This chapter addresses the first steps towards helping Christopher, AKA Christine but more affectionately called Chrissie by the family at the cottage.

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Early the following morning I joined Mac and Billy at Heathrow and by noon, Dutch time, we were in Amsterdam checking over the dry-docked Speedwell. She floated out that afternoon and by the Thursday evening she was ready for sea. Billy and Mac were taking her to Poole while I stopped by in London that night. Before departing from Schipol airport I phoned Angie to keep up with Chrissie’s progress and she warned me.

“The Dorset Social Services are coming over tomorrow afternoon to check your house out. Sandie’s recommended your cottage. You’d better be here.”

“Why the presumptuous cow! Who said she could do that without first informing me!?”

“She tried contacting you but your bloody phone was switched off.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. We were undocking the Speedwell. It’s pretty tricky floating a ship off the blocks. I switched off while we were checking the stability calculations and the water ballast arrangements. I forgot to switch it back on again. Anyway, what time are these people coming?”

“I arranged it for the afternoon about two. You’ll be here by then won’t you?”

“Yes, I should be. There’re only a few more forms to sort out in the Registrar of shipping offices. They’re new tonnage certificates after the dry-dock modifications. She’s been lengthened a bit and that’s why we got her cheap. The contract she was modified for fell through but it suits us. The port authority of the run she was scheduled for decided she was too long for regular schedule in their newly dredged channel.

Two o’clock will be a bit tight though, especially as I’m picking up those nighties from Janet for you.”

“Well I did warn them you might be a bit late.”

“Thanks Angie. How is Chrissie by the way?”

“I saw her last night. She’s pathetically grateful. Mrs Bodkin came up to meet her and chat with her colleague from Dorset SS. I’m pretty sure your cottage will pass muster. Its reputation is growing amongst carers in these parts.”

“Yeah, well I’ve got to speak to Sandie about that. This is definitely the last one. I want a life of my own as well you know.”

“Ah go on Skipper! You know Beverly loves kids.”

I chuckled to myself as our flight was called.
‘Only Angie could have got away with a remark like that about Skipper.’ Only Angie could have got away with calling me Skipper. The girls had long ago stopped calling me that and always called me Mummy Beverly or Auntie Bev. I arrived in London and checked into the Ariel hotel by Heathrow. Then I took a taxi into town to visit a transvestite club I had been going to for years.

I knew a couple of the older regulars from way back and it was nice to reminisce as we raked over the still warm embers of previous times in my wilder, crazy youth.
As we older members reflected on our adventures, several very passable young trannies joined us with their girlfriends. They listened enraptured as the pair described my lunatic excesses at a time in the early sixties when it was almost suicidal to be seen out cross-dressed.

“Beverly just didn’t seem to care! I’m surprised she ever lived to see fifty.” Observed my old friend Olwen.

The young ones wanted chapter and verse so we all went to a gay restaurant and I enjoyed the evening regaling them with stories of my miss-spent youth. They envied me my past but I envied them more. To see a young transvestite walking out with his girlfriend and feeling safe enough to go out on the streets was a pointer as to how far things had moved on in Britain.

‘God how different it all was from my youth,’ I reflected. I was secretly jealous. They even had girlfriends and seemed to enjoy all the pleasure that that gave them.
Finally I had to give up the company and the fun and offer my excuses. I was tired after a long day of work, travelling and clubbing.

When I returned to the Ariel hotel I was at peace with myself and slept well.
The following day I had to advance my plans by an hour in the city to get to Janet’s for the new outfits and then be in the cottage in Dorset by two. It was very tight and I was still half an hour late.

‘Trackside communication repairs in the New Forest after the snow.’ Well; isn’t it ever???”

After making my apologies and her accepting them, the Dorset Social worker invited me to an interview around the dining room table. Chrissie was invited to join us but Angie and Mrs Bodkin were left out in the cold. The interview went well. Mrs Bodkin and Sandie had prepared the ground well and for once Betty, the Dorset Social worker, proved to be supportive and agreeable. I was pleasantly surprised.

“We know about your circumstances Miss Beverly and while you were late I took the opportunity to interview Miss Hunt . Before coming here, I visited Jennifer and Beatrice in school this morning. They are a credit to you.”

“Oh! Thanks,” I replied, a little surprised at Betty’s openness.

“Oh; and Mrs Hunt did me the courtesy of showing me everything, the house, the stables, your friend’s house across the yard and even the dormitories for the pony trekking parties. I must tell you I’m impressed and Christopher is desperately keen to stay here.”

