This chapter describes how Sian and Margaret persuade Beverly to agree to let them renovate part of the barn. It also re-introduces Judge Elizabeth Porter with respect to Martin's revealing himself as a transvestite.

---

---

 

At dawn I woke with a start. My feminised senses had become attuned to the slightest noise from the girl’s bedroom. I tried to sit up but found to my surprise and delight that I was still ‘hooked’ up to Sian. My efforts disturbed her and she grumbled sleepily.

“Wha’ss ‘a matter?”

“Quick. We have to get dressed the children are waking up!”

“Oooh damn!” She sighed, “I was so enjoying you.”

“So was I you, but the girls can’t see us like this.”

“What’s wrong with us sharing one bed?” Demanded Margaret.

“I’ve no problems with us sharing the bed Marge, but I won’t have the girls in here with me naked; or you for that matter. Now let’s get dressed.”

Reluctantly, Sian released me from our genital lovelock and we quickly showered then got dressed. It was easy for them to dress for it simply involved their panties and their nightdresses but I had to squirm into my control panties then step into my all-in-one sleep suite followed by my full-length nightdress and peignoir. If I was not dressed as I normally dressed, the girls might get two plus two to be four, or five, or even six! I had only just rejoined Margaret and Sian under the duvet as the four children knocked on the door.

This was a new development for previously; my girls had simply burst in. I exchanged questioning glances with Margaret and Sian but they simply shrugged their shoulders.

“Come in,” I replied and four eager children burst in with eyes wide open to find we three women in bed.”

“Ooh goodie!” Squealed Chenille, “you are all in here!”

“Well we are indeed darling,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Martin and I went to our mummies’ room but they weren’t there,” declared Chenille, “so we guessed you were in here.”

“Is that why you knocked then?” I asked Martin.

“Yes, our mummies like us to knock.”

“Well that’s excellent,” I replied. “It’s quite right to knock if mummies and daddies are in bed together, but you’re still welcome. Come on then all of you. Into bed if you want.”

Their smiled widened into grins and they scrambled to pick the best places. For a minute there was mayhem as the four girls scrabbled about indecisively trying to choose a favoured spot without offending we three ‘mummies’. Finally Chenille and Martin cuddled up to their biological mothers whilst Jenny and Beatrice cuddled up to me. This put me in the middle with two children either side whilst Sian and Margaret acted as ‘bookends’. Fortunately, my huge king sized bad could easily accommodate seven people across. The children squirmed and fidgeted in their own silky nightgowns as they cuddled up against our silky nightdresses. All showed beatific smiles but Martin was the one most contented. A soft tear leaked from his eye as he inveigled himself between Jenny and me then wrapped his arms around my waist and gave me an extra strong squeeze.

“I love you,” he sighed happily, “for letting me be a girl.”

My heart reached out to him but my sensible head told me not to let him get too intimate or close just yet. For now however, with two adult ‘mummies’ chaperoning us, it was safe for him to express his feminine side. I let his hands remain lightly around my waist and his head resting on my tummy as we laughed and chattered about returning back to start school.

Martin declared his regrets about having to go dressed as a boy but we reassured him by telling him he could change back to a girl immediately on coming home. He wasn’t entirely happy, but realised that for now, it was the best we could offer. Eventually my alarm clock spoiled our fun and reluctantly, we scrambled out of bed to prepare for school.

I made breakfast whilst Margaret dressed the children and Sian went out to tend the horses. The pandemonium of that first communal morning presaged what was to become the regular routine and it brought a life to the cottage that it had probably not seen since its earlier hey-days as a large family farm. Because Sian was already up and dressed for outdoors, she took the children down the lane and explained to the school bus-driver that in future, four children were living at the cottage and would normally be getting on at this stop.

After the children had departed, peace descended and Margaret and I slumped on the settee before making our own arrangements. She grinned at me and I realised she had something to impart.

“He wouldn’t wear boy’s underpants you know.”

“Who? Martin?” I replied a bit stupidly.

“Who else silly.” Giggled Margaret.

“Oh! Yes of course. So.” I pressed.

“He wore a pair of those frilly silky panties that Beatrice had given him on permanent loan.”

“What about a vest?”

“No. He wore a matching bootlace strap chemise.”

“But you made sure it didn’t show under his shirt.”

“Of Course, he wore a uniform polo shirt under his school jersey. The lines of the bootlace shoulder straps didn’t show.”

“What about when he changes for games or phys ‘ed’?”

“He said he doesn’t have games on a Monday.”

“I hope he’s got that right,” I finished.

The back porch door opened and Sian returned muttering to herself as she dragged off her willies and entered the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” I called from the drawing room.

“We’ll have to get the rest of that lane tar-mac’ed where it crosses the stream and meets the road. The mud is awful. The storm washed huge gullies in it last night. We were up to the tops of our wellies by the ford. “

“Yeah.” I agreed. “We can get an estimate from the builders this afternoon.”

Margaret stood up.

“Well, I’m off to work. I’ll meet you for lunch with the builders.”

“See you darling.” I replied as I stood to give her a peck on the cheek. She then turned to Sian and gave her a huge hug as they buried their tongues down each other’s throats. As Margaret left, I grinned at Sian.

