This story describes how a hardbitten old transvestite ship master has his retirement plans utterly wiped out when he rescues two young girls from the aftermath of a pirate attack in the Indian Ocean.

His plans to retire to his own private little transvestite life are turned utterly upsidedown when he finds himself saddled with the children against his wishes and he finally grows to love them.

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I tapped the chart thoughtfully as the ship heaved heavily and my coffee threatened to spill across the chartroom table. Mac, the chief mate eyed me silently as I weighed up the pros and cons.

“Penny for your thoughts.” I suggested.

“Och! Ye know my thoughts.

Mac was right of course. In the old days, it was always safer to take the inshore route close to the East African coast to avoid the monsoon winds but since the destabilisation of the Horn of Africa, political forces had driven the local fishermen and political warlords to desperate alliances. Now the coast was virtually swarming with pirates looking to turn a buck any way they could. In the Western Indian Ocean just about every fishing boat or small craft posed a potential threat to legitimate traffic trading past the Horn of East Africa. Naturally, to avoid this piracy threat I had planned a voyage further out into the ocean and thus the sea was rougher because the North East Monsoon had a greater fetch. Tonight however, the Monsoon was blowing stronger than normal and our ship faced a rough passage. There was an upside to this decision however; the small boats used by the pirates would be unlikely to risk the rougher seas. I held my coffee in my hand to avoid any spillage as the ship heaved and rolled easily.

If we went inshore, there was a serious risk of being attacked by pirates and if we pushed further out to sea the heavier seas might damage our unusual deck cargo. Mac and I had worked hard to win the freight contract and after we pulled off this third voyage, we would finally pay off the mortgages on our ship.

Perhaps I should explain a bit more.

Mac and I were joint owner-partners with Jimmy, the chief engineer in our modest middle sized ship that we were sailing from Durban to the Persian Gulf. I held a half share in the ship whilst Mac and Jimmy each held quarter shares in the ship. That is not to say we owned the ship. We had mortgaged almost everything we had and taken the plunge in this shipping venture.

We each had a past and we were each looking for that final big chance to make it out of the seafaring game altogether.

The far eastern authorities had crucified me after my last ship had apparently suffered an engine-room explosion during a violent stormy night. We ended up spilling hundreds of thousands of tons of oil on the pristine coastline of a country that shall remain anonymous. (Either I or Mac or Jimmy might one day have to return there for work so - ‘no names, - no pack drill. -’ My anchors had failed to hold and my tanker had been driven onto the rocks. My constant calls for tug assistance had proved fruitless as none would attempt to face the storm and render assistance.

I had not endeared myself to the government of that country when I pointed out that in other countries; the authorities now made it a policy to have large powerful ocean-going tugs standing by at strategic locations for just such eventualities. I had of course been treated like a pariah by the authorities and the press.

After languishing in Jail without charge for nearly two years, and then being released without ever being charged, I was pretty pissed off with the whole field of international maritime law. Every politician, lawyer and press reporter was always looking to blame somebody else and it was invariably the supposedly incompetent captain who was the ‘aunt sally’, the sitting duck and the polluting criminal.

Eventually, somebody, somewhere, had bothered to examine the damage of my wrecked ship in closer detail. Divers had returned with clear evidence of explosive damage to the stern plating that evidenced something more sinister. It turned out that on the night in question, terrorists with rocket-propelled grenades had mistakenly attacked my tanker and it had never been an engine room explosion at all.

Apparently, in the pitch-black driving rain and raging storm, they had somehow managed to mistake a bloody great big lumbering super-tanker for what they thought was a giant American Aircraft Carrier. God knows! How the hell d’you do that?

The terrorists finally admitted they had not sunk the aircraft carrier after their ridiculous claims were proven to be utterly false when the supposedly sunk aircraft carrier turned up perfectly safe and sound. Of course, nobody bothered to connect a super-tanker’s engine-room explosion with a rocket attack. The thing happened close to a remote bit of coastline and it was months before anybody was allowed to properly investigate. Legal waters can get pretty bloody muddy when politics is involved and it’s always the poor bloody merchant seaman who ends up getting the shit. Soon after we were imprisoned, those same terrorists had gained power in a coup and things got even muddier. Apparently, the tug’s refusal to put to sea and render assistance was as much to do with the terrorist scenario and the deteriorating political situation as the bad weather.

Much good it did me after two years in a stinking rotten foreign prison. Still, at least I got out alive and my savings were still intact. I had always tucked whatever savings I made safely away in a Swiss bank. Call Swiss bankers whatever you like but they do look after their customers, honest or not.

God knows what would have happened if the so-called ‘authorities’ had discovered I had a modest nest egg tucked away. They would probably have tried to take it to defray the costs of the spill. Some Joke. The spill cost billions whilst my savings ran to a few hundreds of thousands; nearly thirty hard years of struggle and sacrifice... The upshot was, that I had little chance of getting another job with another shipping company.

I left a filthy prison cell with nothing but my passport, my Master’s Licence and the clothes I stood up in but at least I was sure that my nest egg was safe.

Some weeks after my release, I found had myself thrown together with Mac and Jimmy in a Rotterdam seaman’s hostel. These hostels used to be found in lots of large European ports and they provided essential accommodation to the thousands of unmarried lonely seamen who live the transient life trading the oceans wherever there was work to be had. We three had been washed together like pieces of human flotsam. We all had money but no prospects though we seemed to get on together. We seemed destined to somehow end up working together.

I think it was Billy the engineer, who found the ship. He was idly reading a shipping newspaper as we sat around a table drowning our sorrows. There was a page of adverts about jobs, ships and equipment and Billy noticed the advert. It was a marine bankruptcy sale advertising the ship, ‘as is, where ‘somewhere up the Baltic’ is, in a remote dock. The advert contained a brief description of the ship. Billy laughed jokingly as he tapped the article with his forefinger

“Hey! Perhaps we should buy our own ship, there’s one here in the paper,”

In a drunken fuzz, we laughed about it, and then thought no more about it. Things took a different slant a few days later when I saw another advert in a different trade magazine. You’d be amazed at the variety of nautical publications can turn up in Seaman’s hostel.

A company in South Africa had won a contract in the Persian Gulf and was looking for quotes to ship a huge amount of equipment from Durban to Iran. I studied the advert and wondered. The deal was date sensitive some several months hence. This was exactly how Onassis had started, by matching a ship to a freight contract.

‘Surely it was worth investigating.’ I mused

Twelve months later, three newly become ship-owners had utterly surprised themselves as they loaded their ship for the third voyage out of Durban with machinery parts for a gas pumping and compression plant in Iran. Some of the equipment didn’t look much like gas equipment but we were not there to ask questions just recoup our investments. The freight rates reflected the dangers.

The first two trips had proved very successful and we had only to complete the third trip to pay off the mortgage on our newly bought ship. After that there were several more voyages when we would be in profit and fat profits they were.

She wasn’t a large ship but she proved Ideal for the contract because she had two very useful thirty tonne cranes and a huge central hold that was ideal for some of the larger components. The two smaller forward and after holds proved ideal for the secure storage of the more valuable smaller bits like compressors and centrifuges and stuff. (God knows what they wanted centrifuges for, but ours not to reason why!).

As we stood watching the loading of the last huge piece of machinery as deck cargo for the third voyage to Iran, we quietly congratulated ourselves with the success of our venture.

“We’ll have to avoid any bad weather for this piece,” observed Mac, “that looks like some pretty delicate equipment.”

“Yeah; and expensive I’ll wager. Still the monsoon hasn’t started yet and if we get to the Straights of Hormuz before it starts, we’ll be OK,” I finished.

Our luck only held until we passed Mombassa. The South West Monsoon started early that year. I don’t know; blame it on Global warming or whatever you like, but it blew earlier and stronger than normal and we had to stay close inshore to avoid any heavy seas striking the precious piece of deck cargo. Our plan worked well until we approached the Somali coast on the Horn of Africa. We all knew the dangers of piracy in this area and we had come well prepared. As funds became available from the charter party we invested in some proper defences for our investment. We had even installed some heavy machine guns to protect ourselves from any possible attack.

Heavy weapons were easily available in South Africa and our needs were legitimate. Every legitimate ship had a right to protect itself. Besides, it was our own ship and we were our own bosses. There were no fussy owners or accountants in some remote big city shipping office, to dictate what we could or could not do. Nearly every thing we owned was invested in the venture.

In addition, each of our Philippine crewmembers had been issued with automatic assault rifles and received training in South Africa. We couldn’t afford to take chances.

Piracy today is not a romantic business. It never was. Today’s pirate comes in many more guises though; from the armed sneak thieves who creep aboard a ship at anchor, to the smooth well-dressed trader who is cooking up some crooked plot to steal a legitimate cargo or ship in some remote port Finally there are the vicious gangs of bloody butchers who are prepared to attack a full sized ship with nothing more than a high speed boat, some rocket propelled grenades and a few Kalashnikovs to rob and murder the crew. Even a full sized passenger ship was once attacked and stopped off the Horn of Africa.

The victims are invariably passengers and crew who often get kidnapped for ransom, or worse, murdered. It’s all the same to pirates. A seaman’s life is worth nothing!

Nobody knew this better than me. One previous terrorist attack had been one too many for me, so now I was prepared. In Far Eastern waters, East African waters, West African waters and South American waters, things appeared to have deteriorated back to the days of Black Beard.

Once clear of Durban and safe in international waters, we broke the seals on the bonded store and fixed up our defences. Then we settled down to the voyage and found ourselves debating whether to go closer inshore as the weather steadily deteriorated. The South West Monsoon was blowing offshore so we had to keep close under the East African Coast to find calmer waters. Should we risk pirate attack or risk damage to the large piece of deck cargo? After a long discussion we all three, Billy, Mac and I chose to keep close inshore.

“We’ve got guns dammit!” Observed Mac. “If we can’t keep them away long enough for a warship to show up, we must be pretty dammed useless.”

“Yeah but some of these boats are little more than bloody dinghies. They’re virtually invisible in any sort of sea,” I cautioned. “I never even saw the one that attacked my tanker. Small boats are impossible to see in a heavy sea from a super-tanker’s bridge”

“Yeah but they were only aiming to sink you not rob you.” Added Billy. “If they want to rob you they have to stop you and board you. This bit of kit will keep them away.

“It makes no difference,” I finished, “they’re still bloody invisible on a stormy night. First thing you know, is Bang!, and you’ve got a bloody great hole in your hull just above the waterline. Hell! If they use the right warhead, it’s so bloody big, they can clamber though the hole to board you, if there’s no inflammable stuff inside.”

“Well, there’s no inflammable material in this cargo so all they can do is blow a hole in the hull. So; we’ll have to post extra lookouts until we get to the Emirates coast or we can fall in with a warship,” declared Mac as his face clouded. “Mind you, extra lookouts will mean a hefty overtime bill.”

“Well, Billy and I can keep extra lookout by night.” I finished, “we don’t normally stand watches.

Normally the chief engineer and master did not keep watches on merchant ships. Ours was no different. We could add to the extra need for more eyes especially at night when men were tired and vulnerable to surprise.

“Anyway,” added Mac, “this weather will keep the dinghies at home it’s only the bigger craft that can venture offshore in this weather and surely we’ll be able to see those.” Observed Billy.

We all exchanged reassuring looks. Billy was right. It was too rough for any pirates in the smallest open boats.

We arranged to pass the most dangerous location during the night. In rough seas and darkness, few would venture out in small open boats and our radars would pick up any bigger patrol type craft. Darkness was our best defence, especially if we doused our navigation lights.

The worst part off the Somali coast passed uneventfully. A few targets showed up and one even ventured close, but we fired off a few heavy rounds of tracer into the sky and the target sped away, probably to find easier pickings. Mac was using the night vision binoculars and confirmed that it did not look like an official warship or anything legal. However, the Somali warlords were not above stealing a small naval vessel and using that. This made any effort to identify an approaching vessel doubly dangerous even if it looked like a legitimate naval vessel. Better to just fire off some heavy rounds of machine gun tracer and let them know we were prepared to fight. Thus we plodded on until dawn and relaxed as the Monsoon offered us mixed blessings. The rougher seas gave us protection from inshore pirates but increased the risk of damage to our deck cargo. Eventually, the island of Socotra appeared and we relaxed a little. Socotra lies at the entrance the Red Sea and lies at the cross roads of several important trade routes. The weather improved until the white horses had gone to sleep and we were free to pick a course further offshore.

As I dozed during the afternoon, my second mate Gus, called me from the chartroom settee.

“Skipper! There’s something on the port bow.”

I blinked and stumbled to the bridge as he handed me my own personal binoculars and pointed out the object

“See skipper, two points about two miles away. It looks like some sort of life raft.”

“Fuck! You’re right Gus. You’ve got bloody good eyes lad! It’s possibly a trap,” I replied, “is there anything else around?”

“Two tankers ahead, bound for the gulf, one container ship just gone across bound for the Red sea, nothing small or suspicious.”

We both continued to search the sea for any suspicious looking boats but found nothing.

As I studied the tiny orange and yellow igloo, I debated whether to stop and investigate but my cautious side was still screaming, ‘TRAP, DANGER!’

I sighed and caught Gus’s eye.

“What d’you think?” I asked him.

“They could be pirates hiding under the canopy. If they were genuine, they would be waving to us by now.”

“Gus was right. If anybody was alive, they would be screaming and waving by now for we were less than a mile away and in the still air they would have heard the thump of our engines.”

“Fire a few rounds over their heads,” I ordered, “it’ll give you some gun practice and if there’s anybody sleeping or whatever, it’ll wake them up.”

Gus grinned with delight for he had been itching to bang off a few heavy round from the machine gun. I caught his excitement and grinned.

“Only a few now Gus or you’ll make Supan the third mate jealous. Besides they’re bloody expensive.”

Gus nodded then eagerly cocked the heavy machine gun and fired off some rounds at a large piece of flotsam not far from the dinghy. He smiled with satisfaction as the rounds straddled the broken pallet and it erupted into a fountain of fragments.

“Good shooting. Let’s hope you’re that good if we ever get attacked.”

“Look! There’s somebody coming out from under the canopy!” Shouted Gus.

I brought my binoculars to bear and nearly dropped them as two longhaired blond heads appeared from under the life raft canopy and just stared at us.

“Christ they’re women skipper!” Cried Gus as he peered through the ship’s bridge binoculars. (Gus was much younger and he had young eyes.)

I studied the two figures and recognised them as two blond haired girls but I was still cautious. Pirates were up to every type of trick. Gus and I had also noticed that the raft was in pretty bad shape. One side was deflated and the thing was very low in the water. As the girls stared at us they stood up and balanced precariously. Now they were in danger of upsetting the thing.

By now the gunfire had alerted everybody and the whole crew appeared in their prearranged places all armed to the teeth.

“What do we do skipper?” Asked Gus as our ship had now drawn level with the raft and was soon to leave them behind.

“Slow down the engines, we’ll have a chat about it. Just cruise around them in a large circle.”

Gus adjusted the automatic pilot as Mac and Billy appeared on the bridge. They assessed the situation with Gus and me and we concluded the best thing was to call up a navy ship. Our efforts proved fruitless! It’s just like the bloody police; there’s never one around when you bloody need one! We contacted a shore station and they confirmed there wasn’t a warship for hundred’s of miles. Worse still, it was obvious that the life raft was slowly sinking. The two girls would be in the water long before any warship appeared to answer our call.

“We’d better lower a boat soon,” suggested Mac, “the rigid inflatable boat is pretty quick and handy. It’s also expendable if it is a trap.”

“So who’s going to risk their lives if it is a trap?” I asked as we all scanned the horizon nervously.

“I’ll go. It’ll only take one man.” Offered Mac.

“You’ll have to take one more, if only to provide cover.”

“Any body willing to come with me?” Asked Mac.

There was a short pause then Supan the third mate spoke up.

“You pay me, I’ll go.”

“It’s volunteers I asked for, not pressed men. I can’t pay you if you’re dead.” I growled. You can take one of the kalashnikovs. We’ll video events from here.

His smile grew wider as he grinned fatefully. I liked Supan; he was a young bright cheerful kid who was driven only by profit. Because of the dangers inherent to the voyage, we paid top dollar. The charter rates could easily support it. Supan had his dreams just like all of us.

He was also saving up to start his ‘jeepney’ fleet of buses back in Manila. Unlike Gus the second mate, Supan had no family. He was an ideal candidate to volunteer for any risky venture.

Neither did Mac have any family; that is if you did not count his boyfriend Billy. Yes, Mac and Billy were gay partners, but hey, what the hell I was in no place to judge. I had my own squalid little secrets.

I caught the concern in Billy’s eyes as he considered Mac’s offer to volunteer.

“You be damned careful,” cautioned Billy to Mac.

At that Gus piped up.

“Shit! Skipper, the raft is starting to sink.”

We all turned to see the igloo shaped cover start to deflate and we realized things were deteriorating quickly.

The girls seemed paralysed with fear and we wondered if there was somebody inside the raft with a weapon. However as the tiny rubber cockleshell began to settle, it was becoming obvious there were only two persons in the raft. The rest of it was already partially submerged.

I took the controls and slowed the ship down as Mac, Supan and Billy made their way to the hoist were the RIB (Rigid Inflatable Boat) was stowed. Within minutes the inflatable was speeding across the waves as Gus kept the machine gun trained directly on the remains of the raft. The rest of the crew knew exactly what to do and kept their eyes peeled in all directions. The rescue was effected with little delay. The life raft had now all but sunk and the girls were soon plucked from the water. They were soon speeding back with the girls aboard. It was only when I could compare the girls alongside Mac’s bulk that I realised they were children. It’s almost impossible to judge scale at a distance on the open sea. This was confirmed as they climber nervously aboard and stood shivering fearfully on the deck as my crew recovered the RIB and tattered remains of the life-raft with the hoist.

What meagre clothes the two children wore had already been torn and shredded by whatever experiences they had suffered. I shouted down to Supan from the bridge wing.

“Get them some blankets and bring them up here.” I heard Mac direct Supan to take the girls up to me as Mac and Billy stowed the RIB. The poor kids eventually appeared before me shivering with either fear or exposure. I didn’t know which so I smiled to reassure them but they stood in shocked silence.

“Who are you?” I asked in as soft a voice as possible so as not to scare them. For it was obvious the pair were petrified.

They stared wide-eyed in shock but stayed silent.

“What happened to you? Where’s your ship?” I tried a different tack but still met with nothing but silence. I tried a bit of French then Spanish but neither language had any effect.

“They haven’t spoken since we rescued them.” Declared Supan.

“They must be in shock or something,” I replied as I tried again.

“Aren’t you even going to tell me your names?”

Again there was nothing, just two wild-eyed stares and a deafening silence. I bent down to make myself smaller and reached out slowly to reassure them. They flinched then tensed but they allowed me to touch their sunburnt arms softly. The silence prevailed and I studied their cracked lips.

“D’you want something to drink?” I persisted.

Their eyes flickered and I took that to mean yes, but I made no headway against the silence. By now Mac and Billy had returned from the deck and Gus had the ship under way again.

“They must be in shock,” said Mac, “the life raft was a mess. Torn to ribbons. I brought it back though. The bosun’s storing the remains in the mast house. We don’t want another ship seeing it and raising a false alarm or something.”

“Was there anything in it?”

“No. Nothing. Supan and I searched it thoroughly.

This left me in a quandary. Who where these children and where had they come from. Mac tried some simple German but that elicited nothing, then Billy tried some simple Danish. Our efforts reflected our various backgrounds and seafaring experiences but none of our efforts succeeded. Gus even tried his native Philippine Tagalog but that elicited nothing either. We had exhausted our reservoir of languages. If they weren’t able to speak then we would get nowhere. I hoped that perhaps the life raft’s number would tell us something. By now the cook arrived with some cold fruit juice and the children drank greedily.

It was obvious that the children had been adrift for some time but there was little else we could tell about them. Their bleached hair told of years under a tropical sun but that could be anywhere from Australia to South Africa to America or the Mediterranean. Fortunately, several of the ship’s cabins were empty for we sailed with a minimum crew to pay higher wages because of the dangers.

I motioned for the children to follow me and showed them a cabin with two bunk beds next to Supan’s cabin. It had once been the apprentice’s cabin but cadets and apprentices were a luxury I could ill afford. The children entered it with a nervous curiosity but seemed to settle a little when I told them we would bring food in a few minutes. I then left them to their own devices but left the door open to demonstrate they were not some sort of prisoners. Apart from that there was little I could do. We had no children’s clothing and I was keen to get on. I wanted to get to the Straights of Hormuz before another Monsoon wind arrived. I reported the incident to the International rescue centre with details of the life raft’s identity numbers then settled down to await events. Our destination was Karg Island in Iran and then Abidjan. The first was an island with a large storage installation and tanker terminal at the top of the Persian Gulf. The second was a cargo port where we were to unload the centrifuges. Karg Island was where the gas compression plant was being built. The island is almost totally devoted to oil production except for a tiny ancient fishing village that existed before oil was discovered.

We arrived without further incident and the authorities came on board to discuss the two castaway’s plight. A kindly Iranian lady doctor checked them over and declared that apart from the shock thing they were in good physical health. As to the children’s mental health, well nobody could say. God alone knew what they had seen. The loss of their parents or adult carers was the one certainty and that alone would have sent any child into shock.

The numbers on the life raft finally proved useless. If the life-raft had come from a properly registered commercial ship there would have been records to confirm validity and test dates. This life-raft’s numbers told us nothing more than what we already knew. It had proved to be a typical small life raft sold to yachtsmen in just about every marina on the planet. The numbers provided no identity unlike the carefully prepared and listed details on the life rafts of a proper ship. It only provided a possible story about a private yacht that must have been attacked by pirates or overwhelmed by a storm. Somehow, the children must had escaped into the life raft or been deliberately placed in it. The only thing that could be said about the life raft was that it had worked; it had saved the children’s lives. Either way we would never know until the children recovered from shock and told us their story.

The next shock destroyed what little faith I had left in Human nature. It appeared that because the children had no proper identities, no western country would accept responsibilities for them. The Iranian authorities offered to find adoptive parents in Iran but I had grave reservations about that. The children were obviously from a European background and it would have been unfair to expose them to a culture as oppressive and alien to their birthright as that of Iran. I declared that I would carry the children back to South Africa and find suitable care for them there. Technically, they were still my responsibility under maritime law. Anyway, the Iranian authorities seemed relieved to be free of the problem and agreed to let them travel back with our ship.

We had developed a good relationship with the Iranians during the previous voyages but we still kept a polite respectful distance between them and us. I had little time for the oppressive culture that prevailed in that country and felt it would be cruel to expose two young girls to such a misogynist (by my occidental standards) existence. Nevertheless, I did manage to persuade the authorities to allow me to take the two children ashore on Karg Island to buy them some clothes. The few Iranian women in the fishing village, made a huge fuss of them but even their friendliness failed to cut through the mantle of the children’s silence. We came back with some extra clothes but both girls were still in shock.

With the discharge completed we returned to Durban and I finally made detailed arrangements for their care. There was a Catholic orphanage up country where the nuns could take care of them. I wasn’t a religious man. God knows, I’d suffered enough for my transgressions during my own childhood what with six years in a psychiatric unit then nearly three years in Borstal! I assumed, (wrongly as it turned out,) that the two girls would be well looked after in a religious establishment, but hell! What did I know?

As the silent girls were driven away by the nuns, I returned to my other duties of supervising the loading for the next voyage. This time all the cargo was under deck. All the first stage big stuff had been delivered and there would be no more deck cargoes until the sixth or seventh voyages. By that time, the monsoons would be over. We took a course well clear of the Somali coast and completed the next voyage without incident.

Billy, Mac and I were now well into profit and relished the end of the contract in nine months time. By then we would be bankrolled for life.

The next two voyages also passed without incident and as predicted, the seventh voyage involved more deck cargo because the monsoons were over. This or the eighth or ninth voyage was to be the last, depending on some further negotiations between the South Africans and the Iranians. They struck a deal and we smiled as we confirmed a tenth voyage. It transpired that the last cargoes also involved some military supplies but we weren’t bothered. Technically, the deal was legal for there was no trade embargo between South Africa and Iran at that time.

For Mac, Billy and I it just meant higher freight rates and more money into our respective pension funds. We returned to Durban for the last time and loaded the military equipment in addition to the last of the gas compression equipment and some very strange looking cargo that resembled nothing like gas stuff.

Before we set off for Iran we talked long and hard about the future of our ship owning. We decided that I would keep a third share in the ship and act as a cargo broker whilst Mac took command and Billy continued as Chief engineer. I sold my one-sixth share between Mac and Billy for they could now easily afford it so that we were now each equal one-third parties in the venture. Frankly I was now in my fifties and getting tired of the nomadic life at sea. I wanted to put down roots and live a very private life indulging my squalid little secret.

Oh did I mention that I was a transvestite. Correction; I AM a transvestite!

As the last cargo was being loaded, we despatched our registration papers to a contract lawyer in London and waited for our Baltic Exchange agent to find the next cargo or preferably, long term charter. With all angles covered we left Durban in high spirits but a little nervous about the future.

We were two days out of Durban when we all had the shocks of our lives.

Supan was standing watch on the bridge when two little frightened faces appeared in the chartroom. He let out a shocked gasp as he recognised the two little girls. My phone rang as Supan babbled down the phone.

“Skipper! Skipper! Come up quickly!”

Not knowing what to expect but anticipating a pirate attack, I rushed to the bridge immediately and gaped in shock at the pair. For long moments, my mind raced as I stared stupidly. For some inexplicable reason, I still assumed that they couldn’t or wouldn’t speak, but this delusion was quickly rectified. It was Supan who delivered us of our misapprehensions as he gasped stupidly.

“Where did you two come from?” He squawked.

“We escaped from the nuns,” replied the older one.

Her reply brought us to our senses and I felt a load shed from my shoulders. Now we would get some answers. Now the poor kids might be able to tell us what had happened.

“Why have you come back here? Why did you leave the orphanage?

For answer, the girls pulled off their tops to expose bruises and cuts across their backs. Supan gasped and I stared disbelievingly at their backs. I had seen enough and their stories of abuse in the orphanage were amply supported by the brutal wounds on their backs. These kids were not going back to any bloody orphanage. I couldn’t send them anyway; we were already seven hundred miles from Durban.

“OK. Put your tops back. Is it sore?”

The girls nodded so I took a series of photographs as evidence of the abuse. Naturally, the ship carried both a 35mm still camera and a video camera to record any evidence on the ship that might lead to litigation. Usually this was for pictures of any cargo damage or hull damage caused by any of a thousand maritime risks. I was well trained in taking forensic evidence and I changed the lenses several times to achieve expanded ‘blown up’ close ups of the injuries. I used the exercise to show Supan how to do this for it was obvious he might one day need such skills if he ever made command.

With the evidence secured I took the girls down to the ships medicine locker and instructed Supan to ask Mac to relieve him then join me. I thought that the girls seemed to prefer Supan to anybody else. After all it was to him that they had declared themselves as stowaways. Perhaps it was his age, or more likely his friendly nature and easy smile. Whatever the reason, I wanted a ‘chaperone’ to witness their treatment. My transvestism had long ago made me doubly cautious about accusations of paedophilia and there was no adult woman on the ship. Supan would be my best witness because, as gay men, Mac and Billy risked the same accusations as me. Despite homosexuality being legal, there was always that further potential to smear their good names.

When Supan joined us, I was reading ‘The Ship Captain’s Medical Guide’ while the girls sat nervously on the iron bed in the little hospital. I turned to Supan and explained.

“The best I can do is wash their backs with antiseptic then put a dressing on them. These wounds are quite nasty look. They haven’t been treated for a few days but they’re still not healing. There might be some infection or something.”

I motioned to Supan to sit and hold the girl’s hands as I warned the older girl.

“This will sting a lot. I’ll try a small patch first on the worst cut.”

The girl bit her lip and tensed her back as I prepared to gently dab the worst weal mark. She whimpered and I stopped.

“Can you stand any more?”

Tears came to her eyes but she bit her lip and nodded stoically.

“That’s a brave girl. Tell me to stop if it’s too sore.”

Tears came to my eyes and Supan’s as I dabbed her back as gently as I could and I then asked Supan to place a loose dressing over the wounds as I approached the younger girl.

“Can you be brave as well?”

She stared silently for a long minute then nodded slowly as the older girl smiled to reassure her. I was as gentle as I could be but the child whimpered cruelly and I felt as guilty as hell. Finally I gave the girls each a jab of broad-spectrum antibiotics. A shipmaster has some rudimentary medical training and administering injections is amongst it. Eventually the ordeal was over and Supan showed the girls back to the cadet’s cabin next to his. I cleared up the medicines then locked the medicine cabinet and joined the girls with Supan in their cabin. There I explained the rules. They were simple.

A ship is a dangerous place and they must stay out of the engine room unless accompanied by an adult.

They must also be with an adult if they want to go out on the main cargo deck.

They could play all around the accommodation and out on the accommodation decks.

They had to ask permission to go into anybody else’s cabin, as that was a man’s personal home space.

They were in charge of their own cabin and nobody could come in unless they were invited.

Meals were to be eaten in the mess-room with the rest of the crew at the usual set times.

At this stage I felt the girls ordeal had been enough. I did not even ask their names. They would probably volunteer information if and when they grew more comfortable with the ship and our crew. The fact that they had somehow made it to the ship and decided to join us indicated that they saw us as some sort of refuge. I felt secretly pleased to be so honoured but I was still alert to the problems that lay ahead. The big problem would be in Iran when the girls turned up for a second time.

I was leaving the ship there to return to Britain and a well-earned retirement. Mac would finally get his own command of his own ship. It had always been his ambition.

I thought that getting the girls off the ship and to a safe country would prove to be Hell’s own problem.

The last trip to Iran proved uneventful. We stayed well clear of the Horn of Africa and arrived at Karg Island on schedule. Throughout the passage we delicately tried to find out how the girls had come to be cast adrift in a life raft but the trauma had obviously left them in some sort of shock. They simply refused to speak about it, though they did talk about the cruelty in the orphanage.

Once again when we arrived in Iran we had to explain about the two girls but when the Iranians saw the photographs of the children’s injuries they accepted our story and the girls testimony. I contacted the British Consul and arranged with the Iranian Sharia Courts to have the children put on my passport as dependants. They spoke English with a British accent anyway and that satisfied the consul. We still hadn’t established their full identity but the girls confirmed their names as Jennifer and Beatrice and said they came from a small village in Devon in England.

As their rescuer and saviour, the Iranian authorities invoked Sharia law and allowed me to adopt them temporarily under Iranian law. There were no known surviving adult relatives in Iran and the judge demonstrated abundant common sense. I swore an affidavit that on arrival in the UK, I would make every effort to locate their family; that was grand parents or aunts or something. This was the lever that opened the door towards having the pair put on my passport temporarily until arrangements could be made in the UK. The British consul issued Jenny and Bea with emergency passports and we prepared to fly home to Britain. The last few days were spent saying our goodbyes to the crew and completing arrangements for the ship’s future. There were two possible options, both long-term charters in Europe so we were happy that we would soon meet again. Jenny, Bea and I stood waving on the jetty in Karg Island as we watched our ship departing. Then it was a rush to catch the connection to Tehran and on to London.

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

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

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

(Don’t forget readers this was 1952!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re in my luggage somewhere.”

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

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

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

I gave her a dumb look as I sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Skipper! Skipper! yeeaahh!

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

“Yes skipper.” Chorused the girls.

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

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

“I suppose so. We’ll see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As you wish. The car is waiting.”

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

“Why’s that?”

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

“The car’s cheaper.”

“OK.” I shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on,” pressed the old lady.

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

“Oh! So soon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You see. You do care.”

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

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

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

“What’s SO-? What’s that about?”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“What have you got against Islam?”

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

“They’re not all like that.”

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

“Oh so you’ve read about it then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You could do worse than Devon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s are these?” She asked.

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

“They’re mine.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No wait! We need to talk!”

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

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

“Go away!” I shouted at the door.

“We need to speak!”

I had been right. It was her.

“No we don’t! Go away!”

“We do!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What d’you bloody want?”

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

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

As she entered she glanced at the chain.

“Who don’t you trust?” She asked.

“You.”

“Why not?”

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

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

“So why did you make it?”

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

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

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

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

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

She recognised the irony in my voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reluctantly I phoned the number in the letter.

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

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

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

“Oh. That’s a bit awkward.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“Gang? What d’you mean; gang?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

This chapter describes the first tentative moves by Social Services to win Skipper around. Skipper is still frightened though and unsure of the reasons for Spocial Services choosing him. The truth is obvious but Skipper is just too paranoid to spot it!. The girls love Skipper and there are few issues about logistics. Skipper could easily afford the girls!

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I arrived home in the early afternoon and stopped by at the local supermarket to restock.

That night I indulged myself and savoured a delightful night in my brand new silky all-in-one sleep suit. It was a beautiful royal blue long legged all-in-one with delightful lacy details at the ankles and sleeve cuffs. The frilly lace tickled my wrists and ankles and I savoured the transvestite pleasure this gave me. I had ordered it a few weeks earlier from a specialist shop in London and collected it that morning.

It came with an accompanying, matching peignoir and I was delighted with it. As I slithered erotically amongst the satin sheets I finally settled into a blissful sleep.

This was what I had dreamed of and planned for throughout the whole of my life.

I now had my own private bed, my own private house, my own private transvestite life and I owed nobody anything!

After indulging my transvestite urges sleep came blissfully that evening and I savoured the delicious contemplation of the first night of the rest of my transvestite life.

As the summer dawn broke I stirred and swished my silk clad legs again against the satin sheets. First I lay savouring my new lifestyle as the sun climbed the morning sky. There was no hurry. I was retired now and had all the time in the world.

Then I indulged my cross-dressing needs and the slithery sensations sent a frisson of delight through my loins. Next I pulled the sheets tightly around me for one last delightful snuggle before surrendering to the inevitable call of nature.

After visiting the bathroom, I slipped on a pair of heeled mules and sashayed down to the kitchen to savour my first coffee of the morning.

With the coffee in my hand I sauntered into the conservatory and savoured the panoramic views over Poole and Bournemouth. The morning summer sun had already warmed the conservatory and I savoured the beautiful views.

‘Yes,’ I reflected, ‘Dorset was a beautiful county, I had chosen wisely.’

Because the cottage was isolated up its own private lane, I became slightly emboldened. There was nobody overlooking me so I stepped out onto the front patio that overlooked the lawn.

The beautiful morning sun took my mood so I flipped off my mules and a made a series of imaginary bare footed dance steps across the patio pretending I was in a ball gown and going to the ball. My peignoir swung and swished against the silky sleep suit and the summer sun was already warming the patio flagstones. My bare feet savoured the warm kiss of the flagstones and I was in heaven.

After indulging a few more turns around the ‘dance floor’, I settled on the patio balustrade and once more savoured the view. Finally, I reluctantly returned inside the house and debated whether to dress fully or lounge around all morning in my silky night attire.

I decided to start as I meant to go on. If I was to live as a woman, I would have to first dress as one. There was nobody living within a mile of my beautiful old cottage, so I returned to my bedroom to dress. The biggest luxury was being free to finally experiment all morning with makeup and styles until I was happy with my appearance.

By noon, I had achieved a look and style that I thought suited me. I studied my appearance in the full-length mirror and nodded my head in satisfaction.

‘Not bad for a grumpy, fifty-year-old farty’ I concluded.

For the first time in my life, I did not a need to hurry to slap makeup on then clamber into a frock and sneak away to some club.

This time I spent time on my makeup until I was certain that for once, I did not look like a man in a frock.

Fortunately I was a smallish slender man so my size was not a problem. I studied myself in the mirror and concluded that ‘on a dark night as a casual passer by’; I believed I might even ‘pass’. I was tempted to go and visit Sissy’s gay hotel in Poole but decided against it. I really needed to ‘fine tune’ my modest makeup skills.

The next step would be to buy some more decent wigs and garnish some professional advice about ‘passing’. I had seen some adverts in the national press about a ‘Change-away’ service and I decided to give it a whirl.

The next day, found me up in London again, near King’s cross station in a specialist transformation shop being pampered and educated about many of the more important subtler points of ‘passing’.

What blew me away was that their professional skills not only made me look like a genuine woman but the right choices of makeup made me about ten years younger!!!

I wasn’t sure about their advice concerning my wigs though. I still dreamt of being a ‘pretty young thing, despite my age.

The next morning I practiced my newly learned skills and amazed myself at the change in my appearance.

After double-checking my appearance in the full-length landing mirror, I decided I would definitely visit Sissy’s club.

I would not go until the mid afternoon though and that lunchtime I prepared a light lunch and took it out onto the patio.

There was absolutely no wind and the summer sun was getting hot so I read a book about makeup as the sun warmed my bones. Eventually I dozed off.

I was woken by the terrifying and unexpected sound of children’s voices laughing as a car door slammed in the back yard. My blood froze as I recognised the Devon Social worker’s voice from the phone.

Fortunately the still air had carried their laughter and given me an early warning. I dashed into the house and up the stairs where I just reached the landing as the doorbell rang.

Nervously I shouted down the stairs, “Who is it?”

“Mrs Bodkin with Jennifer and Beatrice.”

“Mrs who?” I shouted again.

“Mrs Bodkin; the Devon social services officer.”

“Oh. Wait a minute. I’m in the middle of a shower. The door’s not locked; make yourselves comfortable in the living room.”

The door opened and the trio stepped respectfully into the living room as I frantically struggled out of my frock, cleaned up my makeup and stepped into the shower. In no time flat, I was lathered up, rinsed off and dressed in a casual pair of slacks and polo shirt. I presented myself in the living room and both girls shrieked with delight.

“Skipper! Skipper!” They squealed as they swooped towards me and hugged me around the waist.

I struggled forward to shake Mrs Bodkin’s hand as the girls clung to my legs and giggled. The Social worker smiled, then looked down at the girls.

“They still like you. You’ve made a huge impression.”

“Have you got the forms for the court hearing?” I asked trying to keep to the straight and narrow.

“No. Not yet. There’s a matter of Mrs Fotheringay’s will.”

“What. What will? What’s that got to do with me?”

“Here. Read it for yourself.”

I took the envelope and opened it. There were several pages but I quickly swept through the preamble about the Bank’s rights and expenses as the executors and got to the ‘nitty-gritty’. As I read the second page my jaws slowly sagged.

“This can’t be right. Surely, there’re other relatives?”

“None I’m afraid. Our searches have come up with nobody.”

“That’s impossible. A great aunt or uncle or something; even a second cousin twice removed or something; anything!”

“No. After Grandparents and aunts or uncles, the duty of the courts and the social services is complete unless somebody comes forward to claim the children and prove their relationship. Even then we’d have to do checks. Nobody else has come forward so that puts you in the frame”

“How so?” I challenged.

“Technically, in the narrow letter of the law, you came forward in Iran when you adopted two female orphans of unknown identity.”

“Yeah but that was just a, -“

“I know what you said about that Iranian adoption. It was, just a convenient legal device, but in the narrow definition of the law, that so called device, is still a legally binding agreement. You are still legally liable for the girls. If you read the last page of Mrs Fotheringay’s will you’ll see that she is adamant, that she wants you to have custody. She firmly believes you must have a soft caring heart under all that nautical bluster. Otherwise, you would never have stopped and rescued the girls with your ship. What’s more, the girls are absolutely besotted with you. They’ve been chattering about you all the way up from Devon.”

I just shook my head in utter bewilderment.

“Oh this is utterly preposterous! How can I look after two little girls?”

“It’s not impossible you know. Thousands of young inexperienced unmarried mothers are doing it all over Britain. Both girls are house trained and able to see to their own needs. They’re eight and six for goodness sake! They’re not helpless babies!”

“But I’m a man and a stubborn, stuck in my ways, old salt at that! What do I know about kids?”

“It’s easy to see the girls adore you. It can’t be that hard can it?”

“But what, - what if they get sick or something?”

“Take them to a doctor stupid! That’s what every body else does with sick children.”

“I can’t be hearing this right. You’re a social worker! You know that young girls especially, need a mother. What happens when they, - you know, reach puberty and all that -, you know, - that stuff?”

“Take them to the doctor stupid! It’s not rocket science!”

I stared stunned out of the window as the girls inspected some of my unusual artefacts. I started forward nervously but Mrs Bodkin pre-empted me. A man cannot wander the planet for a lifetime without accumulating the odd memento and some of mine were quite precious to me; even it they were mostly just cheap ornaments. Some of them however were quite unique and expensive. Each one contained a memory of some event or circumstance in my seafaring career.

“Don’t touch those, girls, they’re Skipper’s private things.”

I sighed and mouthed ‘Thank you’ to Mrs Bodkin then I entered one last desperate plea. “Look. I’m just not equipped to be a father at this late stage in life. What happens if I pop my clogs?”

“Then Social services will be forced to step in.”

“So why can’t you step in right now?”

“It wouldn’t be ethical. Besides just look at them! They adore you and they’re two lovely little girls. If social services were to become responsible for their care, there’s a good chance they might become separated.”

“Oh that’s stupid! They’ve been through enough all ready.”

“It’s not stupid,” she snapped, “social services don’t have bottomless resources. There aren’t that many takers for older children and we have to be ultra careful. We have to double check and triple check the carers and that takes forever. All the while, the children are developing complexes about rejection and stuff. Then the children have to like the carers and that can be a minefield. For example one child might like the candidates whilst the other hates them. What’s more, they can soon spot favouritism and discrimination. These may be two beautiful little girls but it might take months or even years to place them properly. In that time, irreparable damage could ensue.”

I looked at Jenny and Bea now carefully studying my collector’s bits and pieces then gently replacing them. I smiled at them then I gave Mrs Bodkin an old fashioned look. “I don’t believe you. There’s a million people who’d tear your arm off for two beautiful kids like those.”

“Yes. You’re quite right. And that could be a million perverts or bullies or fashion snobs who’d want them as little more than sexual playthings or victims or fashion accessories. Do you know it’s easier for us to fix up ethnic children or disabled children? There’s a better chance that potential carers for disadvantaged children are really just that, caring, loving individuals. If I put these two on some sort of pick list, and I assure you no such list exists, the first rich, conceited, self-righteous, do-gooder to step through our doors would try to snatch them off the list.”

Her arguments were sound. God knows! I’d met enough scheming, manipulative snobbish women in my time. Usually they were after what they thought was my fortune. Inevitably, they had quickly shown their true intolerant colours. If, on those very rare occasions the relationship had developed, I had intimated my cross-dressing to test their sincerity.

I fell into a thoughtful silence because I had exhausted all my simple obvious arguments. She seemed to have all the answers and trumped all my tricks. I did not want to play my trump card but it seemed the ‘game’ was coming to that crunch point.

As I mulled the final irrevocable step over in my mind, I remained silent. I still found it hard to believe her.

As the silence grew she adopted another tactic.

“We know about your once being in care.”

“Oh!” I squeaked nervously as I tensed quietly and I mustered my defences. ‘If she knew about that, she’d know about every thing else.’ I swallowed raggedly as I struggled with my worst fears. But then a shaft of reason and light pierced the black clouds of my worst fear.

‘Hang on’ I thought. ‘If Mrs Bodkin knew about my childhood history and of course my transvestism, then why would she even remotely consider me as suitable parenting material?' She either didn’t know the reasons why I was shunted into care or somehow, she didn’t care.’

I swallowed again as I decided how to go about finding out. I had to tread carefully as I played my opening gambit.

“So if you knew I was in care as a child, you’d surely know that I’m damaged goods. I’m utterly unsuitable for parenting. I’ve never had a proper parenting role model or anything. I was ‘put away’ at aged six for heaven’s sake. What do I know about parenting? I know next to nothing about fathering and as for mothering; well, I rest my case. I’m a grumpy old man for God’s sake! These girls need a mother!”

I thought that would settle the argument but no. Mrs Bodkin was persistent.

“It’s not about parenting, it’s about caring. The word is care!”

“Ye-es,” I replied patiently and cautiously, “but doing what I was legally required to do as a ship master and rescuing two shipwrecked survivors, does not make me a qualified carer. Look I‘ve had this argument before, with your colleagues in London. Just speak to them.”

“We have. But then the children’s care wasn’t an issue. Mrs Fotheringay was available and willing to look after them. Her passing has put a whole new perspective on the issue. Besides, there’s the matter of her last will and testament.”

I hesitated for an instant.

“Hold on. Are you saying that you have spoken to the London people?”

As we talked, I was glad to see the girls step out through the French doors onto the Patio. Now they were out of earshot.

“Yes.”

“And do you know why I was shunted into care?”

“Yes. You were deemed beyond parental control.”

“Oh sure! That was for the family’s sake, to avoid all the adverse publicity and stuff. I mean do you know the real reason?”

“Yes.”

The finality of her reply stunned me. If my jaw could have dropped any lower it would have fallen off. I felt a cold empty hollow space growing in my stomach. Finally I decided to take the plunge. If she didn’t know the truth she was about to find out and then some.

“No. I mean the cross-dressing and stuff. The, -“

“Yes. We know about it,” she interrupted, “you don’t think we didn’t check with the London people. We’ve researched you pretty well.”

“Then you’ll know all about it then. It’s bloody obvious that I’m not fit to be a-,”

“Parent.” She finished my sentence for me.

“Exactly.” I finished smugly, certain that my ‘ace in the hole’ had trumped her hand and my argument was won. “There. It’s out now.” I declared, ‘boldly’ I thought’.

“And?” replied Mrs Bodkin as she probed further under my armour.

“Well, perhaps I should have said it in the first place. I wasn’t trying to be deceitful or anything. It’s just -, well it’s private thing and it still hurts if I’m exposed or outed. So. That’s it then, Mrs Bodkin. Meeting over. You’ve got all the evidence you’ll need. You can go about your job with a clear conscience.

Just tell the judge that I’m a self confessed transvestite and that’s it, ‘bob’s your uncle’. Just make sure you find the girls a proper home.”

“Oh no. Not yet. Please don’t be so hasty,” she countered, “there are other issues.”

“Oh come on. Surely enough’s been said. I’m a, - (I almost shouted ‘a fucking transvestite' but I bit my lip) — I’m a transvestite for heaven’s sake! Is that plain enough for you? Short of being a paedophile, there’s nothing much worse is there? What sort of father would that make me?”

“I said earlier,” she smiled, “it’s not about parenting alone. It’s also about care.”

“That’s as may be, but to provide proper care I’d have to sacrifice my little peccadillo wouldn’t I? That could really set up tensions in me, my transvestism also acts as a sort of relief valve sometimes. I can’t give it up completely; ever! Think how it would devastate the girls if my activities became public? I had no plans to keep it a secret any longer.

I’ve been doing that all my working life. That’s what this cottage is all about. It’s somewhere secret for me to retire to and indulge my thing. I was cross-dressed when you called just now. What would the girls have said if I’d answered the door in my dress? That’s why I pretended I was ‘taking a shower’. I was in a blue fit of panic whilst I got changed.”

“And,” she persisted.

I became exasperated and almost wanted to strangle the woman there and then. “Listen. Don’t you get it? I can’t put it any blunter. I’m a bloody tranny! If other people learned about it, it would bring shame or ridicule on the girls. Surely you don’t want that sort of horror to befall them.”

“I suspected that you might be cross dressing when you didn’t answer the door immediately.” She replied calmly. “That’s why I kept the girls in the living room.”

Her attitude got me worried. ‘What the hell was she after?’ I’d admitted my cross-dressing. I’d made it abundantly clear that I did not want to embarrass or hurt the children. I knew I’d never abused a child or caused the authorities any cause for concern. I had absolutely no predatory interest in children. I had always lived an obscure life miles away ‘over the horizon’, literally!, far from any public social spotlight.

Most of that lifetime had been spent at sea. I was not a dummy; I knew that paedophiles usually tried to find employment in some sort of field dealing with children. Consequently I had stayed at sea as a sort of subconscious act; a sublimal statement that I was not interested in children, I had no predatory interest in them. This because of my early flawed convictions that the abused invariably became abusers. For all my early years I had been waiting nervously for some sort of paedophile predilection to somehow explode in my brain and I’d suddenly become like the monsters who almost drove me to early suicide.

God knows! I’d seen enough and endured enough as a child in care. I knew exactly where paedophiles congregated and how to avoid them. I had learned about them the hard way, as an abused child. As a consequence, I had long ago chosen a career as far from any contact with children as was physically possible.

What in God’s holy name was this woman after? I wondered.’ I wished I had been recording this meeting. Then they could not trap me.

Then I had a darker thought. ‘Did they suspect me of having done something when the kids were on the ship or something?’

I sighed wearily and sagged in the chair.

“Look. What is it you want?”

“We want the children to be happy. They’ve had enough turmoil and horror in their short lives.”

“So what d’you want of me? How in God’s name can I possibly make a pair of little girls happy? I’m just a bitter, grumpy old tranny, if that’s not worse than Victor Meldrew, I don’t know what is.”

“They like you. Mrs Fotheringay spoke a lot about you after she took ill. The kids worship you. She said they never stopped talking about you and somebody called Supan. Who’s Supan?”

“He’s the third mate on my ship, well, he’s second mate now. We promoted him when I retired from command.”

“Your ship?” She gasped.

“Yeah. I’ve got shares in a ship. I was once the captain, but I only do a few trips a year now when the officers want to take some leave.”

“A ship. You own a ship?”

“No.” I was being scrupulously honest now. I didn’t want the smallest innocuous mistake to be construed as a lie in some later court case. “I only own one third of a ship. Look, where’s this going? There’s nothing odd about Supan. He’s just a hard working kid. All he’s doing is just the same as I did as a young man. He’s just saving money to start his own business back in Manila. What have those kids been saying about him?”

“Nothing. They spoke very highly of him. In fact they spoke highly of your whole crew.”

“I’m glad to hear it! So where’s all this going?”

“Well. If we can put the transvestism to one side for a moment, we -,”

“Put my transvestism aside!” I nearly choked with cynical laughter. “That shows how much you know about transvestism! It would be like trying to put my legs or my head to one side. It’s what I’m all about. I couldn’t ever ‘put my transvestism aside’. D’you think I’ve never tried. It always comes back. Believe me lady, after fifty odd years of this -, this transvestism thing, there’s one thing I know for sure. It always comes back!”

“Yes, I know what you’re saying, but try and disregard it for a moment.”

I gave her another sardonic look and she wagged her head sympathetically.

“Alright, I understand your doubts but the girls really do need somebody they trust.”

“Trust! Trust!! How can you speak of trust? Every time I cross-dressed I’d be betraying any trust. This is just crazy. I just haven’t got the facilities to do this; I don’t have the emotional wherewithal.”

“No. Please; hear me out. You could have them on a trial basis. The department would supply all the support you’d need. There’s no need to worry about financial support. The children have a substantial inheritance.”

“No you misunderstand me. It’s not the money thing. I’ve got plenty of money! Well enough for my own plans and needs. It’s not money, it’s time. When would I be able to indulge my needs? I want to cross dress whenever I want and mostly at weekends when I go clubbing. That’s apart from sleeping every night in a nightie or something. This means weekends in London and stuff. Who would babysit the girls? Besides, the cross dressing keeps me sane. I get stressed sometimes if I can’t indulge.”

Mrs Bodkin fell silent as she digested my revelations. Then she spoke again. “How often d’you need to cross-dress?”

“Oh that’s a crazy question. How long is a piece of string?”

“I’d be interested to see you dressed.”

My alarm bells began to ring and I wondered if I was being set up. Immediately I refused point blank.

“Oh no! That would be a guaranteed mistake. What would happen if the girls saw me? No, no. Definitely no!”

“But you suggested you might like to live full time as a woman.”

I shook my head. It was the first time anybody had ever posed the question directly to me and it concentrated my thoughts exquisitely. I was confused.

“Look, I just don’t know. This morning I was contemplating living full time as a woman. All I know is that having kids around would utterly destroy my carefully laid retirement plans. Plans I might tell you that have been forty years in the making. For God’s sake, I might even go whole hog and become a woman. I’ve got the funds to go privately for SRS. I just don’t know. How would that sit with the girls?”

“Are you saying you might be a transsexual?”

“I don’t know! I just don’t know what I’ll want.”

“It would be easier if you did undergo a sex change. Then there would be no question of any abuse, at least sexual abuse.”

I stared shocked at Mrs Bodkin. I thought the whole paedophile thing was dead and buried but now here she was averring to it yet again.

“So you still think I might abuse them then. If I didn’t have a dick, there would be no risk of penetration. Huh! That’s a bit naive isn’t it?” Believe me, speaking from many, bitter, personal childhood experiences; I can assure you that women can abuse a child just as brutally as men! Abuse is in the head as well as the crotch you know! If that’s what you feel about me, why ever did you come here in the first place?”

Her head sagged slightly and she looked a bit crest-fallen. “I’m sorry. That was a bit crass of me. I do not think that about you. The children’s responses to you make it abundantly obvious that you’re not an abuser. Children soon show signs if they’re being abused. I was just reflecting on society’s reactions.”

“Yeah. Well I don’t need to be told of that. Trannies know all about ‘Society’s reactions’ and as for victims of abuse, well, hello!”

My bitterness was made obvious as I almost spat out the last two words. Mrs Bodkin sensed my subcutaneous rage and fell silent again. The silence became oppressive so I offered to prepare some food.

“D’you want some tea?”

“Oh yes. That would be nice. D’you want a hand?”

“If you want but I’m reasonably capable in the kitchen. Forty years alone makes anybody fairly competent where food’s concerned.”

She followed me into the kitchen where I dug out some home made cake and prepared some sandwiches. She sneaked a sly nibble of the cake as my back was turned and remarked on it.

“This isn’t bad. Did you make it?”

“Who else.”

Her eyes scanned the kitchen professionally then she spoke again as she secretly ran a professional finger under the worktop rims. It came up clean, as I knew it would.

“You live quite tidily for a man. Is that also the seafaring thing?”

“You got it. It was beaten into me as a deck boy on my first ship. It’s a lesson that sticks.”

“More beatings,” she observed darkly.

“Yeah, but beatings that had a genuine purpose. There was no sexual perversion or malice behind them, just a simple hard lesson that brooked no argument. It was hard decent men in real male company. If you live cheek by jowl in a shared cabin, you have to be clean. I was an angry, dirty little kid; a street prostitute before I was picked up and invited to become a deck boy. .

The lessons were simple. Be clean in your habits, be punctual in your watch keeping, and be careful in your work.” I didn’t mention the abuse aspect when I had been picked up as a fourteen-year-old child prostitute by a queer third engineer and offered a job on the ship. This was the end of the fifties and jobs were for the taking. They were desperate for a deck boy on the ship. I was offered the job but the real intent of the nest of gays was for me to be the ’f’ocsle bike’.

However things didn’t quite turn out as the bent engineer intended. The chief officer caught me sneaking out of the man’s cabin one night and I was hauled up before the old man on Sunday morning after inspection. After investigating all the angles the wise old bastard actually got it right. I was the victim and the ring of adult queers who were abusing me were sacked out of hand.

Indeed, that old captain and his chief officer had been the first adult males in my life ever to have believed me.

I worshipped them and I stayed on that ship from fifteen to twenty five cos I had no other place to go. If ever a boy needed an adult role model that captain and the chief officer were them. I didn’t tell Mrs Bodkin any of this but she sensed there was something behind my demeanour.

“So you say you were beaten.”

“Yeah! Course I was, but they were honest beatings by hard working honest men teaching me real lessons. They weren’t sicko perverts getting their rocks off by beating a small boy into oblivion and eventual submission. It was just a single punch or slap, usually if I was about to make some stupid or dangerous mistake or if I had been too bloody cheeky. I was soon taught my proper place and it wasn’t arse up, belly down in some big queer’s bed.”

“Good lessons then,” she remarked bravely but I noticed her shock as her face greyed with concern.

“Yeah; lessons that kept me alive.”

“Well that’s pretty basic I suppose.”

“Yes, but very true. I’m still here.”

The silence descended again as I buttered the bread.

I called Jenny and Bea from the garden and handed them some fresh juice and two huge wedges of my homemade cake.

The girls thanked me, which I was pleased about, and they returned to feed whilst swinging on the seat in the orchard. I handed Mrs Bodkin some delicately prepared sandwiches and we sat facing each other across the kitchen table. She eyed me thoughtfully.

“Would you really consider reassignment surgery?”

I stared at her puzzled.

“You’re not suggesting that I change my sex just to please some interfering social workers or rescue two girls are you?”

“Oh no!” I didn’t mean that. I -,”

“You were just trying to get inside my head. Is that it?”

“Well, truthfully, yes, I suppose I was.”

“Well truthfully I can tell I just don’t know. I’ve learned that some transvestites finally go down that route when they get to my time of life. Perhaps some of them are like me. They’ve struggled with tranny stuff all their working lives, conforming to the mores of society and the workplace. Then, when they finally retire, they are utterly free to do their own thing. On the tranny lifestyle scale, I don’t really know where I am. The thought of SRS has crossed my mind but I just don’t know.”

“That seems odd. To not know what sex you want to be.”

“Yeah. Tell that to the doctors, particularly the psychiatrists.”

“Have you ever met a psychiatrist?”

I gave her a dumb look but she didn’t seem to get it.

Her brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

“I was in care God dammit! I met one almost every bloody day! They wouldn’t leave me alone. Every bloody weirdo and his pet theory was tried out on me. I spent more time on a laboratory bench than a bloody Bunsen burner. I finally broke and ran when I heard them mention prefrontal lobotomy. I’d seen what it did to others. They put me in a psychiatric unit for Chris-sakes! It was the nineteen fifties remember”

“What, prefrontal lobotomies! You actually saw it?”

“I saw the results. I was wandering around the common areas of a bloody psychiatric hospital at one stage of my childhood. I saw it all. If that doesn’t mess a child up then I don’t know!”

“But you seem so -, so.”

“So what; so normal?”

“Well. In a word yes; normal.”

“You mean apart from the elephants in the room, like my transvestism, - and the abuse, - and the.” I desisted from going into any further detail, it was far too painful. “The truth is Mrs Bodkin I eventually escaped. That did my self-esteem no end of good. I beat them at their own games. They never caught me after that. I became a child prostitute after I escaped from Borstal and before I was taken away to sea. Anyway enough about me, what about these two kids? What’s to become of them?”

“Well that’s up to you.”

I fell silent. I felt sorry for the kids but I also had the remains of my own life to consider. God knows, I had penny pinched and slaved all my life and now I had finally made it.

Now I had my own means and I was beholden to nobody. Now they, the ubiquitous ‘they’ were asking me to sacrifice everything I’d slaved for and take on two admittedly delightful young girls.

Mrs Bodkin seemed to read my mind.

“Look. I can see it’s all a bit much for you in one day. Have a long think about it and we’ll meet again next week.”

“I dunno’ I sighed. I don’ even know if I like kids, but -, well I dunno.”

“Are you worried that you might be tempted?”

“What! The paedophile thing-! No! No! For God’s sake it’s nothing like that. God forbid. I know what that’s like looking from the dark side, the kid’s side. No! That stuff just isn’t in me. If it makes you sick, I can assure you it makes me violently ill. Uuuughh!”

“Yes. I understand. I’m sorry to have even suggested it. Well, I’d best be going. Give me a call if you reach a decision.”

She presented her card and stood to rise. She called Jenny and Bea from the orchard and turned to me as they skipped through the untended grass. Mrs Bodkin watched the girls then smiled beguilingly as she turned to me again.

“That’s a huge orchard; you’ll need a pony to keep the grass down.”

“Stoppit! Right now.” I protested.

She smiled knowingly as she watched the girls run shrieking towards me for one last hug.

“They like you. That’s a rare thing when kids are taken in by carers.”

“Stoppit again!” I objected. “There’s a mountain to climb before anything tangible happens. If it happens,” I added hastily.

Mrs Bodkin let a small knowing smile escape her lips as the girls pounced on me.

They demanded that I bend down to kiss them and I reluctantly lowered my face so that they would have to stretch.

Mrs Bodkin noticed my reluctance and realised where my fears lay.

“Pick them up in your arms. They don’t break!”

I compromised by crouching down to their level and giving them a cautious hug making sure to keep my hands extended so that there could be no accusation of inquisitive fingers or intimacy. I knew that the social worker was watching me but she said nothing. It was obvious that she understood my primordial fears of any unsavoury accusations. She called and the girls reluctantly released their grips on me. I stood to watch the car disappearing down the lane.

Then I turned to return to the house with my mind in turmoil. God dammit, I really liked those kids! But did I like my cross-dressing better? I wondered.

Back in the house I made another cup of tea to steady my nerves. I was just so confused and I was too stressed out to think straight. My hand shook as I tried to drink my tea and most of it ended up on the floor.

As evening approached, I decided to get dressed again. Dressing certainly helped to calm me when I was bothered. I was not angry, just stressed by everything that had happened that afternoon.

There was so much to take in and so much to think about. I spent a good hour deciding what to wear then slowly and deliberately, I started to prepare. It was still midweek and the gay pub in Poole would be very quiet.

As darkness fell I drove to Sissy’s hotel. Once dressed and safe in the warm dark womblike shelter of Sissy’s hotel

I felt I would be able to think better and possibly pick Sissy’s brains.

- - -

“And they want you to adopt them?” Gasped Sissy.

“It’s worse than that. Technically I’ve already adopted them. The legal thing in Iran is deemed binding. All parties were agreeable to it. The Iranian police, the British consul, the Iranian revolutionary council equivalent of our social workers, the doctors, the Iranian judge and me. It’s all up front and legal. I’m still technically the guardian of two young kids.”

“D’you want to adopt them?” Asked Sissy.

“I dunno’. It’ll play hell with my cross-dressing.”

“Hmmm. Yess.” Replied Sissy thoughtfully.

She knew exactly how important dressing was to a transvestite. Indeed she lived permanently as a woman and was quite a local celebrity. Even straight people stayed at her little hotel because they were curious about her.

Sissy had transcended the painful gulf between ridicule and acceptance, at least in the local area of Poole. She explained that now most local business people accepted her for what she was and she was even invited to join the local business organisations. I envied Sissy her position but I, more than most, knew it had been hard won. She had truly ‘walked the walk’. In her earlier days Sissy had endured all the usual ridicule and recriminations.

We sat drinking our Sherries in the quiet of the reception lounge as Sissy kept an eye on the reception desk.

Her mind ticked away until finally she spoke.

“Why don’t you become their mother?”

“Oh don’t be-.” I gasped.

“No! No! Just listen to me a minute. Just look at you now. Several of the residents have walked past you and acknowledged our being here.

Not one of them has batted an eyelid and at least two of them I know to be straight. They just like the cleanliness and ambience of my friendly establishment. In this light you are passing. They think you’re a woman.”

“Oh come on. I know I’ve worked at it especially hard before I came out tonight, but I’m still a man in a dress.”

“Of course you are. But you’ve made a bloody good stab at it. Look; come over tomorrow and we’ll really work at it. Margaret is my accountant and she’s a very smart fashionable woman. She gave me a lot of help transitioning. She’s a lesbian but she’s sympathetic and she understands us trannies. Let her work her magic on you.”

I stared pensively into my empty sherry glass and reluctantly nodded.

“OK then. But she won’t out me will she?”

“She’ll lose my account if she does and I was one of her first. She got a lot of ‘pink’ business through me and she knows which side her bread is buttered.”

“So why d’you want to get me all dolled up?” I pressed.

“You could pass for real.” Replied Sissy. “You’re small enough and you don’t seem to have much of a beard. I reckon you really could pass even in the brightest sunlight.”

“To what end?”

“Well. If you can pass as a woman, you could possibly carry off the pretence of being the girl’s mother or more correctly their grandmother.”

“Oh come on! Get real. The Social workers will never wear that.”

“Don’t be so sure. They even allow gay couples to foster and adopt children today. Things have moved on. They know all about your cross-dressing. You told me that. It can’t be that much of an issue for them if they are still keen to have you care for the girls.”

“Yeah, but full time. That’s a whole new ball game. I mean, the girls, - well it could really bugger them up.”

“Don’t you be so sure! Kids are pretty resilient little things. They can survive a hell of a lot of bad stuff provided they can still run to somebody who really cares, somebody who loves them and nurtures them.”

I fell silent as I reflected on a whole bunch of stuff in my past life.

“Yeah I suppose you’re right. If my mum and dad had cared I might have turned out different.”

“Your parents didn’t make you a tranny. We’re born trannies.” Countered Sissy.

“No not that. Of course I know we’re born this way. No. I mean all the other stuff.”

“You haven’t turned out too badly. You’re a successful ship owner and sea captain.”

“Yeah with the prospect of a long lonely retirement. D’you think I’m considering adopting them because I’m afraid of old age.”

“Oh so you are considering it then?”

I fell silent again as I dragged things through my tired mind. The truth was I really liked the kids. They had brought two real rays of sunshine into my life. Was I really being selfish and just using the kids as potential carers in my dotage? The thought depressed me and Sissy caught up on my mood. I thought she must be psychic or something.

“Hey. There’s many a real normal parent who thinks that their children are there for nothing more than caring for them in old age.”

“Yeah. But that doesn’t make it right. Anyway, I can honestly say that I’ve made ample provision for my old age. Nobody can accuse me of being dependent on others. I’ve always made my own way and always will. At least until my body fails me.”

“Then.” Prodded Sissy.

“I dunno’. A quick end I hope. Suicide even. The last thing I want is to linger in some hospice bed forced to dress as a man or whatever.”

“That’s what happens to most of us. That’s what’ll happen to me I suppose. I’ve got no family either.”

I stared at Sissy as the realisation struck me. He was in exactly the same situation but he wasn’t making a big thing of it. He lived as he wanted and met each day as it came. I was being the maudlin one. I was now too drunk to drive so I ordered a room for the night and continued drinking.

The last thing I remembered was Sissy helping me up the old Elizabethan stairway and along a crooked corridor to my room.

“Good night you old bugger. See you for breakfast.”

Like me, Sissy was a heterosexual transvestite. He had no wish to abuse or assault another middle-aged drunken tranny and he left me to sleep it off.

 
 

---

---

 

I woke the next morning to a knock on my door as Sissy brought me breakfast. I was feeling deadly and she grinned sympathetically.

“God you look a mess. You’d better get yourself home and tidied up before Margaret sees you. She’ll be here all afternoon doing my accounts.”

After slapping on some makeup and rushing breakfast, I sneaked out to my car and drove home to scrub up and choose a new outfit. This took most of the morning and after I was finally happy about my appearance, I carefully hung some extra outfits in assorted colours on the back coat hooks and made my way back to Sissy’s. I met Margaret as she busied herself on the computer in Sissy’s office. She looked up and smiled as her gaze took me in. Her smile gave me a little more confidence as she rose to meet me and reached out with her hands to take mine and hold me at arms length while she continued studying me.

“Hello darling. My, my you don’t look half bad! We can do a lot with you!”

“Oh Sissy’s already been talking has she.” I grinned.

“We’ve got no secrets. When you learn just how close Sissy and I really are you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

I couldn’t answer this. But I had chosen Sissy as my mother confessor so I had no right to object if she recruited other help.

“Where is Sissy?”

“She’s in town at the bank. She should be back soon, she isn’t usually this late.”

Just then Sissy returned with various boxes of supplies and she called for her chef to help her unload the car. I then realised that Sissy truly lived full time as a woman for she had obviously been to the bank and various shops for assorted supplies. She was fully dressed in a smart light grey business two-piece and looked every inch a business lady about town.

‘If Sissy could live and dress like that then why couldn’t I?’ I thought enviously.

While Margaret completed the accounts, I went to help them unload the supplies and remarked on the boxes of herbs and assorted spices.

“I thought you’d have had these delivered.”

“We do usually with the veg and the meat but these are specialist items. Georgie the chef usually buys them himself but he had an appointment with his daughter in the school whilst I had business in town. I killed two birds with one stone. I’ve also had my hair done. Do you like it?”

She gave me a twirl and I smiled as I eyed the beautifully permed style enviously and resolved to grow my hair out so that I might one day enjoy the same delightful luxury.

“Yes, it’s lovely,” I replied, “the style sets off your cheekbones beautifully. How do you achieve such a beautiful feminine look?”

“I’ve had plastic surgery on my face. I’ve had my jawbone and brow ridges chiselled away plus some other stuff. It was painful but worth it.”

I was forced to agree. Nobody who did not know of Sissy’s history, would have ever realised she was still a man ‘down there’. I was totally enchanted and utterly envious.

“So,” continued Sissy, “you’ll have met Margaret then?”

“Yes. She’s just finishing your accounts.”

With that Margaret reappeared in the doorway with the accounts book.

“I’ve signed it off and copied it all to your computer whilst emailing it to mine. That’s one job done, now what about this second job?”

Sissy grinned and gently propelled me forward as she explained.

“It’s Beverly here,” replied Sissy. “Really, she just needs a bit of fine tuning. You know the really special little things that finish it off.”

“Well, that wig needs sorting,” declared Margaret as she approached me to inspect me closely. “For a start it’s much too young for you. Compare your style with Sissy’s. See she has her hair styled in a fairly short perm. It’s much easier to manage. Long silky hair is for younger girls who are looking to attract a mate.”

I reflected on the same advice that the transformation shop in London had given me. I suppose my fantasy image of being a young attractive girl was truly just that; a totally unobtainable fantasy of wishful thinking. It was hard to reconcile myself to the fact that any chance of appearing as a younger girl and having wild flings in the younger tranny clubs was forever lost to me. I had to reluctantly concede that I was a fifty something tranny and accept that painful truth. It felt as though a whole lifetime of happy youthful trannying had passed me by. I felt a brief, bitter spasm of resentment ripple through me as I considered the lost opportunities.

‘A childhood lost because of years of brutal abuse, my later teens spent virtually hiding from everything as I slowly recovered from my childhood traumas, my twenties spent trying to determine my sexuality, and my middle years spent trying to somehow create a life and provide for my future. Yes my life had been one long series of trials and sacrifices as I struggled to bring eventual happiness to my existence. Now, nobody but nobody was going to dictate to me how it should be!

Reluctantly however I was forced to concede Margaret’s argument. I would never again pass as ‘ram dressed as lamb’. My face had become ‘middle aged’. Margaret sensed my depression and quickly reassured me as she gave me an affectionate peck on the cheek.

“Look it’s not all bad. You really do have everything going for you. You’re quite small and you’re beard is almost non existent.”

As she spoke she gently brushed my cheeks and smiled knowingly. “In fact you don’t have a beard do you?”

I nodded agreement. Throughout my life I had spent many visits in various salons having my beard treated and my efforts now bore fruit. I had eliminated my beard long ago and sported a smooth soft hairless face. Margaret’s fingers lingered on my face and she smiled while Sissy reached out to investigate my cheeks.

“Yes, you’ve made a real effort here. This is a major step. Your cheeks are lovely and soft," sighed Sissy, "Yes. I wish my face was as smooth as yours.”

Margaret took my fingers and pressed them to Sissy’s cheek. I felt the lingering evidence of a beard. Sissy still had some work to do and she passed easily. There was really some hope for me and it lifted my spirits appreciably.

We chatted about options and Margaret gave me some advice.
“Before you arrange to see Mrs Bodkin again, pretend that you have to do a couple of months as relief captain on your ship then go and have some surgery to feminise your skull. Then when you meet her, go dressed to kill. I reckon if she cannot recognise you then neither will the girls. You can pretend to be Skipper’s housekeeper. By the time the girls realise you are actually Skipper the hurdles of trust and affection will have been cleared.”

As we chatted, Margaret worked her magic on my makeup and hair. By evening I was fully convinced that I would ‘pass’ and she took me to another restaurant just to prove how good her technique was. I was obviously nervous at first, but soon realised that we truly passed as two women out for an evening meal. The restaurant was a popular haunt and several men showed an interest but it was that typically predatory interest of men just looking for a quick midweek lay. When they realised that I was a ‘middle aged lady’ and Margaret was obviously not interested. Their stares moved to other, younger women. I didn’t feel jealous of the younger girls and Margaret grinned knowingly.

As the evening progressed Margaret slowly opened up. I learned that she was a ‘lipstick lesbian’ who liked the company of trannies but refused to share their beds. I was comfortable with this. She had a passionate lesbian partner called Sian, a Welsh girl who shared her life and they had no interest in any ‘extra-marital affairs. I was also pleasantly surprised to learn that they had two ‘turkey-baster’ children by Sissy.

‘So that was the close relationship they had!’ I realised as Margaret took out pictures of their children.

Margaret sensed my interest and she smiled invitingly.

“Would you like to meet my family?”

“Wouldn’t I just!” I squeaked excitedly.

We drove to Margaret’s small town house I was introduced to them at Margaret’s home. I was delighted to learn that they were a boy and a girl of the same ages as Jenny and Bea. I realised that there was quite a settled successful gay community in Poole and Bournemouth.

I had obviously landed accidentally and very successfully ‘on my feet’ in choosing this location to settle. As I drove home alone to my cottage that night, I reflected that all was not lost with regard to Jennifer and Beatrice.

-o~O~o-

The following morning I put my plans into action. Firstly, I arranged to undergo facial surgery and then arranged to do a couple of months summer relief work as captain on my ship while the bruising came out and scars healed. It was no secret now amongst the crew that I was a transvestite and when I explained about my surgery to Gus and Supan they just smiled and shrugged their shoulders. They had sailed with me through far greater dangers off East Africa and they knew they could always trust me. A deep bond of affection had grown up amongst all of us since those days of danger.

My next step was to advise Mrs Bodkin that I was interested in caring for Jennifer and Beatrice but that I had to do two months as relief captain because my ship sharing partners Mac and Billy were ‘house hunting’. I met the girls again and explained the delays about them moving in to live at my cottage. They were a little disappointed but they put on a brave face.

In Mrs Bodkins' company, I gave each of them a big hug and kissed them goodbye. I would see them again at the end of August and we would see about them coming to live at my house. They understood that I was a ‘very busy man’ and there might have to be a ‘housekeeper’ looking after them whilst I was away.

Mac, Billy and Gus were more than delighted to take a couple of months leave during the summer. They took a month’s leave in the July then Gus took a month in August. He brought his wife and child over to England from Manila and they examined some work opportunities for his wife who was a qualified nurse.

After my surgery, I worked as the Captain and few questions were asked by agents and stevedores about the massive bruising to my face. I put out a plausible story about some sort of car crash and subsequent facial injuries. Mac, Billy, Supan and Gus all respected my secret and the whole issue passed without disclosure as the bruising eventually came out.

Supan was pleased to be promoted to chief officer for a brief while and under my supervision, he practiced ship handling as he docked and undocked the ship during many visits to Amsterdam, Le Havre, Cork and Poole.

Yes, our ship now stopped every week in Poole as the trade expanded. Another aspect of this expansion was that we had to employ two young British boys as apprentices. The workload demanded an extra mate and these two young lads were being trained up. My two months as relief captain, kept me in touch with the ship and the trade and I was happy to learn that she was still a happy ship. After my two months aboard my ship in recuperation and isolation, I finally I recovered from my surgery.

The awful bruising was gone and I returned to my cottage. After checking out my newly feminised face with Margaret and Sissy I arranged to meet Mrs Bodkin again.
When I met Sissy and Margaret they were astounded by my appearance.

“Why Beverly, it’s fantastic!” Squealed Margaret. “I’m glad you used the same surgeon as Sissy! He’s a bloody good man. Are you considering any more surgery?”

“Not just yet. The hormones are working though. Look at these.”

Sissy’s eyes widened with appreciation as she gently brushed the backs of her fingers against my thick budding nipples. She smiled knowingly as I gasped.

“Mmm. They seem nice and sensitive and the areolas are nice and puffy. That’s not bad for a couple of months. Still, plenty of time yet eh. Any other changes?”

“My butt’s filling out. Feel my buns.”

Sissy gently pressed her fingers into my bum cheeks and savoured the soft ripe curve. Her eyes widened appreciatively.

“Well. They’re really nice and round and soft. You’re going to have to watch those buns darling. It looks as though you’re a ‘pear’.

“Lot’s of working out for you darling. Big arses are such a bore fashion wise.” Giggled Margaret.

“Why. D’you think my bum will grow too big.” I gulped nervously.

“Well it shouldn’t really darling.” Observed Sissy reassuringly as she thrust her own hips out to demonstrate. “Some excess fat around your butt is a good thing if you’re a tranny. Believe me girl, unless your hips turn into a girl’s, the extra fat should just compensate for the lack of pelvis. If you keep your waist trim, you might just develop some lovely girly curves.”

After finally checking out everything, Margaret squealed her delight.

“My God Beverly. You’ve become a woman. It only needs your hair to grow out and we’ll have you totally transitioned. God girl! You look fantastic!”

“So what about Mrs Bodkin?” I asked.

“The best way is to meet her somewhere public like a restaurant.” Suggested Sissy. “She won’t recognise you and then you can surprise her. If she’s happy that your appearance isn’t a parody of a woman then she shouldn’t be offended. I remember that you told us Mrs Bodkin thought it would be better if you had a sex change.

Well this is the next best thing and only an intimate check will reveal the difference. Then you can live as a woman and pretend to be Skipper’s housekeeper for the girl’s sake.”

“Yeah,” I sighed thoughtfully, “she wanted me to go the whole thing, SRS and everything.

“But you don’t want that do you?” Asked Margaret.

“No. I’ll be happy just as I am, a lady with a secret.”

“Just like me then,” smiled Sissy as she turned to Margaret and grinned, “there’ I told you girl! There are whole gradations of sexuality in the trans community. Skipper and I are just at a similar stage, somewhere between a natural transsexual crossing over completely and part-time tranny who only does it at weekends or whatever for his personal mental needs. We’re all different see?”

Margaret nodded her head and grinned as she was forced to accept Sissy’s declaration. I suppose it was difficult for gays to understand what went on in the head of a transgendered individual. Crikey, it was hard enough sometimes for transsexuals and transvestites to get along but generally they were sympathetic of each other’s needs. In later years I was to meet several transgendered couples with a transvestite married to a transsexual. It’s mainly to do with tolerance, sympathy and understanding.

I turned again to Sissy.

“D’you think this makeover will work with the girls? You know, me pretending to be the housekeeper.”

“It’s worth a try.” Suggested Sissy. “If it does work you can kill both birds with one stone; caring for the girls and living as a woman.”

Thus reassured, we had another changeover session and Margaret experimented with makeup to find my best face. When she had finished I was stunned and stretched up to kiss her.

“You’re just a genius,” I sobbed with happiness.

Margaret returned the kiss and smiled.

“It wasn’t that hard darling. Your face is lovely and soft. There’s not a whisker in sight. You’ve earned your looks. Now go and meet Mrs Bodkin and knock her dead.”

“I’ll phone her tomorrow and re-arrange our appointment. I originally arranged to meet her at the cottage, but I’ll take your advice and meet her at a neutral venue like Jane’s teahouse, you know, that old English place just off the Broadway.”

“That’s just perfect. Two genteel ladies meeting to have a nice cup of afternoon tea.” Smiled Margaret as she pulled me to my feet and we bid cheerio to Sissy

Before we left, we all three toasted to my hoped for success then Margaret and I spent the rest of the afternoon shopping. I had a delightful time because it was my first full-time excursion shopping openly as a lady.
Except for the expensive and anonymous trips to London, all my other previous purchases of ladies clothing had been secretive furtive visits to charity shops and thrift stores. I felt a truly liberated woman, for just as Margaret had predicted, nobody read me once. Not even the slightest hint of recognition!

-o~O~o-

That evening was the happiest of my life. I had spent virtually the whole day dressed in public and savoured all the delightful little feminine joys that had for years been denied me. I slept the sleep of the righteous and woke to find myself more than ready to meet Mrs Bodkin. I chose my most stylish pale blue two-piece suit and spent over two hours preparing myself. When I felt ready, I stopped by at Sissy’s and she checked me over.

Whether it was her tact or my success I’ll never know, but Sissy just gave me a perfunctory glance and nodded her satisfaction.

“That’s just perfect Beverly. (I had finally disclosed my preferred femme name to my trans and gay friends.) Now go and knock her dead.”

I had an hour to kill, so I took a tour of the shops to test my confidence. I met with no obvious ‘looks’ or smirks, so I presumed I had passed. Two thirty pm found me sitting in Jane’s Teahouse sipping my tea and reading a paper as I waited. It was a quiet midweek day after the lunchtime rush and the teahouse was virtually empty.

Only one other table was occupied and the occupants did not give me a second glance as I chose my table near the back wall so as to view the whole café. I could hardly contain myself when I saw Mrs Bodkin arrive at two forty five in anticipation of our three o’clock meeting. Obviously, she had also presumed to try and gain some sort of advantage by choosing her spot. This did not worry me; my main objective was to see if she recognised me. The other remaining occupant’s finished their late snacks then left and to my delight, the café was now empty except for the two of us.

She ordered a pot of tea for two then took out a file and started annotating it so I just sat and watched for a few minutes. Then after ensuring that she had not noticed me, I got up to leave. As I passed her table I ‘accidentally’ allowed my handbag to catch the edge of the file and knock it off the table.

“Oh I’m terribly sorry.” I apologised softly as I bent to recover the scattered file.

“Oh that’s alright,” she smiled kindly as I handed it to her.

She was a rather plump woman and would probably have had difficulty bending to recover the papers anyway. She was obviously thankful that I had shown the good manners to rectify my error.

“I don’t think there’s anything damaged,” I smiled as I handed her the file, “I’m awfully sorry. Some of the pages might be muddled up. I’m so sorry.”

I smiled again and made definite eye contact but she showed not the slightest sign of recognition. With that I left. My next ploy was to wait for a few moments and return to the café.

To my delight, the cafe was still empty but for Mr’s Bodkin and I made a beeline for her table. She looked up questioningly and smiled. I smiled back.

“Are you meeting someone?” I asked.

“Uh yes. Is there anything you want?”

“Would his name be Skipper?” I asked very softly.

She stared hard into my face but still showed no recognition. I smiled again and took the other seat as I spoke very softly.

“Yes. It’s me Mrs Bodkin, I’m Skipper. If you prefer though, you may call me Miss Beverly or just Beverly.”

