This chapter describes Skipper, and the girls arrival back in the UK. It's the start proper of the Transvestite issues in Skipper's life.

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We arrived at Heathrow airport in the dead of night. Two very sleepy little girls grumbled fractiously about the immigration delays but their story had pre-empted their arrival for the British Consul had done his duty and advised the authorities of the situation.

The immigration authorities met us with two social workers and a policewoman. The social workers immediately put me on the defensive. I had been in care myself as a child after my transvestism had caused the rift between the family and me. It had actually been a lot worse than care because I had been stealing my older sister’s underwear and the family rows had precipitated my being ‘put away’ After all I was the thief and I was the criminal, the problem, the embarrassment. Naturally no children’s home would take me because I was a transvestite. My cross dressing would invite trouble in a boys home and being a boy would preclude me from staying at a girl’s home.

(Don’t forget readers this was 1952!)

Consequently I ended up being incarcerated in a ‘Children’s Psychiatric Unit’ were I languished and rotted for a full six years from aged six to aged twelve. Then for want of anywhere else with secure residential facilities I was despatched to a borstal. That’s right, one smallish tranny 12-year-old kid and over a hundred, dysfunctional, violent youths who had all committed criminal acts. Go figure the consequences for me. It was worse than that though. There was a ‘nest’ of paedophiles operating in the place and the older boys behaved like the old death camp ‘capos’’ Things were so bad for me that my so called supervisor, cum warden, cum social worker ended up being my pimp.

Fortunately that had been over forty-five years ago and all records had long been destroyed. I still had unrequited issues though and they would probably follow me to the grave. Besides; I had not been home to Britain for about twenty years so nothing was known about me. My cross-dressing was a strictly private affair and I had rarely stepped out whilst dressed.

After passing through the immigration process the policewoman and the social workers met with me to discuss the girl’s future. One social worker stayed with the girls in a side room as the policewoman and other social worker interviewed me.

“We have located the girl’s maternal grandmother in Devon.” Declared the policewoman who was merely a slip of a girl herself.

“Excellent.” I declared; glad to be free of the responsibilities. “I suppose you’ll be taking them down in the morning then.”

The social worker then spoke. “Well we’ve already noticed that the girls have a good relationship with you and they’ve been traumatised enough. Would you be able to accompany me with them down to Devon? They seem to trust you and they need some sort of continuity. They are badly traumatised.

“Well I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’ve got business to attend to in the city. I’ve, -“

“We would like you to. Please.” Pleaded the social worker. We’ve read about the abuse in the orphanage and the South African authorities are investigating. Have you still got the photos?”

“They’re in my luggage somewhere.”

I pointed to the trolley piled high with cases, mostly the girl’s new clothes. I had indulged them a bit in Tehran whilst we waited for the emergency passports to be processed. On top were my cases and my briefcase with all my documents.

With all the commotion of our arrival, the customs had waved us through. I was glad of this because one of the cases was packed with my dresses and lingerie.

“It would help enormously if you accompanied the girls. Continuity you see.” Repeated the Social worker.

I failed to see, but I wasn’t a psychiatrist. Reluctantly, I agreed. Arrangements were completed and I stood to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got a set of rooms pre-booked at the Aerial Hotel. I wasn’t expecting a reception committee and I knew the girls would be tired from the flight. It’s two o’clock in the morning. They’re shattered. For them it’s been a red eye all the way what with the clocks and jet-lag.”

“You seem to know a lot about travelling,” observed the policewoman.

I gave her a dumb look as I sighed.

“I’m a mariner for God’s sake. I do ships. Of course I know about travelling. I’ve flown enough red eyes to know this. If you want me I’ll be in room 248 at the Aeriel Hotel. There is a double room across the alleyway room 245 if the kids want it though I suppose you’ll be taking them now. See you in the morning.”

“What about the girls?” Asked the Social worker.

“I presumed you’ll be taking them now and we’ll meet about eleven. I’m tired as well. I want to go to bed.”

“Did you say you had a suite booked?”

“Don’t you listen? No I said a set of rooms. There was a double room booked separately for them.”