“Was that for my benefit?”

“Yes,” sighed Sian Softly, “she’s afraid you’ll steal me from her.”

“Oh come on!” I protested. “I know you only used me last night to have another baby. What was wrong with using Sissy as the father again?”

“Sissy can’t get it up anymore. We asked her about turkey basting but she's been sterile since she abused the hormone treatment.”

“Oh,” I replied, “so it was simply a case of ‘if Sissy can’t do it, Beverly will do’.”

“Frankly yes. You got it in one.”

Strangely, I didn’t feel used or abused. Sian and Margaret had been totally honest about their intentions and I had absolutely no intentions of coming between them. Furthermore, if I treated their relationship with the respect it deserved, I would have the supreme pleasure of knowing fatherhood and seeing my very own children growing up. I returned to get dressed as Sian left to turn the horses out into the fields. Later we had coffee and went into town to meet Margaret and the builder.

Over lunch we thrashed things out and in the afternoon, he came out to the cottage for a site visit. He was thorough and by teatime we had a plan. We had been pleased with his previous work on the stable block so when Margaret arrived home, we agreed to give him the go ahead..

Next morning, the lane was awash with builders as the ford was bridged and the lane was repaired and metalled with Tarmac. I was impressed with the speed of the bridge building for the stream was still a quite torrent. The lane would now be suitable for the same builder to start renovating the barn extension for Sian and Margaret.

As we discussed the lane with the builder that evening he suggested putting a small weir in the stream above the bridge and installing a discreet water turbine for electricity.

“There’s a good drop from that depression in the top field down to the bridge,” observed the builder, “it looks about thirty meters. From what I see of the flow in this stream, I’d guess it’d be maybe ten kilowatts in the summer and about a hundred odd kilowatts as it is now. I used to play a lot in this stream further down where it meets the river. I know it well and I’ve installed a couple of turbines on the river. If we include a control spillway, it will help alleviate the flooding that scours the lane at the ford although those two small buttresses supporting the bridge will do it just as well and it’ll raise the bed of the lane to a safer height.”

“I bow to your experience but would the council agree? I mean, wouldn’t that require a pond and a small dam?” I asked.

“I should think so. That depression at the top of the field used to be a pond and it never dried up. There’s a spring there at the foot of the Dumplin water table plus the natural catchment of run-off from the Dumplin. If we excavated the depression and used the fill to make a dam, the water will provide a larger reservoir for wild life in the summer. These downs get pretty dry and short of water.. Lots of the old farm ponds have been filled in to make bigger level fields for mechanised farming. A pond would go down well with the tourist board and Dorset’s into tourism these days. This is ‘Hardy country’.

“I suppose it might be worth asking the local council then.” I conceded, “but not this year, the funds just won’t run to it.”

“It’ll be well worth it, besides, it’s green,” he said, “it’ll please the council and it’ll save you a heap of money supplying your whole enterprise with electricity, particularly for heating in winter.

That night we did our sums while he investigated some government grants for green enterprises. The idea was good but, as I suspected, it had to wait a year or two as funds dictated.

Meanwhile this year’s developments with the barns went apace and within the six weeks of the lane being fixed, Sian and Margaret’s conversion was ready. We arranged to combine the house warming with a Christmas Eve party. This got the girls excited and they threw themselves into preparations.

Naturally, Sandie and Mrs Bodkin somehow managed to find it their business to check on the children and Sandie explained why she would be away from her own children that Christmas. Her husband had managed to wangle some cheap flights to see his American parents for a month over Christmas. He was taking their children as an extra treat but Sandie had other commitments besides our children and she was unable to go.

Reading between the lines, I surmised that Sandie didn’t get on very well with her parents in law. I think because they wanted her to go and live near them in America. Sandie suspected it was because their only daughter had made it abundantly clear that she wanted little to do with them and they were looking for somebody to lean on in their old age. Sandie saw eye to eye with her sister in law insofar as they both agreed they did not want to be burdened with looking after the selfish, curmudgeonly old pair in their dotage.

Apparently they had not made very good provisions for their retirement and they saw Sandie as a possible food ticket because wherever she worked Sandie would have a highly paid job with her medical qualifications. Plus of course there would always be a doctor on hand. Sandie’s in-laws were a pretty selfish pair and I secretly felt that Sandie did not want another month of attempts to persuade her to go and live across the pond. Her children already had dual nationalities because of their American father so they could choose to live there anytime when they were older..

Sandie had intimated much of this during our times together.

Anyway, the upshot was that Sandie was free for over a month over Christmas except for a few days when she attended her clinic in London.

At that time we wondered how Mrs Bodkin would deal with Martin declaring his transvestism. To start the ball rolling, I invited Sandie to come and interview Martin herself and she turned up the week before Christmas. Sian and I met her at the station and we took her to have lunch with Margaret. There we explained the problem. After nearly two hour’s earnest talking, Sandie declared she wanted to meet Martin, so it was time for her to meet the boy.

We met him outside the school as he strolled out of the gates waiting for his older sisters.