Her face was a picture. The pen hung frozen in her fingers as she gaped stupidly. I continued smiling softly to put her at her ease and slowly her startled look started to grow laughter lines. The lines softened to a smile and she shook her head slowly as her eyes started to glisten with soft dewy tears. Then she frowned uncertainly.

“Oh no! Good gracious me! Have you undergone a sex change just to put two little girls right?”

“Uuhh, not quite. I’m not that philanthropical. I’ve undergone surgery to my face to put myself at peace with my appearance and my future life style.”

Her eyes squinted narrowly.

“What d’you mean?”
“Well, if you remember, I told you quite truthfully that I wanted to live as a woman. I was quite honest and transparent about that. Well I did not say I wanted to be a woman. I was just considering that. For now I’ve decided to remain male. However, I am going to live as a woman.”

“But -, but -, you look like a woman! I mean -, your face, your shape, everything.” She gasped, in a stage whisper.

“I should think that would be obvious. If I’m going to live as a woman, I will obviously have to look like a woman. I do not want to invite abuse and ridicule. I’m not a large man so I cannot protect myself from physical assault, but my slight stature perfectly suites my chosen life style. And thank you for the unwitting compliment.”

“Which one?” She asked.

“Your utter failure to recognise me as a man when I ‘accidentally’ bumped your file onto the floor and your subsequent total acceptance of me as a woman.”

“Well you look like a woman. I’m stunned. Stand up, let me look at you.”
I stood up gracefully and made my way to the lavatory to repair some imaginary damage to my immaculate makeup, (Thank you Margaret!). When I returned she studied my approach and slowly shook her head.

“My God! You are a woman. Is that how you intend to live?”

“Yes.”

“So what about Jenny and Bea?” Asked Mrs Bodkin.

“I can pretend that I am Skipper’s new housekeeper. Once they are totally accustomed to me and feel utterly safe, perhaps we can somehow enlighten them.”

“I’m not sure. I’ll have to run that past the child placement board at the social services.”

“And.” I interjected.

“Well I’m not sure what the outcome would be.”

“Well. It’s up to you." I made no secrets about where my life was going. I’ll miss not seeing the girls but if that’s how it’s to be, that’s how it’s to be.”

“No, no. Don’t be too hasty. The placement board is not as narrow minded as you think. Things have come a long way since your day.”

“Well if they have, I’ll be truly grateful for that. It doesn’t offer me any requital though. Still if it’s not water over the dam at least it’s dammed up safe and sound.”

Mrs Bodkin’s face clouded slightly as she took my hand and squeezed it sympathetically.

“Yes Beverly. The social services in North Wales managed to find some records relating to your time in the Borstal. Sadly the psychiatric unit in Liverpool is long gone and the records with them. As you say it’s nearly fifty years now but it still upset quite a few of my colleagues when we read the stuff. I mean the number of times you ended up in casualty at Chester Royal Infirmary is shocking and nobody ever suspected. I mean nearly every bone in your arms received some degree of trauma at some time and there was nobody.”

"Yeah, it was always my arms, I used to curl up and protect my head with my arms. They usually went for the head."

I filled up at the brutal memories and rushed to the lavatories. Mrs Bodkin followed me and quickly addressed the obvious distress. Tears poured down my cheeks and soaked my blouse.

“Oh My God Bev! I’m so, so sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought it up?”

I nodded my head furiously then wagged it as I recognised her feelings of guilt.

“No it’s not you, it was, - it was the, - them. It’s not you. You weren’t to know!

She hugged me as my tears turned to full blown bawling and she pulled paper towels by the handful to stem my tears. Eventually the waitress came to investigate where we were because our table was empty and the bill remained outstanding. When she saw my shuddering shoulders, she quickly recognised a ‘female moment’ and withdrew discreetly as Mrs Bodkin waved her away.

I eventually sat down on the lavatory seat and spent a good half hour crying my eyes out while Mrs Bodkin kept the cafe staff informed and explained to other ladies who expressed concern at the awful sounds emanating from the cubicle. Finally she managed to encourage me out of my refuge and we spent another half hour repairing my make up. My beautiful new blouse was ruined with streaked mascara. It was nearly five before we departed from the cafe and Mrs Bodkin had to telephone her office to explain she would be late. We sat in the car some more and slowly I gave her chapter and verse of what I wanted and where I would be going if, - (And I thought it was a big if!) - I ended up having care of the girls. In the calmer environs of the car I finally recovered my composure and started to become more coherent. We fell to discussing possible scenarios and she explained what was acceptable and what wasn’t.

“Will you be definitely living full time as a woman?”

“Uuhmm. Yes. I think so. I can’t be sure yet.

“Well it’s going to be interesting somehow telling the children that Skipper has gone. I’ll have my work cut out there.”

“I’m sorry. This isn’t going to work is it?”

“Oh I don’t know. I’ll go away and get some advice.”

“But would the girls accept Miss Beverly in exchange for Skipper?”

“I just don’t know; I’m going to get advice on that.”

“Then it’s up to you then isn’t it? I am what I am, to quote a famous song. I can’t change that.”

“Yes. That’s the gay anthem isn’t it?”

“In part, yes, but it’s true for trannies as well. There’s not much I can do about my transvestism.”

“Point taken but there’s a lot you can do to argue your case.”

“Like what?”

“Well for example, would living as you do now, make you a happier, more contented person?”

“That’s a stupid question. Of course it would. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Well that’s an argument we can use. If you’re a happy contented person, the girls will be entering a happy contented environment. That’s a big plus.”

“Yes but will the girls be happy if or when they discover that Skipper is now Beverly.”

“Beverly; it’s a nice name. So that’s the name you’ve chosen?”

“It’s always been my femme name.”

“Femme name, what’s that?”

“Yes. Most transvestites like to have a feminine name. It’s a bit incongruous to go out dressed and have somebody call you Jack or John.”

“So yours is Beverly.”

“Yes.”

“Gosh I’m learning more about this transvestism thing every time we meet.”

“I’ve got no secrets. Anything else you need to know, ask me and I’ll try and answer.”

“Well not for now. What I’ve got to do now is put together a case for you.”

“Huh. It’ll be a pretty weak one. Anyway. I’m surprised you feel the need to advocate for me. You’re on a bit of a loser aren’t you?”

“I’m thinking only of the girls’ happiness. I’ve grown to trust you. Most people I’ve met have expressed good opinions of you and one has even offered a reference.”

“My God! Who’s that?”

“The young lady who drove down to Devon with you when the girls met their grandmother.”

I nearly spilt my tea as I almost choked with surprise.

“What! You mean that pushy little madam who invaded my hotel room?”

“The very same. She speaks quite highly of you and declares her belief t
hat you are definitely not a paedophile.”

“How would she bloody know? She only met me for two days.”

“She had two things going for her. She’s a highly qualified psychiatrist and she’s got a woman’s intuition.”

“Huh. Both of those are two qualities I have grave doubts about. As a kid psychiatrists almost broke me and as a man I’ve usually found most women to be superficial.”

“Well that’s understandable, but we’re not here to discuss any prejudices or reservations you might have. Anyway, you’re a woman now. How do you find women from this side of the fence?”

“Touché! I’ve only been a pseudo woman for a few weeks so I’m like some wild child from the jungle learning new social skills.”

“What d’you think of us so far.”

“Women are much more supportive. I like that.”

“Gosh have you made new female friends already?”

“Not exactly. I’ve made three new friends but one’s a heterosexual tranny like me who lives alone. The other two are a lovely lesbian couple who have helped me through my transition. They’ve actually each got a child, a boy and a girl. The tranny is the father to both children. So you see I keep dysfunctional company. Sorry if I haven’t found any ‘normal’ girls yet but nervous trannies don’t get out that much when they’re starting out.”

This revelation did not cause Mrs Bodkin to flinch one iota. It was obvious she met all sorts in her job as a senior child placement officer.

“Well at least you’re making friends and putting down roots. That’s another point in your favour.”

“What! You call a lonely old tranny and two lesbians ‘putting down roots?”

“Friends are friends, and if those lesbians have got children then they might make it easier for Jenny and Bea to cross over any hurdles about your transvestism.”

“Well that’s true. They’re about the same age as Jenny and Bea.”

“See. That’s four good points in your favour already.”

“This is getting surreal. I mean two turkey baster kids by an old tranny to a lesbian couple. I can swallow that but you surprise me.”

“Believe me,” chuckled Mrs Bodkin, “things have moved on. The sexuality of the parents is no longer an issue these days. It’s the character of the parents that matters. The important thing is that the children are happy and settled. Children need love, security, continuity and certainty in their lives. You’ve got plenty of that to offer.”

I reflected that I certainly liked the girls and I had security to offer but as to certainty, well nearly forty odd years at sea had taught me never to be certain about anything.

“Right then. Let’s get to work. It’s going to be a long old evening. These forms take forever and there’re pages and pages to get through.”

“We can do this at my place. I’ve got a big dining table.

“Yes, that would be easier than cramped up here in a car park.”

We both drove back to my cottage and I put the coffee pot on as she spread the file across the whole table. I wagged my head as I returned with coffee and biscuits.

Forms I was used to. These days, shipmasters were inundated with forms. We started into the forms whilst the coffee kept flowing and it was eight o’clock before Mrs Bodkin was finished. She rose creaking from her chair and yawned.

“Well I’m bushed. It’s been much longer than I expected but at least I’ve got to know a whole lot about you. D’you know, by rights you should be dead; suicide. Did you ever contemplate suicide?”

I sat silent for a moment.

‘Was this a trap?’ I wondered,’ a trap to check my mental stability?’
I decided to tell the truth. I’d already told her more than I’d ever revealed to anybody else. After a telling pause I nodded my head ashamedly and whispered ‘Yes’ almost as an inaudible croak before telling the whole story.

“Go on,” she encouraged.

Reluctantly I opened up It was a long time ago and it went back to my second trip to sea. The trip after the rough but kindly old captain had given me a second chance and I had repaid him with the utmost betrayal. It was an event for which I was still truly ashamed and I had never revealed it to anybody in my later years. I spoke in halting stutters as I forced my self to reveal something that had been locked up for years, - no decades!

“It was the second trip, the one after the business in the engineer’s cabin. We were coming down the St Laurence River in Canada and I, - I decided to finish it.”

“Go on.”

“I was fifteen then, it’s a long time ago. D’you honestly want to hear.”

“Yes. Absolutely!”

“But it’s water over the dam. I’m fifty two now. It’s a minor detail.”

“Not to me it isn’t. It’s important and it could even weigh in your favour.”

“Good God! How?”

“It shows you had issues and you’ve managed to address them. That shows strength.”

“Well if you say so, OK. The ship was steaming down the St Laurence River from Duluth in the great lakes to Quebec. She had loaded timber and grain and we were topping off in Quebec. We had just let go the tug and I was left to coil up the heaving lines ready for the next docking in Quebec . The rest of the men were going to dinner and I had just received a row and a thump from the Lamp Trimmer for standing in the coils of the towing wire attached to the tug.
He was right of course, they hadn’t finished letting go and they were taking up the slack on the mooring winch. If the rope had slipped off the winch drum or something, the coils would have whipped around me and cut me in half. It was a typical young deck-boy’s mistake but after yet another row and yet another thump, I began to wonder if I’d ever make it; - if I’d ever have the gumption to become a proper seaman. By now I so wanted to make something of myself but I was still plagued by my sense of uselessness, my inadequacies.

Anyway, the poop was empty but for me; - or so I thought, - and I went to look over the stern rail at the ship’s wake. Suddenly this sort of dark feeling came over me and I found myself standing on the stern rail. Then before I could remember anything else I was over the rail an in the water. I still don’t know if I overbalanced or deliberately threw my self.

It wasn’t like you see in all the films. You know somebody sitting for hours on the parapet or the top of the cliff. One minute I was hanging up the last coiled heaving line then the next minute I was in the water.”

I hesitated for a long time until she prompted me to continue.

“And?”

“Well the second mate was still up on the after docking bridge and the tug had turned around to continue escort duties down river. One of the tug crew saw me drop down from the ship’s rail and the tug gave three long blasts, which in those days meant the letter ‘O’ in Morse code and that meant ‘Man Overboard’

The second mate of course understood the signal and he saw me drifting astern as the ship sped on down stream. Well the tug dropped a small rescue boat and the upshot was they plucked me out pretty quickly. Of course the water was bitterly cold it was late Autumn Early Winter and the first Ice was forming. At first I was shocked back to my senses as the cold water embraced me but by the time the tug got to me I was almost unconscious. They got me warm and advised the ship by radio that they were putting me ashore at the next reporting station.

I was returned to the ship by the Mounties who thought I had tried to jump ship and become a wetback into Canada.”

“A wetback?” Wondered Mrs Bodkin.

“Yeah, like the Mexicans, you know, swimming the Rio Grand into America.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “But you could have done that in Duluth or Montreal.”

“Yeah, or Chicago or Detroit. We had stopped at all those ports going up and down the lakes.”

“And then what happened?”

“Well once again, everybody believed I had tried to become an illegal immigrant except the old man yet again. He was cleverer than most and he’d have made a brilliant detective. Only he worked out that I’d had plenty of opportunities to jump ship in Canada or the US so if I’d wanted to become an illegal immigrant there would have been a much easier way. Just walk ashore when the ship docked and keep walking. There were plenty of jobs in Canada and they were desperate for young British people to emigrate in those days, even if they had zero skills, like me.”

“Go on.”

“He got two and two to be four and interrogated me in his cabin. He knew the river was almost ready to freeze and anybody jumping in would have soon frozen to death. It was only the swift action of the tug that saved me. Finally, he got the truth out of me. A sense of uselessness, no self esteem you know all the rest. How many young tyrannies and what-have-you kick off after coming out of care? How many take the quick way out?”

“But you survived.”

“Yeah; another failure. Another cock-up, I couldn't even get the suicide right.”

“But you told me you stayed on the ship.”

“Yeah. That captain was a saint and he told the bosun to go easy on me. For the official record he simply put it in the log book as an accidental man overboard and nothing more was said. He didn’t even lock me up in the ships’ hospital or anything. The man took a big gamble and showed me a huge amount of trust. How could I betray him after that?”

“And so you stayed with him on the ship for ten years.”

“Yeah. I didn’t have anywhere else to go did I? No home, no family, just a job, a cabin and a ship.”

“Oh my, that’s so sad.”

“What d’you mean sad? Christ! I was bloody lucky! What about kids coming out of care to day. No job, that’s the real killer, no money, drugs everywhere and no prospects. Bloody hell Mrs Bodkin I had it good. The sea, that ship and that old captain gave me everything a kid could dream of. He even smoothed it out with Canadian authorities so that I could go ashore like any other normal seaman in Canada and the US. As far as my worldly body was concerned I lived the life of Riley! As to my mental health and sexuality, well’ that took a lot bloody longer to sort out.”

“Yes,” she sighed softly, “now I see what you mean.”

“So here I am, ‘and now I am a captain on the deep blue sea,” I finished Parodying Gilbert and Sullivan’s famous admiral song. “Anyway, it’s all a matter of record. I’ve even got a press cutting about my stupidity from a Canadian Newspaper.”

“I’d like a copy of that; it’ll support your story.”

I slipped up to my bedroom and returned with an old wallet containing various papers about a whole host of stuff including my two years in a Far Eastern Prison.
I didn’t let her see that but I dug out the fragile yellow press cutting and ran it through my scanner. She read it and wagged her head sympathetically before looking straight into my eyes.

“Good. See, that wasn’t too painful, was it? And you’ve given me a deep insight into lots of stuff about your life. You’re quite right you know about the suicide ratio amongst young transgendered people and in fact what you did emphasises your normality.

Almost all kids who come out of care feel suicidal at some stage; especially the bright ones. This on your file will actually count in your favour.

“They want to know an awful lot.” I observed.

“You can’t blame them. These are kids lives were dealing with here. You already know how important that can be.”

I nodded reflectively. ‘If there had been this much concern and as much liberality when I was a child, things would certainly have been a little easier.’ I even felt a little jealous of the girls. Nobody had ever taken this much care when I was flung into the pit or rather, - thrown to the wolves.

With the paperwork complete, Mrs Bodkin sighed wearily and I sensed she was sending out a sublimal message.

“Look if your tired, why don’t you stay in one of the spare rooms.”

“Oh that would be so helpful. I wasn’t looking forward to a drive home to Devon tonight.”

“OK. I’ll have to set up a bed for you. The beds are aired but I’ll have to dig out some linen.”

“Let me help you.”

I let her accompany me upstairs. It would give her a chance to check out the whole cottage and me a chance to demonstrate that I wasn’t the transvestite axe murderer. As I dug out some warm, aired linen from the airing cupboard she commented on the house.

“This place is quite big isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I answered not realising that she was mentally measuring up the facilities if the girls did come to live with me, “It was an old Georgian farmhouse but the previous owner chose to rent off the fields while turning the old farm buildings into a giant ‘Roses around the door’ type cottage. Right so which room d’you want?”

“That one seems nice and it’s got a lovely view.”

“Aye. It’s the second best room in the cottage after mine. Sadly it doesn’t have an en suite. Apart from my bedroom, all the other en-suite bedrooms are across the landing cos that’s where the main plumbing and drains are.”

“Well that’s not a problem is it? I can simply step across the hall can’t I?”

“Are you OK with that? I can lend you a nightie if your not too upset by the style,” I offered as we made the bed.

“What type,” she asked giving me an old fashioned look.

“It’s a bit frilly and fancy I’m afraid. I don’t do sensible cotton or wynciette.”

“Well anything will do for tonight. Thanks for the favour.”

“Ok. What colour do you fancy?”

“Oh I think white or black will be fine. Nothing too fancy or dramatic.”

“I think you’d better come and choose. You don’t mind coming into my bedroom do you?”

“Why I thought you’d never ask.”

I winced nervously for a moment for I had absolutely no intentions in that direction. I was more afraid than her. She sensed my trepidation and smiled reassuringly.

“Don’t worry. I realise this is strictly an arrangement of convenience.”

With this reassurance I nervously opened my boudoir door and she followed me in. She smiled and wagged her head as she surveyed the ‘over the top, girly decor of ribbons and frills.

“My word, you do like girly don’t you?”

“I am what I am,” I repeated for the second time that day.

“Are all transvestites as extravagant and flamboyant as this?”

“I dunno. There are degrees of transvestism just like anything else. This is me. It’s my own private fantasy, or at least it was going to be. I suppose I’ll have to somehow lower the tone if the girls come to stay.”

“Not necessarily. Girly is as girly does. At least you can pass for a middle aged lady now so that issue is resolved. If this is you then let it be. So where are the nighties?”
“In there, that’s the closet.” They are all quite clean, I’ve only just had the room decorated and everything is virtually new. It was the new start to the rest of my life.”

“A retired transvestite.” She finished.

“You’ve got it. I’m not making any apologies. I refuse to make any apologies.”

“Good for you girl. Stick to your guns.”

I frowned with puzzlement. I’d have thought she would have been censuring me and demanding that I somehow maintain a low profile and ‘tone it down a bit; but no, here she was almost encouraging me to be OTT. I was about to say something but she anticipated my thoughts.

“I know what you’re going to say but I mean it. Go for it big time. It’ll make you confident, in your new roll. You’re like some teen-aged kid finding her wayt as a woman. You’re going to make mistakes and stuff. Kids always do. Better you do it now than after the girls come to stay.”

“That is if they stay,” I finished cautiously. I still wasn’t convinced.

She grinned as she studied the selection of brilliantly coloured nightwear and then she delved deeper into the closet until she found a wine coloured nightie and selected the hanger from the rack. Under the nightie was the matching ‘all-in-one’ pyjamas in the same chartreuse, silky material and she smiled as she wagged her head.

“Gosh, this is fancy. Do I get to borrow these as well?”

“If you want. I wouldn’t have thought you’d have liked that sort of stuff. I know most real women go for plain and sensible cotton or the like, even young girls.”

“Yes you’re right, this is really for the seduction scene. I don’t think it will seduce me though.”

“It’s you that’s wearing it and anyway my door will be locked.”

“Locked!? Why? Don’t you trust me?”

“I don’t trust anybody. I’ve always locked my door, ever since I was allowed to. It’s from when I was abused as a kid.”

Her smile faded as she recognised one of my many mental scars and the consequence of it.

“Yes. I’m sorry, I should have realised. If you want to lock your door then by all means.”

“Ok then. Have a good night. There’s a room thermostat and another on each of the radiators. Oh and a lock on the door. I had this set up arranged for when I had guests and stuff. Make yourself comfortable.”

She smiled then leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. I did not return the intimacy because I was afraid it was another test or trap.

What! Me! Paranoid? What d’you think?

-o~O~o-

I slept badly that night. I was worried where the thing was going with the girls. Morning found me washed, dressed and blearily sipping a coffee in the kitchen as Mrs Bodkin put in an appearance. She was already prepared for the day so we shared a breakfast and she bid me good day.

“Well good luck then. Don’t fret too much if it all comes to nothing. I just need to know. Would you really like the girls to stay here?

“Beverly says yes, but that’s the compassion and woman parts; Skipper keeps shouting ‘Ware’, ‘Ware! Think of the logistics, are you ready, have you thought everything through?”’

“And have you?” She smiled as she started the car.

“I just don’t know there’s just so much to take in. It’s worse than attending a new build from the yards and preparing her for her first voyage.”

“Well that’s an excellent analogy, Beverly and if Skipper can do that, then I’m sure Beverly can do this.”

I watched her car depart down the lane and realised my finger nails were almost cutting into my palms with tension. I could only wait now until the interview panel got their claws into me.

-o~O~o-

It was not long coming. The letter with the appointment date landed on my mat that following Friday. The date was set for Tuesday.

-o~O~o-

I spent the interim weekend imagining every possible question I could but eventually I concluded that all I could do was answer the questions honestly. I drove down to Devon on the Monday ready for the ten o’clock Tuesday hearing.

The nature of the panel surprised me slightly. The judge was a woman as were most of the social services staff. The only men were a psychiatrist and somebody from the home office concerning the adoption in Iran. The judge opened by asking me why I had chosen not to be represented by a barrister.

I answered that I had not realised I could and anyway, it was immaterial. A Barrister could not answer any questions more truthfully than I and I stood or fell by the truth. I hadn’t realised that there was any need for advocacy. The judge smiled at my answer but I was not letting anything mislead me.

“You do realise that this is a very unusual case don’t you?” Observed the judge.

“Yes, of course your honour. It’s been halfway around the world.”

“Did you perceive any danger to your ship when you rescued them?”

“I couldn’t see any dangers. There were no fast boats or anything visible. But the risks were very real but I discussed it with all my senior officers and we decided it was safe. You are right to be concerned though, piracy is a very real danger in those waters.”

“Exactly, nevertheless, you risked a possible ambush.”

“Yes.”

“Did you consider your crew?”

“Yes. We had a long discussion about it as the ship slowed down and circled the life raft.”

“Wouldn’t that put you in breach of Maritime Law? To endanger your crew.”

“Yes.”

“But you still went ahead.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“They, the two girls that is, they faced certain death. Their life raft was sinking. Their death was certain. Ours wasn’t. I simply took a chance.”

“And that is all it boils down to. You had no other motivation.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Two blond females in a boat. That’s a very attractive catch.”

“And a very attractive bait. We all feared it might have been a trap; an ambush.”

“But still you stopped. What other factors caused you to risk stopping?”

“We were armed to the teeth. Heavy machine guns, assault riffles, even a pod of shoulder launched stinger missiles.”

“Good gracious. Where you expecting a war or something?”

“It is a war out there. To the best of my knowledge that war killed the girl’s parents and destroyed or took their yacht. Nobody knows.”

“And these weapons. Were they legal?”

“Yes. A ship has every right to defend itself against piracy. On a Liberian ship the laws are very different to Britain. You can even hang a pirate out of hand if you catch them. The captain has immense powers, or he used to before modern sophisticated communication appeared. The Laws haven’t been changed much.”

Well I must confess to not being up on Liberian Shipping laws but all those weapons, - it still seems a bit over the top.”

“Pirates out there are known to use high speed patrol craft with artillery and guided missiles. Things have moved on since Bluebeard’s day.”

The judge smiled at this and returned to her notes to hide her face.
“Yes so it seems. Then after rescuing the girls, what did you do.”

“We carried them to Iran, our lawful destination.”

“And?”

“Nobody wanted to know. The girls had no papers and not a single consul or diplomatic officer seemed interested. The Iranian Judge suggested I take them back to South Africa.”

“But you can tell the girls are English. Their accents are clearly English.”

“They were mute at that time. The Iranian doctor said it was the shock and trauma.”

The judge turned to the psychiatrist who confirmed that this was the case. He passed a letter from the Iranian authorities to the judge and briefly explained the pathology. She read it and shook her head as she turned to the psychiatrist..

“And they wouldn’t say a word.”

“No m’lady,” answered the psychiatrist.

“So you took the two mute girls back to South Africa.”

“It’s the law,” I replied, “if the Iranian authorities weren’t prepared to accept the custody of the girls they reverted to my care. I was stuck with them until or unless, a government somewhere accepted them onto their shores.”

“That seems a bit harsh.”

“It’s the law. I don’t make the law. Survivors can be treated just the same as refugees or stowaways if they have no certain identity”

She gave me long hard look as though searching for some sign of cynicism. I just shrugged and held my palms out. She got the message for she had obviously read up on SOLAS and the international conventions..

“Then what happened?”

“In South Africa, a religious charity offered to take care of them. This was enough to convince the authorities that the girls could be accepted into their country. They were taken away by some nuns and I thought they were finally safe and would be properly cared for.”

“So what happened next?”

“This is all in the reports. Why are you asking me?”

“This is a hearing; every thing has to be heard. Carry on.”

I shrugged again and resumed talking.

Some trips later, several months later, we were two days out of Durban. The girls suddenly turned up during the forenoon watch. They had been badly beaten and suffered from lots of cuts and bruises.”

The judge turned to the home office man who handed out copies of my old photos to everybody. The psychiatrist studied them and declared that they were acceptable as evidence of severe beatings. The pedantic bastard however declared that the photos did not confirm the identities of the abused bodies simply that the bruises were indicative of some violent beatings.

I shook my head in disbelief but the judge declared that it was reasonable to suppose that these were photos of the girl’s bodies.

For a moment, I wanted to scream but I squeezed my thumbnail nail into my forefinger and asked to see the photos again. It took me a moment to realise that it was obvious that the photos had been taken in the tropical sunlight on the bridge of my ship. By a happy accident, one of the larger general photos of the children’s bruised legs arms and upper bodies, showed the ship’s convoy name board in the background below the funnel. This certainly identified the photos as having been taken on my ship. I then asked how many children were likely to be travelling on my ship between Durban and Iran at the time those photos were taken. The ship’s logbooks would have readily confirmed that she was in those waters and the angle of the sun’s shadows confirmed that it was in the tropics. My celestial navigational knowledge and expertise as the ships master had to be taken as sound witness but I was still unsure of everything else.

The photos were accordingly entered as evidence. The judge smiled a little smile at the psychiatrist’s discomfort but I was beyond caring. All I could do was continue telling the truth. The hearing droned on through the morning as all the facts of the case were dragged out and the judge adjourned for lunch. I was eating a sandwich alone in the café when Mrs Bodkins joined me.

“You’re doing well. You’ve demonstrated that you care and that you’re compassionate.”

“And I’ve demonstrated that I’m a raging tranny. Perhaps I should have dressed as a man.”

“No. You’ve made a clear statement about your lifestyle. It’s going to be examined in detail this afternoon anyway. How do you feel?”

“Scared, - no, - terrified.”

“Don’t be. They can only refuse you custody of the girls. Transvestism isn’t illegal.”

I sipped my tea nervously as Mrs Bodkin studied yet more documents then we were called in again.

-o~O~o-

“The afternoon was painful for me. I described my whole life style and explained my ambitions, where I was headed and why. Two psychiatrists stood up and gave umpteen medical opinions about different aspects of transvestism, some of them accurate, some of them, from where I stood anyway, totally off the mark. The judge listened intently and after every medical opinion, she asked me what I thought and how this or that aspect affected me.

I answered as best I could where I could and just lived in hope. Sometimes I agreed with the doctors, sometimes I was forced to disagree.

All I could keep saying was that things often looked different from the inside looking out as from the outside looking in. Sadly, I had no hard evidence to back my observations up. Mostly they were just feelings and experiences that I had garnished through a long life behind the mirror. By four o’clock I was exhausted and emotionally drained. As I stumbled from the courtroom, I wobbled uncertainly to the lavatories where I simply collapsed on a toilet seat and wept.

“Was there no bloody end to it all?” I wondered.

-o~O~o-

The next morning, I was not required. The lady judge interviewed Jenny and Bea for over two hours both separately and together. At one stage, even the social workers and the doctors were excluded.

I had no idea what transpired but simply had to sit and worry in case I was called to answer any question or confirm some fact. Mrs Bodkin emerged at lunchtime with a serious expression. I felt a cold pit in my stomach.

“Well?”

“I can’t tell. The judge -, well she’s playing things close to her chest.”

“Have you spoken to the girls?” I begged.

“Yes. They’re your best cards. They’ve made it abundantly clear that they want to live with ‘Skipper’. Even the psychiatrists have had to confirm that. They said that it seemed that the girls would be happier with you rather than anybody else.

“But of course I’m no longer Skipper.”

“She’s bound to take you up about that. It’s the elephant in the room. How will the girls react to you when they discover who you are? Prepare yourself for a grilling this afternoon.”

And a grilling it was.

“How do you think the girls will react if and when they realise who you are?”

“I don’t know. I can only hope they’ll have learnt to be compassionate enough to try and understand.”

“But they’re only young girls. Don’t you think it will be a cruel discovery?”

“I can’t say. Perhaps it might.”

“Well I can’t just deal in maybes and might’s, I have to go on facts and reality.”

“My life is a reality. My transvestism is a fact. I have to live with it and deal with it as well.”

“That’s a selfish viewpoint. I’m thinking of the girls.”

I had to think hard for a moment and the best reply I could think of was that if I was a happy settled individual living as I now was, I would hopefully provide a happy settled environment for the girls.

At least the girls would start off going somewhere they liked. For a few weeks I might appear to be an absentee father but gradually they might begin to realise that Beverly, Skipper's housekeeper, was every bit as caring and compassionate as Skipper. Then, with the advice and help of Mrs Bodkin, we might be able to break the news to them gently.

“Do you think Mrs Bodkin is properly qualified to do that?” Asked the judge.

“I believe she has demonstrated ample evidence of compassion and insight towards the girls and towards my transvestism. I trust her and I believe the girls trust her. She’s compassionate and caring and everybody seems to be telling me that this is what the girls need.”

For the first time the judge smiled. My heart missed a beat but the next question brought me right back to earth.

“What happens if they declare that they prefer Skipper to Beverly and ask to have him back?”

I hesitated nervously. I hadn’t anticipated this and I stood there dumb for long moments as I ran the scenario through my mind. Then I thought of Dustin Hoffman in the film where he played a woman called Tootsie and at the end he ‘comes out’.

“I just can’t say what would happen, but I would be able to tell them in all honesty that Skipper was still there, - in my head-, Skipper had never really left them. That would perhaps reassure them. I could also demonstrate that I had never physically left them.”

“Could you say that you had not betrayed them?”

“I’ve been betraying my self to my self for fifty odd years. I can only use the tried and tested argument of Shakespeare. ‘To thine own self be true, and it shall follow as night unto day that thou can’t be false to others.”

Again she smiled and it appeared she was no longer gunning for me. The faintest flicker of hope began to grow in me.

“Do you think you’re being selfish by putting your needs before the girls?”

“I think living a lie and pretending to like living as a man would be more harmful. The lie causes me stress and makes me unhappy. At least I am being honest, I’ve even been honest enough to come here as a woman. I’m not going to live a lie any more.”

“What if the girls think you're being selfish?”

“I can’t speak for the girls. I don’t know.”

“Well what if the girls see you naked and realise the lie?”

“I’ve lived for forty years without anybody seeing me naked. I would hope I could continue like that. I was always discreet with my cross-dressing and I never used it to deceive anybody.”

“And now?”

“I’m told by everybody that I now pass as a woman. If I were taking the girls anywhere, everybody would assume it’s just an elderly lady, possibly a grandmother, taking her granddaughters out.”

“Well, I will confess, you certainly do ‘pass’ as you call it, for a woman. I wouldn’t have realised that you were a man.”

I waited for the next question but none came. The judge dismissed me and invited the two doctors and Mrs Bodkin into her chambers. I was left to sit nervously in the public areas outside the courtroom. I sat there staring at the floor until three pairs of shoes appeared. Sissy, Margaret and Sian had come to offer me support.

“How’s it gone?” Asked Sissy.

“I just don’t know. She’s talking to the doctors and Mrs Bodkin.”

“She?” Asked Margaret.

“Yeah. She’s some lady judge.

Margaret and Sian went to the hearing lists and studied them. They came back smiling.

“You’ve been lucky.” Declared Sian.

“Why?”

“That’s Judge Porter, Elizabeth Porter.”

“And?” I pressed.

“She’s gay. She hasn’t come out yet, but we’ve seen her up in Birmingham at a gay club and she was so far down her partner’s throat, that she’d have tickled her clitty.

“You what!” I almost screeched. “She’s -!”

Fortunately Sissy managed to put her hand over my face and stop me accidentally spreading the word all over the public areas. Fortunately there was nobody else outside my particular courtroom so nobody saw the pantomime.

“Quiet! You silly moo!” urged Margaret.

“We only found out by accident. She’s very, very discreet, but you’ve got an ally in her.”

“If she’s that discreet, how did you find out?”

“We were driving back from Birmingham that same evening. It was early Sunday morning and this woman was stuck by the roadside. It was Elizabeth Porter and the other woman from the club was beside her in the car. It had broken down and so had their mobile phone. They were in a right fix and really pissed off. Well Sian’s pretty handy with cars and she got it going, but not before Miss Porter and her friend had recognised us from the club.

“What did she do?”

“There was nothing she could do. We were still a long way from Dorset and she had even further to go to Devon so it was all totally anonymous. She obviously plays a long way from home to avoid any publicity and like we said, she’s very discreet! She thanked us for our help and drove off. We still didn’t know she was a judge but a few days later a bouquet of flowers arrived with an anonymous thank-you note. God knows how she discovered our address, but judges have got lots of power and she probably traced our car registration. We thought no more about it until we saw her at the club a couple of months later with the same partner. She came on to us to thank us again and they joined us at our table.

We know the club owner and we always get a discreet seat down the side wall away from the bar It’s dark but with a good view of the stage and the dance floor. She still doesn’t know that we know she’s a judge. We were in Exeter one day and recognised her in her robes, getting out of the judicial car.”

I shuddered nervously.

“Look, you’d better not let her see you here. It might damage my case.”

“Don’t worry. We’re off. Meet you in the teahouse on the corner of the last block.. It’s called the Copper Kettle, you can’t miss it. Bye!”

With that, they were gone and I was back on my own. The judge seemed to take an age but eventually, I was called in.

The upshot was that the judge wanted to make some more consultations and I was left still hanging. I stumbled out to the car and slumped into the driver’s seat and simply exploded into tears. The tension was just all too much. I couldn’t recover my composure so I pulled carefully out of the car park and drove a few hundred yards to another lay-bye and pulled over. I was in no fit state to drive just then but I was out of the courtroom car park. I did not want anybody from the courts to see me bawling my head off and think I was some sort of hysterical, unbalanced tranny. I sat sobbing in the lay-bye then to my utter horror, I looked up at the log-jammed traffic and who should I see but no other than the judge Elizabeth Porter staring at me from her car.

“That’s it.” I thought, “I buggered; game set and match.” But it was not to be.

The large saloon car slipped out of the queue as it edged forward and parked in front of me in the lay-bye. The woman got out.

“What are you crying for?”

I gaped stupidly then shrugged with defeat.

“It’s over isn’t. Just promise me that you’ll find a really nice family for those girls and that they’ll stay together.”

She pursed her lips and tapped her fingers impatiently.

“So what makes you think that?”

“Well just look at me. I’m a tranny. It’s all just a dance of veils enacted by Social Services to get around the grandmother’s will isn’t it?”.

“It certainly is not! How dare you think that of the courts! This is a serious case because it is really addressing important issues. I happen to believe that you are a suitable adult and the girls certainly think the world of you. Nothing’s been decided yet so rest assured I have not made my mind up yet. Good day!”

I was left staring stupidly as she strode purposefully away. Eventually I stopped crying and found another car park by the Copper Kettle Cafe. Sissy, Margaret and Sian were all over me comforting me and offering encouragement.

-o~O~o-

It was Friday when I finally received a letter and a covering phone call requiring me to attend the next Tuesday; one week to the day since the hearing and the longest week of my life.

The upshot was that I was allowed to have custody of the girls but there was a whole string of qualifiers. However, the Iranian adoption was declared valid. I personally thought this was legal cop-out by the courts but hell! Who was I to moan? The hardest qualifier was that the girls must be made aware of my ‘condition’ in less than twelve months.

‘Twelve months, I smiled inwardly. It would be nearer two months, probably less. I had no intentions of deceiving them for a year. They would really begin to feel betrayed if they thought ‘Skipper’ had abandoned them for a year.

The other riders concerned the many Social Services requirements attached to the care order. Mrs Bodkin would be back and forth between Devon and Dorset like a fiddler’s elbow. Still I was glad it was she. Jenny and Bea knew her and trusted her. I left the court a relieved but very nervous pseudo-woman. The stress of the previous months had taken my mind off my own forebodings.

Would I make a good carer? Would I cope with all the additional family and domestic stuff? Would the girls accept Beverly?

 
 

---

---

 

I was surprised at the speed of developments. After a few phone calls I was advised that the girls Jennifer and Beatrice would be arriving on the following Tuesday. I talked long and hard with Mrs Bodkin about preparations but she assured me the girls were well clothed and only needed a warm room. I panicked a little but decided it might be best if I provided the barest essentials and then take the girls on a shopping spree to decorate their rooms as they each preferred. Tuesday dawned like a typical autumn day, wet and windy. The fruit trees in the orchard were straining with the abundant fruit and demanding to be harvested but I could only fret about the house and keep peering down the lane to see if they were coming. Fortunately Mrs Bodkin phoned me and I had a lunch prepared as her car finally appeared at the bend in the lane.

The girls burst from Mrs Bodkins Estate Car and hurtled towards the cottage expecting to meet ‘Skipper’. Instead they were a little puzzled to meet with Beverly, Skipper’s ‘housekeeper’.

“Where’s Skipper?” They chorused.

“I’m afraid he’s been called away to the ship. He’ll be away a few weeks.”

The disappointment in their eyes distressed me but I reached out and hugged them both and invited them in for lunch. Mrs Bodkin caught my eye and smiled. As we met in the hall she whispered.

“How do you plan to break the news?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m terrified.”

“Let me know if or when you think of a strategy. I’d like you to run it by me and the psychiatrist.”

“Mm. That’s a bit of a bummer. He didn’t take much to me in the court.”

“It won't be him. Your old friend from London has agreed to come on board. We’re giving you all the support we can.”

“Who the girl who drove us down from the airport.”

“Yes the very same.”

I felt a load falling off my shoulders. After the hearings I had been given all the confidential reports that social services had compiled about me. I had galled me that they had taken it upon themselves to dig into my private life but I found nothing false or accusative. I had been surprised by the London Social worker’s assessment of me. I had genuinely thought she hated me. I hadn’t even known her name until I read her report. Her name was Sandra Smith but Mrs Bodkin said she preferred to be known as Sandie.

“Will this Sandi be coming down to meet us?” I asked.

“When you decide to reveal yourself, yes. She’s got a busy schedule but she has to reacquaint herself with the girl’s circumstances anyway.”

“Why so much fuss. Anybody would think I was the cross-dressed axe murderer.”

“We can’t be seen to be careless or unprofessional. You’ve set a huge precedent here. God forbid if it goes pear shaped. The press would have a field day.”

“Yes. I suppose so. Anyway, let’s eat. That usually breaks the ice.”

I had the girl’s favourite food prepared and they immediately tucked in, so much so that I had to reprimand them.

“Come on now girls. Hold you knives and forks properly. You know Skipper is a stickler for good table manners.”

The girls jaws dropped then they smiled. Jenny spoke.

“Gosh Miss Beverly, you sound just like skipper when we ate in the officers mess.”

“Table manners are important, indeed good manners generally are important. I don’t think Skipper would be pleased if he thought I was letting him and your dear grandma down.”

The girls fell silent and adopted the correct techniques with their cutlery. I smiled and promised them a treat for being good. Mrs Bodkin was struggling to suppress her smile but we made it through lunch and I produced the promised treat. I had of course already intended to include a steamed pudding and custard for desert but the girl’s weren’t to know that. The pudding served as an excellent treat and they demolished it in short order. I had no qualms about good appetites but table manners counted.

-o~O~o-

After lunch the girls dressed for the weather and set out into the orchard to play. In the chilly weather, the high activity of outdoor play would soon burn off any excess calories from the pudding. I completed the custody documents with Mrs Bodkin and she eventually prepared to leave. She gave me one last piece of advice.

“Listen. I’ve watched you when you hug the girls. You’re just not tactile and affectionate enough for a woman. A mother genuinely fondles her children when she hugs them. There’s nothing disgusting in it. Watch me when we say goodbye. My fingers wrap around their little legs and I give them a tight squeeze. Mothers are really tactile with their children. Don’t be afraid, just let your heart rule your head and overcome your own fears. I understand why you’re frightened but that limp wristed handshake you condescended to give them while they were stuck like limpets to your legs, well, frankly it was pathetic. Don’t be afraid! You’re their mother now. That’s an intense emotional bond you know. The kids need that intensity of emotion in your mothering. I know you’re capable of that emotion, I’ve seen you crying enough. Just reapply that emotion to hugging and caring for the children. Enjoy it because it will soon be gone and when they’re older they won’t thank you if you were some sort of cold fish. It’s love they want and love they need! OK!”

My eyes widened with mild surprise but I realised she was right. Mrs Bodkin was a proper goldmine of information and veritable diamonds when it came to excellent advice. The hugging thing was to become the first vital step in me addressing my own fears and hang-ups about being a tranny looking after two beautiful children.

Tearful goodbyes followed as Mrs Bodkin drove away but they were soon forgotten and I showed the girls their new bedrooms.

“Do we get a room each then Miss Beverly?” Squealed Beatrice.

“Yes. These two. However, you have to share the bathroom; it connects to both bedrooms see.”

Jenny and Bea’s eyes widened as they explored their new kingdom, then they set about exploring the house and the outbuildings. They returned later, wide eyed and excited after it had gone dark outside.

“This place is huge! Why d’you call it a cottage?” Asked Jennifer.

“Well it’s really an old country farmhouse but I call it a cottage because it is no longer a farm.

Nearly all the fields have been rented to another farmer. Only the orchard and those two small fields are what’s left of the old farm.”

“And Skipper called it a cottage when he spoke of his dream house when we were on his ship. I always thought cottages were little country houses.” Jennifer observed again.

“Well that used to be what they were, but now lots of people talk of their house in the country as a cottage. This is to distinguish it from their town house. Nowadays, a cottage can be quite a large house, just like this one.”

“Where’s Skipper’s bedroom?” Asked Beatrice.

I hesitated for a moment. The girls had obviously searched the house fairly thoroughly. I could not object, for after all it was now to be their home. A child had a reasonable right to know where their ‘parent’s’ bedroom might be. What was left of ‘Skipper’s clothes’ were squeezed to one side of my walk-in wardrobe. My mind raced as I searched for a reason why there appeared to be none of his clothes around.

“Oh I think he took them up to his flat in London before joining the ship.”

This seemed to satisfy their curiosity and they settled down to a light supper in front of the roaring log fire.

“What shall we do tomorrow?” I asked.

The girls exchanged glances and grinned.

“Shall we pick some of that lovely fruit in the orchard?”

“Yes. That’s a good idea. Now after supper, we’ll go and sort out your bedrooms, OK?”

“Can we watch television first?”

“Only for an hour. It’ll be bed time soon.”

I found myself applying what few childhood rules I ever remembered and a strict rule about bedtime was one. I reflected that despite the strict rules of my early childhood, my parents couldn’t have cared that much for me. Six years of age and they got rid of me, - just like a used rag! Still, I reflected, they had three other children so they wouldn’t miss one, - that is -, me.

The girls sulked a little about going to bed so early but they didn’t seem inclined to raise a fuss. Anyway, the first night in their new home would probably be an adventure. I resolved to phone Mrs Bodkin in the morning.

I had no idea what the new thinking was about children and bedtime. Apparently, most kids now had televisions and computers in their own rooms. I realised that Mrs Bodkin had been very wise to offer me help at any time. Whole generations of kids had grown up during my lifetime of seafaring exile. For tonight however, it was going to be my way. Tomorrow I would consider any ‘adjustments’.

I was worried about bath time as well. Should I behave as any grandmother might, and supervise any bath time activities, or should I let them get on with it? In the end, the girls solved it for me. Jennifer wanted her hair shampooed and Beatrice wasn’t confident enough to do it.

Nervously, I knelt beside the bath and shampooed her hair. It was awkward doing it through the hinged door that enclosed the bath but the advantages of the door into the bath soon became obvious. When the girls rinsed themselves down, the water never splashed onto the bathroom floor. I smiled as I listened to their shrieks of delight as they sprayed each other with the telephone shower nozzle. Grandma Fotheringay hadn’t had a shower, just an old fashioned bath, and on the ship the showerhead was a fixed nozzle attached to the deckhead.

It was the first time they had experienced a flexible shower nozzle so I allowed them to splash and play for a short time.

Finally, I called them to order and gave them huge, warm, fluffy towels through the door. They stepped out with the towels wrapped about them and I was grateful that I was not required for any other further assistance.

As they giggled and squealed in the bathroom, I brought up two cups of chocolate and turned down the bed-sheets then left them to it. I went down stairs thinking that my duty was done. It wasn’t of course. The girls wanted a bedtime story. A brief argument ensued about whose bed should be used for the story so I tossed a coin. Beatrice won and the rule of the coin was to become a family custom every time a dispute arose. Both girls clambered into Bea’s bed and demanded that I join them. I deferred and sat in the bedside chair instead, declaring that I wasn’t in my nighty and shouldn’t get into bed in my daytime cloths. I read ‘Babes in the Wood’ then bid them goodnight.

“Can we sleep in the same bed?” Begged Jenny.

I saw no reason why not and smiled to myself as I considered all the preparations I’d made to give them a room each.

‘Huh so much for kids demanding their own space,’ I smiled as I descended the stairs and settled down to watch my favourite documentary programmes on Sky Television.

In the morning my sleep was shattered by two excited bundles bursting into my bedroom and clambering into my bed. This frightened me, but I dare not show it. As they squeezed up to me, I wondered how I was going to handle this dilemma in the future. Fortunately, my all-in-one sleep suit and fully frilled, full-length nightdress prevented any indecent intimacy but it still worried me. What would Mrs Bodkin say when I told her, as I would have to. After breakfast, the girls went out to pick some fruit whilst I grabbed a chance to garnish advice on the phone.

“Well the shampoo thing was bound to happen,” replied Mrs Bodkin. “From what you tell me, you managed well. Don’t forget, mothers and grandmothers are very tactile with their daughters. It’s what we women do best. You’ll just have to get used to it.”

“So what about the morning thing, when they you know?”

“In truth Beverly I was really hoping they would do that. That is exactly what children do with their parents, especially girls and mothers! Let them cuddle up as close as they like.”

“But what about when they learn I’m Skipper?”

“They’ll probably set their own boundaries. Just don’t cross them. I think that they might not worry too much because you truly present as a woman. I noticed that your figure is changing. Is that the hormones?”

I self-consciously felt my soft rounded butts under my frock and replied ‘Yes’.

“Well, if you continue as you are, the girls might well accept you as you are. Children can be very adaptable but you’ll find that out. Where are they now?”

“They’re out gathering apples plums and pears. It’s nice and sunny but there’s an autumn chill.”

“Good. Try making some fruit tarts with them. That’s the sort of thing that brings kids closer to their parents. Is there anything else?”

“Yes. They want to bring both beds into the same bedroom. All that effort to give them separate rooms and now they want to share. It’s crazy.”

“If that’s all there is, just be thankful. It’ll get harder as they get older. Bye, bye for now.”

“Hold on just one more thing. When they just burst into my bedroom this morning and clambered into bed for a cuddle. I mean there was no warning. What can I do? I mean I was, - well, - you know, - uuuhm, - somewhat indisposed”

I heard Mrs Bodkin let out an involuntary snort then move away from the phone briefly. I heard her chortling as she tried to suppress her laughter. Finally she returned to the phone.

“Oh my God! Are you still capable then? I thought the hormones would have rendered you impotent.”

“Yeah well my endocrinologist is good. All I have to do is go for regular liver checks and blood tests in London every month. She keeps a close track on stuff.”

“Well my advice still remains the same.”

“Which is?”

“Cuddle them. But make sure that they don’t discover anything they’re not yet ready for. Now why don’t you get on with making those tarts? I expect a nice spread when I come back with your lady friend.”

“Who’s that?”

“Sandie, your psychiatrist.”

“Huh. She may have written me a glowing report but don’t think that makes her my friend. She’s still a psychiatrist!”

“Oh I’m sure you’ll get to like her. Well Bye, bye for now and thanks.”

“Thanks for what?”

“The morning thing; it’s the way you put it, just so delicately. ‘I was indisposed!’ Oh that’s priceless I suppose that’s exactly how a lady would try describing her erection! It conjures up some hilarious scenarios. Like an adult ‘Carry On Film!’”

“Oh you’re awful!” I gasped with exasperation. “What did you expect me to call it?”

“Oh Beverly! You’re just so funny. I’ve got to go, see you soon. Enjoy the tarts.”

She put the phone down but not before I heard her shrieking with laughter as the line eventually went click.

So that is exactly how Jenny, Beatrice and I spent our first full day together. The girls became totally engrossed in cooking tarts, crumbles and making sweet custard sauces. My plans for shopping went totally out of the window; however we had some fun later rearranging the beds. It was then I realised that the girls had been through so much together that they needed company at night. Fortunately both bedrooms were amply large enough to accommodate two beds and all the assorted furniture. The other bedroom ended up being a study and remained so until the girls hit their middle teens.

Bathroom routines became fixed and after taking Mrs Bodkin’s advice, I allowed them to come down in their dressing gowns after bathing. This was to drink their coffee and dry their hair. Apparently, drying their hair every night with a hot air blower would damage their hair.

Instead they each snuggled by the fire in the huge armchairs and watched their favourite programmes until about ten o’clock. I realised this did not have any bad effects on their sleep needs because they continued to burst into my bedroom early every morning in plenty of time to get ready for school. By now I had taken to wearing a control panty girdle under my sleep suit, nightdress and peignoir in bed. This made certain that the girls would never accidentally discover anything untoward. The next day, Margaret and Sian came visiting with their two children Martin and Chenille. The kids hit it off immediately and I was truly grateful.

Primary school proved to be the next hurdle. Fortunately my secret was well kept. I passed so well as a woman that everybody presumed I was their only surviving grandmother or elderly aunt I did not disillusion them for only the head mistress knew that the girls were ‘fostered’ out. The girls settled in quickly and I was delighted to learn that they had teamed up with Martin and Chenille. This might prove useful if ever anything about my private condition became public. They might find allies and support if any playground bullying occurred. My fears proved groundless though, for Martin and Chenille knew exactly what their lesbian parental circumstances were and they rarely encountered any prejudice. However that was primary school where stuff like this went over children’s heads. Secondary school might prove more difficult.

For a few weeks things went swimmingly then one Saturday morning Bea asked when Skipper was coming home. When I told her it might be a while she wasn’t satisfied with the answer and started to cry.

“I want to see Skipper,” she sobbed.

The following Monday I was on the phone again to Mrs Bodkin.

“They want him to come home. They want to see him.”

“I’ll be down during the week and I’ll bring Sandie. Have you thought of a strategy?”

“Yes, but it’s not a very good one.”

“Go on! “Try me Run it by me.”

“I could pretend that Miss Beverly has to go and visit her sick aunty and she’s been waiting until Skipper comes home before she leaves. You hold the fort during the afternoon until ‘Skipper’ arrives home. I’ll get changed into ‘Skipper’ then I turn up in a hired car in my uniform just as the girls get home from school. The idea is that they are waiting at home when Skipper arrives. That’s the way it usually happens when a seamen comes home, unless the kids meet him at the airport or station.

I think it’s best we do it at home. My breasts are beginning to show under a cotton uniform shirt and I have to wear a ‘B’ cup bra. I’ll have to wear my uniform jacket.”

“Well you’ve thought that bit through. So then what?”

“Well at least they’ll get to see Skipper and that’s what they really seem to want.”

“Hmm, it seems a bit weird, but weird is what it’s going to be all about. How will you re- introduce them to Beverly?”

“It’s Beatrice’s birthday a week next Saturday. We could organise a fancy dress party and I could dress up as Miss Beverly. Hopefully, the girls will slowly realise that Skipper and Beverly are the same.”

“It seems a bit devious but it’s worth a try. It also gives you an opportunity to present as Miss Beverly. What day does ‘Skipper’ intend to come home? I thought a week next Thursday, that only gives them two days but it’ll be enough to enjoy having ‘Skipper’ home before he demonstrates that he’s really Miss Beverly. On Saturday morning the children can witness my transition as I pretend to dress up as Beverly for the fancy dress party.”

“It’s worth a try. I’ll get hold of Sandie the psychiatrist right now and run it by her.”

“Tell her it’s got to be that Saturday though. Bea’s birthday is just the excuse we need for the fancy dress party.”

“Consider it done. I’ll call you back.”

The next day, Sandie arrived with Mrs Bodkin and discussed my plan whilst the children were in school.

“Well it seems a fairly practical plan’” observed Sandie, “it will enable the girls to see your transition without any sense of threat or unexpected change.”

“I’ll want an adult woman to chaperone the activity. I don’t want any -.”

“Yes, yes Beverly! I perfectly understand your fears,” declared Sandie, “I’ll chaperone the transition exercise. It would be unprofessional of me not to. I’ll come down earlier next week to pretend to be Miss Beverly’s temporary replacement. I’ll be learning the girl’s routine as it where, before Beverly goes to visit her sick aunt. It will give me a chance to see the relationship between you and the girls. Mrs Bodkin is busy with another case all next week but I’m sure she’s love to come to a fancy dress party on the Saturday. If it’s birthday party, there’ll be other children wont there?”

“Yes. Martin and Chenille are coming, and some other friends from school. By the time the other children arrive, I’ll be totally immersed as Beverly. None of the mother’s will realise I’m ‘Skipper’”

“What if Jenny or Bea call you Skipper in front of them?” Asked Mrs Bodkin.

“Damn. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well it’s fancy dress for heaven’s sake.” Declared Sandie.

“It would be better if the regular chaperone was there though.” Observed Mrs Bodkin, “Then none of the mothers could object.”

“You mean, Beverly?” Asked Sandie.

“I could dress as the real Beverly and others would realise that Skipper was fancy dressed as Beverly. You and I are about the same build and I’ve got a fancy dress outfit. Miss Beverly could turn up on the Saturday morning as Sandie leaves. She could say her aunt is better and she didn’t want to miss the party.”

“What about your voice?” I asked.

“It’s fancy dress, I’ll have a ‘pretend voice wont I silly?”

“Oh! Yes. Stupid old me! I’m just so nervous, that’s all.”

“You can put on a pretend voice as well. When you come home as Skipper, just use your old masculine voice, you’ve still got it haven’t you?”

“Uughhumm,” I coughed cautiously and altered the intonation in my voice. The result startled myself as well as the two women.

“Good God! That’s incredible. Is that your natural voice?” Gasped Sandie.

“No it’s my old voice, it’s Skipper’s ship’s captain’s voice from long ago; before I even rescued the girls from the life raft.

My natural voice now is Beverly’s. I was practicing my ‘Beverly’s’ voice long before I made plans for retirement. Beverly’s been a long time in the making. Take the beard for example, that was removed long ago. I was only forty-five when I finally had my entire beard zapped. People wouldn’t notice the changes because I was constantly changing ships. In my head, Skipper has been gone a long, long time, but he’s about to be resurrected. Wait here a minute.”

With that I went up stairs and dug out my uniform with the gold braid on the jacket sleeves. The jacket was a bit tight around the bust and the top button wouldn’t fasten. The trousers were a bit tight around my butt and loose around the waist but I could still get into them. With the peaked cap covering my pinned up, still shortish hair I presented my self for inspection. Sandie’s eyes widened as I re-entered.

“Good God! I could fancy you myself in that uniform.”

“Careful young lady. I’m still a heterosexual male.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to tell me,” replied Sandie,” transvestism is really weird stuff. Some doctors still can’t get their heads around it.”

“Nor can I,” declared Mrs Bodkin, “but I’m learning. Trannies are not the monsters I used to think they were.”

“Well that’s a relief. I’ve done a lot of good for the sisterhood then.” I chuckled again in my deepest voice.

For a brief second both women were silent at the sound of my old captain’s voice then Sandie laughed uproariously. Mrs Bodkin also chuckled for she had learned a lot about transvestism since dealing with my case.

“Well, Skipper’s not a problem then;” observed Mrs Bodkin, “no wonder the girls thought so much of you! This could work!” She declared.

“Yes I think it might,” added Sandie. “We’ll give it a whirl. Truly Beverly, your camouflage skills are amazing.”

“Duh!” I Grinned. “I’m a tranny. I’ve been playing camouflage all my life!”

“Oh yeah! Of course. How stupid of me,” Grinned Sandie.

With the decision taken, I pulled out all the stops to make the party a success. Margaret and Sian pitched in and by the following week things were in hand.

-o~O~o-

Sandie arrived a day early on the Monday because she secretly wanted to savour the happy atmosphere. She was also amazed to see how Beverly coped with the girls.

“They really like you don’t they? I loved your bedtime story technique. It’s almost as though I was in Wonderland. Your a good story teller you know,” she observed that Monday evening after the girls were finally asleep.

“I try. They’ve had enough horror in their lives. I have to pick my stories. Peter Pan is a definite no-no. They still won’t talk about the pirate attack you know and they never mention their parents. It’s awful.”

“That’s not unusual. They might never talk about it. It’s a psychiatric defence mechanism. If they were forced to talk about it, the trauma might send them over the edge. You don’t try to pump them about it do you?”

“Hell no! Definitely not! I never mention it.”

“Good. If they ever do broach it, just listen. Don’t question them, don’t prompt them, and don’t do anything that might elicit a response just listen carefully and remember as much as you can. . Then please phone me immediately.”

“You’re the doc. Your word is my command. D’you want a mug of chocolate?”

“Please that would be nice.”

We drank our chocolate in silence then made our way to our bedrooms. I showed Sandie her rooms and indicated the bathroom across the hall.

“It’s not en-suite I’m afraid. We don’t run to hotel standards at the front of the house just yet. The girls share a bathroom and I have one en-suite, but other guests have to share I’m afraid unless they choose the back of the house. All the bedrooms are en-suite on that side of the landing but they are smaller and there are no decent views from the windows. However tonight you’ve got the whole rear of the house for yourself.”

“That’s fine. See you in the morning.”

The usual earthquake announced the early morning cavalry charge as the girls stormed into my bedroom for their regular morning cuddle. The noise woke Sandie and she knocked discreetly on my bedroom door.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course.” I replied as I sat up in bed with the girls squeezed either side of me.

Sandie’s smile widened as she saw the picture and she sat on the side of the bed. “Are you girls looking forward to Skipper coming home?”

The girls squealed with delight as they chorused ‘Yes!’ and squirmed tighter to me as they savoured the anticipated arrival.

“And what about your Party Bea?”

“It’s going to be fancy dress. I’m going as a pirate queen.”

Sandie’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise as she and I exchanged questioning glances. We would obviously discuss this later for I might give Sandie an ‘in’ to the girl’s shared pirate trauma.

“A Pirate queen. Well that will be interesting won’t it?”

“And what about you?” Sandie asked Jenny.

“I don’t know I’m going to ask Skipper when he gets home.”

“That’s a good idea.”

With that I stirred and my night attire rustled silkily on the satin sheets.

“Right girls,” I commanded, “back to your bedrooms. Time for school.”

Reluctantly the girls left and Sandie nodded towards my night attire.

“So feminine? All those frills and lace? And this bedroom, very girly!”

“It’s what I am. This tranny loves frills and lace. Anyway, you keep telling me if I’m living as a woman I’ve got to make it realistic.”

“Not very practical though.”

“It is. There’s three layers see. I’m nice and warm.”

I held open my peignoir for Sandie to see the full length flowing nightdress and then raised the hem to reveal my all-in-one sleep suite. Sandie’s face broke into a smile.

“Oh that’s nice. D’you know. I’m really jealous. Isn’t it uncomfortable, all that lace and ribbons?”

“It’s what I like. I’m a transvestite remember. I like the silky sensations and the satin sheets.”

“Have the girls commented about it.”

“Yes. In fact they asked for the same. You saw their nighties; same materials and colours, just a different children’s design. “

“And when they cuddle up to you?”

“They just squeeze up and hug me. I’ve got a strong control panty-girdle on underneath just in case little fingers accidentally get too close. But the all-in-one sleep suit prevents any possible accidental intimacy. I’ve never thought about any sensuality or that sort of stuff. I obviously worry about any reactions I might have but I don’t feel anything sexual towards them. They seem to like squeezing up to me. Would little girls notice soft and silky?”

“Only to feel nice in bed. It doesn’t really gain any sexual connotations until they’re older and dress for the ball. Then it’s mainly dress designs, materials and looking good.”

Sandie then reached forward and investigated my panty girdle.

“I’m glad you’re wearing that. It must be uncomfortable though.”

“Like I said; I’m a tranny. This stuff and tucked boy bits go with the territory. Anyway I do it for the girl’s sake. I don’t want any unfortunate surprises.”

“That shows how much you must care. Good girl!”

She lent forward and pecked me lightly on the cheek and I flinched nervously.

“I hope that was a girly thing. The tactile thing.”

“That’s exactly what it was. I’m pleased about you. Well done.”

“D’you think I’m wrong to let them climb into bed? They chose to do it on the very first morning, I didn’t encourage them.”

“No. If they’re happy with it, let them continue. They’ll possibly grow out of it when they’re older.”

“Possibly!” I gulped. “I thought they would definitely.”

“Who can tell? It depends what sort of relationship the daughters have with their mothers.”

“But I’m not their mother. What do I do if they still want to cuddle when they’re fully fledged young ladies?”

“Well then you’ll have to fly solo on this one. I’ve got no experience of this and therefore no advice. I’ll be interested in following your case. There are hundreds of issues to address.”

I felt a small resentment rising in my bile but I managed to suppress my feelings. ‘So I was to become a laboratory rat again.’ I said nothing about my feelings and continued in the other vein.

“But it’s OK to continue for now, you know cuddling and stuff.”

“Yes. Shall I put the children on the bus today? I’d like a chat with them in private.”

“By all means.”

I was well used to the Social services workers regularly interviewing the girls. Sandie’s request was no more intrusive than all the others. It would give me an opportunity to lounge about in my bedtime finery even as I made breakfast. I put my warm dressing gown over my peignoir and slipped into my mules. Sandie returned to her own bedroom to get dressed.

As she and the children came down the stairs, I was laying out breakfast. Sandie’s presence exited them.

“Manners now girls,” I smiled, “we’ve got guests.”

They giggled, (they were always giggling!) but behaved themselves and were soon chattering with Sandie as they bounced down the lane to the bus stop. Sandie had a good opportunity to pump them and I got on with some household chores until she returned.

“Well. Were their answers OK?”

“Yes. Fine. They love cuddling up to you in the morning. Carry on with the good work.”

“And bath times?”

“Same again. They’ll soon let you know when they want privacy.”

“So you still trust me then?”

“Believe me Beverly, if we had the slightest doubts or fears -,”

Sandie let her statement hang as I handed her another coffee.

“Yes. Nobody knows that better than me. But I’m sure you’ll be watching until the day the girls leave home.”

“Does that offend you?”

“Not any more. I’ve had fifty years of censure. I’m long since inured to it.”

“So, shall we get ready for the party?”

“There’s not much to do today. It all comes together at the weekend, then I say goodbye to the girls and visit my aunt. You’ll be on your own with the girls. Plenty of time for you to check for anything untoward.”

Sandie gave me a jaundiced look before speaking.

“D’you not think our necks are on the line if this goes pear shaped. Don’t you think Mrs Bodkin and I are sticking our necks out, not to mention the judge, Miss Elizabeth Porter?”

“Yes. I get the picture. It never leaves me.”

“Well that reassures me. Now what shall we do today.”

“I thought Skipper might like to bring the girls a present. When he comes home.”

“Such as?”

“Oh something I know they’ve been wanting since they came here. They’ve never mentioned it to me, but I’ve heard them talking about it.”

“And what’s that?” Asked Sandie curiously.

“Well they would like a pony. One each preferably.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea just yet.” Cautioned Sandie.

“Why not?”

“What happens if they cant accept that Skipper is really Beverly and the whole thing falls apart? You’re left with two ponies.”

I paused thoughtfully. I had let my excitement get ahead of me.

“Ye-ess. Perhaps you’re right. I was getting a bit too ambitious. I’d best let it lie.”

Sandie smiled.

“Well I’m glad to see that you’re mature enough and thoughtful enough to recognise sincere advice when you get it. It show’s your heart’s in the right place. Could you afford to keep two ponies?”

“Oh yes, easily. Money’s not a problem, nor space. There are plenty of barns and stables plus the two fields and the orchard. This was once a farm after all.”

“Yes’” conceded Sandie, “truthfully the girls have landed on their feet here. At least in a material sense.”

“But not in the emotional one, is that it? You still don’t approve then?”

“It’s not about approval Beverly. You’re a really nice person; and I mean that sincerely. I know Skipper appeared at first to be a cynical old curmudgeon but the girls have really mellowed Beverly. You’ve done well. I think the girls have been lucky. Truth to tell Beverly, I don’t really know myself how you’ve managed to change so effectively. It must be a component of your transvestism and that alone intrigues me. . I’m really feeling my way with you and this case. It’ll be interesting material for any paper I might choose to present.”

“After the girls have reached their majority I hope.”

“Naturally. I wouldn’t want to embarrass them.”

“Good and I hope you ask their permission.”

“Aren’t you afraid of being exposed yourself?”

“Would it matter if I did?”

“Well you would have every right to object?”

I smiled sardonically and Sandie had the good grace to blush.

“Sandie; I was a lab rat for half my childhood. If anybody could have developed a carapace to resist such slings and arrows, it’s got to be me! I suppose there are already whole bloody books written about me.”

“Yes. I must confess. I’ve recognised your case in lots of articles in several of our professional publications from way back in the fifties. I’ve been researching your case a lot.”

“Huh! That would figure. Beverly the lab rat; that’s me.”

“Yes I just can’t begin to imagine, but try not to let it get to you. You seem to have managed wonderfully well with whatever trauma’s you must have suffered. I’m terribly impressed!”

“I get by. I must be getting over it slowly, for example this is one of the first times I’ve ever discussed it with someone and not broken down. You seem to have a knack. Thank you”

“No it’s me that should be thanking you. I’d like to go over it all with your some day. D’you know you’re a living fossil.”

“How so?”

“Well all that awful stuff, Electro convulsive behaviour modification, chemical aversion, pre-frontal lobotomies; I mean the list just goes on, and you actually survived it.”

“No they didn’t do a prefrontal lobotomy.”

“Of course, I realise that, but you saw the results in others. That must have been ghastly, I mean; - the sheer sense of threat you must have felt.”

“Yeah. Maybe I should have just grabbed the water fountain and jumped out of the window. Sadly I didn’t have the strength or a place to run to. He had the reservation.”

Sandie looked at me puzzled.

“I don’t follow you, your rambling.”

“Oh Sorry my generation. Have you never seen the Film ‘One flew over the cuckoo’s nest?’

“No.”

I nodded and smiled wryly

“Well you should see it. It’s not all that accurate but then I don’t suppose they could really portray all the ghastly things could they. The women who wandered about naked, the promiscuous ones, the ones who should never have been put there but ended up there because they had got pregnant or something. No; you wouldn’t remember all that would you? That was forty years ago. Long before you were even born.”

“I’d like you to someday discuss it at length with me. The patient’s perspective, more importantly an intelligent, coherent patient’s perspective.”

“I wouldn’t be much use I’m afraid, I suppose I’ve forgotten ninety percent of it, some of it locked away deliberately to protect my sanity and the rest just forgotten or subconsciously suppressed..”

“We could help you recall it, and maybe help you address it.”

“Yeah. That’s the rub isn’t it, - that little word ‘maybe’. What happened if you called up my devils or released the dragon, or whatever? I could end up totally fucked. No thanks. They did enough damage then. They’re not getting another chance. I’ve only got one brain; one mind’ one life.”

“I have collated the reports and studies they did about you. The dates and circumstances described in those articles might help you address stuff. Would you like to see them?”

“It would make no difference would it? What’s the point in raking over old and very cold cinders? No thanks.”

“Don’t you mean coals?”

“No the coals were all burned out donkey’s years ago and anyway, as I said, the bastard’s who tried their magic on me are probably all dead! In my mind the only useful therapy would be requital and that’s forever lost to me, the chance to confront the bastards.”

“Bastards?”

“Yeah, I’ve already told you I was a lab rat. You name it, I got it; except the pre-frontal lobotomy of course. I think I only just escaped by the skin of my teeth when I was finally dumped in the borstal unit and that was virtually frying pan to fire! Though was it; I still ask myself I mean ‘pre-frontal lobotomies’ come on!”

Sandie knew all about the dark history of her trade. The long litany of ghastly abuses was well documented and she fell silent when confronted with me; a living fossil, real evidence of those abuses. I sensed her feeling of guilt and decided the conversation had got dark enough and the atmosphere had become oppressive..

“Oh come on. Let’s lighten up. I’ve got business in town, lets go shopping for some party fixings. That’s one thing that trannies and girls always have in common; shopping!”

In the car she opened up.

“I’m surprised and pleased that you’ve come through it so well.”

I chuckled ironically.

“Huh. You mean the childhood thing; despite the ‘treatment?”

“Precisely.”

“Let’s talk about something else. I want to stay in a good mood for Skipper’s return.”

“Sorry. What were you planning?”

“Well as you know, it’s a fancy dress party. Any suggestions?”

“This brought Sandie out her dark mood and she quickly fell to discussing ideas. On arrival in Bournemouth we used some ‘retail therapy’ to complete the day. We picked the girls up at the school gate and drove them home.

“Well girls,” I asked, “Skipper’s coming soon. How d’you feel?”

The girls both squealed with anticipation and started gabbling about meeting him. Thinking as ‘Beverly, I hoped Sipper didn’t disappoint them. I asked Jennifer if she had any preferences for the fancy dress and she had finally chosen to be a unicorn. I remembered then that she had been watching the film, ‘The Last Unicorn’ the previous evening.

“Won’t you need a partner for that? Four legs and everything.”

“It’s a pretend unicorn silly. Anyway she end’s up as a beautiful princess. I’ll just wear a silvery white costume and a unicorn’s horn. I could dye my hair silver and get myself a silver tail.”

“That sound’s like fun. So you won’t need a unicorn suit then.”

“No. I’ve got a white and silver ballet tutu with along skirt. I’ll use that for starters.”

“The dyed hair sounds a bit ambitious but you could give it a try. What do you think Sandie?”

“Yeah. Go for it, but remember you’ve got school on the Monday. You’ll have to dye it back to your natural blond colour.”

“No we haven’t. There’s no school next week. It’s half term!” Chorused the girls.”

Sandie and I exchanged wry smiles. ‘Dyed hair it was then, unless Skipper could somehow persuade Jenny to use a silver wig.’

The following day, Sandie and I dug out jenny’s tutu whilst she was at school. It was obviously way too small and necessitated another trip to Bournemouth to buy a new one. We indulged her and also purchased a delightful ‘pirate queen’ costume for Beatrice.

The next evening, Beverly said her tearful cheerio’s and handed the girls over to Sandie. Sandie and the girls drove me to Poole station and saw me onto the train. I got off in Bournemouth and got the very next train back to Poole then checked into Sissy’s gay hotel. Sissy was in on the plot and we discussed where to get a silver wig and a silver extension piece to fashion a unicorn’s tail.

“She wants to dye her hair but I’m not sure about that.”

“Oh go on,” encouraged Sissy, “she’s growing up. It’ll be a novel experience for her. It’ll be a chance for Skipper to really indulge.”

I secretly fancied the idea of Jennifer experimenting with her hair for the first time and a fancy dress party would be a damned good excuse. It would be an excellent icebreaker if Skipper dressed up as Beverly, and then assisted Jenny with the hair thing before Saturday noon. The party was scheduled to start at three and be over by seven or eight. I slept that night in Sissy’s hotel feeling a little easier about my crossing over in front of the girls on the Saturday morning.

 
 

This chapter covers how Skipper finally gets Jennifer and Beatrice to accept his transition to Beverly.

They organise a Fancy-dress Party and Skipper tells the girls that he is going to dress up as Beverly.

However, Skipper is somewhere between a Transvestite and a Transexual insofar as she wants to live and pass as a woman with real breasts but keep her boy bits. I hope you readers like this chapter for it covers a lot of stuff about acepting a mother's roll and the affection and intimacy that fall to a mother. It dwells upon Skipper's deep fears about being somehow accused of Paedophilia and how he finally manages to surmount them.

Sandie and Mrs Bodkin provide essential support and chaperone duties as Skipper struggles to become a mother to the girls.

THERE IS NO ABUSE!!!. I don't do abuse.

Happy reading.

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Thursday dawned bright but chilly. October is always an unpredictable month. One can sometimes enjoy a late warm ‘Indian Summer’ but alternatively one can catch an early frost. This morning was frosty and I studied the silvered fields behind Sissy’s hotel as I slowly remembered where I was. I studied the sky through my hotel window as Sissy arrived with a tray of breakfasts and I protested at her unnecessary effort.

“There’s no need to have done that. I was just coming down.”

“Don’t worry. You’re the only resident here. I’ve brought up my breakfast as well. Reception is quiet because it’s midweek in October. It’s usually quiet this time of year. The chef has taken this week off because we expected it to be quiet. I knocked this up myself. He’s not back until Friday dinner time and I’ve got no other guests, just you and me.

We shared the breakfast as we discussed Skipper’s plans. Sissy was itching to hear the plan.

“Well. Come on then. Let’s see you in your uniform.” Demanded Sissy.

I dressed as requested and she studied me.

“Your shape’s definitely changed. Here, give me your jacket and trousers. I’ll make a few adjustments. Don’t worry, I make lot’s of my own clothes.”

I followed her down stairs in my lacy underwear and she took my measurements. She frowned as she examined the jacket and eyed my bust.

“D’you know Bev, I reckon you’re nearly a ‘C’ cup. I envy you but this jacket will need a bit of work.”

With my measurements in her purse she told me to wait and she disappeared off to a local haberdashers. She returned with some suitable material then went to work with her sewing machine. Within an hour, she had adjusted the waist and hips on my trousers and relocated the double line of brass reefer buttons on the jacket. She also cleverly inserted two discreet darts in my jacket and when I finally tried it on, it fitted me pretty well. My newly developed curves were not too obvious, and the jacket felt much more comfortable.

“Well now aren’t you a picture.” Giggled Sissy.

I gave her a twirl and she frowned.

“You’d better not wear those panties. I can distinctly see a scalloped lace panty line when you bend over.”

I bent over in front of the mirror and studied my butt.

Sissy was right. There was no mistaking the heavily scalloped lacy frill of my favourite - and quite expensive-, panties. Now that my butt was softer and more rounded, the re-tailored uniform trousers stretched more easily and formed a tight pair of moons around my butt cheeks. The lacy frill of the panty line was quite obvious and erotic.

‘Hmmm,’ I thought, ‘now I see how the VPL is so pronounced in girls in trousers.’ It was quite obvious and very provocative. If I’d been a girl on the pull it might have been exciting to show it under a stretchy pair of tight fitting trousers or more preferably, leggings, but I was trying to pass as a sea captain. The panties had to go.

Reluctantly I returned to my bedroom and changed from my favourite panties into a pair of high-waist long legged ‘Spanks’. I also changed my frilly bra to a plain white one that would not show under my camisole that I wore under my uniform shirt. I still liked soft and silky next to my skin. Though the ‘Spanks’ felt nice and I savoured the stretchy comfort they offered whilst still enabling me to ‘tuck’. I returned downstairs for Sissy’s inspection and finally passed muster.

“Just don’t take your jacket off and you might just do it. You should really get yourself some thicker linen uniform shirts.”

Thus armed, I shared lunch with Sissy then set off to buy some presents for Skipper’s homecoming. By four o’clock, I was driving my hire car up the lane towards the cottage.

I did not need to toot my horn. Jenny and Bea had been on tenterhooks and they exploded squealing from the house as my car rounded the bend in the lane.

“Skipper! Skipper! Hoorayeeee! Skipper! Skipper’s home!!”

They were jumping and shrieking with glee as I finally got out of the car. The two frenzied girls hit me like a pair of torpedoes then demanded to be taken into my arms. I bent down, scooped them up and squeezed them emotionally as Sandie emerged from the house. She smiled as she watched the scene for it was obvious the girls were ecstatic. With my arms full of squirming, excited girls I laboured through the door and plonked them down.

They continued dancing frenziedly for several minutes until they finally calmed down. Then they joined me on the settee and flung themselves onto my knees. Sandie emerged from the kitchen with tea and biscuits and we settled down around the coffee table as I related a total fantasy about my supposed last voyage and awful car accident that had so changed my face.

(I had to show them my supposed scars under my hairline where the surgeons had repaired my face.)

I kept it as brief and simple as possible, just describing the ports and the dates, which I knew to be true from the ship’s schedule. Then I intimated that I had a few presents in the car and the girls started prancing eagerly for me to go and get them.

“So what’s this about somebody’s birthday on Saturday?” I asked.

“It’s mine,” declared Bea, “I’ll be eight. We’re having a fancy dress.

“Oh. Can I come?”

“Of course!” Shrieked Bea and Jenny in unison.”

“Oh good. Who else is coming?”

Jenny and Bea went through a list of people and I just nodded approvingly.

“It sound’s like it’s going to be fun.”

The girls became impatient, and demanded to see their presents so I capitulated. We bundled back to the car and gathered several boxes. Back in the house the girls rifled eagerly through the boxes and made loud exclamations of joy. Most of the presents were clothes and for the rest of the evening the two girls gave Sandie and me an impromptu fashion show. By nine o’clock, the girls were exhausted and were reluctant to go up and bath. Sandie was reluctantly forced to put her foot down and order them.

“Come along now girls. Just because Miss Beverly is away seeing to her aunt, you still have to take a bath. We can’t let standards drop.”

Reluctantly, the girls trooped up to the bathroom and played desultorily in the bath.

“What’s wrong now?” Asked Sandie who had had no trouble the previous evening.

“Can Skipper bath us?” Asked Jenny.

“Are you sure you want that?” Checked Sandie.

“Please.” Added Bea.

Sandie came and told me about the request.

“D’you think it’s wise?” I asked her.

“They seem to want it and it’s painfully obvious to everybody that they are ecstatic to have you back. They are obviously enchanted with you. Mrs Bodkin is absolutely right. I’ve never seen so much ecstasy in two little girls.”

“Well I think you’d better be there as well. You know, chaperone, the usual stuff.”

“Don’t worry. I had every intention of chaperoning.”

“For all our sakes,” I added.

“Exactly.” Finished Sandie.

“I’ll have to take my jacket off and roll up my sleeves. My breasts are quite noticeable.”

“Well kneel down as you take your jacket off. I’ll take it from you and hang it over the chair. If you remain kneeling, they won’t see your breasts below the edge of the bath.”

For want of a better strategy, we adopted this tactic. It worked well and I successfully lathered their hair. After rinsing their hair I held out the warm towels and invited them out of the bath as I held the warm fluffy towels out in front of me. Then I passed each girl to Sandie. The spread of the towels hid any embarrassing mounds under my uniform shirt and as soon as both girls were engrossed in drying their hair, I grabbed my jacket.

“That went ok then,” observed Sandie after we had each carried one of the girls in their nighties and dressing gowns down stairs.

This remark went over their heads, but I couldn’t help noticing Bea pressing her head against the soft pillows of my breasts just before I put her down on the settee. They settled in their usual positions on the armchairs by the fire and commenced drying their hair as they watched television. I seized the chance to speak privately to Sandie in the kitchen.

“How am I doing so far?”

“Couldn’t be better. They’re delighted with you and I’m very pleased with the bath time routine.”

“You mean, they’ll maybe not object when Miss Beverly returns.”

“Exactly. If they’ll let Skipper bathe them then that’s a major hurdle.”

I sighed with relief. And Sandie mirrored my feelings.

“It’s not easy is it?” She said.

“You’re telling me! Come on let’s make their chocolate though I could handle a stiff brandy later.

“Are you going to read them a story?” Pressed Sandie.

“Oh without a doubt!” I bought a child version of Moby Dick in town this afternoon.”

“Oooh. That’s a bit gruesome.”

“Yeah but it’s about ships and the sea. They’ll expect something like that from Skipper.”

“Well we’ll try the first chapter and see.”

“Don’t worry. This is a child’s version. The gruesome bits have been fairly weeded out. I’ll get through it in a night”

I showed Sandie the children’s book. She studied it briefly then nodded with relief.

“Oh yes. This is OK. I was just thinking of the pirates thing. D’you think Bea’s idea of a pirate queen has anything to do with her experiences?”

“I hope it’s got more to do with the Story Beverly’s been reading them for the past week or so. I’ve been using the book to see if any nautical stuff induces trauma or fear. To tell the truth I think Bea would probably make no connection between Hook’s galleon and whatever craft the Somali butchers used to attack their yacht. We can’t keep filtering out every child’s story because of what happened to them. I mean what if they let them read ‘Peter Pan’ in school. I’m trying to make their childhood as normal as possible.”

