Queen of Queens   

Fiona Sinclair

Throughout the winter, Wednesdays meant quiz night. Anna and her husband were stalwarts, but other players only committed to certain dates that did not clash with theatre trips and bridge clubs. As these times elderly reserves were called up, Malcom’s doddery steps aided by two sticks belied a brain still quick as a darting fish. 

The pubs they played in varied ambience. In more genteel venues, diners babbled in the background, but sports bars meant mid-week soccer matches on Sky and raucous billiard games in the back room, their combined racket causing quizzers to cup ears and grimace to catch the questions. 

‘The Legion’ was the last authentic drinking pub in the town. No food except crisps and pork scratchings. Its only concession to changing times and tastes, was a glass of eye watering wine. 

Their team would duck under the flight path of a darts match, ignore comments about ‘nerds or swats ‘and make their way to the function room, chill as a meat locker where, huddled in coats, they cantered through the quiz and did not linger after wards. 

However, playing in this venue had one advantage – Ben, who graced their team because this was his regular ‘boozer.’  They all agreed he would be an asset had he been able to commit full-time but as a train driver “I never know what shift I’m on.”

Nevertheless, his presence guaranteed a win, for Ben possessed an uncanny knowledge of both Geography and Maths, subjects that were cavities in the team’s own knowledge. Even before the question was completed, he had scribbled the answer down. Other subjects, such as history, art, music, he simply laid his pen down, head and neck retracting into his parka collar like a tortoise, signalling that he considered such subjects too girly for him, and rolled a cigarette for the break instead.

But Anna had a more personal reason for enjoying these infrequent encounters. In the break, it became an unspoken ritual that they both grabbed more drinks and sloped outside to the ‘smoking area.’ Catching up with each other’s lives, there was genuine interest on either side. Sitting with his long legs extended, still shod in Doc Martins, he would courteously exhale smoke away from her. Together they would ponder the conundrum of him finding time from his commitments to start dating. “I need to change me job “he would grimace. “It’s ruining the social life.”

‘You’d be a catch ‘Anna would reassure, recalling her single girlfriends who frequently lamented the poor stock of available men in the area. Ben would receive her compliment with a grin and a shake of his head. The young man was completely oblivious of his personal attributes. Kindness warmed his eyes but there was also a twinkle that promised mischief. 

“I’m a bit of rough” he would reply, “too much of a geezer.”  But the women she knew were tired of men who ate halloumi and did not know their way around a car engine. Ben was a hybrid. He possessed good manners that verged on the courtly. He was raising his son solo whilst the mum was off ‘finding herself’ somewhere. Yet at the same time he had oil under his nails and could rewire a cooker. 

Break over, he stubbed out his cigarette, they returned inside, leaving unsolved the complex algorithm of his life which they would no doubt tackle again. 

Anna was a member of a mums group who had initially met at the primary school gates and formed a friendship that had outlived their kids peeling off to various secondary schools. Once a month they left husbands overseeing homework and had an adventure. So far, they had sampled psychic fairs, cocktail bars, and musicals. 

“Drag club” Stephanie pronounced handing a flier to each of the five women. “It’s in Dartford, apparently the best in the UK.” In silence each of the women peered at the image of various drag artists posturing for the camera, each adorned in an outrageous costume, bearing even more outrageous names. 

“Brillant “cried Anna “I’m in.” 

The sheer novelty value appealed to her. She had little experience of drag culture. Knew it had become mainstream in metropolitan areas. However, it had failed to sashay into this parochial town. 

Anna thought back to a particular day out with a gay friend whose first love was London. He had greeted her at Victoria train station with “I’ve a surprise for you.” This always cued that he had found some peculiarity as he tramped the city, camera in hand. She was led through the labyrinthine streets of Soho. “Ah this is it,” stopping before a shop with a large display window. 

At first glance, it looked like an outlet for prom attire but, on further scrutiny, there was something out of kilter with the displays. Dresses were oversized and over-the-top. Sequins and glitter illuminated the frontage. The mannequins were larger than those found in the women’s department of M&S. The wigs were bouffant. Their makeup neon. She was mesmerised by a pair of diamante stilettos. Shining Cinderella slippers that were significantly larger. Suddenly the answer clicked in her head. “It’s a drag queen shop.” She had laughed with delight at the sheer novelty of it. 

The rest of the group looked at each other whilst Stephanie refilled their glasses. At length, a look of devilment spread amongst them. They were all game. Except Emma who hesitated “I don’t think Keith would approve.” Keith was her cover for anything that made her uncomfortable. In truth, her husband encouraged his wife to be bolder. “Oh, come on “her friends chorused, until she reddened, took a gulp of wine, and mumbled “OK.”