Sian collected him then she and I waited outside the car for the three girls while Sandie had her first little chat with Martin. I knew what questions were being asked but I could not intervene. It was strictly a matter for Sian, Margaret, Martin and Sandie. Eventually Sandie and Martina had finished and we all clambered into the Landrover to make our way home.

Fortunately when we all arrived at the cottage, Sian and Margaret were able to demonstrate that they lived separately from us in the barn conversion. The whole barn was a large ‘L’ shaped building and their new conversion took up half of one side of the ‘L’. It was believed to have originally been part of a monastic home farm and therefore unusually large. Even though there section was only a quarter of the whole building, it was still nearly as big as my cottage. I sent Jenny and Bea and Chenille to tend the ponies whilst Sian, Martin and Sandie disappeared into the barn conversion To continue Sandie’s interview..

We still hadn’t decided on a name for Margaret and Sandie’s new home. At six o’clock Margaret arrived home from her office but Sandie was still interviewing Martin so I beckoned her to join us.

Through the window across the yard we could see Sandie, Sian and Martina sat around the kitchen table eating biscuits as they chatted continuously. Sandie was taking copious notes.

“When will they finish?” Wondered Margaret aloud.

“Oh God knows!” I replied. “It could take hours yet. It seemed like they spent bloody years on me.”

Margaret looked at me as a cloud darkened her face.

“D’you think it’ll go against us?”

“I can’t see why. I believe trannies are born not made. If it’s in the genes, who can blame you, or more properly Sian, - or Sissy, I finished thoughtfully?”

“Yeah. But do they -, the doctors that is -, do they believe trannies are born?” Shuddered Margaret as she nervously sipped a coffee.

“I think Sandie might be coming around to that way of thinking.”

“Well, they seem to have accepted that gays are born gay after that research business on gay brains in Holland. They found a part of the brain in gays that resembles a female brain and further research seems to indicate that this determines an individual’s sexuality.”

“Yeah,” conceded Margaret, “but how does that translate to transvestism? I mean, is there anything sexual in wanting to wear clothes of the opposite sex? You said it yourself; you were wearing girly panties and stuff at age six, long before it became sexual.”

“That’s not exactly right. I was wearing them long before I was six, and therefore longer still before I became sexually active. I was caught when I was six and that’s when the shit hit the fan; big time for me! For all I know, and in truth I can’t remember, the girly clothes thing may have been a need to investigate the female role. That would seem to indicate a sexual awareness in the social sense if not in the physical sense. Clothes are about our outward social role, not our physical sexual role. I want to live as a woman socially, but function privately, sexually that is, as a man.”

“Yes, I know that and I still have to confess to not understanding it. It still seems weird to me. Nevertheless you do, you’ve shown me beyond all doubt that that is what you want but how can that be proven or even traced pathologically? I mean, - where’s the pathology in your brain for wanting to live like you do.?”

“God knows. Probably waiting to be discovered, like the gay thing.”

“So somebody is going to have to cut up hundreds of dead tranny brains then,” observed Margaret as she shuddered.

“Well, if that’s what it takes. I would willingly donate my brain to science, after I’m dead of course and provided I died naturally not murdered or something.”

“Of course,” giggled Margaret. “We don’t want another holocaust, do we?”

There was a noise on the flagstones outside my cottage door. Sian, Martin and Sandie had returned and Martin immediately scampered up to the girl’s bathroom where they were cleaning up after tending the horses.

I turned to Sandie.

“He seems happy.”

“He’s gone upstairs to tell them the news,” replied Sandie.

“Which is?” pressed Margaret.

“Well, I think he’s a heterosexual transvestite, just like you Beverly.”

“Go on,” I prompted cautiously.

“Well. He’s happier in girl’s attire but he wants to keep his sexual organs.”

“Would he be that aware at so young an age, about keeping his sexual organs I mean?”

“Yes,” replied Sandie. That’s one of the main markers between transsexuals and transvestites. Transsexuals are almost always deeply unhappy about their bodies from a very young age. They feel really uncomfortable with their sexual organs and desperately want to change them or get rid of them.

Martin is quite happy with his penis; he just wants to live like a girl. My conclusion is that he is not a transsexual so he’s probably a transvestite. I believe the probability of his being gay is the same as the rest of the male population so the odds are he’s a heterosexual transvestite.

“I had nothing to do with this.” I interjected defensively. “As far as I know, Martin still thinks of me as a woman even though he knows about me.”

“He does,” replied Sandie to reassure me, “that’s exactly what he thinks and it reassures him no end to know that there is somebody who really understands.”

I smiled a little bit ironically as I remarked.

“To tell the truth Sandie I’m not sure if I do understand why I’m a tranny and indeed I’m not sure if any of us trannies do. It’s just there for seemingly no obvious reason. But if Martin thinks I do understand, and it helps him come to terms then hey; - let it run.”

“Well said Bev and thanks. I established early on that he looks to you for support and protection. That’s why I’m keen for him to stay here. You might think I’m using him as an experiment but if I am I can only apologise. Sian is desperate to rear her son here at the cottage amongst you all. It was an important issue so I tackled it first. The rest of the interview tends to support your view that Transvestites are born not made.”

“I thought you had already accepted that idea.” I replied.