Sandie nodded with a thoughtful expression as she stirred the chocolate. We returned to the living room and chatted with the girls until their hair was dry. Finally bedtime rolled around. I read them Mob Dick, (the children’s version), and they soon fell asleep.

As soon as they were asleep, I made my own way to bed in one of the spare rooms. The tension of the day had exhausted me. I bid goodnight to Sandie across the landing and fell asleep as my head hit the pillow.

The girls searching for Skipper’s bedroom woke me on the Friday morning. I heard Sandie telling them where I was and waited for the anticipated invasion. I did not know what to expect but was pleasantly surprised when two shy smiling faces popped around the door and asked if they could climb on the bed. I nodded and they eagerly bounced in with Sandie close behind. I was glad of her company. Jenny and Beatrice clambered on the bed and tentatively pushed their toes under my duvet. I glanced questioningly at Sandie who nodded her thoughtful acquiescence. This was a critical event and I was paralysed with uncertainty.

“Girls would you like to cuddle up to Skipper?” Asked Sandie.

The girls nodded shyly and dug their feet a little deeper under my duvet. I felt inquisitive toes fetch up against my knees and then relax slightly. Somehow, the girls somehow knew not to come too close to the more evocative areas. Sandie sensed my relief and placed herself on the bed as some sort of benchmark delineating the girls search for intimacy.

They settled with their toes against my knees and their bodies just pressing gently against my rounded hips. I was glad that they had stopped at this point.

‘Small steps’, I kept silently repeating to myself, ‘small steps, slowly’.

Once the ‘line’ had been established, Sandie sensed the moment. She rose up off the bed and declared that the girls had to go to school.

“Ahh. Do we have to?” They cried.

“F’raid so girls.” Replied Sandie.

They turned pleading to me.

“Can’t we have the day off Skipper? You’ve only just got home.”

“Oh come on now girls. It’s only one day and then we’ve got the whole of half term. A whole week.”

“Will you be staying here forever now?” Asked Jenny.

I answered truthfully. “Not all the time. I still have to relieve Mac occasionally on the ship, but I won’t be away so long in the future.” It won’t be more than two weeks and only once or twice a year. Jesse will soon be ready to take over as second captain. D’you remember Jesse?”

The girls nodded as Jenny wrinkled her brow. “I thought his name was Gus.”

“Well, it is really, but some call him Gus and some call him Jessie. “Mac is Scottish and in Scotland a jessie means a man who is weak willed or feeble, like a sissy, or a coward. Mac called him Gus because that’s Jessie’s second name and then the rest of the crew started calling him Gus. Anyway, I’ll be here for most of next term, OK?

Now that they were reassured, they slipped from under the duvet and skipped joyfully to their own bedroom to get ready for school. Sandie remained briefly on the bed.

“Well. How did you feel about that?” She asked me.

“Nervous. Jenny kept poking me as though testing my skin. I think she’s puzzled that I’m much less muscular then I used to be. I think she’s a bit puzzled by the softer curves. She used to hug me on the ship all the time. I suppose it was some sort of search for reassurance after the experiences she suffered.

She also used to hug Supan, the third mate, because he was the one who actually plucked them from the sinking life-raft, so she knows how muscular men are. There’s also her father of course, I’m sure she would have lain in her dad’s arms when younger.

After my hormones, I’m as soft and cuddly as a woman now so she must be slightly bemused.

“Well, we’ll just have to tread carefully. Come on, get up.”

I was dressed in men’s silk pyjamas so I stepped out without any fear.

“Who gets to use the bathroom first?” Asked Sandie.

“You go,” I replied, “I’ll get breakfast ready.”

“D’you want me to take them to school?”

“Yes. I think that’s best. The less Skipper is seen, the less he’s noticed and the less questions are asked.”

“And what about Miss Beverly?” Asked Sandie.

“She’s well established. The school thinks she is the primary carer; well actually she is and Skipper will receded further and further into the children’s background. Just like he will in my life.”

“Yes that seems the best route because it should satisfy all interested parties.”

I grinned as I replied.

“Oooh you’re lovely, you put it so romantically. Interested parties eh? Why not just say ‘the family’ Professional jargon makes it sound so cold.”

Sandie grinned for she realised I was giving her a gentle wind-up. With the brief discussion over, the children were taken to the bus and Sandie returned to help with preparations for the party. Later that day, Mrs Bodkin arrived and Sandie declared that she would leave after the children had returned from school. When we had been shopping together on the Tuesday, Sandi and I had bought some clothes identical to Beverly’s. This was to be her disguise. She also bought a permed wig in the same style as Beverly’s still short hair to complete the ensemble.

“You can use my makeup and scent.” I offered.

Sandie nodded agreeably. There was no need to waste money.

All went according to plan but the children were a little upset that Sandie was not coming to the party. They sulked briefly after Sandie left but their mood slowly brightened up as the preparations for the party progressed. Mrs Bodkin and I kept them occupied in the kitchen, as cakes, trifles and jellies were prepared.

Sandie was curious about my ‘other life’ so as a professional exercise, she took a room at Sissy’s hotel that Friday night. There she was free to study the clientele who clubbed there on Friday nights. She later told me that she fell to talking with several other transvestites in the hotel lounge away from the noisy beat of the club downstairs. It helped a bit with her understanding of transvestism but it had been hard getting them to open up. Over the phone on Saturday morning we discussed any last minute arrangements and she then discussed her previous night’s experiences with my various transsexual friends at Sissy’s hotel.

“You guys don’t give much away, do you?”

“We’re frightened,” I replied, “we are afraid people will take advantage of us, or assault us or worse, in some cases, blackmail us. It’s worse than being gay these days. Believe me; you have to earn a trannie’s trust. I suppose it’s seen by some homophobes as an attempt at a disguise and that carries an implied threat. Trannies often get beaten up.”

“They didn’t seem threatening to me. I fact they were all rather nice people. I was a bit disappointed really, not one of them made a pass.”

“Trannies rarely do if they’re dressed. They usually wait for the women to make any moves and even then they’re cautious, especially if they’ve been round the block a few times. If a woman’s interested in trannies, she might have some sort of kink or personality disorder. I know most of the girls at Sissy’s. They’re nice people but most of us are very circumspect about relationships. Did you meet Bridget?”

“Yes.”

“Now that’s what you call passing,” I remarked enviously.

“Indeed, I thought she was Sissy’s daughter at first, and a very beautiful daughter.”

“Well she’s a post op and that is what a successful transition can look like. She was very lucky. She lived in Holland as a child and Dutch society is just so much more advanced than Britain. She was on hormones or anti androgens from aged twelve. Just look at her now!”

“Yes, she’s stunning and her figure is utterly feminine.”

“Did you notice the other tranny’s eyes following her every move?

“Yes. I noticed that. It amused me because it was a sort of mix between lust and melancholy. It intrigued me and I chatted to her and her companion for quite a time. Her companion was there as well, she’s a transvestite who also passed rather well.”

“Yes, that’s Petra. He’s a very smart guy when out en-homme and they make a stunning pair when out dressed ‘normal’, He owns a large hair-dresser's in Bournemouth. I won’t tell you his real name because he hasn’t fully come out yet. They are trying to adopt as well.”

“Oh. Good luck to them. They can certainly have a reference from me. They were an enchanting couple. They entertained me all night and kept the predators informed of my status. That helped a lot and stopped the sex getting in the way. Well now to the party. Is there anything else I need to bring while I’m still here in town? Anything we’ve forgotten?”

“No. It’s pretty well fixed. What time are you coming?”

“I’ll be there soon. I’m all dressed now and I’m just dying to be there when you cross over.”

“OK. See you.”

-o~O~o-

Sandie arrived at about ten. She had been up early and taken a lot of care with her disguise. I had to confess she looked utterly realistic for she had to cover up her stunning good looks. She pretended to have a sore throat so she couldn’t talk properly and she pretended she had caught it from her poorly Aunt. Jenny and Bea were completely fooled and Mrs Bodkin found it hard not to burst out laughing. Bea’s pirate queen outfit was a great success but Jenny was broken hearted to discover that her old tutu was too small.

I smiled and tapped my nose knowingly as I took her to the car and produced a brand new tutu complete with various trimmings and silver hair to make a very respectable unicorn outfit. Jenny cried with happiness and relief then hugged me tight as she repeatedly thanked me.

Remembering Mrs Bodkin’s instructions about female tactility I took the plunge. I lifted her in my arms and cradled her like a baby as I gave her a long kiss on the cheek and whispered.

“Did you really think Skipper world forget something as important as your outfit?

She squirmed and hugged me around the neck as she planted a sloppy immature kiss right on my lips. My heart flipped with delight and I stood by the car for long moments with Jennifer cradled in my arms just savouring our developing relationship. ‘If this is what having kids could feel like, BRING IT ON! I thought.

“Now,” I said, reluctantly spoiling the moment, “are we going to dye your hair or do you just want sprinkle dust to glitter?”

Jenny’s eyes widened with surprise.

“I didn’t think you’d let me.”

“Well I spoke with Mrs Bodkin and Sandie yesterday. We decided that you could dye your hair. It’s only a one off and it’ll be at least a week before you have to go back to your natural blond. It won’t do any damage just for this once.”

With this exciting prospect, everybody gathered in the bathroom as Jenny had ‘Beverly’ (AKA Sandie,) and Mrs Bodkin help her dye her hair. I just watched and smiled and Jennifer kept wanting to turn to look at me as though requiring an opinion.

“Will you stay still!” demanded an exasperated Sandie as she carefully applied the gunk to Jennifer’s hair. “If you don’t stay still I’ll get it on your ears and you’ll have silver ears as well.”

“What like the magic rabbit of Ethray in Watership Down?” Giggled Jennifer.

“Just be still or I’ll get Skipper to do it. Then you’d be silver all over.”

“We all chuckled at this but eventually, Jenny got the message.”

The process turned out to be easy. Jennifer’s naturally ash blond hair proved easy to dye and she stared nervously in the mirror when the job was complete. I had to admit that after Sandie had trimmed and shaped Jennifer’s waist-length hair the silver mane was very effective on such a young child. Sandie had ‘feathered’ her long hair perfectly and it closely resembled the silver mane of a unicorn.

“Gosh it looks weird!” Giggled Jenny.

“Oh dear, I thought it looked good,” observed Sandie

“Oh yes, yes it does cried Jennifer as she moved quickly to take away Sandie’s hurt.

“Jennifer winked at me and rooted in the presentation box that the outfit came in.

“You’ll have to use this makeup we bought to get a suitably pale complexion. The princess in ‘The Last Unicorn’ looked very pale.”

With her hair complete, Jenny and Mrs Bodkin commenced experimenting with the makeup and the silver horn while Bea and Sandie (AKA ‘Beverly’) joined me in my ‘Fancy dress’ make over.

“What are you going as?” Begged Beatrice as I started to take off my jacket.

“Just you wait and see. Go and see how Jenny’s getting on with her unicorn horn. I’ve got stuff to see to and I’ll call you when I’m ready to start. It’ll be a real surprise.”

Beatrice scampered eagerly to their bedroom to see how her older sister was getting on and I turned to Sandie.

“Do you really want to see everything?”

“I am a doctor. I’ve seen it all before.”

“OK then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I stripped down to my panties and bra in a flash as Sandie stared wide-eyed. Then I turned away momentarily as I changed from my plain panties to a more flamboyant frilly pair. Then I asked her to help me with the matching bra and she gasped.

“My God! Your breasts are as big as mine!”

“Gee thanks. That’s the nicest thing you could say.”

“No really. They are really nice. Are they all you?”

“Yes. Why d’you want to check.”

“No. It’s just that they are so -, well, firm and bouncy. You’re what fifty five, fifty six?”

“Fifty five and thanks. I suppose it’s because they are new, like a teen-ager’s.”

“Crikey. I’m jealous. I hope mine are like that when I’m fifty.” Her eyes then drifted to my smooth crotch.

“Are you wearing a cache under your panties?”

“Yes. We don’t want any mistakes. OK, peep show over. Which camisole should I wear, the teal or the blue.”

“Oh the blue. I’m wearing teal. Let’s not make that faux pas. Anyway, your panties and bra are royal blue. It’s a lovely colour.”

Having agreed on the colour, I slipped the silky camisole over my shoulders and clipped the matching suspender belt around my waist. Finally I slid the stockings up my legs and stood up for inspection.

“Does this look OK?”

“Gosh yes, you look exactly like a youngish fifty year old woman.”

“Right, I think the best thing we can do now, is invite the girls in and they can see Skipper disappear as the hair comes down, the frock goes on and the makeup brings Beverly alive again.”

“Well. It’s make or break time now. How do you feel?”

“Terrified. I think it’s best if they find me sitting down in front of Beverly’s dressing table mirror. Go and get them and ask Mrs Bodkin if she wants to witness the end of Skipper.”

Sandie nodded and stepped down the hall to the girl’s room.

She signed to the girls that I was ready to say who I was going to be.

Two pairs of feet thundered down the hall and burst into ‘Beverly’s’ bedroom. I thought they would stop and stare fearfully but instead they only hesitated then stepped forward to find out what was going on. Sandie was right behind them and finally Mrs Bodkin entered and stood at the back by the door.

“What are you doing?” Asked Jenny as she fingered one of the makeup tubes.

“I’m dressing up as Beverly.”

“As a girl?” Asked Bea.

“Yes.”

“Is that allowed?” Asked Jenny. Can we pretend to be different?”

“Well your different, what’s this?”

I wiggled the horn on her head as I asked and she giggled.

“It’s my unicorn horn.”

“And what is a unicorn.”

“It’s a -, it’s a kind of horse, with a magic horn.”

“Exactly! Well you can’t get much more different than that can you. In fancy dress, anybody can be what he or she likes. Now are you going to help me?”

Jenny studied the array of makeup then smiled as she giggled.

“OK then. You’re funny.”

With this first hurdle over, I explained to the girls how I was going to make my face look like Beverly’s and they watched wide-eyed as I applied my make up. They kept glancing between Sandie and me as they tried to compare my ‘Beverly’ with the seemingly real ‘Beverly’ standing by the window. Finally, I slipped some hidden pins from my hair. It tumbled down to my shoulders and both girls gasped. They didn’t realise that ‘Skipper’ had had his hair pinned up under his uniform cap for all the time he’d been home. When I gently brushed out the perm, Jenny gasped as she fingered the soft waves.

“Crikey! Your hair is just like Beverly’s. How did you do that?”

“Ah! That’s a secret.”

Jenny was so incredulous that she tugged at my hair.”

“Ow! Stoppit! That’s not nice!”

“Ooh. Sorry. Honest Skipper! I thought it was a wig.”

“It’s not a wig. It’s my real hair.”

Jenny looked puzzled then looked again at Sandie. I decided to distract her but it was obvious that she was getting two and two to be four.

“Will you help me put a frock on?”

She looked at the frocks laid out on the bed and tugged thoughtfully at her lip.

“Which one?”

“Well. It should match my camisole and slip so I think blue. What do you think?”

Jenny stepped towards the bed and fingered the array of frocks It was obvious that she recognised them as the ‘real’ Beverly’s frocks. She glanced questioningly towards the ‘real’ Beverly still standing by the window and still pretending to have a sore throat.

Sandie nodded encouragement so Jenny picked out the blue frock that exactly matched my petticoat. She carried it over and I stepped graciously into it. Then I turned as the ‘real’ Beverly had often done and asked her in the ‘real’ Beverly’s voice to button me up the back.

The sudden transition from Skipper’s deep sonorous voice to Beverly’s soft alto caused Jennifer and Bea to gasp. As I finally slipped on my heels and smiled at the girls, Jennifer stared long and hard at my face.

I sensed she was finally beginning to realise who Beverly actually was. The confusion danced across her eyes as she kept staring at Sandie then returning to peer into my face. Finally she plucked up the courage to hazard her guess.

“Are you really Beverly?”

“What do you think sweetheart?”

I stretched out my arms and wiggled my fingers invitingly as Beverly often did and Jenny tentatively reached out for them. Then I took her two forefingers and tugged them towards me. This was favourite move of Beverly’s and Jenny recognised it instantly. This finally removed any lingering doubt from Jenny’s mind and I watched the dawning realisation change from curiosity to a wide excited smile. She squealed with delight as she turned to her younger sister.

“It’s Beverly, Bea! Don’t you see? Skipper is really Beverly!”

“Who’s that?” Demanded Bea as she pointed towards Sandie.

Jenny suddenly remembered the other ‘Beverly’ and released my hands as she stepped over to examine the woman by the window. Suddenly, as she peered closely with the benefit of the window’s daylight she realised that the other ‘Beverly’ had slightly different greener eyes.

As a nine-year-old, Jenny was a little more au-fait with appearances than her younger sister and she realised that only one person in our coterie of friends had eyes that colour.

“Your eyes, - - - Is it Sandie? She asked uncertainly. “Are you Sandie?”

Sandie smiled and nodded as she carefully unfastened her wig to reveal her normal hair. Jenny let out a squeal of surprised ecstasy and stood transfixed as she tried to decide where her real allegiances lay. She turned to Mrs Bodkin as the final arbiter.

“Is Skipper really Miss Beverly?”

Mrs Bodkin nodded as she studied Jenny carefully for any signs of rejection or disappointment.

“So Skipper’s really been here all the time?”

Again Mrs Bodkin nodded, still uncertain of Jenny’s reaction.

Sandie was also watching the developments like a cat watches a mouse.

Ready to address any trauma or grief that might ensue. I however, was attending to Beatrice who had now climbed upon my lap and was investigating my face and hair. At long last, Beatrice was beginning to realise who Beverly actually was.

She sat on my lap for long minutes just looking at me while Jenny asked more questions. The first problem was of course my gender. Jenny was trying to decide what I was and she kept pumping me.

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

“I prefer to be a girl, to live as a lady and now I dress as one.”

“Is that why you -, you’ve got boobies and your skin is -, softer?”

“That’s right. I really prefer to be soft and gentle.”

“Now that you’ve changed into Beverly, are you going to stay like that?”

“I hope so, if you and Bea will let me.”

Jenny fell silent for long moments as a tear slowly leaked from her eye.

“I liked Skipper. He was kind and brave.”

“Well Skipper is really still here darling. Skipper is here inside my head.”

“But he’s gone, hasn’t he?”

“Skipper can come back occasionally if you want, but he prefers to be Beverly now, and he’s happy as Beverly.”

“Will you look after us like Skipper? Can we still live in Skipper’s house? Who will pay for us now?”

Sandie and Mrs Bodkin both chuckled at this and Mrs Bodkin stepped in.

“Oh my darling Jenny. Try and understand. Skipper isn’t dead. Skipper still exists it’s just that Skipper prefers to live as Beverly. Every thing that Skipper owns is also Beverly’s. The house, the ship, and everything are Beverly's.”

“So Beverly is really like sort of two people all wrapped up in one body.” Deduced Jenny.

Sandie was about to explain in more detail but Mrs Bodkin gently tapped her arm and whispered just loud enough so that I could make out her advice to Sandie. “Don’t complicate it. I know you want to try and help, but both children are already in over their heads. Jenny’s got the jist of it. Anything else might confuse her and confusion might distress her. When she’s older and asks deeper questions, your turn will come.”

“Now there goes an older, wiser head,” I thought.

Jenny turned as I answered her query.

“There’s more of Beverly than Skipper inside me darling. But Skipper is inside my head and will come out if you want him to. Beverly lives in my whole body. She likes Skipper and she won’t chase him away but Beverly is the soft, warm person that you like to hug and cuddle in the mornings. She will always be here for you and Skipper will be watching from inside my head to see that you’re always looked after. Don’t worry about the house or the money. Skipper and I will always be here for you. Skipper will be watching me as Beverly to see that I don’t make any mistakes, and you’re quite right, Skipper is very brave and very sensible. More importantly, Skipper will always be here, inside my head.”

My subtle change to the first person singular when speaking for Beverly was, I hoped, a subtle step to reinforce my situation without isolating or antagonising the girls. Mrs Bodkin and Sandie seemed to catch the idea and we waited with baited breath for Jenny’s response.

“So you’re going to be our mummy then?” Pressed Jenny.

“I can’t replace your mummy darling. But I can look after you just like a mummy would. Sandi and Mrs Bodkin will also be here to help you if you need them. All you have to do is pick up the phone.”

“Ooh. Am I going to get a mobile phone then?”

I hesitated. Jenny was only nine. A mobile phone seemed a bit far advanced. I glanced at Mrs Bodkin with a questioning raised eyebrow. She nodded ‘yes’ over Jenny’s head. I therefore assented.

“Yes. You can have one for Christmas. It’s only a couple of months away.”

Even at this crucial juncture, I was not prepared to spoil the girls and shower them with presents. Jenny let out a whoop of joy and leapt onto my lap almost displacing Bea as she landed hard against my still tender growing breasts.

“Oooff! Be gentle darling. You’re getting a big girl now. Be gentle when you jump on me like that. That hurt me.”

I was rubbing my sore breasts and Jenny looked at me with surprise as she realised the swellings under my frock were real.

“Oh! Sorry. You’re a girl now.”

She gently pressed her cheek against my breasts and ‘kissed them better’ through the material.

I glanced nervously towards Sandie and Mrs Bodkin but they didn’t seem worried so I let both girls nestle against my soft pillowy breasts. If I was going to live as a woman and a mother, this was the degree of tactile comfort that the girls could rightfully expect. I would talk to Sandie and Mrs Bodkin about it later. For the moment, I decided, the best course was to allow both girls the maximum amount of comfort and reassurance that I could give them. After all I had two excellent chaperones to give advice if any issues surfaced. I glanced in the mirror of my dressing table to catch Jenny and Bea exchanging a secret little smile and that gave me reassurance as well. Sandie spotted the smile as well, so she motioned to Mrs Bodkin and they quietly slipped out of the room.

“Are you happy then girls?” I whispered softly.

“Mmmm. You’re really nice Beverly,” declared Bea.

“And we’re glad you came back for the party.” Added Jenny.

“Right then. Shall we go down stairs then? There’s lot’s to do.”

“You haven’t finished my unicorn tail and mane,” cried Jenny, “the horn is still loose.”

“Ooh yes. Sorry I forgot in all this excitement. Where is the tail?”

“Sandie brought it up this morning. It’s in our bedroom.”

“Well go and get it. We’ll have to sow it on before you can go to the party.”

Jenny scampered away and I carried Bea downstairs. She was still staring at my appearance so I hugged her again and kissed her cheek to reassure her. She fingered my jaw and realised there was no trace of a beard and she smiled as she pressed her own cheek against it to make absolutely certain.

“Shall I call you Beverly or Skipper?” She asked shyly.

“I would prefer Beverly. Would you mind calling me Beverly?”

She smiled sweetly and nodded as she hugged her arms around my neck. I felt I had made one certain conquest.

Jenny, Sandie and Mrs Bodkin had gone into the kitchen were the light was best and every body fussed as Jenny stood on a chair and we fixed her mane and tail. Mrs Bodkin forced me to sew the tail onto Jenny’s butt whilst she stood and watched. Jenny stood on the kitchen chair with her hands holding on to the chair back and her body bent over presenting me with her bum. Mrs Bodkin held up the multiple hems of the skirt to allow me to work uninterrupted. I was both tickled pink and enchanted as I had to push my finders nervously under the bottom of her silver tutu and then hold the material away from her bum as I pushed the needle in and out. As I was finishing the last few stitches Sandie entered the Kitchen and watched silently as a smile spread across her face.

When we had finished Jenny stood upright on the chair and preened herself whilst she admired her image in the mirror through the dining room door. By now I was red-faced and blushing as Mrs Bodkin grinned her explanation.

“Now that’s the degree of intimacy you’ll have to get used to! Can you see why children need absolute trust?”

I nodded my head thoughtfully and let out a deep breath.

“I’m only glad I had two chaperones. Why didn’t one of you sew the tail on?”

“That’s a mother’s job. Get used to it,” finished Mrs Bodkin.

Then Sandie chipped in and lightened the conversation.

“We’ll have to get somebody to write a ballet for you Jenny and then you can be the unicorn princess ballerina,” laughed Sandie as Jenny smiled and swished her tail as she span. She lost her balance and I grabbed her just as she fell. Her fingers clutched at my arms and she gasped with relief as I supported her. I noticed her test the texture of my skin again and it was obvious she was still making her mind up about who I was. As I steadied her again I gave her a little hug and a gentle kiss just as Beverly always had when they were going to bed. She recognised the familiar gesture and reciprocated eagerly.

“Thanks for saving me Beverly. Did Skipper help Beverly move so quickly? Like he’s inside Beverly’s head and watching out for her.” She asked softly.

I nodded tearfully. I couldn’t have explained the relationship between Beverly and Skipper better!

A huge load lifted itself from my shoulders. For now at least, both girls were calling me Beverly.

Finally both girls were ready for the fancy dress. Sandie and I looked like the Beverly twins with me in royal blue and Sandie in turquoise. Mrs Bodkin had dressed highly appropriately as a fairy godmother. The table was groaning with food and we waited for the other partygoers to arrive.

Margaret and Sian had also joined in the spirit and arrived as a policewoman who had caught a cat burglar in a very provocative cat suit comprising leotard and tights. When I saw them I chuckled and whispered to Margaret, “I hope you’re not the ‘strip-o-gram’.”

“Or the ‘skipper-gram’,” she shot back. We both fell apart laughing and the others looked strangely at us. Margaret and Sian had been discreet however, and arrived well before the other parents and their children. They had arranged to stay overnight with their two children Martin and Chenille.

Then the other parents started arriving with their children and the house was soon echoing to the shrieks of assorted, fairies, princesses, mermaids, super-heroines, animals, spacemen, cowboys, soldiers and superheroes.

We adults were run off our feet but I was delighted that neither Bea nor Jenny once referred to me as Skipper. So familiar had Beverly become to the girls in the previous two months that Jenny and Beatrice had automatically reverted to the old norm once I was back in Beverly mode. They never called me Skipper once. Sandie however, was always called Sandie by the girls but that only reinforced my and ‘Skipper’s’ anonymity.

When the parent’s arrived to collect their children, Margaret and Sian stayed discreetly upstairs and none of the parents recognised Martin and Chenille as their children. Night had descended and the last party game had been ‘Jack O’lantern’ played with flashlights in and around the darkened old barns. The kids had a high old time.

When the parent’s arrived to collect their charges, the children were wild with excitement and definitely wanted to play all night. All in all, each child declared Beatrice’s party a raging success as he or she took their leave.

By nine o’clock that evening, sleep had finally overtaken Bea, Jenny, Chenille and Martin. We had to carry them up stairs for the sleep over that had been planned for the four of them. Finally, we adults slumped down exhausted on the settees and armchairs by the huge log fire in the living room.

“Well ladies. A success I think.”

“Most certainly,” agreed Mrs Bodkin.

“Shall I splice the main-brace?”

“What a good idea,” declared Margaret, “mine’s a ‘Gee and Tee’.

I took the orders and returned with the tray of drinks as we chatted and planned for the girl’s future. Finally we made our own ways to bed and smiled to each other as we heard the children giggling in the bedroom. Unable to resist the temptation, we all sneaked a silent peek at the children and found them telling ghost stories with the beds pulled together. They were all under the one big duvet and were so engrossed in their stories that they hadn’t even heard the door catch go ‘click’. I cast a worried glance towards Mrs Bodkin about the three girls sharing the beds with Martin the boy but she poo-hooed my reservations. In the hall she explained.

“Don’t worry, nothing much will happen, the oldest girl is only nine years old and they’re all pretty naive.”

“How can you tell?” I asked curiously.

“I knew they were having a sleep over so I’ve been watching the four of them all night. They’re too young and innocent. It reflects well on you, Margaret and Sian that none of the children are sexually precocious. Let them enjoy their sleepover. Anyway, the girls will soon let us know if Martin crosses the line of decency and I doubt if he’d get away with it, he’s only seven.”

My shoulders sagged with relief and Mrs Bodkin gave me a little hug.

“Don’t worry Beverly. You’re doing OK. The girls are a credit to you.”

Sandie nodded her agreement and smiled. We bid each other goodnight and made our ways to our separate bedrooms. As I passed Margaret and Sian I heard them chuckling softly and I envied them their companionship.

‘It must be nice to share a bed with another woman’, I reflected. 'But then, what woman would want to sleep with a weirdo like me?' I sighed.

This chapter describes the childrens presents after the certainty of their having accepted Skipper changing permanently to Beverly. Beverly buys Jennifer and Beatrice each a pony then Margaret and Sian decide on buying their children Chennile and Martin each the same.

The second part of the chapter explores Beverly's heterosexuality and the strange exploration of it by Margaret and Sian.

Wi-i-ild horses; couldn't take you from me!

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I slept well that night and, unusually, I slept through the first rays of sunrise. This was unusual because my entire life at sea had ingrained in me a habit of waking with the sunrise unless some other incident woke me.

That Sunday morning I was still sleeping long past sunrise and was unexpectedly woken by the added thunder of four pairs of feet rumbling down the landing. I was still struggling to ‘re-arrange’ myself and make myself decent as four thunderbolts burst through my bedroom door and crash-landed on to my king-sized bed. I gave a loud yell of pretended surprise and ducked laughing under the duvet just as the first child was landing on the bed. It was simply to check the bust tie-ribbons on my sleep suite and check any untoward swellings or exposures under my panty girdle. Finally I emerged with a smile as the last squealing, laughing body crashed into the squirming pile of arms and legs.

“What are we doing today Beverly?” Demanded Jenny loudly as she stopped bouncing and they all started burrowing under my duvet.

“I don’t know what do you want to do?”

My earlier yell had alerted the other adults and soon everybody was sitting on my bed as we debated what to do. I had noticed however that the adults hadn’t rushed into my bedroom and I concluded that perhaps they were not too concerned about Martin and Chenille joining Jennifer and Beatrice cuddled up against me under the duvet. After arguing and chattering for several minutes Sandie finally came up with an excellent suggestion.

“Bev; what about that thing we were talking about on Friday?” She suggested.

In the hubbub of the children arguing and fidgeting under my duvet, her words were lost to the children but I caught her suggestion and raised two questioning eyebrows

For a moment I stared blankly at her until she discreetly put two fingers up the sides of her head and slowly ‘rotated’ them around like a horse’s ears.

I silently mouthed ‘horses?’ and she mouthed back ‘ponies’.

‘Of course!’ I realised. Sandie and I had discussed the ponies but put it on the back burner until the Skipper — Beverly issue had been resolved with Jenny and Bea. Now that things seemed settled there seemed to be no serious problems with Skipper and Beverly being the same person, the idea of the children having ponies, looked more attractive. It was no good buying ponies only to have to sell them a short time later if my relationship with the girls deteriorated because of the Sipper - Beverly Issue. Now things seemed set fair for the future.

I mouthed again to Sandie, ‘Shall you tell them or shall I?’

Without hesitation, Sandie mouthed ‘you!’

I paused for a moment then called loudly or silence. The four of them continued fidgeting and giggling under my duvet and it was another minute before we finally had peace. Once it descended, I made my declaration as four curious heads emerged from under my duvet.

“Right! I know what we can do. I’ve got a big surprise.”

They were about to demand ‘What?’ But I ordered them to go and get dressed.

With the children out of my bedroom, I explained to Mrs Bodkin, Margaret and Sian about my earlier discussion with Sandie about buying the girls a pony each. They all knew about the unused barns, stables and paddocks.

“What about caring for them. D’you know anything about horses?” Asked Mrs Bodkin.

“Uuuhh, well -, actually no” I confessed.

“So you’d have to employ an ostler or somebody.”

I fell silent. The last thing I wanted was some strange man about the cottage and the barns. It would only need one slip by the girls and my secret could be out.

“I’ve had plenty of experience with horses.” Declared Sian as she sensed my uncertainty.

“What! Where?” I asked excitedly.

“I was county champion and southern area champion show-jumper in the section B for two years running when I was younger. I used to stable my own horse and train him.”

“Oh! That’s fantastic! But how would you manage? Why did you give it up?”

Sian glanced at Margaret and they smiled at each other as Sian replied.

“I found a bigger interest in Margaret and my parent’s disapproved. They kicked me out and even denied me the use of the family farm and stables. I couldn’t afford a place of my own and my riding career all fell apart.”

I sensed Sian’s bitterness at her parent’s bigoted intransigence and nodded my head sympathetically as I hugged her tight. Sian sensed my empathy and pulled a tearful smile.

“It’s their loss in the end. They’ve never met my son Martin and he’s their only grandson. Both my sisters had daughters then hysterectomies after cancer. I suppose it’s a genetic thing and they were very promiscuous in their early teens. They say that can sometimes precipitate the onset of early cervical cancer. My uncertainty of my sexuality proscribed me from being promiscuous. I believe that's why I didn't develope cancer of the cervix in my twenties. My parents keep asking me to let Martin see them but I won’t risk it. They’d probably try and win custody of him or something and heaven knows what lies they’d tell him. They’d never win, but I just can’t face another round of courts and stuff.”

“You should consider Martin’s feelings in this,” suggested Sandie, “he’s missing out if he hasn’t got an extended family of grandparents, aunts and cousins.”

“Yeah, that would be an extended family of bigots though, wouldn't it? And think of the risks. I just can’t chance it. They never came to see me throughout my pregnancy and didn't even turn up when he was born. They were pretty brutal when they last communicated anything about Martin. In the solicitor's letter they told me bluntly they didn’t want to see anything of me, just Martin. How bloody cruel is that? That’s a pretty traumatic thing for me to swallow and God knows what they’d tell him in my absence. They’re a right pious, bigoted pair. My childhood was a mess. If I let them see him alone I suspect they'd try and keep him somehow. I just couldn’t face the courts again even though I know I’d probably win. Anyway, they’re just a pair of bigots.”

“I’d advocate for you. Martin seems a fine little kid and well balanced,” Sandie added.

“And who are you to say?” Sighed Sian wearily as she evidenced the mental scars of many battles she had fought as a single lesbian mother fighting to keep her only son without even the support of her own family.

Sandie smiled sympathetically. Sian had no idea what Sandie was, she thought Sandie was simply another social worker assisting Mrs Bodkin.

“I’m the fully qualified psychiatrist who supervises Jennifer and Beatrice’s development.”

This was a total surprise to Sian but it didn’t faze her. Years of weary court battles had left her, like me, wary of all the care agencies. In the countless courtroom battles, psychiatrists had just been more grist to the mill.

“Then where were you when I needed you?”

Sandie got a bit defensive.

“Seven years ago Sian, I had only just finished my second year at medical school.”

“Yeah. Well that’s as may be. It’s all water over the dam now. Margaret and I are legally married and both our children are reasonably safe.

“Well I’m here if you ever need me.” Declared Sandie. “I’ll be around for Beverly and the girls so’ you’ll always be able to reach me.”

“Yeah thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Now back to these horses.”

“Shhh.” I motioned as I heard footfalls on the landing. The children were returning and I wasn’t even out of bed.
The four children peered shyly around the door for they were still in their nightclothes. “I thought we asked you to get dressed,” observed Sian.

Chenille spoke to Margaret.

“Mummy, what are we to wear? Is it outside or inside?”

“Outside,” declared Margaret as the decision to go looking at ponies had obviously been agreed.

“Are you going ahead with it then Beverly?” Asked Sian.

“Only if you’ll agree to help us look after them.”

She nodded eagerly. It was obvious that Sian had missed her horses since expulsion from her family circle.

“Right then, to horse, to horse.” I cried. “Everybody out. I want to get dressed.”

Everybody left to get dressed except Beatrice.

“Where are we going?” She demanded nervously.

“It’s a nice surprise and a secret darling. Go on. You’ll be late.”

I gave her a reassuring hug and she left reluctantly whilst I showered.

Over breakfast all the children tried to guess the surprise and the meal passed quickly. By ten we were on the road in my long wheelbase Land-rover countryman.

I drove and Sian directed us as we rolled through Dorset and on into Hampshire. We arrived in the New Forest and Sian finally brought us to a pretty farm deep in the glades of the forest. She had pre-warned them on her mobile and a very ‘horsy’ woman met us as we parked in the yard. She and Sian were obviously old friends and this broke any ice. Sian greeted the woman effusively as we tumbled out of the Land rover and the woman responded with similar enthusiasm..

“Hello Dot, it's just so fabulous to see you, It's been too long a time, and no see.”

“Why Sian! This is fantastic. Whatever happened to you after that business with your parents?”

It was obvious that Dot knew all about Sian’s past but she had obviously remained a good friend. We made our acquaintances and Dot ushered us inside. A very pretty stable girl showed the children around the horses, while we discussed business over coffee.

“I’d love you to all stay for Sunday lunch, and it’s just so wonderful to see Sian again after all this time. Are you still riding?”

“No I had to give it up, you know why.”

A cloud crossed the ‘horsy’ woman’s face and she gave Sian a long hug.

“I’m so sorry. I had high hopes for you. That was just so cruel of your parents. You would have gone far.”

“Well it wasn’t to be. And things are on the mend now. I’ll be looking after Jenny and Bea’s ponies and there’s scope for expansion. Beverly owns this farm in Dorset but she rents out the land at the moment.”

“Oh! Dorset. Such a lovely county I’d love to see it, the farm that is.”

“Pre-inspection is it Dot?” Smiled Sian knowingly.

“I can’t be too careful these days," sighed Dot, "everybody’s after the horsy set. One sick or emaciated horse in the papers and everyone gets it in the neck.”

“Well you’re welcome to come and see." I interjected. "There’s plenty of barn and stable space.” I offered. "I'm sorry, I don't know anything about horses but I'm happy to let Sian do her stuff."

“Why thank you. That's just so kind. A whole farm eh; did you inherit it?"

"Uuuhhm, no,- I uuhhm, - bought it."

"Oh." She looked at me with a distictly different perspective as she glanced knowingly at Sian beofre turning to me again. "Well I suppose you’d better come and see the horses.”

Sian naturally led the way and she soon demonstrated that she had lost little of her skill. Jenny and Bea were shown suitable horses and Sian put the animals through their paces on a lunge rein. Eventually the girls chose two ponies and arrangements were completed.

Dot would visit my cottage midweek and if everything was up to scratch, the ponies would arrive a fortnight the following Saturday. We had a lot of work to complete before then, for we did not even own a horse trailer.

That afternoon, Sandie and the four children were taken on a trek through the New Forest as we discussed arrangements and finer details. Sian did most of the organising and logistics, I simply nodded when money was involved.

As we talked, Margaret and Sian expressed their wish to perhaps buy another two ponies for Martin and Chenille. We decided to wait until the children returned from the trek to see how they felt about horses.

We needn’t have worried. Martin and Chenille proved every bit as excited as Jenny and Bea. They even made it easy for Sian by expressing their preferences for the horses they had seen. They were of course the two they had ridden on the trek. Sian and Dot discreetly checked out those particular ponies and agreed a sale. We did not discuss this business on the way home for we wanted the whole thing to be an extra surprise. Chenille and Martin would not know about their ponies until everything was arranged and they arrived a fortnight after the following Saturday, subject to my barns passing inspection.

That Sunday night, we returned to my cottage exhausted by the activities of the day. Mrs Bodkin decided to stay overnight and return to Devon on the Monday morning. Sandie decided she would leave later in the week then return when the ponies were delivered. I smiled knowingly. There was no doubt Sandie was getting emotionally involved with the girls and their lifestyle.

On the Monday I hired a team of specialist builders whom Dot had recommended to repair and prepare the barns and refurbish the old loose boxes in the stable block. I took the opportunity to have a conservatory built adjoining the drawing room and patio and I also arranged with my neighbour Mister Turnbull to refurbish a couple of our fences and secure the paddocks from the rest of the fields that he rented from me. I was pleasantly surprised when he offered to let the ponies occasionally share the fields with his sheep.

“If they get on together, t’is no problem Miss,” he said in his soft Dorset accent. I asked Sian about it later and she smiled.

“He’s just being neighbourly and canny.” She smiled.

“Go on. Enlighten me.” I asked.

“Oh several things," continued Sian, "for instance, sheep and horses can share the same type of pasture without serious conflict. Horses get fed hay and oats every day so I'll be down his fields every day to feed them. Stray dogs aren’t likely to go into a field where horses are ranging, especially five horses together. The horses will raise a huge fuss. Sheep rustlers usually aren’t equipped to raid a field with different types of stock.

Also, if you look at the map of your farm, you can see that if we secure the back lane to those extra fields with a secure gate, only Mr Turnbull and us will be able to reach the fields via our farms. There will be less chance of thieves stealing our horses or his sheep direct from the main road.

The clever old bugger is just being canny because if we keep an eye on our horses, that means a visit at least twice a day to the paddocks and fields. Horses have to be fed and watered. Well mine do because I look after my animals.

The horses will also need an outdoor shelter in the field if they overnight in the summer. That means we’ll also be indirectly keeping an eye on his sheep when we visit the fields. The shelter will protect his sheep during winter and lambing time. It’s wheels within wheels you see. Farmers aren’t stupid.”

“I smiled. Sian knew her stuff.”

For that week, the yard rang to the sound of builders clattering away and every day after school, Jenny and Bea would excitedly visit the work site and argue about whose pony was to go where. They never thought to ask why all six loose boxes were being refurbished.

Dot came up as arranged and inspected the stables with Sian. A few suggestions were made to the builder who had all the work finished in the time alloted. It’s surprising what a few offers of bonus payments can do to builders to speed them up. Sian now took charge of the stable block and organised the preparations for the horses. I left it to her and simply stood back and watched.

Whilst the children were at school on the Friday, four ponies were delivered complete with new tack and saddles. I was also surprised to find a full hunter arrive for I had no idea that Sian had obtained a horse for herself.

“God she’s huge. What d’you want her for?” I asked.

“The children will need escorting until they are qualified, especially when they are on the roads. How do you think I’m going to accompany them?”

“Of course, stupid old me. I bow to your better knowledge.” Margaret’s accountancy business must be doing OK.”

“We get by,” declared Sian coyly.

I need hardly dwell upon the children’s excitement when they arrived from school.

Margaret and Sandie had collected them at the school gate because Jenny and Bea knew the ponies were arriving that Friday and all four children were itching to see them. They had already agreed turns and who was to share with whom. Sandie told me it was hard for her and Margaret to keep a straight face as they struggled not to tell the children about the other ponies as they drove to the cottage.

Sian and I had arranged the ponies two each to a loose box and her hunter was alone in the larger box. Fortunately, the ponies were all from Dot’s trekking centre and they knew each other well. There would be no fighting to re-establish any pecking order. Sian’s large hunter mare would have no problem from the ponies and would easily hold her own.

When the children arrived the car had not even stopped before the doors flung open and all four dashed to the stable block. There was a pregnant silence then all four started gabbling at once as they discovered four ponies.

“Mummy Beverly! Mummy Beverly! There are four!” Screamed Jenny as she re-emerged from the stables.

“Good counting darling. Your maths is excellent, go to the top of the class!” (I was delighted that she had started calling me 'mummy'!)

“But -, but-! Mummy! Why are there four?”

“How many children are there?”

“Four!” Her expression froze for a moment then a huge smile spread across her face as she dashed squealing back into the stables.

“Yes! Yes! They are ours! All of them! Honest!! One each!”

“Shhhh!” I admonished them as I followed Jenny into the building. “Stop all that shouting. You’ll frighten them!”

The children fell quiet and the ponies soon settled down again. Each child recognised the animal they had preferred the week before and they stared mesmerised at the animals though the door bars of the looseboxes..

“Aren’t you going to feed them?” Asked Sian.

“Can we?” Squealed Chenille.

“Shhh! Quiet again. You’ll frighten them and you wont be able to go into the loose boxes if they are frightened. Look. Hold these carrots flat on the palm of your hands like this and each of you give your own horse a little treat.”

Eager fingers each took a carrot and copied Sian as they pushed their hands through the feeding boxes. The carrots were immediately taken and confidence was gained on all sides.

Sian then slowly introduced each child to their own pony and showed them the first rudiments of good manners around horses. They proved eager pupils and within the hour, each child was mounted and heading for the paddock. Their eyes widened when Sian joined them on her huge hunter.

“Crickey! Gasped Martin as he looked up from his pony. He’s massive!”

“Not he Martin, she, she’s massive. She’s a mare.” Said Sian.

Margaret, Sandie and I looked on as the children were put through their first lesson.

“A job well done,” observed Sandie, “I think my work is finished here. I’m going to miss it.”

“You can always come and visit when you like,” I offered, “as a friend I mean, not professionally.”

“Well thank you. I’ll look forward to that. Oh; by the way, I've left a large envelope on your bed, it's a copy of the report I've prepared for Mrs Bodkin's Devonshire care team. You've done very well and I've told them that in the report. Your adoption is water tight now. Wild horses couldn't drag the girls past my report.""

"Thanks Sandie." I swallowed tearfully and turned away to hide my tears of relief and gratitude.

“Come on then," finished encouragingly as she patted me on my shoulder, "lets go and have tea, while they get on with their lesson. There isn’t much light left.

We went inside to make tea and a half hour later the children returned smelling of horses but blissfully happy.

“Are they all properly put to bed?” Sandie asked the children.

“Yes," replied Jenny. "Sian showed us what to do. We had to rub them down and then put out the feed. She’s just checking everything.”

Sian then appeared with her face wreathed in smiles. It was obvious she had rediscovered her true vocation. We settled down to eat around the kitchen table and I relaxed as I savoured the excited babble of four delighted children and one supremely happy adult.. Finally the children finished their homework and went up to bath. Sian and I were roped into shampoo duties and much fun ensued as four kids frolicked in the shower.
Then they returned downstairs where Margaret and Sandie had built up the fire. Martin savoured the extra time staying up late as the girls had to wait until their longer hair was dry.

He made a joke about 'girls always taking too long to dry their hair' and I grinned to myself as I heard the girls plotting their revenge.

‘Your for it tonight my boy.’ I thought.

Then the children retired to bed and Sandie read them a story while Margaret, Sian and I chatted downstairs. Later Sandie came down and we played cards.

“They’re full of it. They won’t get much sleep tonight.”

“Let them be.” Replied Margaret.

We thought no more about it and resumed playing cards. Occasionally, we heard a few squeals and giggles but there were no tears or arguments so we left them to it. I went to bed that night feeling at peace with the world.

My peace was short lived. On the Saturday morning, I was sitting at my window seat watching the weak autumn sunrise over the soft Dorset hills.

I was dressed in my usual sleeping attire. I'd chosen my deep pink all-in-one sleep suite, nightdress and peignoir. The usual morning rumble started erupting along the landing and I prepared myself for the inevitable morning invasion. The bedroom door burst open, and not three but four girls hurtled through the door.

I was stunned! For a moment I stared stupidly before recovering my wits. At all costs I dare not show any shock or disapproval concerning Martin’s new appearance. After recovering my composure, I stood up and made my way back to the bed as I smiled at the four children.

“Well, well. Who’s this pretty young lady then?” I asked, thinking I was playing along with the girl’s punishment of Martin because of his comment about drying their hair.

They followed me into the bed and snuggled under the duvet as Chenille asked.

“Do you like her?

“Well yes, of course’ I like all pretty little girls, but who’s this new young lady and what’s her name?” I persisted, thinking I was playing along with Martin’s punishment.

The three girls exchanged puzzled looks and it was obvious that they had not decided a girl’s name for Martin. They started arguing about a name whilst I studied Martin’s appearance. Under the pretty white silky nightie I spotted the outline of one of Jennifer’s ‘junior miss’ pink teddies. His makeup was also over done.

“Well darling. Who put you up to this then?” I asked him.

“They did.”

“Oh. And why?”

“Because I was laughing at them last night about drying their hair.”

“I see. And are you angry?”

Martin hesitated as he ran his fingers over his ankle length silky nightie. Then he looked up at me shyly and coinfessed nervously.

“Uhhmm; no. It actually feels quite nice.”

“Oh I’m sure it feels nice darling. Silky nighties always feel nice. But I asked you if you are angry.”

The girls fell silent as we all waited for his answer. After hesitating uncertainly he replied.

“No. Not really.”

“So,” I persisted, “did you find it nice sleeping in a nightgown?”

Martin stared at his sister Chenille before answering and I suspected this was not a new phenomenon. I caught Chenille’s eye and she nodded imperceptibly as Martin replied in a very subdued voice as a tiny tear glistened in his eye. I realised suddenly that the poor kid was frightened.

“Yes. You won’t tell will you? Jennifer and Beatrice said you were good at secrets”

My heart went out to him as my suspicions strengthened and all the ghastly torments of my own life surged up from my long forgotten memories. A tear glistened in my eye as I hugged him to me.

“Oh my gosh child. I’d never, never ever tell anybody. Doesn’t your mummy know?”

“No.” Whispered Martin as once again, Chenille confirmed the answer.

As I hugged him to me Chenille bit her lip nervously.

“Should we tell mummy?”

I decided that I’d better test the waters first so I said ‘no’ just to reassure Martin at this stage.

“No. We shouldn’t tell mummy yet. I’ll help sort this one out first. You girls go back to your bedroom and I’ll talk to Martin alone for a moment.”

The girls left and I asked Martin a few questions to reassure myself that he possibly was a transvestite. His answers more or less convinced me but he also expressed his biggest dread. Tearfully he declared he was terrified of being taken away from his mummy by the social workers if anybody found out. The previous custody battles had obviously affected him very badly.

“OK then darling. Right now if you don’t want to be discovered then you’d better go straight back to your bedroom and change back before Sian and Margaret get up.”

Martin crept back to the bedroom and I slipped down the landing to the far bedroom where Sandie still slept. I knocked quietly on her door.

“Yes. Who is it?”

“It’s Beverly,” I whispered softly, “can we speak?”

“Yes of course. Come in.”

I slipped in and got straight down to business.

“I’ve got some news for you.”

“Go on.” Replied Sandie.

“It’s Martin. I think he’s a transvestite.”

“Oh come on. Lighten up.”

“No. I’m serious. He’s just come to my room with the others and he was dressed as a girl.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious. He was wearing one of Beatrice’s frilliest nylon nighties and under it he was wearing one of Jennifer’s old teddies.

“Teddy?” Gasped Sandie incredulously. “Does Jennifer wear teddies?”

“Yes, and Beatrice. They’re both very fashion conscious. They saw one of mine hanging up to dry in the utility room and decided that they both wanted the same.”

“So where did you get them?”

“I had them made up. An old polish lady friend of mine is a wiz with a sowing machine. They’re nothing more than leotards without sleeves and with bootlace shoulder straps.”

“Wouldn’t they be a bit big for Martin?”

“No. They are Jenny’s old ones. They’re made out of a 'micro-fibre' type fabric and they easily stretch to fit Martin.”

“And he was definitely wearing one.”

“Of course he was. I’d recognise it anywhere. It was one of Jennifer’s. As Mummy Beverly, I’ve washed them often enough.!”

“So. He’s a transvestite. OK, I’ll take your expert opinion. Now what?”

“Well I’m worried. I’m afraid that people might think I had something to do with it.”

“And.” Pressed Sandie.

“Well of course I haven’t! This is the first time he’s ever stayed at this cottage. I’ve had absolutely nothing to do with him growing up.”

“So it’s just a coincidence then.”

“I’m not sure.”

“What d’you mean? What are you trying to say?”

“Well. I know his father.”

“Go on.” Pressed Sandie.

“Well I’m not sure I should tell you who his father is, but his father is also a transvestite.”

“So you think it’s hereditary?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of it being hereditary, at least not like that, a direct link from parent to child. However I’m convinced there’s a tranny gene; a propensity to become a tranny if the opportunity presents itself.”

“And how would the opportunity present itself?”

“Believe me! The opportunity always presents itself. All it needs is access to female clothing and if the transvestite tendency is there then bingo.”

“And how would this access to female clothing be possible?”

“Oh come on! Every transvestite boy has a mother! He sees a bit of lingerie or something and that’s it. If he’s got sisters then the opportunity doubles!”

“Oh. Yes. Stupid of me. Of course. So you think he’s a transvestite. How do you come by that conclusion?”

“Well, when he came into my room, I thought the girls had been teasing him by making him wear a nightie. But he wasn’t crying or upset. The girls said they were punishing him for laughing at them about the hair drying thing last night.”

“Oh yes,” said Sandie, “I remember when they were sitting in front of the fire lined up like four wise monkeys on the big settee..”

“That’s right. Anyway, when I asked him if he was upset or angry he confessed that he wasn’t. After some more subtle questions, I determined that he liked the nightie and the teddy. His sister Chenille, confirmed that he did it at home in her nightclothes. Neither Margaret or Sian appear to know.”

“So why was he prepared to come into your room?”

“I suspect that Jenny and Bea encouraged him. They knew I’d be sympathetic.”

“And where you?”

“Of course. I’ve been down that road.”

“Mmmm. Well this is a poser isn’t it? What d’you suggest we do?”

“Well I think Margaret and Sian would be sympathetic. They accept me for what I am and we are good friends.”

“But you don’t want to be the one to tell them?”

“Oh I’ve no problem with that. In fact, I’d be the ideal person to break the news. What I don’t want is you or the S.S. thinking I somehow instigated it or caused it. I promise you, this is the first time that Martin has ever stayed here or had anything other than a casual acquaintance with me.”

“Yes, well I understand your fears and I believe you. It’s just such a freakish coincidence.”

“I don’t think so. Remember what I told you. His biological father is also a tranny l. He has the same father as Chenille as well. They are half brother and sister.”

“What!”

“Yes. They have the same father. I’m not saying who he is, but he is a transvestite. In fact he introduced me to Margaret through her accountancy business. Margaret does the accounts for our ship. That’s why I’m pretty sure that Margaret and Sian won’t object. Margaret likes Martin’s father a lot. He did not make a pass when she was starting out in business. You can see how pretty Margaret is. It must have been a nightmare with people coming on to her expecting to get a piece of tail in exchange for their account.

He also introduced her to a lot of other gay people and a large piece of her business is now in the gay community. You know hairdressers, gay bars, clubs and all the usual stuff.”

“I see. Well are you going to tell them?”

“Of course. I’ll have to. Otherwise they might think I had some sort of puerile interest in Martin if I kept it quiet.”

“Well that’s fair. Yes I think it best.”

I made to leave and Sandie gasped.

“What! Right now?”

“Soonest done, soonest mended.”

“D’you want me to come?”

“No. They might feel hurt if they thought I had mentioned it to somebody else first. I spoke to you because I was nervous for myself.”

Sandie nodded sympathetically and I left her to get dressed as I slipped across the hall to Margaret and Sian’s room. I knocked on the door and waited. After a minute Sian answered.

“Who is it?”

“Beverly. It’s important.” I whispered hoarsely.

“There was another pause then the latch inside the door slid back and Sian’s face appeared. I motioned urgently to emphasise the need for silence. She let me in and I locked the door behind me.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, but I have to be quiet.”

“Go on,” encouraged Margaret who was till lying under the duvet with a somewhat flushed complexion.

“D’ you always lock the door?” I asked.

“Not at home.”

“Well that’s not important. It’s the children.” I hesitated.

“Go on.” Said Sian.

“Well. Do they cuddle up to you in bed sometimes?”

“Yes. Of course they do, almost every morning there’s nothing wrong with that!”

“No. Of course there isn’t. Mine do as well. It’s just that the four of them, well -, they came to my bedroom this morning.”

“Go on.”

“Well it was Martin.”

“What about him?” Asked Margaret nervously.

“Well. He -, he was wearing one of Beatrice’s nighties.”

Both lesbian mothers frowned uncertainly.

“What! Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m bloody sure! I saw it with my own eyes, they all jumped onto my bed then they burrowed under my duvet; just like they did yesterday morning. He also had one of Jennifer’s teddies on underneath the nightie.”

Margaret and Sian fell silent so I continued cautiously.

“I thought it was some sort of childish punishment by the girls for teasing them about the hair drying thing last night. I -, and I apologise for this, I asked him if he was upset.

He hesitated because he was afraid to say, but Chenille encouraged him and he told me he liked it.”

Margaret and Sian stared at me as uncertainty and fear showed in their eyes. After a painfully long silence, Margaret spoke.

“What are we to do?”

“Well,” I replied reassuringly, “if it is transvestism, then don’t show any anger. That will only make it worse. He’ll be frightened enough as it is. He begged me not to tell you.”

“Why would he do that? We’re not monsters!” Cried Sian.

“He’s frightened. He’s afraid that ‘they’ will take him away.”

Margaret and Sian paled as I said this and it became apparent that this was exactly their fear.

“Would they?” Swallowed Margaret anxiously.

“I don’t think so. Sandie would be the best to ask. She’s a leading authority on it these days.”

“What, you mean with you and the girls and everything?” Smiled Sian.

“Well that and all,” I agreed.

“When shall we speak to her?”

“Do it now. She’s just across the hall and she’ll be here until noon then she’s going back to London. Get some reassurance from her and then we can gently broach the subject with Martin.”

“That seems to be the best approach,” agreed Margaret as Sian nodded.

Margaret and Sian immediately got dressed and discovered that Sandie was already downstairs making coffee. When I arrived they were talking in subdued voices so the children upstairs wouldn’t hear. I poured my coffee and joined the huddle as Sandi explained the recent medical thinking. It was the usual pat stuff purveyed by most psychiatrists and there was little I could disagree with. The truth was, psychiatrists were really like the eunuch in the harem, they knew what transvestism was, they could describe it, they could demonstrate it but the couldn’t actually explain it.

But then, even after fifty years, I couldn’t explain it either. Looking from the inside out, -as I was want to do-, I felt there were possibly as many reasons for transvestism as there were transvestites. There certainly didn’t seem to be a part of the brain that was ‘different’ like the most recent thinking about homosexuality. Or at least nothing had been discovered yet. So for the moment there was no clinical pathology for Transvestism. No obvious genetic pointers.

I felt like putting the cat amongst the pigeons by asking Sandie to demonstrate a pathology, but I held my counsel. There would be nothing gained by setting Sandie on her back foot right now. For now, what she said wasn’t doing any harm and Margaret and Sian were being reassured. She said that transvestism wasn’t a disease, and it wasn’t illegal, and a dozen other things to reassure the mothers.

“But will it affect our custodial rights?” Begged Sian.

“Eh. No, it shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t! Why just shouldn’t? Can’t you be more definite than that?” Pleaded Sian.

“Nothing’s certain in the children’s courts,” conceded Sandie finally.

“Ain’t that the truth!” I amen’d.

“That’s not fair,” objected Sandie, “you’ve been treated fairly.”

I shrugged and nodded agreement. In all truth, Sandie, Mrs Bodkin and Judge Porter had all bent over backwards to allow me custody of my two, but in truth I felt it had more to do with the financial aspect than the girl’s supposed needs. It was only after Mrs Bodkin and Sandie had seen the girl’s happiness living at the cottage that they conceded the emotional arguments.

“So what’s your opinion Beverly?” Asked Sandie, now that I had eventually stuck my oar in. “Speaking as one with a bit more insight as it where?”

Sandie’s little barb didn’t hurt. She knew I was virtually bomb proof now; at least as far as my own transvestism went. As to my relationship with the girls, that would always be very vulnerable. I knew that Sandie knew all this and then I realised why she’d asked me the question. It was to reassure Margaret and Sian. This I felt qualified to do, so I answered.

“I’d let him alone. As I said earlier, let him know that you know about it but you won’t punish him. Reassure him that nobody’s going to ‘take him away’, support him if he needs it, and protect him if he needs protecting. Just like you would with any other kid. Make his home a safe haven, and I mean a safe haven. Let there be no risk of abuse such as homosexual rape. Trannies are not usually gay though some are, as you already know. Like you said earlier Sandie, it’s not illegal. I would also add that a person’s sexuality is their own private affair and that goes in spades for children. The only difference is that children need protecting and that protection is best served by loving understanding parents.”

Sandie smiled.

“I could hardly have put it better myself.”

“So who’s going to tell him that we know?” Asked Sian nervously.

“I will.” I replied, “He already knows that I know about it so it will take all the sting out of it if I tell him that you know and you’re not upset.”

“Thanks Bev,” sighed Margaret with relief, “you’ve come up trumps again.

With an approving nod from Sandie I returned upstairs and knocked softly on the children’s bedroom door. They were all dressed ready to go riding but I noticed that Martin was wearing a girl’s blouse and a pair of Beatrice’s tight fitting stretch jodhpurs with a side zip fastening. I invited all four to sit on the bed and explained.

“I’ve explained to Margaret, Sian and Sandie about your feelings Martin and they are not angry. Sandie doesn’t mind. She’s met lots of little boys like you so she knows all about it. It can’t be cured, so that’s that and she says that ‘they’ won’t be able to ‘take you away’ because of it. You’re safe with your mummies Sian and Margaret. In fact, Margaret and Sian were more upset than anything else and they were upset because you thought they would be angry. They are not angry.

They were surprised and upset but they understand now. I’ve explained it to them. Now you can all go down and have breakfast without any more ado.”

“See!” Squealed Jenny victoriously. “I told you Mummy Beverly would fix it!”

A tear of relief or gratitude or just plain happiness, I knew not which, escaped down Martin’s cheek and he buried his face in my lap. I gently stroked his hair as the girls left for breakfast then I picked him up and carried him down the stairs.

Sian met me at the bottom of the stairs and took Martin from my arms. There was also a tear in her eye but she hugged him and squeezed him like some long lost child as she gently placed him at the table. I turned to see Margaret and Sandie smiling as well and I envied Martin. How lucky he was to have so many understanding, caring women in his life. I took my coffee and slipped quietly into the conservatory as a lump formed in my throat. In the hubbub of breakfast, nobody seemed to notice my absence but I did not mind. I was glad of the conservatory. It provided a light airy warm space during the colder months. It was only after the children, Margaret and Sian had gone out to the horses that Sandie finally found me alone. I was staring out over the view and she settled into the seat beside me.

“Penny for your thoughts.” She said softly.

“I’m worried for him.” I replied.

“Why?”

“He’s got a long road to walk.”

“He’s got excellent support though.” Assured Sandie.

“D’you think he is safe though? I mean, are they likely to try and remove him from Sandie and Margaret.”

“No.” Said Sandie firmly. “He’s in the best place. Surrounded by caring understanding adults.”

“He’s gone riding dressed like that. I hope Sian doesn’t get ahead of herself and sticks to less public roads.”

“His jacket covers up the blouse. Look, there they go.”

I turned to see the five of them enter the larger paddock as Sian put each one through their paces. From a distance it was impossible to see what Martin was wearing. Sandie and I watched in silence until they opened the gate and stepped out into the lane. The last thing I saw was five black hats bobbing behind the hedge as each one disappeared until Only Sian on her bigger horse was visible.

“Well. I suppose I’d better pack. Duty calls and I’ve got to go back to London. I’ll miss it down here. You’ve got a wonderful cottage.”

She bent down to give me a peck on the cheek then slipped up to her bedroom to pack. I joined Margaret with mundane household chores.

This chapter dwells upon Sian And Margaret's decision to live at the 'cottage' The logistics prove to be perfect and the 'family' begins to grow. All in all a very sweet chapter with some surprising developments towards the end.

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We bid farewell to Sandie after lunch. The children were sorry to see her go and tears flowed profusely on all sides. She promised them that she would be down for Christmas and this cheered them up a little but it was a subdued household that watched her car disappear down the lane.

The children returned to the horses with Sian and after some training in the paddock they went out trekking onto a large hill called ‘The Dumplin’ behind the cottage. Margaret and I fell to chatting and reading the papers in the drawing room.

“Beverly, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh-oh. Go on,” I replied glancing up from the Sunday supplement I was reading.

“D’you think it would be better if Martin were to live here?”

“Oooh. I’m not sure about that. I mean -, what would social services say?”

“No. I don’t mean live with you, here in the cottage. I mean if we all came to live here.”

“Well the cottage is certainly big enough, but I’d be worried what Social
Services would make of it. I mean a transvestite man and a transvestite little boy under the same roof. It would only give them more ammunition if they decided to make a case.”

Margaret waited then let a short silence ensue between us. I knew of old, that this usually meant Margaret was about to make a suggestion. I studied her thoughtful expression and smiled.

“Go on. Penny for your thoughts?”

“Well -, and you must say immediately if you object, you know the two large stone barns on the opposite side of the yard.”

“Yee-es,” I replied cautiously.

“They’re huge spaces aren’t they?”

It was quite common in older farms for the barns to exceed the size of the farmhouse. They were after all, Georgian agriculture’s equivalent of factory buildings.

The two big stone barns that remained after the stable block refurbishment were still sound buildings. They formed one of the remaining two sides of the large quadrangle that comprised the farmyard. The fourth side comprised just smaller outbuildings and in truth I had considered doing those first as funds accumulated. I hadn’t really considered the two big stone barns for that would take a lot of money.

I had intended to refurbish them one day when funds ran to it but I was in no great hurry. I hadn’t had a reason to rush it; my cottage had been plenty big enough for any of my perceived needs. The barns were structurally sound but they were empty except for a few odds and ends. The rooves didn’t leak so they weren’t deteriorating.

Margaret steepled her fingers and pursed her lips thoughtfully before she spoke.

“Have you thought of a barn conversion?”

“What you mean turn them into apartments or something?”

“Exactly.”

“Well not really. I mean I bought the cottage with privacy in mind. I wanted somewhere where I could indulge my needs. The idea of having neighbours so close puts a bit of a damper on things.”

“But if those neighbours were sympathetic and supportive -?”

She let the question hang as realisation dawned in my slow thinking brain.
“Are you suggesting that you -?”

“Only if you’re willing. I mean, we already know about you’re needs and now little Martin needs somewhere safe away from prying eyes. This place would be as ideal for him as it is for you.”

The thought of having Sian and Margaret as neighbours living in one of the converted old barns was suddenly very attractive. I weighed up the pros and cons and decided there were very few, if any cons.

There would be support for Jenny and Beatrice as they grew up. That is, proper female support as they entered puberty and beyond. Despite their being lesbians Margaret and Sian were lovely people. As a kid in care I had suffered almost as much at the hands of misanthropic lesbians as I had at the hands of paedophiles, and I could not help but treat lesbians and gays with considerable trepidation.

I couldn’t help it. In this I had to confess to being wholly wrong morally and hypocritically prejudiced but as the Chinese say, ‘as is bent the twig, so grows the tree’. I just couldn’t help it. My childhood had left me flawed. My reactions to gays, I knew were unbalanced and prejudiced and it was my fault but I tended to bunch them together until I really got to know them as individuals.

I had slowly come to trust Margaret and Sian and they were only the second gay couple to actually penetrate my mental armour and actually enter my life proper. That says a lot for their natures for my armour had only been pierced once before and that was by Billy and Mac, my shipping partners and firm friends. With Billy and Mack it had been friendship for couple of years before I learned that they were an Item. That just shows how a couple of gays can easily hide their relationship if they choose for during those years we had been living cheek by jowl on the little tanker between Singapore and Pattaya.

Margaret was a very pretty ‘lipstick lesbian’ who would be able to readily guide the girls as they grew up. Sian of course, whilst still being feminine and very pretty, was a typical outdoor, athletic ‘horsy’ type.

If they lived in one of the converted barns, Sian would be ‘living over the shop’ with the horses and that would make the child-minding logistics much easier. She would be around the cottage and the barns nearly all the time unless she had business in Poole. There would always be an adult here for the kids and it meant I could slip up to London when the shipping affairs or my transvestite needs dictated. Although now I was virtually living full time as a woman those needs had somewhat atrophied. I found ample companionship in Sissy’s hotel

‘Yes,’ I concluded, ‘all in all, the arrangement had a lot of advantages.’

The four children would be company for each other and provide support for Martin. The girls had already accepted Martin’s needs.

I would have adult company and support in my own life as I brought up my girls and entered old age. I was already in my fifties after all and partially retired.

There would be two adults to care for Jenny and Beatrice when I went as relief master on my ship. Fortunately it was my own ship so there would be no objections there when I turned up as a woman in command.

Mac and Billy the regular master and chief engineer, were both gay and both sympathetic to my transvestism for I had long ago discussed this with them. Mac and Billy were the first gays to actually break down my fears about gays. Jesse and Supan also knew of my transvestism, so there would be no conflict there. Plenty of women were now commanding ships.

‘Yes’ I concluded, ‘there were lots of pros to Margaret and Sian living in one of the barns’. I nodded slowly and Margaret gave me a hug.

“Funds are a bit tight though Margaret,” I cautioned. “I was saving those for Jenny and Bea’s secondary schooling. It’ll take a while to scrape up a deposit for a mortgage.”

“No it won’t. Sian and I could sell up our town house in Poole or better still, rent out the apartment take out a mortgage on the equity in the whole house. There’s also room to split up our old apartment and create two apartments. We could keep one for any of us to use if we’re late in town overnight and we could rent the other one. I still need the shop under the flat as my office anyway. We could let one of the flats above the shop to two of the gay girls who work for me. They’re reliable girls and they would tear my arm off to live over the shop. It saves them travelling costs and they like the urban lifestyle. It’s a win — win situation all round.”

“My you have been thinking this through, haven’t you?”

“Ever since Martin came out, yes.”

“Came out!” I laughed. “Well I suppose it’s as good an expression for us trannies as it is for you gays.”

Margaret smiled and flung her arms around me to hug me.

“So what’s the next step?” I asked as I savoured her embrace.

Margaret had been the first known lesbian I had ever willingly allowed to embrace me such was the degree of trust she had engendered in the short time I had known her. She truly was a kind and loving woman.

“I’ll sort out the finances tomorrow,” she replied, “while you speak to the builders.”

“OK. Let’s keep it a secret from Sian and the girls though.”

“’The girls?” Queried Margaret.

“Sorry. I meant the children. It’s just that I’m already thinking of Martin as a girl. I’ll have to avoid that.”

“Well, if he’s happy with it and Sian’s happy, then I don’t see why we can’t include him amongst our ranks in ‘the monstrous regiment; at least up here in the cottage.”

“Yeah, but we’ll have to be careful. Mistakes in public could cause problems and what about school?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. It really depends upon Martin.”

“Well indeed it does!” I agreed. “But I don’t want to see him suffer or get hurt.”

Margaret became thoughtful.

“Where you that young when you started?”

“What, seven. No I was much younger. Seven’s about average. Most of us trannies reckon we became aware of stuff at about six to eight years old. As best I can remember I was about four or maybe five. That’s early; transvestism is almost one of my earliest memories.”

“Four? Really! It can’t be sexual at that age though can it?”

“Dunno’ that’s a hard one. I sometimes think I started a bit earlier than most because I’m quite close to being a transsexual. I sometimes think that people are not alert to children’s sexuality. On the other hand, I also liked the soft silky sensations. It was nice just to savour the soft silky embrace of my sister’s nightie as I slept. If soft and silky is synonymous with femininity then maybe that gives it a sexual dimension. As I got older however, there were definite sexual aspects. Can I be frank?”

“Ok. This isn’t too gross is it?”

“Well it is, a bit.”

“Margaret hesitated then agreed.

“OK. I think you’re too genteel to be gross, gross. Go on then, tell me.”

“I had my first orgasm in a pair of silky panties.”

Margaret smiled and giggled.

“Well so did I.”

I sat looking stupidly at her then burst out laughing. She smiled as she continued.

“Lots of us girls do, long before boys ever get into our panties.”

“Us girls,” I chuckled, “of course, us girls! Thanks Margaret that was a lovely compliment.”

As we chuckled and chatted about various ideas we eventually heard the splatter of rain hit the windows.

“Oh damn, it’s coming to rain look,” observed Margaret.

We stared out of the window, as the rain grew heavier until it was an absolute downpour.

“The girls! They’ll be soaking,” I said.

“We’d better build up the fire and they’ll want a hot shower.” Observed Margaret.

We set about preparing for five soaking arrivals and eventually we heard the clatter of hooves in the yard. Fortunately, they had taken their ‘bushman’ riding coats with them but the rain was so heavy that it had partially forced its way through the seams of their waxed bushman coats. Next they had to put the horses to bed before they could see to themselves and when they finally arrived at the cottage they were like drowned rats. However, they were all smiling and laughing so they had obviously enjoyed the experience despite the cold.

I reflected on how rewarding it always felt when any outdoor bad-weather task was finished and one could savour the final return to the warmth and shelter of a safe place. —Like Welsh Hill farmers returning off the snow swept hills to face a huge bowl of hot cowl and a blazing kitchen fire. - The children were laughing and playing as they splashed across the yard and made a game of the water pouring off their riding coats.
The water ran in rivulets over the flagstones in the back porch and I directed them to the utility room.

“Right! Get those soaking clothes off immediately and wrap these hot towels around you. Margaret is making some hot chocolate for you.”

With their outer coats and riding boots removed the four of them processed into the kitchen and started stripping off. I held out the huge warm towels that had been placed by the Aga and they each took one, as they emerged naked from their clothes. I noticed that Martin had been cross-dressed right down to a pair of Beatrice’s panties, but I said nothing and simply wrapped him in a towel just like the girls.
After I had hung assorted coats and other riding apparel to dry on the hanging ceiling racks and filled the washing machine with wet underwear, I joined the children in the drawing room. They were all cuddled up on the big settee, giggling (yet again) and cradling the mugs of chocolate in front of the roaring fire.
‘A blissful sight’ I thought as Margaret returned with yet more chocolate digestive and ‘hobnob biscuits.
Unlike Sian, Margaret was not a fanatical ‘outdoors’ type but she knew what made children happy. Soon they were squealing joyfully and chattering away with Margaret as I heard Sian finally arrive from the stables. I went to meet her.

“Everything OK?

“Fine. Just checking that the horses are properly stabled, they’re all dry and bedded.”

“Margaret is doing the same with the children. Did it go OK?”

“Oh heck yes. Even with the rain we had a fine old time. We met up with some other riders and trekked with them up over ‘The Dumplin’. They’re from some private school or something, over yonder.”

“Oh yes. That’s St Angie’s. It’s a girl’s school with day and boarders. I was planning for Jenny and Beatrice to go there when they’re older. Out on The Dumplin eh. It’s pretty exposed up there in this weather and I’ll bet that’s when the rain hit you.”

“Of course. When else? The wind blasted it straight into our faces. Absolutely howling it was.” She laughed.

The Dumplin was a small hill with lovely views over the Dorset coast. It was a popular spot in the summer. It’s exposure made it less visited in the winter months for the wind hit it square off the English Channel.

“Nobody else realised that Martin was wearing girl’s stuff did they?” I asked, “You know, the girls from the school.

“Oh gosh no. We had all put our coats on by then. The rain had started before we met the other party. Anyway, with the driving rain and splashed mud it was hard to identify anybody.”

I sagged with relief and Sian studied me concernedly before she admonished me softly.

“I’m not stupid Bev. He’s my little boy, you know.”

I sighed as I apologised to her.

“Sorry Sian, perhaps I’m being too paranoid.”

“Well no harm done, now any of that chocolate left? I’m perished.”

“I hope so; Margaret made a huge pot full.”

In the utility room Sian stripped nonchalantly down to her panties and bra. I had to turn away. She had a fabulous body and I was sorely tempted. As I discreetly stepped towards the kitchen she unthinkingly asked me to pass her the last big warm fluffy towel from the rail by the kitchen boiler. My hand trembled as I closed my eyes and held it out to her.

“What’s wrong with you?” She asked.

“I, - It, - It’s you Sian. It’s your ahem- body. I’m still a man don’t forget. I’m a tranny, I’m not gay!”

Her jaw fell open as she suddenly remembered.

“Oh hell, Bev! I’m sorry. I completely forgot. It’s just that you’re so -, so -, well -, like a girl -, or rather a lady.”

“Well thanks for the compliment but please don’t forget in future. You’re a very attractive girl! Now please, wrap this around you, while I go and get you a dressing gown.”

Sian grinned and wagged her head with amusement as she grabbed the proffered towel and quickly tucked it around her bust as she unfastened her bra and slipped out of her panties. She stood shivering by the kitchen Aga garnishing extra warmth until I returned with her dressing gown and a clean set of lingerie. She gave me a peck on the cheek by way of a thank you.

“I wish all men were like you Bev. We girls would be a lot safer.”

I gave a chuckle.

“What? She grinned inquisitively.

“Then there would be a fight for the nicest underwear every morning and a scrap for the bathroom, not to mention arguments about who was going to wear what.”

“And the makeup. Don’t forget the makeup.” Added Sian as she finally dried herself off.

We were still giggling as we joined the girls and Sian poured herself a mug of chocolate. The rain was still hammering at the windows, as it presaged the onset of winter.

“I think you’d better stay here tonight.” I suggested. “The rain becomes a torrent in these conditions and the ford at the bottom of the lane becomes dangerous except for four-by-fours. I haven’t had the lane or the ford tarmac’d yet and the mud is deep. I’ll have to wait until next summer when the stream virtually dries up.”

The children’s faces lit up at the prospect of another night together and a noticeable fricassee of pleasure also tingled through Margaret and Sian’s bones. I sensed the anticipation amongst them all so I went to make a meal. Margaret and Sian joined me in the kitchen while the girls squabbled and fought over a game of monopoly.

As I was peeling the vegetables, Margaret and Sian sidled up to me. Margaret spoke.

“So it’s true Bev, you really like girls then.”

“I thought you knew,” I replied.

“Well, we’ve never thought about it. The issue never arose” Answered Sian.

“Good. Then that’s that then. Here, start peeling the carrots.

I handed Sian the vegetable peeler as I rooted out some lamb cutlets from the freezer. I slammed them in the microwave to defrost them then started to lay the table. As I laid out the cutlery I caught Margaret and Sian studying me thoughtfully.

“What!” I demanded.

Margaret spoke softly.

“Can you -, you -, you know; still get it up?”

I looked at them with my arms akimbo as I wiped my face. A stray strand hair fell from my perm and I tugged it away from my eyes looking for the entire world like the harassed, over-worked, over-wrought housewife that I had become. I was beginning to suspect something sexual.

“Where’s this going?”

“I’m asking you -, can you still get it up? Do you still get erections?”

“Sshhhh! The children will hear you.”

Margaret and Sian exchanged smiles then Sian persisted.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Why should I? It’s got nothing to do with you!”

“Why d’you say that?”

“Well it hasn’t. My life is mine. Where I go and what I do as regards sex, is nothing to do with you!”

“Come off it Bev! When did you last get your bones jumped?”

I fell silent for I could hardly believe my ears. I asked myself if I was hearing this right. ‘Could these two actually be propositioning me?’

“It’s been a while, not that it’s anything to do with you.”

“And why’s that?” Demanded Margaret.

“Well it’s since Billy, Mac and I paid off the last ship if you must know; that’s before we won the Iran contract. I was captain of a small Singaporean coastal tanker trading betwixt Pattaya and Singapore. The girl was a hooker in Thailand and I grew fond of her but like seaman-hooker relationships, it broke up when the ship changed charters and stopped visiting. I’m not proud of it. I suppose it’s been nearly two years. Since then, what with the children and all; well, there hasn’t been an opportunity. I have to look after my girls.”

“So it’s been some time then?”

“Well -, actually -, yes. But what d’you want to know for?”

“Hmm. Haven’t you got it yet?” Asked Sian.

“Well -, I think I’ve -, I’ve got it but I don’t believe it.”

“Why?”

“Well you two are gay. One thing I’ve learned is that lesbian’s, especially lesbian couples don’t go with men and especially a man that looks like a harassed housewife. . I mean you hear it all the time, don’t you?”

“What’s that,” pressed Margaret.
“Oh, you know, the voyeurism thing, some dumb man propositioning a lesbian couple to let them watch, or even participate. It’s a pain and I quite understand why lesbians get sick of it. It invariably leads to trouble. Don’t forget, I’ve been around a few years.” I learned long ago that lesbian’s don’t mix with men!”

“But the question is Bev; are you a man?”

“Now there’s a question isn’t it.” I countered cautiously. I was not going to be drawn on this issue. “Do you think I’m a man?”

Margaret and Sian glanced at each other, smiled then looked again at me.

“You don’t look like a man. In fact under all that harassed housewife thing, you’re actually quite pretty. You could give any Hollywood fifty-year-old a run for her money.”

“Yeah. Well I work hard at that. So why would you two ever want to ‘jump my bones’, as you so succinctly put it?”

“Would you like it if we did?” Asked Margaret bluntly.

“Of course I would. I’m heterosexual and you’re both stunningly attractive. My cock head says yes! Yes! Yes!!! But my sensible head says ‘Beverly beware! Here be dragons!”

“That sounds awfully clinical.” Sulked Margaret.

“Well clinical is as clinical does. Let’s not talk about it now. I want to get the dinner finished. Anyway the whole idea is a joke. You’re lesbians and I know that you don’t like men. I think you’re trying to wind me up but if you want to talk further about it, I think it’s do it after the girls have gone to bed.”

“Girls!” Wondered Sian, “what girls?”

“Uuhm yes Sian,” interceded Margaret. “Bev and I thought it better to treat all four children as girls.”

“Well I suppose it makes sense. I prefer girls anyway,” observed Sian.

I gave her a wry, sardonic smile and just wagged my head with amusement.

“Well Martin has made it quite clear he prefers to be accepted as a little girl,” added Margaret.

“But what about school tomorrow?” Wondered Sian.

“He’ll have to be little boy for school times. Though I don’t think he’ll much like it.”

“Poor little sod!” I remarked softly as I had a brief flashback.

“Amen to that,” finished Margaret as I checked the lamb cutlets.

“Was it difficult for you? The school thing I mean.” Asked Sian.

“Yeah; and some!” I replied. “There wasn’t much school as you would think of school but Borstal was, - well; let’s not go there again. Tell the girls to wind up the monopoly game; dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Hmmmm! That smells nice. You’re not a bad cook are you?”

“Needs must when the devil cracks his whip,” I grinned; “and I’ll bet you’ve worked up an appetite.”