The policewoman exchanged a glance with the social worker and nodded agreement. The social worker turned to me.

“If you don’t mind, we could use that room for the girls and I could stay with them.”

“Be my guests. The room’s booked, do what you like. Now look, please, if you don’t mind, I’m really tired. I haven’t slept since two days ago what with despatching the ship and fixing the passport thing in Tehran.”

The only benefit to me was that they provided a police car from the terminal to the hotel. After checking in, I bid the social workers goodnight and reassured the girls I would meet them the next morning about tennish. I was asleep as my head hit the pillow.

I woke at eleven, which told me how tired I’d been. Years at sea had fixed my sleep patterns and I was a poor sleeper who usually arose very early. In the foyer, I met the girls and now three social workers. The moment Jenny and Bea spotted me they exploded from the chairs and bounced towards me.

“Skipper! Skipper! yeeaahh!

“Have you had food?” I asked, (Stupidly for I was still shattered.) as the girls flung themselves at me and hugged my legs.

“Yes skipper.” Chorused the girls.

“Well I’ve got to have some coffee and some toast. Then I’ll join you.”

“Are you coming to grandmas?” They demanded in unison.

“I suppose so. We’ll see.”

“Please!” They wailed in unison. “She’ll like you.”

They followed me to my table and plonked themselves down as the waitress approached. I was too late for the set breakfast but I had pre- ordered toast and coffee when I checked in.

“I may not have stayed in Britain in the past twenty years, but when travelling between different ships, I had transited through Heathrow many times. I always stopped at the Aeriel Hotel Hotel, the service was OK.”

I tried to drink my coffee in peace but the girls were too noisy. I caught the social workers studying them and me. I felt vulnerable as though I was back on the laboratory bench of my ruined childhood.

‘God alone knew what sick thoughts were seething through their minds,’ I just wanted out of it all. Finally I finished my simple breakfast and approached the trio.

“We can go now. I’m ready. I want to get this over and done.”

“They like you.” Observed the social worker that had stayed with the girls overnight.

“I saved their lives. They can’t see me as some sort of ogre, can they?”

“Shall we talk about it on the way down to Devon?”

“Do the girls want to talk their experiences? Me-thinks not. They’ve never opened up to me.”

“As you wish. The car is waiting.”

“Oh. I’d hoped we’d be going down by train.”

“Why’s that?”

“Nothing. I just like travelling by train.”

“The car’s cheaper.”

“OK.” I shrugged.

As a very young child, I had sometimes gone down to Cornwall on holiday by train. The memories of those early journeys were one of the few good times in my childhood. It all stopped when my transvestism surfaced. I had never travelled far in Britain by car. I was a virtual foreigner in my own country. We loaded the car and set off down the M4. Several times the social workers tried to strike up a conversation but I was not in a talkative mood. Perhaps I was just being paranoid; God knows transvestites tend to be that way. Well this one does anyway. I didn’t want to talk much and then accidentally let slip some god-awful personal secret. Conversation was stilted.

They learned that I was over thirty years at sea and had long ago forsaken any allegiance to Britain. They learned that I was not married and never had been; they could make of that whatever they wanted, I didn’t care. They learned I was a crusty old salt who had finally ‘swallowed the anchor’ and was searching for somewhere to settle and end his days. They learned I had no plans to adopt the girls permanently. The Iranian adoption had purely been a convenient device to get the kids legally out of Iran. They learned that I was a grumpy old cynic who had few expectations and didn’t go looking for any.

They DID NOT learn that I was a moderately wealthy transvestite.

They assumed, rightly, that the girls would be better off rid of me and living with their grandmother. I agreed with them wholeheartedly on this.

We arrived at the grandmother’s house in time for tea. It was an idyllic setting, almost a picture post card image of a typical Devon Cob cottage. Jenny and Bea exploded from the car and ran screeching up the garden path to meet a tearful white-haired woman who was extending her arms in beseechment. The social worker exchanged a glance with me and smiled. I remained resolutely impassive.

