that the same applies to them if they don’t leave you alone.”

“Listen, I appreciate that you’re trying to help but it just wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?” This time it was curly Sarah. For some unfathomable reason the two Sarahs had bonded.

“Because I’m not a girl.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Stacey asked.

“Guys are supposed to stand up for themselves. You think they don’t respect me now, wait until they find out I’m hiding behind the skirts of a group of girls.”

“That’s stupid!” Amanda said.

“I know, but I didn’t make the rules. I don’t even want to play the game, but I don’t have any other option.”

“So, what will you do?” Myfanwy wanted to know.

“I don’t know. Same as usual I suppose, keep my head down and try and keep out of their way.”

“What do you mean?” Zoe asked.

“The world's full of idiots like that lot,” I replied with a shrug. “You get used to it.”

“Well, you shouldn't have to!”

“And you won’t have to this week, right girls?” Aly said. “I mean you'll be with us during the day all this week. We were going to hang together outside the classes anyway, so you should join us.”

“Yes, we could even make you an honorary girl for the week if you like... Gwen.”

“Judy!”

The others had shocked expressions, but it was Aly who voiced the outrage.

“It’s Judith if you don’t mind, and what?” Even raising her voice she was so quiet she couldn’t be heard beyond our table. The mischievous twinkle in her eye identified her as the dangerous sort of quiet person rather than the shy type. “You'd be okay with that, wouldn’t you?” She directed the question my way with such credible innocence that I doubt anyone suspected the deliberateness of her intent.

I'm sure she didn’t mean it maliciously, but whatever her motivations, her actions were effective. Her first question turned my blood to ice, her second paradoxically set my face aflame. I blushed bright red and tried to focus on my breakfast, not trusting myself to make any response that didn’t incriminate me more than the colour in my skin.

“Leave him alone,” Myfanwy said. “I thought we were trying to help him.”

“I thought we were helping him.” Judith placed a hand on my arm and left it there till I looked up at her. “I’m sorry,” she said so quietly I don’t think anyone else heard her.

I gave her a weak smile before pulling my arm free and emptying another spoonful of cereal into my mouth.

“Morning ladies.” Peter arrived at our table. “Er, and gentleman. Sorry Gawain, I didn’t notice you there.”

“It’s alright Mr Ambrose,” I said.

“Peter, please. We're not in school here. Not in the normal sense of the word.”

“I know, sir. It’s just, you’re still a teacher and it seems disrespectful...”

“That’s because you see me as being your superior and that's really not the case. I’ve read every one of your stories – the ones you wrote to earn yourselves a place on this course – and they're all as good as anything I could write, better in some cases.

“I’m really excited about this week you know. I don’t see it as me teaching a dozen budding authors, but rather an opportunity for us all to explore the unknown territory of our imaginations. I see myself as being only nominally in charge, offering my experience as a guide. It’s you lot that are going to take us into virgin territory.

“So what do you say? If you're done with breakfast, we can go get started.”

Everyone else had long since finished. I scooped in my last couple of mouthfuls and joined the rest of the girls in disposing of our trays.

“Alright you lovely people, welcome,” Mr Ambrose said as we followed him into an empty classroom, and I mean empty. All the desks and chairs had been stacked against one wall, apart from a small circle of seats over near the window. “Park yourselves and we’ll get started.

“As I said yesterday, I will only settle for you calling me Peter. I may be a teacher, but I’m on holiday as much as the rest of you. Now if I remember correctly, we have Aly, Amanda, Gretch, Stacey, Zoe, Myfanwy, Judith, Helen, Gillian, Gawain and two Sarah’s, are you alright with Sarah B and Sarah J?” I suspected related to surnames. They exchanged glances, shrugged and nodded. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a change for this week? Gawain has already picked up on Marlborough’s link to Merlin of Arthurian legend. Quite apart from Guinevere, we have Morgana, Nimue or Viviane – you could each take one of those – Elaine or Isolde becoming progressively more obscure...”

Again the exchange of looks and the combined shake of the heads. For a couple of girls who’d only met the previous evening, they definitely had a pseudo twins thing going.