Sian nodded vigorously. Soon we were gathered around the table and the chatter fell to horses and school. I noticed that Martin was rather quiet and I resolved to have a long chat with him before bedtime.
It was obvious he wasn’t happy about having to dress as a boy for school but unfortunately, there was no alternative for now. Indeed, I couldn’t see any alternative until Martin passed his sixteenth or even his eighteenth birthday. Childhood was not an easy road for my kind and Britain wasn’t Holland. It was the not knowing where or what we transvestites wanted to be on the scale of the sexual condition. Every one of us seemed to have a particular and often very private need. What was worse was that our needs seemed to change with age and mood, not to mention circumstance or opportunity. Yes, my heart went out to Martin. No wonder he as so introspective at dinner.

As we adults gathered the dishes, I intimated to Margaret and Sian that I thought Martin and I needed a little chat.

“Nothing too intrusive mind,” I told them, “Just a brief opportunity for Martin to lower his guard without feeling threatened and thus perhaps confide in someone he can trust; someone who’s walked the walk.”

To protect my self, I suggested that Sian listen at the keyhole whilst Margaret put the other girls to bed. I also slipped a small tape recorder between my breasts where the bulge would not show.
“I’ll speak to him on the settee by the door to the hall. That way you can actually listen from the hall through the keyhole and act as both sentinel and witness.” I suggested to Sian.

She nodded thoughtfully and we prepared the plan. We pushed the other settee a little closer to the hall door without it being too obvious then as Margaret herded the other girls up the stairs I gently tapped Martin on the shoulder.

“D’you want to chat about tomorrow in school?” I asked softly.

He hesitated then nodded as his gaze fell to the floor and his eyes moistened.

“Before we start,” I said, “I have to let you into a big secret.”

“What’s that?” He croaked curiously.

“Well I was once a little boy just like you are now; a little boy who used to like to wear frocks. So I do know just how you are feeling. D’you want to give me a hug while we chat about it?”

His eyes widened with complete surprise at my confession and he almost leapt onto my knee as I sensed his utter relief. The poor kid probably thought he was the only one like himself in the whole world. I had at his age. I opened up gently.

“Good, now you know that there are other boys like you, it doesn’t feel so bad does it?”

He nodded his head and cwtched up to me as he pressed his head against my breasts.

“So; what are you most frightened of?” I asked him softly.

“Will they be able to tell?” He croaked nervously through his dry throat.

“What? That you like being a girl?”

He nodded vigorously.

“Oh no. Don’t worry about that. It doesn’t show on the outside. Nobody can tell what you’re feeling unless you tell them.”

“What about my sisters? What if they tell?”

“Oh I think we can trust your sisters. Chenille’s known about this since the summer and she’s never told anybody. That’s why even your mummies didn’t know until this morning. Nobody can know unless they are told about it and Chenille has never told anybody, not even her friends in her class at school. Now Jenny and Bea know about me and they don’t tell other people. It’s private you see. So now you can let this be your big secret OK.”

“What about Jenny and Bea?”

“Oh don’t worry about them. They can keep secrets, they keep mine. Now you will need somebody to help you through this time until you’re a grown-up. I’ll be here for you. OK. Your mummies and your sisters never tell tales and they also know how to help you. Remember what Jenny said to you this morning? She said I wouldn’t be angry if you told me and they said I would explain to your mummies. They were right weren’t they? That’s because I’m exactly like you and your mummies know that. I can be your father confessor if you like.”

Martin nodded tearfully and buried his head against my breast as I stroked his head comfortingly. I knew from long experience that at this stage his cross-dressing needs were probably not sexual. He was too young for that. At his age they were just a mechanism that allowed him to express himself as he wanted.

“You see, I explained, Jenny and Bea know when to tell the truth and when not to say anything. It’s not lying; it’s just keeping important things a secret so as not to hurt people.”

“So nobody will know if I’m a girl sometimes?”

“Do you want to be a girl?” I asked.

Martin fell silent as he considered the question. I could see the confusion rising in his mind so I sidestepped any need for an answer.

“Well let’s not worry about that for now. Let’s just keep it a secret until you decide, OK?”

“The boys at school would make fun of me if I did want to be a girl.” He added pensively.

“Yes,” I agreed, “they probably would. Sometime boys can be very stupid and very cruel so let’s keep it a secret for now, OK?”

He freed himself from my embrace and looked directly into my eyes then smiled bravely.

“Ok then. I’ll be a girl at home and a boy in school.”

“OK.” I replied, keeping my answer simple to avoid any further complications. That was exactly the scenario his mothers wanted for him. Perhaps I had been a bit manipulative but it seemed to all us adults that this was really the only practical way to go.

We carried on chatting softly as he pumped me with question after question. I answered honestly, and sometimes told him I would not answer certain questions because I considered them private. . The questions he put indicated that he considered me a woman.

I had to explain to him that even though I was the same as him; he could not look ‘down there’ because that was private stuff that only adults did. If I had allowed it, it might have put my own lifestyle in jeopardy not to mention Jenny and Bea’s. Eventually he had satisfied his fears and curiosities and he settled to snuggle up to me on the settee. I stroked his head to reassure him as I pointed out the time.

“I think your sisters will be wondering where you are. Time for bed don’t you think?”

Thus reassured, he slipped off the settee and made his way to bed. I bid him ‘Goodnight’ loudly to alert Sian listening at the door. When he entered the hall, he found her apparently making her way to the kitchen to prepare yet more chocolate drinks. Once Martin had gone upstairs to join Margaret and the girls I discussed things with Sian while the kettle boiled.

“What d’you think?” She asked uncertainly.

“Well he appears to be following the classic development of a transvestite.”

“Like you,” replied Sian.

“Well, - yes. Like me, if you want to think of it that way but I can’t say yet if he’s heterosexual or gay or anything else.”

“Are there other ways beside hetero and gay?” Asked Sian.

“Oh yes. Oh most certainly. There’s other different ways. Anyway, I’ve got it all on tape here. I suggest you let Sandie listen to it and she can make of it what she will.”

I handed her the little tape and poured the chocolate out into seven mugs.
“Shall I take theirs up, or will you?” I asked.

“Let me. The more often Martin gets used to me seeing him dressed in a nightie, the easier it will be for all of us.”

“Yes. That’s probably true love. Go on, he’ll be ready for bed by now. Go and give him the same ‘mother — daughter’ kisses you give the other girls.”

Sian smiled gratefully and picked her way upstairs with the tray full of their drinks and the biscuits. I retreated to the drawing room with my own mug and tried to watch the television. It was useless; my mind was elsewhere as I racked my brains to find a solution for Martin.

The truth was that I probably knew the solution. Martin wanted to dress as a girl and live as a girl, the problem was that medical convention and social mores would be flouted.

I could hear the accusations ringing in my ears.

‘He’s too young to understand!’

‘His family background has caused it!’

‘Just look at his so called parents!’

‘He needs a proper father figure.’

‘It’s too early to start hormones!’

‘Oh yes,’ I thought angrily, ‘it’s always too early to start hormones.’

‘The child doesn’t understand! What if he changes his mind?’

On and on and on the arguments would rage because the truth was, doctors could only try to look into a transvestite’s mind from the outside, and even then their so called psychiatric skill was a pretty opaque window. Only we transvestites could look ‘out’ as well as ‘in’, to garnish both the necessary perspectives!’

“Oh yes,” I mumbled softly to myself. “With Martin’s family structure and background, the social workers and psychiatrists would have feeding frenzy in the family courts.”

From what Martin had told me, it seemed we had a lot in common. I knew I had always wanted to live as a woman but look what had happened to my own life. The less said about my adolescence the better, whilst for most of my adult life nothing could be further from a womanly existence than thirty odd years of seafaring. Thirty wasted years as far as my personal contentment was concerned. I would need to have a long chat with Sandie to get her to understand and then keep her on board.

Finally Margaret and Sian came down after reading the girls a story. We chatted at length about what was best for the boy then we prepared a list of questions for Sandie I already knew the answer to most of the questions but it would be politic to keep Sandie on our side.
If she was able to have a constructive input into Marin’s well being, she would probably side with the boy’s needs and wants if things ever got litigious.

After we had exhausted all ideas and altered the list several times, I yawned and declared myself ready for bed.

“OK darling, you go up. Margaret and I want to chat a bit longer.”

”OK. See you in the morning.” I sighed. “Good night.”

Soon I was showered and dressed in my favourite silky night attire and luxuriating between my satin sheets. I contemplated reading another chapter of my book but then decided on more agreeable activities.

I was gently pleasuring myself when I heard the soft click of my bedroom door. I left it unlocked now in case the girls wanted to garnish some comfort in the night, - bad dreams or thunder, whatever. I hesitated and tried to make out who was entering but the storm clouds made the night utterly black and the wind drowned any footfall.

I was always alert to a possible burglary or worse, a homophobic attack. Transvestites have to be and this transvestite had long prepared for any eventuality. I slipped quickly out of the far side of my bed and reached for a short metal bar I kept down the side of my bedside table. My actions were relatively silent.
I knew the soft rustle of my silky nightie against my satin sheets sounded like nothing more than the ordinary movements of a sleeping person. The intruder would have little idea that I had vacated the bed. Being familiar with my own bedroom, it was obviously better for me to leave any lights off. I waited poised in the darkest corner of the room and listened as the floorboards creaked softly.

The creaks of the old cottage floorboards each had a distinctive note and gave me a good idea of where the intruder’s feet were. Then I heard two simultaneous different sounds and realised there were two intruders treading on two different floorboards.

The creaking of the floorboards stopped and I heard hands rustling upon my satin bed sheets. Next came a very soft whisper.

“She’s not here”

I sagged with relief. I knew that voice.

“Oh yes she is!” I whispered back. “What do you want?”

“Oh!” Came a startled reply. “Well, - you actually,” came back Sian’s disembodied giggle.

I slid back onto the bed, still holding my metal bar as I pulled the duvet over me. Knowing fingers groped gently until one hand fetched up against the metal bar.

“Ooooh. Somebody’s pleased we’ve come!” Giggled Margaret.

I tugged the bar from her grasp and pushed it under the pillows as the mattress sagged with the extra weight.
“Aaahh. And I was hoping that was your friend.” Sighed Margaret.
I still found it hard to believe what was happening. Yes, I knew the girls had joked about such things earlier but I thought that was exactly what it was, a joke.

“You stupid fools, I could have killed you.”

“Oh! You wouldn’t do that would you?”

“It’s a bloody good job you whispered to each other.”

I felt two bodies manoeuvring themselves either side of me then a delicate little hand slowly reached down to test my responses. Needless to say, I was already excited. My doctor had been very careful with balancing my hormone treatments, and I still had a fairly robust libido. Margaret gasped as her fingers fetched up against my stiff, silk encased organ.

“Ooooh! Someone is glad to see us!” Squeaked Margaret. “Feel this Sian! Sissy can’t get one of these anymore.”

Sian pressed up to my butt like two spoons in a drawer then reached over and joined Margaret’s fingers. She frotted her fingers against the slippery silk of my silky sleep suit then gently pressed her palm against the stiff lump under my control panties

“Mmmm! You’d better get that those off.”

I squirmed nervously, for I still suspected their motives. I’d seen too many transvestites hurt and betrayed by girls and many of these girls had been lesbians. Margaret and Sian’s actions left me suspicious.

‘Where they really interested in having sex with me, a shemale transvestite, or where they lining me up for some bizarre con trick. I tensed nervously as Margaret’s urgent fingers groped blindly at the laces and buttons of my peignoir, nightdress and sleep suite.

“Crikey Bev. Why d’you wear all this stuff?”

“I like silky. Ooo-ooh! Watch what you’re doing, they’re sensitive.”

Margaret’s fingers stopped momentarily as she fingered the stiff, turgid swellings of my excited nipples. Being a girl, she instantly recognised these feminine beacons signalling my arousal.

“Gosh. You are horny aren’t you? Hey Sian, cop a feel of these,” she giggled.”

“Gerroff!” I protested feebly as her knowing fingers brought me to even greater heights. My nipples felt as though they would burst and I squirmed futilely as my body took control and I started to gasp feverishly.

“Pleasse! Stoppit. You’re making me -, pleeasse! Stoppit!”

I squirmed and thrashed but it was no use. Sian was quite a strong girl and was just about my equal in strength. The hormones had long reduced what muscle mass I had ever had so I was now not able to resist Sian’s natural athleticism. This and my naturally small stature had turned me into a weak and feeble girl. Once I realised I could not overcome their combined efforts I submitted to their will.

I lay still as twenty fingers busied themselves at the ties and fastenings of my nightclothes then my nightclothes were gently peeled like the layers of an onion. At every opportunity, knowledgeable fingers probed and tested my soft ripe curves.

“Mmmm,” sighed Margaret as she gently cupped my generous globes and softly tongued my nipples, “your really are a girl up here aren’t you?”

I croaked gutturally as her machinations sent lustful waves of desire surging through my overloaded body. Then I felt Sian’s powerful fingers easing the waistband of my control panties down over my butt to leave me utterly naked and feeling vulnerable. I suppose I could have struggled but I was too confused. My body was screaming for pleasurable relief whilst my mind was still frightened of their undeclared intentions. The same question kept turning in my mind.

‘Can I trust them? Can I trust them, or was this yet another lesbian honey trap?

Eventually, I was stark naked under my duvet then I felt Margaret slip off her panties and the musky warmth of her body wafted like a vapour under the sheets.

“Shall I remove my suspenders and stockings?” She whispered provocatively.

“Is this for real?” I croaked as the tension gripped my voice.

“Of course it’s for real. What are you afraid of?”

I twisted my neck on the pillow to ask Sian.

“Are you OK with this? I don’t want to cause trouble between you; I don’t want to cause you to break up or anything. Think of Chenille and Martin.”

“Why. That’s nicest thing you could have said. It’s them we are thinking of.”

“What d’you mean?” I whispered as Margaret’s stocking clad silky smooth thighs softly enveloped my girlish hips.

“Ooh Sian!” Giggled Margaret, “she’s much softer and rounder than you.”

“Not everywhere, I’ll bet,” giggled Sian.

I felt the portals of Margaret’s warm damp sex just rest tantalisingly against the tip of my urgent hardness as she replied to Sian.

“Oh no darling. She’s nice and hard where it matters much better than Sissy.” Then she whispered to me, her voice hoarse with lust, - “Mmmm. Yes, you’re really up for it, aren’t you my pet?”

She leant forward to kiss me and her breasts brushed provocatively against mine. I gasped as our stiff responsive nipples grazed against each other. My sensuous twitch caused my rock hard sex to probe inquisitively into the outer portals of Margaret’s pussy and she squeaked with pleasure.

“Oh. That’s nice, that’s just right and you were so gentle darling.”

As she gentle gyrated her hips and settled further down my cock she turned again to Sian.

“You’ll just love this when it’s your turn; her body’s so girly and soft and gentle and obedient.”

“Like a well trained mare,” giggled Sian as she gently brought her fingers between Margaret and my nipples.

“Mmmm. This is no mare darling! This is one beautiful stallion with a beautiful hard cock. She’s got a lovely coat though, so soft and cuddly and warm. It’s not rough and hairy at all. This is one stallion I will always like to ride.”

“She’ll make a good stud then?” Replied Sian.

“Oh yes. I’ll bet she’ll sire some beautiful foals.”

“Stoppit! You’re making me jealous,” said Sian.

I suddenly realised what Margaret and Sian were up to. They were getting themselves pregnant!

I wasn’t sure whether to be angry or happy. The idea of becoming a father excited me and intrigued me yet I was still frightened. What if my children rejected me if or when they found out that their father was a transvestite?

At that moment, I was too far-gone to speak. My body was starting to respond as any heterosexual male would when a beautiful woman was eagerly riding his cock. I could feel my orgasm starting to boil in my loins and I gave a little squeak to warn Margaret. She sensed the tension and gripped me firmly with her soft slender thighs as we ascended into that mutual nirvarna so eagerly aspired to by every loving couple.

Finally we exploded feverishly as our needs overwhelmed us and I felt my cock fetch up against Margaret’s cervix. She let out a squeal of surprise but continued urgently pounding her hips as she greedily devoured my seed.

Strangely her needs mirrored mine as we settled in a mutual embrace feeling our hearts thundering together causing our breasts to vibrate like jelly moulds. Even as we squeezed together, I could feel our stiff turgid nipples ‘fencing’ erotically as our orgasms rolled like thunder through our bodies. Then slowly, our needs subsided until we slumped, locked in an embrace and gasping for air.

For long seconds we lay recovering until Margaret relaxed her leg lock around my hips and we gently squirmed to lie facing each other with our legs entwined and yet still conjoined. Margaret sighed and crushed her lips against mine before mumbling.

“Mmmm! Where did you learn to make it last like that?”

“You’ve been conjoined for over twenty minutes,” giggled Sian.

“Who was counting then?” I demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“Me of course,” replied Sian, “you two were too busy.”

I had no answer for this but I had to wonder. My orgasm had definitely felt somehow different. The climax somehow seemed less violent and short but it had somehow reached the same intensity over a longer gentler peak.
As Margaret gently humped her pubis against mine, I realised what had happened. My hormones had feminised my orgasms. I now orgasmed like a girl. The waves of pleasure had rolled through my body in progressively larger cycles until my climax had reached its conclusion.
Even my ejaculations had been longer slower pulses of intense delight instead of the explosive, short-lived spurts of my masculine youth.

My orgasm now more resembled a woman’s than a man’s and this had caused me to climax in much closer synchronisation with my lover. I smiled to myself as I realised the import of this development. I had become a lesbian’s shemale dream. I felt Sian’s inquisitive fingers investigating our union and twitched when she finally inveigled her hand between Margaret and I.

“What about my turn,” begged Sian?

“Let me recover darling. I’m not all woman yet. I’m not sure about multiple orgasms. It still takes me a bit of time to recharge.”

“Mmm. That’s a pity. Be quick then.”

Margaret giggled at Sian’s impatience.

“Don’t you worry lover. Once this little she-male’s given you a seeing to like I’ve just had, you’ll be well sorted.”

“Well move over then sister,” urged Sian.

Margaret and I gently untangled our embrace and slipped into the bathroom for a brief clean up before rejoining Sian in the bed. As we washed, Margaret smiled.

“You haven’t had it away for some time have you. I can tell. I feel really full in there.”

“Well if you want a baby love, don’t lose any.”

“Oh don’t worry lover-girl, Sian and I are right at our fertile period. We’re in total synch because of our intimacy.”

I knew about the strange phenomenon where women living in close company often harmonised their female cycles and I smiled knowingly.

“So you both want babies by me. Why didn’t you just go down the ‘turkey-baster’ route, like you did with Sissy?

“You’re prettier than Sissy -, more feminine and girly. More importantly, that ‘turkey baster’ between your legs is much more reliable, and it’s nicer to use. Sian and I are quite turned on by you, you girly boy!”

“Mmmm. Thanks for the compliment.”

I kissed her and we stepped out of the shower to dry ourselves. Next was the gauntlet from the bathroom to the bed. I was naked and feeling cold as I dashed to the bed.

“Brrr!” I squeaked. “I hope you’ve kept the bed warm, it’s cold without my night clothes.”

“Jump in,” encouraged Sian, “there’s always a warm spot for a pretty girl.”

She patted the mattress beside her and I accepted her invitation. I didn’t rush into it though. One thing my femininity had taught me was not to go at things like a bull at a gate. I slithered onto the satin sheets and gently reached out to touch her as Margaret slid onto the bed behind me and we all three gently snuggled up under the duvet. Sian however was having no prevarication, her libido had been tantalised during my and Margaret’s earlier fun and now Sian wanted her rightful servings.

“Come here you delectable creature!” She giggled as her hands wrapped around my waist. She pulled me tight against her then groped eagerly for my already stiffening cock. I squeaked nervously.

“Gently darling, gently,” I protested, (though not very strongly,) “you could hurt a girly boy if you grab her like that.”

Margaret giggled for she had quickly determined Sian’s actions. She did exactly as Sian had done earlier and spooned up tight to my butt as her fingers ascertained what Sian had already concluded. I was horny again!

“Mmmm. Some girl!” Chuckled Sian as her fingers tested my hardness to ensure I was obviously ready. Once again, my body had betrayed me. A real girl could always hide her real feelings and make a pretence of reluctance or modesty. For a naked shemale however, there was no hope of hiding her body’s feelings. Sian was having none of my supposed protests and she urgently engulfed my cock with her greedy maw.

“Mmmm! Oooh yyyessss!” She sighed as her hips started pumping eagerly. “Now this is how it should be.” She growled.

I had little doubt what she meant by these words. For it was obvious that whatever Sian’s emotional and sexual perspectives might have been, this peculiarly heterosexual union was definitely satiating her physical needs.

As she humped eagerly away I wondered how she reconciled her declared lesbianism with this very heterosexual relationship. As she bounced on top of me just as Margaret had done, I asked curiously, and also a bit stupidly.

“Is this nice for you like this?”

“Of course it is you silly girl!” She gasped,” now shut up and hump!”

Obediently, I followed her orders and gently started ‘humping’ to Sian’s rhythms.

“That’s it girl! Just like that, niccee and slooowww and gentle!”

I found myself savouring Sian’s domination and felt fulfilled that my obedience could please her. The sense of total surrender overtook me and my eyelids became heavy with passion as Sian’s needs overtook her. Fortunately, Sian was as considerate of me as she was of the horses in her care. She did not hit or bruise me, or dig her nails in me or bite me in some fit of passion; in fact, I was pleasantly surprised. Despite her powerful athleticism, Sian was a very gentle lover. Because the mechanics of our union were reversed I felt just like a tender and nervous virgin girl being taken by a really powerful though protective and considerate lover. I had never felt so ‘complete’.

As Sian slowly climaxed, I found myself responding to her needs and strangely my seed seemed to be sucked from me even though I was definitely ejaculating. Then she collapsed onto me and I gasped from her weight.

“Oooff!”

“Oh I’m sorry darling!”

She re-adjusted her position but retained my inquisitive cock inside her by some sort of inexplicable suction. This inevitable kept me hard for my libido now had a female durability. Just as my orgasms now followed the long slow female sine wave, so was my libido similarly extended. Sian sighed contentedly as we lay face to face with our heads on the same pillow and our tits meshing sensitively whilst our loins stayed ‘hooked’ together.

Behind me I felt Margaret gently spooning against me as her knowing fingers joined Sian’s in caressing my soft girly curves.

I was in heaven and so were Margaret and Sian.

.

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.

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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.

 

This chapter describes the run up to Christmas and a delightful Christmas present for Beverly.

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While Judge Elizabeth Porter and the others were busy buying presents for the Christmas house-warming party, Margaret, Sian and I chatted as we added the final touches to the barn conversion.

"When you were alone with her did she say anything or allude to anything?” I pumped Sian.

“She acknowledged that she remembered us.”

“And?” I pressed.

“Well her lesbianism was the elephant in the room. Not that we made an issue of it, in fact I think it brought her closer to us; sisters under the skin and all that. Though she did admit to being shocked to meet us again.”

“I’ll bet. She went white when she first saw you. I’m surprised that Sandie or Mrs Bodkin didn’t notice.”

“I think Sandie suspects something. She kept giving us long looks when they rejoined us.”

“Yeah,” I added, “she said Elizabeth was pussyfooting around you.”

“But did she suspect anything else.” Added Margaret.

“She didn’t allude to anything else. Elizabeth doesn’t come across as outwardly gay so there’s nothing that Sandie can get a handle on.” I said reassuringly.

“I don’t know,” said Margaret, “Sandie’s pretty sharp.”

“Well provided we don’t spill the beans, and we won’t!” added Sian menacingly, “then things should go smoothly.”

“Yeah, provided Elizabeth doesn’t give herself away. She’s pretty demonstrative when she’s fired up. She’s known as hot stuff in the club in Birmingham.”

“Well Birmingham’s a long way from Dorset,” I finished.

“Shit!” Cursed Sian.

“What?” I replied.

“Dorothy and Daisy! The dancers at the club! They’re coming tonight!”

I went cold as Margaret explained further.

“Dammit! They’ll be a disaster if they find out!”

“Go on,” I urged nervously.

“Well, - there are four types of communication on this planet, - tel-ephony, tel-egraphy, tel-epathy and tell Dot.” Declared Sian.

“And they’ll already be on their way.” I surmised gloomily

“You bet. They love a party.”

“Are they really that bad?” I asked.

“They’re known as Dot and Dash the Morse twins. If you want anything broadcasted, tell them.”

“Do they know Elizabeth is a judge?”

“No. Nobody at the club knows except us and her sleeping partner Jane, who isn’t coming tonight.”

“So if none of us or the children call her judge or ‘your honour’, then we could carry it off.” I offered hopefully.

“We’ll have to tell the children to call her Aunty Elizabeth.”

“That should work. I’ll tell the girls now.”

“OK. I’ll warn Elizabeth when she returns.”

We managed to pull it off. Margaret and I explained to the girls that Elizabeth was now our friend and they could call her Aunty Elizabeth, whilst Sian got Elizabeth to one side and warned her that ‘Dot and Dash’ were coming. She told us later that Elizabeth nearly decided to go home there and then.

Fortunately, Elizabeth had splashed out on presents for the children. The presents proved an excellent ‘ice-breaker’ for Elizabeth gave them to the girls immediately after Sian had warned her about Dot and Dash.

On receipt of the ‘early Christmas arrivals’, the materialistic little ‘angels’ had fallen in love with Elizabeth immediately. ‘Aunty Elizabeth’ it became from that moment onwards.

We got around the same problem with Sandie and Mrs Bodkin by explaining that Dot and Daisy were a couple of Margaret, Sian and Sissy’s friends who sailed a bit close to the legal wind in their business affairs, (which was true,) and it might be wise not to let anybody know Elizabeth was a judge. This ploy also worked. Sandie and Mrs Bodkin simply continued calling Elizabeth by her first name.

By nine o’clock the party was in full swing. Fortunately, most of the guests were known and trusted friends who knew not to raise too much of a ruckus or create too much noise. By midnight we were all exhausted and several pr-booked minibuses arrived to ferry the drunken revellers home. Those who’d travelled were staying at Sissy’s hotel. Cars would be collected the following day as and when people recovered.
Just after midnight, I was carrying a sleeping Jennifer across the yard in my arms to her bedroom whilst Sandie followed with the sleeping Beatrice. Elizabeth was a little the worse for wear and Mrs Bodkin had to help her to her room that we had hastily prepared after Sian and Margaret had vacated it earlier that evening. Goodnights were shouted across the yard and eventually peace settled at about one o’clock.

The morning of Christmas Eve dawned very cold, grey and windy. Had there been no wind there would have been a hard frost but the clouds and South-westerly oceanic winds kept the frost at bay. However those same winds were full of moisture and it was very cold.

‘There might even be a bit of snow’ I thought.

I sat on my favourite window seat and contemplated the view. It seemed gone forever where those white snowbound Christmases of my early childhood. I watched a few crows and rooks battling the wind and scratching in the fields for food. ‘They wouldn’t find much at this time of year’ I thought and shivered as I tightened my peignoir around me. ‘Any minute now,’ I thought, ‘the thunder of familiar feet would arrive’.

I slipped back into bed to savour the warmth under the duvet and waited. Eventually, I heard a few muffled voices on the landing and then the children burst through the door. It was nice to savour the old times with just the two of them and me. ‘Them’ however, were bouncing with excitement and keen to try out the presents that ‘Aunty’ Elizabeth had bought. After a quick cuddle they disappeared and later I spotted the four of them playing in the field. They had obviously forgone breakfast to use the wind and fly their kites. Elizabeth had joined them briefly to demonstrate before returning indoors.

Within minutes, four brightly coloured trespassers contrasted brilliantly with the grey sky as the kites dipped and swooped. The crows were not amused and pinioned grumpily away as the stiff breeze buffeted them.

After watching the four children and smiling at their simple pleasures, I finally dressed and plodded down stairs to find the others eating breakfast. I mumbled ‘good morning and nodded to the grey sky outside.

“Looks as though it might snow.” I said as I groped sleepily for the coffee.

“D’you think so.” Asked Sandie

“Hhhmm, hard to say these days, it probably won’t. Global warming and all that.”

“It would be nice if it did.” Observed Elizabeth.

“Not if you get trapped up here. You won’t be able to get home for Christmas.” I replied.

Elizabeth fell silent but I was too sleepy to notice. I simply slumped in a chair nursing my coffee as I contemplated the cold grate. The house was now warming up as the central heating timer clicked on but I still had a grate full of ashes to clear and a new fire to lay for Christmas Eve. The cottage just didn’t seem right without a fire in the grate.

“Will you be having another party?” Asked Sandie.

“Oh yes,” I nodded, “the kids would be utterly devastated if we don’t have some sort of Christmas dinner. Over the past six months, I’ve discreetly established what their real mother used to do and arranged something similar.”

“So you won’t be introducing any of your own little family traditions?” Asked Elizabeth.

I pulled a sad, reflective smile and frowned.

“What family traditions. I never had any family traditions; I never really had any family, leastwise none that I can easily remember, fortunately, Sian and Margaret have a few little traditions with Martina and Chenille so that’ll add to the festivities. It’ll be a novelty for me though.”

“Oh I’m so sorry Bev,” responded Elizabeth as she remembered my history. “It must be bad for you at this time of year.”

“Well thanks to you Liz’ I’ve got a family now so I can start my own new traditions.”

Elizabeth gave a weak smile that told me something of her own regrets. I was about to speak but, Mrs Bodkin interrupted.

“I can remember a few little things that Penny and Bea’s grandmother mentioned.”

My eye’s brightened as I perked up.

“Oh! Goody! What where they?”

“She described them when she was dying and I was frantically making notes. One old Devon recipe she mentioned stirred an old and dimly recollected memory of my own. I’ve got the recipe somewhere.”

I pumped her for further details and she dug out the children’s files to present me with the little recipe. I read it and smiled.

“I think my mother did something like that before I was -, well you know. I remember the pineapple chunks and chopped apples.”

Mrs Bodkin went into more detail and described her own Devonshire mother’s variant of the recipe for the pudding. I took down the details and resolved to buy the ingredients that very morning.

Having drained the coffee pot, I called the children in and prepared them a breakfast before telling them we were going Christmas Eve shopping. Margaret came with us, while Sian tended the horses and she agreed to meet us in town later for lunch in Sissy’s hotel. This was a favourite tradition for Chenille and Martina because it meant they got two Christmas dinners and they had some quality time with their dad. Their excitement was infectious and it spread to Jenny and Bea. Elizabeth, Sandie and Mrs Bodkin were invited to the hotel lunch prior to going their own ways home. I presumed everybody wanted to go home for Christmas.

As a seaman, I knew that nearly every seaman who had a home and family used to hope and pray his ship got him ‘home for Christmas’. I assumed it was the same for everybody else. I knew that I, as ‘the boy without a family, would invariably end up keeping a ‘shore watch’ for the ship if perchance we ended up in a home port over Christmas and the ship was not working. Every man with a home to go to, - went home!

I smiled as I reflected it was now my turn to savour some of the pleasures of Christmas because I, at last had a ‘home to go to! We wrapped warm against the cold then clambered into the Land rover and were soon in high spirits as we bowled down the country roads into Poole.

Every transvestite shares the ‘shopping gene’ with his ‘sisters’ and I was no exception. Even as I indulged my own desires, it was an additional pleasure to study Margaret and the girl’s expressions and smiles of delight as they practiced ‘retail therapy’. I felt it was important for girls to develop those skills that they would take with their last faltering steps to the grave.

Margaret and I smiled as we watched the girls compare styles, try clothes on, compliment each other, criticise each other, argue about what colours suited who as they honed those skills that would serve them so well in adult life. Margaret and I particularly enjoyed Martina’s reactions. He was actually trembling with excitement as he sampled item after item against his soft hairless skin. Margaret turned to me and grinned.

“Is shopping really that good for you trannies as well?” She giggled.

“You bet it is darling! Just look at little Martina, she’s even happier than the girls. For me this is the best therapy ever!” I replied as I held up my own load of presents and bags, “and this is my first ever proper Christmas shopping expedition.”

“Good for you girl. Go for it!” Encouraged Margaret as we burrowed into some loose piles of lingerie stacked up for the pre-Christmas sale.

We spent the whole morning in the mall and it wasn’t until we got outside again that we realised it had started snowing.

“Oooh!” Squealed the girls as one. “Aunty Beverly, is it going to be a white Christmas?”

I studied the snow settling on the pavements and sensed a slight unease. It was not melting.

“Yes girls it might well be if this keeps up. Come on, there’s just a few ingredients I have to get for that recipe Mrs Bodkin gave me, then we can go to Sissy’s for lunch.”

Their excitement was mounting by the minute so they scampered off to put their shopping in the Land rover and then wait for Margaret and me as we picked out the list of ingredients that Mrs Bodkin had given me. Finally Margaret and I joined them in the car park where they were enjoying a brief snowball fight with some boys and girls from the same school class as Jenny and Chenille at school. Even at this young age I noticed Jenny and Chenille were already learning to flirt. Fortunately, the boys were not yet of an age to notice the girl’s interest. Fortunately they also failed to recognise Martina in her girl’s winter clothes as the same Martin in his schoolboy’s uniform. Once Martina realised she was mistaken totally for a girl, she lost all inhibitions and pitched into the snowball fight on the ‘girl’s’ side.

Eventually I called my wards to order and reluctantly they made their farewells to the boys as we lumbered off through the snow. Martina couldn’t stop chattering excitedly as to how he had been mistaken for a girl and he hugged his sisters tight to express his joy.

Fortunately, our Land rover was easily man enough to deal with the few centimetres of snow, but already the dense town traffic was beginning to falter. I reflected ruefully, that with the advent of Global warming, Britain had long since lost the ability to deal with even the slightest trace of snow or frost. Already, cars were slipping and skidding as they caused traffic to back up and jam. Fortunately we just ploughed on towards Sissy’s hotel and arrived to find Sian, Elizabeth, Sandie and Mrs Bodkin preparing the feast.

“Shouldn’t you three be making your way home for Christmas?” I wondered.

“The London trains have stopped running so I’m stuck here,” declared Sandie, “the snow is drifting deeper in the new forest area so the track is blocked between here and Southampton. In Devon the roads are already impassable. None of us can get home.”

I frowned thoughtfully.

I suppose there’s a millimetres of snow on the rails in Hampshire and the white road markings cant be seen through the snow in Devon,” I remarked sarcastically.

“What will you do?” Asked Margaret.

“Well Sissy’s got rooms spare so we’re not stranded.” Declared Sandie. “We’ll spend Christmas here at the hotel.”

“Oh no you won’t” replied Margaret. We’ve got plenty of room at the cottage and masses of food. Come and spend it with us.”

I noticed Elizabeth’s face light up expectantly but I said nothing. Sian confirmed the invitation so I let it stand. Sandie and Mrs Bodkin seemed happier too and I wondered why such people should be content to spend Christmas away from home; especially Sandie, who had children!

‘Surely they had homes to go to’, I wondered.

I thought no more about it as we gleefully sat down to lunch with the rest of the hotel’s party goers.

Sissy entered with her entourage of staff as she processioned the turkey and the trimmings around the seated diners then up to the top of the table. There she took the top seat and she played ‘mine host’.

The turkey was carved up ceremoniously and a full blown traditional Christmas dinner ensued with everybody including the staff seated around the huge communal table.

I found myself sat next to Elizabeth and found her company surprisingly pleasant once the meal was in full swing. I suspected that she had deliberately chosen to sit by me but I had no objections. We chatted about my seafaring life and how I was enjoying my unusual retirement. She was a good listener but I suspected she was really pumping me for information about transvestism and my chosen lifestyle. As the wine flowed she opened up somewhat. I of course, had to remain sober because I would be driving the Land rover back through the snow that evening to our remote cottage. In her cups I learned about Elizabeth’s lonely lifestyle. She lived alone as she was not married and had long since broken with her parents. She didn’t get too drunk however, and she never once intimated the nature of her sexuality. I had to admire the woman’s fortitude for she never once got maudlin.

Despite that, I could ‘listen between the lines’ and determined that she lived a somewhat lonely, isolated life and rarely socialised except in her official capacity as a judge. She spoke of no friends and didn’t name drop, which relieved me and she never once mentioned her sleeping partner. There’s nothing as tiresome as having to listen to somebody trying to impress you by ‘name dropping’ their contacts and acquaintances. Elizabeth would have met many supposedly important people in her capacity as a judge but fortunately her conversation tended towards the more intellectual pursuits.

‘Bit of a blue stocking,’ I thought, ‘but interesting nevertheless.’

Finally we got to talk about ideas and life philosophies. Then she perked up as the conversation around the table became animated and stimulating. By now, apart from the children, she and I were the only sober people at the table though Elizabeth was slightly ‘pie-eyed’.

For me it became amusing to simply sit back and listen to the pearls of wisdom mixed with the gems of crass stupidity as discussions and arguments ranged back and forth. Eventually, as the quality of reasoning and argument deteriorated in direct proportion to the wine, I tired of the company and made an excuse to check on the weather. I returned to declare that we had best be going before the snow got any worse. It was already 15 to 30 centimetres deep and there was no knowing what the roads would be like out of town. Reluctantly the party broke up as Elizabeth and I made sure the children were well prepared for the snow. Sandie was frantically re-organising her arrangements on her mobile as she explained to her husband that she was trapped by the snow. Fortunately they had been going to stay with Sandie’s in-laws in America so her own children would not miss their Christmas. They would simply have missed there mother's 'goodbye' from Heathrow. Sandie’s mother in law had already prepared for her grand-children’s visit.

The drunken adults soon fell into drunken slumbers as we picked our way through the pristine white landscape and the children fell silent with awe. They had never seen snow so deep and white in England before. Elizabeth grinned at me as she studied the children’s awestruck faces.

“They’ll probably never experience anything like this again. Just look at them.”

I glanced in my mirror and nodded to Elizabeth who sat silently studying the girls.

Fortunately the roads were still passable to the Land rover and we arrived at the cottage just as the light was beginning to fail. The children tumbled out and immediately went to check the horses as Elizabeth and I carried the shopping inside. Finally we prodded Margaret, Sian, Sandie and Mrs Bodkin into reluctant wakefulness. Sian went grumbling to check on the horses and the children then returned satisfied that the feeding job was completed and the horses were warm and dry for the night. Finally we were all ensconced in the warm house and free to cock a snook at the worst the snow could throw at us. We had plenty of food and fuel and an evening of fun to look forward to.

Preparations for Christmas Eve had been made earlier in parallel with the party preparations. Food was abundant and the fire was soon roaring in the grate. The children, Elizabeth and I played scrabble as we knelt on the rug beside the fire.

It was an enjoyable intellectual game with scores weighted by the children’s ages. Beatrice won most games whilst Martina came second.

Elizabeth had never enjoyed herself so much and she eagerly told me so later.

By nine o’clock, Elizabeth and I were stiff from kneeling and we creaked to our feet. The scrabble was put away and the children watched a video.

In the kitchen, as we prepared the supper, Elizabeth and I chatted about the scrabble game and the children.

“We’ll have to adjust the handicap system next time.” Grinned Elizabeth. “Jenny and Chenille seemed most put out.”

“Well they can’t have it their own way all the time. The smaller ones must be allowed to win occasionally.”

“Nevertheless. They’re bright little kids,” declared Elizabeth, “some of their vocabulary was good.”

“I could say that we try to be good parents and compensate for our shortcomings, but that would be patronising you or sucking up, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, - it would.” Replied Elizabeth with a knowing smile.

“Can you take those in whilst I finish this?” I asked; keen to get off the subject of parenting.

Elizabeth took the hint and we bent to the task of laying up the supper table.

“Time for supper,” I declared.

The adults squinted sleepily and declined, all declaring themselves to still being stuffed with turkey.

“All the more trifle for us,” I laughed as the children’s eyes widened with delight.

They gathered around the table chattering and arguing as the trifles and puddings soon disappeared. I caught Elizabeth watching them and her eye glistened with, well, envy, I suppose. I smiled back at her and she silently mouthed ‘thank you’.

Eventually, little eyelids started to droop and four sleepy bodies dragged themselves reluctantly to the stairs. Suddenly Sandie realised that the most important part of Christmas Eve was passing her by and she burst into life. She stopped Elizabeth and me at the bottom of the stairs and suddenly burst into a little song about Christmas Eve arriving and climbing the stairs to bed. The words were simple and her excitement was infectious. The children quickly caught the words and started dancing at the bottom of the stairs. Then as they finally learned the whole song, Sandie led the way up to their bedroom like the pied piper.

I had never seen such a thing before nor had Elizabeth and we simply gaped in delight as the children danced and sang all the way to the bedroom and bounced eagerly into their beds.

After firm warnings that Santa only came if good children were sleeping, we finally got them settled and crept downstairs. Later, I found Elizabeth sobbing softly in the utility room where she had gone to be alone. I had missed her as we shared sherry and mince pies.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered as I squeezed her heaving shoulders.

It was obvious that she had been moved by the Christmas Eve celebrations and the children’s excitement.

“This. All this, this is what’s wrong.”

“How?” I asked uncomprehendingly. “How can it be wrong?”

“Oh it’s not wrong like that! No! It’s me, my life, this is what I miss. The children, the fun, Christmas, birthdays all that stuff, even the ponies! I miss it!”

Not knowing what to say, I fell silent. I just let my arm remain draped over her shoulder. What could I say? I suspected it was her ‘clock ticking’ but I kept my counsel. Eventually, her shoulders stopped heaving and she recovered her composure. I took one of the girl’s handkerchiefs from the pile of clean, ironed laundry and pressed it into her hand. She thanked me then bid me go back to the party while she repaired her makeup. I cautioned the others about Elizabeth’s mood but did not explain the cause. We paused in our celebrations until she re-appeared and she finally rejoined us to share in a festive midnight drink. Then Santa Clause arrived and we checked on the children. After the children’s presents were ‘delivered’ Sian Margaret and Elizabeth picked their way through the snow across the yard to their new home in the old barn whilst Sandi, Mr Bodkin and I retired to our regular bedrooms. Showered and suitably dressed I briefly savoured my new silky nightclothes then I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I was woken long before dawn by excited squeals as four children’s trebles carried through the stone walls all around the house. They had even opened the window and screamed across the yard to declare it to Sian and Margaret.

“He’s been! He’s been! Mummy! Mummy! Come quick, he’s been!”

I hugged myself joyously as Margaret Sian and Elizabeth scrambled through the snow in their nighties and wellingtons, desperate to catch the first happy scenes of the children opening their presents. We met with Sandie and Mrs Bodkin and knocked on the children’s bedroom door.

“Can we come in?” Called Sian.

“Yes! Yes! He’s been! He’s been!” Squealed the frenetic voices from behind the door.

We entered to find wrapping paper scattered everywhere as four frenzied whirlwinds bounced on the beds with excitement and waved their new presents. Soon order was restored and the girls calmed down as they compared their presents and decided what to do with them and when. Then we all went downstairs to the tree where a mountain of parcels and packages awaited investigation.

“Who wants to be daddy and dish out the presents?” Asked Sian.

Jenny and Bea immediately turned to me and innocently declared that they wanted ‘Skipper’ to play daddy.

The other adults smiled knowingly and nodded agreement. Chenille and Martina looked puzzled until Beatrice finally let the cat out of the bag and enlightened them. Skipper is Miss Beverly. She’s been our mummy now since the summer. The declaration did not sink immediately into Chenille and Martina’s brains. They knew I was a tranny, like their dad but they had no idea that I was also the famous Skipper! I could sense the gears turning slowly, especially in Martina’s head. I glanced nervously towards Sian and Margaret but they smiled reassuringly and motioned me towards the mountain of brightly packaged parcels where ‘daddy’ would have to dole them out.

“What do daddies do?” I asked Mrs Bodkin.

“Just take any parcel and read out the label. Then give it to the name on the label.”
Thus enlightened, I settled by the pile and started handing out the parcels. The idea was that ‘daddy’ would discreetly check the name on each parcel and select names in turn so that each person would receive a parcel and open it before the next person’s turn. It was an easy way to keep order and savour each wave of enjoyment as each child opened her present. I had never experienced any such occasions in my childhood and it was a fantastic occasion. A huge lump formed in my throat.

Finally the pile of presents had disappeared and the wrapping paper had been stuffed into black ‘bin bags’. I had deliberately kept the pony’s presents of food until the last so that the girls could dress and take the titbits out to their pets. As they trampled across the yard through the snow I slumped back smiling into my favourite armchair and savoured my brandy-laced coffee.

“Well that went rather well, “ I chuckled happily to Sian and Margaret as we took a breather before preparing the main Christmas dinner. “ I think the presents seemed to please everybody. Every body got something and everybody’s happy. Let’s raise a glass or two.”

Sandie, Elizabeth and Mrs Bodkin joined us in the drawing room where I poured out a round of Sherries and we faced each other as I made my toast.

“Here’s to the happiest Christmas I’ve ever had. I don’t think there’s anything else that could make me happier. How about you?”

Elizabeth declared that she was happy to share in the occasion and toasted that, as did Sandie and Mrs Bodkin. Then there was a pregnant pause before Sandie and Margaret exchanged smiles and put up their glasses.

“Here’s to the best present anybody could have, and especially for you Beverly.” Declared Sian.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Can you not think of anything that might be really special?” Giggled Margaret.

I racked my brains but utterly failed to think of anything. The day so far had been such a happy event and the children’s smiles had been the best present I could imagine. No, there was nothing else I could think of.

“Gosh you’re a forgetful old biddy aren’t you?” Scolded Sian.

“Why. What have I forgotten?” I begged nervously as I frantically tried to remember some important item that might have been overlooked. I had worked so hard to get everything just right and now it looked as though I had missed some vitally important bit. 'What had I forgotten?' I wondered.

“Can’t you remember?” Demanded Margaret.

“No! No I can’t; what is it? Oh hell! What have I forgotten? I’ve tried everything to make this great Christmas!”

Sandie, Elizabeth and Mrs Bodkin were now also beginning to get nervous.

“Stop teasing her,” ordered Sandie as she sensed my panic rising. “What is it she’s forgotten?”

“Well let’s raise a toast to it then.” Demanded Sian as she shook her head at my hopeless forgetfulness.

Grateful to be let off the hook I nervously agreed to another toast and I immediately recharged the glasses. Then Sian raised her glass and spoke in perfect synchrony with Margaret. It was obvious they had rehearsed their toast.

“Ladies, let us make a toast to Chenille and Martina’s new siblings.”

For a moment I failed to understand then I realised with a gasp what they were talking about.

“Oh! Oh my God! My G -, You -. You’re pregnant!”

“Yes,” added Margaret as she smiled.

“Oh. Sorry. I thought Sian -! Then I faltered again as the dawning struck me. “Oh my God! It’s both of you. Is'nt it?”

Sian and Margaret nodded together and I flung my arms around both of them in ecstasy.

After exhausting my arms with hugging, I relaxed and tearfully proposed another toast. (Yeah, trannies cry when they’re happy, just like girls.)

“Another toast then. Charge your glasses again. No. Wait a minute. I’ve got the proper stuff.”

I dug out a bottle of Champagne and filled everybody’s glass.

“You should use the proper champagne flutes.” Suggested Sandie.

“Oh to heck with that. We toasted Christmas with these so we can toast to fatherhood, the best Christmas present a girl could have.”

“That’s a bit bizarre Bev,” chuckled Margaret, “you’re going to be a daddy and you say it’s the best present a girl could have.”

“Hey. What do I care? Genders are very blurred around here. If I want to be a girly dad then I can.”

“Oh very well then,” conceded Sian.

“Hold on!” Gasped Elizabeth, “are you saying that Beverly’s the father?”

We all turned to face her as we realized that Elizabeth had no idea.

“Oh! Uuuhhmm, yes,” stuttered Margaret “she’s definitely the father. Who else did you think it was?”

Elizabeth paused uncertainly.

“Oh. It’s not important. I just thought that your friend Sissy -, you know; from the hotel.”

“Oh no.” Laughed Sian. “Sissy’s too far gone. Her hormones have totally wiped out her libido. Sissy’s sterile now, or at least, she couldn’t produce enough of what we needed. Beverly here is a much nicer partner. She’s a really pretty girly with a nice little thing. No Elizabeth, you can bet your bottom dollar. , Beverly’s their dad!”

“But you’re lesb -, are you saying you slept with her?” Demanded Elizabeth.

“Of course,” declared Margaret boldly, “wouldn’t any lesbian like to sleep with her, she’s still a pretty girl despite her age and what’s under her frock. Don’t you agree?”

Elizabeth turned pale. Margaret had come pretty close to giving away Elizabeth’s secret. She hesitated as she studied my feminine curves and backtracked. She had her back to Sandie and Mrs Bodkin, but I spotted the interest in Elizabeth’s eyes.

“Well. I suppose if you were a lesbian, yes. I suppose you might.”

“Well, we did.” Finished Sian. “We found her delightful! So ladies -, oh; and daddy, I offer you a toast to Beverly’s approaching fatherhood and our second children.”

“To parenthood!” Added Margaret.

‘To parenthood’, chorused everybody and we drank deep of our champagne. I however, noticed the single tear of wetness in Elizabeth’s eye and realised she was upset by developments. She hid it well though and turned to look out at the snow as she drained her glass and secretly dabbed her eye. The others were too excited to notice as they decided to tell the girls of the impending events.

“I’ll go and get them,” announced Mrs Bodkin as she slipped on her wellies and stepped out across the snow-covered yard.

“If we tell them, then Martina will realise I’m really a boy, I mean a boy who can make babies, a boy who has now become a daddy.” I cautioned.

“So what,” shrugged Margaret, “she just recently learned that Sissy is her daddy so she’s getting perfectly used to this tranny stuff”

“And everybody in Poole knows Sissy’s a transvestite,” added Sian, “They just don’t know that Sissy is Chenille and Martina’s father. Nobody need know that Beverly is the father to these.” She patted her tummy affectionately and grinned at me.

I smiled back but over Sian’s shoulder I noticed Elizabeth still concentrating on the view out of the window. Something was upsetting her and I suspected I knew what it was.

 

 

This chapter describes how Beverly argues with Judge Elizabeth about the inhumanity in the family courts and later gives Herself, Margaret and Sian the sweet delight of putting Judge Elizabeth on the receiving end of a typical Court-room style inquisition.

 

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While the others celebrated Sian and Margaret’s exciting news, I went to the kitchen and made a show of checking the turkey in the oven. It had been cooking now for some hours. As I prodded the breasts and legs with a fork and checked the clock for the umpteenth time I sensed a presence behind me. I had been expecting it.

“It’ll be another hour or so before that’s cooked.” Observed Elizabeth.

“Yes.” I agreed sensing that it would be prudent to let Elizabeth broach the subject of Sian and Margaret’s news, - that is if she wanted to. Instead, I talked of cooking.
“Maybe I should have bought portions; those would have only taken half an hour.

“Oh no, there’s nothing nicer than a big fat traditional bird served up on a huge plate.”
“Except that it takes so much fussing and farfing around to get it just right.”

“Well yes but it’s worth it when it comes to Christmas dinner.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I’ll start on the veg now. It’s always an exercise in logistics getting it all to come together. It takes really nice timing.”

“Yes, just like Margaret and Sian’s timing.” Replied Elizabeth.

“I don’t follow you.”

“Well they dropped that bombshell just at the right time, didn’t they, or did you put them up to it?”

“What!” I gasped. “What d’you mean? ‘Put them up to it’.”

“After what I told you last night, about wanting children.”

“Oh that’s a monstrous accusation! I remember now, they both went into town together the other morning. They never do that normally because Sian has the horses to see to. They must have been for the test results and then they were deliberately saving up the news for today as a very special Christmas present for me. I had no idea they were pregnant! Yes. I admit quite frankly that they used me to make them both pregnant but that was nearly two months ago. Anyway, I allowed myself to be used, what shemale wouldn’t? Just look at Margaret and Sian, whatever their sexuality they are two stunningly beautiful women. It was a private, mutually agreed arrangement between all three of us. But, I had not realised until this very morning that we had been successful! You’ve utterly misinterpreted their intentions! They have no idea about your feelings. I have never mentioned it to them. Your feelings are your business, what you told me last night remained strictly confidential. I wouldn’t go broadcasting anybody’s private feelings to others. God Elizabeth, if anybody knows about privacy and other people’s secret feelings it’s got to be me. Give me some credit. I’ve walked the bloody ‘secret feelings’ walk for 54 years!

What you said last night, I kept in the strictest confidence! If there’s one thing I’ve learned from transvestism it’s that all personal stuff like that is a strictly private affair. I’ve never mentioned your feelings about children to anybody! They had no idea that their announcement might hurt you. Do you really think that we could be that nasty?”

Elizabeth stared at me through tearful eyes for several moments then shook her head.

“No. You’re right. That was cruel of me. But you understand why I’m hurting.”

“No.” I protested. “I don’t understand! You’re an adult woman who can make up her own mind. I can’t understand why you’re punishing yourself. If you want children the ordinary way then, there are plenty of suitable men out there; you know; the right profile; looks or intelligence or whatever. If you don’t like that route, go to a good donor bank if you must; use a bloody Nobel Prize Winner’s sperm if you must! Use a turkey baster if you must! That’s what Sian and Margaret did; well, with sissy’s sperm; the first time anyway.”

“And the second time? With you?” Charged Elizabeth.

“Well.” I hesitated. “The second time they chose a different route, but that was mutual. We all agreed to it although I had to admit they came on to me very suddenly and took me by surprise. I have not come between them and I never intend to. Anyway, whatever route we chose is strictly personal and no business of yours. If you want a child, choose your own route.”

“That’s my problem.” She sighed.

“What?”

“It’s my partner. She doesn’t want children; no that’s wrong, she’s afraid for us to have children.”

“Why’s that?”

“She thinks it will compromise my judicial position in the family courts.”

“And do you?” I countered.

“I don’t know. I can hardly act as a moral arbiter if I’m an unmarried mother myself can I?”

“Well that’s your affair. I personally think that once you’ve walked the walk of single motherhood, you’re entitled to talk the talk. What better argument have you got. In truth though, it’s nothing to do with me has it? It’s your row to hoe.”

“The trouble is Jane and I live apart and only see each other at weekends.

“Wait a minute!” I pretended to gasp. “Did you say ‘she’ just now?”

Elizabeth stared at me nervously as she waited for my response to develop. Then she whispered.

“Oh you were listening to me then. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yes; - my partner is a she!”

“You’re telling me you’re gay!” I whispered hoarsely, so as not to alert the others and to somehow enhance my pretence of prior ignorance.

“Yes.”

I paused making the pretence of shock and thoughtfulness.

“But being gay doesn’t stop you having children; it’s your partner then.”

“Yes.”

“Does she not like children or is she afraid to have them?”

“She’s afraid; for me mainly. If I had an illegitimate child, eyebrows might be raised in the family courts. Family values and all that.”

“Hey don’t knock family values. I know what I’ve got and if that’s a real, proper family then long live family values. Anyway, I thought it was all about law and risk with you people. It seemed that way when I was up before you. As I remember, humanity and compassion didn’t get a look in. The whole bloody thing nearly broke me!”

A judge has to be impartial,” declared Elizabeth.

“Oh yeah! Like some sort of legal robot,” I snapped as I dumped the carrots and parsnips into the pan.

“We have to obey the law,” replied Elizabeth, “judges have to uphold the law.”

“Oh bugger off, to hell with ‘The Law!’, - these are kids you’re dealing with. What about compassion, love caring, and, - yes, - justice! Christ what I’d have given for some justice in my life, it was all law, law, law!

“Law makes for justice,” countered Elizabeth.

“No, justice makes for law, I argued.”

“How so?” How do you see the difference between Law and justice?”

“Oh bloody hell, don’t try that old chestnut. There are thousands of differences.

The holocaust was legal, the Nazi government made it so, but I wouldn’t have called it just! Would you?”

“That’s a simplistic view.”

“It’s a historical fact; anyway, Christmas morning, - while stressed over getting all the food right is hardly the place to be discussing the finer points of philosophy and law is it.”

“It’s were you do most of your thinking, I’ve watched you. You always sneak away into here when you’ve got some thinking to do.”

“Yeah! That’s thinking not arguing or discussing stuff. I think in here when I’m alone with my cooking!”

“OK then just one last question.”

“Oh! Go on then, you bloody judges are all the same.”

“Humour me on this one. With all your personal experience of different countries and different laws, -“

“And different prisons and different courts;” I added sarcastically, “yes, go on,”

“And different prisons; yes. Where do you see the final difference between law and justice?”

I straightened up from the sink up and brushed some stray hairs off my face as I stood poised with potato peeler in one hand and potato in the other like some 'mother courage' philosopher.

“Justice is what you start out fighting for; law is what you end up paying for.”

“Mmm. That’s not bad Beverly. That’s not at all bad; - a bit cynical but not bad at all.”

“And so it’s always the weak and the vulnerable and the poor who are the losers, isn’t it! The weak because they don't have the clout or the influence, the vulnerable because they don't have the defences or the preparedness and the poor because they just can't afford the wicked fees that lawyers charge or the costs of the bloody courts."

"You've thought about this a lot, I can see," Replied Elizabeth "but you're letting your cynicism blind you to the realities."

“Right! OK., so I'm a cynical old tranny. Now can I get on with the veg and can you show a bit of compassion and leave me in peace."

Elizabeth fell silent for I had unknowingly hit a sore spot. She had always had difficulty reconciling her compassionate nature with her legal training. She answered softly and I read the hurt in her voice.

“I am compassionate Bev. It may not seem like it to you, but I am compassionate!”

“Well why can’t you show it in court?”

“I’m not allowed to, d’you think I like hurting kids or even adults.”

“Well you bloody hurt me that day, and then all the bloody waiting for your considered answer. God, the bloody waiting, it’s knowing I had to wait for another bloody week that finally broke me that afternoon! A week, I mean a whole bloody week. How long can it take to make a mind up? Yes! That’s what finally broke me!”

“I know that perfectly well, don’t you remember I saw your tears in the car park. I could see what it was doing to you but I couldn’t let it be seen to affect my judicial reasoning. Humanity and compassion do get a look in with me Beverly, it’s just as a judge I must not show any emotional concerns, I must show, clarity and reason as I’m expected to decide on some of the most awful cases! Don’t you think I know sometimes that the law is a complete ass and when I think it is, I try every-which-way to circumvent a legal success that is an emotional disaster for the child? I got hell from my colleagues about you, you know. There’s still some right old bigots up there in the lords you know! Don’t make light of this Bev,” sobbed Elizabeth, “my life’s a mess.”

“Oh come off it Liz’!” I scolded her unsympathetically. “You’re a bloody judge for God’s sake! You’re successful and you’ve got the whole bloody world bowing and scraping at your feet.”

“The judge thing was to please my parents. I wanted to be a paediatrician. They found out about my lesbianism and warned me not to become a doctor, particularly anything to do with children or women. Law was the next best option.”

“Oh not another one,” I sighed.

“What d’you mean.”

“Well Sian’s the same; tried to please her parents but they objected to her sexuality and bingo! The difference being is that her bigoted parents cut her off completely. No college and stuff for her. Count yourself lucky your parents helped you through college.”

“Well be that as it may, it doesn’t alter the fact that I’m a lesbian but I would like to have children.”

“Have you discussed it with your colleagues on the bench? They could give all the legal advice you might need; and free to boot! Anyway, they’re supposed to be compassionate and understanding aren’t they? You just said so.”

I knew this last remark was stupid and cruel even before it had left my lips. Elizabeth gave me fatuous look.

“Not bloody likely. They’d probably take it as an invitation to try and get inside my pants. Be the ‘father of my child or bloody something. To them it would be the golden opportunity for quick shag without having to worry about any consequences. Can't you hear their dirty minds ticking away. The chance to shag a younger woman without compromising their judicial status because that woman is a colleague. Christ they'd be slavering at the leash to bed me and get me 'up the duff'!”

“Yeah; that figures and I thought judges were supposed to be wise.”

“Think again. Some of them are just randy old lechers. They think more with their small head than they do with their big head.”

“Well I can’t see a way out then. You’ll have to get your partner on board and that’s the first thing. Then you’ll have to go through a civil marriage. That’s what Sian and Margaret did to protect their children from the likes of -,”

I paused. I’d nearly let my own feelings surface.

“Go on. Say it!” Challenged Elizabeth. “From the likes of me, the likes of us, the judges, the law!”

I remained silent and concentrated on preparing the vegetables. I’d said too much and already given my feelings too much exposure. Elizabeth sensed my silence and watched me deliberating over the vegetables.

“You still don’t like us do you?” She ventured.

“Define ‘us’,” I riposted, refusing to be drawn any further.

“Oh you know who I mean; us the judges, us the doctors, us the social services, me, Sandie, Mrs Bodkin.”

“Oh it’s not you I resent. It’s the system. It’s the way it can break right into an individual’s life and rip his or her belly open like a carnivore disembowelling its victim. I feel like that prey, that victim, every time ‘the system’ decides to disembowel me, dump me on some sort of emotional slab then split me like a kipper!.”

Elizabeth fell silent at my description.

“Is that what it really feels like?”

“I can only speak for myself. God knows what it feels like for; - oh what’s that word? — Oh yes, ‘ordinary’ mothers, natural mothers. God knows what it feels like for them.”

“How is it different for them?”

“They’ve got right on their side, they’re the natural mothers. It must feel downright wicked for them when a child is taken from them. They can still kick back with right on their side. I of course, am the guilty one, the weirdo, and the perfect target; the sitting duck.

Yes, you gave me the children but they’re not mine to keep despite their being legally adopted. I know with a sickening certainty that they can be taken from me on the slightest pretext, the merest whim. Any social worker with an axe to grind, any piqued doctor or judge can tear the girls away from me under the slightest pretext of some accusation of perversion! As I said, I feel like the victim, the disembowelled prey, rolling over to die with not even the merest whimper. Just a few feeble kicks and bingo, the girls are gone, the monster is dead. Ipso-facto I don’t feel happy with the system or those in it. Can you blame me?

“Even after all we did for you. I did for you! That sounds bloody ungrateful.” Charged Elizabeth.

“Ungrateful? Me!! Well that’s it then. That’s me isn’t it, warts and all? The bitter, hostile, unrequited old tranny; never mind everything that’s gone before The trouble is, the more I grow to like the girls, the more vulnerable I feel. Anyway, what do my feelings count for? Let’s drop it. Pass that strainer, these cauliflowers will soon be ready and I want the water for the gravy.”

The work in the kitchen was coming to a head and we were too busy to discuss anything further. The smell of cooking attracted the others and the opportunity to talk further disappeared as tasks and duties were shared out.

Christmas dinner proved to be my triumph. The preparations for the food had tested my patience and confidence but I managed to avoid any serious catastrophes. The rest of the day was spent in traditional pastimes like adults sleeping off the food and children outside in the snow with whatever new toys suited the outdoors. The snow was a huge plus but even as the daylight faded, the weather was getting milder again. I knew the snow would be gone by Boxing Day or the day after. No more for Britain the long stable seasons like the continental countries. Our maritime climate made for frequent sudden changes and huge temperature swings.

Supper was a casual ‘pick and mix’ affair as individuals chose their fancies. The girls and I played board games in the drawing room whilst the other adults ‘couch potatoe'd, their way through the evening. Eventually, eyelids started to droop and the children made for bed of their own volition. Elizabeth joined me in putting them to bed then she ambushed me on the landing as I went into my own bedroom to visit the lavatory.

“What now?” I demanded as I crossed my legs desperately.

“Can we talk some more?” She asked as she followed me into my bedroom.

“Not now. I’m bursting for a pee.”

“I’ll wait.”

I closed and locked the lavatory door behind me so that nobody could accuse me of anything improper. As I sat down I reflected that I was becoming paranoid again. The stress of having a judge, a psychiatrist and the caseworker all crowding in on top of me in my own home, my only refuge; was getting me down. Now to cap it all, I suspected that the very judge who had reserved the case to herself was pestering me to use my body. I was determined not to get embroiled in any complications with Judge Elizabeth. God alone knew what legal catastrophes might ensue.

I spent an unnecessarily long time on the lavatory as I tried to marshal my arguments and defences. Finally Elizabeth became impatient and knocked softly.

“Are you OK?”

“Yes. Wait a minute.”

There was no hiding place so I reluctantly emerged to face her.

“Do you think I should marry my partner then?” She asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how much you feel for her or how committed you are to each other.”

“She cares. It’s just that she’s an engineer and there’s no work around these parts.”

“Can’t you move to be near her? I thought judges moved around. Isn’t there something called a circuit judge or something?”

“It’s not that easy. I’m still a junior judge. It takes time.”

“And your clock’s ticking I suppose. Well whatever you do. You’d best sort it with her. It’s no good having a child if you’re not both totally committed.”

“Yes I know all about that thank you! I’m a judge in the family division you know!” She snapped sarcastically.

“Could I ever forget it?” I snapped back.

Elizabeth was mildly surprised. I had never snapped at her before, indeed, I suspected nobody had ever snapped at her since becoming a judge. She must have realised that she had finally crossed some indiscernible line and she just studied me silently. I let her stare for a few moments then stepped past her to sit at my vanity and repair my makeup.

She took this to mean we had finished and she stepped onto the landing where I heard her talking on her mobile. Judging by the terms of endearment, I presumed it was her erstwhile lover.

Later she rejoined me in the kitchen where I was filling the dishwasher and generally clearing away the remains of supper. The kitchen had now somehow become our private refuge and she cornered me as I returned unfinished stuff to the fridge.

“She wants to meet you.”

“Who?”

“Jane. My partner. Who do you tthink!”

“Why?”

“To discuss our baby.”

“By that I hope you mean hers and yours.”

“Well, we’ll need a father.”

“So go to a sperm bank.”

“Why. Do you think I’m not good enough for your baby?”

“Do you think it would be wise for a presiding judge to be intimately and sexually involved with a plaintiff or defendant?” I countered.

“You’re neither, you’re an applicant.”

“Whatever. I’m not concerned with my circumstances. I’m worried that you’re letting your hormonal clock rule your legal brain.”

“Nobody need know.”

“They always know. Somehow, they always find out.”

“Nobody’s found out about Martina and Sissy.”

I couldn’t answer this observation. It was true, only a very discreet few knew that Sissy was a father to Chenille and Martina. The real reason that secret had survived was because those that knew, all had ‘long tails’, i.e., secrets that could be used against them.

As I considered this question I began to feel that we had been remiss in enlightening, Elizabeth, Sandie and Mrs Bodkin about Martina’s parentage. Once the courts found out, there was no knowing where things would lead. Then my mind made the next step.

‘If Elizabeth had my child, she would grow a ‘long tail and I might find myself on more secure ground’.

Then I silently scolded myself for being so cynical. That sort of ‘blackmail’ relationship was no basis to bring a child into this world.
It was essential for all concerned adults to have respect and affection for each other and the newly arrived child. If this was to be the case, then I would have to meet this Jane. If I were to father another child, I would want to see that it was entering a stable, loving, durable relationship. Reluctantly I agreed to meet Elizabeth’s partner.

“O.K. I’ll meet her. Where and when?”

“That took long enough to agree to. Why the uncertainty?” Demanded Elizabeth.

“Natural caution,” I lied.

Elizabeth eyed me suspiciously then nodded slowly.

“OK then. When can she come down?”

“When do you want? I’m retired, my time’s my own, the sooner the better for me. Get it over with, as it where.”

“Well Sandie and Mrs Bodkin cant find out. So it will have to be after they’ve gone.”

“That’s probably after Boxing Day if it doesn’t snow again.” I observed.

“OK. Can we make it the twenty eighth? Jane can come to meet you.”

“When would you go back?”

“I’m off until after the new year. We could make it a little holiday. Jane’s off over the same period and the girls are off school. It’ll be nice for Jane to see how sweet children can be. The project Jane’s working on is shut down over the holiday but she got held up by some problem over Christmas.”

I agreed reluctantly. My hoped for peaceful transvestite retirement was becoming too complicated. Retired for less than a couple of years and already I was an adoptive ‘mother, - father, I wasn’t sure which,’ to two delightful girls. I had become a biological father to two more and now, a lesbian judge no less, wanted me to father her child. You couldn’t write a novel with a storyline like that!

We finished in the kitchen and we returned to the drawing room. All the adults were sleeping in their chairs so I bid Elizabeth good night and made my way to bed. She eyed me expectantly but I wagged my head silently. In the hall at the bottom of the stairs I explained.

“I’m not getting involved in any way until you and your partner Jane have resolved all the issues. Now, goodnight, I’m off up to my own bed. I’m shattered; the preparations for two parties in three days over Christmas have knackered me, goodnight!

I suggest you either rejoin the sleeping beauties in the drawing room or you make your own way across the yard to your bedroom in Margaret and Sian’s new barn conversion.

Reluctantly, Elizabeth slipped on her Wellingtons and sloshed her way through the melting snow to ‘The West Barn’ as we had come to call Margaret and Sian’s new home. I slipped quietly up stairs and savoured the luxury of slipping into the exciting new sleep-suite that Santa Clause had brought.

I was woken by the inevitable rumble of the eight feet thundering along the landing to my room and the mass invasion of my bed. There we chatted and planned the rest of the Christmas Holidays until eventually Sandie and Mrs Bodkin appeared.

“The snow’s going, so we’ll be on our way soon.” Said Mrs Bodkin.

“Oh, I’ll make breakfast then while you pack. Come on children. Go and get dressed.”

I shooed them back to their bedroom and slipped on my peignoir. In the kitchen I pressed the newly installed ‘intercom’ across the yard and called the others over to breakfast. By the time everybody was assembled, I had breakfast ready. Sandie and Mrs Bodkin made their farewells and Mrs Bodkin drove Sandie to the station. The children went hacking with Sian so only Elizabeth, Margaret and I were left to chat. Naturally, the talk turned to Margaret and Sian’s babies.

Elizabeth asked Margaret and me dozens of questions.

“Crickey!” Protested Margaret, “You’re like the flippin’ Spanish Inquisition.”

“I have to have as many answers as possible for Jane.” Declared Elizabeth.

“I think it’s more a case of Jane seeing for herself.” Answered Margaret.

“Seeing what?”

“Seeing how good it can be. Seeing what we’ve got here.”

Elizabeth fell silent. In truth I had to agree with Margaret. Since she and Sian had arrived with their children we had become a happy little community. It was obvious that Elizabeth liked the lifestyle. We had realised this when she had enthusiastically entered into the spirit of Christmas and not made an issue of being with us in the cottage here during snowstorm.
We chatted at length until noon when the clip-clop of hooves told us that the others had returned from riding.

I got up to prepare cold cuts and re-heats from the remains of the Christmas Dinner and by the time the horses were bedded, a hot meal awaited the girls.

As they changed from their riding clothes the girls chattered excitedly about where they had been and whom they had met. It seemed that Sian was well known in riding circles and her name was an ‘open-sesame’ across most of the private farmland in the district. They had even been invited for coffee at a rather large stately home.

“My we are moving up in the world, aren’t we girls!” I joked

“It was really nice mummy,” declared Jenny, “this lady was a dame and she was out riding with her son and daughter. She knew Sian really well and she invited us back.

“Her son’s nearly twelve. He’s really dishy,” giggled Chenille coquettishly.

We adults exchanged knowing smiles. Jenny and Chenille were growing up but even so they were still young. Kids today, seemed so much more advanced.

“His younger sister’s nice too,” added Beatrice.

“Oh I’m pleased to hear that.” I replied.

Martina interrupted eagerly.

“Yes, she’s very nice,” and she smiled self-consciously as she added, “she’s got a fabulous doll collection but I like her more cos she was kind enough to let me play with it. I’d like to marry her when I grow up.”

Martina's 'sisters' giggled at this declaration but they did not ridicule her.

Elizabeth gave me a knowing smile. She had at last learned that however effeminate a transvestite might be, they could still be heterosexual and still attracted to the opposite sex.

“That would be interesting,” she observed quietly, as the children moved out of earshot into the dining room.

“What would?” I replied.

“Martina and the baroness’s daughter getting married.”

“How do you know she’s a baroness?”

“I’m a judge. I’ve dined with her at several functions. Her husband is the lord lieutenant of the next county. Judges tend to move up into such circles when we get appointed.”

I pulled a wry lopsided smile. They were circles I had little time for even though the local power invariably lay in such circles. I detested the whole, corrupt, incestuous system. I far preferred my more honest circles of money, finance, investment banking and the shipping business. No nepotism there, just hard-headed people making sure that the only issue was profitability. Nothing else mattered but profits.

“So you couldn’t see Martina and this baroness’s daughter walking down the aisle of some fashionable country church with matching bridal outfits and bouquets.”

“Not at some major country wedding with the whole county set attending.” Replied Elizabeth.

“If this baroness knows Sian so well, she must know about Sian’s lesbianism and the rift between Sian and her parents.”

“I’ve no doubt she does, but she probably doesn’t mind about lesbianism.”

“But transvestism or transexualism is a bit too much to swallow is it. I always thought that anything goes in the upper classes provided you don’t scare the horses.”

“I’m not sure Bev,” conceded Elizabeth ruefully, “society’s still got some way to go on that.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it.”

We shared a sardonic smile and followed the others into lunch.

After lunch we decided on another shopping expedition to the Boxing Day sales and markets in Bournemouth. Then we took the children to see a traditional evening pantomime.

This traditional British theatre caused Martina’s eyes to widen with envious surprise when she realised that Cinderella and the prince were pretty girls while Cinderella’s mother and two ugly sisters were actually men dressed up as ‘pantomime dames’. All the way home she pumped the adults for facts about pantomime dames, principal boys, principal girls and different pantomimes. Finally she boldly declared that she was going to be in pantomimes when she grew up. We adults all smiled.

It was gone midnight when we finally arrived home and we carried the sleeping Beatrice and Martina straight up to bed. Jennifer and Chenille stayed up a little later but soon they joined their younger siblings as sleep overtook them. The same weariness overtook us and we exchanged ‘goodnights’ as Elizabeth, Sian and Margaret crossed the yard to the barn whilst I made my way alone to my room.

The following day, as agreed, Elizabeth’s partner Jane arrived just after lunch after the children had gone riding on the Dumplin without Sian. Elizabeth gave her partner the grand tour during which they obviously had a deep discussion. They returned from the stables just as Margaret was coming home from town and we sat down to start our deliberations. Firstly Jane asked many questions about my relationship with Sian and Margaret.

Had I come between them emotionally? Did I try to enforce my will? Did I interfere with the upbringing of the children? Was I a bully or a chauvinist? Etc, etc, etc.

Margaret and Sian answered many of these questions for me, thus reassuring Jane that I was certainly not some sort of overbearing chavinist bully.

My very appearance as a very passable, sweet little lady also answered some of Jane’s questions and eventually we three friends set her mind at ease. Then I pitched in and my questions were just as blunt.

Did Jane see her relationship with Elizabeth enduring? Would she stand by Elizabeth if she was outed and possibly lost her job? Was she prepared to stick by Elizabeth if things just got ‘sticky’ on the bench for an ‘unmarried lesbian mother’? Would I be allowed to see the child? Would my fatherhood be acknowledged? My questions went on and on.

I think Jane was quite nonplussed by my rigorous questioning, but it did make her examine her motives and relationship with Elizabeth. Indeed, at one stage, even Elizabeth got agitated.

“My God!” She protested. “And people say judges ask too much. Christ Beverly, you really are like the Inquisition!”

“Better now than after the child is born and you find you can’t stand each other! I riposted vigorously. What happens if you get postnatal depression? What happens if you fall out over the baby? What happens if one becomes jealous of the other’s feelings towards the baby? This is exactly how it felt for me when you put me through the hoops in your courtroom!”

This took the wind out of Elizabeth’s sails. She stared at me as she realised what she and Jane had just been exposed to. A typical family court investigation of one’s most intimate and personal life details and habits. She turned to Margaret and Sian in beseechment.

“Was it like this for you?”

Sian nodded then Margaret spoke.

“That is exactly how it feels. Nice isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” added Jane, “just the sort of thing to reassure a lesbian couple who feel vulnerable enough as it is. And as for Bev’s torments with her transvestism and stuff;, well, the less said about family courts the better.”

Elizabeth got the message but she bounced back.

“Well my relationship with Jane is strong enough to withstand such assaults.”

“You hope,” finished Margaret, “because you can never tell.”

“Oh that’s not fair!” objected Jane. “We’ve been together now for over seven years.”

“That’s not quite right,” I corrected, “you’ve been lovers for over seven years. You haven’t actually lived together as parents to a child. You’d best have a long chat with Margaret and Sian about that. There are a lot of sacrifices.”

“Why shouldn’t we ask you?” Asked Elizabeth.

“I have no experience of raising a newborn baby. My girls came to me as ‘ready made’ little darlings, as it where. Whilst they are lovely kids, I’ve absolutely no experience of nursing or mothering a fractious babe-in-arms.”

“Yes. I see,” replied Elizabeth thoughtfully.

“Then, when they grow up, you’ll have to answer those awkward questions about the father. Especially if you choose Beverly as the sire.” Added Margaret.

Sian chuckled as she turned to Margaret.

“We’re not breeding horses here darling but you’re right. Remember the awful time when Chenille learned that Sissy was her father. Sissy had to take her on a trip up to London whilst he dressed as a man and reassured her that he was still a man but he preferred to live as a girl. He got round it by saying that living as a girl was much nicer than living as a boy and Chenille gradually came round.”

Margaret continued the saga.

“Yes, Chenille, little madam that she is, made Sissy take her up to London to various museums dressed as her father, then as some sort of final test, she forced him to take her to see ‘The Rocky Horror Show’ whilst he was dressed as her aunt.”

“Since then though, they’ve been the best of friends.” Finished Sian

Elizabeth smiled then fell to chuckling.

“Is that really what he had to do?”

“You bet,” smiled Margaret.

Elizabeth turned to me.

“I hope you’ll be prepared to do that for our child, even if it’s a boy.”

“I’ll do my best but you can see now, some of the complications. I just hope that if it’s a boy, he won’t reject me for being what I am.”

“Yeah, that could be a problem,” added Jane, “bizarrely you’re very lucky that Martina’s a transvestite.”

“Maybe,” I finished,” but I think Martina’s got the better part of the deal even though I’m not her real dad, she thinks of me as a sort of substitute father figure..”

“You three are very supportive of each other.” Observed Elizabeth. “I like that.”

“We get on fine and there’s no competition for our emotions.” Replied Sian.

“Except from the girls,” I laughed.

“Except from the girls,” agreed Margaret as she turned to Elizabeth in a more understanding mode. “Elizabeth, Jane we all hope it works out like this for both of you.”

Just then the girls returned from riding. They could ride alone now because our changes to the fencing arrangements of some of the fields gave our fields direct access to the Dumplin Bridle Path without using the lane with it's attendant dangers from motor traffic any more To our surprise, the girls returned with Sian’s baroness friend and her childrenfor company. The arrival of the larger party in the yard interrupted our deliberations and we made the unexpected visitors welcome. They had returned to us because Peter’s horse had lost a shoe. Introductions and apologies were exchanged for causing inconvenience but our farm was well up to handling unexpected guests.

The baroness had already arranged for their party and horses to be collected by her husband and their ostler in their horse carriers. We made them welcome and they gratefully helped finish off the turkey. We made all the usual polite after Christmas jokes about turkey this and turkey that.

Elizabeth and Sian had lots in common with the baroness and they chatted easily. Meanwhile, her son Peter and daughter Melanie were dragged away by the girls to see the stables whilst thy bedded down their own ponies. Eventually, the Baron arrived driving one horsebox while their ostler followed with the other. Their horses were quickly loaded and we waved them off to promises of 'meeting again soon' Then we returned to our discussion.

That night Elizabeth and Jane approached me on the landing as I was going to bed. They were both in their nightdresses and I was surprised that they had decided to commence things so quickly.

“Are you quite sure about this? No recriminations in the morning.” I demanded.

They declared they were ‘in their fertile cycle’ and more than willing to go for it, provided I was amenable. Elizabeth was far more genteel about the circumstances and was almost apologetic about their approach. I was agreeable though, so I cautiously invited them into my boudoir.

Jane watched me undressing and stared at the bulge in my panties. I felt shy so I turned away. Elizabeth scolded her partner for being rude.

Jane apologised saying that,’ because of the planned activities’; she had perceived me as a boy. I soon corrected her misapprehensions by untying my peignoir and exposing my ripe firm breasts. Her eyes widened appreciatively and then they fell again to the noticeable bulge in my lacy panties.

“Gosh Beverly, apart from ‘that’ you really are a lady.”

“Why thank you ma-am.” I curtsied politely.

“Oh stop playing hard to get,” protested Elizabeth as she slid seductivly onto the bed.

Elizabeth patted the bed (my bed would you believe,) as though she was the bride giving her new husband permission to have sex. I looked at her askance and wagged my head in amusement.

“So who’s the nervous bride in this arrangement?” I asked. “Shouldn’t I be inviting you into my bed?”

Elizabeth had the good grace to blush then she frowned uncertainly.

“But your the man Bev. I mean you’re doing the impregnating.”

“Try and understand Elizabeth,” I sighed patiently. I’m only the man between my legs. I’m a woman between my ears and to my mind, - that makes me a woman. I’m just as nervous as you about this.”

Elizabeth eventually realised that this relationship was fraught with pitfalls as she slowly realised that I was to all intents a woman. She nodded apologetically and stood again, unsure of how to progress the agreement.

I forgave her, her faux pas, slid coyly onto my bed and then patted the mattress just as she had done. She and Jane smiled with joy and eagerly attended upon me.

“Oh so I’m the meat in the sandwich am I?” I giggled.

“Oh yes.” Chuckled Jane as she squeezed up to my soft curvy butt.

I felt her fingers explore my soft ripe curves and she sighed.

“Mmm. This is nice. I could fancy you myself.”

“Hand’s orf.” Demanded Elizabeth. She’s mine first.”

Like an obedient pet, I lay on my back as Elizabeth mounted me. I indulged Elizabeth twice and then to my surprise, I discovered Jane wanted to try it.

“I thought you detested boys?” I whispered nervously.

“I do, but you're hardly a boy darling, are you, - not with these.”

She gently cupped my breasts and caressed my nipples with her tongue. I gasped urgently and my cock stiffened yet again.

Fortunately my girly libido gave me plenty of stamina. I could orgasm several times just like a girl

To my surprise, Jane made me lie on top then she crushed me to her as her thighs parted to invite me in. As our breasts and nipples squished together I whispered.

