This story explores the progress of Sian's project to create a trekking centre. In searching for custom she manages to persuade a large inner city social services unit to bring some children for a short respite, trekking. The project proves a success and there are some unexpected developments for Mac,Skipper's old shipmate when one of the social workers proves to be his nephew.

---

---

 

After the girls had left for school and Chrissie had eventually joined Sylvia to work with the Birmingham care kids, I finished washing up with Angie then slipped into my study to finalise yet another part of the Moroccan deal. After setting out the ‘carry-out’ lunches for the anticipated trek over the Dumplin, Angie was going into town later and then returning to assist with preparing the evening meal for the Birmingham kids. She called goodbye as she left the house and I settled down to a couple of hours silence to concentrate on the deal. There were some parts of the deal I was a bit concerned about and I had some phone calls to make about Moroccan law. Eventually I’d done what I had planned to do and closed the file with a feeling of satisfaction; - ‘job done’. Finding myself at a loose end I decided to visit the training ring. There I bumped into Dot and Andrew.

“Are you going trekking then? I asked.

“Hopefully,” they replied together. “The kids are getting on really well.” Dot added.

“Good. It will be good to exercise some of the larger horses. Have they been saddled up?”

“Your little transsexual is doing it now.”

“Oh. You mean Chrissie,” I replied making a deliberate stab at giving Chrissie a name and an identity other then ‘the little transsexual’. Chrissie was a human being and deserved to be treated as one; to be identified by her name, not her condition. Dot sensed my censure and promptly apologised.

“Sorry Bev, that was unforgivable.”

“Yes.” I replied firmly and quietly. “Don’t let it happen again.”

Behind Dot’s back, I saw Andrew nodding silently and I realised that the big man was probably far more attuned to caring for Kids. I suspected that Dot was the senior social worker in charge because she was better at admin and organisation. The problem was kids needed love and care not administration. I had hardly spoken to Andrew because he seemed devoted to the kids. ‘The strong silent type,’ I thought but the kids seemed to hang on his every word.”

With that one of the loosebox doors opened and Chrissie appeared leading two of the hunters that served any adults. She smiled as she handed the reins over to Dot and Andrew then declared she was going to get the other two horses ready for the other adults.

As he took both sets of reins in one large hand, Andrew reached out and gave her a hug around the shoulders and Chrissie seemed to turn into a little girl right there and then. She smiled eagerly and pressed into his one-armed embrace as she forced her head against Andrew’s powerful chest. I smiled inwardly. It was important for Chrissie to learn that not all large powerful men were abusers and bullies.

After my own brutalised childhood and its parallel abuses, I had long ago developed a ‘sixth sense’ in detecting unsavoury paedophile interest. This sense had been honed to an exquisite sharpness with the entry into my life of Beatrice and Jennifer. I had learned what it was like to have parental care of children, to nurture them and protect them from those evil doers. I was always on the lookout for the slightest whiff of such interest in any children who were involved with me and I had become sensitive to children’s reactions.
Some might accuse me of being a latter-day ‘witch-finder-general’ but I can make no apologies for my preoccupations.
From the behaviour of the Birmingham children it was obvious that they were enchanted by Andrew. There was never the slightest sign of any ‘withdrawal’ or cringing when they approached him and it was obviously the same with Chrissie. Her acceptance of his ‘half bear hug’, nay her positively eager urge to bury herself in his one-handed embrace around her shoulders was to me at least, a clear indication of Chrissie’s total trust and contentment. I smiled and Andrew smile back as he released Chrissie to go and saddle the other two larger horses that would carry the remaining social workers on the trek.

“She’s a good kid, that;” he grinned to me as he secured the reins to the rail that divided us from the training ring.

“Yes. I think so,” I agreed. “She’s got a long row to hoe but God willing, she’ll make it.”

“She should do now she’s living here. You’re doing a good job here you know.”

“Well thank you,” I smiled, “if you want to know a secret; I never intended for it to end up like this.”

“Yes. I heard. Sian told me about it. You’re a remarkable woman.”

“Oh hush now. Or my head will be too big for a riding helmet.”

“Oh! Are you coming with us then?”

“Uuhhm no; I can but I don’t ride much. Sian has taught me but I don’t indulge a lot. Ships are what I ride; or used to.”