“Oh well, can’t blame a man for trying.

“Alright, so we’re here to challenge ourselves, am I right? Since we’re here so close to Merlin’s fabled final resting place – you may have seen the town’s motto somewhere in the research I’m sure you all did before coming here; ‘Ubi nunc sapientis ossa Merlin,’ which means? Anyone here with enough Latin to give it a go?”

We were all from comprehensive schools as far as I could tell, which meant no. Except Myfanwy put up her hand.

“Yes, yes. No need to stand on ceremony, Myfanwy.”

“I think ossa may mean bones,” she said uncertainly.

“Excellent, excellent. Exactly right. Anyone else want to hazard a guess?”

“Sapientis sounds like sapient,” Judith offered, “like homo sapiens, but I’m not sure what that means.”

“It means wise. Homo sapiens, our species, means wise man, which is a little ironic given what we’ve become in the modern age. The full translation is, ‘Where now lie the bones of wise Merlin.’

“I’ll admit a lot of what inspired me to this first challenge was Gawain’s choice of name. I want you girls to choose a knight of the round table – you have quite a lot of choice, but, including Arthur, there are twelve who stand out. Kay, Percival, Bedivere, Lancelot, Gawain,” he waved in my direction, “Gareth, Agravain, Mordred – Arthur’s bastard son who betrayed and overthrew him – Tristan, Palemedes and Galahad.

“I want you girls to pick one name each. You don’t have to know anything about your chosen knight, even Mordred and his darker purpose, because I want you to imagine and write a typical day in the life of your chosen. For one thing I want you girls writing from the perspective of a man. Try to get inside the head of a dominant male living in a strongly patriarchal society, think about the way life might have been in the sixth century and how your attitudes would have been. Yes I know it’s tough being a liberated woman and writing about being a man in a male dominated world, but that’s what this week is about: taking a step outside of your comfort zone.

“Gawain, I suspect you’d find this less of a challenge, so I have something different in mind for you.”

“Guinevere?” I asked with mixed excitement and trepidation. I’m not sure which showed through most.

“No, I suspect you’d handle that quite well. Have you heard of the Questing Beast?”

Whatever intrigue might have been sparked to life regarding my gender sputtered and died with this new focus.

“I’ve heard of it,” Judith said, which was more than I could say. Several of the other girls had as well but knew nothing more than some vague reference to King Pellinore’s quest to hunt it down.

“Legends vary greatly, but according to Merlin, a princess – unnamed unfortunately – who lusted after her brother, slept with a demon who promised to make the boy love her, but instead the evil creature manipulated her into accusing her brother of raping her, for which crime he was torn apart by a pack of dogs.

“Before he died, the brother cursed his sister to give birth to a monster that would make the same sound as the hounds that tore apart his flesh.

“And so the Questing Beast was born, with the head and neck of a serpent, the body of a leopard, the forelimbs of a lion and the hind quarters of a stag. A creature that made the sound of a pack of baying hounds.

“I’d like you to put yourself into the mind of this creature, Gawain. Born from sin and cast out to live or die as best you could in the wilderness.

“Some legends speak of how it killed indiscriminately, but most tell of it as having neither need nor desire to feed, but instead it passes without leaving any trace through the forest, evading capture but gaining a reputation as the harbinger of change and destruction.

“In Arthur’s story, he sleeps with Morgause without realising she’s his half sister. Shortly afterwards, she conceives Mordred and he – Arthur – dreams of the Questing Beast. This is generally taken as a portent of the coming fall of Camelot.

“In other stories, the Questing Beast is depicted as a gentle and kind natured creature that assists the knights in their quest for the Holy Grail. In still others it is unreasoningly violent, destroying crops, animals and innocent people.

“Again, take your pick of backgrounds or make up one of your own. Write a day in the life of the creature. Imagine it as having some capacity for reason but none for speech. It’s trapped inside its own mind with no way of understanding how it came into existence, why it is feared and fought by any but the most unusual of men. You up for that?”