“Are you sure you want me this way?”

“Of course. This is how I like it with Elizabeth.”

I fell silent for I did not think it right to exchange bedroom secrets about one’s partner. What Jane and Elizabeth did was not my business. However, Jane’s declaration did not seem to offend Elizabeth and I gently started to perform my duties. As I gently humped away, I felt Elizabeth’s hands gently caressing my butt.

“Mmm. These are lovely curves Beverly. You’re so lucky.”

I just sighed softly and luxuriated in my task.

“Mmm. Bev, you’re really something,” gasped Jane as her needs took her.

“Why’s that?” I croaked as my own urges took control.

“You’re so soft and curvy everywhere but where it matters. And there you’re as hard as iron. This is lovely, it’s as stiff as any dildo and yet it’s a real cock. You could make a fortune with the sisterhood; so girly yet so hard!”

I ignored her last words because my climax was approaching.

We did not share a mutual climax. I came before Jane but I managed to retain my erection long enough for her to indulge her own needs. She finally exploded under me like a storm tossed sea and squealed in her passions as Elizabeth tried to silence her.

“Quiet darling, you’ll wake the children!”

I realised Elizabeth’s fears and adopted a tactic of my own. I gently pressed my cheek against Jane’s lips and silenced her whimpering. Elizabeth caught my eye as I glanced sideways. Then she got the message and gently placed her lips on Jane’s as my lips came up against Elizabeth’s ear.

Eventually our passions subsided and we rearranged ourselves with me spooning against Elizabeth’s butt whilst she and Jane slept in each other’s arms. I was demonstrating physically that I would never come between them except to serve where needed. In the morning we indulged each other again before noises from the children’s bedroom presaged their arrival. Jane and Elizabeth froze with fear but I reassured them.

“They often find Margaret, Sian and me together in bed, so this is little different. Just a minute.”

I reached across to my bedside drawers and pulled out a clean pair of control panties. After deftly hauling them up my legs, any vestiges of manhood were swiftly suppressed and I finished dressing before I scrambled into the centre position. There, we three sat up like three wise monkeys to await the children’s appearance. The ensuing rumble of little feet down the hall announced their arrival and I called through the door for them to come in without knocking. They plunged in then hesitated as they saw two strangers where usually there would occasionally have been Sian and Margaret. I held out my hands to invite them and reassure them so they clambered onto the bed and squeezed into their favoured positions.

As the children cuddled up to us, the bedside phone rang. Margaret and Sian were checking. I answered the phone and invited them to join us. If Elizabeth and Jane were to see exactly how good it could be with children, they deserved to see how regularly we all clambered into bed in the morning. After Margaret and Sian had joined us, to the excited squeals of the girls, Jane declared that it was like sharing the famous ‘Grandma’s Feather bed’ in John Denver’s song.
Later in the kitchen after the children had gone riding with Sian and Margaret had slipped into her office in Poole, Elizabeth and Jane confided in me.
“We never thought it could be this good,” said Jane. I often used to climb into bed with my parents on Sunday mornings, but this, this is so much fun.”

“And nothing unsavoury about it, you’ll note.” I added.

“Yes. That’s the nice thing. Though I liked your touch with the panty control girdle.”

“Needs must, when the devil cracks his whip.” I finished. “So what are your plans now?”

The pair hesitated and exchanged nervous looks. I smiled knowingly.

“Go on. Now you want to tell me you want to stay until after the New Year.”
After more hesitation they nodded self-consciously.

“What is it?” I sighed.

“Well. We’ we’re not yet at out most fertile in our cycles. New Year’s Day is when we’re at our most fertile. Jane just checked her diary and because we’re so intimate, we are in menstrual synch.”

“So you want to make sure do you?” I pressed.

They nodded then the thought struck me.

“Wait a minute. You said ‘we’.”

Jane hung her head and nodded confessionally.

“Yes. After that fun with the girls this morning, I want one as well.”

I fell silent. It was not for me to be judgemental, but they would be my children, after all.

“Are you sure of this. What happens if you have boys and they don’t want to come into bed, as they grow older? You know what boys are like.”

“I still want a child.” Said Jane. “Even if he’s a boy, he’ll come in to bed with us for the first few years before he grows self-conscious.”

“Well, I think you’d better chat with Sian and Margaret when they get back. I’m happy to serve you if you’re really serious but my conditions still stand. I want access to my children even if they don’t know I’m their father.”

Both Elizabeth and Jane wrapped their arms around me and kissed me fervently. Then we prepared lunch for the children. That afternoon, my ship was scheduled into Poole so I had business with the harbour master and stevedores. Elizabeth and Jane agreed to accompany us into town and entertain the girls whilst I was busy. I had my weekly meeting with the port authority to discuss the container activities.

When I met them again, I had some interesting news for Jane. There were developments in the Port and plans for expansion. My ship and her continental trades were integral parts of the plan. The port manager and the harbourmaster had invited me in on the earliest discussions of the Port Authority’s confidential plans because my ships were so closely tied up with developments.

A new trade to Spain was being mooted and plans were afoot to build a small container terminal with a ‘portainer gantry crane’. ‘Would I be interested in investing any capital in the port infrastructure or supplying a suitable, bigger vessel for the proposed Iberian trade?’

I told them that I would have to speak with my bankers and my partners (whom I did not identify as Billy and Mac,) then I would get back to them.

There was then talk of the need to employ a terminal manager and the idea was to employ a civil or mechanical engineer in that capacity as container terminal manager. The said manager could then double up as a permanent port engineer instead of the authority employing an outside consultative specialist every time that a technical engineering input was required. When I heard of this opportunity, I immediately thought of Jane. She was currently working on a project in the midlands but our conversations had determined that the contract ended within a few months and she would have to move on to a new project. I knew Jane was keen to find permanent work near Elizabeth and this might prove a perfect match-up. When I mentioned it to her on the way back to the cottage, she surged forward and almost hugged the life out of me.

“Hey! Careful love, you nearly had me off the road.” I remonstrated as the Landrover veered sharply.

“Sorry! Can you really put in a word for me?” She squealed excitedly.

“I don’t know. It’s all very tentative at the moment. They are only just discussing funding.”

I wasn’t going to build Jane’s hopes up, but the truth was, that if I could organise some of the finance, (and I was pretty sure I could after the success of the Ireland and continental trades,) then I would have a powerful say in how the project was to progress.

As I drove the last few miles home I could sense the excitement building up between Elizabeth and Jane. If this deal came off they would be able to set up home together somewhere between Dorset and Devon. That night they showed their gratitude by indulging me whilst simultaneously improving their chances of getting pregnant. What could be better? If I could get Jane the job of Port Engineer it would mean I would be permanently living near to all my own children.

 

In Chapter 12. Beverly's already hectic retirement is further complicated by some utterly unexpected developments.

 

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Elizabeth and Jane stayed with us until after the New Year but finally and reluctantly, Elizabeth had to resume her duties as a judge. Jane also had to return to her engineering project in the Midlands and the girls resumed schooling. My time became tied up with developments in the port. In March, Elizabeth and Jane confirmed that they were going to be mothers and I was now the father of four children. Margaret had confirmed that hers was a boy whilst Sian’s was a girl. We waited eagerly for developments with Jane and Elizabeth.

In April, the plans for the new port development were finalised. Billy, Mac and I were able to inject a useful amount of cash into the project and with their assistance as shareholders; I managed to secure the coveted ‘Port Engineer’ and Container terminal Manager post for Jane. Yes I had to pull a few strings but what was the use of having some financial clout without occasionally helping one’s friends. I had long since learned that it wasn’t ‘what you knew, but who you knew’ when it came to getting the plum jobs. It would do no harm to help the mother of my child. Jane started working at the end of April and bought a house further down the coast towards Devon.

Once settled, she and Elizabeth finally got married and we attended the modest civil wedding with little fuss and little publicity. The wedding breakfast served as the house warming and we all spent a delightful weekend where they finally informed us of the sexes of their babies. They were both girls, which pleased everybody for we thought this might reduce the possibility of distress about fatherhood in later years. We returned home in a happy mood and I settled down to an easy life with the occasional director’s attendance at the development meetings for the new container terminal. More importantly, I could disguise my weekly visits to my transvestite haunts in London under the guise of business trips concerning the new venture and the ships affairs. I was set fair for a happy retirement.

In the first week of August, Margaret and Sian delivered their babies whilst Elizabeth and Jane delivered theirs at the end of September. I was now happily settled into my well-earned transvestite lifestyle whilst simultaneously enjoying the delights of being a foster ‘mother’ to two of the most delightful little babies I could have wished for. I felt at last, I had reached my nirvana.

Sandie had arranged for me to take hormones so that I could contribute to breast-feeding my new son and daughter by Margaret and Sian. For me this was the ultimate delight. It released Margaret to continue working as an accountant whilst Sian had more time to run the stables. I was ecstatic to find I was producing enough milk for both babies.

By now Sian’s riding centre was up and running. She had hired one girl from their circle of lesbian friends and the girl lived at Sian and Margaret’s barn conversion. The girl was a very pretty, cheerful hardworking soul and fitted well into the scheme of things. She also doubled as an excellent babysitter for our children on the rare occasions we had to leave them at home. Her name was Sylvia and she proved to be an excellent choice.

For my part, I lived as a mother to all the children whilst regularly going up to London on Weekly Business and attending board meetings at the port. For me, life couldn’t have been better. I lived with my children whilst still nursing the babies and the social services were slowly loosening the reigns of supervision, as we became a happily settled family group.

This situation lasted for a few months until the second summer arrived.

One morning a letter arrived in the post from the foreign office. The postmark intrigued me and I opened it nervously. Any correspondence from a government agency in London was bound to mean something important. Nervously I read the letter.

Dear Ms T---,

Last week, a combined UN military exercise took place in Somalia. This exercise included some Egyptian and British forces who jointly captured a detention camp maintained by W------ A-------r a notorious local warlord and terrorist. It is with some concern that I must inform you that one of the persons rescued may possibly be a one Mrs Angela Hunt, the surviving spouse of Mr Samuel Hunt. This couple was reported as missing possibly kidnapped during an act of piracy some two and half years ago. You will of course already be aware of the survival of their children Jennifer and Beatrice Hunt for your excellent part in their rescue did not go un-noticed by Her Majesty’s government.

At present, Mrs Angela Hunt is too traumatised to function coherently and it may be several weeks or even months before she is in a fit and proper mental state to return to normal society. It is thought she has been seriously abused whilst being held in captivity.

Unfortunately, it is now believed that Mr Hunt was killed during the kidnap but we are unable to confirm this with certainty and we have not recovered any evidence or human remains to support this. This office, respectfully requests that you get in touch as soon as possible concerning any potential future reconciliation between Ms Hunt and her two children Jennifer and Beatrice Hunt.

Yours sincerely,

J--------- F----------

HM Under Secretary for foreign affairs.

C.C. Her Honour, Judge Elizabeth Porter.
Mrs J Bodkin. Devon Social Services,
Dr Sandra Evans. Attending psychiatrist.

My hands shook as I folded the letter and slipped it into my handbag.

“God!” I wondered. “Where would this take us?”

I ‘sat’ on the letter all morning, occasionally taking it out and re-reading it to make sure I had got everything correct. Finally as the pit in my stomach grew heavier I plucked up the courage and phoned Elizabeth.

Ever the precise, clinical, legal mind, Elizabeth set me right about the law. Apparently, because I had adopted the children in the utmost good faith with the full formality and due process of the law, I could, ‘if I wished’ retain my right to custody of the children.

“Well that’s all very well," I protested, "but surely there’s an ethical question to this. Firstly the girls have a right to know that their mother is alive and what if they wish to go and live with her? I’m not a monster. Despite my being desperately fond of them, they and their mother have rights.”

“Well that’s all very laudable, Beverly,” replied Elizabeth, “but reading on in the letter, they say that the woman is severely traumatised. We have no idea how badly she has been affected and there’s no knowing what might happen if she learns that her children are alive.”

“I find that hard to swallow. Any mother would be desperately happy to learn her children are OK.”

“Not necessarily. She might have some serious guilt hang-ups about having somehow perhaps abandoned them. Everybody will have to tread very carefully. Particularly the doctors.”

I wasn’t sure whether to despise Elizabeth or idolise her.

On the one hand, she was being the practical judge considering the real medical issues that might have affected Angela’s mind and therefore the legal circumstances, whilst on the other she was trying to reconcile my emotional views concerning motherhood and a mother’s love for her children. The more I thought about the content’s of the letter, the more complicated it seemed to become. The solution seemed to hang entirely upon Angela’s recovery and any subsequent relationship with her girls.

I couldn’t help taking the emotional line for already I was thinking of a mentally ill stranger by her first name, Angela. I even began to question my own emotional state for the issues seemed to get more complex every time I turned them in my mind. I was sitting drinking coffee out on the patio when my mobile rang for the umpteenth time. It was Sandie.

“Hello Bev.”

“Hello,” I replied nervously, “at last! Where’ve you been?”

“I’ve been to see her. She arrived back at Heathrow last night.”

“And?”

“Well she’s in a badly traumatised state; almost catatonic. Apparently she’s been -,”

“I don’t want to know the details. I can imagine just about what it must have been like.”

“Yes. OK then. I understand. At the moment she is hospitalised in a private ward whilst the doctors ascertain her health.”

“How long before the results?”

“Eight weeks, before we know for certain.”

Sandie didn’t have to mention specifically what we were talking about. We knew that Africa was riddled with AIDS and I fully expected to learn that Angela was infected.

Two years of abuse in a warlord’s terrorist base would almost certainly have infected her with the deadly disease. That and the physical privations would have probable accelerated it’s onset. I felt sick.

“What’s her mental state?” I pressed.

“She’s still catatonic. A few hysterical outbursts followed by long silences interspersed with moans and screams.”

“So how long before there’s any assessment of cure?”

“That’s the number two question, after the AIDS.”

“When will the children be able to see her?”

“Don’t know. Maybe a week, maybe a month, maybe never.”

“Oh shit! Don’t say that!”

“I have to Bev. It’s just too early to say. You haven’t said anything to the girls have you?”

“Oh credit me with some sense.”

“Yes. Sorry love. I’ll keep you posted every morning.”

“What about Mrs Bodkin and Judge Elizabeth?”

“Same goes for them. I’ve been invited to join the psychiatric team because of my connection through the children. I’ve got to go now. Bye.”

“Bye Sandie,” I replied as I stared uncomprehendingly into the already dead phone.

My mind was a complete blank and I stood stupidly holding the phone as I struggled to gather what few thoughts I could. It was all so uncertain.

The following eight weeks proved to be a nightmare. I even kept it a secret from Sian and Margaret until we got the news.

Finally it arrived. It appeared that because of Angela’s good looks and blond hair, (which she had passed down to her girls,) she had been kept as a special sex slave for high-ranking officers in the warlord’s army. These men by and large were mainly graduates and pretty well educated thus they had taken precautions when satisfying themselves with Angela’s body. They feared catching AIDS themselves and naturally protected themselves against the perceived high risk of sleeping with the most poplar sex slave in the camp. They had recognised the well-known soldier’s adage that it was the pretty whores who were most likely to be diseased because everybody wanted to screw them.

The upshot was that their efforts to protect themselves had worked both ways for Angela. She was not infected with AIDS. Several other disgusting tropical diseases, yes; but not AIDS. She could be could be cured physically, so it only remained to treat the mental scars.

Sandie came to visit me and told me that Angela took a huge step forward when she herself learned that she was not infected with AIDS and the other diseases were treatable. I suppose getting a reprieve from a death sentence has that effect on a person’s life and sanity. It certainly improved my mental turmoil. Now the only question was her long-term mental health.

To this end, Sandie concluded that a good chance of a cure would be to introduce Angela to as normal a life style as her mind could endure. It transpired that the abuse she suffered had inculcated a morbid fear of men. She would need to find a place of refuge where men were scarce if not totally absent. When Sandie proposed that she come to live with her children in our little world I rubbished the suggestion.

“Come off it Sandie. I’m a man for God’s sake! I may look like a woman, sound like a woman, even think like a woman and I certainly live as a woman but there’s no way I would deceive the woman as to my true identity. For one thing, the girls would almost certainly reveal my condition if only by accident.”

“Well you yourself said you think the woman has a right to know about her children. If she learns that they are alive, she will have to see them. Once she knows they are alive, the stress of not having access to them could easily tip her over the edge.”

“Wait a minute. Stop trying to blackmail me with morality! I’d prefer her to have her children back if that’s what it takes.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. She’s not yet fit to care for herself let alone the girls. It might take years. The girls could be adults before she’s sufficiently cured to have a meaningful, constructive relationship with them.”

“Is that what you really think?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Sandie, “there’s no certain answer. I don’t know what to think but my professional opinion does run in tandem with your emotional feelings. I think her cure would be accelerated if she knew her girls were alive and safe.”

“Huh. If she discovers that I’m a transvestite, d’you think she’ll think they’re safe?”

“That’s the problem. The only way around it is for your condition to remain a secret.”

“That’s not going to happen. Besides, my retirement cottage is a family home now, it’s not some sort of convent or sanctuary for the mentally ill.”

“I’d beg to differ with you there Bev.” Countered Sandie. “That’s exactly what the cottage is. It’s your sanctuary and it’s young Martin’s sanctuary. It’s even a sort of Sanctuary for Margaret and Sian even though it’s still your own private home where you can live as you wish.”

“That’s only half right. The girls treat it as a family home, as do Sian, Margaret and their children.”

“That’s what makes it the perfect curative environment. As you rightly said it’s not some sort of closed order convent, it truly is an open family home whilst simultaneous serving as a refuge for all of you.”

“But by that argument, every family home is a sort of refuge,” I observed.

“Yes, but what makes it a refuge? What serves to make people feel secure and safe?”

“Well for children, it’s having people who care around you; people you can trust,” I argued, “I’ve learned that much at least from Mrs Bodkin’s arguments about families and relationships when I adopted Jenny and Bea.”

“Exactly! Well it’s the same for vulnerable adults. They need people who care and protect.”

“Hey hold on a minute! Whoa now. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.” I protested. “I’m not some sort of psychiatric nurse. I’m not qualified to take care of some mentally disturbed adult. I don’t do therapy, I do ships!”

“Once again Bev, I beg to differ. Therapy is exactly what you’ve been doing with Jenny and Bea.”

“Rubbish! All I did was give them love and care. All they needed was a stable home and some -, some. Well I dunno!”

“Go on,” prompted Sandie, “all they needed was -.”

“Well, some -, some -, you know -, tenderness, affection -.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“Go on what! What?”

“What did you give them?”

“Well. I gave them, I gave them, - what any caring woman would give them.”

“You’re getting there, Bev. Keep going.”

I hesitated uncertainly. ‘What was Sandie after?’ I thought.

“Well, - I gave them cuddles, care, tenderness, compassion. When they cried, I dried their tears, when they fought, I kept the peace.”

“That’s right Bev, you gave them mothering. It was mothering they needed after all the trauma of the last few years. It’s your mothering that cured them. It’s mothering that’s brought them back from the abyss. It’s mothering that’ll help them get over any trauma or fears if, or more likely when they meet Angela. And here’s the crux Bev. Mothering has made being a woman second nature to you. The girls accept you totally as a mother and a woman. If Jenny and Bea got past Skipper to grow to love Beverly, then I think Angela can.”

I fell silent as the first feint dawnings of Sandie’s ideas tried to take root. Then I shook my head.

‘No’, I concluded uncertainly, ‘this was a totally different ball game. Kids were easy. This Angela thing was in another league. This was real medicine, this was psychiatry!’ ‘Come on Bev don’t be tricked here,’ I warned myself. ‘You know what psychiatrists do. Whatever else Sandie may be, friend, counsellor or whatever; she is still a bloody psychiatrist.’

There would always be that barrier, that basic mistrust between doctors and me. I couldn’t help it. Some of my childhood dragons could never be slain and this was one of mine.

“I don’t think it’ll work. I’m damaged goods, there’s too much baggage.”

I reeled out all the pat, well-tested phrases.

“You mean you don’t feel confident,” offered Sandie.

“That’s it exactly,” I agreed, seeking any plausible excuse to escape the looming abyss of further responsibility. “I don’t have the skills, I don’t have the confidence; the self confidence. It’ll never work.”

“Don’t write yourself off so readily.” Challenged Sandie. “Mrs Bodkin showed confidence in you and she proved to be right in her estimations. She saw it in you and it’s still there.”

I fell silent and sipped my tea. There was little else I could add. The only reason that Mrs Bodkin had been ‘proven right’ was because she was right and I knew it better than anybody. I allowed her to use me as her experiment because I wanted to prove her right; I wanted to prove that being a transvestite didn’t automatically make you a child abuser. Besides, I liked Jenny and Bea. I’d grown to like them even as we arrived the first time in Iran after rescuing them. Eventually, they had grown to like me warts and all.

I was frightened that somehow having their mother come to stay might undo the hard work and destroy whatever good I might have done for them. Perhaps, subconsciously, or even consciously, I saw their mother’s re-appearance as some sort of threat. I just didn’t know; I was frightened.

Sandie started in again as though she could almost read my thoughts.

“You know you’ve come a long way Bev. First you were a cynical old bastard, then you were a suspicious old bastard then you were a cantankerous old bastard, then you became a caring old bastard, now you’ve become a frightened old bastard.”

“I’ve always been a frightened bastard. What you forget is that I started out as a frightened young bastard. All I’ve done is come full circle, although you are right in once sense, it has been a long way around the circle.”

“So one more small step shouldn’t be that difficult,” claimed Sandie, “you’ve already journeyed a million steps.”

“And every step makes that journey just seem that much longer. Mao Tse Tsung didn’t get it quite right. The longest journey doesn’t just start with one small step; the longest journey is always the next step. The steps you’ve already made are finished with. You can’t go back and retake them, they’re over. The journey always starts with the next step.”

“That’s a cynical point of view. It implies you consider the previous steps to have been a waste.”

“Yeah, well in my life, most of them were. The ones that took me away from my transvestism were virtually all wasted steps.”

“Why is that?”

“Because no matter how far I try to travel down whatever path, it always comes back to what I am, what I want to be, what I have at long last become. This; a full-blown tranny, a shemale no less! What I should have become when I was just a teenager.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Cowardice, prejudice, childhood abuses, financial insecurity, lack of prospects, other people’s opinions, the courts, the doctors; all the usual reasons for not doing so, all the wasted steps. And of course, the final big one, things were different then, forty years ago.”

“But you’re settled now, a nice home, semi retirement, and free to indulge your wildest fancies.”

“That’s right, and I’m afraid to unsettle it. That’s my problem. Beverly the caring heart and nurturing mother says this Angela woman needs help, special help, professional help; but Skipper, the world weary, hard bitten pragmatist says ‘don’t risk what has taken you a lifetime to accomplish’. I don’t think I would have the strength or the will to start again if all this were to come crashing down.”

“We wouldn’t let that happen.”

“How could you stop it? Even if I allowed her to come and live here, how would we remedy any danger or damage to my home and this set up.”

“We would have to re-admit her into hospital.”

“That’s just great and what about the trauma to the girls?”

“That’s a risk we’d have to take.”

“Ah! There speaks the cold, detached professional. The one who would never get emotionally involved, the one who can walk away from the mess.” I finished cynically.

“We are not miracle workers Bev, we can only try for a cure, and we can never guarantee one.”

I became tired of the debate. My head was aching and I needed a break. The children would soon be home and I knew Sandie would want to interview them, if only to reconnoitre the ground. Once again, I felt I was being used. I felt they were using my home and my Achilles heel, namely the hold they had over my emotions concerning Jenny and Bea. There seemed to be no escape from the machinations of all the care agencies connected to Jenny and Bea’s case.

‘Was I becoming paranoid again?’ I asked myself and then ruefully I wondered if I’d ever stopped being paranoid. I used the preparation of the evening meal as an excuse to extricate myself from the discussion. Preparing vegetables in the kitchen was my usual form of escape. Somewhere I could go and just relax as I ran things through my mind. As I prepared dinner, I heard the high-pitched chatter of four voices dawdling in the lane. My Kitchen window had a good view of the approaches to the cottage and the sound carried on the still summer air. I opened the window and called,

“Jenny! Beatrice! Hurry up you’ve got a visitor.”

The four figures emerged from the long grass that grew on the steep banks of the lane and I smiled as I studied the picture. The four friends reluctantly separated and my two ran to my door.

“Sandie’s here, she wants to talk to you.”

They were well used to the social service visits and dumped their school bags on the hall floor as they entered the drawing room. This time I listened at the closed door for I felt I had a right to know what was being said.

“Hello girls, everything OK?”

“Yes.” They chorused.

“How’s school?”

“OK.” Replied Jenny. “Chenille and I are going up to the secondary school in September.”

“Are you excited?”

“I don’t know. Provided there’s no bullying we should be OK.”

“Why. Do you think there might be?”

“We’ve heard stuff. Two of the girls who went up last year still use our bus from the lane. They get on at the cross roads and they told us there’s lots of stuff.”

“How does that affect you?”

“It’s Chenille and Martina’s mums. We know they are gay but in our school it’s OK. We four can look after ourselves, but when they find out in the big school, stuff could happen.”

“Oh. I see. Well I’ll see what can be done.”

As I listened at the door they went on to talk of lot’s of stuff, but their mother was never mentioned. Sandie had kept to her word. Perhaps I had been too suspicious. The girls re-emerged and changed from their school uniforms to feed their horses as I finished preparing the food ready for the evening meal later. Sandie joined me.

“They’re worried about the secondary school.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s Margaret and Sian. They are a gay couple and the word will get around the school.”

“Well we’ve already addressed that.”

“Oh. How?”

“Well, Margaret has captured the Audit account for the port Authority and Sian’s riding school is coming into profit. My investments in the container terminal are bearing fruit so we’ve just about got the funds to run to paying for the four of them to become day pupils at St Angie’s. It’s a public school just the other side of the hill. The girls won’t be going to the local secondary school.”

“Oh. That’ll be interesting. What about Martin?”

“You mean Martina.”

“Well whatever. Where will he go?”

“That’s where you come in.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, I’ve got doctor’s certificates declaring that I live as a woman. They actually say I’m probably undergoing a sex change, but between you and me, I’ve no intentions of going that far. You’re Martina’s consultant, can’t you sort something out by declaring him or her to be in some sort of sexual transition.”

“That’s pushing things a bit far?” Objected Sandie.

“Why. He’s already taking anti-androgen hormone blockers.”

“Well yes. But that’s only in anticipation of where he chooses to go when he’s emancipated. He’ll remain androgynous until he’s fourteen or fifteen. Then the plan is to examine exactly what he wants and help him or her take the chosen path.”

“So. What’s the problem? She dresses like a girl all the time now except when she’s in the junior school. If she goes with Beatrice to the junior section at St Angies next September, she could attend as a girl day pupil, provided you supply the medical certificates.”

Sandie fell silent as she considered the idea.

“I’ll have to run that by my colleagues. I’m not sure of the ethical and professional standards, questions.”

“Well can I please ask you to chat with Margaret and Sian about it. Margaret will be home soon and Sian will be just finishing with the horses. It’s time for me to be nursing the babies.“

“Gosh have you still got them on the breast.”

“Yes, but they’re taking solids now as well. I’m gradually weaning them off my breasts. Anyway their teeth are getting rather sharp. I could cope with the teething, but now they’ve got nearly all their milk teeth. It really is time for me to give it up.”

“Well that’s nice though some mothers keep them on the breast for up to two years, it’s a form of contraception.”

I gave her a dumb look and she grinned.

“Not for you, you silly goose. Did you enjoy the experience?”

“Utterly. I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like. I’ll be eternally grateful to Sian and Margaret until my dying day. The girls were utterly entranced by it all. It’s been a good experience for them. Just one more experience to imprint upon them that I function now as their mother.”

“What did Martina think of your breast feeding the babies?”

“I haven’t asked her. I haven’t made it an issue and she’s never volunteered anything. Each to their own, I say.”

“Well, I’ll have to chat with them about Martina anyway. Have any of Martina’s issues been discussed with the headmistress at St Angies?”

“I don’t know, you’d better ask Sian.”

With this, we left Sylvia the stable girl in charge of the cooking and we crossed the yard to Sian’s home. There, Sian, Margaret and Sandie fell to chatting about Martina as I settled down to feed both babies just as the girls returned from feeding the ponies. They immediately washed up and removed their dirty outdoor pony clothes before joining me in the warm kitchen.

The girls all knew my routine by now and they settled around the large kitchen table as I tenderly fed the babies. Their eyes sparkled with interest and curiosity as they alternately held the babies and helped attend to them when I fastened them to my breasts.

“It must be really nice being able to feed your own babies like that,” said Chenille softly.

“When I grow up, I’m going to feed my babies like that. It’s the proper way.” Observed Jenny.

“Aunty Sian’s mare fed Rolo her foal like that. It’s nice being a mummy.” Added Beatrice as she gently stroked my other breast.

Fortunately, my nursing bra covered my other breast, but Beatrice’s innocent, inquisitive fingers inadvertently sent a shiver down my body.

“Don’t do that darling, they’re a little sensitive.” I remarked as I gently removed her hand.

Beatrice reluctantly desisted while Martina simply watched in silence as he always did. I felt sure I knew what was going through Martina’s mind but I discreetly avoided letting the subject surface in the conversations. When he was ready, he would assuredly raise the issue as to how I, a ‘mummy dad’ could feed her own babies.

Eventually the babies were fed and everybody joined in the bathing and preparations to put the babies to bed. Sian and Margaret rejoined us with Sandie and the baby rearing tasks were soon completed. The girls loved the nightly routine for it so complimented their tasks with the ponies in the stables.

“Come on over to me then,” I declared, “I’ve got dinner on the go for all of us. Sylvia will be just finishing cooking it now.”

The girls shared the baby carrying duties as we stepped back across the yard to my cottage were Sylvia had just finished cooking.

In minutes, the meals were served and we fell to chattering around my dining table. Sylvia then borrowed the Landrover and took the girls over to Baroness Wemite’s to see Peter and Melanie. It was Melanie’s birthday and they had received an invitation for a brief private party that evening. The main celebrations were to be Saturday when school friends from St Angie’s would attend a pony trekking party but this was a private evening party for local friends of Peter and Melanie. Our girls were the only local friends outside of their circle of school friends. The private invitation made our girls feel extra special.

Whilst the girls were away, we discussed the possibility of Jenny and Beatrice’s mother coming to see her children. Both Margaret and Sian were wary of such a move. They were every bit as sensitive as me to the possibility of a custody battle ensuing if Angela learned her girls were still alive. Sandie tried to reassure us.

“I can assure you now, the poor woman is in no fit state to care for her children. She has nightmares and recurring flashbacks that cause all sorts of complicated reactions. My colleagues and I are certain it will take several years before she will be fit to care for the girls.”

“And by that time, they’ll be in their middle teens.” Added Margaret.

“Oooh yes! Most definitely! I should think Jenny would be about sixteen and Beatrice about fourteen before they would be safe to be left alone with her.”

“So that’s about five years from now.” I concluded, doing the simple maths.

“Thereabouts. It’s difficult to be accurate about the progress of a full cure but my colleagues and I are adamant it won’t be less than that.”

“But you think if she had access to her girls, then a cure would be faster.”

“We think a cure would have better prospects but it would not shorten the process. The more she sees of her girls the better.”

I fell silent but I could sense Margaret and Sian’s brains working away.

“How is she physically? She’s not an invalid or anything is she?” Asked Sian.

“Uh. No,” replied Sandie, “she’s quite fit physically. She was allowed the freedom to move around the camp so she has not deteriorated physically through any form of physical restraint. Physically, she’s as fit as a fiddle. The scars are all mental.”

“Could she handle being around horses? They’re nervous animals.”

“I don’t know, though we sometimes allow pet therapy with our patients. The contact with a fluffy cat or friendly dog can sometimes prove therapeutic. I don’t know about horses though.”

“Well all our horses and ponies have to be calm placid animals but any strange or excited behaviour might spook them. We’d have to try her out with the horses first. However, if she proves adaptable to the animals, she can always lend a hand with the stabling. Nothing exploitative or arduous but she’d have to be prepared to live with the horses.”

“Yes that’s reasonable.” Agreed Sandie.

“Hey. Wait a minute!” I protested. “Who said she’s coming? Who agreed to all this?”

“I’m afraid you’re outvoted,” declared Margaret. “Two to one.”

“Hey! Hold on! I think you’re getting ahead of yourselves. Where’s she going to live?”

“The other barn conversions are nearly finished. It’s designed for residential trekking parties. There are dormitories and supervisor’s bedrooms with en-suite facilities. When Sylvia moves into the warden’s flat, Angela can have a spare room with us.” Announced Margaret.

I realised I had been bypassed by a cunning flanking manoeuvre by Sandie. Margaret and Sian were equal partners in the barn conversions and pony trekking centre, they therefore had a two thirds vote in it’s running. If they chose to have Angela come to live with them, there was little I could do to stop it. In truth however, I was partly coming around to the idea anyway. Then Sandie finally produced the final deciding argument.

“She’ll have proper care and psychiatric supervision anyway.”

“How?” I asked.

“Well, I was keeping this bit of news until the last.”

“Go on,” I urged suspiciously.

“Well. I’ve applied for a promotion in my job and I’ve got it. I’m moving down here to take up my new post as head of psychiatric services in one of the local area health authorities. I’ll be working in Bournemouth just a half hour’s drive away.”

You could have heard a pin drop as our jaws fell.

“You’re married aren’t you? What about your husband?” Asked Margaret eventually.

“He works from home with his computer. He can live anywhere and he’s tired of the city. He only needs to go in once or twice a week. The schools will be better for my children as well.”

Margaret and Sian let out squeals of delight but I was more cautious. Sandie turned to me.

“I thought you’d be happy as well.”

“I’m not sure. It’s just too good to be true. There’s bound to be some catch. What about your children? You know changing schools and stuff.”

“Oh that’s no problem. William and Mary are quite young, only seven and five; changing schools will be a breeze.

“Oh.” I finished abruptly as I contemplated yet more scope for complication.

“My you are a cynic aren’t you?” Observed Sandie as she sensed my caution.

“I don’t know. It just seems too damned good to be true. Yes, I suppose I am a suspicious old cynic. I don’t suppose I’ll ever change.”

“Well you’d better,” said Sian, “cos things are certainly going to change around here.”

I fell silent and retreated into the kitchen to make some tea. They all recognised that the kitchen was where I did my thinking and they left me alone. In truth, I was frightened. I knew the good times couldn’t have lasted. I knew something would turn up and ruin my life yet again. My dream of a simple, isolated ‘Roses round the Door’ type country cottage had been hijacked. I supposed it was stupid to think that life could always be a bed of roses. I should have simply been stronger about not adopting the girls then all this hurt and fear would never have arisen. Where was the dream I had nurtured all my working life. Now my beloved cottage was being turned into a bloody psychiatric hospital, a children’s home and a bloody trekking centre. Where would it all end?

I wished I could be as gregarious and open as Sissy but I just couldn’t. I was too much of a coward and too weak. I had Jenny and Bea to consider and the hurt they would suffer when the truth became public.

‘What would happen if this Angela woman, the girl’s natural mother, found out about me?’ I asked myself. ‘She’d have all the ammunition she could ever wish for to take the girls from me. Then I’d be back where I started but with all the extra hurt and pain of losing two girls who I’d come to love, plus the heartache of probably having to sell up and move on.’

I returned with the tea, poured it out, and then settled morosely into my favourite chair. My introspective mood unsettled the others and they eventually returned across the yard to the barn conversion. In the still summer evening, through the open drawing room window, I heard Sian talking as they crossed the yard.

“She’ll come round. She’s just worried. She’s always been a worrier.”

After that I heard little more. Sian was certainly right about one thing. I was definitely worried.

 

Jenny and Bea's mother Angela is introduced to the extended family. Things progress better than Sandies wildest hopes as the reunion of mother and children demonstrates the intensity and effectiveness of Sandie's therapy.

 

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I did not sleep well that night and unusually, I slept in. By the time I was awake, I remembered that Jenny and Bea had slept over with Chenille and Martina in the barn conversion. I had not been woken by the usual ‘dawn thunder’ of feet on the landing. Obviously, Sandie, Margaret and Sian had sensed I was too troubled about developments. I would not have been a fit parent to the girls that day. When I finally appeared in the kitchen window, Sandie took her cue and crossed the yard from the barn house. I met her at the door and she entered with a wary smile.

“Are you feeling better this morning?”

“Where are the girls?” I replied.

“Margaret took them in to school on her way to the office.”

“You haven’t told them anything, have you?”

“Of course not. There’s a hell of lot of stuff before we do that.”

“Like me and my -, what d’you call it now -, my condition.”

“That’s the least of my problems. Angela’s cure is my main concern.”

“And once again, I’m to be the cure; is that it?”

Sandie smiled disarmingly. I knew I should be angry and frightened, but it was hard

to resist her charming wiles. I should have resented her manipulative activities but it was hard to anticipate her tactics and head them off. I should have fought off her ambushes but I felt like an old tramp ship crossing the Atlantic in the war, a sitting duck with virtually no defences. We settled in the kitchen and ended up chatting all morning as we raked over all my fears and suspicions. She even listed all the bullet points and annotated her answers. After lunch that afternoon Sandie went house hunting with her husband and children whilst I sat down and studied the list.

I added a few of my own then locked the list in my dressing table and went to pick up the children. I met Sandie and her family on the high street as they were coming out of an estate agent’s. (Realtor to our American cousins.) Introductions were made but I was on my way to collect the children and couldn’t stop.

“It’s OK, we’re going that way as well. I want Greg to see the local school.”

We waited outside the school gates with a myriad other parents and Sandie assessed the parents. As a typical professional parent, she was fussy about where her children were to be taught. Then the doors opened and the children came out and went to immediately familiar places where their parents gathered in regular groups. Eventually my four little darlings appeared and I made my farewells to Sandie and Greg.

‘They could form their own opinions about the school’ I thought.

The following Saturday morning Sandie and her family arrived unexpectedly at my cottage. The original plan had been for Elizabeth, Mrs Bodkin, and Sandie to turn a business trip into pleasure that Saturday afternoon and Sunday. Saturday morning was always busy with people bringing their children for riding lessons. The riding centre was in full swing and our own girls were busy assisting Sylvia. This was how they earned their pocket money allowances. Sandie had used the legitimate excuse of bringing her children to have a ride on the ponies whilst she continued our discussions in anticipation of Elizabeth’s arrival.

Reluctantly, I invited her in whilst Greg and their children visited the horses and then went riding.

“Have you studied the list of points?” She asked me.

“Yes. There are several more issues.”

“Go on,” she replied.

I showed her my additional list and she studied it thoughtfully.

“Why d’you want Elizabeth taken off the case?”

“I think it might be argued that Elizabeth might be prejudiced. After all she’s
visited here as a guest and if that came out, it could easily jeopardise my adoption of the girls.”

I did not mention Elizabeth’s lesbianism, for I still wasn’t sure if Sandie was aware of it. However, if that came out as well, the gutter press would have a field day with the set up at my cottage. There was no knowing what their puerile minds might dream up.

“Elizabeth’s your best friend in this case and your most powerful ally.” Observed Sandie.

“That’s what makes it so difficult. I know you’re right on that.”

“Well, I think it’s best to wait and see. I understand your fears, but let’s not cross our bridges before we get to them.”

Reluctantly I agreed to this.
That afternoon, Mrs Bodkin and Elizabeth arrived and their combined weight finally broke down my defences. Once again, I had proved to be weak where emotional issues were concerned. I ruefully contemplated how it was easy to be hard and ruthless with money and ships. I could be detached and dispassionate about money and ships but it was ‘oh so different’ when it came to children and emotions. Unsurprisingly, Elizabeth supported Sandie on the issue of her reserving the case to herself unless things became sticky.

By the evening, arrangements were well in hand to re-introduce Angela to her children. Apparently she was progressing well and the psychiatrists had high hopes for her. I was nervous and failed to sleep again that Saturday night. During Sunday lots of loose ends were tied up and it was decided to only tell the girls about their mother a few hours before she arrived. Nobody knew what their reaction would be.

During the week, Sandie spoke to me several times. She was having a hectic time what with moving house and everything. Eventually the crunch call came early on Friday morning.

“We think it best for her to come down on the Tuesday.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

Your home and domestic routines will be settled for the week and I need some time to talk to Jenny and Bea’s Head Mistress on the Monday. They are going to be off school for a few days whilst reconciliations and re-introductions are made. We will introduce Angela to you first, whilst the girls are in school then when they come home, we’ll introduce her to the girls.”

”Won’t that stress her out? Knowing the girls are alive and yet she cant get to them.”

“She will only know for an hour or so before the children get home. This is uncertain ground for me and I’m just not sure how to go about it. Angela thinks I’m taking her to see a sheltered housing placement.”

“Is that what my dream cottage has become, some sort of care home?”

“Hey! Help me on this,” protested Sandie, “it’s the best we can do.”

“Gee thanks! What’s she like? Does she talk or is she some sort of catatonic mute?”

“No. I wouldn’t overload you with that sort of burden. She can talk now and she’s quite responsive, but she’s very emotional and cries a lot.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? It shows her emotions are working.”

“Well done Bev. We’ll make a psychiatrist of you yet. That’s exactly where we are at this juncture. She’s very emotional and feels immensely guilty about her girls. She still thinks they are dead.”

“Oh great! So there will be copious tears and hysterics when she learns otherwise, at my house. I hope you’re prepared for this. What happens if she gets violent or something? I’m no sort of male nurse or anything, with muscles to restrain her.

You’ve seen me, any male muscles I once had have long since atrophied. Is she a big girl?”

“No, she’s about one point six five metres and fifty eight kilos. She’s quite an attractive woman.”

“On the outside, and what about the inside?”

“Why d’you ask?”

“Well surely you’re the best to judge. You’re the professional brain digger. What’s she like as a woman, is she kind or selfish, and is she strong willed or submissive, is she amenable or stubborn? All that sort of stuff.”

“We haven’t even got that far yet Bev. Her cure is going to take a long time.”

“How long?” I demanded snappishly.

“I just can’t say. There’s no knowing.”

“Gee thanks. So you could be dumping a psychopath on my hands.”

“She’s not psychopathic. I can state that professionally.”

“Oh yeah. I suppose you can say that because psychopath has some sort of specific medical meaning that your profession can readily describe and therefore accurately diagnose and state with confidence in court. I might have used the wrong word. Let’s put it another way; can you say that the children and indeed any of us adults are perfectly safe?”

There was a long silence that told me everything. This Angela might still need watching. Finally Sandie started to answer but her pause had already given me her answer. Nothing was certain, and I would have to have eyes in the back of my head until Angela’s relationship towards the girls and me had been determined. Sandie recognised my fears so she finished by discussing arrangements as a way of distracting me.

That weekend, I found myself mawkishly attentive to Jenny and Bea, so much so that even they commented about my fussing around them. When Tuesday came I found myself on tenterhooks. Even baking a pile of cakes failed to calm me and as the hour approached I found myself staring down the lane. I debated whether to remove my cooking apron then decided to leave it on. I hoped it would create the image of the loving granny preparing tarts and cakes for her grandchildren. Call me stupid if you will, but I just didn’t know what to do for the best. I hoped the inviting smell of cooking and a warm domestic scene would be the best welcome.
Finally I heard the soft hum of Sandie’s car in the lane. The still summer air carried the slightest sound and I found myself standing in the kitchen doorway as the car reached the yard.

Sandie got out first and then introduced Angela as I stepped forward to welcome her.

“Beverly, this is Angela, Jenny and Beatrice’s mother.”

Still uncertain of how to go about welcoming her, I held out my right hand as if to shake hands whilst simultaneously half extending the other to change it to an embrace if she wished. Angela smiled weakly and I realised she was as afraid as I was. Realising I was the host and on my own territory as it were, I reached forward and slowly opened my arms wider to invite her in to my embrace. She lurched forward uncertainly then finally fell into my arms and started squeezing me as tight as a python as she started sobbing. She didn’t even bother to say hello or anything she simply burst out with a plea.

“My girls, are they here?”

“Uuhm. No not yet. I’m sorry. Mrs Bodkin is fetching them from school. They’ll be here shortly.”

“Have they changed much?” She demanded.
This question left me nonplussed. Of course the girls had changed. It had been nearly three years. I stared desperately over Angela’s shoulder to seek some sort of Guidance from Sandie who was watching our interactions like a hawk. Sandie mouthed ‘Yes’. So I took her cue.

“Well yes love. Of course they’ve changed. How could they not have changed? They -, they’re three years older. Jenny’s nearly twelve.”

“And Bea, what of Bea?”

“Well -, well it’s the same for her, she’s ten now. Little girls are bound to change. You’ll see when they get home.”

“Home! Home! Is this where they live?”

Her questions stumped me for a moment then I remembered Sandie’s original ploy. She had told Angela that they were going to check out a suitable home for Angela and meet the girls. She obviously hadn’t mentioned that the girls lived at the same place.

“Why -, why yes. The girls live here.”

“What! You mean here? Here in this house?”

“Well yes. D’you want to see?”

“Please. Oh yes please!”

Unsure of how to go about it, I took her immediately up to the girl’s bedroom. She hesitated for a moment then stepped between the beds where some neatly folded freshly laundered clothes lay on the bed. I had put them there for the girls to sort out as they always did. On the pillows, their chartreuse all-in-ones lay loosely folded as the girls usually left them.

“Are, - are, - are these their, their pyjamas.”

“Uuhm, - yes,” I replied nervously as I wondered if she might think the all-in-ones to be unsuitable for young girls or something. I stood behind her unconsciously wringing my hands as I waited tensely for her next reaction.

Suddenly she let another loud sob then without hesitation she seized the nighties and squeezed them to her face as she breathed deeply. Then she grabbed a pillow from each bed and pushed them to her face. I glanced at Sandie who confirmed my own feelings. The poor woman was desperate to get the faintest intimation of her children. Sandie nodded and smiled at me and I smiled back, it was exactly what I would have done if I had lost the girls and then found them again. It was perhaps one of the most fundamental emotive things a mother could do. Children have a smell and mothers subconsciously recognised their own child’s scent. After holding the pillows to her face for several minutes she finally realised we were still there. Her eyes filled up and she apologised for her actions.

“There’s no need to be sorry,” I reassured her as I reached out to take her trembling hands. “If I’d lost them and then found them again like you, I’d have done exactly the same.”

“Will they remember me?” She asked.
Here I was on surer ground. Whenever the girls had asked me about their mother, I had been completely honest. I had never intimated that she might be dead or anything. I had always confessed that I just didn’t know. This had help keep their hopes alive and therefore their memories. The girls definitely remembered their mother and Mrs Fotheringay their grandmother had left them with a huge inheritance of memories and artefacts, most of which were stored away to await a suitable day when they might ask about something specific. Here I could really be of help.

“Oooh yes; definitely.” I replied unequivocally, “they ask about you a lot.”

“Do they know about me being back, being here?”
I glanced at my watch and smiled as I nodded to reassure her yet again..

“They will now. Mrs Bodkin will be telling them just about now. D’you want to speak to them. They’ll be just about leaving school. Mrs Bodkin has got a hand’s free mobile set up in her car.”

“Oh Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Yes please. Oh thank you!”

Anticipating this, Sandie produced her mobile and dialled the number. It rang and Sandie spoke briefly to Mrs Bodkin.

”Hello dear. Are they there? - Do they know?”

"Yes."

Sandie smiled and handed the phone to Angela as she switched it to 'voice'.
For long seconds Angela just stood dumb with emotion as we all heard the girls squealing down the phone.

“Mummy! Mummy. Are you there? Is that really you? Mummy! Answer the phone!”

Finally, as she recognised their voices the tears streamed down her face. She let out a loud sob and wailed.

“Ye-ess! I’m here. I’m here. I’m home!”

With that the girls screamed with excitement and I could here them shrieking with delight as they repeatedly told Martina and Chenille who were sharing the car ride home. Angela just stood dumbly staring into the phone as she listened to her daughter’s ecstatic reactions. Finally she turned to me and I distinctly noticed the dull vacant look in her eyes suddenly betray a sparkle of awareness. Angela’s whole demeanour had already improved remarkably..

“Who are the other children?”

“They’re your children’s closest friends. Their names are Chenille and Martin, and they live across the yard.”

I pointed out of Jennifer and Beatrice’s bedroom window towards the barn conversions and Angela nodded as I explained the set up..

“That’s Chenille’s window, the one on the corner. They wave good night to each other on the rare occasions when they are not sleeping over.”

“And how often is that?”

“What? The sleeping over; oh they do it most nights. All four children are very close friends. As you can see there are four beds in this room, well there are also four beds in the barn conversion across the yard where Chenille and Martina live.

“That sounds nice so it’s like one big happy family.”

“Well, - sort of,” I conceded..

The phone went silent and as she handed the phone back to Sandie, Angela fell silent. I suggested a cup of tea and she smiled.

“That would be lovely. The cup that cheers.”

“Well yes indeed!” I agreed, “and something to cheer about.”

Angela turned to Sandie as tears started to cascade down her cheeks.

“So I’m to stay here then.”

“If you wish. With your children.”

Angela ‘s emotions finally broke through like a dam bursting. She collapsed into an armchair and simply wailed. I had never heard or seen anything so emotional before. The volume was painful to listen to.

Sandie and I discreetly retreated to the kitchen and busied ourselves with the tea for a while to give Angela a chance to compose herself. Finally the noise ceased and her tear streaked face appeared in the doorway.

“I could face that tea now.”

Without hesitation, I turned with the cup I was holding as Sandie proffered the milk jug and sugar bowl. Angela smiled as she noticed our preparations and she settled at the kitchen table to sip her tea.

“How long before they get home.”

“About twenty minutes. You’d best repair your makeup, you’ll frighten them looking like that.” I replied as I poured Sandie and me a cup each then settled at the same table. Sandi selected a few choice biscuits and placed the plate between the three of us.

“The cake is for when the girls arrive.”

“Mmmm. It smells good.”

“Thank you.” I replied graciously. “The girls usually help but today’s special.”

“And some!” Agreed Angela wholeheartedly.

She finished her tea and turned expectantly towards the pot. I reached back to the worktop and hefted it over. It was a huge, ornate pewter Victorian pot that served well when the house was crowded.
This evening the house would certainly be crowded if Angela decided she could face her neighbours to be. As we sat facing each other, Sandie spoke.

“Now Angela. What questions d’you have?”

Angela stared into her cup and pursed her lips.

“Where do I start?”

“Well what about the girls for a start. What d’you want for them?”

“Naturally, I want them to live with me.”

“Well, if you live here then that’s easily accommodated.”

“What. Here in your house?” Replied Angela, anxiously.

“Well; not exactly here, unless you really want to. You can live in one of the apartments across the yard if you prefer, or indeed, you can live here. It’s a big house.”

“Do you live here alone?” She asked me.

“Yes. Just me and the girls.”

“Who else lives here?”

“You mean across the yard?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s Margaret and Sian, they share the barn conversion. The other two children coming home are Chenille and Martin. They are Margaret and Sian’s children and there are two infants, babes in arms. Then there’s Sylvia. She’s pony mad and she works for Sian running the stables and trekking. Sylvia lives in one of the apartments. There are four other apartments attached to four dormitories for school parties. There’s plenty of space for you. Believe me, we bounce around this house like pebbles in a drum.”

“Is that an invite?”

“If you want it to be. I’d advise you stay in one of the other apartments for the rest of this week though until you’ve felt your way a bit; unless the girls demand differently of course.

The apartment next to Sylvia’s is empty until Friday night when a school party arrives from Birmingham, they’re disadvantaged kids from the inner city. We’re fully booked this weekend and they’ve taken over the whole place.”

We chatted some more until I realised the time and suggested that Angela repair her makeup. Reluctantly she left the table and slipped into the downstairs lavatory as Sandie and I laid the table.

Angela returned from the loo with her looks repaired and I had to admit she was an attractive woman.

“Who else lives here?” She asked inquisitively.

I looked at her puzzled but Sandie intervened.

“As I told you one the way down from London, Angela. You don’t have to worry about any men being around.”

I saw Angela visibly relax as Sandie reminded me of Angela’s phobia.

“Angela has a morbid fear of men after her experiences with the terrorists. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

I nodded silently as I contemplated any possible future complications.

‘God forbid,’ I thought, ‘if she ever discovered what I was. ‘God alone knew what the upshot would be.’

My thoughts were interrupted as the excited squeals from Jenny and Bea announced their arrival. Angela emerged nervously to meet them but we need not have worried about the girl’s reactions’ to their mother. Whatever reservations any of us might have had, were swept away in the ecstasy of the girl’s reunion with their mother. Angela was squeezed and hugged with such vehemence that she later told me her bones were aching from the attention. Finally we got everybody settled around the table and Mrs Bodkin produced the celebration cake that I had prepared.

“It’s like a birthday!” Shrieked Beatrice.

“It’s like three birthdays!” Added Jennifer, and that gave me an idea.

“Candles! I forgot the candles. One for every year that each of you has been apart.”

“That’s three,” declared Beatrice, a little disappointed at only three candles on the cake.

“No, that’s three years for each of us, you me and mummy. That’s nine.” Corrected Jenny

“Nine it is then!” I added as I rooted through the dresser drawer to dig out some old birthday remnants.

There I found a half empty box with ten candles remaining so I stuck all ten into the cake.

“That’s ten!” Charged Bea.

“One for luck. One for you being found.”

I almost said ‘One for Skipper’ but just managed to correct myself.

That was a hurdle we had yet to clear.

As Jenny studied the cake, she demanded that Martin and Chenille must attend so Beatrice dashed across the yard to make the invitation as Jenny found some party hats up in their bedroom. The other two returned with Bea after changing from school and Martin was dressed as Martina. Fortunately, in the excitement, Angela had seemingly forgotten that I had spoken of Martin earlier. If she noticed anything, she said nothing. I let sleeping dogs lie.

Around the table the chatter became a tumult and I became nervous that the conversation might turn to the kidnap and rescue. I felt tense until finally Sian and Sylvia came from the stables where they had been putting the ponies to bed. This provided a further distraction and then later, Margaret came home from her office. It was long gone nine o’clock and Angela was exhausted by the proceedings. Reluctantly, she indicated that she was tired and requested that she could go to bed. A brief discussion determined that she could sleep in the girl’s study-bedroom on one of the spare beds that Chenille and Martina sometimes used when they slept over. More often than not though, the four children dragged the four beds in the girls room together and slept together.

Having Angela sleep in the adjoining bed-study room with the bathroom separating her from her children proved an admirable solution and she eagerly took her luggage from Sandie’s car before finally retiring after Jenny and Bea had bathed.
As Angela showered in the girl’s bathroom, I arrived with cups of chocolate for her and the girls whilst Sandie and Mrs Bodkin cleared away the party tailings. She emerged from the bathroom into the girl’s bedroom to find them in their nightdresses and me preparing to read a story. I turned a little self-consciously and offered the book to her.

“No. You read it. I’ll just sit on the bed with them and listen. She sighed softly.”

I had deliberately picked an old traditional story with a happy ending. It seemed to fit the occasion and Angela listened as raptly as her daughters. When I had finished, she hugged me as tightly as ever her daughters had then she hugged her daughters for what seemed an age.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room when she finally retired to her own bed and left the connecting bathroom doors open to reassure herself that she really was back with her daughters. I slipped discreetly away to my own room and flung myself nervously on the bed.

After lying there for a few minutes, I started changing for bed. I had chosen my most flamboyant royal blue all-in-one followed by my fullest full-length ‘ball-gown’ nightdress and topped with the laciest, frilliest matching peignoir. Then after turning down my satin sheets, I sat up in my bed and studied my appearance in the dressing table mirrors. I looked like an empress holding court. Then there was a soft knock on the door.

“Who it is?” I asked softly so as not to wake the rest of the house.

“It’s Sandie. Can I come in?”

I was relieved it was not Angela or the girls and I called her in.

“So how was she when the girls were going to bed?” Asked Sandie

“Very emotional. Most of the time she was trying not to cry, then the floodgates burst, - again.”

“And?”

“Well we all started crying, her, the girls and even me. She’s had a rough time.”

“That’s a given. Was she overly possessive?”

“What does that mean. They’re her children for God’s sake. What do you expect her to be after three years of abuse and deprivation?”
Sandie hesitated.

“Yes I put that rather stupidly. No I mean did she seem antagonistic towards you. Was she defensive or possessive? Did she try and insinuate herself between you and the girls?”

“No. I sat on one side of the bed and she sat on the other. She kept hugging them alternately, but I think that’s normal. I think she was just trying to reassure herself that the whole thing was true.
She allowed me to hug and kiss them after I’d read the story then I left her with them. That seemed normal and fair to me.”

“I’ll just check in on the girls then, before I turn in.”

“If you feel that’s necessary. I think I’d better do it. If Angela sees a psychiatrist checking up on her children, while she’s sharing the next room, she might begin to wonder why. If I just look in, it will seem as if I’m just doing my motherly thing like I normally would.”

“Good thinking. I was hoping you’d say that. Just pop down the landing and check.”

I agreed and slipped on my satin blue mules then slipped along the landing. My mules ‘clopped’ softly on the carpet whilst my night attire rustled silkily as I stepped along. With little secrecy I popped my head around the door and found the girls sleeping sweetly. However Angela’s whisper called hoarsely through the separating bathroom.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Beverly; I was just making my usual last house round before turning in.”

“Oh. OK then. They’re OK.”

“Yes of course. Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight.”

I withdrew discreetly as Sandie was standing behind me on the landing. We returned to my bedroom at the end of the landing.

“Right. Everything’s in order. She’s sleeping next door to her girls. What could be more normal than that?”

“Nothing. That’s good. I just wanted to be sure. What do you think of her?”
“She seems OK. I’m not a trick-cyclist that’s your department.”

“Are you happy about her staying here?”

“It’s too early to say. She seems OK for now. I can’t say about the future. What happens when she finds out about my transvestism? Which she definitely will eventually.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“I keep hearing that but it doesn’t reassure me.”

“Well what d’you want me to do? I can’t wave a magic wand; I can’t change her basic nature. I’m a doctor not a flippin’ magician!”

Sandie’s reaction pulled me up short. I was being a bit unfair. She was right. The only person who could firstly find out about Angela’s attitude to my transvestism would be me. Then more importantly, I had somehow to get her to like me enough to look past my flaws and see the real person underneath. I sighed resignedly as I pulled back my bed sheets for the second time and Sandie reached across to me. She gave me a peck on the cheek and whispered.

“We’ll get through this. You’re a good person Bev, I’m sure Angela will see that.”

“We’ll see.” I replied as I settled between my sheets. “Good night.”

“God Bless,” replied Sandie as she slipped across the landing to her own room.
In the morning I was awake early. My main question was how the girls would react. ‘Who would they choose to call upon for their usual morning cuddle?’ Would it be Angela or me? I must confess my fears were tinged with a smattering of jealousy. She had the advantage of being right there beside them whilst I was living far down the landing.

As was usual when I was unsettled, I sat on my window seat and savoured the views. I needn’t have worried. At the usual time there was a soft knock on my door and Bea’s face peered around.

“Can we all come in?”

“All?” I replied curiously., “wondering where they had picked up that strange American vernacular.” “Don’t you mean ‘Can we come in?’”

“Mummy’s with us.” Replied Jenny as her head appeared.

“Oh! Yes! Certainly. All of you; come in.”
The door swung wider and Angela stood nervously in the doorway. I smiled and beckoned her in as I stepped towards the bed. The girls needed no invitation and flung themselves onto my king-sized bed to take up their usual positions on either side of me. Angela smiled as she studied the scene then asked.

“Can I join you?”

“Of course. Their bed is your bed, their cuddles are your cuddles.”
Nervously, Angela slid onto the bed and fingered the satin sheets.

“These seem nice. Very luxurious.”

“The girls have the same sheets, I pointed out. We all like soft and silky.”
Jenny supported my remark by pressing the satin pillow to her face and going ‘Mmmmmm!’

Angela smiled wistfully then carefully pulled back the sheet and noticed my bedclothes.

“Gosh you resemble Katherine the Great in all her finery.”

I simply smiled as the girls evidenced their feelings by snuggling closer to me. I became emboldened by the girl’s reactions and patted the pillow beside Bea. Angela accepted the invitation and finally slipped the sheet back to climb in beside Bea.
Jenny immediately felt ‘out of it’ and clambered over me to squeeze herself between Bea and me. Angela glanced at me and smiled.

“We’re like a pair of bookends.”

“Lovely books though,” I replied.

“Mmm. Yes, the very best. I like the way their nighties match yours. Was that your idea?”

“No. They asked for them when they snuggled up against mine.”
Angela turned to Beatrice and hugged her.

“Would you like mummy to wear a nightdress like Beverly’s?”

“Oooh yes!” Evinced an excited Bea. “Then we could have two mummies the same, like Chenille and Martina.”

“Well -,” I swallowed nervously as we approached risky ground, “not exactly like Sian and Margaret darling. Your mummy and me are not married.”

“But you could get married,” added Jennifer.

“Oooh I don’t think so.” I hastily replied, -too hastily-, “I don’t think your mummy is like Aunty Margaret and Sian.”

“But you could get married, if Skipper said so.” Argued Jennifer.

Frantically I diverted the conversation but not before Angela’s ears had pricked up.

“Come on, it’s time to get ready for school. Go and get dressed.”
So saying, I slipped out of my side of the bed and hastily stepped into my en-suite bathroom. There I made a loud show of showering and hoped that the others would have vacated the bed before I returned to get dressed.
When I had finished my toilet, I peeped cautiously around the door and was relieved to see that they had returned to their own bedrooms. Hastily a flung some everyday clothes on and had breakfast on the go as they descended the stairs.
The girls were describing school to Angela and invited her to walk down the lane with the four of them to the bus stop. When she returned Sandie had joined us. Angela poured herself another cup of tea me and studied me with a puzzled look.

“Who’s Martin?”

“Sian’s little boy,” answered Sandie.

“But I thought she had a daughter, Martina.” Replied Angela.

“They are one and the same. Martin is a transitional sexual dysphoric. He is not sure if he’s a girl or a boy.”

“Oh. How curious. He’s quite a sweetie isn’t he?”

“Yes. A delightful child.” Added Sandie.

“What’s going to happen to him?” Pressed Angela.

“How do you mean?”

“Well; will he grow up as a boy or a girl?”

“He doesn’t know yet. He’s stated a clear preference that he wants to live as a girl, but he’s not sure if he wants to be a girl.”

“Oh! How odd. That must be very confusing for him or is it her?”

“It’s Martin at school and Martina in the safety of her home with us adults to protect her.”

“Oh that’s lovely. Isn’t Sian a little disappointed though?”

“She’s never expressed any disappointment to me,” I replied, “in fact it was Sian who suggested that Sandie act as Martina’s physician. Martina’s on hormonal blockers until she’s ready to choose her life-style.”

“Sian seems an eminently caring mother despite her -,”

“Her what?” I interjected.

“Her uuhm -, her lesbianism.”

“Her sexuality doesn’t necessarily impinge on her femininity or mothering skills. Sian and Margaret are very caring mothers.”

“Well -, yes, I must admit, Chenille and Martin were very polite and well behaved as we walked down the lane. Excellent reflections on their mother’s care.”
Sandie smiled.

“They were on their best behaviour.”

“Oh not on my account surely. It’s me who’s on trial surely.”

“We’re all on trial,” I replied, “Sian and Margaret are always under the microscope. Same sex parent-carer’s are still a novelty and there’s always somebody ready to slip the knife in. That’s why Sian and Margaret live out here. There’s less chance of any neighbourly abuse or whatever.”

Angela nodded sagely and finished her tea.

“They were very kind to me last night and made me really welcome. I’d like to get to know them better. They seem a lovely couple.”

“You will if you stay here but it might take a little while. They’re very nervous of any close friendships for all the obvious reasons.. You’ll be living cheek by jowl with them so you’ll have plenty of opportunity. They are a good couple. Martina reflects that.”

“Yes. He was lovely when we walked down the lane and he was so solicitous when we crossed the ford at the stream. He even held my hand as we crossed the stepping-stones. I wish all men could be as caring and gentle as him.”

“Some are.” Remarked Sandie.

I caught her eye and realised Sandie was going somewhere with the conversation so I kept quiet. It turned out that Sandie was gently digging.

“Well if there are,” answered Angela, “they are few and far between. I just cant get over the —‘”

She stopped talking and started sobbing softly. I stepped over and gently held her as her tears grew. Sandie watched like a cat watches a mouse. Obviously, Angela’s experiences in the camp were still too traumatic.

I continued holding her to my soft breasts until she realised her tears were saturating my blouse. The thin wet silk became transparent and my delicate frilly bra began to show. The damp nipple had also become chilled and stiffened as it showed plainly under the transparent filmy material. Angela lifted her head and studied the damp patch as she released me from her embrace.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” she smiled wanly, “here, let me dry that.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out some tissues as she dabbed gently at my breasts. I couldn’t help twitching slightly as the paper wad brushed my chilled damp nipple. I let out a slight gasp and clasped her fingers as I gently claimed the tissue.

“Ah -, I’ll do it. I -,”

She realised my embarrassing situation and courteously pressed the tissue into my hand.

“I’m sorry,” she smiled, “that was silly of me.”

“It’s OK. No harm done,” I replied as I gently pressed the tissue to my breast and waited for it to warm up.

Eventually my nipple subsided and I removed the tissue. Angela studied my nipple still visible through the wet filmy silk and delicate lacy bra cup.

“Have you ever had children?” She asked.

“No,” I replied, “I’ve never had that pleasure.”

“But you’re nipples. They look as though you’ve breast fed a child.”

“Gosh! Can you tell that by just looking?” I replied feigning total innocence.

“Well, it’s the way they look; wouldn’t you agree Sandie?”

“Yes,” replied Sandie, “they have the form and shape of stage five development, that is the areola are well developed but flattish whilst the nipples are well formed and protruding. Angela’s right, Bev, you do look as though you’ve breast fed a child.”
If looks could kill, I would have murdered Sandie right there and then, fortunately, Sian entered with Sylvia and the babies in the twin buggy. Angela was immediately all over the babies.

“Oh aren’t they just sweet! What are their names?”

“James and Belinda,” replied Sian, “James is Margaret’s son and Belinda’s my daughter.

“Gosh they look like twins! They’re so alike!”
Sian glanced cautiously towards me over Angela’s back as Angela bent down to kiss both babies. I nodded and mouthed, ‘just say they are twins.’

“Well they are half twins actually, they share the same father.”

Angela stood up again as Sylvia helped her hold a baby in each arm. She hovered nervously beside Angela who pooh-poohed her concerns.

“I’ve held two babies in my arms before. I’ve had two of my own.”

Sylvia relaxed and smiled then made to pour out two cups of tea from the pot. It was a clear indication that they virtually lived in my house during the day. In fact they had come to discuss preparing lunch because of my extra guests. Angela turned to Sian.

“So these two are twins, in a way.”

“Sort of, they’re half sister and brother and they were born the same day.”

“Oh that’s lovely. Does their father know?”

“Of course. We wouldn’t have it any other way.” Replied Sian cautiously. She was up to speed on the situation.
Angela settled in the big ‘wheel-back’ Windsor chair and rested her elbows on the arms as she ‘ga-ga’d and goo-goo’d over the babies. It was obvious she was entranced be them. Angela clearly loved babies. Finally, she relinquished the babies to the buggy again and we resumed chatting. The conversation turned to living arrangements and I concluded that Angela seemed suitably ‘liberal’ enough to join our ‘man-free’ set up. After lunch, Angela moved her stuff across the yard to live next door to Sylvia’s apartment. This would be until we could get one of my spare bedrooms altered to fit an extra en-suite bathroom. We knew from past experience, that this would take a few weeks and that end of the landing would be a mess with all the building and alterations. Angela was impressed with the arrangements because she would have her own bathroom from the very first day. Later, she and I took the Land rover to pick up the girls and Martin from school.

 

This chapter describes Angela's discovery that Skipper is an effeminate, heterosexual she-male transvestite. It describes in further detail how Angela handles it and starts to move forward with her girls and Skipper.

 

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We arrived outside the school rather early so we settled down in the Land rover and fell to chatting. I felt it gave me a good chance to chat generally with Angela and possible learn a bit more about her. We talked about their life before departing for Australia in their yacht and I managed to garnish useful bits and pieces about the girl’s early childhood. A lot of our chat confirmed the odd snippets that the girls had occasionally touched upon and occasionally we chuckled as I got Angela’s more adult take on incidents that I had only had the kid’s versions of. Eventually we fell to talking about the set-up at the cottage.

“So Sandie’s quite right then, there are no men around,” observed Angela as I noted the relief in her eyes.

“”Well there’s Mr Turpin and his wife and mature daughter on the next farm but that’s nearly a mile away. We hardly see him but to attend to mutual issues concerning our farms and the fields; fences, hedges and that sort of stuff. I rent out nearly all my acreage to him except for the paddocks for the riding school. We recently took some back from him to give the horses some exercise space and we use that land mutually. He’s a good neighbour and we’ve never had a bit of trouble. He belongs to the ‘old fashioned ‘school of country folk and neighbourliness. Live and let live but support each other when there’s trouble around like floods or bad weather or something.
Angela slowly relaxed and unwound a bit as we continued chatting, she tried to apologise for her obsessive attachment to her girls. I smiled as I understood her feelings.

“For heaven’s sake Angela; you’re their mother! Isn’t that what any proper mother would feel after having thought she’d lost her children forever?”

“But am I a proper mother? I mean after abandoning them to the ocean, -“

“You did what you thought best. Nobody can blame you for that.”

“I didn’t want to set them adrift, Sam thought it was best. He gave them all the food and water we could.”

I wondered what I would have done and concluded that it was a frightful dilemma. However, I could see, reading between the lines, that they had argued about what to do. Angela was still traumatised by the decision she and her husband had made. I leaned forward and gave her a hug.

“Look. We none of us can get it right every time. God knows, we’ve all been there. The girls are safe back with you again and you are safe back with them.”

“I’m afraid to let them out of my sight. I mean, even this morning when they left for school, I was tense; I didn’t want them to go, - and that was only to school. I mean what could be more normal than going to school?”

“Your feelings about that would be quite normal, after all think what you’ve been through. If you’ve got issues about it, speak to Sandie again. She’s up here lots of times. She’s almost become a friend. In fact your girls almost think of her as their aunty, she’s here so often.”

“My girls? But I’ve lost them haven’t I?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well you’ve got them now. I’ve lost them haven’t I?”

I shuddered a bit as I anticipated some hateful outburst about being some sort of ‘child snatcher’.

“But you’re living with them. I mean they’re right under your nose.”

“Only as long as I stay on the farm or should I say lodge at your cottage.”

I hesitated. I was always poor at resolving personal stuff. I suppose it was one of the reasons I had stayed at sea all my life. It sort of kept me out of getting entangled in emotional stuff. I had always been terrified of emotional entanglements until I had found the girls. With children, stuff was ‘black and white.’ My relationship with the girls mirrored my own lack of maturity or confidence when dealing with other people. I simply gave Jenny and Beatrice support and care and they gave me unreserved love in return. It was easy to respond to the girl’s affection. The relationship was simple but deep and rewarding. I probably got more out of the relationship than Jenny and Bea did. So long as there was a permanent, safe nurturing adult to attend to their everyday simple needs they were content and took my being there for them for granted. For me the rewards were infinitely greater. Every time I saw them dawdling in the lane as they returned from school, my heart would flip with joy. This was the first time in my life I had ever felt emotional about somebody else. I opened up a bit to Angela.

“You can stay up there at the cottage as long as you like Angela. Your children need you. Only you can give them that feeling of utter security that children so desperately need. Oh I know I can give them every material blessing a child could wish for, but that’s only money. Yes, I love the girls; they’ve brought me infinite joy, but I don’t spoil them; you can see that by the way they have to muck out their own ponies every day, however; I can’t give them what you can give them, their real mummy back. They need you more than you need them. That’s both Sandie’s professional opinion and my feelings about where we are going with the girls. You’ll be staying with your girls, - and they are your girls Angela-, for as long as it takes both for you to get better and for the girls sake. Sandie might not agree with on this next bit but by my calculation, that will be until the girls have grown up and left home as any normal children would. And don’t forget, once everybody feels your cured then you are in charge of your own life again. I decide who stays in my cottage and that decision I base on compassion and needs. The girls will always need you so you can always stay here. Doesn’t that seem fair?

You’ll even have the joy of watching them leave home and possibly even coming home to grand-ma with their own children one day. You’ve got your girls back for life Angela. All you have to do is stay with them, here in as safe an environment as any girls could ask for.”

Angela filled up and burst into tears again. This I could handle. She fell into my arms and between muffled sobs she kept repeating ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’. I realised that for Angela it was all about staying with her beloved girls and the miracle reappearance of them when she had given them up for dead. I made her another offer.

.“You can sleep with the girls in their study any time you wish if you miss their company; you can sleep with them all the time if that’s what it takes girl.”

“It probably will,” she replied ruefully. “It’s difficult to be separated from them now I have them back. I feel so guilty about having to abandon them.”

“Having to abandon them?” I remarked curiously.

“Well. Yes. We were in sight of the Isle of Socotra when we were attacked. We made the girls hide in the life raft and cast it adrift before the attackers got too near. If the pirates let us go, we could recover them again. We decided that because we were in the busy shipping lanes, a ship would be bound to spot the life raft with the girls onboard if we were taken away.”

“Well you were right on that count but a bit flawed in your other reasoning.”

“Why’s that?” Asked Angela.

“Well those are dangerously pirated waters. No ship would ordinarily stop to investigate a life raft. They would have suspected a trap.”

“But surely, a warship or something. We thought -,”

“Well not really my love. The warships are usually going from the Red Sea to the Persian Gulf and they ordinarily pass further north than Socotra close to the Arabian shore. There are several other factors as well.”

“Go on,” pressed Angela.

“Well firstly, a ship can’t just stop like that. When they’re at sea under way, they’re using heavy, black, cheap fuel oil. This needs to be heated and injected into a hot diesel engine, which is OK when the engine is hot and thumping away at normal speed.

When a ship wants to stop and enter port, they change over to a lighter ordinary diesel that burns better at lower temperatures. The engine cools slightly when it stops and starts constantly for manoeuvring into port.
This fuel changeover can take some time and the ship is vulnerable when it slows down. It can’t just dash away like a speedboat if trouble appears. It can take an hour for even a small modest ship to reach full speed again. Those big super-tankers might take as much as a day to squeeze the final knot from say thirteen to fourteen knots. All ships are vulnerable if they’re not protected. They’re sitting ducks for pirates. That’s why ships would be loath to stop and make a big fat target of themselves. That’s why merchant ships have warships, usually with helicopters to protect them. What sort of boat did your kidnappers have?”

“It was a fast patrol craft like the old German ‘E’ boats. It was very fast and had a gun mounted on the front.”

“Exactly, I replied. They mean business and in truth no ship could escape that sort of fast patrol craft no matter what it’s speed was. All ships are paranoid about going into those waters and a life-raft sitting in the water would be almost automatically assumed to be the bait in a trap..”

Without realising it, I had told Angela a hell of a lot more than I should have. But strangely, my remarks also served to bring her out a little bit. She actually described the kidnap, which she had never mentioned in all the time since she had been rescued.

As I listened to her account I suddenly realised I was getting information that doctors and politicians and military men had been desperately seeking for their various remedial purposes. Angela was a major witness in a long established terrorist organisation that had been extorting just about anybody and everybody who had come within their sphere of control. As we sat outside the school in the Land rover, I silently cursed myself for not having some sort of tape recorder handy. As my mind wandered back to that day, she suddenly caught me off guard.

“Do you know how my children were rescued?”

“Yes,” I replied absentmindedly, as images of that fateful day returned to my thoughts.

“Oh Please. Tell me, tell me!”

For a moment my mind froze as I recovered my wits and quickly prepared a true account without revealing my part.

“Uuhm -, well, apparently, their raft was spotted by a modest sized cargo ship that was travelling from South Africa to Iran. It saw them and stopped to pick them up.”

“So why did that one stop and none of the others?”

I pretended ignorance because I was afraid to give too much away. It was getting too close to the bone.

“I don’t know. They say the ship was armed to the teeth; guns and rockets and all sorts of stuff and it was well able to defend itself. Rumour has it from my friends in the city that the little ship wasn’t entirely legitimate itself. It was carrying some suspect stuff for the Iranian’s nuclear programme.”

“Well I’d still like to meet the captain of that ship. He saved my girl’s lives.”

I felt a cold chill growing in my belly. If Angela and her daughters ever got talking about the girl’s rescue, I was sunk, outed, exposed, done for! To make matters worse, the three girls and Martin appeared in the school gateway and immediately galloped excitedly towards us. Angela flung open the car door and dashed down the pavement to meet them. After ecstatic hugs and copious tears of joy, she and the four children returned to the Landrover where I had started the engine in anticipation. They clambered in and fell to chattering about the school day so I relaxed. Talk of the rescue did not arise and our previous conversation died a natural death. Apparently, the girls were still repressing the experience.

We arrived back at the cottage and the children tumbled out after agreeing to meet in the stables. Angela and I took the shopping in then I suggested that we go and watch the girls riding. Within minutes all four children were dressed in their working jodhpurs and blouses as they saddled their horses to go trekking for an hour or so. As they walked their horses out of the yard and up the bridle path towards the Dumplin, Angela turned to me.

“It’s weird to see Martin dressed in girl’s riding clothes. His jodhpurs have a side fastening zip instead of a fly and was that a camisole he had on under his thin girly blouse?”

“Yes. It had bootlace shoulder straps didn’t it?” I replied.

“That’s what drew my attention to it,” Angela declared, “he really does live as a girl then.”

“In the privacy of the cottage, yes. And we normally refer to him as she or her at home. She answers to the name Martina.”

“Will she be changing into a frock later then?” Pressed Angela, taking on board my remarks.

“Oh yes! Definitely. She’s more comfortable in a frock and her sisters are unconcerned about it. They take her transexualism or transvestism for granted.”

“I never realised children could be so adaptable; and at such a young age.”

“Well we explained the situation to the girls and they seemed to take it in their stride. The younger you tell them the less it seems to faze them. Martin is now Martina as far as they are concerned. Sandie explained it all to them and they accepted what Sandie told them. Talking of Sandie, where is she?”
I turned to look for her and saw her emerging from the stables with Sian and Sylvia. She had been discussing stabling a pony for Sandie’s daughter Mary. We met and assembled in the Barn Conversion where Sian prepared supper as we chatted. The clatter of sixteen hooves on the flagstones in the yard, announced the return of the girls so Angela and I helped them unsaddle the ponies while Sian continued cooking. In the stables Angela admired the ponies as she turned to me.

“You’ve been really kind to them.”

“What? The ponies you mean.”

“No, my girls silly! Though I see these ponies are well looked after. What I mean though is how many little girls each get to own their own pony?”

“Well. They needed something after their gran passed on. What with that and everything else they were damned near shot to hell when they came to me.”

“You must have been very brave to take them on,” observed Angela, “what on earth prompted you to take on two young girls at your age?”

“Hey steady on I’m not yet sixty.”

“Exactly. I would have thought that social services would have placed them with a much younger family. A childless couple in their thirties or something.”

“Your mother expressed it her will. They’re much better off here. They want for nothing and they get a lot of loving.”

“I won’t deny that. It’s obvious the girls adore you. It just seems strange that’s all.”

“Well basically, the Social Worker, Mrs Bodkin was having trouble finding a suitable couple who would take on two very unsettled little girls with serious problems after their experiences. When she met me and saw my set up, she decided to give me a whirl. There grandmother was dying so they brought her and the girls up here to see the set up and they fell in love with the place. Things just fell into place after that.”

“Well they’ve landed really lucky here.” She smiled tearfully again as she squeezed my arm gratefully, “I can only say thank you. You’ve done a marvellous job with them.”

“Well in truth I think I’ve had the better side of the bargain. They’ve brought me a lot of pleasure as well.”

With that the girls returned and declared they were going for a bath. They needed one too. They were covered in mud and horse dung from riding and then cleaning down their charges.

“I know,” squealed Chenille, “lets all go and shower in Aunty Beverly’s big bath. There’s room for everybody in there.”

“Ooohh! Can we mummy?” Begged Jennifer.

Angela turned to me looking askance.

“What about Martina?” She whispered urgently.

I shrugged my shoulders. It was difficult to suddenly make an issue of Martina’s gender. The children had never been concerned about it before. It would be unfair to suddenly make it an issue now.

“They do everything else together; including showering. Why not, they’re still only children.”

Angela smiled. Martina was after all the youngest. She turned to Jennifer and nodded.

“OK then. But don’t make a mess and don’t spill any water onto the floor. Keep the shower door shut!”

“Aunty Beverly will have to shampoo our hair,” protested Beatrice. “She doesn’t get soap in our eyes.”

“Your call Bev,” grinned Angela.

There was no escape for me and I had to agree. It would have struck the girls as strange if I refused, seeing as I usually shampooed Jenny and Bea’s hair after they had been riding. Fortunately, Angela did not want to miss any fun so she inadvertently acted as an unwitting chaperone.

After that day it was to become a regular event until Chenille and Jennifer became self-conscious about their budding breasts and other sexual attributes.
That first night however, things went smoothly without any complications and Angela admitted her surprise that Jenny and Bea showed little interest in Martina’s form despite her having some extra bits. They were actually more interested in shampooing Martina’s soft curls and then drying them as they all gathered in the kitchen beside the Aga stove. Once their hair was dry they all scampered up to the bedroom and slipped on their all-in-ones, and long flowing nightdresses then returned to enjoy supper with the adults around the dining room table.