She pulled a face and tackled my detachment. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this what it’s all about? They’re back with their grandmother and safe again.”

I was forced to agree with the woman. Perhaps I had allowed fifty years of anger and resentment to cloud my judgement about social workers. In truth I was glad to see the girls safely returned to their family or whatever was left of it. This was for two reasons. First the humanitarian side of me was glad to see the girls finally safe. Secondly I was now rid of all responsibilities and free to indulge my own needs. Furthermore, I had all the means to facilitate my hopes. My plans now were to find a suitable place to set up my own home away from prying eyes and finally indulge my own needs without censure or condemnation.

I had been patiently striving all my life to achieve this simple private ambition and now it was within my grasp.

I had one third share in a ship, the option of choosing either of two charters to provide employment for that ship and two loyal friends in Billy and Mac. They, like me, carried sexual baggage so we recognised each other’s personal foibles and respected them.

As I reflected on my private thoughts, the white-haired woman waved and motioned us to come up to the house.

“Come on,” said the social worker, “I expect there’ll be a full Devon cream tea and apple tart laid out.”

“Mmm. Yummy! Yes she looks that sort of granny doesn’t she?” I replied as we gathered some of the girl’s cases and set off up the path.

The social worker was right. The grandmother was desperate to thank me and hugged me tightly as the tears flowed. Then she invited us to eat and over an excellent cream tea, she related the history of events up to the girl’s departure from England. Apparently, her son in law and daughter were keen yachters. They and the two grand daughters had set off to Australia as emigrants on their own yacht.

Their venture must have met with some catastrophe. Because her grand daughters would not speak about it, nobody knew what had happened but the old lady was desperately glad to recover some of her family from the disaster. I explained my part and I showed her some video of the various adventures. At least the poor woman would have some record of her grand daughter’s terrible experiences.

Of the fate of her daughter and son in law, we would probably never know. As to my opinions of any fools prepared to sail a yacht down the Red sea and past the horn of Africa swarming with pirates, I kept silent. It would do no good to cause the poor woman further anguish. We fell to talking of general things and the grandmother finally asked me of my plans.

“I’ve retired ma-am. I intend to settle down to a peaceful retirement with perhaps a weekly trip up to London to keep tabs on my business interests.”

“Oh we don’t need such formality. Call me Beatrice. Bea is named after me. Now what are these so called business interests?” She pressed.

“My one third share in that ship in the video.” She’s on her way back to Europe as we speak. She’ll be here in about six days. I have to agree which charter we’ll take and see her settled into a nice steady trade. Both charters are coastal container trades for which she’s ideally suited.”

“Go on,” pressed the old lady.

“Well, it’s a case of whichever is the most lucrative? She’s a handy ship and a popular size for modern coastal container trade; a sort of feeder service. I had intended to fix it up today but tomorrow will do. So I’d best be on my way.”

“Oh! So soon.”

“F’raid so. Don’t want to loose the options, they’re my livelihood and they expire on Wednesday.”

With these words I stood up to indicate my intentions and the social worker hurriedly produced some paperwork.

“It’s just a formality, Mrs Fotheringay. Confirming the girls as your grandchildren.”

The social worker sensed my impatience to be gone and she hurried through the forms indicating where Mrs Fotheringay had to sign. I returned to the car to collect the rest of the girl’s luggage then we made our farewells. The girls started crying.

“Are you going forever Skipper?” Wept Jenny.

I was taken a little by surprise. Throughout all their ordeals the girls had never cried once. This was a new territory for me and I backed away to the car, afraid to cause any more distress.

The Social worker worked some unexpected magic and smoothed the waters before joining me in the car.

The girls and their grandmother all waved tearfully as the social worker turned the car in the lane and we set off back to London. I settled down in the passenger seat anticipating a peaceful three-hour snooze. It was not to be.

“You’ve created quite an impression there.” Observed the social worker.

I did not know how to answer so I kept ‘shtum’.

“I said you’ve created quite an impression there Skipper.”

Her use of Jenny and Bea’s name for me invoked a small resentment. She had no right to use their particular term of endearment. I suggested she concentrate on driving whilst I tried to sleep.