I nodded eagerly. It would be so different from what I was used to, and this was what the course was about. He’d guessed right that writing from a woman’s perspective would probably have been easier for me than taking up the girls’ challenge.

“Can I get on the Internet?” I asked holding up Mum’s tablet.

“Of course. There’s a guest account, the details of which are...” he proceeded to write them up on a nearby whiteboard. “You have until lunchtime. Before we break to eat, I’m going to want a little feedback from each of you on your progress.”

“That’s not long,” Sarah B (or was it J) said.

“No, it’s not. I’m not expecting a finished story by then, but at least an outline of what you have in mind. You then get to brainstorm and give each other pointers on how you can make your story stand out.”

Which sent us to various corners of the classroom. Those without computers were given access to school machines, those with, like myself, were given freedom to work as we liked. For my part, that meant finding a quiet, comfortable corner in the common area just outside the classroom. Close enough to an electrical point that I didn’t need to worry about draining Mum’s battery.

Most, if not all, the girls stayed in the classroom, at least to begin with. I had the common area to myself and was deep into reading up on the background of my subject when a familiar voice sounded behind me.

“There never was a creature I felt more deserving of pity,” the old man said from over my shoulder.

I craned my neck to look up at him. Long grey hair, long grey beard, long face very reminiscent of Ian McKellen’s Gandalf.

“Hello again, sir,” I said.

“Gwen,” he said with a gentle smile.

“It’s, er, Gavin sir. Or Gawain this week.”

“Is it, now? Well, I suppose one of us must be mistaken.”

“Well, it’s not me. My name is actually Gavin, but for this week we were invited to choose any name we wanted and I chose Gawain.”

“Did you? That’s the one you wanted, is it? Interesting.”

“Listen mister, just who the hell do you think you are?”

“Hell? I’ll have nothing to do with hell, my friend. That’s a fabrication of the new religion and doesn’t interest me at all. As for the rest, I don’t think. I know exactly who I am.”

“Yeah? And just who is that then?”

“Someone who knows that the Questing Beast was an unfortunate soul, cast into a life it didn’t choose through circumstances over which it had no control. It ran in an attempt to escape its fate, and along the way it tried to show something of the goodness it possessed within, but in the end it knew it would only ever be judged by its horrific appearance.

“It is said that the beast was finally killed by Sir Pelamedes after he trapped it in a lake with the aid of Sir Galahad and Sir Percival, but it had tired of life, such as it possessed, and permitted Pelamedes to run it through with his lance. It sank into the depths of the lake and was never seen again.”

“You make it sound as though you were there,” I said, all the ire drained from me.

“And you make it sound as though such a thing we’re not possible.”

“But...”

“Come, young one. You have a tale to write, do you not? Best be about your business.”

“Yes, but who are you?”

“Let us leave that for another time, Gwen, when you’re ready to hear such things.”

“Who are you talking to?” Judith appeared from somewhere. Presumably the classroom, but I hadn’t heard her come through the door.

“I was...” I turned towards the old professor but he wasn’t there. How had he disappeared so quickly? Come to think of it, he’d appeared out of nowhere too. From Judith’s expression, she was still waiting for an answer. “I was talking to my character,” I said, cringing inwardly at the nonsense I was saying, “trying to find out what he had to say to me.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I do the same things sometimes, only usually they’re people I understand better. Not like these ancient misogynists.”

“Is that how you see them? You do know what the word means?”

“Hey! That’s not so cool. You’re not that smart, you know?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean... I mean, okay. So how do you see Arthur’s knights as misogynistic?”

“Do you know how they treated women back then?”

“Yeah, at least I’ve read about it, but there’s no dislike or prejudice. I mean who did you get?”

“Kay. I mean I never heard of him.”

“Did you try... I mean, I suppose you tried Googling him?”

“Nice save. You know you’re not like most boys in that regard.”

“What do you mean?” I knew what she meant.

“Pretty much every guy I know would have gone with your first instinct there; kind of assumed I wouldn’t have the brains to use the tools at my disposal. So yeah, Kay was Arthur’s foster brother and became his seneschal or steward.”