I noticed that Angela just could not take her eyes off Martina as the little transvestite savoured the long silky nightdress that Beatrice had lent her. After we had finished supper, we all retired to the drawing room to watch a video. I noticed Angela inviting Martina to sit on her lap and the ‘girl’ eagerly accepted her invitation. There she kept hugging and kissing Martina as the ‘boy-girl’ savoured the extra attention. Every time a scary bit appeared on the video, Martina would give a little squeak as if to signal that she wanted another hug. Angela happily responded until even Beatrice noticed the extra attention and slid off the settee to go and share Angela’s lap with Martina. As the two girls cuddled up in their long satiny nightdresses, Angela’s face was beatific.

After the video finished, we put the girls to bed. As was their want, they dragged the beds together to form a single giant sized bed and then they all cuddled under a huge king-sized duvet that Jenny kept for such occasions in their own airing cupboard. I read them a story and they played with Angela on the bed for a while but eventually four sweet little heads were asleep on the pillow. Angela smiled as she turned to me.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Yes,” I agreed without hesitation, “have you ever seen a prettier picture?”

“Just look at all that lovely long golden hair on the pillows. It’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.”

“I like the sweet innocent smiles. Just look at them, at peace with the world.”

“D’you think Martina will remain at peace?” Asked Angela.

“Provided she’s allowed to follow her heart and her head. Yes. Leastwise, that’s what Sandie says.”

“Will he grow up to be a girl?” Wondered Angela.

“Hard to say,” I offered. “Truth to tell I just don’t know. She could well grow up to be a transexual or a shemale or just a plain ordinary transvestite.”

"A plain, ordinary transvestite! Gosh Beverly your parameters are pretty bizzare."

"Well you know what I mean, as opposed to a transexual or a shemale."

“So what’s that exactly, a shemale?”

“Well it's a slang term really. It's not really a proper medical term. A shemale is a boy with all the external appearances of a girl but, you know, narrow waist, broad hips, breasts and stuff usually brought about by hormone treatment. But under her skirt she still retains a penis, often fully functioning, that is if she's been controlling her hormone treatment properly, under proper medical supervision. Some she-males self medicate and that can lead to problems.”

“So, - well Marina's like a she-male now. I noticed his erection in the shower. Though the girls didn’t seem to notice or mind.”

“They see Martina as their sister. Though they know all about her penis. Children can be very adaptable and caring provided they are shown the right examples.”

“I wish every man could grow up to be a caring gentle shemale. Then there wouldn’t so much rape and violence.”

I felt a shudder of nervous foreboding. ‘Would Angela come to remember those words? If, or rather when, she found out about me’, I wondered.

“I’m afraid that’s never going to happen," I replied, "men are men and it will ever be thus. Do you like Martina?”

“Oh gosh yes. She just so gentle and thoughtful.”

“Yes, we all saw you cuddling her on the settee.”

“Well she’s going to need all the support and love we can give her if she’s going to face the big horrible world.”

“You’re preaching to the converted. Nobody knows that better than us, all of us.”

Angela turned to me and pecked me softly on the lips.

“What was that for?” I smiled.

“For you, for just being you, for being so understanding and tolerant, for being so kind and generous to my girls.”

I smiled and pecked her back lightly on her cheek.

“Come on," I whispered,"we’d better be going down stairs, the others will be wondering.”

“Can I sleep in the adjoining study room tonight?" Begged Angela softly. "It’s just the thought of being so near to my girls and them sleeping so sweet and secure.”

“Of course.” I replied without hesitation. "They're your kids, it's your right!"

She hugged me gratefully and we returned downstairs to the adults where Sandie was preparing to leave.

“Greg’s phoned. He’s on the train from London with William and Mary. They’ll be arriving in thirty minutes. I’m meeting him at the station because the kids are sleepy so ‘he’ll need help carrying them to the new house.”

“Are you happy with your new house?” I asked.

“Well there’s lots to do but it’s a lovely setting.”

“Are you bringing Mary over for a lesson tomorrow?” Asked Sian.

“Yes, and William’s expressed an interest. I’ll have to go or I’ll be late for the train. Byeee!”

With that she was gone and we four remaining adults turned to make our nightcaps before Sian and Margaret returned to their barn. As we sipped our chocolates, Sylvia's car arrived in the yard. I peeped out to see Sylvia arriving home with some girl she had met at the club.

‘Well,’ I thought to myself, ‘it was bound to happen at some time. Sylvia was a very pretty and healthy girl. She had every right to invite a girlfriend back to her apartment.’

Margaret checked if it was OK with me to invite Sylvia in with her new girlfriend. I doubled up with mirth.

“Crickey Marge! You’re behaving like some overbearing father! Sylvia’s an adult girl. She can bring back whoever she likes. Go and get her if you wish. I know that really, you’re just curious.”

Margaret crimsoned up as Sian and Angela joined me in laughter. She huffed with irritation while she called across the yard. Sylvia happily accepted the invite for hot chocolate and joined us around the kitchen table. Her new girlfriend was enchanted to learn of the set up and squeezed Sylvia enviously.

“You’re so lucky. I wish it was like this at home.”

“What, chuckled Sian, you mean all women.”

“Sort of. I wish my dad was, - you know. More understanding.”

We all nodded sympathetically and the girl visibly blossomed before our very eyes. Sylvia also visibly grew in contentment as she realised there was no censure about her life style and choices. They each kissed us goodnight before crossing the yard to Sylvia’s apartment and we exchanged smiles.

“Ah, what it is to be young these days,” I sighed.

Finally we made our ways to bed and I bid Angela ‘goodnight’ as we separated on the landing outside her door

“Sleep well, see you in the morning," I finished as I gave the clear message to Angela that she was quite safe and nothing was going to happen!”

The usual morning 'foot-thunder' woke me as the four girls arrived and clambered into my bed. They were immediately followed by Angela, who formed the other ‘bookend’ as we squeezed the girls between us. I noticed again that Martina had somehow inveigled herself closest to Angela. They were forming a close bond, but I was quite happy for that. If Angela could accept Martina as a ‘shemale’ then there might be hopes for me.

We made plans for the weekend and generally laughed and chatted as the girls fidgeted and squirmed, then we rose reluctantly and prepared the girls for school. It was the last Friday before half-term.

After breakfast, they walked down the lane to the bus stop, and we watched from the yard gate. Angela turned to me as they disappeared around the bend and we could only hear their chattering voices fading away.

“I felt guilty putting Martina back into a boy’s school uniform. She almost winced when the cotton pants and flannel trousers rubbed her legs.”

“Yes. She likes soft and silky like the rest of us girls.” I observed.

“What about his hair, does the school allow it? Does'nt he get bullied about it? I mean -, it’s so long and silky.” Asked Angela concernedly.

I laughed.

“Hello! Earth to Angela! Have you seen some of the other boys? Martina’s is not even the longest. Little Toby Marchwood has long golden curls past his shoulders and he’s the football captain for the school’s team and for the under—eleven’s county team. A more boyish boy you couldn’t find! Out on the soccer pitch he’s as hard as nails and a right little tearaway. Then on Sunday, he looks as innocent as a choirboy in church. He’s got a lovely voice too; he played and sang the part of the Arch Angel Gabriel in the Nativity last Christmas. Then when he gets outside again, it’s all guns, trees and football, football, football.

His mother once told me he likes his hair long because it looks so angelic and gives him a disguise. He's not stupid. He’s one of the worst little tearaways in the school and he rarely gets caught. Yes; Toby Marchwood is like Mc Cavity, the cat. He’s not nasty though and he isn’t a bully. Chenille’s besotted with him because he protects her brother Martina from any bullying about the hair. It follows therefore that Martina also gets protected about his girlish ways because it’s always associated with his hair. Don’t have any fears about Martina’s hair. Anyway, it won’t be an issue next year.”

“Why?”

“All the children are starting as day students at St Angies. That’s a girl’s public school on the other side of the Dumplin hill over there. Sandie’s going through the medical formalities, and Martina will be registered as a child in transition with sexual dysphoria. That means she’ll be dressing as a girl and living full time as a girl.”

“Oh!”

“What d’you mean Oh?” I asked nervously.

“Oh! No. I wasn’t disapproving. I think it’s a wonderful idea. I mean when I dressed her this morning. It was obvious she didn’t like her boy’s uniform.”

“So you approve?”

“Oh absolutely. She’s a wonderful child. I mean’ she’s made it abundantly obvious she wants to live girly style.””

“Well she’s clearly expressed that wish to Sandie and to her parents Margaret and Sian. She’ll probably grow up with all the appearances of a girl,” I cautioned.

“That would be fine,” countered Angela.

“But what happens if she prefers girls? What happens if she turns out to be a transvestite with heterosexual leanings towards another woman?”

“Could that happen?”

“Oh yes, there’s no knowing how she’s going to turn out. In fact I think that’s the most probable outcome. Transvestites are not usually gay, they’re usually heterosexual. Transexual children are much rarer and are often hyper-stressed about their genitalia 'not being right'.

“Oh my gosh! How can that be? Who’d have thought it? Well I am surprised!
Well, at least she won’t be able to force her will and use brute strength on her partner. At least if she loves a girl, they’ll live as equals.”

“Gosh. You surprise me Angela. I would never have thought you would feel like that. Is this because of -, you know -, the kidnap?”

Angela’s face clouded slightly then she smiled as she turned and rested her head on my shoulder.

“I couldn’t tell anybody this, but you’re right. Ever since the rapes and stuff I hate the thought of some horrible big hairy muscular monster forcing his attentions on my body. I think I would prefer to be with a soft hairless gentle girly man like Martina. Does that seem sick to you.”

I gently squeezed her to me and smiled as I struggled to suppress the desperate hopes surging around inside me.

“No Angela. I quite understand. It must have been horrible.”

After such a large dose of sympathy, Angela’s mood changed briefly.

“It’s a pity, Martina wasn’t already grown up.” Giggled Angela.

“Oh come now darling.” I chuckled. “She’s only a child.”

Angela tensed.

“No! No! It’s nothing like that. It would have to be a grown man. Not a child, you didn’t think I could abuse a child like Martina did you?”

“No! I wasn’t insinuating anything like that. I was joking. It was just a figure of speech; a conversational gap filler. Come on, let’s go and have that cup of tea we missed when they were having breakfast.”

Angela made the tea as I buttered a couple of slices of toast then we sat out on the patio to enjoy the summer morning.

“You’ve got a lovely life here,” she observed as we overlooked the town of Poole, the coast and the sea.

“It’s my dream retirement,” I replied. “I’ve worked years for this.”

“Oh you must be so lucky to retire early to all this. What did you do?”

For a moment I froze mentally. I had never prepared for this question. I dare not mention about ships or the sea so I rapidly selected the old favourite of all seafarers who felt they had to hide their profession when trying to impress a girl.

Sailors often had to pretend they were not sailors because ‘decent girls’ would be frightened off by their own prejudices.

“Oh. I travelled in Steel.” I replied airily.

This answer usually closed the issue. Most girls presumed you were some sort of commercial traveller attached to a large steel company. Most sailors left it at that. If any further questions arose, then the job could be glamorised as tales of foreign travel and visits would be weaved into the ‘half-truth’.

“Oh. Was that with shipping then?”

“Yes. Much of it.”

“I thought so. You seemed to know an awful lot about ships when we were talking outside the school.”

I hastily changed tack.

“So. What about your life? Is it OK to ask?”

“Pretty boring really. I worked as a nurse but the money was too poor, then I worked as a cashier in a bank until I met Sam. He seemed to live such a glamorous life what with the boatyard and everything. We got married then he decided to sell up and build boats in Australia. You know the rest.”

I fell silent. It struck me that her husband must have been bloody reckless and stupid to endanger his beautiful wife and children in such dangerous, pirate infested waters. Either that or he had been bloody ignorant. Anybody who sailed the world knew where the pirate hot spots were. However, I did not want to risk hurting Angela, so I kept my counsel.

We finished our tea and I returned to what few domestic chores I had. The cottage had every modern appliance available and my housekeeping tasks were easy. That's why I had plenty of time so spend on my second favourite love after the girls, namely cooking.

As we tidied things away my phone rang. It was the port authority. I stepped back onto the patio and took the call privately. It was nothing important, but I would have to visit the harbour offices that afternoon. Margaret had arranged to join me at the meeting. I explained to Angela.

“I’ve got to pop into town later. D’you want to come?”

“Please. That would be nice.”

“Will you be OK on your own this afternoon? I’ve got some business to attend to.”

“I’m not a cripple or anything,” Angela complained, “mentally I’m getting better every day. In fact I quite fancy a bit of shopping.”

“Retail therapy,” I grinned, “that’s always good for a girl. Come on; bugger the housework lets go now. We can share the rest of the morning and have lunch together.”

Angela couldn’t wait. I dashed upstairs and put on my ‘war paint’ whilst I changed into my two-piece business suit. Angela popped across the yard to get one of her few frocks from the apartment and within an hour we were driving into town. We shopped together during the morning then I took her to Sissy’s for lunch. It was very quiet and Angela never clocked Sissy or read him. Then I left Angela to her own devices as I went to the port authority meeting.

Three o’clock found us together again as we waited for the girls outside the school. The conversation somehow returned to the girl’s rescue and Angela pumped me some more. I pretended ignorance but offered some suppositions that were in fact truths. I knew they were true; I’d been there!

“I suppose, I’ll never know unless or until the girls are prepared to talk.” Concluded Angela dejectedly.

“Why is it so important to you?” I hazarded.

“It’s such a huge part of our lives. They lost their father then and just about everything else. I feel it’s a major building block for us to get back to some semblance of normality. It’s like this huge thing between us.

“Well, Sandie says to tread lightly. I don’t know what to say.”

“Have they ever spoken to you about it?”

“No, never. I answered quite truthfully.”

“That’s a pity; they like you so much and they trust you. The bed thing in the morning is such fun. I just wondered if they ever opened up when you cuddle together.”
I shook my head truthfully. The girls had never spoken of it and I had never raised it. Sandie had given me clear advice on how to handle it if the girls brought it up and I was not to try and go digging around myself because it might have traumatised the girls. Now that Angela was back, I was even more frightened to broach the subject of the rescue. However, what she had said that morning about she-males by the gate in the yard, gave me some comfort.

I would run it by Sandie before hazarding any further step. As my thoughts pre-occupied me, Angela changed the subject.

“You know your lovely satin nightdresses and those sleep suits you wear?”

“Yes.” I replied nervously.

“Where do you get them? I searched high and low through all the shops and saw nothing.”

For a moment I panicked. My sleep suites were a rather private ‘kinky’ item that were a projection of my cross-dressing. The idea of being somehow ‘restricted’ in my bodily functions seemed to me, privately in the darkest secret recesses of my transvestite mind, to add to the feminine condition. I tried to make light of the sleep suites.

“I uuhm, I get them made for me in London. You won’t find them in any local shops.”

“Oh.”

“That sounds like a disappointed ‘Oh’.” I observed.

“Well. They seemed so nice. I could see that the girls love them and I was looking for one in my size.” Finished Angela despondently.

“Well I can easily get some made up.”

“Oooh. That would be nice. They looked so comfortable and rather fetching.”

D’you really want me to order some for you?”

“Ooohh! Could you?”

“You like them do you?”

“Well it was such a picture with you and the girls all lined up like elaborate tropical birds then me on the other end in my dowdy pyjamas.”

“If you give me your sizes, I’ll order them when we get home. I’m going up to London next week and I can collect them then.”

“So that’s why they fit you so well. Are they expensive?”

“Let it be my treat. I must confess, they are a bit expensive but they are nice and you can see how the girls like them.”

“Especially Martina.” Giggled Angela.

“Especially Martina.” I concurred, matching her chuckles.

“Oh. Here they come, look at them , - The charge of the light brigade.”

“Yeah, the ‘Light of my life brigade,’ I riposted with a huge grin.

Angela grinned back and leant over to give me another peck on the cheek. Then she opened the door and gathered them in as they waved drawings in her face. As Angela sat in the middle row of seats, she grinned, as Jenny and Chenille clambered into the front seat then kneeled facing backwards from the front seats, Beatrice and Martin clambered up through the rear doors sat cuddling up either side of Angel in the middle row. The girls explained their paintings .

“Is this me?” Asked Angela as she studied Beatrice’s childish daubs and recognised a crude copy of their yacht.

“Yes.” Smiled Beatrice.

“And what’s this?”

Angela pointed to a black boxy thing with a pointed end.

“It’s the pirates,” declared Jenny in a subdued tone, “we all had art together because
Miss Jackson’s away. She’s our form mistress. We had to do drawings of the best things or the worst things in our lives. Beatrice drew the pirates.”

“Oh dear. That must have felt awful.” I interjected. What did you draw?

“I wasn’t sure what to do. Beatrice and I spoke to Old Fanny Walnut about it. She’s Bea’s form mistress. Beatrice was afraid the pirates might come back but Fanny Walnut said they were all captured when the soldiers rescued Mummy. She suggested we do it together in case Bea was still afraid. Bea drew the bad thing and I drew the good thing to cheer her up.”

“So what did you draw Darling?” Asked Angela, half expecting the answer.

“I did the rescue.”

Jenny took her drawing out of her school bag and Angela studied it. Being eleven now, Jenny’s picture contained lots of detail.

“What’s this?” Asked Angela pointing at a fair facsimile of my ship.

“That’s Skipper’s ship.

“And who’s this?”

“That’s Skipper in his uniform.”

“And this?”

“That’s Billy and Supan in the rescue boat and that’s Uncle Mac by the crane.”

“And what on earth is this?”

“That’s Jesse firing off the gun to frighten the pirates away.”

“Is this how it all happened?”

I felt a cold wave working it’s way up my bowels as the truth came ever closer to the surface. Then the final nemesis arrived. Beatrice piped up.

“Yes. Ask Skipper.”

“Oh I’d love to ask Skipper,” said Angela, “but I don’t know where he is or who he is.”

A pregnant silence descended as Bea fell into a puzzled silence while Jennifer stared at me accusingly.

“Haven’t you told her?”

I wagged my head apologetically, waiting for the axe to fall. Jenny seemed to be weighing things up. She was obviously beginning to realise the implications, but she also had her own problems to resolve. She also had Bea’s feelings to consider for she had seen herself as Bea’s only confidant cum confessor ever since the rescue.

“You should tell her Aunty Bev. It’s not fair if Mummy doesn’t know.”

“What! What doesn’t Mummy know?” Begged Angela.

Jenny looked from Angela to me as tears began to leak.

“I mustn’t tell! It’s a secret. Aunty Beverly’s got a secret.”

“What! What secret darling?” Demanded Angela as her fears began to rise. “What’s this secret?” She demanded of me.

My world had collapsed so I turned with frightened tears to Jenny.

“You tell your mummy darling. She won’t be angry with you or Bea.”

Angela gripped Jenny’s shoulder tightly as her nerves became tense.

“Go on darling. Please tell me. I won’t be angry.”

“Ow you’re hurting me mummy.”

Angela released Jenny like a hot branding iron as she realised her tensions had caused her to grip her own little daughter's slender shoulder so tightly that she had hurt ber. Then Jenny turned to me as she rubbed her shoulder..

“Is it OK to tell? Will Skipper be OK? I don't want to break my promise to Skipper! What shall I do?"

My heart flipped over as I recognised Jenny's distress and utter loyalty. gently I hugged Jenny to me and explained.

“It's OK darling. Skipper will be fine, he's releasing you from your promise right now.” I replied as my heart thundered with dread.

“He won’t have to go away will he?”

“I don’t think so but you’d better tell your mummy.”

Jenny turned to face Angela again then leant over the back of the seat then turned again and hugged me one last time before she finally turned to Angela and tapped
my head as she spoke.

“Skipper’s in here. Skipper’s always been here, inside Aunty Bev’s head. Skipper’s been watching over us ever since the rescue, and after grandma died.”

“What d’you mean in here? In where?” gasped Angela uncomprhendingly.

Again Beatrice piped up to support her older sister as she stood up between the seats and followed her older sister’s example and tapped my head. .

“In there! Skipper’s in there, inside Aunty Beverly’s head. Skipper looks after Aunty Beverly and she looks after us.”

Angela stared at me in utter confusion.

“What do they mean? How can Skipper be inside your head? Is the poor man dead or something? Are they talking of ghosts or something?”

“No.” I replied resignedly. “Skipper is not dead. He’s very much alive.”

For a moment I almost lost my nerve then I croaked out softly.

“I’m Skipper.”

“Angela gasped as she stared at me.”

“What!! You!” You’re, - You're Skipper! You’re the one who rescued them!”

“Yes!” Chorused all four girls as I nodded dejectedly.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, “Yes it was me but I didn’t ask for all this -, this looking after the girls! It wasn’t my idea. It was the girls. They wanted to live with me after their grandmother died. I should have been stronger.”

“What! You’re saying it was you who rescued them. You! But you’re a woma-!” Angela hesitated as a dim light of dawning began to flicker. “You’re saying you’re a man! You’re the man! You’re actually Skipper. The Skipper! The skipper of the ship that saved them!”

I realised that we seemed to be talking at cross-purposes. I was apologising for all the deceptions whilst Angela seemed to be somehow obsessed with the man who saved her girls, her beloved girls.

“Aren’t you angry?” I croaked.

“Angry! Why in God’s name would I ever be angry? You’re the man who saved my girls, my beloved girls.”

“Well -, Uuuhhmm -, yes. But, I -, I -, well look at me. What d’you think I am?”
Angela studied me again then turned again to her daughters as the shocking truth finally started to dawn.

“This is the truth now girls. You’re not pulling my leg. Beverly is really Skipper, the man who rescued you.”

“Yes!” Chorused the girls again. “He’s in there, he's inside Beverly’s head!”
Then Jenny added.

“His uniform’s still in Beverly’s closet! You can check when we get home!”

“And the shirts with the blood stains from our cuts by the nasty nuns.” Added Beatrice. “He keeps them as a sort of memento.”

“What cuts?” Demanded Angela. “What happened?”

“Oh it’s a long story,” I interjected. “I’ll explain when we get home. But you’re not angry are you? Tell me you’re not angry.”

“Angry! God! No! I’m not angry. Why should I be angry! Stunned, shocked overwhelmed, but not angry. Why didn’t you say?”

“I held out my arm and pointed in towards myself to indicate my two piece business suite silk blouse, permed hair and tights and heels.”

“I’d have thought that was obvious. Look at me. I’m a shemale. Surely you can see!”

Angela studied me closely then a slow smile started to spread across her face.

“Well yes. I can see that you’re a woman. I mean -, well you’ve -, well, you’re a woman now aren’t you?”

“I’ll explain when we get home. Be patient.”

“Yes. OK but you’ve -, you’ve had the op, - you know you’ve been -, down there. You know.”

“I’ll wait until we get home. I’ll have Sian and Margaret as chaperones.
Hopefully, Sandie will be there as well. She was bringing her daughter Mary to see the pony she’ll be riding on Saturday.”

A nervous smile spread across Angela’s face then she let out a gasp.

“Oh my God! The girls! They come into your bed in the mornings.”

“Only to cuddle,” I protested defensively. “You saw that this morning. There’s nothing untoward. Look test my arm. It’s a woman’s arm; they cuddle up to a soft curvy woman. I’ll explain further when we get home.”

“This’ll be a gem!” Cackled Angela. “I can’t wait!”

The girls sensed that something important was afoot and a silence settled as I drove the last few miles. When we arrived, Jenny jumped out to open the yard gate and I was relieved to see Sandie’s car parked by my cottage.

“Well I’m glad she’s here. She can explain stuff better than me.”

“I hope so,” remarked Angela tensely, “this is going to be a humdinger!”

The moment we met Sandie at the garden gate, she sensed the inevitable had already happened. I nodded dejectedly as she glanced questioningly at me then turned to Angela.

“So you know then.”

“Yes. The girls gave it away with these.”

Sandie studied the proffered pictures and gasped softly.

“Ah. My God! This is the -, the -,”

“Yes. The kidnap and the rescue.” Declared Angela. “This is Beatrice’s version and this is Jenny’s.”

“Have they talked anymore about it?”

“Only to describe the scene’s in the pictures.”

Sandie smiled as she handed the pictures back to Bea and Jenny.

“Well done girls. D’you want to talk about it to me?”

“Never mind the girls,” protested Angela, “what about Beverly and this -, this Skipper business.”

“That can wait,” declared Sandie bluntly, “These pictures and stuff are much more
important to me. I want the girls to tell me more.”

Angela was about to protest again but the dawning suddenly struck her like a thunderbolt. Sandie was far more concerned for the girls and their newly returned memories of the pirate hijacking! She obviously did not think my transvestism was a danger to the girls.

Angela gave a huff of indignation and stalked into the kitchen while Sandie invited Jenny and Beatrice into the drawing room and closed the door. This was her sign for us to leave them alone and I had to gently restrain Angela’s hand as she moved to open the door and follow them into the room.

Angela stared at me and removed my hand from her forearm but continued holding it as first she gave me a questioning glance. I wagged my head and explained.

“Sandie’s only concern is for the girl’s mental health now. She’s checking to see if these returned memories contain anything traumatic. Honestly Ange with Sandie, it’s all about the girls.”

Angela continued holding my hand for a few seconds as she accepted my explanation. Then she held it up to her own and compared them. Next she studied my fingers and held it up beside hers as she looked me straight in the eye.

“D’you know these are a woman’s hands. They’re so small, look; they’re smaller than mine. How can you have been a man?”

She gently took my hands again then pressed my fingers to her lips and kissed them. I swallowed nervously and hoped this was an indication of some sort of acceptance.

“I was always small.” I ventured. “The change was fairly easy.”

“But -, but -, have you changed all the way?”

“No. I replied softly. I’m still a man down there.”

“But the girls. Do they know? Do they know that you’ve -, you know -, you’ve still got a -, a penis?”

“Yes, but they’ve never seen it.”

“Well I should hope not! What about when you cuddle and stuff, when they come to your bed in the mornings.”

I tugged the waistband of my skirt aside and showed Angela the firm control panty.

“I always wear one of these, even under my nightdress and stuff.”

“What! all the time?”

“All the time.”

“Hell that must be bloody uncomfortable.”

“Yes. As a matter of fact it is. But it’s for the girl’s sake. I’ve always worn it in bed, under my sleep suit. I never wanted to harm the girls or frighten them. They’ve been through enough.”

“Well we all know that.”

“Yes. That’s why Sandie is more concerned with them now than you, or me, or my transvestism. Those pictures are a huge step. That teacher doesn’t realise just how cathartic that art class was. What was her name again?”

Angela giggled.

“Chenille called her Fanny Walnut. God! Aren’t kids cruel? I bet she’s got a face like a wrinkled old prune.”

“Well be as it may. She’s inadvertently unlocked the door. That’s why Sandie’s in there now. This is crunch time for the girls. D’you know, they have never, never mentioned the kidnap or rescue in all these three years.”

Angela fell silent for a moment.

“What! Never?”

“Never!” I replied, “and I’ve never tried to prompt them or try to dig it out of them. Sandie has been adamant about that. Apprently there could have been serious consequences if it was forced out of them. She said it had to come out in there own time.

Angela fell into a thoughtful silence as I poured out the tea.

“We’d better stay handy then, in case my girls need us.”

“You bet’cha! I won’t be moving until I see all three of them walk smiling through that door.”

“Then neither will I,” added Angela.

As we sipped our tea and talked, we waited patiently. Sandie finally invited Angela into the drawing room. She took a tray of tea in with her and I was left on tenterhooks in the kitchen.

Later Jenny and Beatrice came out all smiles. I did not probe for any information but they volunteered anyway. Jenny spoke as I handed her some fruit juice and a wedge of fruitcake.

“Sandie says we can stay with you if we wish. She told mummy that.”

“And what did mummy say?”

“If we want to stay, then she’ll stay. She never wants to leave us.”

“Well that’s good. She's your mummy and mummies always want to stay with their children. Your mummy is a beautiful lady, and she really, really loves you. Do you want to stay?”

They both chorused an emphatic ‘yes’ in perfect synchrony and I felt a wave of relief. The girls still loved me, warts and all.

Eventually, Sandie and Angela reappeared. The girls and I had been preparing a cake because this was what I did best when feeling tense. I turned and looked questioningly.

“Well? What’s the verdict?”

“Angela knows everything.” Replied Sandie.

“And?” I turned to Angela.

“D’you want me to stay here?” She asked.

“Under what terms?” I countered.

“Your terms,” added Sandie.

“Well my terms haven’t changed. The girls still love me and the girls still cuddle me. It’s all about the girls.”

As if to reinforce this truth, Both Jenny and Beatrice wrapped their arms around my waist and hugged me. They buried their faces into my breasts and Jenny declared firmly.

“We want Beverly and we want Skipper.”

“And we want Mummy,” piped up Beatrice earnestly.

“Seems like a fate-accompli to me,” declared Sandie. “You two had better get to like each other. I’m going to see how my daughter Mary, Sylvia and Sian are doing.”

As Sandie stepped towards the door, Angela moved around the kitchen table and extended her hand nervously.

“I’m so sorry. I just didn’t realise. You just want to live as a woman.”

“She is a woman,” charged Jenny, “it’s Skipper that’s gone away to live in Beverly’s head.”

Angela wrapped her arms around us three and sighed.

“That’s a beautiful explanation. I understand that now. I’m so sorry I didn’t understand. Sandie’s explained it now. You’re not a child abuser, you’re not the mad axe-man, your not some horrible criminal, you’re just, - well, - you’re just Beverly.”

“Got it in one,” I sighed as our arms wrapped around each other.

We stood all four of us for several minutes as the girls savoured our conciliation and Angela allowed our soft bodies to enjoy the natural intimacy that women the world over share when their soft curves press together through their flimsy silky clothes. I could sense her readjusting our intimate embrace several times as she reassured herself that my curves were truly feminine and I was definitely one of the sisterhood.

Finally, she released me and gave me a long intimate kiss as she convinced herself that I was not, and never would be a threat.

“Thank you,” I sobbed as I tearfully recognised that she had accepted my feminised condition and lifestyle.

“It’s me that should be thanking you. You’ve saved my children and shown me that everybody has a dream. You’ve achieved yours so now I intend to reach mine. My dream includes you. Let’s do this together.”

I knew what she meant and we shared one last emotional hug before finally separating.
Jenny and Bea sensed that the moment was complete and they tugged at us.

“Can we go and see how Mary is doing with her riding lesson. We want her to join us when we gallop along the Dumplin.”

“That would be lovely,” replied Angela and we stepped across the yard.

Because we were still dressed for town, we stood outside the training arena and watched Sian put Mary and her new pony through their paces. Naturally Jenny and Bea had put on Wellingtons and Joined Sylvia, Chenille and Martina in the training ring to watch more closely. Sandie was still wearing her jeans and stood beside Sylvia as Sian walked Mary and her new pony slowly around on the lunge reign.

We watched for a quarter of an hour then returned to the cottage to make supper. In the yard we met Margaret coming home from her office. She had also been to the meeting of the harbour board but had stayed later for some extra stuff. She had some extra forms for me to sign and brought them home to avoid my having to go in the following Monday.

“Thought I’d save you a journey.”

“Thanks Marge.” I signed off the papers and she stuffed them into her bag then smiled as she spoke to me.

“Big things afoot then Bev.”

“Yes. Mac and Billy have been to see the new ship in Amsterdam. I trust them to have made a good choice. She’s only three years old.”

“So, you’ll be the owner of two ships now then. Congratulations!” Offered Margaret

I heard Angela gasp.

“I thought you were a captain.”

“Owner captain,” corrected Margaret. “Beverly has shares in two ships now.

“Yes.” I added. “Jesse will be taking command of the Speedway for now whilst Billy and Mac get the other one up to scratch. She’s having her purchaser’s dry-docking in Amsterdam next week. I’ll be attending, of course. There will be hull and engine surveys plus other stuff.”

“What are you going to call the new ship?”

“Mac suggested Speedwell. It matches with Speedway, the name of our first ship. Speedwell is also the name of a pretty little blue flower that reminds Mac very much of his childhood home in Scotland. I chose the name Speedway for our first ship so it’s his turn.”

Angela was listening to all this avidly.

“Is the other one, the first ship, the one that rescued my girls?”

“The Speedway; well, - yes, - it is actually.” I replied.

“Oh please,I’d love to see her!”

I smiled at Margaret who remarked.

“She’ll be here on Sunday. Gosh I never thought of that.” Margaret laughed with joy. “Angela will be able to actually walk the decks of the very saviour of her girls.”

“Yes,” I replied as I turned to Angela. I’ve got to go and meet her for this voyage. Jesse’s already taken command and it’s his first voyage as full captain. He’s really pleased with his promotion to captain and Supan has been promoted to first mate. Supan is the one who actually plucked Jenny and Beatrice from the sea as the raft was sinking underneath them. Your daughters are besotted with Supan. It’ll be no problem for you to come down and see the ship. Sunday she’ll be in Poole, have you got suitable clothes, jeans and stuff?”

“I can buy some on Saturday morning.” Angela almost squealed with delight.

"Oh! More shopping, more therapy,” I giggled. “Good, Sunday it is then. The girls love visiting her. It’ll be a nice day out for you.”

 

This chapter is a complete re-write of the old chapter 15 and it explores new developments in Skipper's life. From here on there are new chapters that take the story beyond what is posted on Fictionmania.

 

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After having decided to meet our ship the Speedway on her arrival on Sunday, we spent the rest of Friday evening relaxing.

I explained to Jennifer and Beatrice that I had to go up to London on Monday to re-register our new ship’s name as the Speedwell. Then I had to fly to Amsterdam midweek to complete the transfer formalities subject to a satisfactory survey.

“Oooh! Gasped the girls, Can we come?”

“Sorry girls. This is an important business trip and I’ll have no time for tourist fun. Besides, Jenny and Chenille’s exams are looming.”

The girls sulked a little and Jenny argued her case.

“But we’re going to St Angies next year. Our exam results won’t matter if you’re paying for us.”

“Oh yes they will. There are several scholarships on offer and if you or Chenille win one, or better still, one each, then that will ease the fee burden appreciably. You’re bright kids and I know if you put your minds to it you could win scholarships but the competition is tough. This half term is a really important one. If you study for the scholarships into St Angie’s it will do no end of good if you win one Firstly it will make more money available for other things. For example, Sian tells me you’re growing out of your ponies and you’ll need bigger ones soon. I’m not going to throw money at your education; you have to work as well. If you really want to go to Amsterdam, you can go in the summer holidays on the Speedway. It will be a nice little cruise for you.

You can go to Cork and Le Havre as well. The apprentice’s cabins will be empty during the summer holidays because I haven’t taken on any new lads for this year’s apprentiship scheme yet and the other boys have to trade down to Morocco to get their foreign going sea time in. There will be three cabins empty on the Speedway for the whole summer.””

“What about Spain?” Pleaded Jenny, “I heard you saying that the Speedwell will be going to Spain and Morocco as well.”

“Spain; yes that’s quite true, but Morocco’s not fixed up yet, the dates and the schedule have got to be ironed out and there’s some business to sort out in Tangier. The charter has some loose ends to resolve. That’s one of the things I’ve got to do on the Baltic in London before I fly to Amsterdam.

“I thought the Baltic Sea was in Russia,” Protested Jennifer.

“No. It’s in Sweden corrected Chenille.”

“Well whatever. It’s not in London. You’re lying Mummy Bev.”

I smiled and wagged my head.

“Well darlings your Geography is impeccable. Yes, the Baltic Sea is in both Russia and Sweden; and Poland, Finland, Germany, Denmark, Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia. But I’m not going to the Baltic Sea. I’m going to the Baltic exchange. This is big office in London where people match ships to cargoes. So I’m not lying darling, the people in London who fix up business for ships just call the Baltic Exchange; ‘The Baltic’.

Now this is a very busy week for me .Once it’s fixed up and if you’re very good and you do well in your exams, then we might make another holiday sometime later in the year. There will be plenty to see and do in France, Ireland and Holland all this summer.”

This mollified Jennifer and we heard little more about it. As we cleared the dishes and chatted in the kitchen, Angela turned to me while the girls left to sleep over at Chenille and Martina’s.

“I’m glad to see that you don’t spoil them.”

I grinned softly.

“It’s hard sometimes. They’re such lovely kids.”

“Do they sleep over with Chenille and Martina a lot?”

“Nearly every alternate weekend. And often on weekdays usually Thursday and Wednesday because of the way their school lessons fall.” It’s Sian and Margaret’s turn to have them this weekend.”

“Do they, you know, climb into Sian and Margaret’s bed in the mornings?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought to ask but I suppose they do.”

“They are such lucky girls.” Sighed Angela. “So many kind and caring adults.”

“Well I’m glad you approve. I had serious worries that you might not approve of Sian and Margaret or indeed, me.”

“I’ve learned a lot since coming here Bev. It’s hard to think of a man mothering kids, but you’ve made a damned good fist of it. You’re really nice and the children absolutely adore you. I mean it’s not just the way you mother them and cuddle them but you run the home as well, cooking, cleaning, laundry; all the grotty stuff as well. . That Mrs Bad -, Bol -, what’s her name?”

“Mrs Bodkin, she works for the social services in the next county, where your mum used to live.”

“Well. I’ve just got to meet her and thank her. She saw it in you and she must have been very brave to choose you but she’s made a splendid choice. “

“Steady on Angela, I’ll have to take my halo off in a minute, and there’s enough cleaning and polishing around here. Anyway, what about the judge, Elizabeth Porter, she was very brave too and Sandie; she had a huge part to play.”

“Yes. Those two as well.”

We settled in the drawing room to savour a quiet evening while the girls were over at Sian’s. As we watched television, I caught Angela constantly looking at me. The first few times I simply smiled, but after the umpteenth glance I turned curiously.

“What is it?”

Angel simply turned red.

“Oh I -, I -, I’m sorry.” It was rude of me to keep staring.”

“Well what is it. Is there something wrong with me.”

I checked my skirt and closed my legs thinking I was ‘flashing my panties’ or something but no, the hem of my favourite blue frock was modestly below my knee. Angela smiled as she replaced her chocolate on her occasional table.

“No. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.”

“Well what is it then?” I asked nervously.

Angela hesitated and her colour deepened. I realised she was as embarrassed as me. Finally after a long pregnant pause she managed to look me in the eye.

“Do you -, do you still -, do you still, you know; uuuhhm, function as a man?”

“Where’s this going?” I hedged.

“Well -, well I was just curious. I was speaking to Sandie while we were watching the riding lesson and she says that you can still uuuhhm -, you know.”

“Sandie’s got no right to talk about me like that. It’s private.”

“But, if I’m going to live here, I need to know. For instance, do you get urges? Am I safe?”

“If you’re worried, go and live next door to Sylvia. You can ask Sian, or Margaret or even young and very pretty Sylvia. She’s an eighteen-year-old ‘single girl’ sex siren and I find her very attractive but I’ve never, never tried it on or pushed myself onto any of them and I have no intention of ever trying. I’m NOT that sort of a girl!”

“Yes but they’re lesbians. You know they would turn you down flat. I’m a normal woman and I’m still quite attractive. Sandie says that underneath that skirt and camisole there’s a heterosexual man.”

“Sandie should know better. Even the girls know that under this skirt there’s a man, but under the camisole beats a woman’s heart, - a mother’s heart and more importantly, it’s strictly a woman’s brain between my ears.”

“I think Sandie was only speaking figuratively.”

I changed tack and took a more direct approach.

“Why? Do you feel threatened by me?”

“Well. No, not at all actually. In fact it’s quite the opposite.”

“What? What d’you mean?”

“Well you’re very likeable. You’re friendly and caring but I don’t feel threatened
“Good. Well neither do I feel threatened by you, but if you keep asking questions like this, I’ll start to become frightened. Now I think you’d better have another chat with Sandie and she can explain all the rest about transvestites and she-males. This she-male wants to go to bed.”

“No! Please wait. Perhaps I started on the wrong tack. Please, I want to talk some more. Sandie explained all about you when we came home from school.”

“So what is there to ask? You must have had the full two barrels from Sandie. If there’s one thing about Sandie, if she's noyhing else, she’s forthright.”

“It’s not about your con, - your condition I want to talk; it’s about you -, you as a person.”

“What else is left? If you know about transvestites and she-males you know about me.”

“No. You can’t get away with it that easily. That’s too pat. I want to know about you. What you feel, your hopes and ambitions, all the private stuff that makes you who you are, not what you are!”

I fell silent. This was getting too personal and I felt it would inevitably lead to something painful. I always found this sort of talk painful. Only recently I had eventually got over whining about my childhood past. My modest business successes with the Speedway had in some small part helped me raise my self esteem. I know it was only through money and successful business deals and stuff but they were the only effective avenues left open to me. Anything emotional or social or personal were avenues that would forever remain closed to me now. I was terrified of ever getting too involved with people or a particular person again. .I had kept my ambitions and hopes secret all my life and being what I was, a tranny; had always made me circumspect about long term or permanent adult relationships. The childhood abuse had also left me permanently damaged on that score always distrustful of adults and always doubly alert.

Money, ships, business; yes, bring it on! People, emotions, relationships; sorry, shoal ware shoal cry I!
My defences were starting to click in. I’d been here so many times before and things had always turned out bad. I adopted my usual arsenal of tried and tested devices.

“You can’t know who I am without understanding what I am.”

“Ok. So it’s to be Fortress Beverly, is it?” She countered. “Nothing about your feelings, nothing about your thoughts or your fantasies; nothing about the very building blocks of your being; just, ‘I’m a transvestite, take it or leave it!”

“Whatever ‘building blocks’ as you call them, that are used to build my being, that being rests on one basic foundation stone, my transvestism or my she-male nature. If you can’t get past that, you will never get to me.”
“So we’re going to have this wall between us forever.”

“What d’you mean, ‘wall between us’. I don’t see any ‘us’.”

“D’you not have any feelings for anybody?”

“That’s not fair. I have feelings for lots of people. Take Jenny and Bea for instance. I care a lot about them. I, - I, - oh what’s the word? I cherish them. That’s it! I cherish them!”

“Yes but -, No but -! What I mean is emotional feelings.”

“Hell Angela, cherishing is an emotional feeling. What else can feelings be? My heart flips every time I see them come dashing up the lane when it’s raining or when they’re dawdling and looking at flowers in the hedgerows if it’s sunny. I sigh with pure pleasure when I see them erupt out of the school gates and charge towards my Landrover or when they loiter in the school yard to chatter with their friends and I have to beep the horn to hurry them up. I feel a flush of pure joy when I see them returning from riding. I know they are back safe with me. I feel a wave of motherly compassion when I see their little heads asleep on the pillow.”

“But I’m their mother.”

“Of course you are! I did not say you weren’t. All I said was that I had motherly feelings for them as well; it’s hard not to after rescuing them from certain death.”

“You’ll always let me see them then?”

“Is that what this is all about?”

I realised it was Angela’s emotions that were all over the place. She wasn’t being tearful but she was having one of her doubting fits. She struggled to answer.

“No, well, - partly yes. Oh damn! I’m going about this all wrong,” countered Angela, “I mean emotional feelings with others, with adults.”

“Adults. Why do you say adults? I’d love to love adults, I love humanity. It’s just that humanity doesn’t seem to like me or my kind very much.”

“Oh, but you say that in a general way. Individual people grow to like you; when they get to know you that is. You’re a very likeable person.”

“Yeah but that’s just in my private life. Society doesn’t like me, you know, in the general caring way, the humanitarian way, the way that prompted me to stop my ship and save Jenny and Bea.”

I looked at her cautiously, I was getting an inkling of where Angela wanted to go, but I was loath to go there. That was where all the hurt lay. I chose my words carefully.

“That humanitarian way is the only way open to me in my dealings with adults. Any other personal or private emotional way invariably leads to some sort of entanglement, and then inevitably to some sort of catastrophe, usually some sexual catastrophe.”

“You’re too cynical.” Sighed Angela with frustration.

“Surprise, surprise Angela! Oh and hard bitten as well; don’t forget hard-bitten. I’ve been around girl, believe me all around.”

“You’re like a Jekyll and Hyde.”

“Yep.” I finished tersely then relented slightly as I remembered an old saying. It was about getting too deeply involved with other people. I repeated the lines.
.

“Touch me only on the skin.
For there I am your kith and kin.
Touch me not within the heart.
For I can’t share that central part.”

“Where did you learn that?” Asked Angela

I paused for I couldn’t remember; in truth I think I might have made it up long ago in some maudlin, introspective reflection about some previous emotional catastrophe. Alternatively, I might have plagiarised it somewhere and altered it to suit my own feelings. I honestly couldn’t remember.

“Dunno,” I replied, “it goes way back. Look, is this over, can I go to bed?”

Angela realised I was not lowering my defences so she shrugged resignedly.

“If you must.”

I thanked her and picked my way upstairs. As I settled into bed, Angela called ‘goodnight’ from down the landing and I responded. I did not sleep though. I was worried that Angela seemed to want to know too much about me and my lifestyle. I was worried that she might take it upon herself to try and start some sort of relationship for I knew that always seemed to lead to disaster. Or, alternatively, she was looking for flaws and ammunition to throw up if and when she got better and wanted her children back. I was getting nervous.

I lay awake long into the small hours staring through the window at the stars.

Saturday came and went in a hectic round of riding lessons followed by a shopping trip into town. The girls slept over at Sian and Margaret’s then returned on Sunday morning as we prepared to meet the Speedway when she docked in the harbour.

Jenny, Beatrice and one of the apprentices gave Angela the ‘Grand tour’ of the ship whilst I discussed changes with the crew following the addition of the Speedwell to make ours a modest little ‘two ship’ fleet.

Jesse and Supan were eventually to take permanent positions as Captain and relief captain of the Speedwell trading to Spain. Their brief span as Captain and mate of the Speedway was to give them a gentle shoe-horn into the types of responsibilities they would find when they inaugurated the Spanish run. Both of them being educated Filipinos, spoke good Spanish as well as English. It was the obvious choice. Besides, Billy and Mac preferred the North European ports and they were after all partners so they had a choice.

Billy and Mac were on the Speedway as well that Sunday as they completed the temporary hand over to Jesse and Supan.
We all had dinner aboard the Speedway then stood on the quay with Billy and Mac to wave her off as she departed for Cork. It was a busy schedule but a profitable one. As we drove home Angela chatted about the ship and the part she played in rescuing her daughters. This also elicited a further account of the event from Jenny and Bea, which I was occasionally required to confirm or correct. I finally realised that Angele’s return from the dead had been the catalyst that triggered the girls’ willingness to eventually discuss the events. It was as if having their mother back made the whole thing seem to have never happened. The girls felt safe again.

That night the girls slept at home and with their bedroom door casually left open, I heard Angela talking with them in the bedroom as I prepared some papers for my Monday visit to London.

When the children were asleep, Angela returned down stairs and made us each a nightcap and joined me in the drawing room. I was just packing the papers away.

“Don’t forget to collect those lovely nightdresses you promised me and the girls.” She reminded me.

“You can come up with me and collect them yourself if you wish. The Speedwell’s new name registration will only take a few minutes and the Baltic business is only an hour or so. I’ll be finished before twelve and we can have the afternoon together, shopping in London.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Just remember, if you go to pick the nightwear up yourself, you’ll be getting an insight into the twilight side of my life. Don’t be upset or disgusted by what you see in her shop. This lady caters to all tastes. Mine are pretty mediocre by her standards. She gets all sorts of weird commissions.”

“Oooohh! It sounds spicy.” Giggled Angela.

I gave her a knowing look over my chocolate and shook my head.

“It may seem sensuous or spicy now but when you see the stuff in her shop it feels seedy and demeaning. I’m just warning you, that’s all.”

“Will I be able to try them on before bringing them home?”

“I don’t know. Although we’ve ordered them and told her your measurements, it was a bit late and yours might not yet be ready. I don’t know. You shouldn’t need any second fittings though, she’s a pretty good seamstress; and she usually gets it right first time. Even from just a set of measurements given over the phone.”

“Well, goodnight then. What time are we leaving?”

“I usually catch the six o’clock and that means I’m up at five. I’m meeting Mac and Billy in London, they’re there to record their shared interests in the ship and its registration; literally, a couple of hours in the morning and we should be finished before lunch.”

“Oh. It’ll be quite a social event then.”

“Yes we’ll be late lunching together if we have to cross the city to meet you; then they’re coming down on the same train to Bournemouth so they can check their house before we all go to Amsterdam to bring the Speedwell out of dry-dock. D’you want to join us or are you still ill at ease with men?”

“Oh I met Billy and Mac on the Speedway. I think I can manage them. They didn’t seem at all threatening. They didn’t make a single pass and no salacious looks.”

“That’s because they’re gay and they’re partners.”

“Oh! Gosh. What a waste. Billy’s a bit of a dish. Are all your friends gay or transvestite?”

“More or less. It’s the comfort zone thing. Like you, I’m leery of men.”
“Oh dear! Why?”

“I’ll not go there now. Anyway, it’s getting late. See you in the morning.

OK then five o’clock it is, night, - night.”

She followed me up and we separated on the landing. I thought she made to offer me a kiss but I slipped into my bedroom before the opportunity presented itself. The following morning she proved to be reliable as she knocked gently on my door at precisely five o’clock.

“Are you up?” She whispered.

“Yes,” I replied, “I’m already showered. Come in, I’m decent,” I replied as I flung my dressing gown over my lingerie.

She slipped around the door in her beautiful emerald green lingerie and I did a double take as I turned away respectfully.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought you were already dressed.” I apologised.

Angela ignored my apology.

“I was just wondering what to wear. Is this a shopping expedition or a business trip?”

“Well, it’s business trip for me.” I indicated my navy pinstripe two-piece and high-necked pale grey blouse with the ruffled lace collar laid out on my bed. “These London city types have got to accept a woman if she’s the one with the money, but they still like to see a professional image especially from someone who has clearly smashed her way through their glass ceilings. My money gets me lots of respect, but my business acumen gets me more.”

With Angela standing there in her bra, panties and tights, I followed her lead and slipped off my dressing gown to stand there in my silky dove grey teddy and suspendered stockings.

Angela smiled as she studied me and her gaze fell to the unsightly bulge in my crotch.

“I prefer tights,” she said, “they’re so much more comfortable. Wouldn’t they be better for you as well, - you know, to hide that uuhm, bulge.”

I was glad she seemed to take no offence at my unsuccessful attempts to tuck. After the injuries I had suffered to my genitalia as a transvestite child, tucking was always painful. The scar tissue pulled and my scrotum hurt if I tried pushing my testicles up into my abdomen or I tried tucking my penis away. That’s why I invariably chose firm control panties if transition or modesty was an issue. However, it seemed that modesty was not and issue with Angela for she had chosen to boldly enter my bedroom in only her tights, panties and bra. I made a wry face as I chuckled at her suggestion.

“Tights darling? Come on Angela, take a reality check here. I’m a shemale tranny darling and trannies invariably prefer the feminine. It’s all about erotic, silky and femme.”

I briefly explained why I could not ‘tuck’ and her smile faded as she reached out to hug me.

“Oh my God! Just what did they do to you Bev?”

I shuddered as her question struck a raw nerve but I refrained from going off on yet another self centred sympathy trip. I was getting over it myself and I felt others were getting bored with me repeating the tale ad nauseaum.

“Oh it’s long time ago now and it’s water over the dam. Firm support panties are uncomfortable as we’ve both agreed so at times like this I choose to go ‘san’s modestee’ I’m not expecting anybody to go groping me or something and the full cut tails of the stretch teddy are sufficient to hold in my little boy bits properly.

This is purely a business trip. When I get to be measured for a new suit, I’ll have slipped on my panty girdle just so I’ll not offend my tailoress. Angela smiled and nodded approvingly as I held the tailored pencil skirt to my waist and studied myself in the mirror. My ‘bulge’ did not show.

I was getting tired of dark winter colours so I decided I would order myself a new light grey twin-set and possibly a cream one when we collected the nightdresses. To this end, I slipped a ‘firm control’ panty into my laptop case. Angela studied my navy suit and sighed.

“I haven’t got a proper business suit suitable for town.”

“But you’re not on business. You’re going shopping.”

“What shall I do in the morning though? I’ll be on my own.”

“Oh gosh dear! If you need to be told what to do in London between nine and twelve on a Monday then sister; you’ve missed out on a lot of girly shopping lessons.”

“No, it’s not that. Believe me Bev, I know how to shop, what girl doesn’t? Trouble is I’m broke. It all costs money and I’ve only got a modest allowance from my insurance and my state widow’s pension.” Jenny and Bea inherited everything when my mother, Grandma Fotheringay died.”

“I’ll draw some cash for you at Victoria station. Let me indulge you, please; but if you really feel guilty about that, you can pay me back if or when you start work.”

She studied me briefly then wrinkled her brow.

“Thanks Bev, you’re ever so kind. I cant imagine why people should have wanted to hurt you as a kid.”

“Yeah, well as I said, it’s all water over the dam now. I’m mostly over it. I’ve made something of myself and I’m pretty close to realising my dreams.”

“Yes. You are. I’m so happy for you. Look, we’re about the same size, can I borrow one of your suits. Just this once.”

“OK. If you wish, there are several on the second clothes rail past the shoes as you go into the closet. Take your pick they’re more or less the same except for slight differences in colour,. I’m afraid it’s black, navy blue, charcoal or grey. Please don’t touch the white or the pink ones; they are new lightweight summer outfits for when I go to Spain on business with this new venture. I need to look my best, the Spanish are second only to the Italians for style, well at least, I think they are.”

Angela needed no second bidding and I smiled as I watched her beautiful frilly butt sticking out from the clothes as she quickly selected her outfit. She emerged with the lightest possible grey one and gave me a twirl.

“What d’you think?”

“Yes. That seems fine to me.” I replied. “It’s the least formal of the twin sets. Do you have a camisole top or blouse?”

“Yes. I’ve decided like my lingerie, emerald green. Don’t you have any suits in cheerful colours?

I wagged my head. Apart from the new pink and white lightweight ones for Spain, I tended to do go for serious and professional in the city. I only wore my more colourful and outrageous outfits for wild trannying excursions down at Sissy’s club or in London.

Angela’s lingerie was emerald green so it was obvious she had already selected her mood and matched it. She slipped away and I resumed dressing. As I descended the stairs, Sylvia appeared yawing as she prepared to look after Jenny and Bea. After a quick breakfast we were on the road to Bournemouth for the early express to London.
On the train we chatted briefly and Angela smiled as she spread herself out in the luxury of the empty compartment. Then she promptly dozed off. I busied myself with my laptop while I studied some notes and annotated the figures as the train hurtled along. She woke up as we approached Guildford and yawned as she saw the commuters massed on the platform.

“It makes me feel important, going up to London on business.” She remarked.

“Believe me; you’d soon tire of it. Just study some of the faces getting on the train as we stop here.”

As we approached London, Angela caught my eye and nodded. The mood in the carriage changed as more commuters filled the compartment with each stop and it soon deteriorated into cattle-truck conditions. The once empty seats had long since filled up and any attempt at reading or writing was out of the question. Elbows and briefcases accidentally invaded our space as the train became more packed and any attempt at good manners became impossible as the corridor also became packed.

When we emerged at Victoria Station Angela was gasping.

“My God! And it’s like that every day.”

“That was first class darling. Back there in second class it’s worse, though the crowding has become commonplace now. The class division breaks down in the commuter belt. Demand for seats and standing space is too strong. Welcome to hell on the six o’clock.”

“My God. I’m glad I don’t have to do that every day.”

“So am I Ange’ so am I.” It was the first time I had ever consciously shortened her name. “However,” I added, “now you’ve got the delights of the tube.”

I collected some money from the special cash dispenser, gave her a useful thousand quid which made her gasp with shock.

“I can’t accept all this!”

“Oh for God’s sake girl it’s only money. I’ve just invested three quarters of a million of my own money in my share of a second ship plus another half a million in a portainer crane. A thousand is bugger all! Take it. I’ll be hurt if you don’t. You’ve done wonders for Jenny and Beatrice since you arrived on the scene, I’ve seen them really blossom. Think of it was a sort of ‘thank you.”

Angela stared at me and started to tear up again. I hurriedly grabbed some tissues from the depths of my shoulder bag and handed them to her. She dabbed her eyes and we slipped into the station hotel to fix her makeup before we parted company, she to Oxford Street and the West end for shopping, me to the city and business.

After Mac, Billy and I had completed the registration formalities and other business, we crossed the city and met Angela for a late lunch. Then we separated and she and I visited my little seamstress friend. Angela had been a little shy of visiting by herself. She had peeped in earlier in the morning and blanched at the idea. Even the window display was too risqué for Angela despite it being discreetly tucked away down a narrow back street.
As we walked from the tube we chatted.

“Where have Mac and Billy gone,” she asked.

“To a gay club most likely. It’s what they do.”

“Oh. Sorry, I’m too nosey for my own good.”

“Well, yes, you are a bit, though I don’t suppose they would be offended if you asked them. I’ve never bothered them about their sexuality and they don’t ask me about mine. We respect each other’s privacy. Like me, they’re of an age when they’re comfortable with their sexuality. We’ll be meeting again for the train back to Bournemouth and Poole. It’s best to get out of London either before or after the bloody rush hour. Billy and Mac want to go clubbing a bit so it’s the later train. Ah, here we are my most favourite shop in all of London town.”
Angela paused hesitantly and clutched my arm as we entered. The bell tinkled as I opened the door of a discreet little shop tucked away down a back street alleyway in Pimlico.

“Janet, meet Angela, Angela this is Janet.”

Janet was a sweet elderly lady who looked every inch the picture of an east European refugee, which was exactly what she was. Her uncle had escaped the holocaust with only one niece, namely Janet. All her siblings, parents and other relatives had been gassed and burned in the death camps. She had never properly recovered after her parents had died thus leaving her alone. Her uncle died from the horror of it all sometime in the sixties.

She must have been a stunning girl in her youth and I had often wondered why she had never married. I found out soon after making our first acquaintance when I realised Janet had her own sexual axes to grind. Janet had little time for men and lived with a female life partner in Pimlico. Sadly they had never had children for in Janet’s youth just after the war, lesbian couples daren’t have babies unless they had a watertight story about some lover’ killed in the war’ and they had a big enough house to maintain their privacy and keep any lesbian liaison strictly secret. It was Janet’s biggest regret and I had huge sympathy for her. During her younger years she had been struggling to get established and never had the wherewithal to make a pretence of genteel widowhood.

No woman, whatever her sexual orientation, should be denied that one basic right namely motherhood, if she wanted it. Lesbian couples like Margaret and Sian today were just so lucky.

After introductions, Janet stepped out from behind her counter come worktable and gave Angela a hug as she spoke to me.

“So ziss iss your new firend then?” She croaked in her thick Jewish Slovakian accent.”

“Yes Jan,” I replied as I gave her a customary hug, “it was Angela’s daughters who we rescued.”

“Oh. Golly! How beeauteeful is dat? I’m so hapeee for dose gurls. How wonderful for dose sweeet leetle gurls! So you are der mudder! We everybody thought you wass dead.”

“You know about the story then?” Replied Angela.

“Oooaahh yess. But I haff to deeg de story out off diss dumkoff gurl. She not talk too much, but she verry brave.”

So saying Janet turned to kiss me and I felt her thrust her belly against me. Her smile turned to disappointment but not anger when she sensed the heavy control panty-girdle under my skirt. Angela also noticed the interplay and gave me a knowing smile.

Then Janet pulled away and smiled at me again.

“You want I measure you, hey?”

“Well. Yes. I want to order some new suites.”

“Ooooaaahh. Just suites again isss it?" Why always suites?”

“Hold on Jan darling!” I protested “We’ve just ordered two dozen assorted nightdresses, peignoirs and matching sleep suites from you only two weeks ago. The adults and various children’s s tuff; are they ready?”

“Of course dey ready. I ever let you down?”

“Well. No. You’re very good. Are those they?”

“Yess. All packed and ready, see! I good worker! Now you take off clothes and I measure suit!”

I had been measured by Janet several times and had no qualms because I always wore my firm control panty girdle. I had slipped it on earlier in the loo at the restaurant. She didn’t bother to take me behind the screen as she made me strip to my teddy, control girdle and stockings. The panty girdle looked utterly incongruous but I always wore it to avoid any accidental intimacies. Janet studied me approvingly.

“You in good shape for lady so old.”

“Well thank you darling. I’m only in my fifties love. You’re not so bad for a spring chicken yourself.”

Janet smiled but ignored my riposte as she motioned with her hands.

“Now, arms out.”

I followed her instructions as she briskly measured me up. Angela watched fascinated by my lack of concern or modesty.

“Will she have to measure me?” Asked Angela.

“If you want a suit, yes.”

“I’d prefer the screen; I’m not wearing a panty girdle.

Janet nodded and then invited Angela behind the screen. I heard Janet comment about Angela being a ‘proper lady’ and smiled as I heard Janet discussing Angela’s most intimate dimensions; just as she had mine, earlier.

“If you want skirts and matching trousers sets miss, I need measure inside leg.”

“Oh all right then. If you must.”

There was a pregnant silence then finally, Angela was released. She emerged from behind the screen flushed and a little embarrassed but smiling.

“That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

“If you want trouser suites my darling, you have to be measured for trousers. Boys get that inside leg thing every time.”

“But not you,” grinned Angela as she wriggled into her skirt.

“I’ve got a couple of trouser suites if I go to the continent in winter but otherwise I never wear them because I far prefer skirts. I’m a tranny, - go figure!”

“Yes, I’ve learned that bit at least. This skirt is a bit tight on me. I think I indulged too much at lunch” She grinned knowingly.

“Well my hips are a not quite as delicious and femme as yours. Don’t worry, Janet does an excellent job. Your suits will fit perfectly. Now is there anything else that takes your fancy?”

Angela studied the displays as Janet completed her notes. She ran her fingers over some lingerie and sighed.
“These are lovely. I see why you come here now.”

“Beverlee, shee good customer,” added Janet, “shee have good tastes.”

“Yes. I can see that. D’you make all this yourself?”

“No. I now have two assistant. They off today but very good. One girly boy and one girl.”

“A girly boy?”

“Yes, like Beverly but more like a boy. He iss very nice! Now my clients can chooss a boy or a girl to measure them.”

“That’s a good idea. When can we collect our suits?” Finished Angela.

“Thursday.” Replied Janet. “I work as fast as any Soho tailor.”

“No don’t rush for them.” I said. “I’m going to Amsterdam on Thursday so best make it Friday. I’ll be coming back from Amsterdam then.” I confirmed.

“I didn’t know you were going to Amsterdam.” Cried Angela.

It’s business darling. Billy and Mac are returning to the Speedwell and I’m going over to help sort out some finance, and restructure some loans now we’ve got two ships, plus I want to attend the undocking.

“Gosh we are a busy boy aren’t we.”

“No Ange, I’m a busy girl.” I corrected her softly.

Janet tut-tutted at Angela’s faux-pas and scolded her.

“Beverly, now she a girl OK! You remember that, and don’t forget and you treat her nice.”

“Oh I will you can be sure. She’s a real sweetie.”

“Good, now; ‘ave you chosen frillies?”

Angela finally selected some delicious frilly lingerie and we completed our business. Finally we made our way to the station and met Mac and Billy as arranged. It was the eight thirty express and a better, later train to avoid the rush hour crush between five and six o’clock.

Mac ribbed me good naturedly.

“Oh no, have you been shopping again Bev?” He grinned.

“What else,” I grinned back.

“I dunno; you trannies.” Riposted Billy.

“It’s in the genes darling,” I replied. “I’m packed with girly shopping genes.”

“Yeah. Don’t I know it. Come on lets get on and grab a compartment to ourselves."

As we took the express home Angela waited impatiently for the carriage compartment to empty of another single late commuter then she could not resist opening the parcels and fingering the goods. She looked up at me self-consciously and blushed as Mac and Billy smiled..

“This is lovely material.”

“You don’t have to tell me dear. I wear it all the time.”

She opened another parcel with ‘M’ on it and held up one of the delightful creations as she smiled knowingly.

“This will be for Martina I guess.”

“You’ve guessed right. I think she’ll love it.”

“Why have they got buttons up the back? All the others have got ribbon ties under the bust or bodice.”

“Promise you won’t be offended.” I replied.

“Not me darling, I’m learning every day.”

“Martina is a transvestite with slight bondage tendencies. Don’t ask me how I know, it’s a tranny thing but I exactly understand her needs and wishes. I’ve watched her discreetly and noted certain little preferences.

You just watch when she gets dressed for bed in those.”

Angela blushed an even deeper red as Mac and Billy wagged their heads and smiled again. She smiled back then her smile widened with delighted surprise as she noticed them contentedly holding hands.

Eventually the train pulled into Southampton and some noisy late night revellers got on. Fortunately we had our compartment to ourselves and when the passing drunks glanced in they saw two large men accompanying two ladies so they moved on. Billy and Mac were both large men though Mac was a veritable giant; two metres if he was a centimetre.

Angela continued examining her various items and grinned at Billy and Mac who seemed to take no offence and not even present a threat. It was obvious that Angela had come to terms with Billy and Mac. She finally put her purchases away and suggested a cup of coffee.

“OK. I’ll get ‘em,” replied Billy as he hauled the compartment door back and set off up the corridor.

It was as he was returning that we heard the screams in the corridor Mac glanced at me and almost simultaneously we heard Billy shouting furiously. Mac sprang to his feet and bolted down the corridor and I minced after him as fast as my pencil skirt would allow. As we passed through the connecting concertina to the next carriage, I saw Billy punching the living daylights out of two drunks and a girl lying bleeding on the floor.

“What the hell?” I squawked as Billy gasped to Mac.

“Hold on to one of these bastards Mac. They were beating up this girl!” .

Mac, a giant Scot simply grabbed the other drunk who was still throwing punches and nearly crushed his wind-pipe as he tore him away from Billy. With odds evened up Billy soon had the other drunk under control and I pulled the emergency stop to alert the guard. The train slowed but did not stop and the guard arrived to investigate the problem. I was already checking out the girl. She could not have been more than about fourteen because her figure had not even begun to fill out. Blood was still leaking from her crotch and I quickly called Angela to come and sort it out.

Angela was the only proper woman amongst us and I was terrified of somehow incurring all sorts of accusations if I attempted any first aid ‘down there’. Fortunately Angela had once been a casualty nurse before she had worked in the bank and met her husband. Confronted with the mess she did not panic and immediately gave me instructions. Fortunately the girl was still conscious and appeared not to have any broken bones.

After the guard ensured that the fight was under control, he thanked Mac and Billy then dashed off to get the first aid kit. Angela and I had to lift the girl bodily as best we could and carry her back to our compartment. It was the nearest one with first class ‘three across seating’ where we could lay her out. She whimpered in agony as we gently set her down.

“She’s in a bad way, I declared, she’s conscious but breathing raggedly. Most of the trauma appears to be to her genitals.”

“Where’s that bloody guard with the dressings,” cursed Angela as she carefully checked inside the torn panties and suddenly gasped.

“Shit, she’s a tranny! Take a look!”

I stared stupidly at Angela then cautiously peeped at the bloodied mess. Her scrotum had been torn.

“I think you’d better treat this one. Giggled Angela”

I was shocked at Angie’s giggling but I quickly realised it was Ange’s way of dealing with the shock of her discovery. She soon resumed a professional manner as she dealt with the kid’s distress. Angie looked up at me and cursed.

“Just go and get that stupid guard. Where the fuck is he. She’s bleeding like a pig!”

I was shocked at Angela’s language but as she finished her tirade the guard appeared with a box and I thanked the gods that it contained several large dressings. Angela snatched them from my hand and quickly moved to stem the bleeding.

“Here. Don’t just stand there like a bloody tailor’s dummy! Hold these dressings like that while I call an ambulance!”

Immediately Angela was on her mobile phone describing the types of injuries and alerting the emergency services to meet the train at Bournemouth. The guard listened to Angela’s report and immediately alerted the driver who overrode the emergency stop and speeded up for Bournemouth station.

By now the kid was beginning to moan and we had hell’s own job keeping her calm. I was hugely grateful for Angela’s obvious skills. Then I realised the kid was trying to talk.

“What’s she trying to say?” I shushed as I bent down to make out her words.

The kid gave another whimper then I finally made out her words.

“Not the hospital. N,- not the hospital. My dad. My dad’ll kill me!”

“Why darling?” I tried to reassure her, “why not the hospital, you’re bleeding badly and you’ve had a bad beating.”

She smiled as she realised I was calling her darling. My tactful declaration that I recognised her transgendered state obviously seemed to calm her.

“Thanks. I, - I can’t go to the hospital. They’ll have to tell my parents. It’s my dad, he’ll kill me is he sees me like this again. He’s warned me.”

I decided to lie.

“That’s alright darling. My friend and I will pretend to be your nearest and dearest, and claim to be your relatives, is that OK. Or you could pretend that you’re an orphan or something. Are you trying to tell me that your Dad knows about your cross-dressing but he disapproves. The t-girl nodded weakly as Ange returned with a glass of water.

“She’s conscious, she can try and drink this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Try her. If she can swallow a bit and hold it down, it’ll tell me if she’s got any serious internals. Fortunately I can’t see any bruising to her body. It’s her face and crotch areas”

“The t-girl smiled weakly and tried a few sips. They stayed down and Ange nodded with satisfaction.”
“Good, that’s enough water. Now we can only wait until this bloody cattle truck gets to Bournemouth. Christ these bloody trains are slow.”

We established that her femme name was Christine and chatted to the poor kid while we organised a plausible story to address her terror of her father learning about her repeated cross-dressing. Mac and Billy were alerted to the situation and they glared at the drunken transphobic yobs that had attacked her. They cowered in the corner realising that their number was up.

Billy and Mac had not gone easy on them once they had got the upper hand.
Finally the lights of Bournemouth appeared and the train screeched into Bournemouth station. There was a full reception committee on the platform and we attended to Christine whilst the guard, Billy and Mac handed the two transphobic drunks to the police. We arranged to accompany the girl to the hospital with Angie in the ambulance and me following in the police car.

Quite frankly we lied about our relationship to Christine by telling the police that we had travelled down with Angies transexual daughter from Southampton.. Angela had already carefully secreted what few possessions the girl owned so that they couldn’t do any identity checks. Christine had made it abundantly clear yo us that she did not want her family to find out about her excursion to Southampton whilst cross dressed. I was more concerned that the kid was out at such a late hour.

In the police car I gave what information I could, making sure that I did not lie but not telling the whole truth.

“We think the two men who assaulted her may have thrown her bag out of the window in the new forest.” I lied to the Police officer as they and I followed Ange and Christine in the ambulance.

In casualty, we maintained our deception thanks to Ange’s familiarity with casualty procedures and within an hour the casualty registrar appeared.

“There’s no permanent damage, fortunately the scrotum is not too badly torn and the testicles are intact. It’s a brutal injury though and I could see why you were mistaken. She’s very badly bruised and the scrotum bag has been torn somewhat. The wound is not very deep and we’ve put some stitches in.. It’s lucky it was stopped when it was. There appears to be no damage to the testicles and stuff. Now we have to report it as a hate crime. Are you prepared to wait until we release her in the morning?”

“Of course!” Declared Ange, “I’m her bloody mother, what do you think?”

I was shocked at Ange’s boldness, furthermore I was surprised at her compassion for what most people would have considered a little pervert.

“Are you OK with this?” I whispered to her.

“I’m in it up to my neck now. She’s Christine Hunt for all practical purposes. When I worked in casualty these poor buggers showed up all the time. They’re always getting beaten up, especially if they’re new to it and are not street wise. Christine was obviously very naive.”

“He said he had to report it as a transphobic crime.

“Yeah. He’s got to. They’re very up on this sort of stuff these days.”

“Shit! That’ll ‘put the cat among’ if this comes to court.”

“What d’you mean, if! ’It's when this comes to court’!” Snapped Angie. “Don’t forget the police have got the bastards in custody. It’s a bloody certainty that this will come to court!”

The registrar returned and invited Ange to attend the police interview. As Christine’s supposed mother Angela was allowed to be present and she garnished all the necessary details of Christine’s background as Christine gave her false identity.

Eventually the police smiled reassuringly and told Christine that the case was going to court because there were plenty of good witnesses and they had the culprits in custody. The train had been delayed in Bournemouth for an hour for forensics but the best result was the apprehension of the attackers by Billy and Mac. Finally Christine was given a sedative and some painkillers and she was soon asleep. Once the police business was completed and there was nobody in the hospital to identify Billy or Mac, Angela and I phoned them to come and provide a plausible dad. If a mum and dad appeared then suspicions would not be aroused.

Billy played a magnificent part as a distressed dad who had come so quickly he had even forgotten all his I.D’s. Angie had to conveniently vouchsafe for him as her partner.

In the morning Billy had to ‘go to work’ after the doctors reassured him that Christine was going to be OK. When she woke up, Angie was waiting for her and eventually Christine was released. Mac had brought my car over so we slowly eased her into the front seat as she winced and whimpered with every step. Soon we were parked up and chatting to Christine about her situation.

“So what now?” I asked.

“I can’t go home now. It’s daylight. I won’t be able to get into the shed without being seen.”

“The shed?” wondered Angie.

Christine nodded tearfully.

“It’s where my male clothes are hidden. I was going to creep into the shed last night, get changed then turn up on the doorstep with some story about having missed the last bus,”
“So that’s a no-no now,” I finished for her.

“They’ll be wondering where I am.”

“We’ll sort that out when we get you some clothes. Can you remember what you were wearing?”

“Yes, Jeans and a tee-shirt and a brown hoodie.

Shoes?

“Trainers, black ones. My boy clothes; ugh.”

I studied Christine’s pink frock and ridiculous heels and smiled at her.

“And these are your girl clothes. I presume your preferred outfit.”

She nodded self-consciously and we set off to find some clothes that resembled the clothes left in the garden shed.

Fortunately, Christine’s female brain readily located the correct outlets and before ten o’clock, we had her kitted out as a boy again in the same clothes as were probably still hidden in the shed. As she changed back into her ‘boy clothes’ she shuddered with revulsion and so strong was her re-action that I felt forced to dig a little deeper into her sexuality

“Are you transvestite or trans-sexual?”

“Uh. What, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you just like dressing up in girly clothes or are you really distressed with your boy bits and all that stuff?”

She hesitated nervously then weakly confessed to not liking her boy bits and wanting to get rid of them.

“Those two who attacked me would have done me a favour,” she declared remorsefully.

“Don’t be bloody stupid! They would have killed you if they had torn your balls off. Besides, if you had survived, there would have been nothing left to fashion into a vagina, if that’s what you’re wanting.”

Christine looked at me curiously.

“Do you know something about it?”

“Yes! A lot. I’m a transvestite myself and I fully understand your dilemma. That makes me sympathetic. Angela in the back is a casualty nurse who’s dealt with the aftermaths of many encounters like yours.”

“What! You’re a tranny!” Gasped Christine.

“Yes. That’s what I said wasn’t it.”

“Oh shit! Can you help me, you know, help me to find someone, a doctor or something.”

I paused thoughtfully for I knew I could. However the priority was getting the kid sorted out for the return to her family. We chatted at length and finally arranged a plausible story that we had found the boy staggering around after being in a fight earlier that morning and we couldn’t sort it out because her phone and stuff had been stolen. (Angela had them in her bag.).

“We could say you were confused with concussion and it wasn’t until you came around that we realised you weren’t drunk or drugged.”

“Will it work,” wondered Christine nervously.

“Well blame it on us for not sorting it earlier. If they want to go to the police later then say you don’t want to because it was partly your fault. Say it was over some girl or something.”

Christine wavered fearfully then declared.

“I don’t want to go home. Just let me out. He’ll just keep asking questions until I slip up or something.”

“And what will you do if we let you out, here now?” Asked Angie.

“I’m going away. I can’t face it anymore.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear.” Replied Angie.

“So what can I do? If it’s not this time, it’s the next. He’s beaten me up lots already because I used to borrow my sister’s frocks and he’s made it very clear what will happen if I do it again.”

Angela fell silent and I wracked my brains. Despite my own lifestyle, I did not have many contacts in the social services in Dorset. The only people I knew and trusted were Sandie and Mrs Bodkin from Devon Social Services. I decided to phone Sandie and I explained to Christine.

“I’m going to phone a friend of mine who might be able to help, she’s a psychiatrist.”

“How’ll that help?”

“I don’t know yet Christine, bear with me here, I’m trying to sort something OK!”

I turned the speaker up so that Christine could hear every word of our conversation. At least then she’d know I wasn’t bullshitting. Sandie answered almost immediately and I quickly explained the situation.

“Put her on, let me speak to her,” ordered Sandie.

I handed the phone to Christine and Sandie quickly established the situation. As Christine explained her situation and fears Sandie simply listened. Finally Christine dried up and it was several seconds before Sandie asked to speak to me.”

“I don’t think it would be safe for Christine to return to the family home.”

“Neither do Angela or I.”

“Is Angela with you?”

“Yes in the back of the car. My phone’s on voice and she can hear everything as well.

“Right,” Said Sandie after a brief pause, “I’ve got my computer up and I’ve got an address. It’s an emergency social services hostel for runaways and suchlike in Bournemouth. I’ll phone them and explain.”

With the pertinent information, we quickly despatched Christine to the address and sorted out the details. It transpired that Christine could stay there on a daily review until something better was arranged. For the time being, she was safe. After settling Christine into a safe place, Angie and I sighed with relief and took Christine for a late breakfast. The poor kid was starving. We returned her to the hostel exchanged mobile numbers and stuff then finally made our way home to my cottage.

We had kept in touch by mobile so Sian and Sylvia were expecting us.

“Welcome back. By the way, your nighties and stuff are in Poole lost property office at the station. They phoned us this morning. You left the receipt in the packaging with your address and everything.”
Angie blushed at this news.

“Oh Crickey! I wonder what they’ll think. I completely forgot what with all the palaver.”

“No harm done, what’s a few nighties?” I observed dismissively.

Angie yawned and her response was infectious, we both showered and went to bed. It had been a long night.”

In this chapter, beverly and Angie get more deeply involved with the Chrissie, the young transexual they rescued on the train. Some of Chrissie's history is revealed.

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I was woken at about two o’clock that same afternoon by Angela banging on my bedroom door.

“Sian woke me with her mobile; we’ll have to go and pick up the children from school. Sian and Sylvia are busy fixing hedges with Mr Turpin the farmer who rents your fields.”

“Oh yes, I yawned sleepily. I remembered something about that.”

“Well we’d best get a move on, we’ll be late. I’d also like to find out what’s happening to that tranny child, Christine.”

“Oh don’t go getting involved with that. You’ve done your duty by the kid; let the professionals get on with it. It’s out of our hands now. Dorset social services are handling all that.”

“I don’t know about that. The kid seemed terrified of his father finding out. You heard what she said. He’s beaten the kid senseless before because of his cross-dressing.”

“Yeah, well that’ll be a matter for the police and the SS.”

“Uhmm not entirely, Bev,” declared Angie softly, “we reported the child as mine, don’t you remember? If the parent’s now report the child as missing, we could end up in shit creek. We’d better go down and sort it out.”

“With whom?” I asked.

“Either the SS, or the Police.”

“I’d let the parent’s stew for a while. Leave it a couple of days or so. Give them sometime to reflect on how their bigotry is affecting their son or daughter, - or whatever.”

“But he’s going under an assumed name.”

“Yes, and that can only strengthen his case. It will be easy for him to say he chose your family name as an alias.”

“But I gave the hospital his name of Hunt, - my name.”

“Well, whatever the legality is, I don’t care. We did the right thing for Chrissie in the end and delivered the kid to the hostel. He’s safe there.”

“Yes, until his real parent’s finally find him. Then the shit will really hit the fan!”

“OK then, if it’s bothering you, then you go down to the hostel and explain why you did it. He’ll corroborate your story and you can confirm that you have treated other cases like this and it’s sometimes ended up in suicide. Just say the boy was desperately distressed and you did what you did to calm him down or he would never have agreed to going to A&E.”

“Well, I suppose that’s plausible. Drop me off at the hostel then and collect me after you’ve picked up the girls.”

I agreed to this and diverted to the hostel first. Angela made her way up the drive as I lumbered off to the school with the Landrover.

After collecting the girls and returning to the hostel I was surprised to see an ambulance with the full set of ‘blues but no twos’ parked outside the main entrance.

I drove up the drive and parked well away from it so as not to block its departure and I told the girls to wait. As I stepped towards the building the ambulance team appeared coming out of the door with Angela and another lady following closely.

Angela looked very distressed which I thought was unusual for her because as a casualty nurse she had displayed considerable aplomb and confidence when treating Christine on the train.

I declared myself to Angela who was definitely worried.

“What’s wrong?” I demanded.

“That poor bloody kid! Her parents checked with the police and they realised that the transvestite that was beaten up on the train was probably their missing child who the father described as ‘a little bloody pervert probably out on the town cross-dressed.’ The police were bringing the parents to check if it was the same kid. They were on their way here now.”

This lady is the warden and she told Christine that some people had reported a missing child who liked to cross dress just before I got here.

“And?”

“Well it’s Chrissie. The poor bitch became hysterical when she learned her parents were coming here. She was terrified of yet another beating and she’s just tried to kill herself!”

“When the warden realised I was not her mother, she tried to stop me from seeing Christine but I pushed my way past her to go and see Chrissie. Her bedroom door was locked and there was no answer.

The stupid Warden tried arguing on the landing that I had no right to be here and she wouldn’t unlock the door with her pass key.

“And?”

When the stupid bitch realised there was no response from Chrissie’s room she finally relented. When we opened the door we found the kid with a polythene bag over her head and she’d stopped breathing.”

“Oh shit!” Is she dead?”

“No thank God! She was unconscious but I found a weak pulse so I gave her M to M. She’s breathing now and a bit confused, I hope to Christ that there’s no brain damage. I’m going with her back to casualty. This stupid warden bitch is now frantically trying to contact the police to avert a meeting between Christine and her parents. It’s a bit bloody late for that.

With these words, Angela leapt into the back of the ambulance as the crew closed the door and set off with all blues and two’s howling. I turned to the shocked warden.

“We told you last night that she didn’t want to see her parents!”

“I know, but I didn’t know the police had traced her identity. Your friend is in big trouble. She told me a pack of lies last night!”

“My friend has saved that kid’s life twice in less than a day! Which is more important?”