“Oh really? So that's why the children refer to you as 'Skipper' behind your back and 'Mummy' to your face. D'you know; I’ve got an uncle at sea, Angus MacTavish is his name, and they lived in Glasgow. We’re of Scottish descent but my dad moved to Birmingham as an engineer. I haven’t seen Angus since we were children. He dropped out of the family circle. I suppose that’s what happens to seamen though. They live very transient lives don’t they?

I nodded sympathetically. If people thought that Gypsies, or more correctly; the ‘travelling people’ or that other brand of travelling professionals the ‘funfair people’ were itinerants then they had never worked as a single, unmarried seamen. Nobody lived as loose and freeborn life as a single unmarried seaman. I should know; I had done it for nearly forty years. The whole planet had been my country. As I finished nodding sympathetically to Andrew he resumed talking.

“I Wish I could get in touch with him; I often wonder what happened. The family lore has it that there was a huge row between him and his father; that was my grandfather and Angus left almost in tears. I often wondered what happened to him he was like a second father to me when I was small.”

My heart missed several beats. As I looked closer at Andrew I began to see several similarities with Mac, the reddish hair, the same facial features, the huge stature, a cold tingle ran down my spine. Mac was an older version of Andrew and I wondered why I had not noticed the similarities before. But then again, I hadn't been looking, had I? I decided to probe a little deeper without giving anything away.

“I suppose your uncle would have become an engineer coming from Glasgow, the shipyards and all that.”

“Yes. I think he was.” Andrew replied thoughtfully.

“And you’ve no idea where he is now.”

“Ooh no. He’s disappeared off the face of the earth. The family have lost all trace of him.”

I had to bite my lip. The coincidences were just too hard to ignore. I decided to contact Mac on the satellite phone in my study straight away. I made my excuses and crossed the yard.

Ships are equipped with a whole plethora of modern communications and I telephoned the ship immediately. She was off West Wales homeward-bound for Poole and she would be there the following afternoon. As Mac and I chatted he gradually came out of his shell and confirmed that, yes he did have a cousin called Andrew and they had moved to Birmingham. It had to be the same Andrew, the same family name, the same looks and the same life stories. Mac was still a bit unsure about it though.

It's a hell of a lot of water under the bridge and long past. I’ve n’e family ties anymore, but you’ve long known that. Jee’ze how long have we known each other?”

“It's nearly twenty years Mac. But your nephew seems a decent guy. He treats me with the utmost respect and Chrissie adores him. He’s obviously a really compassionate and caring guy and he knows all about Chrissie and me. We had to declare everything to the chief social worker and she had to tell her staff. You know, ticking all the bloody boxes and stuff. He has no problem with my transvestism and Chrissie's transsexualism. He's an okay guy.”

“Och aye, ticking boxes, and we all know about that do we not? Well okay then. If there’s time I’ll pop over when we dock. I’ll ask Billy how much cargo there is to handle.”

“You don’t have to leave the ship if there’s no time. I’m sure we could organise an educational trip to the ship for the kids in the evening. Andrew could come and meet you there. We could even prepare a surprise for him. I’ll pop over and see Dot the chief social worker.”

“We-ell aye, if you’re okay with the idea, I havnae' met the boy since he was wee bairn, it’ll be strange to see one of the family again. Okay then. It’ll be a right shock for him, I’ll wager.”

I XO’d Mac then closed the sat-link and sped across the yard to speak to Dot.

The yard and stables were empty, they had started trekking. I tried my mobile and got nothing.

“Damn!” I cursed, if I wanted to organise a visit I’d have to catch Dot before the port offices closed. Casting around for a solution I decided to take one of my rare rides up on the Dumplin. Fortunately the last horse was my favourite. She was a very placid, gentle mare called Poppy. ‘Was Sian Psychic?’ I wondered; ‘leaving me my favourite horse.’

I had no trouble saddling her up and it was simply a matter of remembering my big bushman’s riding coat that kept the rain off all the way down to my ankles. I soon found myself trotting easily up onto the Dumplin’s slopes just as the rain arrived. And it truly arrived! Soon it was driving into my face like a hurricane.

As I opened the gate and prepared to close it behind me, who should appear through the driving rain but the Baroness Wemite? We stopped and stared at each other either side of the gate I was attending to. The baroness grinned from under her broad-brimmed bushman’s hat.