That Friday they shoehorned themselves into Anna’s mini cooper. A bottle of prosecco was produced by Stephanie. She also passed out plastic flutes saying, “No swigging, we’ve got standards.”

They had all taken particular care with their appearance tonight. Even Emma had sloughed off her jeans and stepped into a dress. Car head lamps and streetlights picked up and refracted their glittery tops. The inference was that no one was being out sequined by any drag queen tonight. 

Anna, the designated driver for the evening, felt like the grown up as giggles fizzed around her. She was also the navigator, sensing her friends, tipsy on prosecco, would probably give conflicting directions at best. So, she had keyed the post code into her sat nav muttering “This will be a challenge,” under her breath, knowing Dartford to be a Badlands of one way systems, unmarked roads, and impatient drivers.

In fact, it only took two turns around the one way system with Anna shouting “Look for the venue “as even the sat nav became confused as to the precise location. The women obediently craned out the windows until catching sight of the night club’s pink neon sign ‘Barbiez,’ all chorused “there,” necessitating an abrupt slam on the brakes and sharp left turn that incurred the wrath of the driver behind. 

The security guards on the doors were solid as a pair of Welsh dressers and waved them through with grins and an “Enjoy yourselves girls.” Entering the club the women collectively gasped. 

Pink walls were adorned with the promotional photos of resident and visiting drag acts. Four pink chandeliers bloomed in each corner. Chairs were unholstered in pink plush whilst the frames and tables were gilded as if Midas had touched them. Even the carpet seemed rouged. The performance area was delineated by pink floor lights. A curtain of golden streamers concealed backstage. “It’s Barbie’s dream nightclub” they giggled.

Her friends struck out for the bar, leaving Anna to select a table. Past experience had taught her to avoid the sightline of performers, particularly comedians who enjoyed banter with the punters. Since there was no stage as such, Anna knew these acts would breach the fourth wall and work the room. She selected a banquette that would accommodate all the women, backing onto the wall and softly lit by a pink glow. She hoped it would afford some camouflage. 

“We’re having cocktails “her friends flourished lurid concoctions with risqué names. “A virgin one for you dear.” She was handed a glass of liquid the colour of something Dr Jekyll might have downed. 

Drink unlatched their tongues further. Something in this surreal atmosphere encouraged them to park job niggles and concerns over kids’ grades. Instead, superficial chatter and schoolgirl giggles bounced around the table. 

The club began to fill for the 8.30 show time. Anna watched the parties of raucous young women crowned with tiaras and garlanded with sashes that declared ‘Hen Do.’ Gay men in tight clothes that proclaimed buff bodies had the comfortable air of regulars. With office parties, the women who seemed to have come on a dare. The men, declining the camp concoctions in favour of pints, talked football and motors, their body language screaming ‘straight men.’   Anna smiled to herself, “They’ll certainly be a target.” 

Flashing stage lights signalled it was show -time. “I just don’t know what to expect “squeaked Emma, as if attack dogs were about to be unleashed. “I’ll protect you from the scary ladies “Stephanie patted her arm. 

“And now,“ a disembodied male voice announced the compère. 

Miss Chief, burst through the golden curtain to strike an exaggerated red carpet pose. Her make-up was icing thick and her hair Marilyn bouffant. A pneumonic figure was trussed into a red sequinned dress accessorised by perilous red stilettos. “She’s got breasts” Emma gasped. “We’ll explain later,” her friends hissed. Her outfit determined her gait. Miss Chief skittered forward like a geisha, arms akimbo for balance. 

Miss Chief warmed up the room with ease. Mic in hand she stalked the tables for prey. Teasing brides to be with comments so close to the knuckle that Anna’s table drew a sharp in takes of breath but then gave way to laughter. Miss Chief seemed to relish hecklers. Attempts at banter by lager emboldened, straight men, were shot down by her cross bow responses. Within 15 minutes she had the crowd warmed up nicely, giving them a taste of the rest of the show. 

What transpired was, for the most part a parade of exaggerated femininity. Cher and Tina Turner lookalikes either belted out or lip-synced to classic power ballads. There was a ‘Barbie’ of course, pink coutured apart from her blue jokes that would have had Martell speed-dialling for the lawyers. There were grotesques with absurd costumes that seemed to give them licence for ribald routines. Some acts achieved a female beauty, blessed with good bone structure, their makeup was water colour rather than oil paint. “They have better legs than us “the friends agreed. 

The evening peaked with the headline act, ‘Misstique.’ She was introduced by the compère as the regional winner of the ‘Queen of Queens’ contest, the compère mock spitting in jealousy. 

In a certain light, and after a brace of beers, Misstique would have had many men trying their luck. Her female impersonation was uncanny. Shoulder length titan hair, her striking eyes were emphasised by retro up- tick eyeliner. A slick of colour on her lips was all the assistance her regular features and high cheek bones required to transform her into a beauty. 