“But I was caught on a fork! Damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I had to tell the police we had a young transvestite staying here. This is a council run hostel. If I lied to the police I’d get fired immediately.”

I realised the poor warden’s dilemma. It was not her fault and I cursed loudly as I clambered back into my battle wagon and rumbled off to the A&E emergency ward. When I arrived, I found Angela engaged in furious row with the police and an unknown couple.

“What’s going on?” I asked Angela.

“She doesn’t want to see her parents!” Angie explained both to me and the police as she turned to speak directly to the police.

“She’s so terrified of that man, her own bloody father; that she’s just tried to kill herself! Ask the bloody ambulance crew or the casualty consultant if you don’t believe me. Ask that woman sitting there!” She finished pointing directly at me. “There’s no need to swear, madam. Nobody’s seeing anybody until this business is resolved,” cautioned the police woman.

“Well thank heavens for that! That’s the man!” Angie snapped back, angrily reinforcing her concerns. “He’s her father and the kid is terrified of him!”

“It’s not a she,” roared the man, “It’s a bloody he! Bloody little pervert! You just wait! I’ll, -“

Angela fumed impotently for despite all that had happened; this man was still Christine’s father. Fortunately the E.R ward was fairly quiet for it was mid afternoon on a Tuesday. The shouting attracted the Casualty Consultant Surgeon who peered around the door and looked relieved to see two police men and a police woman stopping things from becoming physical. He beckoned to the police woman.

“Is there a Miss Angela Hunt here? The patient is asking for a Miss Angela Hunt.”

“That’s me!” Angela shouted as the relief caused her voice to crack with emotion. “I’m Mrs Angela Hunt! I’m the one who accompanied Christine from the railway station in the ambulance last night after the earlier attack.”

“Have you got any identification?” continued the Surgeon. Angela ripped her newly acquired driving licence out of her purse and brandished the plastic card to the police.”

“See it’s me! I treated her on the train after the beating she received.”

The police studied the little picture as Christine’s mother’s face greyed with concern. Then the larger policeman nodded to the consultant surgeon.

“Yes this is her! Mrs Angela Hunt.”

“Good,” said the surgeon, “the patient wishes to see you now.”

“Angela almost collapsed with relief but she still had the wit to recommend that the police woman accompany her to Christine’s bed provided the consultant agreed.

The surgeon nodded and the pair were admitted into the Emergency room.

I let out a huge sigh of relief and slumped onto the row of chairs. Christine’s father fumed noisily but her mother realised that I must have something to do with what had happened. She crossed over to me.

“What was that about an assault? What’s been happening?

“I was weary. It had been a long night, and I had not slept during the day and I had my girls sitting in the Landrover wondering what all this was about.

I brushed my hair back wearily as I spoke briefly without pulling my punches. “Your daught, - no, - your child was attacked late last night coming home on the train from Southampton. My gentleman companions stopped the attack but Chris, - your child, - Christopher was badly injured. Angie’s a nurse and she treated Christopher on the train. Then she and I escorted Chrissie here to casualty last night. Your child was cross dressed and demanded to be treated as a girl. She was adamant she did not want her father anywhere near her and she made that abundantly obvious to the duty registrar last night. She’s also made it abundantly obvious again just now by trying to commit suicide! I can’t think of a more powerful statement a child could make!"

Chrissies mother’s face turned ashen but I was too tired to care. The shouting and arguing had stressed me out and I hated confrontation for I was at heart a coward. She tried to ask me more but I’d had enough. I waved her away and stumbled back to my Landrover. Without a word, I drove home to await Angela’s call.

All the way home the girls kept asking what had happened and I explained what I thought fit for their young ears. An hour after arriving home, Angela phoned my mobile.

“Christine’s safe Bev. She’s going to be OK. There doesn’t seem to be brain damage thank Christ, and she’s made it abundantly clear she does not want to see her dad. They allowed her mother in but she just kept breaking down. In the end her crying was causing Christine more distress and she asked for her mother to go. Fortunately, the Surgeon, the theatre sister, the police woman and I all witnessed every single detail. They called in a social worker and Christine’s going to be placed in a safe hostel. They’ve agreed to my seeing her and attending her. The surgeon spoke very highly of our efforts last night and this afternoon. When he learned that I once been a casualty nurse, he even suggested that I apply for a job training with the Ambulance service and he promised me a reference if I need one.” “He’s right Angie" I added. "I didn’t do much last night and I had nothing to do with the plastic bag thing. It was all your work.”

“Well that’s as maybe, we were bloody lucky this afternoon; just seconds from a complete disaster there. Anyway, they are releasing her after three days observation for brain damage and then I’ll be returning to accompany her to her new accommodation. Can you come and collect me or shall I take a cab.

“I’ll come and collect you. I’d like to see Chrissie if I can as well.”

“No problem. See you at the main entrance.”

Sian and Sylvia got dinner going whilst I returned to the hospital.

When I got there, Angela led me up to Christine’s bed. The girl smiled weakly as she recognised me entering. Having established that Chrissie was happy to see me as well, the ward sister left. Angie kissed Chrissie to reassure her then slipped away for some coffee; just like me, Angie was shattered after a traumatic couple of hours.

“It’s Beverly isn’t it?” Whispered Chrissie, “the other woman on the train.”

“Yes darling, well obviously your brain’s working OK. You poor kid, you must have been terrified!”

She nodded and smiled gratefully. I had long ago learned that the last thing suicide recoveries wanted was censure or criticism for their failed efforts. I reassured her that she was safe from her father and that things were in hand to help her through the next few months.

“What will they do with me if I’m not to live with them?”

“We’ll find a solution. Somewhere where the people are sympathetic to your transvestism.”

Christine smiled and we chatted at length about finding a permanent solution to her problems. The more we chatted, the more I began to suspect that Chrissie was a transsexual not a transvestite. Angie returned and we finally wished Chrissie ‘goodnight’. I stopped at the nursing station and had a quiet word with the night sister.

“Mrs Hunt and I will be back at nine tomorrow. I’d like a word with her ward consultant.”

“And you are?”

“We are the women who saved her on the train and saved her this afternoon. You will see from the notes what happened and you’ll see copies of our signed statements to the police and social services in her file.”

“Might I ask what it’s about?”

“Yes. It’s about the rest of Christine’s life!”

She looked at me curiously but realised that my words really meant something and she annotated Christine’s notes to allow us in at eight o’clock in time for the consultant’s morning ward round.

“Thank God at least some nurses have got a bit of nouse,” I thought as Angie and I made our way home.

At eight the next morning we met the consultant for a brief moment as he skirted by Christie’s bed and made a brief check on her condition. Satisfied with her progress he invited us into his office and asked what we wanted.

I explained about Chrissie’s circumstances and he nodded sympathetically.

“Yes. That makes perfect sense. I’ll speak to my colleague later this morning and ask her to visit Christopher.”

“She prefers Christine doctor.”

“I know, and I understand, but I have to maintain the formalities.

At present, the patient is registered to us as a boy but I quite understand your concerns. The problem is that if I refer to her as Christine it could cause confusion and a possible mix up with any medications. There’s enough scope for mix ups as it is, what with false names and what-have-you. I’ll ask my colleague to speak to you over the phone. Are you related?”

“No. But the kid is terrified of her father and her mother provides no support. I think the mother also goes in fear of the father. The police cautioned the father in the casualty waiting room and Mr Patel the Casualty Consultant simply refused to let him see the kid. Social services and the police had a magisterial restraining order served on him until a proper court hearing is arranged.”

“It’s in her file brought up from casualty,” added Angie as she fell back again on her knowledge of hospital procedures.

“Oh right,” replied the consultant, and this court business it’s to do what exactly?” He continued.

“It’s to have Chrissie placed in a safe place because of her transexualism.” I finished.

He nodded thoughtfully and seemed sympathetic. Angela and I made our excuses and left.

“What do you think?” Wondered Angie as we walked across the car park.

“Dunno, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see. He’s just a bone merchant, I don’t even know if he’ll contact the psychiatrists. I just don’t know where to go forward from here but I’m frightened for the poor little kid.

Why don’t you phone Sandie?” Angie suggested. “Isn’t she high up in the Psychiatric services around here? She might get a better response and precipitate some proper action.”

“Shit! You’re just so right! Good thinking bat-girl,” I grinned as a whole load of stuff was suddenly lifted off my mind.

I phoned Sandie’s mobile and left a message on her answer- phone. It was the following morning before we got a response from Sandie.

“Hello you two, what do I call you now, Batgirl and Robina?”

“Never mind that, have you done anything about Chrissie?” I pressed.

“Yes. Of course I have. The consultant spoke to me yesterday soon after you made your feelings abundantly clear. You made an impression there, especially after he read the full report and learned how you became involved. He was tickled pink over your pretence to be Christine’s parents but when I discussed the case at length he began to see the validity of your points of view. I’m sorry, I revealed that you’re a transvestite who’s close to being a transsexual and that may have been wrong of me, but it gave him some inkling as to the why’s and whereof concerning your intervention and your intensity of feelings, your understanding of the situation and your subsequent persistent input.”

“Crickey Sandie! That’s a mouthful. Is that how you professionals always speak to each other? OK. I’ll forgive you. So what’s to become of the girl?”

“We-ell, she needs a secure, safe and sympathetic environment.”

I was already following Sandie’s drift and I smiled to Angie as I responded in a like manner. Angie was grinning all over her face as she listened into the amplifier on the phone.

“Aa-and?”

“Well. You’ve already demonstrated that you care for the kid. I mean you’ve saved her life twice already.”

“No-oo. That was Angie. So, what else?”

“Well, - would you, - I mean, - would you be prepared to save the kid’s life a third time?”

“I think I know what’s coming. Go on,” I sighed.

“Yes. I thought you might. So is there room for her up on your farm?”

“It’s not a farm, it’s a cottage! If people called it a farm they’d probably start calling it ‘The funny Farm’” I scolded her affectionately.

“Alright, cottage then. Now answer my question. Is there room?”

“You know perfectly well there is. There are two empty dormitories up there besides the spare bedrooms in my cottage and the empty new apartments next to Sian and Margaret. Sian’s only just beginning to sell her idea of trekking for disadvantaged kids to local authorities around all over England. However I don’t think she’ll take kindly to having one stray body taking up one bed in those dormitories. It might prevent her selling the rest of the accommodation to a school or children’s charity or whatever.”

“So it’s no-no then.”

I could sense the disappointment in Sandie’s voice and savoured the depressed silence on the other end of the phone. It was always a pleasure for me to be able to do somebody a good turn and I exchanged a tight little smile with Angie as I let the silence endure thus causing Sandie to stew a bit before finally replying.

“Noo-oo. I didn’t say that. I said it wouldn’t be right for Sian to have her business plans upset by a stray body. There are other spaces available; that is if the social services are prepared to be flexible.”

“Oh Bev! You’re a darling. The social worker down here is throwing back-flips trying to find a solution. She’s at the end of her tether. Will you honestly take the kid under your wing?”

“Why not, we’ve done just about everything else for the poor little bastard.”

“Oh you put it so politely.”

“Yeah. It’s the hoary old seaman in me. He escapes occasionally. When d’you want to progress this stuff?”

“Well she’s to remain on the ward for another two days after her concussion due to asphyxiation, then Social services have to find her emergency accommodation. If you took her in, I’m sure there’s not a social worker on earth who could criticise your set up. If you really feel for the ‘poor bastard’ as you so nicely put it; I’m sure the courts would recommend a more permanent arrangement until the kid reaches her majority.”

“Is Bournemouth on the same judicial circuit as Poole?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. I think it is.”

“Well that might find Elizabeth involved. She handles a lot of the child custody cases.”

“Yes Bev, but she couldn’t take this case anyway; I mean, she knows you, she’s stayed at the cottage.”

“Aye. But she could put in a good word.”

“That’s hardly necessary. Mrs Bodkin from Devon has already done that. Your little set up has attracted quite some interest you know.”

“How come?”

“Well, Christine’s father has been going around stirring up trouble but when Dorset Social services started to check it out they contacted Devon about Jennifer and Beatrice. Mrs Bodkin was singing your praises as high to heaven as she could go, - as was I.”

“Gee thanks. This is the last one then, - OK!”

“Yes Bev.”

“No! I mean it. Enough I say; that’s supposed to be my bloody retirement cottage.”

“Yes Bev.”

I could ‘feel’ Sandie silently laughing as I thumped down the phone and turned to face a grinning Angie.

“Are you really angry with her?” Angie asked.

Her question completely disarmed me and I leant forward to give Angie a kiss full smack on the lips.

“No love, it’s just that, well this is one hell of a retirement isn’t it? What with ships, kids and rock and roll!”

“Yeah,” finished Angie as she gave me a long knowing smile.

We returned to my cottage and I felt compelled to just check out the spare bedrooms.

Angie found me sitting on the bed that Sandie used to use before moving permanently with her family to Bournemouth.

I looked up and smiled as Angie eased her way past the half open door and offered me a cup of tea and a smile.

“This room would do wouldn’t it?” I asked.

“Why not,” Angie replied. It could also have its own little en-suite when my new room is finished next door. It seems stupid not to kill two birds with one stone. It’s got one of the best views on this side as well. Anyway, she’s got a choice of all of the other bedrooms on this side except mine. She can take her pick.”

“Yeah. I suppose that should help her settle, I mean knowing she’s got some sort of control of her life, even if it’s just where she’ll sleep.”

We laid on the bed chatting for the remainder of the morning. I was getting to like Angela. Despite her frequent weepy breakdowns, for which nobody could blame her. She was basically a down to earth practical girl and very intuitive.

I considered her recent past and realised that if she had been prepared to sail a yacht to Australia with her husband she must have been some sort of a toughie. The more I got to know Angie, the more I realised she was a bit of a rough diamond. As a friend, a girl could do a lot worse than Angie.

We chatted all morning while just stretched out on the bed that would be Chrissie’s if she came to stay with us.

At noon we joined Sian and Sylvia for lunch in ‘The West Barn’. The meal was nothing fancy just one of ‘Mummy Sian’s ‘concoctions’ as Chenille loved to call them. Around the table we chatted with Sian and Sylvia.

Sylvia was particularly intrigued. “And this Chrissie, you reckon she’s a tranny?”

“We’re not sure. More probably she’s a transsexual.”

The eighteen-year old Sylvia chuckled.

“Crickey! This place is getting like a human zoo what with all the different species.”

None of us corrected her about her misuse of the word ‘species’; we all knew what she meant and we smiled indulgently. Sylvia was young and a bit naive but we knew her heart was in the right place and that’s what really mattered!.

After lunch I set about some housework but Angie interrupted me.

“I’ll do that. I know you’ve got some work to do about the Amsterdam Trip tomorrow.”

“Christ! Shit! You’re right. With all this bloody excitement, I’d completely forgotten about it.”

“Go on. Go and do your paperwork." She ordered with a smile. "D’you know, we’re going to have to get you a secretary to get you organised.”

I went into my study and beavered away at the paperwork until I heard Sian bringing the girls home from school.

 

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.

 

This chapter addresses Chrissies eventual arrival at Skipper's cottage and then deals with some of the preliminary issues surround Chrissie's adjustments to finding herself in a liberal and all importantly, supportive environment.

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Chrissie’s first night at the cottage was one of the most enjoyable nights I had ever experienced since I had bought the place. She seemed to sort of fill a perfect age gap between the eighteen-year-old Sylvia and the younger girls. As they chattered twenty to the dozen around the table we adults simply sat back and exchanged smiles. Angie and I had what seemed like a ready made, perfectly formed extended family.

The younger girls went to bed at their allotted time while Chrissie stayed up with the adults. I was
particularly glad to see her getting on well with Sylvia.

If ever Chrissie needed a big sister, Sylvia seemed to be filling that void. Eventually Silvia stood up and asked if Chrissie could go with her and listen to some music in her apartment. I exchanged amused glances with Angie, Sian and Margaret and nodded easily. Soon the sound of assorted tracks came emanating from the flat.

Fortunately, Sylvia had the wit to moderate the sound because she knew full well it might upset some of the horses. We adults just slobbed out on assorted settees and let the television wash over us. It was a good
costume drama and we enjoyed it. Eventually Chrissie re-appeared in the kitchen.

“Sylvia had to go to bed. She gets up really early, like five o’clock!”

“So do most of us around here, “Margaret added as she and Sian stood up, switched off the telly then yawned
politically. Chrissie got the message and asked.

“Is it time for bed then?”

“It is for me young lady.” Angie added, “I don’t know what Aunty Bev has planned.

“You go up Angie and check on the girls. I’ve got some notes to catch up on.”

Angie smiled and wagged her head. She loved checking up on the girls and invited Chrissie up to go and look.
Chrissie’s smile widened as Angie warned.

“Don’t make a noise to waken them.”

They crept upstairs and I slipped into my study to attend to some stuff that had been demanding my attention all day. I’m a poor sleeper, (The Sea often does that to a man, especially a ship’s master. Responsibility weighs heavily,) so it was no hardship to spend a couple of hours in the peace and solitude of my study during the small hours preparing my application to the Moroccan authorities for the proposed service to Morocco.

I was an hour into the work when I suddenly felt a pair of hands gently reach around my shoulders. I gave a start then realised they were a pair of fourteen-year-old hands. I gently took the hands and kissed them as I looked up.

“You should be in bed, darling. You’re a growing girl and you need your sleep.”

“She gave me an intense hug and I felt tears soaking into my blouse.”

“What’s the matter now?” I asked her as I twisted around to find her wearing one of Angie’s oversized sleep suites.

“Nothing. I, - I’m, - jus, - just so happy,” she declared between soft sobs. “You called me a girl. Nobody’s ever done that except you and your friends here.”

“Well I’m glad for you. You know I am but this time, the small hours of the morning is really my secret time. Time I hold dear to my privacy. Now I really must get on with this paperwork.”

“Can I sit up with you?”

It was Sunday the next day, a day when I often had a ‘lie in’ as Angie sorted breakfast for the girls before they saw to their ponies.

‘It would do no harm’ I thought, ‘for Chrissie to ‘lie’ in on her first morning of the rest of her life. I nodded towards an occasional arm chair that faced the study window and where I often sat to do my thinking.

“You can sit there, provided you don’t chatter. I really have to get this stuff ready for next week.”

Chrissie smiled gratefully and dragged the armchair around to face my desk; then curled up in it like a pet cat. I felt her eyes boring into me but she did as asked and remained silent. I did not feel in any way distracted or disturbed and I resumed making notes on my laptop. Eventually at three o’clock, I stood up and stretched. To my surprise, Chrissie was still awake.

“Gosh, Kid, don’t you sleep?”

“Don’t you?” Countered Chrissie.

“Yeah, but I’m of a certain age. Older people don’t need much sleep. I get by on a couple of hours a night. Young girls like you really do need their sleep.”

“I like you,” declared Chrissie, as she changed the subject.

“And I like you, love, but I am tired now and I really have to go up now. Are you coming?”

She rubbed her eyes and stepped over to hug me again as we made our way up stairs.

“Can I stay in your room tonight?” She suddenly whispered as I paused to open my door.

I stopped uncertainly.

“Why. What’s wrong with your new room?”

“Oh nothing. It’s brill’ and Auntie Angie says you’re going to put a bathroom in for me soon.”

“That’s true. Is that why you want to stay with me?”

“No. I just want a hug.”

“Well do you think that’s a good idea?”

“My mother never allowed me into her bed. My dad didn’t allow it; he said it was a stupid girly thing.”

I considered her argument. It was true that girls were more tactile than boys and they liked to do pyjama parties and stuff, but I had never ever slept a whole night with another person once I had finally escaped from my brutal childhood. The very thought of somebody else in my bed invoked long suppressed nightmares of rape and abuse. All night sessions were something I had studiously avoided even when taking a prostitute to my bed when I was a young seaman. If they were in my cabin, after consummating the act, the girl was usually unceremoniously dumped on the day settee. Alternatively, if I was in there place, I left as soon as the business was completed.

Now suddenly, a fourteen-year-old transsexual was asking just to share my bed and have cuddles. I was scared and confused. As I paused nervously at the door Chrissie asked why I was hesitating.

“I’m afraid, Chrissie. We are two transsexuals, and it wouldn’t be right.”

“But–but you’re like my–my mother.”

“I’m sorry, Chrissie. It wouldn’t be right. Not tonight, I mean it’s your first night at the house. I’ve got to think about this and ask advice. Besides, I’m not entirely comfortable with sharing my bed with anybody. There’s old stuff in my life that’s left scars. Once you’re older, I’ll explain. Please Chrissie. Try and stay in your own bed tonight. On Monday I’ll speak to Betty and Sandie.”

Chrissie’s head fell and she sloped off dejectedly to her bedroom. I followed her as I recognised she was showing all the signs of a sense of rejection. Inside her room I patted the bed and offered to talk.

She slipped between her sheets while I sat on the side of the bed and we ended up talking long into the rest of night. A lot of demons were put to bed for both of us and Angie told me later that she found us long after sun-up with me still sprawled fully clothed across Chrissies bed while Chrissie was curled up like a cat under her duvet. We were both fast asleep so Angie let sleeping trannies lie. Eventually Chrissie stirred and woke me as she must have wondered what the lump was holding down her duvet.

“Oh. You must have fallen asleep,” Chrissie observed.

“Indeed I must. Crickey! I feel stiff.

I started gently unlocking my joints and tenderly massaging my calves as the inevitable cramps stabbed through the muscles.

“Oow! Damn that hurts. My bloody legs, oow!”

“What’s wrong?

“Oh it’s only cramp, love,” I grimaced as I hobbled tenderly around Chrissie’s bedroom.

Chrissie smiled and watched me for a few moments before her needs overtook her and she minced to my bedroom to use my loo. I hobbled around some more and eventually returned to my room only to have to wait to use my own bathroom. Chrissie was obviously oblivious to my needs so I slipped into the children’s bedroom and availed myself of their lavatory and shower. Eventually Chrissie came looking.

“Are you in there?” She asked, tapping on the other dividing door.

“Yes. I couldn’t use mine.”

She cried ‘sorreeey’ and made her excuses. When I descended down stairs, Chrissie was being served a sort of brunch by Angie.

“Well hello, look who it isn’t!” Grinned Angie, looking poised to interrogate me.

“Not now Angie, have you got a coffee.”

Angie promptly produced a coffee made exactly how I liked it and I smiled gratefully as I cupped the mug in both my hands.

“Oouurgh. That’s better, “I croaked.

“So what happened to you last night?”

“Oh Chrissie and I chatted.”

“What about?”

“Oh, just stuff mostly.”

“Just stuff, harrumphed Angie impatiently.”

“Oh, well, I suppose it was more than just stuff,” I explained. “We put the whole world to rights. Well, - our worlds at least.”

“I can imagine,” countered Angie. “Did you get much off your chest?”

I nodded softly as I took my first sip of coffee.

“We’ve got some common ground; we compared stuff about our sexualities and favoured life styles. Chrissie was excited and relieved to actually be able to talk to somebody who knew what she was going through. She also learned why I sleep alone. I wasn’t going to ever tell her or at least not until she was well old enough to understand but stuff just seemed to come out.”

“Yeah,” replied Angie,” she seemed very quiet when she went out to watch the girls practising with the new ponies.”

“I’m going to speak to Sandie early tomorrow before she gets to work. There’s stuff I want to check out, legal stuff and what-have-you then I want to run stuff by Betty.”

“Is this about her wanting to cuddle up to you in your bed?”

I stared at Angie then down at the floor and sighed softly.

“Yeah. She mentioned it did she.”

“Yeah. I suggested that she come to my bed if she gets lonely or anything.”

I looked up and stared at Angie.

“Well that’s lovely Ange. That might take the pressure off me. She’s still got her bits you know.” I added totally superfluously.

“Of course I know silly, and she still looks like a boy, but she’s a girl in her head. Can’t you accept that?”

“Oh I accept it Ange, nobody understands that bit better than me, but would the rest of the world understand. Is Betty as open-minded as Mrs Bodkin was about Jenny and Beatrice?”

“Well wouldn’t it be better to chat to Mrs Bodkin first. She’s walked the walk with you and she can vouchsafe for you.”

I considered Angie’s words and nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah, you may be right there. “

“Well phone her now. You’ve got her home number.”

“Nah. She won’t want to be bothered on her day off. It’s Sunday.”

“Don’t be silly. That never stopped you before. Don’t forget, it’s not like Betty and Chrissie. Mrs Bodkin was appointed as your and the girl’s official mentor by the courts and she still is as far as I know. You’re entitled to phone her if you hit the buffers. I’ve spoken to Mrs Bodkin a lot about you. I’ve learned a lot about the hang-ups you had when the girls first came to stay here.”

I took another sip of coffee and stared thoughtfully out of the conservatory windows across the countryside towards Poole.

Angie pressed me again. “Go on. When has its being Sunday ever stopped you before?”

“It’s still Betty’s bag though,” I protested feebly, “Chrissie came to us from Dorset S.S.”

Reluctantly I took Angie’s advice. Mrs Bodkin had proven to be a comfort to me many times during trouble. I took my mobile phone into the dining room and called her. I was pleasantly surprised to hear the familiar voice reply. I had been half expecting to hear her answer phone; after all it was Sunday.

“Hello. Hello, who is it? Oh it’s you Bev. What prompts you to call during the weekend?”

I still hesitated before finally taking the plunge.

“I want some advice.”

“What, about the girls?”

“Eh no, it’s about Chrissie.”

“Well I’m not entitled to advise anything about Chrissie, darling. She’s Betty’s pidgeon.”

“Yes. That’s as maybe but I’ve got a bit of a problem. I’d like to run it by you before I speak to Betty.”

“OK. Go on then.”

I explained the situation and Chrissie’s desire to share cuddles during the night. Mrs Bodkin listened patiently then asked me to go and fetch Chrissie. Angie tactfully excused herself to the practice arena to collect Chrissie while I chatted with Mrs Bodkin. Mrs Bodkin had asked to speak with Chrissie.

Angie returned with Chrissie who was wearing wellingtons and a pair of Sylvia’s jodhpurs. She kicked off the soiled wellingtons in the porch and I handed the phone to her as she came into the dining room. Mrs Bodkin had already advised me that she wanted to speak privately to Chrissie so I slipped into the kitchen. It’s hardly necessary to say I was on tenterhooks.

“Stop fussing, Bev,” Angie scolded me gently. “You’re like a cat on!”

“What are they talking about?”

“Whatever it is it’s not something to hurt you. The woman’s been one of your most loyal friends throughout your whole time with the girls. She wouldn’t say anything against you now.”

“No. I suppose you’re right. Is there any more of that coffee left?”

Angie wagged her head and smiled as she tipped the pot and drained the last drop.

“There. I’ll put a fresh pot on. Calm down, girl!”

The pot took forever to boil but I was finally sitting thoughtfully at the kitchen table nursing the mug while Angie sat beside me rubbing my shoulder.

“Don’t worry, darling. Nothing happened. You were fully dressed when I found you and you’ve done the right thing by speaking about it.”

“What will Chrissie say if they ask her?”

“One thing she can’t say is that anything untoward or unsavoury happened.”

“Yeah. That’s the truth and some.”

My head span eagerly as the dining room door opened and Chrissie emerged. She handed me the phone and leant over to offer me a kiss. I tried to give her a gentle motherly peck but she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. Mrs Bodkin’s voice squeaked tinnily in my ear.

“Hello! Hello! Is anybody there?”

I brought the phone to my ear and confirmed it was me again.

“Ah, Bev; good. I’ve told Chrissie to phone Betty.”

“What today, Sunday?”

“She’s Chrissie’s case worker. The girl has every right to call her if she’s got a problem.”

“So what problem has Chrissie got? It’s my problem. The girl’s under-aged I’m the one who would be deemed at fault.” I’m also the one with charge of her mental wellbeing.”

“Don’t worry about Chrissie’s wellbeing. She in the best place possible.”

“Not if her carer is sleeping with her she’s not!”

“Look Bev; I know that you never instigated the first move. Chrissie was adamant that she asked you first. All she wanted was a cuddle and some comfort.”

“Well, that’s not going to be. I don’t do bed sharing; - all night that is, you know, - sleeping.”

Mrs Bodkin fell silent. She knew about my problems from childhood. Indeed only Sandie and she did know.

“Well that’s a given Bev. That’s why I’ve advised Chrissie to contact Betty. Once she’s done that, you should get a phone-call from Betty.”

“Well I hope this will work out right. I hope you’ve done the right thing.”

Even as I put my mobile down, I could hear Chrissie in the conservatory talking on her own mobile. I tried eves-dropping but she was guarding her words. Eventually her call ended and she re-entered the drawing room with a smile.

“Mrs Bodkin was right. I phoned Betty and explained. She’s going to call you.”

Almost immediately my phone squealed and I answered as I waved Chrissie out of the drawing room as I confirmed it was Betty on the video call…

“Betty. Yes?”

“Chrissie just phoned.”

“Yes. Mrs Bodkin spoke to her and advised her to speak to you. You’re her case worker.”

“Yes that’s what disappoints me a bit. If I’m Chrissie’s case worker, why did you phone Mrs Bodkin?”

“I was frightened. Maybe I wasn’t thinking it right. I wasn’t sure if it was right to disturb you one your weekend.”

“But you disturbed Mrs Bodkin.”

“Yeah. Well I’ve known her a long time. She’s more my age and she’s like a mother confessor to me. I mean you’re much younger.”

“You mean you trust her more.”

“Well–to be honest, yes. She’s been there for me from day one. I mean I’m still feeling my way with you – and Chrissie for that matter.”

“Well that’s an honest answer and not far from what I wanted to hear. Look, don’t be afraid of Chrissie and don’t be afraid of me. You came highly recommended. The fact that you asked for help and advice says a lot! I’ve spoken to Chrissie and told her to take things a bit easier. Softly, softly catchee monkey. Mother’s often sleep with their daughters. The pillow talk is a valuable part of growing up.”

“Is that definitely how you see us? Mother and daughter.”

“Frankly yes; it’s the nearest description of what you’ve got.”

“Has Sandie told you everything about me, the childhood trauma and stuff, the years in care?”

“She told me what she’s seen in the few remaining notes about your case, you know, the stuff that’s in the learned papers in the medical publications. Your personal records were long ago destroyed. Would you like to talk to me about any issues?”

“I’m not entirely sure it would help. I used to talk about it a lot when I was in my middle years, you know, when I was around thirty and bitterly angry but then I just became a bore. People just tended to avoid me. Real friends I’ve spoken to about it, tranny friends that is, have been sympathetic and supportive but even they tend to get bored after I’ve repeated it countless times. There are just so many parallels amongst our transgendered community that it tends to be ‘run-of-the-mill’ mainstream material. Anyway, I was never able to see my records so I don’t even know the names of the doctors who did the tests and stuff. There’s no requital now. I guess they’re all dead. They were old when I was just a six-year-old kid. I’ll explain it to you if you really want to hear it but I’ve never opened up fully in the last twenty years or so; not even to Sandie. It’s not very nice. It wasn’t very nice.”

“I’d like to hear it one day. Talking about it should help.”

“Yeah, well maybe, maybe not. So what about this Chrissie wanting to sleep in my bed?”

“Well she says she didn’t want to sleep with you in the way everybody might have misinterpreted it. She genuinely just wanted a cuddle and a hug. To sleep in each other’s embrace.”

“Well that’s as bad as, isn’t it? I mean if she’s cuddling up to me in my sleep anything could happen. I mean, I still, you know, have feelings and stuff. Besides there’s no knowing how I might react to waking up and finding somebody in my bed. That abuse stuff’s still going around in my head. It never goes away.”

“What even now?” Asked Betty softly as her voice betrayed her feelings.

“Yeah; it’s a life sentence!”

There was along pause as Betty tried another tack.

“Are you resolute about not trusting psychiatrists?”

“Absolutely. Never again! Never, never again!”

“Not even Sandie?”

“No! No one and that’s an end to it.”

“Chrissie will be disappointed.”

“Chrissie will just have to accept that there are boundaries. If I have to, I’ll even tell her why.”

“That might be good for her. She’ll realise she’s had it a bit easier and it might make her a bit less selfish.”

“Why; d’you think she’s selfish?”

“Well, she’s a bit self-centred. “

“Oh. She didn’t strike me as that. I mean Chrissie’s got huge issues that have completely overtaken her life and when Angie and I first came across her, she couldn’t see a way through. It’s hardly surprising she’s been self centred but she’s improved no end since coming here and that’s after only a day. She tries really hard to be helpful and the girls like her. They’re pretty good judges of character and they’re alert to abusers and threats.”

“Has she spoken to you much about wanting to transition? She talked of nothing else when we were interviewing her.”

“Well that’s hardly surprising is it? It’s the be all and end all of her very existence. To be honest, Betty, I don’t believe you could ever understand the intensity of worry and dread that the onset of an unwanted direction of puberty can cause a transsexual. I mean, you really have to be on the inside looking out. I believe I’ve got a better understanding than you and therefore that’s why Chrissie feels a deep need to get close to me. To somehow absorb a desperately needed femininity that until she met Angie and me, was passing her by. She must have been terrified at the first hair on her chin or the gradual, inexorable appearance of hairs around her male genitalia or, more importantly, the refusal of the much wished for female characteristics to somehow magically appear in lieu of her burgeoning masculinity. It’s no wonder the kid appeared self-centred. Now that Sandie has lit up the road ahead, the girl has had a huge burden lifted from her shoulders.

“She’s a different girl now. You should come out and visit the kid.”

“I’d like that; the whole atmosphere at your farm was almost therapeutic. I came away one seriously relieved woman after seeing her placed.”

“Well I won’t be here tomorrow. I’ve got some business in Poole harbour and then it’s up to London for more
discussions with the Moroccan Embassy. They’ll take several days. Things don’t move quickly with our Muslim
brothers. They spend more time sipping tea and being polite than they ever do actually getting down to deals and stuff. It’s almost as if they’re a bit embarrassed to actually talk money and hard business. Plus of course there’s the issue of my gender. They’re just not sure what to make of me.”

“How do they treat you?”

“Mostly they behave very courteously. One of them was a bit rude at the first meeting and suggested that a man masquerading as a woman was not to be trusted so I immediately told him that by presenting as a woman I was being totally honest. I made no secret of my transgenderism and told him that inside my head I was a woman. Then he charged that if I was a woman then a woman should not be involved in such affairs of business. I immediately asked him about the Prophet Mohammed’s first wife. The others fell about laughing and he’s never mentioned it since. I’ll be busy until Thursday doing the deals and stuff then they close up for Friday–their Sabbath.

“How do you do all that? I mean run the farm, grow the kids, operate a fleet of ships, do the deals and then help with the port operations thing, not to mention everything else.”

“It’s easy, now I’m retired, I’ve got more time.”

There was a deafening silence on the other end of the phone for a moment and then Betty burst out laughing.

“So when will you be available?”

“Friday. I expect to be finished in London by then and I’m meeting the builders for lunch at my cottage to discuss the alterations to the house. You’re welcome to come over any time this week when I’m not there.”

“No Friday it is then. You’re like a breath of fresh air Beverly; perhaps you can squeeze me in on Friday
afternoon. It’ll be nice to meet you again.

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come up for lunch and you can join us all with my builders as we discuss the alterations. Chrissie can demonstrate her culinary skills as learned under Angie. That’s what she’s said she wants to do this week. They’re making the meal while I travel down on the Friday morning train.”

“Oh. I thought you’d have travelled down on Thursday night.”

“No. I’ve got some other business that evening.”

I was going to my favourite club but I didn’t elaborate to Betty. There was no need for anybody to know what I did with myself when alone in London. I was after all, still a single, free adult. Betty either did not realise or was tactful enough not to ask so I let it lie.

Betty continued; “Gosh, you’re so busy, Friday it is then.

“That sounds fine. See you Friday then, byee.”

I snapped my mobile shut and turned to meet Chrissie.

“Can I come up to London with you?”

“No, Ddefinitely not. Not this time anyway. You can come up the week after next with the rest of the girls and Angie when they see me off from Heathrow. I’m flying to Morocco.”

“Huh. It’s alright for some.” She sulked.

“Chrissie, you haven’t even got your new girl passport yet. Would you really like to travel to Morocco with a boy’s passport, with a boy’s name and yet dressed as a girl?”

“Well, – no, – I suppose not.”

“Exactly, let’s learn to walk before we run okay, darling? It will all come together for you from now on, just be patient, kid. Just be patient.”

For a moment I thought she was about to cry but she managed to hold back a stray tear and I opened my arms to invite her in. She flung herself into my arms and sobbed a bit before recovering her composure as she slowly realised that I couldn’t make things move any faster on the transition front. That was all down to the doctors.

Angie came in to find us hugging each other and she nodded sagely as she smiled at me. “Lunch will be about an hour girls, why don’t you go for a walk. The fresh air will do you some good.”

I offered to take Chrissie around the fields and show her the whole of my estate. She perked up at this and we dressed to go out. Once out in the fields we chatted at length about Chrissie’s hopes and plans for her future. Eventually we met the girls coming off the Dumplin and they accompanied us back to the stable yard. Chrissie offered to help them unsaddle the horses while I joined Angie in the kitchen.

“Have a good chat?” Asked Angie.

“Yes, we did actually. The kid really opened up. We should take walks like that more often. Very
therapeutic, very therapeutic indeed.”

Angie just smiled knowingly. “You needed it as much as she did. There’s too much going on in your life.”

“Yeah, tell me about I sighed. It’s a good job I’m retired or I'd never find the time.”

Angie’s belly laugh was the second delightful response to my ironic humour that day.

‘I’d better be careful I thought. I’d be getting another job as the family bloody comedian.’

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  I have just had some extra work dumped upon me in my private life and the next chapter 19 (Nearly complete,) is going to be delayed whilst I attend to these other sissues. Please be patient I can only do so much, what with everything else.
Hope you've enjoyed it all so far and thanks hugely for the lovely comments.

Beverly.

 

Chapter 19 describes Sissie's assimilation into the group and subsequent experiences. This is my first effort at getting stories uploaded from my laptop. Please be patient. There's a lot of stuff going on in my personal life at the moment. Nothing serious.

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Monday found me up early again and ready to leave before the rest of the household was up except for Sylvia. She always rose early to check her beloved horses. I always admired the girl’s dedication. Sian had been really lucky to discover Sylvia. For an eighteen-year-old girl, she had proven to be reliable and conscientious, not to mention keen. I had grown to like Sylvia.

The moment she saw my kitchen light on she knew it was probably me up early for yet another sojourn to London. She finished checking her horses, made sure they all had access to the paddocks and food then stepped across the yard to share the coffee.

“When will you be back?” She asked as I handed her a mug.

“Friday, but I’m on my mobile if there are any problems.”

She nodded and cupped her mug in her hands as I finished off my toast and grabbed my laptop and overnight bag.

“Look after Chrissie while I’m away. She likes your company.”

“Yeah. Talk about hero worship. I mean I’m just a lezzy but you’d think I was some sort of wonder woman as far as she’s concerned.”

“Yeah well indulge her. A week ago she couldn’t even wear a pair of knickers under her jeans without those ghastly parents punishing her. What with that and the beating on the train, then the attempted suicide, the kid’s been through a lot.”

“Yeah, she really must think she’s in heaven now. I know I did when I started here. We all love you, you know.”

“Well thanks Sylvia. That’s really nice. You’ve made my day!”

I gave her a kiss, full on the lips and she grinned then swilled down her coffee as I made to leave. Her words had put me in a good mood for the rest of the day. Even the rush hour crush could not dampen my spirits.

The meetings with the Moroccans went, as expected, - slowly; but by Wednesday we had made enough progress to prepare a contract. On Thursday most of the business was complete and provisional contracts were written up and verbally agreed subject to the Moroccan minister of transport agreeing to it. At noon on Thursday I left their commercial attaché’s office with the provisional contract in my laptop case. The rest of the day was mine and I repaired firstly to Janet’s shop to buy some assorted off-the-peg lingerie for all the girls, then I went to my favourite club. If the contracts were honoured when I met them again in Morocco then it would have been a very rewarding week.

In the club I met my old friends again but the younger ones did not visit that evening. I suppose with the slow liberalisation of London, they could almost visit any nightclub they wanted. Still it was enjoyable just to be to sit amongst my own and chat at length. I retired early that evening. I was looking forward to seeing the girl’s faces when they received their presents.

The early morning train and Sian’s Landrover brought me to the cottage by eleven and I gleefully handed out the delicious garments to everybody except the younger girls who were now back at school. There were smiles all around and I received ecstatic hugs from Chrissie as she fingered them appreciatively then slipped up stairs to try hers on.

At eleven thirty, Betty arrived on schedule and joined in the preparations for lunch. Just before twelve Margaret heard the car in the lane and turned to me.

“I think Mr Price the builder is here with his foreman.”

I looked out of the kitchen window and failed to recognise the car.

“I don’t think that’s his car. He usually uses his truck for site surveys and stuff.”

“No it’s not,” replied Margaret, “and that’s not Mr Price either.”

“I double checked and my heart missed a beat as I recognised the truculent, aggressive glare. It was Chrissie’s father with Chrissie’s mother and another man! They did not appear to making a social call.

“Shit! How did they find out about my cottage?” I gasped.

“They look like trouble,” gasped Margaret, as she slipped a vegetable knife inside the belt of her jeans.

I swallowed nervously and warned her to put the knife away but she was obviously determined to protect whatever she held dear. With my heart thundering with dread I stepped out into the yard to confront the trio.

“What do you want?”

“You know very well what we fucking want,” snarled the father, “where’s that sicko son of ours?”

“If you mean Chris,” I replied using the gender neutral name to avoid inflaming the situation. “The child is in the house.”

“Go and get him or I’ll come and fetch him.”

“I’m not allowing you in my house. That would be breaking and entering with aggravated assault.”

He lurched forward and slammed me against the low garden gate post as he forced his way past me. I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my back ribs and I collapsed to the floor. As I sat with blood starting to froth from my lungs I heard shouting and screaming coming from the house as Betty and Margaret tried vainly to prevent the demented man from finding Chrissie. Angie had thoughtfully slipped into the dining room to call the police. Sian also heard the commotion and she and Sylvia ran across the yard to investigate. The other man stepped forward and punched Sian viciously in the mouth and she slumped sideways as Chrissie’s mother shouted.

“You’re all bloody perverts. What are you doing to our son?”

I tried answering but the pain in the back of my chest was too severe and more blood just bubbled and flowed down my blouse. There was a lot of shouting and cursing as the man rampaged around my cottage searching for Chrissie. Then the screaming rose to a crescendo as Chrissie’s father finally located her upstairs in her underwear. Eventually he emerged bellowing out of the house with Chrissie being forcibly dragged behind him in her frilly underwear whilst screaming and crying in terror.

Betty the social worker was following behind and hanging on as she furiously remonstrated with the man and threatened him with every penalty at her disposal. It was to no avail, the man tore Betty of his back then flung Chrissie into the back seat of his car before the other two clambered in either side to jamb Chrissie in. Then he span the car furiously and headed off down the lane. Angie rushed to check me over as Betty frantically dialled again for the police and ambulance.

By now I was in no fit state for anything but all was not lost. Suddenly there was a blast of horns down where the lane was narrowest and then a rendering crunch as metal struck metal. There followed a violent shouting match and Sylvia immediately grabbed a horse and galloped bareback the lane to see what had happened.

The escaping car had met Mr Price’s the builder’s truck head on in the narrowest part of the lane, namely the little bridge over the stream. The car had slammed into the much heavier truck and then ricocheted off the single lane bridge into the mud of the stream. Mr Price, his foreman and another man, his quantity surveyor, had stormed angrily out of their truck to remonstrate with the lunatics who had come storming recklessly down the lane. By the time Sylvia arrived at the scene the violence was over. Chrissies father sported a black eye and swollen jaw whilst the other man was cowering sheepishly in the hedge. Mr Price’s foreman was a man used to dealing with troublesome brickies and assorted other tradesmen. Chrissies mother was badly shaken up by the impact but Chrissie was unharmed and just sobbing with unmitigated relief.

Sylvia let out a wail of relief and quickly explained to Mr Price about what had just happened up at the house. The builder glared at the trio then nodded his head towards the almost naked Chrissie as he spoke to Sylvia.

“You’d best get her up to the house. Have the police been called?”

“I think so but could you just check?”

He flipped out his mobile and quickly started phoning around. First the police and ambulance and then he phoned me. Betty heard my phone ringing on the ground by the wall where it had landed as I was flung backwards. She picked it up.

“And you are?  ¬ ¬------- Oh the builder, Mr Price. ----- What! They crashed! ----- You’ve got them! ----- Oh thank God!!”

She turned to me as I looked up weakly.

“They’ve been stopped! Your builder, ---.”

“Yes, I heard.”

More blood bubbled up from my lungs and Margaret told me to stop talking.

As I slowly lost consciousness Sylvia arrived with a distraught Chrissie who screamed when she saw me lying with my eyes closed and blood still frothing from my mouth.

“Oh no! Is she going to die?”

“Not if I can help it.” Retorted Angie. “But you mustn’t upset her. Help me lay her down on her tummy with her head down and feet up.”

“Is that the best thing?” Wondered Betty.

“I don’t know, but I’m thinking mechanics here. At least the blood won’t fill up in her lungs. It should drain out.”

“Seems logical to me,” replied Betty. “How’s Sian?”

“I’m OK, I think,” replied Sian. Just dizzy but no bones broken, leastways none that I can feel.”

“That’s a nasty bruise on your jaw.”

“I’ve had a lot worse plenty of times when horses have thrown me. Is that the police or ambulance?”

The feint wail of siren announced the approach of the police so Sylvia mounted her horse again and galloped bare-back again down to the bridge to confirm the truth in case the attackers concocted some pack of lies. Eventually, Mr Price’s builder’s truck appeared at the top of the lane followed by two police cars. There was a small scratch on the truck’s solid bumper bar where the car had bounced of it. The situation was soon in hand and then Sylvia returned all the way to the bottom of the lane still riding bareback and leading the ambulance from the road to the cottage. Quite the little hero was our Sylvia. Still coughing and gasping, I was despatched into the ambulance with Sian and Angie while Betty and Margaret gave chapter and verse to the police. Betty’s words counted strongest as she made full use of her social worker’s power and authority.

In the ambulance I finally passed out.

‘Loss of blood they said.’

I knew nothing else of the affair until I woke up in intensive care with stitches and a long scar burning into my back. I was condemned to lie on my stomach for several more days. Apparently one of my ‘floating ribs’ had been badly broken and it had pierced into the back of my lung. The doctor determined that as I had landed downwards on the gate post it had broken the rib and then bent it upwards into the pleural cavity.

“Your sorted now sir, or should I call you Miss?” Declared the surgeon when I finally came around.

“Miss please. I think of myself as a woman.” I croaked as each breath still seemed to burn into my chest.

“Yes, well I’m sorry about the pain. We’ll give you as much painkiller as we dare but I’m afraid that sort of injury is invariably painful. The wound is always moving as you breathe.”

“I was tempted to say that I ‘bloody well knew that’ but I might only have antagonised the doctor and invoked some unwanted label being placed on my notes, like - ‘uncooperative patient ‘ - or something equally counterproductive! I just whispered ‘yes’ and breathed as slowly and as slightly as I could. He left and I was grateful for the peace. Later on a nurse came in and asked me if I was hurting. A stupid question but once again I stifled my sarcasm and simply nodded slightly. I felt a slight prick in my bum and did not wake up until the morning. I was stiff and aching when I finally came around and was desperate to defecate. I could not reach the bloody call button because it hurt to move and shouting was out of the question. In the end I managed to ‘accidently’ dislodge my water jug and the crash brought a nurse running from the nursing station.

“Sorry,” I faked as I suppressed my anger at having had to attract attention in such a stupidly destructive way. “I wanted to defecate and I was trying to reach the call button.”

She seemed to get the hint and relocated the button within easy reach then produced a bedpan to add insult to injury. At least she had the thoughtfulness to draw the curtains.

The pain was now worse than the previous day. She gave me another shot of pethedine and I returned to a sleepy dreamy state. Thus it went on for several days until I was able to breath without the need of the pain-killers. Slowly I was achieving some degree of peace and eventually I enjoyed a fairly peaceful night’s sleep. However there’s no peace for the wicked; my peace was rudely broken one late afternoon when the tribe were finally allowed to see me and they came to visit.

Fortunately, Margaret had the sense to keep everybody quiet and the girls simply stood by the bed and wished me a speedy recovery. Angie chatted with the ward sister and confirmed that I should be out in couple of days.

“They expect to have you up and about tomorrow morning.” She grinned knowingly for she knew exactly how patients felt when they were forced to resume activity after a serious trauma. Yes, it was good for the patient, but it was bloody painful. Eventually, after each girl gave me the mandatory kiss, (no hugging!) they left and I was glad of the peace. My gender dysphoria had compelled them to put me in a single bed ward and the routine hospital clamour was slightly muted through the door. Now my biggest enemy became boredom.

The following morning I was relieved to feel that the pain had reduced considerably. The surgeon told me this was what he had expected. - (I wish he’d bloody told me, I had been anticipating more days without sleep and being stuck on my belly staring at the sheets.) -

I was able, with some assistance from the therapists to turn over and carefully sit up. I favoured my uninjured side and ate my first food since having entered the hospital. After eating, they removed the intravenous drip then had me stand up and walk.

I was mildly surprised to find that this was less painful than lying down provided I didn’t twist my torso and I was soon carefully edging my way to the lavatory where one of the nurses had the compassion to help me sit down and complete my needs. It was a pure relief to be able see to my own toilet.

Within another three days I was released and Angie drove me slowly home. To my astonishment, one of the first things to greet me was a police-car. Apparently they needed a statement from me despite the plethora of witnesses who had seen the assault. Talk about tick boxing, - (Did I say that? It must be the pethedine. I meant box ticking,) -.

The next thing was the ‘no hugging rule’. None of the children enjoyed this rule but it was abundantly obvious that they were overjoyed to see me home. The only downside was that Chrissie now felt even less secure. She was terrified that her brutish father might turn up again and there would be nobody there to save her. I decided to use my back-door to the judicial process and discreetly let Elizabeth know just how traumatised Chrissie had been by the incident. It seemed to me that the kid had suffered nothing but violence from men ever since she had ‘come out’. That first night home Chrissie came to my bed and tearfully begged me to let her share my bed. She just felt desperately nervous at the thought of being alone during the night.

“What if they come for me at night mummy?”

Her calling me mummy sent a tingle of uncertainty down my spine but I decided I wouldn’t be sleeping much anyway. My rib still hurt and they would not prescribe anymore pain-killers. I eased myself out of bed and tapped on Angie’s door. She answered the door and returned with me to my bedroom. Chrissie had apparently been sleeping with Angie whilst I was away but her first loyalties were towards me. Why I don’t know, after all Angie had done as much as, or even more than me for the poor kid since she had been attacked on the train.

We decided on a compromise. I would sleep on my good side on the outside then Chrissie could sleep between me and Angie. At least nobody was therefore sleeping behind me which is where I had always felt the biggest threat to come from during my childhood. That is adults sneaking into my bed as I curled up in terrified anticipation. Besides, I didn’t anticipate much sleep.

With the arrangement agreed, Angie switched off the light and Chrissie fell asleep almost immediately. Angie whispered occasionally to me but soon she drifted off and I was left lying in the dark. Eventually I actually drifted off and surprised myself when I woke at first light to find the other two still fast asleep. Carefully I extricated myself from under the duvet and slipped silently down stairs. There, as I sipped my coffee and sleepily watched the sun coming up, I contemplated my bravery at addressing my primordial fears of the night.

‘You done well Bev,’ I told myself. ‘I wonder what it was that calmed your fears?’

Occasionally I had to ease my back but by and large I spent a comfortable and peaceful half hour in my favourite chair before Angie appeared.

“Have you been here all night darling?” She asked concernedly.

“Eh, no. Only since the sun came up.”

“So you managed to sleep then; with us in the bed I mean.”

“Yeah. For a short while I did; I think I surprised myself.”

“So why d’you think that is?”

I had to think for a moment but I honestly couldn’t think of a reason.

“I just don’t know. Maybe it was sleeping on the outside, I just can’t say.”

“Or maybe it was three in a bed. Like having one to protect you if the other tried something.”

I stopped sipping my coffee and stared thoughtfully at Angie.

“D’you think that could be it?” I wondered.

“Well, did you ever do three in abed when you were a kid?”

I tried to hark back to those days of despair and failed ever to recollect sharing a bed with two others. Sometimes my warden-cum-pimp might have stayed in the room until I was beaten into compliance but eventually it always ended up just me and whoever had bought my body. At least that was how I seemed to remember it. I knew I could not trust my memory and I shivered with revulsion at the fractured recall, but I managed to hold onto Angie’s idea.

“D’you know Angie. You might be onto something. I cant ever remember three in my bed.”

“No that sounds plausible. I’ve spoken a lot about your childhood with Sandie and she seems to think that paedophiles are a bit like rapists. It’s about wielding power and they would probably not like to share you with another adult; like it would somehow lessen the feeling of domination they had over you.”

“So what about gang rapes? They share the victim there?”

“That’s about reinforcing the gang loyalty and camaraderie by sharing their domination. Paedophiles tend to want to do it alone, you know, there is a slightly more sexual element and they want to satiate their urges.”

“Yeah. Well that’s enough psychobabble for one morning, uuurrgh!”

“Sorry Bev. I didn’t mean to keep on.”

“No. It’s me that should be thanking you. You’ve given me some food for thought. I mean I actually fell asleep for a few hours around two or three o’clock, right through until dawn.”

“OK. D’you think you’d want to speak to Sandie about it?”

“Not as a therapy session, no; but like I’ve just spoken to you now; well, maybe yes.”

“Well that’s a step forward girl. Now you’re really being brave.”

With that our reflections were disturbed by Sian and Sylvia coming over to prepare breakfast. It had become a routine that my cottage kitchen was where most of the cooking was done. We joined them as Margaret brought the two babes over and they eagerly clambered up into their high chairs in anticipation of food. The ensuing clamour brought the four girls down but Chrissie remained firmly asleep. We let her lie in. She obviously needed it. Then the girls wandered down the lane to the bus and I called Sandie to tell her of my achievement.

“You mean you actually slept.”

“Yes. As in Bo-peep. Go bye-bye’s.”

“Well done Bev. I’m impressed. Any ideas why?”

“Well Angie suggested it was because there were three in the bed; Chrissie, her and me. You know; a sort of ‘safety in numbers’ mindset.”

“Hhmm. It might be plausible. Are you going to try it again?”

“We’ll see. Chrissie seems to need it. Angie says she slept like a log last night for the first time since her father came up here.”

“Well that might just be because you were there.”

“Yeah. Maybe, but why did I sleep?”

“Did you feel threatened or afraid?”

“Not as I’d call it that. I was a bit tense but that may have had as much to do with my sore ribs as the company. I was afraid they might have pressed my ribs or something if they tried to cuddle me in their sleep. Nevertheless I slept for a good few hours; four maybe even five.”

“Well. If you’re happy with it. Try again tonight.”

“Mmm, I suppose so.”

“Good girl. Now is there anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Right; I’ve got a lot on this week including Chrissie’s second assessment. I’ll see you on Wednesday for that and I’ll see you Saturday when I bring Mary up for riding lessons. Would you believe she now wants to have a pony, ‘Just like Jenny, Bea, Chenille and Martina,’ as she puts it.”

“Well what little girl doesn’t want a pony?” I smiled to myself.

“Do you do livery?”

“For you, as a friend, I’m sure Sian could see her way. Though the cheapest way would be to allow your pony to be included in the trekking work. Then it’d earn its corn and get the exercise. D’you want to speak to Sian, or shall I?”

“It would be easier if you spoke to her. I’m snowed under with work here.”

“OK. I won’t keep you anymore. See you Wednesday, ten o’clock.”

“Bye Bev.”

“Bye Sandie.”

I put the phone down and crossed the yard to speak to Sian. The commotion in the yard announced that she had her first party of deprived kids from a care home. They were only coming on a three day visit as it was Sian’s first enterprise and the social workers were equally as nervous. The kids were young, aged eight to eleven thus more easily managed. Nobody was ready yet to try mixing teenagers with horses until some experience had been garnished by all parties. Instead of asking Sian about a pony for Mary, I realised Sian could do with an extra pair of hands. I slipped back into the house and unusually stepped into a pair of stretch jeans and chequered work shirt.

As I was changing, Chrissie woke up. She spotted me immediately, yawned then smiled then wished me a ‘good morning’.

“Good morning sleeping beauty. So’ you’ve seen fit to join us I see.”

“Thanks mummy. I love you. You’re just so kind. Angie explained a bit why you’re afraid of the bed thing. You’re ever so brave letting me sleep with you.”

“You and Angie,” I qualified her statement. “I might not have made it through the night without Angie being there as well. “

She slid across the bed and made to hug me but I anticipated her enthusiasm.

“No! Not the ribs! They still hurt!”

She paused then stood up as I was sitting on the bed buttoning my shirt. I looked up and she swooped down to embrace my shoulders and plant a smacking great kiss full on my lips. I let it linger. There seemed to be no sexual overtones and eventually she parted and smiled again as she sighed softly.

“Thanks again mum, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Well thank you as well darling you’ve brought us a lot of pleasure; a lot of worry but a lot of pleasure. Now if you want to earn a bit of money, come and help Sian with the horses. She’s got her first school party.”

Chrissie’s eyes lit up and she was dressed in no time. By the time I was downstairs and putting my stable boots on, Chrissie had wolfed down her breakfast and joined me in the porch. I smiled at her for I couldn’t resist those big doe eyes then I nodded towards a harassed looking Sylvia.

“Go and help Sylvia with those bags. I suppose the kids have gone straight to the horses for Sian’s induction talk.”

Chrissie was gone in a flash and soon she was laughing with Sylvia as four hands made short work of the bags.

The care home was well organised. Bags were colour coded pink for girls and blue for the boys and each one clearly labelled. They stacked the bags in the relative dormitories and left the kids to sort out their own sleeping arrangements that evening. Then Chrissie accompanied Sylvia to the saddling enclosure to help get the horses ready. Sylvia later told me between chuckles.

“She’s keen and willing but needs a lot more instruction yet. She didn’t realise just how tight the girth straps had to be.”

Throughout that first day the farm rang with laughter and tears as each of the poor kids slowly became accustomed to his or her own horse. I could see now, why Sian had been so rigorous in her selection of ponies.

As a treat, Sian let Chrissie join in the riding lessons. It was also her first time on a horse. As I watched Sian playing ‘Master of Ceremonies’ one of the Careers came up to me.

“Is that child a boy or a girl?” She asked quietly so as not to give anything away.

“She’s probably a pre-op transsexual, but were waiting on tests.”

“Is she yours?”

“No Chrissie’s a placement. The lady who’s preparing lunch that is my partner Angie and I plus two male friends saved her from being beaten up one night. Later the girl almost succeeded in committing suicide because she was so terrified of her father’s brutality. Dorset social services had nowhere safe to put her. Now she lives here as a full time girl, although as you can see she’s not commenced hormone therapy yet. She’s still under psychiatric assessment and they won’t put her on hormones until the doctors are happy.”

“Well isn’t she the lucky one.”

“I’d like to think so. She’s certainly smiling now. Just look at her!”

“Yes, she’s got a genuinely happy smile. I’ve managed several care homes and it’s a nightmare for any sexually dysphoric kids. We get a lot of them in Birmingham.”

“You’re not hinting are you?”

“Hinting what?”

“Sending them down here. I couldn’t manage any more, honestly. Besides it would make it like a ghetto and I don’t want that.”

“Any more!” Gasped the Social worker. “My God, how many have you got?”

“Oh. I thought you knew. Sian hasn’t explained everything then.”

“Well only about the riding facilities, and very pleased we are too, but she’s mentioned nothing about anything else.”

“Oh. Well, I’d better run it by my partners before I tell you everything, though it’s only right we should tell you everything. After all you’ve got enough headaches with your own kids. I hasten to add that there’s nothing unsavoury and I can assure you that your kids are perfectly safe. Both Devon and Dorset S.S. have checked us out.”

“Yes. I know, we had to contact Dorset County Council before we invaded their patch.”

“OK then. Look, I’ve got to go and help Angie with the food. Will you excuse me.”

She smiled, nodded and resumed watching her charges walking around the exercise ring under Sian and Sylvia’s watchful eyes.

After a successful day with the ponies the Birmingham kids met our girls as they returned from school and pitched in with the de-saddling and putting the horses to bed. There was much chattering and laughter as the children got to know each other then our four took the kids on a tour of the estate. They ended up building a dam on the stream below the bridge in the lane and being as it was a hot evening they changed into their bathing costumes and spent the long summer evening splashing frenziedly in the icy water of the spring fed stream.

The pool behind the dam wasn’t deep enough to swim in but with another evening’s labour it might have become so.

We adults watched from my conservatory and the patio as we fell to discussing the setup at my cottage.

AUTHORS NOTE

I'll be coming back to this later THERE'S SOME PROBLEMS WITH MY INTERNET CONNECTION AT HOME

 

In this Chapter, Sian's Pony trekking venture starts to take off by offering brief respites and trekking holidays to disadvantaged chilodren. Meanwhile Beverly suffers a harrowing inquisition by the Social worker who is bringing the business to Sian.

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As we sat on the patio watching the children playing in the dammed up stream, Dorothy reminded me of our earlier conversation.

“So Beverly, may I call you Beverly?”

I nodded as she continued.

“What is it that’s so unusual about your setup here?”

I had already run this issue past Sian, Margaret and Angie and they had given their consent to my revelations.

“Well, the truth is that it’s quite complicated,” I confessed. Chrissie was rescued from a high risk situation because of her sexual dysphoria clashing with her parent’s transphobic reaction.
Her father was extremely violent towards her and attacked her. The child had to be found a secure place. Dorset Social services were at their wit’s end and when they heard about our having rescued the poor kid they were more than grateful to have her placed here.”

“Go on,” pressed Dorothy as the other social workers sat listening.

I proceeded to give them chapter and verse about Chrissies brief history, then myself and my transvestism. Next I related the saga of Beatrice and Jennifer’s experiences with the pirates, the part of my ship and crew’s part in their rescue, and finally the discovery of Angie, her recovery and her reunification with the girls, Beatrice and Jennifer who were her daughters. After I’d finished, Sian explained about Martina’s probable transexualism and next Sylvia explained how she found sanctuary at the stables after a troubled puberty and painful realisation of her lesbianism. Finally Chrissie, who had left the younger children splashing in the stream to join the adults, added her side of her story.

The evening shadows had lengthened considerably by the time our stories were over and the Birmingham social workers sat silent until they realised our explanations were finished. Dorothy spoke first.

“My God! Beverly, you’ve all walked some pretty long roads.”

I shrugged. To have elaborated might have somehow looked as though we were looking for sympathy. What had happened had happened.

“Well it’s all water over the dam now. We have to look to the future.”

“Talking of dams, replied Dorothy, those kids need rounding up.”

Angie poo-hoo’d their concerns.

“Don’t worry, it’s not dark yet. They’ll come when they realise they can’t see much and they have to find their way back.”

“Aren’t you worried for them?” Dot wondered.

“No. The girls have finished their home work and there’s little danger up here on our remote farm. They’ll come home like Bo-peep’s sheep.”

“In fact they’ve started back now,” added Margaret as she stood overlooking the patio and stared down the fields. She turned towards us and smiled.

“Yes Angie’s right, that’s the nice thing about this place. There’s little to worry about except perfectly natural dangers like falling or something. No inner city dangers here.”

“Unless some thug comes looking,” added Chrissie.

“Well yes.” I confessed quite readily, “that was unfortunate. We should have anticipated something like that. Hopefully that issue has been resolved.”

“Well there are now two men here to provide support if it repeats itself between now and Sunday morning.” Added Andrew one of the male Social Workers who had accompanied the Birmingham children. “Anyway, I think it’s time to get these kids to bed. I’ll go and start the suppers”

He stood up and the adult chat was over. Duties called as the kids appeared in the yard, covered in mud but blissfully happy. Apparently the ever imaginative Chenille had dreamt up some sort of game combining tag with ‘mud-sliding’ into the pool and a riotous time had been enjoyed by all. My heart sang as I watched all the children squealing with delicious shock as they hosed each other down at the bottom of the yard to remove the excess mud. Dot turned to Sian and me as she smiled.

“Well they’ve enjoyed themselves. We’re getting good value for money here.”

“Thanks,” replied Sian, “so you’ll be using us again then?”

“So far yes, and recommending this place to other authorities.”

“Well that’s great news!” Sighed Sian with evident relief, “word of mouth is often the best advert of all. What are your future plans for your authority in Birmingham?”

Dot looked thoughtful. “We-ell, there doesn’t seem to be a problem with younger children like these. The thing is these kids are pretty okay kids. Given a decent chance with good foster parents, they should make it out of the hole. They are our easiest kids to manage for they haven’t been in care for long and most of them are here because of unexpected calamities in their families. The trouble is, we’ve got literally dozens of really disturbed kids in our care homes and I just don’t know how this set up would work.”

“So it’s small steps and slowly,” Sian suggested.

“Very much so. Would you be prepared to try some older kids next time?”

“Well I’d have to say yes and trust to your judgement.”

“Well being as we’re still feeling our way, I’ll try it with some twelve to fourteen-year-olds next time.”

“Will they be ‘nice kids’ like these or more disturbed kids?”

“Well they’re bound to be more disturbed, the longer they’re in care, the bigger their sense of rejection and failure.”

Sian sucked her tongue thoughtfully.

“Well we can only try. I’m in your lap a bit with this. Please treat us gently, cos’ I’m new to all this.”

“Well the best thing is perhaps for you and Beverly to come up to Birmingham and we can introduce you to some of the kids; that is the ones we’re considering.”

Sian turned to me and raised her eyebrows, “what d’you think Bev?”

I felt a cold shiver tingle down my spine and hesitated before wagging my head and refusing.

“No, you go Sian I‘ll have to pass on that one.”

Dot turned to me and just caught the last traces of my nervous expression. I have to give the woman credit for she picked up on the undertone immediately.

“Oh. Is there any particular reason you can’t come? I mean the kids are not that bad. Perhaps I’ve painted too bad a picture. When all said and done, we manage them okay, it’s not as though they’re locked in cages or anything.”

I searched around frantically for an excuse and finally chose the reason that I was off to Morocco shortly on business.

“But we can arrange a date around that,” offered Dot.

I tensed as I anticipated a gulf opening up in front of me, fortunately Sian intervened.

“Well, Dot, it’s not as easy for Beverly as that; she’s no idea when the Moroccan’s will call. There’s a lot of stuff hanging on her deal.”

“Very well then, I’m sorry you won’t be able to come, so it’s just Sian then.”

“Well maybe Angie might like to come. I’m sure Sylvia and Margaret can look after the girls.” Sian added.

I nodded with relief. Angie had been looking for some sort of roll to fill and providing extra supervision when needed might fulfil a niche. She was a very caring woman and even after bestowing what seemed to be unlimited love on the girls, she appeared to have love to spare. I nodded and agreed with Sian’s suggestion then indicated that I thought it best if Sian ran it by Angie. Paranoid as I was about causing Angie to ever think that I might be trying to come between her and her daughters, I thought it best if Sian suggested that Angie might be asked to somehow dissipate her love and spread it more thinly.

Sian; ever sensitive to my fears, agreed.

Once again Dot picked up on the undertones. My God, she was sharp!

“Is there some hidden agenda that I’m missing?” She asked.

“Not here, not now, Dot,” Sian replied as I literally flinched.

Terrified of somehow giving more of my private issues away, I turned to Sian.

“Well, I’ve got some stuff to finish on the Moroccan project. I’ll be in my study if anybody wants me.”

Sian smiled and turned with Dot to attend to the children’s preparations for their first night.

Later as I was tapping away productively on my laptop there was a soft knock on my study door. It was Dot. I sensed that she wanted explanations and motioned her to sit in what had become known as ‘Chrissie’s thinking chair;’ namely the old stuffed, comfy, excuse for a sag-bag that slouched in the bay window space.

When she wanted quiet, peaceful companionship, Chrissie would curl up and just watch me silently working while only asking the very occasional question. Conversely, Dot sat right back into the chair with her legs crossed and her hands draped over the arms. I finished my current calculation, switched off my laptop and looked at her as she spoke.

“Sian’s told me.”

“About?” I prompted.

“About, your childhood, the time in care.”

“It’s no secret, all the adults here know nearly all about it. Even Chrissie knows about it.”

“Was it that bad then?”

“You could say that,” I replied huskily as I struggled not to let my emotions betray me yet again.

“It’s not like that anymore,” Dot continued, “the conditions are infinitely better.”

I was tempted to reply that ‘Auschwitz’ would have been better’ but I bit my tongue. That would have been a flawed answer at best and might have sounded too extreme. It was certainly not true anyway, but I had seen children ‘snuffed out’! The main difference was ‘numbers’. The world holocaust of the 39/45 war amounted to millions. My private, childhood holocaust amounted to two or three, I think, I could not remember exactly, (Who would want to?) because lots were brutalised and I rarely saw the end result. I could not be sure how many had died. I based my childhood estimates on the ones I personally knew and who suddenly ‘disappeared’.

I had to be careful here. What Dot was looking for here was reasoned, balanced responses. If I came across as some sort of ‘crazy person’ it might compromise the way forward with Sian’s venture.

Nobody would believe the full story anyway. Yes the others knew a lot, but only as much as Sandie could garnish from the learned papers and then extrapolate for me to confirm to the others. The murders I had never mentioned and never would. Naturally there was no record of those and it was pointless to waste breath trying to broadcast the story. Nobody would believe me anyway and the victims were older boys who had bullied me unmercifully. They had obviously failed to find a survival strategy and fallen foul of the murderous brutes. I had used my transvestism to make myself more attractive to less vicious abusers; well at least, ones who didn’t kill. There wasn’t much else they didn’t do.

I’d survived and that was cause enough to be thankful. Cause enough to hang onto sanity. Finally, and this was the worst pill to swallow, I had no idea where or if there were any graves. Without graves there could be no evidence and therefore no accusations. What price the word of a sexually dysphonic misfit from care against the word of a judge, or a doctor or whoever else had used my juvenile body over forty years ago?

The silence became oppressive as I debated what would be the correct response. Dot spoke again.

“You said ‘nearly all’.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. You said the others knew nearly all about it.”

“Yeah, well maybe some bits got lost in the transmittal. It was a long time ago and memory fades.”

“Or you try to forget maybe?”

“If I do, maybe it’s some sort of subconscious thing to keep me sane?”

“Do you think you’re sane?”

“I have to don’t I? How can anybody think they’re mad? That’s a catch twenty two question.”

“Granted, but if what you say is true then there may be serious questions.”

“Well if there are questions about my sanity I can only answer that I’ve got to my sixth decade without falling apart and that after all the stresses of commanding ships and now, even running a shipping line.”

She changed tack. Obviously the sanity question was taking her nowhere. There was obviously no material evidence in my past adult life to suggest instability. I waited as she prepared her next line of inquisition.

“Is it your childhood memories that prevent you from wanting to go to see a children’s care home?”

“Yes.” I replied.

“And would you care to elaborate?”

“Uuhhm; what is this, a psychiatric interview?”

“I’m just trying to establish the situation. It’s the kids I’ve got to worry about.”

“Yes, granted; I agree wholeheartedly.”

“So you still have fears about care homes.”

“Yes.”

“But this cottage; this place is virtual care home. You’ve got; what is it; - two toddlers, four girls, one of whom is probably a transsexual, a teenaged transsexual girl of fourteen and a lesbian girl of just turned nineteen.”

I finished her summation for her.

“And two lesbian adult mothers, and a lady who is still recovering from the trauma of a couple of years rape and abuse in a pirate’s lair and finally to cap it all, a heterosexual transvestite who has transsexual leanings that are so strong, she has grown breasts.”

“Yes; exactly, I don’t understand you. You’re a conundrum.”

“Inside a riddle, wrapped up in an enigma,” I finished. “Of course I’m a conundrum, enigma; riddle; call it what you will.”

“So why are you afraid of coming to one of our care homes?”

“Precisely because I am that conundrum. All the parts don’t add up to the whole.”

“So you admit that you’re flawed.”

“Me; flawed! Hell! Yes! That’s possibly one of the few certain, solid truths about me. I’d have thought that was obvious.”

“D’you think the flaw will split open one day?”

“What? Do you mean like the San Andreas fault or the Giant Rift Valley?”

“Well they are certain to fail one day.”

“Yeah, one day, let’s hope my flaws are like those faults and only fail after I’m dead.”

“Do you worry about your faults?”

“Not any more, just like I don’t worry about the Giant Rift Fault or the San Andreas Fault.”

“So you’ve accepted your condition?”

“Hey! Come on, Dot. I would have thought that was obvious. What you’re looking at is what I am. I haven’t spent the last forty odd years struggling to get where I am now without knowing exactly what I want to be, without knowing exactly where I want to go. I ain’t changing back now, just to please you, or any other conformist. That is if you are conformist.”

“Good!” Dot replied. That was what I was hoping to hear.

“How is that so?” I asked bemusedly.

“You’ve been honest.”

“I’m always honest. At least about what I am; maybe I sail close to the wind in my business dealings but what entrepreneur doesn’t? Might I refer you to Polonius’s advice to Hamlet?”

Dot smiled. She obviously knew the text and repeated part of one of the final lines.

“Yes, to thine own self be true, and so on.”

“Yeah. The TG Gospel.”

Dot fell silent and shifted in the saggy arm chair. Her discomfort was apparent so I tried to ease the situation.

“So did I pass your inquisition?”

“Oh it wasn’t that, I just wanted to make sure.”

“Well it sure felt like the inquisition from this side of my desk.”

“D’you know; you’re weird. On the one side you determinedly live your chosen lifestyle which, if you’ll not be too offended, is incredibly contentious by society’s standards; and yet you’re hypersensitive when people wonder about it and try to understand you.”

“Call me a private person.” I shrugged.

“Aren’t we all?” Dot riposted.

“Yeah but it’s dangerous for me to let people in until I really get to know them. You can never tell if there’s a secret transphobe lurking under all that veneer of apparent friendship. Hence I put up the wall.”

“So I’m outside the wall then, -“Dot sighed.

“I’ve only known you for a day, and already you’ve taken it upon yourself to subject me to the great inquisition. Who’s being the invasive one here? I’ve got nothing to do with the running of Sian’s trekking business. So what gives you the right to dig?”

Dot fell silent. My remarks had suddenly brought her back to earth.

“Yes. Well I suppose that’s true, but you’re still close to the operation.”

“What? Physically or financially?”

“I don’t know about your financial connections.”

“No. Exactly and as for proximity; well any child anywhere can meet a transgendered person any time on the street, or find themselves sitting next to one on the bus. My proximity to your children is only an accident of geography. D’you see me as a threat then?”

“Well, no; not really, but I’ve got a confession to make; I was a bit wary of you at first. You’ve chosen a bizarre lifestyle, I ......”

I interrupted; something I very rarely did, but this time I felt threatened.

“Correction, Dot, I live an alternative lifestyle.”

“Well, - yes; I suppose that’s the politically correct term.”

“It is, and much though I’ve got little time for political correctness I find it a useful term; a term that makes others stop and think. That is if they’re capable of thought.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’d be better off asking Chrissie that. Her dad is a perfect example of those incapable of thought. He’s a virtual brute and an unthinking brute at that.”

“Yes. I heard about that. Sian told me they’d even brought a lawyer.”

“And they might have got away with it if her brute of a father hadn’t gone at it like a bull at a gate. The moment it got violent he landed his transphobic lawyer crony right in the shit. Apparently the man claims he was only intervening with Sian because she was running towards the house with intent. He says he just stuck his hand out to try and block Sian from entering the house, a house she had every right to enter.”

“But it turned out alright.”

“Only because the stupid idiots went racing down a narrow lane and crashed into my builder’s truck. Fortunately Mr Price is a well respected local builder and he was able to add corroborating evidence otherwise we all know the lawyer’s word would have been accorded more weight than ours in the court. He would have said we were the ones who started the violence and got away with it.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re all ‘gay or transgendered misfits’ except for Angie so that usually makes us unreliable witnesses; leastwise in the eyes of most judges, - unofficially of course.”

“Do you believe that of the judges?”

“Yes. Just remember your own words a moment ago. You described me as ‘bizarre’!”

“You don’t trust anybody do you?”

“That’s neither true nor fair. I trust Margaret and Sian; I trust Sylvia, I trust Mac and Billy they are two gay partners who command one of my ships. I am beginning to trust Angie. If you want my trust you have to earn it.”

“Just like you’ll have to earn mine.” Dot countered.

“Exactly! I’ve no argument with that. Now we each know where we stand, can we move on?”

“Move on to what?”

“Well dinner for starters. I’ve got a meal to cook and the others will be wondering what I’m up to.”

She glanced at her watch and frowned. It was late and the Birmingham children would have been put to bed by Andrew and the other social workers.

“Dammit. I might even have missed my own supper.”

“You can eat with us if you want, if you’re certain I won’t poison you.”

“Touché,” she smiled ruefully. “Do you cook a lot for them?”

“I do my fair share. Angie’s very good. In fact she’s probably started the meal while you’ve been holding me hostage here. Chrissie tries hard though she’s a novice but she’s learning fast. Margaret works all day in town and she often works late, she get’s home tired. Sian and Sylvia work in the stables so it usually falls to me or Angie especially on days like this when Sian and Sylvia are really stretched.

Dot stood up and nodded.

“I suppose I’d better let you go then.”

I smiled and went into the kitchen as she crossed the yard to see how her charges were doing. She returned after having missed her own dinner and apologised for presenting herself for dinner.

“Andrew assumed I was dining with you and he gave my portion to a couple of the boys. Greedy little buggers.”

“They’ll be growing boys, it won’t have gone to waste,” offered Sian as she carved the joint while Chrissie ladled out the vegetables. I took another plate and placed it beside the others. Chrissie frowned slightly.

“Now what?” I grinned at Chrissie knowing full well that she had set aside a bit in the pans to give her self a second portion. Chrissie was a growing teenager as well and the day spent helping with the horses had given her an appetite.

“I was hoping for seconds,” she sighed softly.

“Don’t worry kid. You’ll never go hungry here, you can have my pudding.”

She grinned again and stepped around the table to hug me tight.

“You’re just fab mum.”

Dot looked on and nodded approvingly as she asked Chrissie.

“D’you like it here?”

“Yeah. It’s brill! Angie and Mummy Bev are really kind.”

I turned to Dot and frowned.

“If you wanted to ask her questions like that, shouldn’t you do it in private?”

“No it wasn’t like that Bev. Chrissie’s actions in hugging you told me much more than I needed to know. Anyway, I wasn’t looking for anything. Don’t be so defensive. I was only making conversation.”

I stared at the floor.

“Yeah. Maybe I am being a bit paranoid.”

“Huh a bit!” Remarked Angie as she portioned out the lamb and nodded to Chrissie to carry on stirring the gravy.

Chrissie released me from her arms and stirred the gravy before following Angie around the table ladling it out on to each plate. Dot smiled again.

“You’ve got it well organised Chrissie. How do you know what everybody likes?”

“Hah, that’s easy, everybody likes everything here. Bev and Angie are good cooks.”

I grinned and nodded. “No dirty plates left here unless somebody’s sickening for something.”

As I finished speaking Chrissie called the girls over.

“You can take the food through.”

Our girls didn’t let me down. They got up from the drawing room table immediately where they had been playing scrabble and each took a plate. We adults followed carrying two plates each and soon dinner was in full swing. As the chatter reverberated around the table I could see that Dot was impressed and I felt a secret glow of visceral satisfaction. Soon the scrape of cutlery on china announced that all the plates were clear and Angie produced a pudding of ‘spotted dick’ and custard. Chrissies eyes lit up as I motioned my head and offered my portion to her. It wasn’t a large portion for Angie always made sure the children got well fed and I ate sparingly anyway. Nevertheless there were howls of protest from the girls about ‘fair shares’. I confessed to having invited Dot at short notice and messing up Chrissie’s servings. Dot then apologised and offered to quarter up her pudding for the girls. This embarrassed them a bit and their protests subsided after the promise of something extra for supper.

Chrissie grinned like a Cheshire cat.

When dinner was finished she left with Sylvia to watch DVDs in Sylvia’s flat while the girls washed up then went to play on their laptop computers. Dot had to attend to her paperwork and returned to join her team in the warden’s flats next to the children’s dormitories.

We others did the usual thing and slobbed out in the drawing room. As the night overtook us we eventually made our individual ways to bed. As a special treat for the children Angie and I shared the bedtime story. Angie had patiently highlighted the dialogue in different colours so that she and I read different parts of ‘Little Women’. The girls were enchanted and their joy doubled ours.

As I prepared for bed Angie came to me.

“Are you up to sharing tonight?”

I fell silent then nodded slowly.

“OK. We can try it but bear with me if I have a nightmare or something.”

That’s a promise,” she reassured me.

As I emerged from my bathroom, Angie was already in my bed and she smiled softly to reassure me.

“I got in first thinking that part of your problem is having somebody get into bed after you’re in it; you know; the invasion of your body and space thing. I thought if you got into a bed with somebody already there, it might just help to address stuff.”

“Thanks Angie. You’re sweet,” I sighed as I slid onto the bed and burrowed under the duvet.

Soon we were spooned together with Angie pressed up to my tummy. Angie’s idea certainly seemed to be working. I didn’t feel so stressed with somebody in front of my. I felt as I was somehow ‘in the driving seat’ and there was no brutal assault coming up from behind.

Later as I savoured the soft steady rise and fall of Angie’s breathing I heard the soft click of my bedroom door. A vague shape appeared beside the bed. I knew who it was as her whispered question identified her.

“Is Angie in with you? She’s not in her own bed and she’s not with the children.”

“Yes Chrissie. Angie’s here, d’you want to come in?”

“D’you mind?”

“No. Not at all get in next to Angie.”

“Can I get in with you?”

“Well I’d rather you slept by Angie.”

Our whispering disturbed Angie who muttered irritable.