“Is that you Beverly?”

“Gosh hello your ladyship, I knew you were a keen horsewoman but surely, - in this?”

“Well more to the point Beverly, what are you doing up here, - in this? Sian tells me you hardly ever ride.”

“Well, your ladyship, I was trying to find the trekking party. I’ve got a message to convey. It’s not urgent as in matter of life or death but it’s important that stuff gets passed. It’s a personal message for one of the social workers and I can’t get through to him on my mobile.”

“So why not phone Sian? And my name’s Sarah by the way, friends call me Sally.”

“I couldn’t get hold of anybody. All their mobile phones must be switched off or something.”

“It must be this storm. The connections are very poor up here anyway.”

“I’d have thought with it being so high the reception would be good.”

“I know, but it isn’t. Don’t ask me why, I haven’t a clue.”

I held the gate open and she manoeuvred her horse through the gate then we set off at a slow easy trot to find the trekking party.

After half an hour I became a bit concerned. The Dumplin was not exactly the Himalayas.

“Where can they have got to?” I asked Sally.

“Oh there’re several places they might have made for, possibly to take shelter.”

“Damn. They could be anywhere. I have to get a reply back to the port authority before five. Both of the ships are coincidentally scheduled in together and that only happens about once every three months. It’s rare opportunity for the crews to mix and chat.

“Wait a minute, I’ve an idea.”

She trotted on for a few more minutes until she reached a gate on her side if the bridle path.

“There’s a shed a couple of fields down from here, they’ve probably stopped there. I have used it occasionally when it’s been like this.”

“Isn’t this your land?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised Sian would take such a liberty.”

“You don’t get up here much do you Bev?”

“No.” I confessed quite freely.

“You should. It's lovely country. Sian and I often meet up here when riding. She’s more or less got carte blanche over our estates. We go way back you know.”

“I know. With the eventing and stuff.”

We picked our way down the fields in the lea of the hedge until we arrived at a large open barn hidden in a deep hollow; perfect shelter from the storm but a total blid spot for mobiles. Normally, the barn was used to store hay. The whole trekking party was sheltering and steam was wafting out of the doorway from the heat of the horses. I confirmed the permission from the port authority for the visit to my ship to go ahead and Dot agreed enthusiastically to the trip. I immediately left again despite the driving rain to try and make a mobile contact with the port offices. Eventually I found a signal and confirmed the arrangements. The various forms concerning all the usual disclaimers, health and safety risks and assessments would be waiting for us at the security gate after the offices had closed. This done I made my way straight back to my cottage, settled Poppy into her loosebox and spoke to the Speedway on the sat-phone. By the time I had showered and dressed suitably for a visit to the port, the others arrived back in the yard. It was an hour before everything was arranged and the horses were stabled for the night. By six-thirty we were driving down to the port.

The Speedwell was busy back-loading containers while the Speedway had just docked as we arrived at the dedicated parking area clear of the crane and the container park. Billy gave me a wave from the bridge and motioned us aboard. There was a ripple of excited anticipation from the Birmingham children not to mention a sense of a unique treat by the social workers who had not expected such an interesting diversion for the evening. I secretly hugged myself as I savoured the prospect of Andrew unexpectedly meeting his long lost Uncle Mac.

Naturally, our girls had to show off their knowledge and took it upon themselves to show the others around the ship even though it was actually one of the new officers who had replaced Supan. The ship was not starting to discharge until later that evening because the speedwell still occupied the cranes. This meant they had time to show both the children and the accompanying social workers around ‘their mummy’s ship’. Naturally they were able to give chapter and verse about the pirate rescue. At first the other children refused to believe Bea and Jenny but later Billy was able to confirm the facts.

For me the nicest part was when Mac appeared in Billy the captain’s cabin after securing the engines and showering. He put his head around the door just as Andrew had just finished the guided tour and was preparing to tuck into the refreshments the captain’s steward had laid on. I had invited Andrew into the captain’s cabin to meet Billy personally but it was just a pretence to get him on his own so that Mac could meet him. The children and the other social workers were also enjoying a similar delicious spread down in the main saloon.
As he entered Billy’s cabin as any chief engineer might do, Mac made a casual pretence of speaking to me as he would normally have done anyway. Mac, Billy and I were the best of friends who went way back and had weathered some pretty severe storms together, meteorological, financial and indeed political.