“I can’t do that. There’s still the matter of the adoption to sort out.”

“Don’t be daft.” I argued. “That was simply a convenient device to get the girls legally out of Iran. Would you have preferred that they remain in some sort of Iranian orphanage? God they had it bad enough in the South African one. I had to do something to make sure they were safe.”

“You see. You do care.”

I ‘harrumphed irritably and turned my head towards the passenger window to indicate that any discussion was over.

The girl was persistent however. “It’ll have to be revoked or annulled by a proper court hearing. Otherwise, Mrs Fotheringay might lose rights to her grandchildren.”

“Oh that’s just plain bloody daft! She’s their grandmother for God’s sake! Anyway, I’ve made it plainly obvious that my job is done. I’ve gone far beyond my legal obligations under SOLAS, to rescue castaways or distressed seamen. The girls are safe again. All my legal obligations are finished. That’s the law!”

“What’s SO-? What’s that about?”

“SOLAS! It stands for ‘Safety-of-Life-at-Sea’. It’s the international convention requiring me by law to do everything in my power to rescue any person in distress at sea without endangering my ship or crew. I did it. The kids were rescued. My job is done.”

“And the legal shenanigans in Iran. That went far beyond your so-called duty.”

“Have you been to Iran, or Saudi, or any of those countries?”

“No.”

“Well then, don’t talk about what you don’t know about. I got the children back to the UK. That’s my job more than done. Anyway, if your stupid associates in the foreign office had done their job properly I would have never had to adopt them. If they could have shown to that Iranian judge that Mrs Fotheringay existed, he would have had no hesitation in returning the children to UK, without a single qualm. The man was an eminently sensible and compassionate judge. He bust a gut to get the kids back to England. There were plenty of predatory wolves out there that would have jumped at the chance to ‘adopt’ two beautiful little girls with an eye to the future. Blond haired blue-eyed women are worth a fortune out there, especially Muslim ones.”

“What have you got against Islam?”

“I disagree with how they treat their women. At least, the fundamentalist ones.”

“They’re not all like that.”

“I know that better than you. I’ve met educated Jordanians, Egyptians and Iraqis who treat their wives and daughters every bit as liberally as western fathers. They are fine, courteous and hospitable people. But in some of those other countries, the Koran’s been used and abused to beat women into submission. It’s disgraceful! The Koran does not demand that women cover themselves from head to toe. It only directs them to be modest. The whole burkah thing is a cultural perversion of Islam. It’s a crude wicked Wahabi hijacking of the true spirit of Islam that is used to oppress and abuse women. Those fundamentalists are just like the old Inquisition thing in Spain and what-have-you!”

“Oh so you’ve read about it then.”

“You can’t travel the world for thirty odd bloody years and not learn something about all sorts of stuff!”

“So that Iranian judge was prepared to admit the girl’s fate in Iran was likely to be a rough one. That implies he doesn’t have a very high opinion of his own Islamic society.”

“That’s a wicked interpretation! He learned that I was the first ship to stop and rescue the girls therefore he concluded I really cared. As one who cared, he decided they would be safe with me. I have no idea what his feelings about his own society were. I did not bother to ask. His reasoning was logical, legally exact and all importantly, humane! He was a good man. If some of your bloody English family courts behaved with as much humanity and common sense, there would be a lot less heartbreak and damaged kids over here.”

“What do you know of Family courts?” She asked.

“It doesn’t bloody matter any more. I came from care. Don’t talk to me about bloody judges in this country!”

“What! You were in care!” She gasped.

“Hell it was forty odd bloody years ago. I’m in my fifties. It’s over. It’s done with. Let it lie!”

She fell silent for a while and I settled gratefully into an uncomfortable doze. I woke as she slowed down to leave the motorway and join the dense London traffic.

“Where d’you want dropping?” She asked.

“The Aerial hotel again. I’m booked there for a week.”

“Damn! If I’d known that, you could have left your luggage in the hotel. What are your plans then?”