“So Arthur, who is supposed to be this famous king who unites the tribes of Albion and stops all the widespread fighting between them, knows Kay from his childhood and trusts the guy enough to make him one of his knights of the round table – effectively and equal with the king – and puts him in charge of the royal household. I’m guessing they had a pretty solid relationship.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t make him a saint when it comes to women though.”

“What do you expect of him? Okay, if it helps, put yourself in the position of one of the women back then. Let’s be generous and make you the daughter of a tribal chief. What would your life be like?”

“I don’t know. Not a lot of freedom I’m guessing?”

“Why not? Dad being an arsehole?”

“No. I’m guessing it wouldn’t be safe to go out and about alone.”

“’Cos every man works hard enough to build a decent set of muscles, and most of them begrudge the kind of shit life they have – sorry for the language.”

“No it’s good. I think I see where you’re going with this, but go on.”

“So the only place you’re safe from some labourer or soldier taking advantage of you is at home where most folks respect your father too much to do anything to his daughter. You’re still at risk of being abducted by rival tribes though, who could use you to bargain with your dad. The only way to keep you safe is to keep you home and, when you’re old enough, marry you to someone who can do the same. Maybe through marriage turn another tribal chief into a family member through marriage.

“It feels like they’re treating you like property, so I suppose I can see where the misogyny accusation comes from, but it’s really the only way of keeping someone precious safe in a dangerous world.

“Then along comes Arthur and his knights trying to make the place safer, trying to introduce ideas of chivalry and goodness into a bunch of feuding arseholes so that, instead of trying to bash each other’s skulls in, everyone is working together to make the world a better place, preferably even for the little guy.

“They’re not going to start off with the emancipation of women, in fact with the status quo being what it was, I doubt they even considered a world where women would be treated any differently. It doesn’t mean they didn’t like them or they were prejudiced against them. If anything, Arthur’s code of chivalry was a major step towards women being treated with respect.”

“Wow! Peter’s right, you really are good.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of the girls thought it wasn’t fair you getting a different assignment to the rest of us.”

“You mean they’d rather try and get inside the head of some mythological monster?”

“No, more the opposite. I guess some of us thought it was unfair you having to do something that tough, and a few of us were interested to see what you’d come up with putting yourself in a woman’s place.

“From the sound of it, you’d have done a bloody good job – sorry about the language – and you wouldn’t even break a sweat. This is all about challenging us all as writers, and I can see what Peter gave you is going to push you as much as the knight thing is going to push us.

“Thanks for the ideas, they really helped. I’m going to go back and talk with the others a bit about what we’re working on. Just, I don’t know, I was wondering if you want some company or something.”

“I usually write on my own.” I could tell it wasn’t the right thing to say from the moment I said it. “But this week is all about trying new things, isn’t it? I mean don’t expect me to say much; I kind of shut the world out when I get in the zone, but having some company might be nice, thanks.”

“Might be nice?” Emphasis on the first word there. Once again, Gavin opens his mouth only to change feet.

“I can’t say for sure ‘cos I’ve never had the chance to try it. I’d like to find out, if I haven’t screwed things up already.”

She smiled a shy and friendly smile. “Took a bit of work, but no you didn’t screw anything up. I’ll be back in a bit.”

I kind of noticed when she came back with Gillian and Zoe in tow. I was already in the zone though. I’d scoured through a few different websites, reading a mixture of contradictory ideas and close copies of the more generally accepted tales, and I had the outline of my story in my head, influenced largely by the old man’s words. I acknowledged the arrival of the girls, but apart from the occasional whispered comment and suppressed giggle, I didn’t really notice them. Back home my built in paranoia would have me wondering if they were laughing at me, but I didn’t get that vibe from any of my current companions, so it didn’t bother me.

Lunchtime approached and Peter stuck his head out of the classroom to call us in.

“Could we have five minutes to reach a convenient stopping point?” I asked.

He cocked his head for a moment then nodded. “Sounds fair,” he said, “but no longer. The cafeteria runs out of choices quite quickly over the summer.”