A slender figure was swathed in a black satin gown with a daring side slit that revealed long and shapely legs. she was pure old Hollywood glamour. Rita Hayward in Gilda. She began her act singing in that breathy style of such icons. The audience was beguiled. Suddenly her act switched gears as she began strutting amongst the tables. Her little girl voice and studied innocence were at odds with the double entendre she scattered amongst the crowd. Feigning bewilderment at the audience’s raucous reaction, often accompanied by a wide eyed” What have I said? “, chided them with a mock shocked “You are a wicked audience.”

Men, straight or gay, were ambushed by her. She would plonk herself uninvited on their laps, ruffle their hair, croon a few bars of song to them. The gay men played along, joined in the singing, whereas the straight men became statues at this attack on their masculinity. They tried to appear nonchalant, but their mouths were wrenched into artificial merriment whilst their eyes sent out distress signals. Their obvious discomfort elicited belly laughs from Anna and her friends, who soon regretted their lack of volume control. The sound caught Misstique’s attention like a predator. Their banquette had hitherto worked well as cover. Now they were rumbled. It was their turn to bear the brunt of her attention. Her eyes fixed on them and gleamed. A smile crept across her red lips which she positively licked at the sight of them. “Please don’t pick on us, please don’t pick on us “Emma audibly beseeched. 

But she was already enroute to their table. Her long legs model strutting in stilettos, which did not hamper her progress like some acts, but inexorably propelled her towards them.

“Well, what do we have here?” she turned throwing the question into the audience. “Drag club virgins, I’m thinking.” The crowd laughed, complicit now in her teasing. She addressed Stephanie “Long time since you’ve been called that, I’ll bet.” Stephanie giggled in agreement, rather relishing the attention. But she had learned to her cost from their night at the comedy club, not to not try and outsmart the ‘turn.’ 

Misstique was not as acidic as some of her sister acts. She teased the women but did not torment. She had certainly got the measure of their party. Anna wondered if this summing groups up in seconds, gauging how far to go, was a skill learned with experience. Observation seemed a honed sensibility too. “Giving the sequins a night out, I see “. She brandished a sparkly cardigan shed by one of the women early in the evening. 

The cocktails worked as an anaesthetic, numbing the worst of their discomfort at finding themselves in the spotlight. Anna, however, had never felt so sober in her life. Which was why she was able to observe the drag queen with such clarity. All the previous acts that evening had been slightly removed from scrutiny. Laughing so as not to appear impolite, Anna took the opportunity to study Misstique’s face. She loved physical beauty in both male and female form and took pleasure in studying her physiognomy. It was her eyes, though, that seemed to betray a hint of familiarity. It was not just the colour but the personality that peeped out from its liner and mascara disguise. 

The voice, too, began to resonate. The pitch was lightened, but by not exaggerating the campiness, there were hints of a timbre like a familiar musical refrain that she recognised. It was Ben. Her own expression remained poker player calm. There was no tell on her face to show that she knew him. She continued to giggle with her friends at his antics. Ben, for his part, remained sanguine. He did not misstep, continued playing up to the group of women, and basking in the audience’s guffaws. But when he was through toying with them, he made to move away and, at that point he briefly looked at Anna and winked. It was the smallest of acknowledgements that would not be challenged by the other women, fuddled with drink. In return, Anna gave a nod, subtle as an auction bid. 

On the journey home, close on 2 a.m., her friends, their clubbing days consigned to a time before adult responsibility, dozed off, heads lolling against the rests. Anna was free to mull over what was, for her, the apex of the evening. She had revealed nothing to the group. With secrets she was closed as the confessional. Even amongst these close knit friends, she was entrusted with secrets of an affair, a covert bank account and a gambling habit. 

Anna was not offended at Ben’s circumspection. A pub smoking area could hardly be considered a safe place for unlocking secrets. She assumed that only the drag circuit knew, and privacy was a given in their closed circle.

The Ben she knew ceased to exist inside the club. With the final slick of lipstick Misstique burst out with a ‘Ta –da.’ And for a few hours this was an alternative world, where acts and audience alike were complicit in this grown up make believe of glamour and sequins. 

It must be easier, she thought, for gay men, for whom drag was an accepted part of being out and proud. But she assumed Ben was straight, and for these men, there was still a social stigma. The whole concept of cross dressing confused. Society likes binaries. Gay or straight. It was uncomfortable with grey areas. 

Whilst inside, Anna might Whoop at Ben’s spirit, admiring anyone who was slightly subversive, slightly counterculture. Envying his ability to slough off the banal and step into the razzle dazzle of a second persona that was clearly a hoot.

However, she also knew that this second persona would clash with his job as train driver. The railways considered themselves old school blue collar workers. Their politics were militant, their opinions fixed. Grudgingly obeying the equal rights legislation, they had admitted a few female drivers to their ranks, but they were expected to butch up in order to survive the bruising banter. 