“You heard at Mrs Fotheringay’s. Sort out the charter for the ship then find a nice cottage somewhere and retire.”

“You could do worse than Devon.”

“I’ve got the whole country to choose from. Though I’ve always fancied Dorset.”

“Yes. Dorset’s very nice. You could stay in touch with the girls. It’s the next county.”

“Listen! I have no intention of ‘keeping in touch’ as you put it. My duty to them is over. I’ve got my own life to live. My connection to them is over, once this business with the adoption thing is sorted. I expect you to sort that out. Isn’t that what you’re good at?”

We drove a bit further in Silence until we reached the hotel and parked in the dimly lit underground car park. I opened the boot to collect my much-travelled luggage.

“Here let me carry one,” she offered.

“Well you take the briefcase. I’ll carry these two.”

So saying I yanked the largest heavier case out of the boot and the clasp snagged hard against the boot catch. I had earlier released the security straps that morning in my hotel room so there was nothing to hold the tired old case closed. With a devastating ‘pop’ the catch burst open and the case deposited all my most private secrets onto the concrete. I started stupidly at it for a second then tried to show nonchalance as I swiftly scooped the contents back into the case. The social worker bent down to help me and only then realised in the poor light of the car park that she was handling masses of delicate lingerie and assorted female apparel.

“Who’s are these?” She asked.

I blanched for an instant then decided to brazen it out. ‘What the hell!’ I concluded. ‘I was beholden to nobody anymore. I was retired and a free agent. What bloody business was it of hers anyway? She would be driving away in few moments, and I would be safe in my hotel. Sod it!’ I concluded.

“They’re mine.”

I sensed her flinch but she was good at hiding her surprise. After a brief pause she recovered her composure but her voice then betrayed her.

“What. You mean you’re a tra-, a transvestite!”

“Yess!” I snapped. “A tranny! A perve! A sicko! Happy now?”

She fell silent as she folded the last delicate piece of lingerie and patted it delicately. I resented her patronising little gesture as I slammed the lid.

“There’s no need to be so bloody patronising. I’ll take all my cases. Thank you for the lift. Goodbye.”

“No wait! We need to talk!”

“No we don’t! You can get in touch by phone tomorrow and sort out the adoption thing.” I handed her a business card and gave some brief instructions. “This is my telephone number in London where I have the use of a small shared office. It’s a single room at this address but you can always get hold of me through this connection. Arrange a date for a hearing then that’ll be the last you hear or see of me!”

I turned clumsily and struggled with my treacherous luggage to the service lift. Within moments, I had collected my key from reception and collapsed on the bed. Then there was a knock on the door. I didn’t answer. I was sure I knew who it was. When people met transvestites they always seemed to show a puerile interest. Women were often worse than men. This social worker would be no different. I lay silent upon the bed and the knocking became more urgent.

“Go away!” I shouted at the door.

“We need to speak!”

I had been right. It was her.

“No we don’t! Go away!”

“We do!”

“Why. My business with the girls is concluded. I didn’t abuse them or rape them or anything. Nothing happened. Just let it lie and bugger off!”

I had to admire the girl’s persistence. She hammered again on the door. Short of calling security or something, it seemed there was nothing that could make her leave.

“If you don’t go. I’ll call the police!” I shouted.

“Don’t be daft. I’m a social worker. How would it look if I told them about your thing?”

I cursed angrily. Whilst I had fully intended to ‘come out’ after a lifetime of work, it was to be on my own terms in my own time and in the appropriate place.

The last thing I wanted was my dirty lingerie, dragged through the courts. I’d been planning my retirement for over forty years.

Why ruin it now? Reluctantly I slipped the catch on the door but kept the safety chain in place. I peered through the gap to find her standing there. She tried to smile but I was in no mood for pleasantry.

“What d’you bloody want?”

“To talk. But not out here, not in the corridor for everybody to hear.”

I hesitated, peered through the gap and concluded there was nobody else before I released the chain.

As she entered she glanced at the chain.

“Who don’t you trust?” She asked.

“You.”

“Why not?”