“Well I’m certainly coming round to that way of thinking. Some might say that the fact that his father is a transvestite might be the cause but I don’t subscribe to that.”

“Go on. I prompted.”

“Well, I think transvestism might be like a regressive gene. It only pop’s up unexpectedly just like uuhm, well, skin colour for example. Black skin is the dominant gene but slowly reduces with every white generation. Then perhaps several generations up the family tree a black child pops up in a white family and causes consternation especially in the Southern USA. Recriminations are flung around until proper research shows that a great, great, great grandparent or something, might have been a black lover way back down on the plantation. It used to cause great anguish though less so today, thankfully.”

“So there’s absolutely no way of knowing where it comes from.” I finished relieved.

“No. The double irony is that having you as a carer is the best thing to happen for Martin. He’s got a truly sympathetic understanding role model.”

“Huh. I wouldn’t try arguing that one in the family courts.”

“Why not? It will have to be argued one day if not with you and Martin then by some other coincidental parent child pair. It’s a really weird scenario, but I truly think you’ve got the best set up for Martin here. He’s well chaperoned, by two delightful caring parents and the extra carer is the best role model he could ask for.”

“But what about any malicious accusations that I might be abusing him? You know what the family courts are like. Lying is the basic currency in those places.”

“Oh really Beverly! You’re letting your slip show. Have Mrs Bodkin or Judge Elizabeth or I been mendacious about you?”

“That’s different; I demonstrated quite clearly that I had no puerile interests in children and that I had never shown an interest in them. The huge irony was that my reluctance to get involved was the Social service’s best argument to dump the girls on me.”

“There was more to it than that Beverly. Your risk in rescuing the girls was proof that you cared. Judge Elizabeth was more impressed that your humanitarian feelings overcame your commercial cynicism when you risked your ship, your friends and everything you possessed by stopping to rescue two little kids in pirate infested waters. That was clear proof of your kindness, and your humanitarianism. Somebody who cares enough to risk his own life and that of his closest friends would be unlikely to abuse or harm children.”

“Yeah. That’s as may be. Just remember that if I ever end up in court after some interfering busybody decides I’m a sick pervert and starts a malicious action.”
“I will Beverly. I will. Martin loves you and can’t speak highly enough. He was overwhelmed with relief when you broke the deadlock about telling Margaret and Sian.”

“Yes. That hurts us a bit,” sighed Sian, “I never thought of myself or Margaret as monsters.”

“You’re not. It’s what was in the boy’s mind that matters, not yours. He was the one frightened by his transvestism. Little children learn the social taboos very quickly.”

“Actually, it wasn’t me that broke the deadlock,” I announced, “Jennifer and Beatrice actually broke the ice when they advised Martin that I would understand and help him. They are the ones who should be praised. They knew about me and yet they still managed to handle it and keep my transvestism a private family secret even from Martin.”

“Well that only demonstrates what a protective supportive family Martin has got. I’m particularly happy for him and firmly believe this is the best place for him.”

This statement rather surprised and pleased we three adults for it lifted a load off our shoulders. Feeling much happier, we called the children from upstairs and sat down to dinner. All four came down in frocks but Sandie didn’t bat an eyelid when she saw Martin cross-dressed for the first time. Instead, she patted the chair beside her and invited him to sit beside her. He slipped nervously onto the chair and smiled shyly when she whispered.

“That’s a nice frock. Now what do want us to call you when you’re dressed as a girl?”

We all paused as Martin shyly declared that he wanted his femme name to be ‘Martina’. I waited for some wag to mock his decision but everybody remained silent. Obviously, if anybody around the table thought that a simple feminine derivative of his boy name was flawed, then they kept a tactful silence. Sandie smiled at me as we sensed our agreement. The family had once again proved to be protective and supportive.

Sandie was pleased with the response and she gave Martina a friendly hug. I looked at the pair and silently thanked God that Sandie seemed to be happy with Martina’s family circumstance.

It was a big step for a seven-year-old to choose a femme name and my heart reached out to the kid. With the social formalities sorted, we set to on the meal.

The food was soon finished and the girls went upstairs to complete their homework as we adults chatted about Martina’s future. Our conversation ranged over a myriad issues and by suppertime Sandie had a useful portfolio. I asked her what her intentions were and she simply smiled.

“I don’t intend to do anything. Things are progressing well and Martina seems happy to live her parallel lives. If she finally wants to ‘cross over’ totally I’ll have some useful material here to support her.”

“When you say ‘cross over’ do you mean live like me?” I asked.

“Precisely Bev, or even go the whole hog and have the op, or even revert back to being masculine. Things have moved on since your day Bev. Martina should be able to make her own choices; her answers have persuaded me she is only a transvestite. - Gosh did I actually say that? -only a transvestite-. Crickey things have moved on around here haven’t they?- Anyway, there shouldn’t be a long judicial-medical process if she decides to go for SRS. I’ve read much material from Holland about pre-emptive hormone treatments for juveniles. So I’ll be following Martina very closely. You three will also be able to contribute a large positive input.”

“Are you saying that Martina might be allowed to take hormones to feminise his appearance?”

“Yes, but not just yet and without damaging his libido either. Medicine’s come a long way since your day Bev, including psychiatry.”