It meant our synopses had to be a little shorter, but five minutes divided between thirteen of us didn’t make a lot of difference.

I kept mine short anyway. “I’ve decided to write about the Questing Beast’s last day, when it is finally killed,” I said.

“I’m not sure that’s what I asked for,” Peter said. “This is supposed to be a day in the life of the creature, exploring what it’s like to be the beast.”

“It will work, I think,” I said. “I’m writing it from the creature’s perspective, reflecting on its life and how it feels about all that it’s gone through.”

“Okay, I’ll trust you, but I’m expecting good things, Gawain.”

The name didn’t feel right. It hadn’t since he’d started using it. I knew what I wanted. I suppose I’d known before the old man had said anything. This was scary, but after this week what would it matter? I wasn’t likely to see any of these people again.

“Gwen, sir,” I said, my heart skipping a beat or two.

“I’m sorry?”

“While we’re in here and among friends, could I be Gwen. Out in public I’ll be Gavin or Gawain or whatever, but while it’s just us...”

I petered out. The girls were all looking at each other and smiling, Judith in particular. Peter gave us all a concerned look, me in particular.

“Can I ask why?” he asked.

“I don’t know, it just kind of feels right, like Gawain feels wrong.”

“You girls okay with it?” he asked nervously. “Only to be used when there’s no-one else about.”

There were nods all round. I’d been the last to give my progress report which, because I’d kept it short, meant we made it to the refectory just as it opened, so we all had the best of what was on offer.

Lance and his cronies turned up shortly after we’d sat down. They looked like they wanted to comment, but since Peter was sitting with us they thought better of it.

“So, any of you girls thought about what else you might want to do while you’re here?” Peter asked.

The girls giggled and even I couldn’t help smiling.

“What?” he asked.

“Only when there’s no-one else around?” Judith asked quietly.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Sorry Gawain, I didn’t think.”

“It’s alright sir.”

“Peter.”

“Sir Peter then. I was wondering about having a go at the archery.”

“Yeah, that looks kinda cool,” Gillian said with pretty much all the girls nodding. “Then there’s a workshop on medieval costume design that looks kind of fun.” Everyone nodded at that too. “You should come as well Gw...ain.”

“You’ll likely be the only boy there if you do,” Peter warned.

“Not much different from the rest of the week then,” I said. “It all kind of depends on how much it costs. I have a bit of spending money, but that sounds like it might be a little expensive. You know, with material and stuff?”

“Well, don’t let yourself be talked into it unless it’s something you really want to do.”

I shrugged. “If nothing else, it’ll give me a new experience I can write about. Besides which, I’m not sure it really matters what you do as long as you do it with friends.”

That earned me a round of smiles from the girls and a resigned sigh from Peter. “Well, if you’re sure. My wife, Jenny, runs the workshop, so I’m sure we could come to some accommodation to make it more affordable if necessary.”

“That’s really kind, sir...”

“Peter.”

“Yes, Sir Peter. Sorry. Only it feels a bit weird. Sort of disrespectful.”

“And it seems like I’m making it weird for everybody. Would you like me to leave you on your own for lunch?”

None of us wanted to say so, but the collection of embarrassed looks answered for him.

He picked up his tray, fighting to keep back a grin. “I’ll see you all back in the classroom at one o’clock.”

We gave him a chorus of “Thank you Sir Peter,” almost as if we’d planned it and burst into our own bout of giggles as he walked away. I unashamedly giggled along with the rest of my friends, pointedly ignoring the angry looks Lance and his group directed my way. Yet again, I only had to endure him for a week, and that would be easier done if I had friends around me.

We finished lunch together, or rather the girls sat around patiently while I finished filling my face, and headed off to explore the grounds. Lance and co followed at a distance, though whether it was with a mind to ambushing me or maybe chatting up the girls we never found out, because they kept their distance all the time we made our way around the school. The girls kept me in their midst for the rest of the lunch hour, including me in their banter right up to the point when we made it back to the classroom. Lance and co had been somewhere in the periphery the whole time, but girls, I found had mad skills in ignoring boys they wanted nothing to do with, and boys seemed to be intimidated by girls who ignored them.