“You just offered to expose my cross dressing thing to the police. That was the first threat and breach of trust after only knowing about it for what; less than five minutes?”

“That wasn’t a threat. I didn’t mean it.”

“So why did you make it?”

She hesitated for too long and I decided to curtail the meeting there and then. She realised that I felt vulnerable and it had therefore been a threat, at least, it had in my perception. “OK. That’s enough. Please leave.”

“Are you afraid I might report it to the courts because of the girls?”

“The girls don’t know about it. I kept my cabin door locked at night. Nobody bother’s the captain at night unless it’s the officer on watch and he’s got a direct phone to the captain’s desk and bed. Look I didn’t ask to be involved with children. I’ve avoided them all my life. I never married and I chose a career that would never normally involve children. Can’t you see I’m not interested in them?”

“Not interested in them or scared the authorities might get two plus two to be five.”

“Well. Yes!” I hesitated, “That’s it exactly. Every tranny’s got to be perve hasn’t he. So it follows they’ve all got to be paedophiles.”

She recognised the irony in my voice.

“That’s a silly statement! Why does that follow? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Bigotry and prejudice. It’s the very coin of the family courts and child care.”

“So you’ve avoided any sort of relationship all your adult life, because of this-, this.”

“See! You can’t even bring yourself to pronounce it. OK! I don’t have to listen to this. I don’t need psychobabble or trick- cyclists picking over my mind. Will you please leave?”

“It doesn’t have to be like this you know.”

I gaped at her stupidly. ‘Was she in the real world?’ I asked myself. “Listen you stupid woman! I snapped. You just threatened me about it. Just how real is that?. Now bugger off.”

“I’m sorry about that. It was thoughtless of me.”

“No it was typical of you; - and all the others. Now go! Or I will call the hotel security. You’re in my room uninvited and you didn’t ask at reception. Whatever powers you think you’ve got, the hotel won’t take kindly to an uninvited person sneaking into the hotel, past the reception and bothering one of their regular guests.”

“How d’you know I sneaked past reception?” She demanded.

“They would have phoned my room to ask if I was expecting you. They always do these days. Airport hotels are paranoid about security. It’s the nine — eleven thing.”

With the mention of ‘Nine-eleven, her confidence vanished like a deflated balloon. The new airport security act had made casual unannounced visits virtually a criminal offence, even in the peripheral airport hotels. Paranoia about terrorism was everywhere around Heathrow.

As her demeanour collapsed I pressed my suit. “They’ll have you on the security cameras as well. You may have hoodwinked the receptionist but you won’t have got past the desk without being filmed. You’ll have to explain your actions!”

“All right. I’ll go,” she mumbled, “but I still think you should talk to someone about it.”

“Get out!” I snarled as I held the door wide open.

She scuttled out like a frightened rabbit and I slammed the door shut behind her.

‘Good bloody riddance,’ I mumbled to myself as I threw myself upon the bed.

I didn’t dress that night. I wasn’t in the mood.

The following day, Tuesday, I went into town and spoke with my shipbroker.

We decided upon the most favourable charter for our ship and he duly processed the agreements. Then I checked my mail in the drop box at my time-share office space. By the time Mac and Billy had arrived in Europe with the ship, things would be set up.

It was a one-year renewable bareboat charter on a regular container trade between Ireland and the near continent. Three regular ports of call, namely Cork in Southern Ireland, Le Havre in France and of course, Amsterdam. Just about every trade route in Europe seemed to end up in Amsterdam or Rotterdam these days. It was pure economic gravity.

There was also the potential to link up a port in Southern England and the shipping line was actively exploring this. Our ship had some spare capacity that would facilitate such a trade and that’s why they wanted her. Additionally, her two independent 30 tonne cranes would be ideal for containers if the English link were established via some small undeveloped port that lacked the usual ‘portainer gantry cranes’.