Mac’s deep soft west highland accent suddenly caused Andrew’s head to turn with concern. For a moment his gaze locked on Mac’s profile and his jaw sagged slightly as he stepped forward to get a clearer view. Then he spoke softly as he sensed he recognised Mac’s countenance.

“Excuse me sir, would your name be Angus MacTavish by any chance?”

“Aye, it would sonny, and you’d be, -?” Mac replied, playing the subterfuge for a short while longer.

“D’you have a sister called Agnes and a brother called Donald?” Andrew persisted.

“I did laddie, and how would you be knowing that?”

“Did your brother Donald move to Birmingham.”

“Och yes, a good few years ago.”

“Say twenty seven years ago.” Andrew ventured as his expression tightened into a smile of realisation.

“Aye. That’ll be about right.”

“Well sir, that Donald MacTavish is my father. I do believe you’re my long lost uncle.”

“My God sonny, so you’d be Donald’s boy, the little bairn I used to bounce upon my knee and play ‘horsey’ with all those years ago.”

“Yes Sir. I’m Andrew MacTavish and your my Uncle Angus.”

“Och, well I never, so your Donald’s lad.”

“Yes sir, but more importantly you’re my long lost uncle. What happened between you and granddad?”

“Och, that’s a long time ago laddie, ye dinna need to bother ye’self with all that.”

“I need to know. I want to know why you just upped and left. Jamie and I were devastated.”

“Well it’s ne’ a secret any more laddie. I’m gay. Your grandfather threw me out for being queer as it was called back then. I did not ‘up and just leave,’ I was thrown out. He did-na want his young grandsons perverted by a disgusting queer.”

“My God,” Andrew sighed as he stepped forward to embrace his uncle. “Is that what it was all about?”

“Aye, but it was no small beer in those days, it was illegal still; I was technically born a criminal! Is the old bastard still alive?”

“Yes. He lives with Aunty Agnes in Glasgow. He’s very frail though.”

“And mammy? Your granny?”

“No. She died two years ago. Her last words were your name. She never forgave grand-dad for throwing you out.”

“Aye. Poor mammy, she was the cleverer one and the most compassionate. I wrote to her a number of times several years after leaving but I never got a reply.”

“Yes, Aunty Agnes found the letters when she cleared out their house after granny died. We were shocked and there was a huge row with grand-dad. The letters had been torn up along with granny’s replies and stuffed into an old envelope. Auntie Agnes spent days sorting through them and pasting them back together. Grand-dad confessed to having torn up the letters every time granny tried to post a reply. She was housebound by then and he had total control. He must have been a bully.”

“Aye, well it’s water over the dam now laddie. So, are you married?”

“Yes and two children. I’ve also got a younger sister and so has Jamie. You’ve got four nephews and nieces and six great-nephews and nieces.”

Mac frowned and observed softly.

“My God, two nieces I’ve never even seen and all those others.”

“They often ask about you.” Said Andrew, “and we older ones often wonder. My dad and Aunty Agnes often think about you.”

“Well we were close as children; you can go back and tell them I’m still alive.”

“We want more than that. We want you back! I want you to tell them you're still alive.”

“Not while that old bigot lives.”

“So what about us coming to see you? Without him, without grand-dad that is.”

“What. Agnes as well?”

“Most particularly Aunty Agnes. She misses you most of all.”

“Well I suppose that would work. Maybe you could organise something.”

I had been listening to the conversation and now felt I had something to add.

“You could hold a family reunion at my cottage. There’s plenty of room at the dormitories.”

Mac turned to me and grinned.

“Thanks Bev, Billy and my house would be a bit of a squeeze.”

Andrew turned to me and smiled tearfully. To see such a big powerful man show a single tear was very moving.

“Thank you Miss Beverly.”

“It’ll be a big party though, what with all of our own plus yours.”

“Plus my partner,” added Mac.

“Your partner?” Andrew wondered.”

“Yes. My partner; Billy, the captain of this fine vessel.”

Billy looked up from his desk and grinned as he and Mac hugged each other and shared a passionate kiss. Andrew looked a little shocked at first but quickly recovered his composure.