I relaxed, glad that Martina wouldn’t ever have to go through what I had gone through as a child. I fact I was feeling a little jealous for I truly wished I could have chosen one of the routes being offered to Martin at such a young age. Nevertheless, I was still uncertain. For me, old beliefs and suspicions about doctors and social workers died hard. (Yeah, I still carried a hell of a lot of baggage!) I even found myself wondering if Sandie had some hidden agenda, like some social experiment with poor Martin as the lab rat. But she had already addressed that, so I did not express my feelings. I thought it would be churlish to destroy the good mood that was building up to Christmas and the house-warming arrangements. I went into the Kitchen to prepare the nightcaps and soon we were preparing for bed.

Sandie offered to read the girls their bedtime story and we agreed. When I took the drinks into their bedroom, the girls were all gathered together onto the assembled beds in their nighties and cuddling up to Sandie as she read them her favourite story; Black Beauty. The girls were loving it.

“Enjoying?” I asked.

Sandie nodded and smiled. There was nothing better than a crowd of girls cuddling up together and sharing a good story. For our girls, it was a pyjama party every night. I retired gracefully and made my way to bed.
In the still dark winter morning I did not receive my usual early invasion of children. Curious, I crept down the hall to their bedroom and sneaked a peak.

To my surprise and joy, I found Sandie fast asleep with the four girls cuddled up to her like a broody hen with her chicks. She must have fallen asleep while reading to them late into the night because there was no school in the morning. The Christmas holidays had begun.

‘Well, no harm done,’ I concluded, and I slipped down to the still dark kitchen to prepare myself a tray of tea.

I took the tray and sat in the conservatory watching the weak winter sunlight slide lazily along the skyline below the horizon until the sun reluctantly appeared peeping through the hedgerows. The dark of the winter morning gave me half an hour of silent peace before I finally detected Sian’s soft unshod footfall. I turned to find her inevitably dressed to go and check the horses.

“You’re up early,” she whispered so as not to break the rare tranquil mood.

“Well the children didn’t invade this morning.”

“Oh. That’s not like them.”

“Sandie’s still in bed with them. She must have fallen asleep while reading with them last night.”

“Lucky her,” remarked Sian, “she’d better not make it a habit. That’s your privilege.”

“Well thank you darling, here have some tea.”

I poured her a cup of tea and she stood looking out across the fields towards Poole as she drank it quickly.

“Thanks; can’t stop. Margaret and I have got to go into town this morning so I’ll just give the horses a feed and a once over. Make sure the girls turn them into the paddocks before I get back.”

I did not ask Sian her business although it was unusual for both of them to go to town so early. Margaret and Sian were an adult married couple and though we shared most things we respected each other’s privacy.

“Well don’t forget, Mrs Bodkin is coming by lunch time. She’s staying in the other corner bedroom next to Sandie. There’ll be a houseful tonight so can you get me these?”

I gave her a shopping list, which she studied and stuffed in her shoulder-bag before going to the stables. Margaret appeared fully dressed as Sian crossed the yard. She poured herself some tea and started breakfast as I retreated up stairs to get dressed. I returned to find eggs and toast on the table and joined them as they hurried their food.

“Busy day then?” I observed.

Margaret nodded as she chewed her last round of toast. I had only just begun my egg when they both stood up and prepared to leave for town.

“See you later then.”

“Gosh, what’s all the hurry?” I wondered loudly.

“Can’t stop, bye!”

They both gave me a peck on the cheek and hurried to their car. I watched them go then shrugged and resumed my breakfast. Finally I set to preparing the children’s food. They were only just waking when I brought them ‘breakfast in bed’.

“Well! You’re a lot of sleepy heads!” I grinned as Sandie smiled self-consciously. “Did you all sleep well?”

The girls chorused ‘yes!’ while Sandie simply nodded and took the cup of tea I offered to her. I nodded towards the girls as they scrambled out of bed to get their food.

“Fun isn’t it?” I suggested to her as she sipped her tea.

“Great!” She giggled softly. “It’s lust like my old childhood pyjama parties. You’re a lucky woman Bev.”

“Thanks. Don’t I know it!” I replied.

“Hey! Stoppit you two!” I commanded to Beatrice and Martina as they started to bounce excitedly on the bed. “You’ll make us spill the tea.”

The two youngest were suitably contrite and I resumed chatting to Sandie.

“Mrs Bodkin is arriving about noon-ish. Officially it’s to check up on Jenny and Bea but I suspect she fancies a party as well.”

“Yeah, she’s been a spinster all her life. —Other people’s babies, - that’s her life.”

“So she’d’’ like the idea of a family Christmas then.”

“Well it is Christmas Bev. That’s a time when social services like to check that things are normal and adopted children are doing OK.”

“Good Christian values and all that.” I chuckled ironically.

“If you want to put it that way, frankly, yes.”

“OK. I’ll see you down stairs; oh; and don’t forget children. Sian’s gone into Poole with Margaret so you’ll have to turn the horses out yourselves. Check all the right gates are closed.”

Jenny and Chenille gave me a worldly-wise look as if to say, ‘we know how to turn the horses out!’ Sandie caught their expressions and grinned.