By entered the classroom still chatting and giggling, with Gretch bringing up the rear saying, “They’re still there.”

Peter stuck his head out the classroom door in time to catch them loitering and suggested they would be late for their next lesson if they didn’t go now.

“They’re from this school, aren’t they?” Gillian asked as we settled into the circle for the afternoon briefing. “Do you mind me asking why they’re here in the holidays?”

“Sports camp and academic catch-up,” Peter said. “They’re all looking at sports scholarships of one sort or another – football, rugby, tennis, badminton one of them, I think – and they all thought they could get away without making an effort in other areas, which they are currently learning is not the case.

“Are they bothering you?” he asked looking pointedly at me, “Because I could have a word with their teachers if you like. We could easily find them enough work to keep them out of mischief.”

“It’s no problem, sir,” I looked at the others who nodded. “No intervention needed.”

“Well, if you change your mind. You are our guests here and I would hate for any of you not to feel entirely welcomed.”

“I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Alright then, back to this afternoon. Gwen has the Questing Beast’s last stand, Myfanwy has Lancelot’s first encounter with Guinevere, which I’m really excited to hear, Judith had Sir Kay mediating a dispute between one of Arthur’s lesser knights and a serving girl who she claimed had accosted her. Interesting take, let’s see where you go with that one. The two Sarah’s are collaborating on Sir Gareth and Sir Agravain enjoying an evening’s carousing, Gillian has Tristan escorting Isolde to marry his uncle and falling in love with her on the way. Passion overrides duty.

“This is taking too long. You all know what you’re doing. What are the chances you’ll have them done by four?”

There were general sounds of dismay throughout which Peter held up his hands.

“I know it’s quite an ask, but I’m not expecting a novel out of any of you. If you keep your offerings to just a few thousand words, long enough to read through in ten minutes or so, then we should be able to get through listening to you all in good time to get changed for dinner. There are no activities this evening, but the different activity leaders will be inviting you to talk to them and sign up after you’ve eaten. How does that sound?”

It actually sounded pretty good. Disappointing about the archery, but otherwise doable and worth doing. I had my story finished by three-thirty which gave me half an hour to read it through and tweak it.

Of course I then got to sit through everyone else’s stories first, so it was just as well they were pretty good. There was quite a lot to be said about how the girls voiced their male characters, most of which fell to me as the only person present with a Y chromosome, apart from Peter of course, but he recused himself on the grounds of wanting this to be a peer review. I tried to keep my comments short and supportive, but it was hard work, so it was almost a relief when it came to my turn to read.

I tend to be fairly reticent about sharing my offerings, largely because they tend to show a side of my nature I’m not comfortable sharing. This was different though. Nothing trans about the Questing Beast, but quite a lot to relate to in so far as being unfairly ostracised, and I knew a lot about that.

“I’m tired of running,” I began. “I’ve run all my life, and never really understood why.”

I won’t bore you with the full tale, but I must have captured something of the futility and tragedy of the creature’s existence because once I’d done describing its last stand in the shallows of Lake Avalon, standing proud as Palamedes charged it down and struck it through the breast with his lance. The momentary agony, the encroaching darkness as it sank down into Nimue’s arms.

“And so it seems at the end of my days, I have found the goal of my own questing. As the last of my life ebbs, enfolded in my lady’s embrace, here at last I find peace.”

The room was silent. Was it really so bad? Couldn’t anyone think of anything to say? I looked up to find not a dry eye in the place. Even Peter had his glasses off and was unashamedly wiping tears away.

“That was perfect,” Stacey said in her smallest of voices, as though she didn’t want to disturb the quiet of the moment.

Judith nodded and came over to give me a hug. Before I knew it the rest of the girls had gathered round and joined in.

“I agree,” Peter said, having regained most of his composure. “Don’t change a word, but please send me a copy. In fact, if you would all send me your work when you have a moment.