“Oh my God! Well yes of course, Billy, you’d be most welcome.”

I felt it incumbent on me to make a discreet tactical reversal of roles.

“Uuhhm I’m thinking that Mac and Billy will be the hosts, it’s a matter of you and the rest of the family being made welcome by them.”

Andrew stopped in his tracks and gasped as he realised his patronising blunder.

“Yes! Of course, sorry. That was a typically patronising, heterosexist remark. I’m so sorry.”

“Och, there’s no harm done Andy. Let’s go down and meet the rest of the kiddies. I’m sure they’d love to hear the full account of the rescue.”

“Well it’ll be you or Billy relating it,” I protested. “There’s no need for all those kids to know about me. As far as they are concerned, I’m a woman.”

“Uuhhm, I might have to disillusion you there Miss Beverly," Andrew interrupted,"the children already know that you were the skipper who rescued Beatrice and Jennifer.”

“How on earth did they find that out?” I gasped.

“I’m not sure. But I think one of your girls might have been proving a point because some of our Birmingham children didn’t believe the story.”

“How d’you think they’ll react?”

“They’ve seen a lot worse. We’ve got several sexually dysphoric kids back at the children’s home. A similar story to Uncle Mac’s. Some things never change.”

“You should have brought some of them.”

“Uuhhm maybe later Miss Beverly. This is the first time test don’t forget. We’re all feeling our way here.”

I nodded philosophically. Andrew was right. Some things never changed.

When we got down to the saloon Both Jesse and Supan had come visiting from the Speedwell and they turned to give me a cheer as we entered.

“Here we are boys and girls. Meet Skipper, the real hero of the rescue.”

I blushed to be so complimented.

“Oh come now Supan. We all played our parts.” I countered shyly.

Apparently while Andrew and Mac had been making their acquaintances the story of the rescue had been retold from several different perspectives by Jesse, Supan and my girls, not to mention Angie’s description of the attack. I was now expected to render my version. Despite my embarrassment I was surprised to find their interest in the tale still alive. I would have thought they would have been bored to death. It always surprises me what Kids find exciting.

Reluctantly, I gave a brief account of my part but after having heard the gruesome details several times, the kids seemed more fascinated by the aftermath of the event, namely my dealings with the Iranians concerning custody of Jenny and Bea. I suppose the children’s interest in this bit reflected their backgrounds after all of them having bee, one way or another, separated from their parents.

Eventually as we heard the container crane rumbling past the saloon window. We realised that the loading of Speedwell was complete and soon they would be discharging the Speedway. A container ship is a dangerous place to be when handling her cargo; especially around the shore-side container park; what with assorted straddle carriers, stackers, super large forklift-front-loaders and the huge portainer cranes themselves; not to mention the constant stream of HGV trucks.

We bid goodbye to the Speedway and gathered everybody together before shepherding them to the safety of the vehicle park. For my lot, the return journey was everyday stuff, they had visited the ships plenty of times but for the children for Birmingham, the visit had brought their brief holiday alive. Later Andrew and Dot both told me that the minibus had been alive with chatter from the children.

The next morning was Saturday and our girls joined the others for the trek. Dot joined me after the party had departed for the Dumplin and she chatted about the ship visit. As she crossed the yard her smile was as wide as the Pacific.

“Well, you’re a dark horse.”

“Why d’you say that?” I asked.

“Andrew’s uncle; Mac, the engineer on your ship.”

“What about him?”

“Oh nothing, but you knew didn’t you? You knew they were related the moment Andrew mentioned his background.”

I smiled effacingly as Dot reached her arms around me and hugged me.

“So what’s this for?” I asked.

“You’ve made this visit a spectacular success. The kids cant stop chatting about the ship and the pirate story while Andrew is over the moon about finding his uncle.”

“So he’s happy then.”

“Oh absolutely. Andrew was becoming disillusioned with the whole care thing. I was afraid I was going to lose a fantastic guy. Now he’s found his uncle, he wants to come down to supervise every visit by the kids.”

“Oh. So there’re going to be more visits then?”

“Hell yes if I have any say in the matter! This has been one of the most successful forays we’ve ever organised. When it gets back to the other kids, everybody will be wanting to come.”

“What, even the older kids, the problem kids?”

“Especially the problem kids.”