“They’re growing up aren’t they?”

I nodded as I slipped away and started preparing for the party. For the rest of the morning the children excitedly put up the Christmas decorations whilst Sandie generally lent her help wherever it was most needed. After the decorations were up, the girls changed into their working clothes and went to muck out the stables.

Just before noon, Mrs Bodkin arrived a little ahead of schedule but an unexpected visitor accompanied her. I was shocked to see Judge Elizabeth Porter emerge from the car.

I don’t know whether it was fear, suspicion or surprise that struck me dumb, but after recovering from the shock, I ended up cautiously extending a belated hand to shake hers whilst saying absolutely nothing.

“Is that the best welcome you can offer?” She asked.

“I -, I-, I -, wasn’t uuhm, I wasn’t expecting you, your uuhm -, your honour.”

“Well that’s obvious. Aren’t you going to introduce me to the girls?”

I stared stupidly for a moment as I gathered my shattered wits. ‘What the hell does she want?’ I wondered.

“Uuuh -, uuhm, yes! Yes. They’re -, they’re in the stables. They’re mu -, they’re mucking out.”

“Well take me to them.”

Finding something practical to do helped calm my shattered nerves. I led her towards the stables whilst Sandie invited Mrs Bodkin inside.

I glanced nervously over my shoulder to see them going into my cottage whilst I opened the stable block door. I was relieved to hear laughter inside the stables.

‘At least they’re enjoying themselves.’ I thought.

Judge Porter followed me in and stalked straight past the stalls to the loose boxes where the laughing was coming from. Suddenly, Martina erupted laughing from the first loosebox as she dodged a jet of water. Beatrice emerged directly behind her squealing with laughter as she waved the hose jet around. Inevitably the spray hit the judge squarely on her blouse and skirt and Beatrice stood shocked as she recognised Elizabeth Porter. Martina however, had never met the judge and just ducked behind her to use her as a shield. It was not necessary because Bea had immediately shut the hose nozzle and stared ashen faced at the saturated judge.

“Oh! I -, I’m sorry!”

The judge took out a handkerchief and wiped her face as I tried to suppress my laughter.

“Well, young lady. It seems you are enjoying yourself if nobody else is.”

“I’m sorry Miss-, Miss Judge. I didn’t see you.”

“Obviously young lady, now who is this other person?”

The judge stepped aside to reveal Martina who had now realised we had an important guest. Beatrice was up to it though and answered directly.

“She’s Martina.”

“And who prey is Martina?”

By this time the judge’s voice had alerted Jennifer and Chenille who emerged from the last loose box with traces of horse dung and straw on their jeans and wellington boots.

“Martina’s our friend,” declared Jenny simply, and then belatedly added; “your honour.”

“Well I’m glad that somebody still recognises me, and who is this other young lady.”

“I’m Chenille,” replied Chenille as she glanced questioningly at Jenny who mouthed ‘your honour’.

Chenille took her cue and also belatedly added, “Your honour.”

“I see,” observed Judge Elizabeth, “and are you coming to the party tonight?”

“Of course we are! It’s our party! Are you coming as well?” Replied Chenille with childlike innocence.

I admired Chenille’s fresh directness and apparently, so did Judge Elizabeth, for she simply smiled as she said ‘yes’.

“So who invited you?” Demanded Bea innocently.

“Uuhm I did,” I interrupted to avoid any more embarrassing questions.

The judge recognised my effort to avoid any further embarrassing interrogations by the children and she turned to me speaking softly as she struggled to suppress a smile.

“Well, that’s put me in my place. It’s usually me who asks the questions.”

I gave a nervous smile and turned to the children to avoid any further embarrassment.

“Have you finished cleaning up?” I asked.

“No,” replied Jenny, “we’ll be done cleaning in a few minutes.”

“OK. I’ll see you later in the house.”

“Not until much later,” finished Chenille with her usual forthrightness, “we’re exercising the ponies in the paddock after this. We'll see you after the excercise.”

“Very well then, I’ll see you ‘much later’.” Finished the judge as she turned to leave, still suppressing her smile.

I followed her out not sure what she was about to say. As we crossed the yard she turned to me.

“They certainly know their own minds. Normally it’s me that asks all the questions and sets times and agendas.”

“Well they know their chores Judge, though they don’t always clean out the horses alone. Usually Sian supervises them.”

“Sian?”

“Oh, - yes. Sian. She's Martina's mother. She lives here and runs the stables but she had to go into town this morning. She’s starting an equestrian centre in the spring and the ponies are the nucleus.”

“I see. And who does the cleaning?”

“Sian will be organising the cleaning when the thing is up and running. The girls were only cleaning up after their own ponies.”

“What! The girls have a pony?”

“They’ve got one each.”

“Oh really! Lucky girls. Somebody’s been indulging them I see.”

“Maybe, but we don’t spoil them Judge. You can see that they have to be responsible for keeping their pets fed, clean, warm and dry. Sian sees to the adult stuff, vetinary requirements and suchlike but ostlering is the girl’s job. There they are now see, exercising in the paddock like they said they would. Ponies have to be exercised regularly and the children get on with that as well as saddling them up as well.”

