The sound of laughter drifted up from the street below, making me feel very alone in this new town. I looked around the motel room, taking in the drab curtains which reeked of stale tobacco, the brown quilt on the sagging bed and faded painting hanging above it – a scene from a Greek island. Santorini maybe? Azure blue sea and white cobbled courtyard. I couldn’t be further away from an island paradise right now.

Coober Pedy – the opal capital of Australia – as far away as I could get from home. But I wasn’t interested in opals. I just needed to escape my old life and a start a new one. In a place where nobody knew me. Try a different town for size, a different lifestyle. Like the prince in Cinderella looking for the perfect fit for the glass slipper.

I sighed and flopped on to the bed. The springs gave a shout and a fine puff of dust floated up around me, swirling in the ray of sunlight streaming in from the window. Getting here hadn’t been easy. Sydney to Adelaide on the Indian Pacific, then the Ghan to Manguri and a bus to this dusty, treeless place. It had taken nearly a week.

So here I was. Jericho Jones. Just a guy like any other. Exploring Australia. Alone. Single. My life stretched out ahead of me. It was time to put the past behind me and start afresh.

The shouts of merriment from the pub downstairs made my heart skip a beat and I felt a yearning, a stirring of hope that maybe, eventually I would be accepted here. An unlikely place for me, amongst the dust and dryness, a man must drink beer by the schoonerful, no dirty martinis served at this watering hole.

I bounded off the bed with new purpose, swallowing down the feeling of panic that gripped my heart. In the dimly lit ensuite I splashed water on my face and gulped some tepid water straight from the tap.

I studied my reflection in the mirror. Ok, my features were quite delicate, my eyelashes long and curly, jawline weak but framed by a wispy stubble. My moustache was coming along nicely.

I practiced a macho stance, hands thrust into the pockets of my jeans and did my best James Dean. I patted the pocket of my flanno shirt, feeling the contours of the pocket knife, just in case, an insurance policy in case I ran into trouble.

***

The Opal Inn was one of the few above ground hotels in Coober Pedy. Most of the others were built into the rock to escape the sweltering heat. In the dark corridor on the ground floor I followed the wooden sign to the pub. An image of a hand with a pointing finger led to the Front Bar. My hand shook as I pushed open the door and emerged into the noise and brightness of one of the town’s most popular watering holes. Two men were seated at the bar counter, beers in hand, joking with a buxom, middle-aged bartender. They stopped and swung around on their barstools, eyeing me with interest.

I approached, trying out my new swagger, jamming my hands in my pockets to stop them from shaking.

“What have we here?” the bald guy nearest me slammed his glass down and a huge grin revealed a missing front tooth. “An outa towner!”

“Wanna beer love?” the bartender wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and reached for a glass with the other, deftly pouring from the beer tap in one practiced movement.

“Sure… a beer please.”

I perched on an empty barstool. The guys returned to their beers. Behind the bar there were bottles lining the mirrored backdrop. Memorobilia hung from every available nook and cranny, dusty old bills in different currencies, faded photographs of patrons and staff, postcards, coasters… years of people coming and going. Apart from the opal mining and surrounding cattle stations, Coober Pedy was a tourist town.

“So what brings you to these parts young fella?” Baldy returned his gaze to me. I squirmed inwardly but my heart lurched with relief and gratitude at the word fella. I lifted the glass of Tooheys to my lips and gulped. It was icy cold and surprisingly delicious.

“Just having a break. Exploring Australia, you know.”

He guffawed and slapped me on the back. I lurched forward, just saving my beer from sloshing down my front.

“You came to the right place Blue.” He turned to the man next to him and indicated me with a toss of his chin.

“If its work you’re looking for, Bazza here needs some farmhands right now, isn’t that right Baz?”

Bazza peered at me with light blue eyes crinkling out of a leathery face. I realised he was much younger than he first appeared.

“We need strong fit young fellas,” his appraisal of me indicated I didn’t fit the bill.

“But we need all the help we can get right now. You ride mate?”

“A horse?” I asked then blushed as he roared, “Of course a fuckin’ horse. What are you thinkin? A Rolls Royce?”

He and Baldy cackled with laughter.

I thought back to my four weeks of horse riding lessons in Centennial Park. The green sweeping lawns, shady trees and wide avenues, the sedate trotting and occasional canter and wondered if I could pull off being a cowboy. How hard could it be.

“Sure, I can ride a horse.”

The bar was filling up now. The group outside had moved in out of the heat to relative coolness. A large pedestal fan chugged away in the corner, sending a blast of welcome relief my way.

A young couple, travellers wearing shorts, tshirts and thongs had put some money in the jukebox and started to dance to Eagle Rock.

******

Later that night I stumbled down the passageway, steadying myself with a hand pressed against the  door as I fished the room key out my jeans pocket.

I burst into the motel room and lurched forward, falling face down on to the bed. My head was spinning, my stomach churning with beer, burgers and fries. I belched loudly.

I lay in the dark, my mind racing with everything that had happened.

I had a job! Tomorrow Bazza was picking me up and driving me to Evelyn Downs cattle station, about 40 ks west of here where I would start my new life as a cowboy.

I giggled to myself, rolled on to my back and stared at the ceiling.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

The air con had kicked in and the room felt icy cold after the heat of the bar downstairs. I sat up and pulled the flanno shirt over my head, flinging it across the room. I unclipped the corset which had been squashing my breasts flat and flung that across the room as well.

The hormones were doing their job. My boobs were getting smaller, a few wiry hairs were springing up on my chest. My voice was deeper. I had convinced Bazza and Baldy. The German girl at the bar, I was struggling to remember her name, had flirted with me. Gretchen. That was it.

I thought back to my family in Sydney. Mum didn’t understand. She just loved me no matter what. But Dad was ashamed of me. Outraged even. It was all in my head, he said. I was his little girl, his princess, his little Jemma.

My life flashed through my mind in a rush of stills like looking through a viewfinder. Crying at the shoe store because mum made me have the pink glittery sandals when I wanted the brown ones. Being shooed out the boys’ toilet at primary school. Dad’s angry, disappointed face as he came out the principal’s office. Secretly trying on my brother’s clothes while the rest of the family was out. Cutting my hair with the kitchen scissors, mum crying as she swept up my blonde hair.

I was not a girl. Never had been. But I had been born in a girl’s body. Finally my parents had taken me to a therapist, hoping Dr Hamilton would fix me. Turned out she was the first person who actually understood. But Dad would never accept it.

When I turned 18, my GP agreed to put me on hormone replacement therapy. As it started to work I realised I had to leave. My family didn’t want to explain me to their friends. I was an embarrassment, an enigma.

Mum dropped me at Central Station, her eyes brimming with tears as she hugged me tight. My heart ached when she held me at arm’s length, searching my face, looking for her Jemma.

“Good luck Jericho, my son.”