With our deal wrapped up I arranged to meet Billy and Mac in Amsterdam to finalise the ship’s fitting out. It was also an opportunity to meet the charterers face to face. The one-month dry-docking was a heavy but necessary expense and it gave everybody a good opportunity to check out our ship. After some essential repairs and maintenance she passed her surveys and we set about inaugurating the trade. We were confident because the previous ship had proven too small as the trade expanded and she had proven too costly to lengthen. The availability of our ship had proved a perfect match.

Needless to say, Amsterdam also provided me with wonderful opportunities to indulge my other cross dressing needs whilst Mac and Billy also availed themselves of Amsterdam’s world-renowned liberality. We stayed at a hotel that catered for diverse sexualities and no eyebrows were raised if I arrived for breakfast ‘en femme’. Sometimes the three of us even went out clubbing together. Mac and Billy recognising my needs whilst I respected theirs.

The month in dry dock also gave our Philippine crewmen some time to go home if they wished.

Jesse the second mate did so because he was missing his wife and family, as did the rest of the crew.

Supan, the third mate however, was still saving hard. He was young, single and had had no important family connections. He thus chose to live on the ship in dry-dock and pocket the allowances he was due for his hotel expenses and meals.

I continued therefore to pay him because he made a useful night watchman.

Mac and I were pleased that the whole crew wished to return after their leave. It was a reflection that ours was still a happy ship.

The time in Amsterdam proved idyllic for Billy, Mac and me. By the time the trade was set up we had all recharged our batteries.

After a virtual fortnight of permanently living ‘en femme I was at my most relaxed state in fifty years. I seriously considered settling to live in Holland but my dream was still a ‘roses around the door’ cottage somewhere in Dorset.

On the first inaugural voyage I accompanied Mac and Billy just to get a feel for the trade and take over occasionally as relief master in the future. Our ship proved perfectly suited for the trade and I left her on her return to Amsterdam. After a few modifications to fine-tune the ship’s equipment, I returned to London and met with my lawyers to commence my search for my ideal cottage.

With plenty of funds in hand, I expected this to be a blissful period as I wandered around the beautiful Dorset countryside inspecting various potential cottages.

It was an idyllic month. Nobody knew who I was, where I was or indeed what I was.

Each Monday evening, I would return to the little hotel in Poole in Dorset that catered to gays and other ‘alternative lifestyles.

Then I would wash and prepare myself thoroughly before immersing myself in unrestricted femininity. Once I was dressed and in the right mood, I would spread the various brochures on my bed and decide what cottages were worth looking at.

If I were finally going to be free to live as a woman, then my choice of a place to live would have to reflect my mood and lifestyle. As I luxuriated on the hotel bed in my finest silky lingerie and silky dresses, I slowly weeded out the unsuitable cottages until I had a short manageable list to inspect over the next week. Then in my favourite finery, I would glide down to the restaurant and take my evening meal.

The hotel owner, who called himself Sissy, was like me, a cross dresser and there was a small bar in the basement that catered for the gay scene in Poole.

After dining, I would briefly go down into the club and relax in the most convivial surroundings. Most midweek evenings, the bar was very quiet and sometimes I was utterly alone but I did not mind.

Sissy and I could chat to our heart’s content. At the weekends, things would liven up and I met several kindred souls.

Eventually, I found the perfect cottage. It had once been a farmhouse at the end of its own isolated lane but the previous owner who had passed away had tastefully refurbished it.

The farm was a sort of quadrangle place and only two sides of the square yard had been modernised. The other barns and stable remained rusticated and almost derelict.

He, the previous owner, had died unexpectedly without issue and I suspected he may have been gay himself. Whatever the farm’s history, it suited me perfectly. It was within easy reach of Poole and Bournemouth whilst yet being secluded without being utterly isolated. A regular Poole to Bournemouth bus service passed the bottom of the lane and it took me to either railway station which were served by a direct service to London.

If I ever became too frail or infirm to drive, this bus and train service would serve me for the last few years of my life. Once I became too old and frail to look after myself I had decided I would top myself.

The thought of being forced to end my days dressed as an old man confined to a bed in a geriatric home in horrible striped pyjamas horrified me. No, somehow, somewhere I would find a way of topping myself painlessly once I could not fend for myself. I hoped that was still some time off, I was only in my fifties.