Judge Elizabeth watched the girls briefly then nodded her head in satisfaction as we finally headed inside.

‘Good’ I thought, ‘at least she can’t say we’ve spoiled them.’

Inside we met Sandie and Mrs Bodkin. Their faces told me they had been discussing something important and I guessed it was Martina.

“Martina,” I suggested as a dead weight of dread settled in the pit of my stomach.

“Yes,” replied Sandie, “but don’t look so frightened Bev. I spoke to Mrs Bodkin on the phone this morning about it.

Mrs Bodkin glanced at me and tried to smile reassuringly but I was far too suspicious of their motives.

“Go on.” I replied abruptly.

“Well it’s not technically your problem,” added Mrs Bodkin, “any input by the care agencies is a matter for their mothers.”

“That’s right,” added Judge Elizabeth, “legally it’s not your concern. It’s a matter between Martina’s mother and the care agencies.”

“So you know all about it as well then Judge.” I replied pointedly to Judge Elizabeth.

“Indeed I do. When I learned this morning that the child was living here, I reserved the case to myself because of my previous dealing with you and your two adopted daughters.”

“So this isn’t just a party visit, it’s a judicial inspection.”

“If you put it like that, yes. But honestly Beverly, It’s not your problem. I simply need to meet the mother of the child; and can you stop calling me ‘Judge’ all the time. Call me Elizabeth, this is an informal visit.”

I swallowed nervously. In my long ago bitter experiences as a child of the courts, there was never any such thing as ‘informality’ when it came to judges and law. I wondered how ‘informal’ it would remain if, or more probably when, Judge Porter recognised Sian and Margaret as the lesbians who knew of her secret lesbianism. As far as I could recall, the judge had not yet ‘come out’. If she ever did, there would probably be an uproar in the press about a lesbian having control over ‘normal’ children’s lives.

Then I fell to wondering about my own circumstances and suspected that my own case would be dragged up as an example of Judge Elizabeth’s ‘poor judgement’. I fell silent. It remained to be seen what passed when Elizabeth met Sian and Margaret.

I decided to try and stay out of it as best I could. I had my own row to hoe and it seemed to be getting longer, not shorter. To this end I adopted my usual tactic and retreated to the kitchen to prepare lunch for my guests. I heard them talking in the drawing room but I deliberately clattered noisily with the pots and pans to demonstrate I was not eves'-dropping or even interested. I knew with an angry, resentful certainty, that they would turn to me when they wanted some sort of ‘expert witness’ of transvestism based on my lifetime ‘insider view’.

I was really waiting for Sian and Margaret to return from town and I sighed with relief when I saw their car in the lane. I went to the door as was my right as the host and welcomed them back. After the usual hugs and pecks I quietly cautioned them that we had an unexpected guest.

“Who?” Mouthed Margaret silently.

“Elizabeth Porter, the judge,” I mouthed silently back.

Margaret and Sian exchanged worried glances as I led them into the drawing room. There my fears were realised but I kept up the pretence of ignorance. Elizabeth recognised the girls immediately and her face went ashen as I blithely continued with the introductions.

“Here you are your honour, Sian is Martina’s mother and Margaret is Chenille’s mother.”

“Oh, I’m pleased to meet you,” replied Elizabeth as she stood up and struggled to keep her composure.

“Likewise,” replied Margaret, who swiftly put on her smiling ‘business mask’ that she so readily used in her accountancy practice.

“And me,” added Sian more cautiously for she already suspected what was afoot.

Sandie quickly broke the ice and for that I was grateful. It gave me a chance to escape to my refuge in the kitchen again. Through the Kitchen window I called the children to check if they had finished. They were nearly through unsaddling their ponies so I instructed them to go to the bathroom and get changed for the party. Next I started conveying trays of goodies across the yard to Sian and Margaret’s new home. I was busy doing this when Sandie came into the kitchen and told me they wanted me in the drawing room. The old heavy feeling settled in my stomach again but Sandie sensed it and tried to reassure me.

“She wants you there when she talks to the girls.”

“Yeah. That figures. Has she spoken to them alone yet?”

“She says she doesn’t need to.”

“Go on,” I said disbelievingly, “they always want to speak to them alone. I’ll bet she’s got some hidden agenda.”

“Well there’s something going on. She’s not her usual confident self. Do you know of anything?”

“Like what?” I pretended innocently.

“Well. She seems to be stepping around Sian and Margaret like a cat on a hot tin roof.”

“I dunno. Maybe she’s learning some real truth’s about us.”

“Us?” Asked Sandie.

“Yes. Us. We gays, we transexuala, we transvestites. Martina and I the whole alternative thing.”

“Oh. Sorry, I see what you mean now. We’ll, yes, she’s certainly not asking as many questions as she used to and when I do answer the few she asks, she gets more involved and asks me stuff even I can’t answer.”

“You mean she’s beginning to see reason and check for reality.”

“That’s a bit cruel Bev. I’m your friend and ally in all this.”

I realised I might have been unfair. Sandie was right; she had helped me a lot along the way with the girls though it was only after virtually living with us and realising that trannies were not necessarily paedophiles. I gave her a peck on the cheek as I apologised. It was best to keep Sandie on board.