“Uh, I’m sorry Ma-am but I would rather refer to Christopher as Christine.”

“Oh call me Betty. Everybody does. As to the child’s name, you may call him or her whatever you like, that depends on him, or if you prefer; her.”

I turned to Chrissie and smiled as I asked her softly.

“What’s it to be love, Christopher or Christine?”

Chrissie lowered her eyes as tears escaped them.

“Will you call me Chrissie?”

“Of course darling; that’s what we’ve been calling you since we met.”

Chrissie turned to Betty and apologised.

“I should have told you I wanted you to treat me like a girl. I didn’t realised I could do that. I really like the name Chrissie. Angie and Beverly gave it to me the night on the train. It’s almost like being reborn, a sort of second christening and a release from the past.”

Betty sighed patiently.

“I wish you had told me earlier Chrissie. Now I’ve got to annotate all these forms. However, legally you are still a boy for the time being and I’m stuck with the name Christopher for official documentation. We’ll get the psychiatrist to make some assessments then if you wish, we’ll move things forward on all fronts.”

My eyes widened in surprise.

“What! D’you mean you’re agreeable to helping her enter transition?”

“Why not? If Chrissie is a girl then so be it. I’ll have to speak to the head of psychiatric services though.”

I couldn’t restrain my delighted surprise.

“My gosh! You guys have come a hell of a long way haven’t you? Is this all down to Sandie?”

“Oh do you know her?” She’s a wonderful woman.”

“Do I know her? Believe me Betty, Sandie is one of my best friends and she’s been Martina’s psychiatrist for nearly a year not to mention Jenny and Beatrice as well as Angie.”

“Oh good gracious! It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“Smaller than you think Betty. Now that the formalities and paperwork are over I think I’d better explain everything here, the whole set up. I don’t know how much you know but I know from past experiences that it’s vital to come absolutely clean with you people. Cup of tea?”

Betty nodded thoughtfully and joined Mrs Bodkin, Angie and me in the kitchen.
As we sat around the Kitchen table with Chrissie I explained all the goriest details about me, and the children. I did not speak about Margaret, Sian, Elizabeth or Jane. I had no right to and it would have been a terrible betrayal anyway. After I had finished Betty replied disarmingly.

"I know about you, Sandie told me everything and you’ve just confirmed it. It’s excellent that you have proved utterly open and above board. I like that. Don’t be cross with Sandie, she had to tell us everything, those are the rules and I’m sure you’ll agree. I know about the children and the rescue and about Martina’s transexualism although that’s nothing to do with Social Services. Martina lives with her parents and they are not deemed to be children at risk. I also know about Angie and the trauma’s she’s suffered. Don’t be afraid Beverly. I know enough about you to conclude that Chrissie couldn’t be better placed. Nobody is better equipped to help Chrissie through the next few years than you.”

Betty turned to Chrissie and smiled.

“Did I tell you Beverly would understand or did I tell you Beverly would understand?”

Chrissie was still staring open-mouthed. She was utterly gob-smacked. As a silence settled around the table she croaked nervously.

“You! Beverly, you mean you’re like me? I thought you were just a tranny.”

“I’m pretty much like you Chrissie. I haven’t gone quite as far as I think you want to go, but I live as a woman. I haven’t gone all the way though. I’m mostly transvestite but I have a strong transsexual tendency. I have breasts; they’re my own, hormone induced. However I still have my dangly bits. There you and I differ on the transgenic spectrum. You are just a little bit further along the spectrum than me. Most important though is that I fully understand where you are coming from, where you want to go and I am fully supportive. Don’t you remember what I said on the train?”

“I thought you were saying that just to, you know, reassure me. So many people lie to me.”

“Well I don’t lie. Look at me, I’m dressed like a woman, I have the breasts and shape of a woman. I don’t lie Chrissie; I truly am what I am; that’s why Sandie recommended this place to Dorset SS and Betty. If there’s one thing you’ll get above all else if you stay here, it’s support , sympathy and above all honesty.”

Tears started to flow down Chrissies cheeks and she flung her arms around first Betty then me. I hugged her hard to reinforce my words and Betty smiled as she gathered together her files and stood poised by the door. Her very posture with her file under one arm and her other hand resting lightly on the old Farmhouse latch declared that she was happy for the placement to start immediately. She smiled one last time at Chrissie.