“But you’ll be taking small steps still;” I pressed nervously, “you know, what with the responsibility thing.”

“Well that’s the good part,” Dot replied, “now Andrew has indicated his willingness to stay with the Birmingham team

it’ll be infinitely easier to organise the trips for the older children. Andrew’s got a natural way with kids and nearly all the kids respond well to him, even the kids that were sexually abused.”

I smiled, Andrew had struck me as a terrific guy and that was why I had ‘orchestrated’ his reunion with his uncle. I had also done Mac a large favour.

Mac had been my best male friend for many a year and he had often intimated, in his more reflective, lachrymose, alcoholic moments, that he wondered what had happened to his family. After never getting any replies from his mother and finally learning that they had moved away when he once returned to Glasgow to find them, Mac had bitterly concluded that all was lost. He would never see any of them again. With Mac ecstatic at discovering his nephew many issues had been put to rest.

All in all, Dot and I agreed that the visit had been a rip-roaring success.

“So can we be certain of further visits,” I asked.

Dot nodded enthusiastically.

“Well I’m in charge of organising this side of the care equation for Birmingham S.S., and you’ve won me over.”

“You’d best tell Sian that when she gets back," I added. "She’s been really on edge about this whole deal.”

“Don’t worry. I’m preparing my report this afternoon. I’ll be giving Sian a draft copy for her to use for any possible future planning, but tell her not to go spending any money just yet. It’s not been finalised. I expect to be sending her a contract after it’s been run past the bean counters in Birmingham.”

“Oh yes. The bean counters,” I finished reflectively. “There’re always the bean counters.”

“Sadly, it’s a fact of life,” confessed Dot.

I knew she was absolutely right. In shipping I had to deal with ‘bean counters’ all the time. Fortunately, Mac, Billy and I owned the Speedway outright so there were no banks to threaten with foreclosures of any mortgages.
With the Speedwell it was an altogether different deal.

Between us, Mac, Billy and I had only managed to rustle up about two fifths of the monies to buy her. The banks had a huge say in her operation. The ‘bean counters’ were on my back almost every week. She was already trading to Spain but the individual voyage profits were very small, sometimes even a loss. Until Morocco came through, things would remain tight.

Dot studied me as I ruminated on the idea of ‘bean counters’ and she smiled.

“Penny for your thoughts Bev?”

“Oh it’s much more than a penny,” I grinned. “Come on; let’s get a cup of tea before the gang returns.”

She joined me happily and we savoured the quiet cup before the storm of the kids return. The following Sunday morning the kids would be returning to the care home in Birmingham. I felt a bit sorry for them but I had to harden my heart. We chatted about the effects on the kids of having been removed from parents for whatever reason and it was food for thought. I began to wish I could do more, but I wasn’t a miracle worker. The trekking centre was more than any one individual could have done for the kids.

The trekkers were over two hours late when they returned. Apparently they had been enjoying themselves so much that Sian had telephoned Baroness Wemite and agreed to take the trekkers over the Baron’s lands. Peter and Melanie, the Baroness’s children had taken the opportunity to meet the party by the river and the trek had just grown in length like Topsy.

It was almost dark when they arrived back in the yard but the kids were dead tired and happy. Nobody had been sure about how to end the kid’s holiday but it turned out they were too tired and happy to care. Almost as soon as supper was finished, the kids stumbled sleepily to the showers then fell into their beds. With just one Social worker to monitor the kids, the others joined us in my cottage.

There it was concluded that the whole deal had been an enormous success and Sian went to bed that night, a very relieved girl.
When we watched them leaving on the Sunday morning, Sian Marge, Sylvia, Angie and I gave each other a tight hug of relief. For Sian in particular, the investment had been a fearful worry.

There was little time to celebrate though for even as the Social Services ‘mini-bus’ pulled out from the lane onto the road home to Birmingham, some of our Sunday hacking customers were arriving.
Amongst them was Sandie and her daughter.

Author's note.
I'm having a bit of a problem getting my new password organised from my laptop and separate email address.
(My fault not Joyce's;) I'm the worst 'puter' technophobe that ever drew breath. Once I get the password organised. A lot of my material will be coming from my other email address. My mobile is just so much more convenient and I won't have to keep waiting to get back to my PC to post stuff.
Sorry about any delays.
Beverly.