“Not right now though. We’ve overrun a little so you only have fifteen minutes to change before dinner.

“Then, as I say, when you’re done eating, come along to the assembly hall – it’ll be signposted – and I’ll be happy to introduce you to a few of my colleagues, my wife included.”

We didn’t waste any time, at least I didn’t. A quick shower and a change of tee shirt did it for me. It took the girls more than twenty minutes to reappear with transformations that generally involved some sort of dress, a little makeup and something done to their hair. They all looked amazing – and a little disappointed in me – but I had to wonder what was so special about dinner in a school cafeteria that merited the extra effort.

I’d been camped at our usual table, defending it from the massing hoards who invaded the cafeteria. Not really; there were a few groups other than ours staying the week, but the tables had to be less than half filled. The only blot on the landscape was Lance who paused long enough to ask if I’d been stood up by my girlfriends. I wondered if he and his would try to take over our table, but he had his own favourite and it wasn’t worth giving it up just to mess with me.

With handbags and other paraphernalia claiming the table, we joined the queue for food. Lasagne the first choice tonight. The serving lady took one look at my scrawny form and took pity on me, loading me up with an extra half portion, for which I gave her a grateful smile.

Conversation was a little slow to start with, which gave me a chance to make some progress on my mountain of food, but I gradually became aware of the unspoken conversation going on around me. I didn’t speak meaningful glance though so eventually I broke into the quiet.

“Am I missing something?” I asked.

The girls exchanged a few more glances, apparently picking their spokesperson, then Judith spoke up.

“It’s just that... I mean if you’re going to be an honorary girl this week, it’d be nice if you, you know, made a bit more effort?” She waved a fork at me. “I mean, did you even comb your hair?”

I have to admit I hadn’t, and it probably could have done with some attention given that it was down to my shoulders. As to the honorary girl thing, it probably shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise, given my choice of name for the week, but it did.

“Sorry, I kind of packed light. Tee shirts, underwear, socks and a hoody in case it gets cold. No party frocks or anything, and these are the only jeans I have.” I was being defensive and I knew it, but I wasn’t sure how far I wanted the Gwen thing to go. I may have been miles from home, but that was the kind of news that crossed distances and I really didn’t want to do that to my folks.

“It’s okay, I guess,” Zoe said. She was one of only two who’d foregone skirts in favour of, in her case, skinny jeans. “I mean you weren’t expecting to do anything like this before you came, where you?”

“Maybe we can help a bit,” Amanda said. She’d gone for shorts and a strappy top. “I mean nothing obvious or anything, but...”

I wasn’t sure. “You could show me what you’ve got I suppose,” I said, “but I don’t know if I’m up for trying that much. Not in public.”

It helped the conversation to start flowing again as they toyed with ideas of what they might do with me. I wasn’t going to have much say in it all apparently, which meant I had time to finish off my substantial meal while they chatted over their now meagre rations. We were done about the same time and filtered out, following signage and other groups towards the assembly hall.

Where tables had been laid out with different bits of information on them and one member of staff or another offered to talk us into anything we found even vaguely interesting. We spent a while looking at what was on offer, but in the end there were only two things that interested us. The archery, which would run for about an hour between the end of the working day and dinner time, and the costume design, which would run after the evening meal.

“I’m not sure I have any patterns for men’s costumes,” Jenny, Peter’s wife, said apologetically. “It’s not the sort of thing boys tend to sign up for, so I’ve never really felt the need to include it before.”

“It’s alright Mrs Ambrose,” somehow I dragged the surname up from my first encounter with Peter, “I don’t really mind what I make as long as I get to join in.”

“Besides,” Judith said interlocking arms with me, “we’ve made Gwen an honorary girl for the week, so she should fit right in.”

Jenny gave her husband a concerned look which he met with a helpless shrug. He’d read my competition entry, so he knew this wasn’t entirely unknown territory for me.

“Alright, I’ll sign you up, but let’s make tomorrow a taster session. If you don’t feel comfortable by the end of it, you can go join one of the other groups.”