“Well I thought it was going to be hell’s own job sorting you out my darling. I had visions of you being regularly beaten up in some ghastly residential home. I had grave concerns about the whole scenario but suddenly I learn about this place. This has to have been one of my easiest and happiest jobs since I started out as a social worker. It’s solutions like this that make up for all the bad stuff. Thank you Beverly and thank you Angie for your saving this beautiful kid’s life, - twice.” She added after a brief pause as she opened the door.

Reluctantly I released Chrissie from my embrace and we escorted Betty to her car. As Betty started the Engine, Chrissie shrieked.

“Wait!”

“What,” wondered Betty?

“My bag. It’s still in the boot.”

Betty smiled, rolled her eyes and wagged her head patiently as she muttered “Kids, I dunno.”

Chrissie grabbed a single black, plastic bin liner from the trunk and clutched it tightly as Betty finally turned the car and drove slowly down the lane. Chrissie stared distractedly for long moments after Betty had disappeared around the bend in the lane and I had to gently tap the young girl’s shoulder.

“Come on love. You’ve got the rest of your life to be getting on with.”

As I spoke I glanced down at the meagre contents of her plastic bag.

‘God!’ I thought. ‘If ever there was a mark of the ‘child from care’ it was the ubiquitous black, bloody, plastic bag!’

All the plastic bag contained was the blood stained frock from her assault on the train and the remainder of the clothes she had been wearing that night. That was all that the poor bloody kid owned. I exchanged a wry glance with Angie then we smiled as Angie peered into the bag and turned to Chrissie.

“Is that it? Is that everything, is that all you’ve got?”

Chrissie glanced in the almost empty bag and frowned tearfully as she nodded and replied in an apologetic whisper.

“Yes.”

Angie grinned and Chrissie’s nervous frown slowly faded as Angie’s grin persisted.

“Well. It’s an ill wind isn’t it? You’ll be needing some new clothes won’t you? And young lady; that means we’ve got a bloody good excuse to shop. Tomorrow morning young lady. I want you up at seven o’clock sharp! We don’t accept slackers here. While the girls are earning their pocket money at the riding school; you, Beverly and I have got a huge task ahead of us. It’s going to be a hard one right!

A full morning’s shopping, - for you!”

For a moment Chrissie seemed to think there was some enforced labour awaiting her but then her jaw dropped and the tears flowed copiously again as she turned uncertainly towards us not knowing who to hug first. Angie and I quickly averted Chrissie’s embarrassed confusion. We linked shoulders and invited the poor kid into our embrace.

After hugs and cuddles we made our way into the cottage and started preparing dinner. Poor Chrissie kept hovering earnestly around Angie and me as she tried to make herself useful. Angie and I exchanged glances.

‘At least the kid was showing willing.’

Angie took her to one side and showed her how to prepare sprouts by cross slicing the base of each sprout and peeling off a couple of the outer leaves. She gave Chrissie one of the little veg knives from the rack and the kid took to the task like a duck to water. She was still contentedly preparing sprouts when Sian’s Landrover rumbled into the yard.

Chrissie peered through the window into the evening darkness and declared.

“We’ve got visitors.”

“No darling,” I informed her, “they are not visitors, they live here.”

“Oh are these the children?” Chrissie smiled hugely. “Betty mentioned them when she was bringing me here. I’ve been dying to meet them. Why are they so late?”

“They went to ballet lessons after riding.”

As I spoke the girls came skipping into the kitchen still in their tights and leotards then stopped when they saw Chrissie.

Chenille, always the boldest of the girls, turned to me and demanded loudly. “Who’s he?”

Chrissie was still wearing the jeans and tee-shirt that she had come with so I enlightened the children before there could be any more faux pas.

“Children. This is Chrissie. She was the girl who was being beaten up when she was travelling home on the same train as Angie, Mac, Billy and I on Monday might. Your uncles Mac and Billy rescued her from her attackers and now we’re looking after her until her life is sorted.”

“Martina’s eyes widened with curiosity as she stared up at the newcomer to our home.”

“Are you really a girl then, - you look like a boy.”

Chrissie started to tear up but I stepped in quickly.

“Chrissie’s just like you Martina.”

Martina’s eyes widened with surprise that slowly turned to delight as my words sunk in. Chrissie turned to me questioningly so I explained.

“Martina is also transgendered; though unlike you she’s not sure how far down the road she wants to go. She’s a bit young to understand every thing yet.”
Chrissie gasped and immediately knelt down to put her face level with Martina’s. Then as she put her arms around Martina’s shoulders she looked up at me with a blissful smile.

