I had no names, few dates or locations, only the scrap of intelligence that there was a meeting at somewhere called the Royce Rooms in Abingdon in the spring of 1814. My very weird brain told me that it was now November 1813.
However, at the moment, my sole objective was to get dry and warmer. Finding a large moss bank, I dried myself with handfuls of soft moss as best as I could. I felt my new body for the first time, with feeling of being cheated that I was so cold and miserable so I could not really enjoy the experience.
My breasts were full, but very firm, with no sagging at all. The large nipples were erect through the cold. I felt my smooth tummy right down to the light and fuzzy pubic hair, and as I touched that mound and delicate crevice, I felt a tingle of excitement. I felt wonderful, I felt female, but I also felt too damn cold!
Part of my enhancement was an excellent sense of direction. I instinctively knew where north was, so I headed in that direction. It was slow and painful going as I had bare feet and it was very treacherous ground. I found my eyesight far superior to before, as were all my senses, but once the moon went behind a cloud, it was virtually pitch black. I stopped, making a small den amongst the old bracken, amidst the roots of a large and very elderly oak tree. I found another huge patch of moss, so lined my den with it. I began to warm up slightly. I had to wait to daybreak before making any more progress, as the forest floor was a veritable minefield of sharp hazards.
I must have dozed off, for I awoke as the sky started to brighten to the sound of male voices. I quickly assessed my den, adding some dead bracken to make the covering denser. The voices approached, so I peeped out from between my ferns.
Three men, woodsmen by their appearance, with axes and sickles, came along a rough track. I had not even seen it in the dark.
They passed within a few feet of me, moving off into the heart of the wood. One was smoking, as the acrid smoke from his pipe filled my sensitive nostrils. I resisted the urge to cough. Dawn had broken, so as it was November, I guessed the time was around seven-thirty or so.
I waited until they were a long way off, slipping out of my cover. I looked at my body, seeing the glory of my breasts and other parts in daylight. I grinned like a schoolgirl. I covered myself in the mud, so when I was satisfied that I was as camouflaged as I could be, I set off down the track the men had come from. Some of the forest floor was mossy, making my passage much easier. I was impressed with my body’s efficiency, as it was like a superb machine. I felt wonderful!
After walking for fifteen minutes, I smelled wood smoke. Cautiously, I kept going and, round a corner, I came upon a small cottage. No more than a shack, with two rooms at the most with an outside privy. Some smoke was curling out of the single chimney in the roof.
I could hear a female voice singing, so I ducked behind a large tree. A young woman, thin and tired, came out of the cottage, with a small grubby child clutching her skirts. She was barely five feet tall, and I knew that I was a statuesque five foot ten.
She went to a well, hauled up a bucket full of water, filling the two pitchers she was carrying. Then she went back into the house. I checked the outhouses, finding an old blanket and a leather belt. There was some string lying on the bench, so I took it. An old pair of men’s work boots lay under a workbench and I tried them on. They were far too big, so I left them there.
I manufactured a crude poncho out of the blanket, making a hole in the middle and slipping my head through it. I tied the belt round my middle, and set off down the track to find some more habitations. My hair was long, right down to the small of my back. I tied my hair back in a ponytail, tying it off with a small length of string.
I smiled as I recalled Raquel Welch in the movie Hannie Calder, as she wore a similar outfit in the western where she tracked down and killed the men who raped her and left her for dead. I wouldn’t mind a Colt Peacemaker, but Mr Colt wasn’t going to be inventing anything for a few decades yet.
The track became broader as it left the woods, where it joined a more substantial road. Right or left? I went right, as it bent down hill, and the going seemed easier. There were fields on either side, all ploughed and awaiting the planting for the spring crops. Hedgerows grew thick and made visibility beyond rather difficult, despite the leaves having nearly all fallen by now. The sun peeped out from behind a cloud, giving little warmth but making me feel warmer. I was just pleased it wasn’t raining.
I passed a gate and saw cows grazing in a green field, and as I rounded another bend, I came upon some more cottages.
A line of three brick-built, adjoined cottages with three smoking chimneys on the slate roof stood in a line. These could only be for the farm workers, I thought. My mind was working in nineteenth century vernacular, and I hoped that if I opened my mouth, I would sound English. But how English, and how well educated?
I knew that I must look a sight, but the small boy who suddenly ran round the corner of the cottage into my path, nearly fainted.
He went very white and his mouth fell open. Mud covered me from head to foot, and my only covering was the blanket. I was showing an indecent amount of leg.
“Good morning,” I said, smiling.
I had to give him his due. He wasn’t a coward, standing his ground. He stared, while his mouth moved up and down a couple of times, but he didn’t cry out or run away. He looked to be about eight years old, but with malnutrition, he could have been as much as twelve.
“Is your mother in?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Is anyone in?”
He shook his head, almost starting to cry. I saw the emotion squirm across his face. I knew I must present an awesome sight.
“Don’t cry. I won’t hurt you. Some nasty men tried to kidnap me, stealing my clothes, but I managed to escape. I think they were highwaymen,” I said.
His eyes were as big as saucers. I realised that my voice was very high quality: no working class scrubber, me.
“Do you think I could get cleaned up and borrow something warm to wear until I can contact my family?” I asked.
He looked uncertain.
“Look, are there any grown-ups here I could talk to?”
“They all garn to market,” he said. His broad Oxfordshire /Berkshire accent almost unintelligible.
“Where is this place?
“The cottages.”
“I can see that. Where is the nearest town?”
“Abingdon. It be ten mile oop thar,” he said pointing up the lane.
“What is your name?”
“Oliver, but moi mates call me Olly.”
“Oliver. What a nice name. Well, I have only this smelly blanket, and I sorely need a wash. Could I at least get clean and dry?”
He nodded, leading me round the side of the end cottage. A hand pump was in the grubby yard, where some scruffy hens were scratching about in the dirt.
“Do you have any women’s clothes I could borrow? I promise to return them, cleaned, with some money for the use. Is your mother my size?”
“Ma’s dead,” he said.
“I’m sorry. So who looks after you?”
“Me Da’.”
“Just you and your dad?”
He nodded.
“So no women’s clothes?”
“Some in the chest,” he said, disappearing indoors.
I took the opportunity to wash. I stripped off the blanket, ripping it in half to use some of it to wash myself, and the remainder to dry myself. The water was very cold, but it was great to be clean again. I rubbed my skin vigorously to dry myself, so brought some warmth back to my limbs. I turned to see Oliver staring at me.
“Never seen a naked woman before?” I asked, and he shook his head, his eyes like organ stops. I smiled, wrapping the blanket around me, under my arms, tucking it in as I had seen my mother do.
He waved me into the kitchen, where he showed me a chest of clothes. I chose some large bloomers and a skirt and petticoat. There were some stockings and an under shift and a crude blouse. At the bottom was a pair of lace up ladies’ boots with high heels. I tried them on, and they fitted, just.