As to the driving thing and old age; it was always easier to go up to London by train. Driving in London and more importantly, parking was a nightmare. With the right house in the right location and good transport links to London, I had my retirement all planned out.

I organised a firm of local Poole, solicitors (lawyers to our transatlantic cousins,) to complete the purchase and I returned to London to attend to our shipping affairs. The charterers were still investigating a fourth port of call in the trade and I agreed that I would investigate potential locations to set up a connection in the South of England. It was serendipity. Poole proved to be ideally located with an excellent harbour and good transport links.

I would be able to keep tabs on my business interests from my very own front door. Negotiations proved easy and quick.

The port authority already had one container trade to Spain and they had surplus capacity over their wharfs. The addition of a second trade to Ireland and the north continent perfectly complemented the Spanish, North African business.

Within a few months, our ship was calling weekly at Poole and I was in regular contact again with Mac and Billy. They bought a delightful ‘town house’ in Bournemouth where they would spend their leave.

This idyllic set-up was to be disturbed a year later when I found some unexpected mail in my post office box in London. We now had a small single office room in a block in the city where we ran our side of the business. In the foyer of the office block, we had our numbered post box. I had been working as relief captain for a month and hadn’t visited the office so I stopped by on my way down to Dorset.

That Monday morning as I visited the office I found a personally addressed legal looking letter amongst the usual mail. It was a letter from the Social services of Devon County Council.

‘What do they want now?’ I asked myself.

As I read the letter, my jaw sagged wider and wider.

“Shit! “ I gasped. ‘Didn’t Social workers ever talk to each other?’

Apparently, Jennifer and Beatrice’s grandmother had taken a turn for the worse. She was becoming frail and care for the children had become a problem. Apparently, the Devon Social services had been attending to the grandmother’s care needs and documents had been discovered concerning the children’s adoption by me in Iran.

They had contacted the previous London social services and got my contact details. I had forgotten completely about the children and the adoption thing.

In fact I had automatically assumed that the adoption had been annulled. I had never dreamed that the courts would have required any input from me.

“Fuck!” I cursed again. ‘What in God’s name could they want with me? Surely a social services department could arrange for the care of two girls without having to involve me. They could be fostered or something,’ I thought.

Reluctantly I phoned the number in the letter.

Eventually I reached the caseworker and what she told me did not please me.

“The two girls talk about you all the time. Mrs Fotheringay died only last week. Where have you been? You’re a very difficult person to get hold of.”

“I’ve been at sea for nearly a month. I occasionally relieve my business partners whilst they go on leave.”

“Oh. That’s a bit awkward.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s this adoption thing. Apparently it’s still legal.”

“Oh come on!” I scoffed disbelievingly. “Surely that’s all over and done with. It was just a legal trick. A thing to get the kids out of Iran.”

“Well. No. It’s not actually. Technically, you’re still the girl’s only surviving relative.”

“Oh! Don’t be daft. That’s just ridiculous! Listen, I explained all this to the London gang. I’m not going to get lumbered with two girls at my time of life. ”

“Gang? What d’you mean; gang?”

“You know exactly what I mean; your cronies in London. You’re all birds of a feather! I’m not going to explain myself now. Listen; just start legal proceedings to get the girls off my back. I’ll attend any court hearing, just do it.”

“Don’t you care what the girls want?” She persisted.

“Whatever they want, I can’t provide. I’m just a crusty old fart. I’m stuck in my ways and never been used to children. I’m a seaman. I do ships, not kids.”

“But you are a carer and they are beautiful kids. They are really nice and they absolutely adore you. Why did you rescue them?”

I’d been all through this before. I had no intention of getting enmeshed again. I just blustered in order to hide my fear. “Just start the process of unadopting them. When you want my signatures. I’ll provide them. If you want any other answers speak to your cronies in London!”

The last thing I wanted was all my carefully laid plans and hopes destroyed by the unwanted arrival of two little girls in my dream cottage. I slammed the telephone down then left the London office and made my way home to Dorset; to my long sought retirement peace.