“Oh this is just so cool! You mean you run a special home for us Trans, - us transgendered kids?”

“No not entirely.” I corrected her. “This is actually my own home, it’s where I intended to retire but events overtook me. Chenille, Jennifer and Beatrice are real girls. Martina is Chenille’s transgendered half sister. Believe me Chrissie; things are very complicated around here as you will soon learn. However you will also learn that the most important thing is that we all love each other and look out for each other.”

Chrissie started weeping again and then burst into tears as she fled from the kitchen to hide her feelings. Angie followed her into the drawing room and joined her on the settee where Chrissie flung herself into Angie’s embrace. Angie just held her and made soft cooing noises until the kid slowly subsided. In the meantime Sian and I finished preparing dinner while the girls laid up the table.

Eventually Angie led Chrissie up to her own bed room that connected through the bathroom to the girls. There she helped Chrissie put on some makeup in the shared bathroom.

They emerged for dinner looking immensely happy and we fell upon the food as the table chatter became more and more lively.

Apparently it was Chrissie’s first ever makeup lesson and Angie confessed to us all around the table that she probably actually enjoyed it more than Chrissie. Chrissie smiled ecstatically then had the grace to blush as Angie continued.

“Just think Bev, I’ve got all this to come with all our girls.”

“It was the first time Angie had ever used the expression ‘our girls’ and I took some comfort from her changing views. ‘At least it seemed to indicate that Angie wasn’t after custody any more.’ I felt distinctly less troubled. The meal carried on in an intensely happy mood and I savoured the pleasures.

The following morning, Saturday, Sandie turned up at seven with her daughter Mary in tow. Mary was having an early riding lesson and if she felt confident enough she would be allowed out to accompany our girls for an eight o’clock excursion on the Dumplin. Sylvia would lead the party but it would only be a brief excursion and not go near any roads or traffic. The bridle path over the Dumplin was an ideal place for learner riders. It was far from any cars and had plenty of soft muddy ground to land on if a learner rider was thrown.

Lots of people had lessons on a Saturday so Sylvia’s teaching time was valuable. However as others learned of the early trek several other children chose to go and eventually there were nine riders in all.

Once the children had left the yard, Sandie decided it was an ideal opportunity to have a long interview with Chrissie. She decided to accompany us on the promised shopping expedition and she chatted idly to Chrissie in the Landrover while Angie and I sat up front. As Angie and I eavesdropped, we marvelled at the brilliant way Sandie managed to extract information from the traumatised kid without once causing distress or resentment. Sandie even used Chrissie’s ecstatic delight as she chose different clothes and mix-and-matched outfits. Sandie cleverly asked occasional questions that seemed to exquisitely define Chrissie’s mood and choices as she rushed from shop to shop indulging her wildest flights of fancy.

It was an exhausted but immensely happy Chrissie that returned to our cottage that lunch time and it was a well informed Sandie that spoke to Angie and me later.

“She’s transsexual; no doubt about it.”

“Yeah, I thought so. You’ve only confirmed my own feelings,” I replied.

“Well the next step is to have her assessed by one of my colleagues and then look at treatments.”

“Seems sensible to me,” I nodded. “Are you going to tell her?”

Not until I’ve had my colleagues check her out, but honestly, I think it’s formality. Besides, look at the kid. Look at the wig! She’s already started the living in the roll bit.”

“Yeah, a bit too much living and not enough roll methinks by the shortness of that skirt. It’s going to be a real trial for a fourteen-year-old kid though, isn’t it?” Observed Sandie thoughtfully.

“Well she’ll be going to a different school in Poole now, not her old school in Bournemouth.” I added.

“Early days yet girls,” finished Sandie as a muddied but contented seven-year-old Mary presented herself to be taken home.

Sandie stared down at her filthy daughter and gasped.

“You’re not getting into the car like that you scamp. Take those filthy clothes off!”

“Where?” Asked Mary, “And how. I haven’t got a change of clothes.”

“Blast. I forgot,” cursed Sandie.

“I’ll go and get some of Martina’s old stuff, they’re the same size.”

I secretly smiled to myself as I considered the incongruence of a transvestite child lending a real girl her cloths. ‘It had always been the other way around when I was a kid!’

I smiled as Mary chatted animatedly with her mother as they drove down the lane. The little girl had obviously enjoyed the trek over the Dumplin.