I re-entered the drawing room to find adults settled on assorted chairs while the four children sat cross-legged on the large settee by the fire. They looked a picture in their party frocks with the hems modestly pressed between their knees to hide their panties. Elizabeth opened a large file and took out a sheet of paper. I noted a list of bullet point questions.

“Are they for me?” I asked as I glanced at the file.

“Yes. I’m afraid they’re quite complex and rather invasive. Do you want to answer them in private?”

“I’ve not got anymore secrets but I’d rather that the children didn’t have to go through with this.”

Sandie’s jaw suddenly sagged and she dashed across to whisper in the judge’s ear to explain the situation. I leaned across to hear Sandie advise the judge that Martina and Chenille already knew I was a transvestite shemale. The judge’s face was picture as she gasped.

“What! Is this true?”

“Yes,” I confirmed. "I couldn't not tell Martina, it was the only way to help her understand and win her trust. To get her to realise she was not alone."

“Then they don’t need to be here then. I was going to try and break it to them in some way.”

I thought Elizabeth was being bloody presumptuous to assume some sort of counselling mantle but once again I bit my tongue. Elizabeth turned to Mrs Bodkin and motioned for the children to be removed. Then we got down to the questions.

Some of my answers surprised her whilst some even surprised Sian and Margaret but I kept to the honest, straight and narrow as best I could. Some questions I simply couldn’t answer because I did not know or because they were too hypothetical. Finally some questions I had to ‘re-structure’ because they were starting from the wrong perspective. When I explained this to Elizabeth she sometimes frowned, sometimes smiled and once even laughed. Finally she came to her own conclusions.

“Well, Martina’s transvestism seems to be nothing more than an amazing coincidence.”

“I’d like to think that, but if there is such a thing as a transvestite gene, then perhaps her father Sissy’s got something to do with it.”

Elizabeth turned to Sandie who shrugged as she explained the latest medical learning.

“Beverly may be right. It could be a sheer statistical coincidence or there might be some as yet unproven genetic connection between Martina and Sissy, frankly I don’t think it’s as straight forward as that.”

“Well I’d like to meet this Sissy person.” Declared Elizabeth.

“You will." I interjected. "She’s coming to the party tonight.” I smiled partly from my own relief at Elizabeth’s conclusion and partly because my declaration surprised her.

“Oh! Oh my gosh! Will he be -, you know, cross-dressed?”

“Sissy lives permanently as a woman and Martina knows her father is a transvestite.” Replied Sian.

“What! Good gracious! Who else knows?”

“Nobody else at the party, Just Sissy, Margaret, Me and our children; plus present company of course. Oh, and the whole town of Poole knows that Sissy is a transvestite, they just don’t know she’s Martina’s father.”

“Gosh! But you’ve all known about this for some time?” Wondered Elizabeth aloud.

“Since shortly after we met,” I answered, “Sissy introduced me to Margaret and I learned about their children soon after.

“Does anybody else know?” Pressed Elizabeth.

“Not to my knowledge but you’d best let Sian answer that.”

“No.” Sian answered monosyllabically.

“Well that’s good. Least known least said and nobody else needs to know.”

“Exactly,” agreed Margaret. “So is that it?”

“I think so. I don’t see that there’s any case for a care order or any other intervention. Martina’s a transvestite; so what!”

“And what about any medical or hormonal intervention?” Asked Sandie.”

“Well that would of course require a hearing but that’s not for a few years yet, surely.” Observed Elizabeth.

“Who can tell?” Replied Sandie, “medical science moves on apace, not to mention psychiatry.”

“Well you will keep me informed.” Replied Elizabeth. “I feel I am best qualified amongst my colleagues on the bench but it would do me no harm if you keep me up to speed on the latest learning. Oh; and I am definitely going to reserve any future such hearings to myself. Now if that’s it, let’s go to other business. Where is this party I’ve been invited to?”

“Just across the yard,” I replied, “that renovated barn you passed is Sian and Margaret’s new home. The party starts at eight o’clock.”

“Oh good! That gives me time to pop into Poole and get some presents.”

“Uuhm, you’d best be quick it’s gone four already.” Advised Margaret.

Sandie and Mrs Bodkin decided to join her and the three drove off into town. I grabbed an opportunity to pump Margaret and Sian about their encounter with Judge Elizabeth.

Even now, neither Sandie nor Mrs Bodkin knew that Judge Elizabeth was gay. Sian and Margaret had remained tight lipped and now their secrecy had paid off. It was obvious that Elizabeth had ambitions for higher things in the judiciary. She also realised her secret was safe with Sian and Margaret provided she didn’t hurt them or their two children. I also knew to remain ‘tight lipped’ about Elizabeth’s sexuality. I knew which side my bread was buttered on and provided I kept silent, I was sure that my girls were safe. I sighed ironically as I considered the impasse. Was I actually in a position to compromise a judge no less or was she in a position to destroy my girls’ happiness?

‘Stale mate’ was my conclusion. My main bargaining counter was that Elizabeth did not know that I knew about her and thus, provided I remained silent, neither she nor any other could accuse me of blackmail. For me it was easy, I had been keeping secrets all my life. One more would be a doddle.