Similarly, she believed that in his local pub, divulging his alter ego would un-stopper a prejudice that would manifest in eye watering teasing under the guise of friendly joshing. 

Yet Ben had found a way to successfully partition his life. It was, she considered as she pulled off the motorway onto the A roads, a creative outlet as much as anything. Valid as acting or painting. Drag queens were, in effect, their own creation. The planning of new outfits, tweaking of the act, must be a counterpoint to the tedium of Ben’s job, staring ahead as the train devoured the same rail track, day after day. 

The following week Anna entered the pub, feeling as if she was walking on quicksand. She was fearful that her pub quiz ally might now distance himself from fear of disclosure. However, as she settled at the team table she heard “Alright Anna?” Ben pint in hand, bestowed his familiar warm greeting. 

At the break, cigarette in mouth champing to be lit, their usual drinks in hand, he inclined his head in his usual manner towards the smoking area. 

Seated, she found herself stumbling over words as if she was the one with the secret. They discussed, as usual world events, a preamble to more personal subject matter. However, they seemed to be skirting around the revelations of the previous Friday. Anna was resolved not to bring up the subject herself. 

“So, you’ve met my alter-ego “he said suddenly, breaking the stalemate. Her nervousness stood down. “Of all the bars” she joked, and he chuckled. “You were gorgeous though.” “Aren’t I always? “He primped, fluttering his eyelashes. She giggled. “I’ll take questions now “he said. Over the weekend a screed of questions had grown in Anna’s mind. 

He was unabashed and answered, frankly. Giving a thumbnail sketch of his drag queen’s evolution. The idea of his persona came first. Online tutorials teaching makeup application presented a challenge. There were many errors with lipstick and eyebrows. Anna thought back to her teenage efforts at make-up application. Never particularly artistic, it had been a matter of trial and error, which in an all-girls school generated sniggers. 

Swerving away from parodying a woman, he wanted a more subtle look that paid tribute to the Hollywood beauties of the 40s and 50s, whom he regarded as the apotheosis of female beauty. 

The clothes were trickier. He swerved the drag queen shops with them over the top costumes. Electing instead to trawl the internet for actual women’s wear. Multiple styles and sizes were ordered. The parcels were discreetly stashed onto of his wardrobe in suitcases to elude the inquisitive eyes of his son. 

Then came the development of an act. Many days were spent pondering her name. The selection of which helped to develop her character. Alone in the house he rehearsed the routine diligently. When he finally felt he had an act “I took the plunge and found an open mic at a drag bar in Croydon.” 

“Croydon?” Anna said inquiringly because the town was in the next county. “It’s miles away, less chance of being recognised.”  “Of course,” she nodded understanding the need for subterfuge. “I would have been terrified,“ she admitted, in a tone that paid tribute to his chutzpah. “I was.“ he confessed – dragging up in the gents’ toilet, ducking into cubicles when a customer came in to relieve themselves of beer. 

A couple of shots gave Ben just enough courage to step onto the stage. In fact, he found that once the persona was donned, he felt emboldened. All his doubts and fears evaporated as the carefree character of Misstique possessed him. 

He found the audience benevolent and very forgiving. They laughed obligingly at his gags, enjoyed his interaction with them, and heartily applauded when his 10 minutes was up. 

“No turning back after that. I was hooked. “He studied the other turns on the circuit, refined his act. Ben learned that his USP was his prettiness. His homage to the Golden Age of Hollywood that was a refreshing contrast to the grotesques. In time he got a stiletto hold into the better clubs. Grew a following with the aid of socials. 

Crossing off her mental list of questions, Anna came to what she considered more existential inquiries. “When did you first want to do it?’” she asked, curious but not wanting to seem too intrusive. He thought for a while “Dunno. It was just an itch I had to scratch.” He seemed to need to qualify his answer “I’m not gay. Some drags are, but some, like me, prefer women.” 

Ben explained that the real obstacle to finding a partner lay in this second life. “And I’m not prepared to compromise it.” “I think you’ll find women are a lot broader minded than men” she replied. She still considered Ben a catch. In fact, this secret life offered a richer dimension to his personality. A mischief that many women with mundane past relationships would actually relish and become complicit with his secret. 

The break was over. “Come and see me again? “He asked “I’ve got a six month residency at the club.” Then, in a subtle appeal for discretion he added “just you and a plus one, I’ll give you a tour.”  “It’s a date “she said and got to her feet. Doubting she could entice her biker bloke to the club, she was certain her sister would relish the opportunity. She lived in London, so was far enough away that should there be any slips of the tongue, the gossip would be unlikely to reach their hometown.

Image: unknown Wikimedia Commons (1942)