“Oh let the poor little bugger squeeze in between us. That’s where she likes to sleep anyway.”

Reluctantly Angie and I parted and a slender, bony, ice cold body slid between us. Angie and I both squeaked as icy feet inveigled themselves between our four legs.

“Bloody hell, you little bloody minx,” cursed Angie affectionately, “get your bloody feet off! You’re freezing! Tell this girl Bev!”

I was also chilled by Chrissie’s cold feet.

“You heard Angie. Next time make sure you’re warm coming to bed! Better still, bring a hot water bottle!”

“Or even Better,” added Angie, “come to bed at the same time as us. What sort of time d’you call this?”

“Sorry. Sylvia and I got carried away. She’s got a fabulous collection of DVDs and stuff.”

“Yes. Well that’s as maybe, but in future young lady, let us know when you’re having a stop-out with Sylvia. She’s leading you astray.”

“Okay mummies, oh; and by the way. Thank you.”

“For what?” Chorused Angie and I in perfect synchrony.

“For letting me know there’s going to be lots of next times.”

Being as I was behind Chrissie I gave her a sharp smack on the rump and she squeaked with amusement as she wriggled her butt into my tummy and giggled. The slap hadn’t hurt through her silky sleep suite and Angie scolded her.

“Go to sleep now. We are tired even if you’re not.”

Having been suitable admonished, Chrissie settled down and like most young people when tired, she was off almost immediately. Angie soon followed and I was last again to enter the land of nod.

I still slept through until six and that was a good five hours sleep which meant I woke lively and refreshed. It was the clink of Sylvia’s coffee-making that had woken me and I joined her as always, in the kitchen for a few quiet moments before the stampede. As we were both finishing our second mugs of coffee, we smiled as we heard the thunder of the -‘now not so little’- feet stampeding down the landing to my bedroom. Angie and Chrissie would soon be awake. Sylvia grinned.

“You should be up there savouring those kids.”

“Oh I get plenty of fun with them. Let Angie and Chrissie enjoy for once. Chrissie needs to know what it’s like having loving siblings.”

“Yeah. D’you know, Bev, that’s the nicest thing about our setup here. I love having the kids around.”

“Yes, they bring me lots of pleasure as well. D’you want a hand with the horses this morning? I’m up and it’s too early for breakfast yet.

“Yeah, that’ll be nice. If you can lay out the saddles and tack on the learner rail. I’m planning to teach them to saddle the horses in the ring instead of in the looseboxes.”

Each set of tack was named and identified to its horse and it was a simple job for me to set them out as Sylvia got on with the feeding.

Once the animals were feeding, we returned to the kitchen to Find Sian and Margaret preparing breakfast.

“Up early again, Bev?” Margaret remarked.

“You know I only usually lie in on Sundays. I’ve been helping Sylvia.”

Margaret nodded, poured out my porridge, added the milk and honey then micro-waved it. As I sat to the breakfast bar the others trickled down in dribs and drabs. First the children then Angie and finally, rubbing her eyes and yawning, Chrissie. Sylvia grinned.

“You’d better get a good breakfast down you sis, full day today.”

“Wha-assit?” Chrissie yawned again.

“If the kids progress satisfactorily, we’ll be taking them for a short treck on the Dumplin.”

“Ugh. It looks as though it might rain.” Chrissie suggested hopefully.

“Rain or not,” Sian added. “If you want to become useful at the stables, you’ll have to get some trekking under your belt.”

Chrissie turned to me looking for support.

“Do I have to Mummy?”

“Well what do you want to do? You haven’t restarted school yet and you can’t just sit around all day being idle. You’ve got to earn your keep. Has anything come of that job at the hair salon in Bournemouth?”

“I’m waiting for an answer.” She replied.

“You don’t wait for them to come to you young lady. It’s only a Saturday job. There’ll be dozens of kids trying for it. Be proactive and go chasing for it or return to school and try for some qualifications. It’s about time you restarted school anyway.”

Chrissie gave a shudder and I realised I might just have gone too far as tears started to flow. The poor kid was terrified of going anywhere until she stood some chance of passing as a girl. Her hair was still far too short and she was desperate for Sandie and her medical colleagues to finalise her medical status, namely that of pre-operative transsexual. I softened my attitude and reached around her shoulders to cuddle her to me.

“Look darling, I know you’re frightened but you can’t just sit around moping all day. Helping with the horses will get you out of yourself a bit and earn you a bit of money. Now I suggest you do as Sylvia suggested, and get a good breakfast inside you. When are you seeing Sandie again?”

“Next week and Betty as well.”

“Well that mean’s I’ll be seeing Betty as well. I want to know when the foster hearing is coming up.”

“Will you be my real mum then, like all legal and everything?”

“It depends what the judge decides. Nothing’s certain yet.”

Chrissie frowned but continued eating her breakfast. I remained silent as I realised she had taken Sylvia’s suggestion to heart.

 

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.

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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.

 

Alterations are started at the cottage as the 'family' grows. Chrissie finally gets the okay from the doctors but there's an interesting little wrinkle.

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After the Sunday’s trekking activities had finished, Sandie joined us for an early dinner while her daughter Mary attached herself to our girls, Beatrice, Jennifer, Martina and Chenille. They disappeared up to Jenny and Bea’s bedroom to practice ‘make up’ and we adults prepared the meal in a sense of ‘anticipation.

When the children were called down to dinner they appeared with made up faces that proved the point that with makeup, ‘Less is more’. Even Chrissie was forced to smile as five virtual ‘clowns’ settled around the large dining table.

“You lot will need lessons.” She declared confidently with all the assurance of one who’d only had a couple of weeks experience herself.

Sylvia just smiled and wagged her head as we older girls suppressed our smiles and got on with the food. She grinned at Chenille and Jenny then made them an offer.

“Tomorrow, after school, I’ll pick you up and we’ll pop down to the shops for some proper makeup. I’ve got a friend called Charlotte who’s a beautician and she’s got a new apprentice. She’ll find you lot okay as models but you’ll have to supply the paint. Your mums will have to fork out for that.”

“Paint?” Wondered Chenille.

“Yeah; war-paint, - makeup.”

“Whooar. Brill!” Squealed the older girls.

“What about us?” Demanded Martina and Bea in unison.

“Yeah. You two monkeys as well.”

Sylvia raised an expectant eyebrow towards us and how could we refuse. Chrissie’s eyes also lit up in expectation.

“Ooohh! Can I come?”

“Yeah, why not. Come one come all. You’ll be more useful as an older kid for the apprentice to practice on.”

“What about my hair? It’s still short.”

“Duuh! Hello, Earth to teenaged bimbo, have you walked down the high-street lately?”

“Yeah, I know. Lots of girls have got short hair, but I’m growing mine out. It’ll help me pass.”

“That’s fine, so this apprentice chick can help you find a temporary look until your hair grows.”

Chrissie sucked her lip. Apart from our brief sojourns down to Sandie’s clinic and the first day when Angie and I took her shopping for a whole new wardrobe, Chrissie had yet to go abroad in public. Since her beating on the train she had never gone alone and she turned to me as the question showed nervousness in her eyes. I nodded encouragement and smiled.

“Don’t worry. You’ll pass. Nobody will pick you out amongst a gang of girls. Besides, it will be here in Poole; your old friends, - or should I say enemies- are in Bournemouth.”

Chrissie smiled wanly but nodded her consent and Sylvia gave her a squeeze.

“Don’t worry little sis, by the time Charlotte has done your face, nobody will recognise you.”

“That sounds ominous, grinned Angie.”

The buzz around the table turned to different styles of makeup as the girls gabbled at length about the forthcoming expedition.

The only other sound was the industrious clatter of cutlery on china as the food was packed away. The outdoor life certainly gave all the girls healthy appetites but they remained as skinny as lathes.

The following Monday morning the girls only stopped by my bedroom momentarily for a perfunctory cuddle as they anticipated the make-up session after school. Angie had offered to get their breakfasts ready and that gave Chrissie a chance to chat with me about her next visit to the other psychiatrist, Sandie’s colleague.

“If she’s happy on Wednesday Chrissie, you’ll probably be starting hormones.”

Chrissies eyes lit up with expectations.

“And that mean’s I’ll become a girl.”

“Eventually, yes. Sandie has already said it’s virtually a fait-accompli now. They’re convinced you’re a post op tee ess. But you know you’ll never have babies.”

“Yeah. That’s a bummer but at least I’ll be able to live as a girl.”
I reached one arm around Chrissie’s shoulders and hugged her to me. Her face pressed against my boob and she tested the soft roundness with her cheek.

“I’ll at least have some of these.”

“Oh most certainly you will girl. Are you looking forward?”

“Yes. You and Angie have been so kind to me.”

“Well, you’d better get up and help Sylvia. The sooner you get all your chores finished, the sooner you can go to town with her.”

Chrissie realised that this could mean a whole afternoon devoted to just her and Sylvia before picking up the younger girls. Her eyes widened with excitement and she scrambled out of bed.

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“You didn’t ask. And don’t worry about your looks. You’ll pass.”

She peered into the mirror then dashed down the landing to the girl’s bathroom and quickly showered before snatching a breakfast and joining Sylvia in the stables. She worked extra hard and the pair were finished by eleven. They forewent lunch with us in the cottage and opted for something in town. While they were away, Mr Price the builder arrived with his workmen to start the alterations to Angie and Chrissie’s bedrooms. Soon that end of the house rang to the crash and thump of builders demolishing walls. When he learned that I was anticipating eventually putting ‘en-suits’ in all the bedrooms on that side of the upstairs landing, Mr Price gave me a Price I couldn’t ignore. The crashing and banging became unbearable and I retreated with Angie to Sian’s apartment for lunch.

He even offered to extend the house westwards to form a complete southern boundary to the yard but funds just wouldn’t run to it this year. Building work was proving hard to find in these depressed times. However, I gave him licence to knock down the old adjoining out houses. They had been Victorian additions anyway and destroyed the whole balance of the original Georgian farmhouse.

In my original planning application the plan to attach a sympathetic extension to that end of the house had received outline permission and the county heritage representative had actually expressed her hopes that the ghastly brick outhouses would eventually go.

Now they were going and I emailed the county representative to advise her of current progress. It always paid to keep the authorities sweet; they were full of their own importance.

When the time came to rebuild, I hoped to have funds enough to do a sympathetic extension in exactly the same style as the original part of the house.

One thing I liked about Mr Price’s work was that he was tidy and clean. The whole area was properly sealed off and dust was not carried around the house. Each evening his men spent a good half hour cleaning up and one would hardly know men had been working in the house once the bedroom doors were closed for the night.

He was just finishing up the tidying around and we were discussing the plans in the dining room when Sylvia returned with Chrissie and the four younger girls. Immediately Mr Price’s son and building apprentice David’s eyes fell greedily on Chrissie and she naturally started to blush. I must admit, Sylvia’s friend Charlotte and her new apprentice had worked wonders on Chrissie’s appearance. In addition to the excellent make-over on Chrissie’s face, Chrissie’s hair looked absolutely stunning. I hadn’t realised that Charlotte worked in a hair salon with her companion. As Chrissie started to become all coquettish and shy in front of David, Sylvia grinned to me and explained.

“When we walked through the door, Charlotte’s companion and business partner took one look at Chrissie and decided the poor kid desperately needed the professional touch. He literally ordered Chrissie into the chair and promptly set about her hair. What d’you think?”

“Well he’s done a fantastic job. Has he put extensions in?” Whereabouts is their salon,” I asked.”

“Yes to your first question and to the second; they’ve just opened in that new extension to the shopping precinct at the entrance to the market. He’s good. All my friends are raving about him.”

“Yes. That’s fantastic. He’s really done a number on Chrissie just look at her flirting with Mr Price’s son David.”

“There’s only one drawback.” Sylvia cautioned

“Oh go on,” I asked fearing the worst.”

“She won’t be able to shampoo it every night and the stables can get dusty. It’s going to be hell’s own job looking after the extensions for a few more months, at least until Chrissie’s hair is long enough to be useful.”

“She’ll just have to live with dirty hair then, or until the extensions come out.”

“Or wear a dust cap in the stables. It won’t show too much under her safety helmet.”

“Oh my God! Does she have to wear a safety helmet?

“Not really,” grinned Sylvia, “she could get away with a riding hat but the safety helmet is better protection. Besides, a safety helmet is much cheaper than a riding helmet.”

“Well I suppose so but I wasn’t thinking of costs.”

“I was,” countered Sylvia, “we still have to count the pennies.”

“She’ll have to work out a style that isn’t damaged by a hard hat.” I observed.

“Well it’s not all bad news. Next week, he’s offered to show Chrissie how to put the extensions in and take them out herself.”

“Thank God for that. So every Monday, Chrissie has to go to the hairdressers until her hair is manageable.”

“Fraid’ so.” Sylvia confessed, “or at least if she wants to go to town.”

“Well she’ll just have to get used to being a girl then; a visit to the salon every week. It’s what we do.”
Sylvia grinned then beckoned the younger girls over.

“What d’you think of these little monkeys.”

The girls reluctantly stepped away from studying themselves in the large drawing room mirror and presented themselves for my inspection.

Charlotte or her apprentice had done a good job on the four of them.

“Well, I’m glad to see that they’ve been shown that ‘less really is more’, they look really good.” I said.
After my inspection was over, the five of them went up to the bedroom and practiced some more in the connecting bathroom.

Realising that Sylvia was going to give the four girls more make-up lessons Chrissie wanted to join the fun. She decided she’d had enough of David’s ogling and joined the girls. I did notice though that she’d developed quite a ‘wiggle’ as she flounced provocatively up the stairs and her mini dress was showing a lot more than was decent.

Angie and I exchanged knowing looks as we spotted Mr Price eying his son and wagging his fatherly head. He caught my and Angie’s eye as he spoke sharply to his son.

“Put your bloody eyes back in their sockets lad and take these bloody tools out to the van.”

‘What it was to be young,’ I thought.

While David was putting the tools on the Van, Mr Price turned to me.

“She’s a little temptress that one. I’ll have to watch my lad. How old is she?”

“She’s just shy of fifteen, and you’re right. We’ll have to watch her as well.”

“Aye, well my David’s just turned eighteen. I’ll have a word with him but she’s still jail-bait. Try and get her to tone it
down a bit eh.”

“Don’t worry Harry,” I reassured him, “she’ll be working all day in the stables tomorrow it’ll be jeans and a work shirt.”

“Yeah, well you know what it is with young lads, he’s a walking gland!”

So saying he bid us goodnight and left with a promise to be back early the following day. I knew he would. I slipped up stairs to have a word with our foster-daughter to be.

She knew she had pushed the boundaries too far and appeared suitably contrite when I took her in hand and gave her a long talking to about offering something for sale that she did not have. Then I warned her about a girl’s power to exploit boys and manipulate them that is sometimes followed by the potential for trouble if it back-fired. I told her of Mr Price’s concerns for her safety if she persisted in tempting not only his son David but the other builders as well. Apart from old Mr Price and his fortyish foreman, most of the other tradesmen were in their twenties.

Sadly I knew that Chrissie was besotted with her newfound female status and she was desperate to commence her path to full femininity.

“God help us all,” I prayed silently, “when the female hormone pills start to kick in.”

That process was started the following Wednesday. Chrissie’s next assessment took place that week and she emerged beaming as
she waved her prescription for her feminising drugs.

“At last mummy! Look! They’ve said yes!”

‘You lucky kid, I thought as I was ushered in by Sandie and her colleague. They explained the procedures and strategies at length and gave me anticipated time lines for Chrissie’s progress. I listened avidly and accepted the written plan as I wagged my head with relief.

“My God how things have progressed,” I sighed,”I mean only a few years ago, she would have had to wait at least until she was sixteen.”

“Yes, Bev,” Sandie replied, “We have a lot to thank our continental colleagues for,-“

“And the internet,” I added as I rattled off several famous recent cases.

“And that,” her colleague June replied. “It’s helped us, Miss Beverly, just as much as it’s helped everybody else.”

“Yes. Now all we have to do is try and spread the gospel according to St Oestrogen.”

They both smiled as Sandie added.

“That’ll be your job, Beverly, or at least the job of the whole transgendered community and you’ve got the whole internet to help you.”

“And psychiatrists who have at last accepted that most transsexuals know they are transgendered from a very early age.” I added.

“Yes,” added June, “it’s been an interesting journey. Sandie and I were discussing your case just before Chrissie’s appointment. Your life journey deserves a book.”

“Uuhhm. No thanks. Besides; I’m thinking the supporting evidence is lost forever. I never found out where the graves were. They took us to the site blindfolded and brought the survivors back blindfold. All we could tell the others was that Mickey or Janie or Willy or Bridgette or whoever; had been snuffed out and buried. I never found out where. I suppose it’s somewhere in Wales, or maybe England. I know it seemed like a lifetime’s travelling in the van with our arms tied and our eyes blindfolded and we had absolutely no idea in which direction we were travelling. It could even be in Scotland for all I know. I was a kid and those journeys seemed like forever.”

“So you’ll never find requital,” June observed as her voice softened.

“No. They’re probably all dead now, or too old and frail to punish. As I said, there’s only my word against dozens of them. I think I’m the only one that escaped and I’ve got absolutely no evidence. All I escaped with were the clothes I stood up in.”

Both psychiatrists fell silent and I made my excuses. It was no use raking over cold embers and I could feel a weepy coming on. It never did me any good to resurrect my memories. Sandie sensed my mood and nodded slightly as I stood up and raised a questioning eyebrow.

I managed to escape the room without actually tearing up but it was touch and go for the ladies room. Chrissie had been waiting impatiently in the foyer and just caught me scuttling for cover. She followed me into the ladies room intending to hurry me along and fill her prescription. Instead she found me blubbering in one of the hand-basins.

“What’s wrong mummy?”

For several seconds I couldn’t answer as my hiccupping sobs stole my words. Finally I managed to choke out the single word, “Nothing,” but of course it was obviously a lie and Chrissie could readily see it.

“Yes there is. There’s nothing wrong with me is there?”

Her apparent selfishness brought me to my senses. The kid probably thought I had received bad news about her. I dried my tears and tried to smile but my ‘panda-eyes’ turned it into a clown’s grimace. Chrissie giggled at my freakish appearance.

“You’ve got a serious repair job mummy, can I watch?”

“If you want darling, but this is more stone masonry than art.”

“She giggled again and her innocent laughter sweetened my mood. Within half an hour I had repaired my wrinkled face and Chrissie gazed in fascination.

“Crikey mummy, that was some repair job. Mr Price has an easier job with the bathrooms.”

“Don’t be cheeky young lady. Old age comes to all of us. And don’t forget young lady I was over thirty years at sea in tropical sun, ocean storms and polar freeze-ups. The heat, cold, salt and the winds don’t do a girl’s skin any good. Your skin would be like leather if you’d lived my life. I’m allowed a few wrinkles.”

“It’s okay mummy, they make your smiles that much nicer, and you do a superb makeup job, -

I waited for the other shoe to drop and it came.

“Considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Your past life.”

A few instaneous flashbacks flickered through my mind but I kept my counsel.

‘If Chrissie had but known,’ I thought. ‘Best she never found out.’

As we were exiting the ladies room, Sandie spotted us and hurried over.

“Oh there’s something important I’ve just remembered. Your fathering of James and Belinda Margaret and Sian’s second children just reminded me of something.”

I knew what was coming and nodded knowingly.

“Babies.”

“Yes, for Chrissie.”

Chrissies ears pricked up eagerly at the mention of ‘babies’ and her name in the following sentences. She turned as her eyes widened. Sandie quickly explained.

“Listen Chrissie, you mentioned in there that you’d love to be a mother one day.”

“Oooh. Will I be able to, a womb transplant or something?”

“Sorry darling, medicine hasn’t advanced that far; yet. But there is another possibility.”

“Go on, pressed Chrissie hopefully.”

“Well it’s Beverly’s children, James and Belinda; they reminded me. If you can find a suitable mother who’s prepared to accept your sperm as the donor father, then why don’t you consider supplying your sperm now to a sperm bank before you embark on the hormones? That way at least you can become a parent and if the girl is amenable at a later date you might be able to nurse the children, just like Beverly did. It’s the next best thing to mothering.”

Chrissie turned to me eyes wide open.

“Is that what you did?”

I nodded and tapped my breasts.

“Yes darling, these beauties fed James and Belinda until they were completely weaned. I’m James and Belinda’s mummy-dad.”

Chrissie turned to Sandie.

“How long would it take, to provide enough sperm I mean?”

“Couple of weeks I suppose. You’re potent aren’t you?”

Chrissie sighed and gave a funny confused little smile.

“Sadly yes. I’ve always hated my boy bits, but now, strangely, the idea sounds brilliant.”

“Right. Don’t start medicating yet. Stay off the female hormones while you’re producing your samples, they could affect your sperm. Take a sample to the fertility clinic in Southampton A.S.A.P., and we’ll get the sperm bank deal out of the way in short order.”

Chrissie thanked Sandie enthusiastically and finally we made our goodbyes. In the car, Chrissie turned to me.

“What was it like, breast feeding the babies?”

“Very fulfilling and very pleasant. It was one of the nicest experiences in my life.”

“Did you feed them both?”

“Yes.”

“Crickey! You must have had udders like a Jersey cow.”

I smiled. My breasts had certainly grown temporarily and it had been an exciting time. Sandie looked at me thoughtfully.

“What sort of woman would want my sperm for their baby?”

“I don’t know Chrissie. There’s no knowing who’s out there.”

“I wasn’t saying, but I could think of a certain older girl who lived on our very farm. She intimated to Sian and Margaret that she would like to have a baby later on but she had sensibly decided upon waiting for all the usual economic reasons. She also intimated that it would be a ‘turkey baster’ or invitrio job.”

If Sylvia knew that having a baby earlier wouldn’t compromise her economic situation, she might choose to have a baby earlier and when all said and done, it was better, biologically for girls to have babies earlier, rather than later. In fact biologically, the best physical age for a girl to have babies was her late teens but this usually proved to be an economic setback. Although Sylvia was a lesbian she had strong maternal instincts, one only had to watch her mothering the toddlers James and Belinda. I had once or twice spotted her eying them wistfully and I secretly garnished where Sylvia’s yearnings lay. I kept silent however. It wouldn’t do to be seen to be some sort of matchmaker.

As we drove home, Chrissie chattered on about dozens of potential situations. She mentioned Bea and Jenny and Chenille as potential partners but I pulled a wry face and remarked that as far I could ascertain, the three girls were heterosexual and would probably want to go the conventional route to parenthood. Chrissie knew of course that Martina was like her and me, transgendered so there was no opportunities for shared parenting there. Strangely she never once considered Sylvia as a mother. I supposed it was because Sylvia was now nineteen to Chrissie’s approaching fifteenth birthday and she somehow didn’t think of Sylvia as a potential mother to her baby. To a fourteen-year-old, I suppose nineteen seems like the end of the earth away. Things could readily change in a couple of years though, once Chrissie was over sixteen.

The following Friday, Sandie phoned me to say she was going over to Southampton on the next Wednesday and that if she wanted, Chrissie could accompany her.

“My Southampton clinic is held in the same building as the sperm bank so if you wish, I can arrange an appointment for Chrissie and we can kill two birds with one stone. Has Chrissie been abstaining?” She asked me.

“How should I know? You’d better ask her.”

I handed the phone to a prancing Chrissie who was truly grateful to have an informative companion to take her to the hospital.

After chatting to Sandie for several minutes she called from the conservatory.

“Are you coming next Wednesday mummy?”

“D’you want me to?”

“Yes please. We can go shopping afterwards.”

As she mentioned ‘shopping’ Angie walked in from the yard.

“Shopping? Where, when?”

“My God Ange, you can pick your moments.”

“I never miss a shopping trip.” She grinned.

“Yes; I’ve noticed.”

I explained the plan while Chrissie continued talking at length until eventually she re-emerged from the conservatory.

“It’s all fixed. Eleven o’clock next Wednesday.” I might have to stay over for a few days.”

“Crickey, how much do they need!” I squealed.

"They don’t know until they’ve completed all the tests. It’s cos’ I’m so young and slightly femme.

Angie and I exchanged smiles. Her teenaged experiences of boys had taught her that all teen-aged boys, - even effeminate ones- were nothing but walking glands whilst my memories of my boyhood more or less confirmed the same. Chrissie didn’t notice our smiles; she was too engrossed in the forthcoming events.

“What’s for dinner?” She asked.

“Chicken. You can peel some potatoes if you want.”

The fact that there wasn’t the slightest murmur of discontent confirmed that Chrissie was engrossed in the whole idea of storing her sperm to give her some options in later life. I had hardly put down my cup of tea when I saw her tumbling some potatoes from the big bag into the sink. The girl was obviously excited; so much so that she tackled the rest of the veg with equal enthusiasm. Later she skipped across the yard to tell Sylvia about developments. For Chrissie things were really beginning to take a turn for the better. For Sylvia, curiosity stirred the cat.

Late that night when all the ‘children’ including Chrissie had gone to bed. Sylvia approached me alone in the kitchen as I marinated some lamb.

“Is that right auntie Bev?”

“Is what right?” I replied.

“About Chrissie storing her sperm in a sperm bank in case she wants children when she’s older.”

“Uuhhm, - yes. Why?”

“Well what’s her strategy? I mean if she wants’ to be a woman then surely she should be thinking of adopting or something when she’s older; just like you’ve done.”

“She’s hoping to find a girl who’s prepared to be a sort of surrogate mother and give her a child with the frozen sperm.”

Sylvia fell silent for a moment then realised I was clocking her and she moved to allay my suspicions.

“Huh! She’ll be expecting a lot if she hopes to find some sort of girl who’s willing to give her a baby and then let Chrissie adopt it.”

“Well, they do exist Sylvia. After all I found Sian and Jane, or rather they found me; but you know what happened with James and Belinda.”

“Yes, you breast fed them, lucky you.”

“Well that’s what Chrissie’s hoping to do; when she’s older of course.”

“But of course when she’s old enough to legally adopt, she’ll be well on the way to total feminisation and incapable of impregnating a woman.”

“Exactly, hence the sperm bank.”

“Well, I wish her the best of luck. She’s going to have a long search but it’s not impossible.”

I nodded and shrugged.

“Well, that’s up to Chrissie. I can’t plan her life for her. What will be, will be. Maybe she’ll find somebody, maybe she won’t. I’ve got some work to do for the Moroccan file, will you excuse me.”

“Gosh Auntie Bev, you work late don’t you?”

“I do my best work after midnight, call me a vampire.”

Sylvia smiled and made her excuses so I settled down in my study. It wasn’t long before the familiar soft ‘click’ of the door handle announced Chrissie’s arrival. She stood in her silky all-in-one and smiled.

“D’you want a cup of coffee or something?” She whispered.

“Not just yet darling. Can’t you sleep?”

“I’m too excited.”

“What about; the sperm thing or the feminisation programme?”

“Both; and everything else. D’you think I might find a girl who’ll do for me what Margaret and Sian did with James and Belinda for you?”

“Well to tell the truth, Marge and Sian weren’t that philanthropical, they really only wanted to use me to have children, the nurturing bit only came about because it suited them to have a ‘wet-nurse’ right next to hand.”

“But you liked it.” Chrissie double checked.

“Yes of course I liked it, I loved it, and maybe you will if you ever get that opportunity.”

She curled up tight in the ‘saggy chair’ and smiled as sleep soon overtook her. Chrissie was like a large pet who only ever wanted to be near its owner. Once her eyes had closed I resumed working on my laptop into the small hours. Eventually I finished the work I had planned and I gently kissed the sleeping girl on the forehead.

“Come on sleepy-head. I’m going up.”

She yawned and stretched like a warm cuddly kitten then smiled sleepily as she reluctantly uncurled and felt for her mules. I couldn’t help smiling as I watched her. Watching a young teen-aged girl stirring reluctantly from her slumbers was always a wonderful maternal pleasure.

“D’you want a hot chocolate or something to go up with. I’ve boiled the kettle.”

Her smile widened and her hands reached skywards as she nodded gratefully. As I made the drink she appeared silently beside me and wrapped her arms around my waist.

“Thanks mummy, thanks for everything.”

“And what about Angie?”

“Yeah, she’s really nice as well, but your my real mummy.”

“But why’s that?” I asked as I handed her the chocolate. “After all, Angie’s a real girl, she’s a natural mother.”

“But it’s cos’ you understand, you’re more like me and Martina.”

Her logic was impeccable; at least to a transsexual and we three were all transsexuals to some degree or other. The truth was I did understand and understanding was going to be one of the major factors in Chrissie’s development. I followed her upstairs and she asked once again to join me in my bed. How could I refuse? Angie didn’t even stir as we carefully slipped in behind her.

 

 

---

---

 

At dawn, which at that time of year came about six-ish; Angie gave a soft murmur then rolled over to find she had acquired company during the night. Her stirring awakened me for I still slept ‘cysgu ci-dafadd’ (sheep-dog sleep,) in Welsh. She smiled as our sleepy eyes met over the head of our sleeping foster-daughter.

“What time did you two finally come to bed?” She whispered softly.

“’Bout three-ish,” I replied.

“I’m getting up. I went to bed early last night. After the make-up session the kids were just so wound up they needed an extra long story.”

We both rolled carefully out of bed so as not to disturb the sleeping beauty between us and we both slipped silently into my bathroom.

“D’you want to shower first?” I whispered. Angie gave a little giggle and smiled invitingly.

“Shall we shower together?”

“Oooh are you sure you want to do this?” I cautioned. “I mean we hardly know each other.”

“Oh don’t be so silly! We’ve been sleeping together now since whenever. Think of it as the next small step.”

“Step to what?” I asked.

“Well; your recovery for one thing, and mending your hang-ups about sharing a bed. I’ve been reading about cases like yours. For example prisoners would often get attacked in the washrooms. Was it like that for you?”
I fell silent as my old familiar tension crept to the surface. In borstal, the showers had always been a deadly trap and I had been the victim of many an unwanted advance in them. Angie sensed my fear and she reached out her arms.

“It doesn’t have to be like this you know. I’m not going to attack you; look, I’m inviting you to come into my arms voluntarily, from the front. Where’s the harm in that?”

Angie noticed that my gaze had not fallen on her attractive female attributes but they scanned nervously from left to right as I followed her extended fingers. She had been unthinkingly wiggling her fingers and beckoning me in with a wrist motion that made her hands resemble the claws of some giant arachnid. Her unwitting actions had only concentrated my mind on what such other inviting hand actions had done to me as a child. She suddenly realised that my apparent fascination with her fingers must have mirrored my fears. As it dawned on her, she stopped immediately and caught my gaze at it finally lifted away from her now static hands to look her in the eyes.

“My God Bev! Was it always like that; always a betrayal?”

I nodded tearfully and put my head in my hands as I leant against the sink. Angie moved cautiously forward as though approaching a skittish mare. Gently she placed her hand on my arm and whispered.

“I’m not going to hurt you; d’you understand that? I’m not going to hurt you.”

For a moment I tensed at the gentlest touch of her hand but I let it stay there. “Surely I could trust Angie,” I told myself as the black memories lurked in my mind and steadfastly refused to budge.

I thought back to the brief sexual encounters I had had with Sian and Margaret. There had been no attempt at emotion and I had recognised the sexual acts as little more than that. Simply a means for Sian and Margaret to indulge their parental ambitions. Once they had achieved their aims the connection was closed, or at least any emotional connection to Sian and Margaret. Yes, they had used me, but I had little problem with that. Most trannies grow up, at least in their childhood and teenaged years, with little self esteem. After all their needs are secretive, farcical and the subject of much humour. With little or no self esteem it’s but a short step to allowing oneself to being used and or abused. I had been used, but so what, I had always considered myself as shit anyway.

The fact that Sian and Margaret had indulged me hugely by letting me maintain a close and loving relationship with my very own children James and Belinda; had come to me as a huge, unexpected and utterly delightful bonus. It seemed to me that is was the first time that anybody had actually done me a real favour without seeking something in return. At least I still had access to and a firm relationship with my very own children and they shared in the beauty of our extended familial affairs. But this–this insidious development–where Angie seemed to be somehow getting inside my defences, inside my vulnerable psyche; this was something I was truly afraid of. It was something that would take me time to address, and lots of it. After all these thoughts had raced through my mind, I regretfully refused her invitation to shower together. Angie was disappointed but accepted my refusal. At least she was beginning to understand.

The physical intimacy was not that important but the potential for emotional entanglements left me worried. She showered quickly then relinquished the cubicle to me. She did however wait for me to emerge and smiled as she handed me the large bath blanket. She had also heard the girls stirring noisily in the next bedrooms so she had thoughtfully gathered dressing gown from my bedroom to add to my panty-girdle and all-in-one so that when I emerged from the bathroom I would not be immodest. When we did emerge, we found a sleepy Chrissie trying not to look annoyed at having been torn from her slumbers by four giggling ‘younger sisters’ who had appropriated Chrissie’s right to a peaceful `lie in’. Chrissie immediately demanded my support to turf the interlopers out but I enlightened her amusedly.

“It’s not your bed Chrissie, it’s mine. The girls have as much right as you to come visiting. And anyway, shouldn’t you be getting up. Sylvia will be wondering where you are.”

Chrissie rose grumpily and stumbled to the bathroom. I reflected on her bad mood; there can be nothing more ill tempered than a teenager that has been dragged from its bed after only three and a half hours sleep. Once Chrissie was in the bathroom, I flung myself on the bed and started to tickle the kids. Angie immediately joined me and soon the bedroom was filled with delighted squeals that rang out across the yard. When Sian and Sylvia joined us later for breakfast there were questions about ‘all the noise’.

“We could hear it across the yard. You should keep your windows closed.”

“Could Mr Turpin hear it?” Angie countered.

“Don’t be silly. His farm is a mile away.”

“Well there you are then. That’s why I chose this cottage in the first place.” I argued. “We can scream or shout to our heart’s delight and nobody is affected.”

“You started Belinda off crying and that started James off.” Sian scolded.

“Well bring them to me. I can cuddle them. I am there mummy-dad after all.”

“Don’t worry. We intend to, and where’s that sleeping beauty?”

“Who? Chrissie?”

“Yes.”

“I’m here, why?” A sleepy voice interrupted as a yawning Chrissie appeared in the kitchen doorway, “what’s for breakfast?”

“You’ve got the stables to muck out.”

“No, I said breakfast. I don’t eat horse shit.”

“Well eat the oats on the kitchen table then you can see to the oats in the stables.” Sian Riposted.

“Neigh, neigh, thrice times neigh.” Grinned Chrissie to the general groans around the table.

Eventually, despite more pathetic attempts to continue the pun theme, we got through breakfast and I gratefully put the girls into the car to drive them to school. I had to meet Margaret in town then accompany her to a management meeting down in the docks. It was just another day in my so-called retirement.

A few weeks later we got notice of the court hearing for Chrissie’s forthcoming adoption. By this time she had started on her hormone regime after she had deposited a suitable sample of viable sperm in the sperm bank. On the morning of the hearing Chrissie had a fit of the heebie-jeebies and it took all of Angie and my efforts to persuade her to attend. I was delighted to learn that Elizabeth Porter had agreed to sit in on the hearings but she was only an observer because of her known connections to me and my previous adoption of Jenny and Bea. The day before the hearing, Elizabeth had arranged to meet me privately and offer a few pointers. In a quiet backroom of a discreet restaurant in Salisbury she tipped me the wink.

“As you’ll know, Chrissie’s parents have hired a crack barrister from London who has been paid for by the fundamentalist church they attend. He’s good, really good and he knows his law.”

“It’s not law that’s the issue here,” I sighed dejectedly, “it’s Chrissie’s safety and sanity.”

“Yes. You know that and I know that because we’re from the alternative community but this judge is a bit of an old crusty. Despite his youth, he’s known to have relatively conservative views about ‘traditional family values’. It’s fairly certain that he won’t allow Chrissie to be returned to her parents because of Chrissie’s attempted suicide. That more or less precludes such action by the court and also because of the previous established record of violence towards Chrissie. Her parent’s visit to the farm and the attack on you has done their case no end of damage. However there’s the other side to this coin. He’s not the most liberal of judges when it comes to same sex relationships and same sex parents. You’ll have to pick your way carefully. Fortunately, I’m senior to him and he will be looking over his shoulder a bit. He knows about my more liberal views and my unmarried motherhood state is no secret on the circuit. However, he doesn’t know I’m gay, nor do any of my brethren and I’ve got you, Sian and Margaret to thank for that. Now here’s what I think is the best plan of defence.”

I listened as Elizabeth gave me some vital pointers as we picked our way through a light lunch that I had to pay for. Eventually we worked out a viable strategy using important parts of new European legislation concerning human rights and transphobic misconduct. I wished I could have had my own barrister beside me but that would have utterly compromised Elizabeth’s right to sit in as an observer. The barrister would have been in serious breach of professional rules for as it was, Elizabeth was sailing close to the legal wind. The reason she had chosen (rightly,) to refuse to hear the case was because of her known friendship with me. Fortunately, that friendship enabled her to legitimately dine with me as a friend.

The following day, Tuesday, the hearing commenced.

Eventually I hardly had a part in the proceedings. The judge was much more concerned with Chrissie’s safety and he spent the whole of the first day privately interviewing Chrissie. On the Wednesday morning Sandie and her colleague took the judge through the learning concerning the latest ideas about transsexuality and he emerged a very thoughtful man. It prompted a second interrogation of Chrissie in the court on the Wednesday afternoon with all the parties present and I was impressed with Chrissie’s performance. For a frightened, fourteen-year-old kid, Chrissie performed admirably.

She was adamant she wanted to remain where she was and to demonstrate this she had resumed her schooling. She explained that despite the privation of struggling to keep her physical gender a secret and choosing to ‘live in her preferred gender’ she was determined to stay with Angie and me because that was where she felt safest and happiest. The judge tried several different tacks as he considered different solutions but always they came to grief on Chrissie’s avowed determination to remain with me. On this she refused to budge and at fourteen the judge was forced to give Chrissie’s feelings their proper due. She had after all, already demonstrated an adult degree of maturity by choosing to live in her preferred gender role and this was supported by her doctors who both supported Chrissie’s choice of finding her new home amongst those who best understood her needs.

On the Thursday morning Betty the Social worker was called and I was delighted to hear her paint a glowing picture of my cottage. How she and her team had been so relieved to have been able to find a genuinely safe place for a transsexual child who had already suffered considerable trauma. She explained how her department had been doing back-flips in their desperation to find the child a place of genuine safety. On learning of my place from the county psychiatrist, (Sandie) she had clutched at the straw and been very pleasantly surprised.

“So,” the judge pressed, “would you use the facility again?”

I seethed silently at the description of my beloved private home being described as ‘a facility’ but I bit my tongue. Anyway there was no need for me to protest, Betty soon put him right.

“Your honour, the Rosy Cottage is not a council run facility. It is a private dwelling owned by Miss Beverly. The fact that she has inadvertently discovered and adopted two other waifs and strays who suffered almost fatal trauma in the tropical seas was simply an accident of location and local politics. Those two little girls have totally recovered from their incredible ordeal and that is in no small part owed to Miss Beverly’s compassion and care. The Dorset social services are satisfied that the cottage is a safe and suitable placement for Chris, or more correctly now, Christine.

As to your question if I would ‘use the place again’, I would have to say that if Dorset Social Services were encumbered of another sexually dysphoric child I would certainly approach Miss Beverly with a view to a similar solution. Though I must emphasise that Rosy Cottage is still a private dwelling belonging to Miss Beverly.”

The judge chewed thoughtfully on his lip and thanked Betty as he dismissed her. The next interrogation concerned Chrissie’s parents and they made fools of themselves. Despite obviously careful coaching by their barristers, their bigotry and prejudice showed through. When tackled about their violence towards their own child they had no proper defence and no plausible excuses.

It was exactly as Elizabeth had advised me; the judge had clearly decided there and then that returning the child into the obviously dangerous family environment was an obvious ‘no-no’. It was now a matter of what to do with the child.

After various other parties were called to give evidence it was finally my turn. Friday afternoon and it seemed to me like doomsday.

The experience was for me a nightmare. I have stood in plenty of witness boxes and indeed I’ve even stood in the dock before hostile judges but never before had I had my sexuality trawled through by a judge who had obviously researched transsexualism and also asked to see Sandie’s private case note about me. He even asked me stuff about myself that I had never known. Stuff going back to my childhood that Sandie had dug out and researched without me ever knowing. Apparently, Sandie had studied the academic literature and deduced where some of my records might lie. She had discovered some fragmented notes of the more auspicious situations concerning my years in the psychiatric unit but to a layman they would just seem to have appeared as gratuitous sexual indulgence. Only a good psychiatrist would have garnered anything useful and Sandie had decided that the material would have only distressed me to the point of harm if she had ever shown it me. Now this judge had accessed Sandie’s most private notes and he was using them like a howitzer to destroy me.

I was knocked sideways by his revelations and if I had ever felt like a rat on the laboratory bench as a child, this was far worse. It was like being the central target of a concentrated artillery barrage. I was blown away and Sandie was livid. Several times I just slumped with shock or despair as he produced an article from my notes that utterly contradicted my interpretations of events from way back in my childhood. Some of which I had utterly forgotten because everybody has different memories of shared events.

At the end of the interrogation, I was in pieces and I had to be helped from the dock like some hysterical misfit. It was late Friday afternoon and the hearing was over. I felt it was a set-up and I had been held until last to prevent me having a chance to see the notes from half a century before that Sandie had discovered and then counter the claims after a more reasoned and balanced examination of them. Most of the conclusions and remarks had been placed in the notes by long dead psychiatrists whom I had absolutely detested as a six-year-old prisoner. They had tortured me for God’s sake!!

When I finally recovered from my collapse in the courtroom, Sandie approached me with horror in her eyes.

“Oh shit Bev. I’m so sorry! I’m just so sorry. I had no time to warn you and it was my mistake to never reveal them to you. There’s just so much stuff in there that is totally wrong. I thought it would be too painful to expose you to it. That bastard judge is a monster. There are clear annotations to those notes expressing my reservations and total disagreements with their opinions. Things have moved on so much in psychiatry and that man used Neanderthal thinking to pillory you. I’ve already sent a strongly worded letter to his honour.”

“To what end.” I gasped between sobs.

“Oh to a very important end. His treatment of you was vicious. Did you see Elizabeth’s face?”

“I didn’t see anything. It was just a red haze to me, like a prolonged bomb blast.”

“Yes. I can well imagine. Well he’s not getting away with it.”

Eventually I made it, with Sandie and Betty’s help, to a cafe across the square from the courthouse. Sandie’s mobile rang. She switched it to ‘voice’ for my and Betty’s benefit.

“Sandie, it’s Elizabeth. How is she?”

“How do you think?”

“Well tell her not to be too worried.”

“Tell her yourself. She’s right here beside me in ‘The Coffee pot’ across the square.”

“Oh good! I’ll be over directly.”

We three settled to our coffees and pastries as we spotted Elizabeth hurrying across the square. I hoped she had some good news. I was still shaking.

For a moment I thought she was going to walk right past the cafe but she turned down a narrow side alley and slipped in through the other entrance from the car park. She gave us a reassuring wave and ordered her coffee then came to join us. We all looked at her expectantly as she settled into the fourth chair.

“Don’t be alarmed. He’s not as anti Beverly as he seems. I’ve just been discussing this afternoon’s interrogation with and it appears that because he’s not long been appointed he doesn’t want to be seen as a push over. He wanted his interrogation to be seen as rigorous and intensive.”

“Is that what he thinks it was?” Betty gasped.

“I did mention to him that he should not be looking at Bev as a man but as a woman and to go easy on the fairer sex. He acknowledged that you did pass for a woman but the records still showed you to be a man. He had some issues getting his head around that. He wants to come out and visit your cottage. If the set-up is as good as Sandie and Betty say then he feels he should come out and judge for himself. Will Saturday do?”

“What! Tomorrow!”

“Yes.”

“But we’ve got the new batch if kids from Birmingham coming tomorrow, plus some ordinary trekkers. It’ll be chaos!”

“All the better perhaps. Then he can see what really goes on. Plus he’ll be able to chat with the Birmingham social workers. I’m sure they’ll support you.”

I let go a huge breath. Elizabeth was right on that score. Dot and Andrew had sent Sian the analysis and decision by the full council meeting by Birmingham city council to include our modest little enterprise on their ‘favourites list’. We could not have wished for a better endorsement. I wondered why we had not made a bigger play of the trekking centre during the foster hearing. It had at least won the endorsement of one of the biggest social services organisation in Britain. I began to warm to the idea of a judicial visit. After all, Rosy Cottage and then later, it’s trekking centre, had won over many others before him, Sandie, Mrs Bodkin, Betty, Dot, Andrew and Elizabeth to name but a few. What was one more judge?

Thus reassured, we finished our coffees and went our separate ways; Elizabeth back to chambers to confirm the judge’s visit. Later I got her phone call on my mobile.

“He and I will be there about eleven.” She confirmed.

“Oh great!” I responded, “right when we’re at our busiest!

“Can’t be helped,” she added, “it’s the only time he’s got.”

I shrugged as I closed my mobile. Eleven o’clock it was then.

The following morning it happened exactly as I expected. The Birmingham children arrived by ten and we were still trying to create order out of chaos when Judge Evans arrived at eleven with Judge Elizabeth Porter. Chrissie was doing her level best to sort out the luggage whilst the Birmingham children milled around the stables generally exciting the horses and prolonging the disorder. Dot, Andrew and several other social workers were constantly counting heads and I would never have believed there were only twelve heads to count. It seemed like twenty with all the disorder. To add to the chaos, Mr Price had turned up with his team to work overtime that Saturday morning in order that the work on the alterations stayed on schedule. He often did it but usually with a few men to address a specific task that might have fallen behind. Now he had arrived ‘mob handed’ with his whole team to finish the work quickly because Margaret and Jane had found some work for him down at the port repairing some quays or something.

All in all, it was bedlam in my yard. Then to cap it all, as I was checking first the children’s luggage list, then Mr Price’s job-sheet and being generally up to my neck in organising a dozen different jobs, the two judges appeared at my shoulder.

“Busy?” Elizabeth asked, trying to make herself heard above the clamour.

“Of course I’m blood-! I snapped as I turned to find to my horror, Judges Evans and Porter.

“Oh. Shi- I’m sorry. So sorry, it’s just chaos here at the moment. It’s not usually like this. I didn’t recognise your voice, Elizabeth.”

Both judges smiled indulgently as they surveyed the activity. I desperately explained to Judge Evans.

“You’ve got us on a busy Saturday. The Birmingham party has just arrived, the builders have turned up unexpectedly and to cap it all there are about a dozen private trekkers come to exercise their own horses on the Dumplin because it’s such a beautiful day. They use the centre as a base to access the bridle path. Hence we’ve got all the horse-trailers and four by fours parking up along that wall. I’d invite you in for coffee but there just isn’t time. Watch your back. Here’s another horse trailer.”

The pair stepped smartly aside and frowned at the driver as he sheepishly apologised for his thoughtless driving and made a feeble attempt at a wave to demonstrate his remorse. I decided to invite the judges into the house to a place of safety.

“You’d better come inside the house. Some of these drivers are bloody stupid.”

In the kitchen Angie was making tea for the builders so I deposited the judges with her and left to resume marshalling operations in the yard. Eventually, by noon we had the situation normalised. All the private trekkers had left with their horses and the Birmingham children were under control inside the large training ring. The yard was silent and I sighed with relief.

‘Time to attend to the judges,’ I decided.

As I returned to the house I found the judges, Angie and Mr Price the builder sitting in the conservatory which was the most peaceful place on the whole site. They were sat drinking tea and I was relieved to hear them laughing so at least their mood seemed ok. That always helped if somebody was going to access you or judge you. I stepped into the conservatory, ‘the lion’s den’.

“Well good morning again ladies and gentlemen. Sorry about all that activity but you rather sprung the visit upon me.” Elizabeth smiled and nodded.

“That’s okay Beverly. It was our intention to find out the nuts and bolts anyway. We didn’t realise you were so busy on a Saturday.”

“It’s our busiest time.” I replied.

Mr Price nodded and added.

“I can vouch for that. I usually steer clear on Saturday unless I’ve got to meet a deadline.”

“Yes,” I replied tucking some stray hair back into my headband and fixing my bun” now your honour, what is it exactly that you want to see?”

He looked at my feminine fiddling with my hair and smiled. The smile was meant to reassure me but I rarely trusted smiles–childhood conditioning again. I turned from the mirror after checking my lippie and finally presented myself for the grand inspection. Judge Evans stood up and made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

“Well I’ve come to see the whole operation and I’m sorry about the short notice.”

“Well no harm done, at least you’ve seen how busy it can get. Where d’you want to start?”

“I need to see the set up for the boy Christopher or Chrissie as you call her.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes and Mr Price’s jaw sagged slightly as the judge inadvertently revealed Chrissie’s transsexuality.

“Well uuhhm, Christopher or Chrissie as we call her is busy in the stables. It’s her Saturday job.”

“Oh it’s not so much the child I need to speak to, it’s the accommodation arrangements.” Mr price harrumphed softly.

“That sounds as though you’ll be wanting to see the new bedrooms. Wait here I’ll get you some hard hats from one of the vans.” The judge turned mildly surprised but nodded and waited. He turned to me as Mr Price scuttled away.

“So there are big changes afoot.”

“Yes, Mr Price has had to refurbish all the bedrooms on the south side of the upstairs hall. I think you’ll be impressed with his work. I am.”

“Would that include the child Chrissie’s bedroom?”

“Yes. Her and Angie’s bedrooms were the first. They were completed nearly a week ago. Mr Price can show you his work schedule.”

I secretly sighed with silent relief. We could at least demonstrate that Chrissie had her own bedroom and en-suite bathroom. Mr price had stuck rigidly to the deal to do the bedrooms ‘two-at-a-time’ thus enabling Angie and Chrissie to have their own privacy during the alterations. The biggest problem was avoiding the inescapable dust and clutter and I had to hand it to Mr price, he had taken more than reasonable steps to ameliorate the problem. The upstairs landing had been longitudinally separated off and access to the rooms arranged according to where the work was going on. The last two bedrooms were nearing completion.

Eventually Mr price arrived with helmets for Elizabeth and Judge Evans while I collected mine from the coat rack in the porch. Yes for all Mr Price’s excellent efforts we could not avoid the house being a building site. Even as we prepared to go upstairs, Mr Price’s son David appeared at the top of the stairs with a heavy plastic bag of assorted rubbish on his powerful young shoulders.

“Gangway!” he called as we were forced to step aside.

“Always give way to the burdened,” I remarked, trying to make light of David’s apparent disregard for title or status.

“Yes. I worked on a building site as a student.” Judge Evans replied as he grinned again and squeezed himself against the wall.

‘Good,’ I thought, ‘he’s not up his own arse then; or full of his own importance.’

David lumbered past and we climbed the stairs to view the bedrooms.

To put it bluntly, Judge Evans was impressed and I was relieved. As we finished inspecting all the cottage’s facilities, we stepped out into the yard and he turned to me.

“That’s a very high standard. I never had my own en-suite when I was growing up.”

“Neither did I, but to tell the truth it just turned out like that. Originally this was to be my retirement bolt hole but events
overtook me.”

“Bolthole?” He queried.

“Yes. When I retired from the sea I was paranoid about my sexuality. It was my intention live here in splendid isolation. Nobody for a neighbour for at least a mile and the land surrounding me for that mile to be owned by me. Nobody could build next to me because I owned the land.”

“Why that’s a huge parcel of land.” That’s three decimal one four square miles or thereabouts.”

‘At least he’s numerate’, I thought as I replied.

“Yes, well needs must when the devil cracks his whip.”

“Meaning.”

“Well if God or the devil made me into a transvestite then I have no choice but to circumvent their intent. The land is a physical manifestation of the boundaries I set around myself back then when I bought this farm to protect myself.”

“That sounds as if your superstitious or deeply religious.”

“I don’t think a deeply religious person would try to circumvent God. Anyway, I’m neither; it’s a figure of speech.”

“A very archaic one.” He observed

I shrugged. My access to books had always been limited. I didn’t really know what was archaic and what was modern. As a child there were virtually no modern children’s books to be found in the unit, they were mostly old, small-print, second-hand, hardbacks that people had given away to charity, and even the charities had selected the best books to sell in their shops before dumping the dross on places like the psychiatric unit where I was put away. Later in my life, in borstal it was even worse.

Most of the thugs were illiterate. Before I had ended up at sea, I had picked up what little literacy I had where and whenever. I must have picked up the expression somewhere in my twenties when I was so desperate to address my academic shortcomings.
I had never been sure what, ‘needs must when the devil,-‘meant. In those days I was like blotting paper sucking up every written word and literary expression. I’d have read used lavatory paper if it had script. Later on, when studying for my master’s licence I found out.

“I suppose in your profession it would mean something like ‘Force majeur.”

He nodded thoughtfully as I demonstrated some legal knowledge that I had been forced to study in my gaining my Foreign-going Ship-master’s Licence.

“Very interesting,” he replied noncommittally. “Shall we go and see the stables?”

I had no idea why he should want to see the trekking business, after all that had little to do with me but who was I to question a judge? As we entered the stabling area Elizabeth gently pulled on Judge Evan’s arm and restrained him momentarily.

“Hold on a minute Harry. They’ll be hosing down the stables.”

“So what?” He wondered.

“The last time I arrived un-announced, I got a soaking. The girls were fooling around.”

Even as she spoke, there was a squeal from one of the empty loose boxes and Chenille erupted as Jenny pursued her with a shovel full of horse manure.

“Bugger me,” cackled Elizabeth as the girls pulled up short, “It’s de-ja-vu! Do you girls ever stop?”

“Sorry your lordship, grinned Chenille as Jenny slowly lowered the steaming shovel.”

Judge Evans stared down at the girls and smiled paternally at their shit stained faces.

“Are these urchins yours?”

“One of them,” I replied, “that’s Jenny, the one brandishing the shovel.”

“And the prey?”

“That’s Chenille, Margaret’s daughter.”

Judge Evan’s wagged his head with amusement as he looked down at the girls and asked.

“And do you girls always fight with horse shit?”

Both girls tried to suppress a smile at the judge’s use of the word ‘shit’ and their amusement only served to make the filthy faces even more attractive. They were in their filthiest sports shirts and shit stained jodhpurs so the shit was hardly an issue.

Chenille looked up boldly in their defence.

“We were only fooling about because we’ve finished the dunging out. Chrissie’s just wheelbarrowe’d the last load of horse-shit out to the compost pile.”

“Chenille! Don’t use language like that!” I scolded.

“Why not Auntie Bev? He just did.” She argued as she motioned her pretty head towards Judge Evans.

Judge Evans grinned conspiratorially.

“Touché Miss Beverly, the young lady is right. I did.”

I wagged my head in amused defeat and chuckled.

‘Well this man can’t be all bad,’ I thought. My opinion of him was improving slightly.

As we turned to go to the training ring the wheelbarrow suddenly re-appeared unaccompanied through the large double doors. It slid noisily along the concrete and came to rest neatly in its allotted recess as Chrissie appeared whistling cheerfully and walking across the doorway towards the same training ring that we were heading for. She had obviously practised the wheelbarrow manoeuvre many times and it clearly symbolised ‘job done’.

I called loudly to her down the working aisle.

“Chrissie! Judge Evans is here!”

She stopped in midstride and stared transfixed with suspicion at our group. Then her whole demeanour changed. Her whistling stopped, her smile disappeared and her shoulders fell. There could be no misinterpretation of her fear. Even Judge Evans noticed and he turned to Elizabeth.

“My God. Do we have that sort of effect on the kids?” He asked, totally forgetting the eight little ears that had now gathered to hover right beside us.

Elizabeth nodded slowly and mouthed ‘yes’ as I nodded simultaneously. Judge Evans looked soberly at me.

“You think it as well.”

“I don’t have to think it your honour, you just saw it. She’s dreading what you’ll do to her life.”

I think that moment was Judge Evans’s epiphany. He wagged his head slowly and sucked thoughtfully as he motioned to Chrissie to come to us. She approached reluctantly hardly daring to look any of us in the eye but shifting her gaze nervously like a trapped animal looking for an escape route. We could all see the dread in her eyes.

“What are you frightened of boy?” Judge Evans asked in as unthreatening a voice as he could muster.

Chrissie stared at him, wagged her head then started to tear up as she moved to put me between her and the judge. The act was clearly done to indicate where her fears lay and where her security lay. From behind my back she spoke softly.

“Tell him mum.”

I hesitated uncertainly as my mind raced to try and anticipate Chrissie’s feelings. Then I had a very rare flash of inspiration. For once in my insensitive life I actually realised what Chrissie was frightened about. I looked directly at judge Evans as I expressed my opinion.

“I think it would help, your honour, if you asked Chrissie what SHE was frightened of.”

He looked at me and squinted hard into my eyes but I held my gaze levelly. There was no doubt in my mind that Chrissie was terrified of somehow being denied the route that she had made abundantly obvious was the route she wanted to go, namely feminisation.

Judge Evans chewed his lip thoughtfully as he chose his next words carefully.

“Is that for definite Chrissie? You really do want to be a girl?”

She nodded vigorously.

“I told you in court, why won’t you listen? I don’t want to be a girl, I already AM a girl! I don’t want to become a boy! Why can’t you understand? Doctor Sandie understands, Betty understands, Mummy Bev understands, if you’re a judge and so clever why can’t you understand.”

I scolded Chrissie.

“Chrissie! Don’t be rude! Apologise immediately!”

“Why! Why should I apologise to some monster who’s going to ruin my life? Why? Why?”

Judge Evans’s eyes flashed with annoyance.

“What d’you mean, ‘ruin your life’?”

“You are! You want to stop me becoming a girl down there like I’m a girl up here; up here in my head! Where it really matters!! And now you want to take me away–away from the only place I feel safe and happy! I hate you! I really, really hate you!!”

With these angry words Chrissie ran sobbing out of the stables and disappeared down the lane.

I cursed and minced after her as fast as my two-inch heels would allow but bearing in mind Chrissie was in wellingtons she was soon beyond my reach. Fortunately As I stood cursing in the yard, David appeared out of the house shouldering another plastic bag of Rubbish.

“What’s wrong Miss Beverly?”

“Oh it’s that stupid girl! She’s only just gone and run away.”

“Where to.”

“Down the lane. She’ll probably try and catch a lift or something. She’s really upset.”

“D’you want me to go and get her?”

“Would you? That would be marvellous. Just try and calm her down until I can get to talk to her.”
David needed no further encouragement and he shouted to me to tell his dad where he’d gone. I did as asked then clambered into my Landrover. I found David remonstrating with the tearful run-away about a couple of hundred yards along the road.

“Chrissie! Chrissie!!” I squealed. “For God’s sake calm down.” Things aren’t as bad as you think.”

“Don’t lie! I heard him give you that awful grilling.” She squawked between heaving sobs. “I know I wasn’t meant to hear anything of the case, but I told Betty I was going out for a cup of coffee then I doubled back and slipped into the public gallery during the recess and hid beneath the empty seats. I saw and heard everything. He hates you and he hates me. He’s a brute. He’s just like my dad.”

“No Chrissie. It’s not like that. Honestly, it’s not. He’s a new judge. He was just a bit over-zealous because he didn’t want to appear to be a push-over.”

“A bit!” She shrieked. “He reduced you to a fainting fit and he drilled so deep into my brain I thought he’d hit oil.”

“Yes. I know he did, well at least for my part, I wasn’t there when he interviewed you.”

“Interviewed? Interviewed!!?” Chrissie squealed between deepening sobs. “It was like the Spanish Inquisition. He went deeper than Sandie or Doctor Bridgette ever dug, and in front of all those people!”

By now I had my arms around the hysterical kid and David just stood there baffled by events. I motioned with my head for him to return to the cottage. It would do no good trying to explain stuff in front of the young man.

He mouthed silently, ‘is everything okay now?’ and I nodded so he returned up the lane.

Chrissie continued sobbing hysterically and her shoulders heaved with despair. Eventually I managed to gently turn her to face the cottage and slowly, ever so slowly, I persuaded her to return with me. All the time my arm was around her shoulders as they continued heaving massively and she buried her face into my blouse. Soon the chill of her tears caused me to shiver slightly and she stopped as she realised that I was soaking.

“Oh. Now look, I’ve made you all wet. I’m sorry.”

I realised she was recovering from her distress because she was now concerned about my wet blouse.

“It’s not a problem, Chrissie. You can cry all you want. If it helps you let it out then go ahead.”

She reached up and extended her lips inviting me to kiss them. I realised it was her way of saying thank you and I bent my head to engage her. Immediately she flung her arms tight around me and pressed her lips desperately to mine. I let her. It was not a sexual kiss just the desperate kiss of a terrified daughter seeking succour and reassurance from the only ‘mother’ she felt she could trust. We continued the embrace for several minutes before she finally relinquished her grip and we resumed walking more purposefully up the lane. She then turned to me as her composure returned.

“Are you telling me the truth? Was it really all just an act?”

“I think so Chrissie, well perhaps the greater part of it. To be honest I’m not sure how much of what he did to you and me was for real but since he came here this morning, my opinion of him had mellowed a bit. Yesterday I had the same feelings for him as you. I think it’s best if we both chat to him. He’s never actually seen us together like mother and daughter.

I continued hugging her with my arm around her shoulders as we finally reached the top of the lane to meet Judge Evans, Elizabeth and Dot, the Birmingham Social Worker. It was Dot who took it upon herself to approach us and Chrissie looked at her through red-rimmed eyes. Dot naturally reached out and added her arms to my embrace as she whispered to Chrissie.

“He’s not all bad Chrissie. He used to be a barrister and he often worked in the Birmingham family courts. I’ve known him from way back. He dealt with some tragic cases and he was appalled by what he discovered; especially the paedophile stuff. He was determined he wasn’t ever going to be deceived or hoodwinked once he sat on the bench.”

“So what’s he going to do with me? Will he let me stay here? With Mummy Bev that is!”

“He’s not allowed to say yet Chrissie. He has to give his official judgement from the bench. But I think he’s satisfied that you genuinely want to stay here and that you’re not being somehow held against your will.”

“Against my will!! How can he think that? I told him everything in the courtroom! I begged him again and again to let me stay here.”

“You’d be shocked, Chrissie, at the stuff we have to deal with. Children almost hypnotized into wanting to stay with their abuser. You would be stunned at some of the stuff we’ve un-earthed and he, Judge Harry Morgan was instrumental in exposing a lot of it. He really is the children’s friend.”

“Well it didn’t seem like it to me. Are you sure?”

“Well the best thing is for you to talk to him and to have Beverly beside you. He’s pretty much convinced anyway. Your four younger sisters were the ones who persuaded him that this was an okay place. He’s been chatting to them while you were off doing your thing. He was very impressed by their openness and precocity. Now if you come and speak to him again, I’m sure you’ll be able to finally convince him that you really do want to stay here.”

Chrissie turned to me her eyes wide with doubt.

“Shall we mummy?”

“It seems like we’ve got no choice darling, he’s coming over.”

Chrissie glanced nervously towards the approaching judge as she edged slightly behind me. Dot scolded her softly.

“Don’t be silly girl; he’s not going to eat you!”

Reluctantly, Chrissie emerged from behind me but I could feel the tension in her grip as she held onto my hand for dear life.

Judge Evans noticed her white knuckles and hesitated.

“There’s no need to be afraid Chrissie.”

“I still think you’re lying.”

“Well don’t. Normally I wouldn’t dare say something like this outside the courtroom but I can see you’re frightened. However, I’ve discussed this with my colleague Judge Elizabeth Porter and we’ve decided to make a very unusual exception. You can be sure that I will not be taking you away from this place. There, I’ve said it!"

Chrissie’s grip relaxed and she finally released my wrist. Judge Evans squinted at the ‘crush marks’ on my wrist and wagged his head thoughtfully. He extended a hand to invite Chrissie into his embrace and the girl edged forward whilst constantly glancing back at me.

“Go on. Don’t be frightened.” I encouraged. “He’s just told you. You’re staying here.”
With my words to reassure her Chrissie finally crossed the gulf that separated her from the judge both literally and metaphorically. As she stepped forward Elizabeth smiled and nodded encouragement as though trying to persuade a frightened fawn.

“It’s okay Chrissie, we neither of us bite.”

She hesitated again and asked.

“Can I have it in writing?”

Judge Evans smiled and wagged his head as he disappointed her.

“No Chrissie, you can’t. That would be a further breach of law, and a more serious one. Your parent’s lawyers have to be present in the courtroom for that. You’ll have to wait until we’re back in court next Wednesday. Besides, I haven’t brought any headed court paper; and anyway, my word is my bond.”

“Is that the same as like on the Baltic exchange?” Chrissie asked.

“Well good gracious young lady; I believe it is their motto. Where did you learn that?”

“Mummy Bev’s got some legal contracts with that on the heading.”

I nodded affirmation and Judge Evans smiled as he remarked.

“Your shipping affairs I presume.”

“Exactly you honour. Chrissie’s seen the contracts and the sums of money involved. I explained it all to her because she couldn’t believe that men would make verbal deals of such high value. In fact you couldn’t have chosen a better expression to convince her. I took her up to the Baltic Exchange a couple of weeks ago when I finalised the charter. The traders showed her around and she was very impressed with their honesty.”

“Yeah. They trade in Millions.” Chrissie added. “I’m gonn'a be a Baltic Trader when I grow up.”

Elizabeth and Judge Evans both smiled as their jaws sagged slightly. Elizabeth wagged her head as she remarked.

“Well normally it’s a nurse or a doctor or lawyer, but a Baltic trader, that’s a first. Come here girl, you deserve an extra hug for that one.”

Finally, Chrissie responded and stepped into Elizabeth’s embrace. Judge Evans immediately seized his own opportunity to reassure the girl so he bent down and kissed Chrissie on the forehead. Chrissie had the good grace to blush and then say ‘thank you’. ‘Thanks for letting me stay.’

“The pleasure’s all mine Chrissie. Come on young lady, let’s go and have some of that cake for which your mum is famous.”

Chrissie grinned and turned to me.

“Is that true mummy. How does he know about that?”

“I don’t know Chrissie, somebody’s been talking. Now run along to the kitchen and wash your hands before choosing some of the cakes from the larder. Cut them up into slices and we’ll be along shortly. We adults have some stuff to discuss.”

She released herself from Elizabeth’s arms and trotted contentedly into the cottage. I could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was a very relieved and extremely happy girl. I turned to Judge Evans’

“Thanks for referring to her as ‘young lady’. You’ve done her self confidence no end of good.”

We strolled back to the training ring as we discussed other aspects of Chrissie’s case and we arrived just as the new class of Birmingham children was starting out on their first trek across our fields.

 

 

---

---

 

We stood watching the Birmingham Children walking slowly out of the training ring into the large open paddock. The horses had become so used to the routine that they chose their positions in the line up with the children hardly having to do anything.

As Judge Evans watched he was quietly impressed.

“It’s like watching performing horses from a circus ring. Those children hardly have to do a thing.”

“That’s how Sian sets it up.” I explained. “She uses certain command words and the horses do her bidding regardless of the rider’s wishes.” It’s later on that the kids actually get to control their own mounts.”

“Good God. How does she do that?”

“Apparently when she was thrown out by her parents she met some Native American guy who taught her how to really communicate with horses. Later on he was on television, something to do with a thing called ‘horse whispering’, I think it was. Anyway, whatever it was, Sian’s got all those horses eating out of her hand. You should see them following her around like adoring children. It’s uncanny. Her main message to the kids is that if you show the horses love, then you’ll get much better results than beatings and cruelty. And she’s absolutely right of course.”

“Yes, of course!” Judge Evans agreed.”

“Same goes for Children,” Elizabeth added.

“In Spades,” I replied. “Sian introduces the children to the horses by asking the children to stand quietly in the ring and then inviting all the unbridled, unsaddled horses to come up to her for a treat. The horses are trained to walk slowly up to Sian and each nibbles a little treat in turn. Then they form a circle around Sian and gently nuzzle her. Next Sian invites each kid to come and touch the horses and before you know it the kids have got over their fear.

I doubt if any of those kids have ever touched a horse before today. She’s gentle with her horses and gentle with the kids. Sian’s a natural.

“Indeed,” Judge Evans agreed. “It’s a remarkable system.”

“Now the kids are mounted, she’ll walk them around the paddock for a few laps and then trek off across the farm.” By tomorrow, they’ll be ready for a short trek up the Dumplin. That’s that hill at the back of the farm.”

And thus it was. The judge stayed briefly to watch the children file out into the fields then he reluctantly made his farewells. As we bid him and Elizabeth farewell Chrissie turned to me and inveigled herself into my one-armed embrace.

“When do we go back to court?” She asked.

“It’ll be Wednesday.” I replied.

She twisted around and extended her lips hopefully towards mine. I bent down, gave her a brief kiss and we returned to the cottage. Angie was serving out lunch to the girls. They were chattering about the Birmingham children.

“Did you see that Arab girl, the one with the black head-scarf?” Chenille observed

“Yeah. She’s ridden horses before, and her brother has.” Jenny agreed.

“She was trying to get Buster to obey her but he’s programmed to obey Sian for now. He won’t do as she wants until Sian gives the word.”

All our girls, including Chrissie were familiar with Sian’s uncanny form of what seemed to resemble some sort of equine hypnosis. None of the horses would disobey Sian until she somehow released them. Don’t ask me how Sian did it, but she did.

Chenille continued. “She and her brother didn’t seem very happy that they couldn’t get their horses to do as they wished.”

“They’ll have to wait,” I added. “They may be able to ride but the other kids haven’t a clue.”

We continued eating our meal as the five girls speculated about the Arabian siblings. I listened as various ideas crossed the table. Then I decided to discreetly ask Dot or Andrew about them.

Dot was talking to Andrew in the little office attached to one of the warden’s flats. I knocked discreetly and they invited me in. Dot’s smile broadened.

“I think you’ve won Judge Evans over. He was laughing as he and Judge Porter drove away.)

“Well, I’ll wait and see,” I cautioned.

I had had too many disappointments throughout my life ever to count my chickens.

“Oh I’m pretty sure he’ll let Chrissie stay. I’ve known him a long time. He’s very impressed with what you’ve done here.”

“It’s mainly Sian’s doing,” I replied effacingly.

“Oh come off it Bev!” laughed Andrew, “who coughed up the bunce?”

“Well, yes, maybe I’ve got a better line of credit.”

“That’s not what your accountant Margaret intimated to me,” countered Dot.

“She shouldn’t tell tales!”

“She had to Beverly. The council has to know that enterprises like these are on a firm financial footing. The funding sources have to be checked to see that it’s all legal, above board and safe. It would be a calamity if bookings were made and then cancelled. Most of these kids have known little else but disappointment before they came to us. We strive to make sure that their lives have some certainty in them. Part of that certainty is knowing that places like yours are on a firm footing.

Already the older kids are clamouring to come here. Word gets around between each of our care homes. It would be catastrophic to have to disappoint them.”

“Well I’ll check with Margaret before I pass comment. I’m a bit surprised that you had to dig that deep.”

I wasn’t saying much. I gabbed quite openly about many things these days, even my transsexualism, but I still remained tight-lipped about money. Dot seemed to sense this and changed the subject.

“Have you thought about expanding this place?”

“Uuhhm–no. Funds just don’t run to it. There’s a big project afoot with my ship expanding the trade to Morocco and money’ll be tight.”

“Oh, that’s a pity. You could get a grant you know and some charities would be keen to get involved.” Dot Persisted.

I shuddered with uncertainty. The idea of other organisations somehow ‘taking over’ my retirement home and turning it into some

sort of institutionalised, national, riding centre for the ‘whatever’ left me cold. If that happened, I’d probably sell up, move

on and find another secret little place far away in deepest Wales.

Then I had second thoughts. My kids might hate me for that unless the horses came too and that would hobble Sian’s enterprise, in addition to separating Jenny and Bea from Chenille and Martina. The four of them had become virtually one family. I reflected philosophically that I had become a prisoner to fortune. My acquision of a family had removed my freedom to do entirely as I wished. And now of course there was probably Chrissie to think of. As a teen-ager she would be mortified to be stuck out in the wilds somewhere. She had become a ‘shopaholic city girl’ and relished the easy rail access to Southampton, Bournemouth and London even if it was on chaperoned visits. I reflected ruefully that I was ‘stuck with Rosy Cottage and deepest Dorset.’

Then I remembered my reason for visiting Dot.

“Can you tell me Dot, how the two Arab Children came to be in care?”

“They’re not Arab, Bev, they’re Kurds.”

“Oh. Sorry; but they’re still Muslims?”

“Yes. Why, is that an issue for you?”

“No. It’s just that Muslim families are pretty tight-nit affairs. I mean you don’t really get to see inside the Muslim community.”

“That’s true but this was a ghastly case.”

“Am I allowed to know?”

“Not really but it’s quite well known in South Yorkshire. It hit the headlines up north in Bradford because of this ‘Honour killing’ business that many of the more primitive Muslims have.”

“Oh.”

I was prepared to leave it at that. I knew about the Asian obsessions with family honour that transcended several religions including, Islam, Hinduism and Sikhism. I’d travelled extensively enough all over the world to be aware of it. I’d even encountered it on a ship once where I was second mate, way back in my early career.

Two of the able seamen came from the same village and there was some sort of blood feud that had spilled over onto the ship.

They started fighting and one got killed. It had shattered the peace on the ship and the whole crew had to be paid off in Singapore. Through absolutely no fault of mine, I had lost a good, well paid job that day but I soon moved on to another one.

There were plenty of jobs out there for properly qualified ship’s officers in those days. In fact I was offered a first mate’s position the very next day. It’s an ill wind.

I turned to leave, having satisfied my curiosity but Andrew called me back.

“Wait, Bev. Don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?”

I half turned still poised to exit the door.

“What? About an honour killing? There’s no story there. They occur almost every hour or even minute, all over Asia.”

Dot smiled indulgently.

“That reflects your perspective Beverly. That’s what I like about you. You’ve got a very broad mind and you’re not judgemental.”

I smiled wryly before replying.

“I’m a tranny, Dot, who am I to judge?”

“So you don’t want to know then.”

“Not really, but I suspect I’m going to be told.”

“It might give you an insight into the sorts of cases that are dumped in our laps. This one happened in Yorkshire and Cumbria.”

I sighed. ‘Did I really want to hear another distressing story?’ I asked myself.

“Okay then, tell me if you must. It’s not too distressing is it?”

“Make your own mind up about that but these are the facts.

The girl and the boy are twins, Maha and Emir. They are just turned eleven and they were born in Bradford to a wealthy local family of some considerable public standing in the Bradford Muslim community. Those two children were forced to watch their own mother being killed by her father and grandfather; that is their grandfather and great great-grandfather in an honour killing in a remote corrie in the Lake District. Apparently, their mother had tried to escape from an abusive arranged marriage to her first cousin; it’s very common amongst Muslims in Bradford apparently; after years of violent abuse.

The husband, that is the children’s father and the first cousin to their mother turned to his father and demanded that his father make the mother’s father, namely his uncle, punish the mother his daughter for adultery. All the woman had done was try to escape from an abusive marriage. Believe it or not, the grandfather to both husband and wife, that is Maha and Emir’s great grandfather decided if there was to be any honour killing, it was to be his privilege and he actually organised his grand-daughter’s murder.

They organised a brutal ritual killing late one evening in front of the children and all the rest of the family to teach everybody about family honour. The woman was dragged screaming from her refuge in front of hundreds of witnesses and carted off by the family to the Lake District where they smashed her to death with stones. Then they buried the body in a shallow grave. Both Maha and Emir were forced to watch this ritual slaughter but it naturally caused them unimaginable distress.

A sharp eyed teacher spotted their deterioration and somehow managed to eviscerate the truth from them after days of patient, careful, and very supportive attention. That teacher was a very wise and experienced woman who had learned an awful lot about the ways of the Islamic community in Bradford. Her class is virtually ninety five percent Muslim. When she finally managed to get enough of the facts from one or the other of the children, she managed to put together a workable scenario with enough facts for the police to work on.

She didn’t even bother with social services. She went secretly, straight to the Cumbrian Police. The police had to be extremely careful in dealing with the case and they had to technically arrest the children whilst they were at school and then quickly take them and the duty social worker and the teacher, because she was the only person the children trusted, directly to the lake district to try and find the scene of the crime. Fortunately there were some very prominent features nearby and the children eventually located their mother’s grave. They finally described the events of that evening and all hell was let loose.

It was one of the first cases with definitive evidence of the culture of honour killings being committed by Asians in Britain.

Several family members were immediately arrested and the case has yet to come to court. They are a very wealthy, extended family throughout South Yorkshire and they employed some very good lawyers; all of them Muslims.

Sadly for them, the police have mountains of hard forensic evidence, a fully identified body displaying multiple, fatal traumas, a grave and at least two valid, plausible witnesses. Not to mention a court system that these monsters have found impossible to corrupt or bribe, as they would easily have done in Kurdistan or many other Asian counties.

There were screams of protest from all over the Muslim community in Bradford demanding to know why the children had been spirited away but the courts and the police have at last realised that the children are now in as much danger as their mother was. They talked and that is a virtual death sentence in the eyes of the brutes that were their hugely extended family. There is no way these children can ever go back to Bradford and they’re only eleven for God’s sake! We’ve even had to give them false identities, look; the files have them listed as Jason and Pauline.”

“I see,” I nodded regretfully, “if fact it’s likely not safe for them even to return to their faith.”

“Crickey Beverly! You’re astute!” Andrew gasped “That’s one of the biggest issues for the children. The police are adamant that if their whereabouts become known to the Muslim community, the word will quickly get back to Bradford and a hit squad will be sent. This honour killing thing is one of the biggest manifestations of the gulf that separates western culture from the Asiatic one. And yet the children still want to go to the mosque to study Islam.”

“Shit! That’s a hard one.” I agreed. “So how do you reconcile their loyalty to Islam with the probability of their murder?”

“There’s an imam who runs a very westernised mosque near Warwick. He meets the children once a fortnight at a different venue and takes them through Islamic studies.”

“How can you trust him? If what you say about the Muslim community is true?”

“Oh come on, Beverly!” protested Dot. “Don’t be so blinkered. Not every Muslim is a fanatical terrorist you know.”

“No; I know that, only the Wahabist fanatics who are products of the Wahabist Madrassars financed by Saudi Arabia.”

“How do you know about–oh, of course, you’ve travelled in those parts haven’t you.” Dot concluded.

“And some,” I replied. “I’ve also met a thousand times as many perfectly reasonable and tolerant Muslims who would never dream of hurting a child. The problem is, their protests are drowned out by the Wahabist fanatics and threatened by the Wahhabist violence.”

“Yes, but it’s impossible to sort out the good from the bad, - the very bad, that is.”

“So this imam in Warwick, how come he can be trusted?” I asked.

“Well he’s trying to drag Islam into this century; at least here in Britain. He’s got some very modern views about interpreting the Koran and they don't sit well with traditionalist Sunnis or Shias.”

“Crickey! He can pick his enemies, cant he,” I grinned.

“Well there are several ‘fatwas’ out on his head but the extremists have so far been prevented from succeeding in killing him by the strength of his arguments that brings moderates to his side. His mosque in Warwick is full to overflowing. Any newcomer to the mosque is well vetted by several hundreds of dedicated protectors and new visitors are physically searched.”

“Huh, that seems a total contradiction to me,” I replied. “I mean, how can his mosque be deemed liberal when all newcomers have to be vetted and checked?”

“It’s sign of the times I’m afraid. There’s a very real risk of a suicide bomber being sent right into his Mosque. Islam is riven by divisions every bit as passionate and violent as the fissures in the Christian churches down through the same ages. He’s trying to engender a culture of tolerance amongst British Muslims as some sort of beacon.”

“Hah!” I scorned. “Whoever said the British were tolerant. You’re telling this to a transvestite-cum-almost transsexual don’t forget.

“Well the British are more tolerant than many other races,” countered Dot.”

I reflected silently on the patience and compassion of the Iranian judge who had worked so hard to get Jenny and Bea back to Britain. ‘Now there was a man who had demonstrated supreme tolerance,’ I thought ‘and in the face of some pretty dangerous threats.’ I didn’t contradict Dot’s statement but moved the conversation on. I was curious about this westernised, liberal Imam.

“So what sort of things is he saying that upsets the Wahabists?” I asked.

“Well he declares that the hijab and the burkah are not how women should be expected to dress in Western society. They are historical remnants of ancient Arab culture that always treated women folk as nothing more than reproductive devices to be traded like chattels. He says that the Koran only advises women to be modest and modesty in dress is a matter of culture, not absolutetism. A woman in a bikini on a western beach might consider herself totally modest even if she goes into the town to shop, she might even feel overdressed on a topless beach. It’s all a matter of culture and men should not tell women how to dress. He says that women are far better able to adjudge what is modest because they always have to be alert to male threat.

That makes the men the ungodly ones, not the women. It’s up to the men to follow the other instruction in the Koran that is to avert their gaze and resist temptation. There’s too much onus put on the woman and that is unfair and if it’s unfair then it’s ungodly. He says that Muslim men should drag themselves into the twenty-first century.

He also says that men and women should be allowed to worship together and that if men are distracted by a woman’s presence at prayers then they should address their thoughts; consider where they are, namely God’s house and to try and be more godly.”

“Crikey! No wonder the traditionalists don’t like him. With nearly all the imams in British mosques coming from the tribal areas and Wahhabist Madrassars of Pakistan, I’ll bet they hate him.”

“Let’s just say it’s brought him a certain notoriety amongst the traditionalists,” Dot added, “but he’s gaining a large following amongst the younger ‘home-grown’ Muslims, especially the more educated young women. Anyway this man, and I shan’t name him, gives Maha and Emir a Koranic lesson each fortnight because he has to spread himself very thinly. I’ve listened in on the lessons and they seem OK. He’s got very modernist ideas. If any other Imams tried to object, we in Birmingham Social services could rightfully say that we were taking legitimate steps to continue the children’s cultural and religious heritage within the constraints of the threats to the children’s lives and the funds available; although I must say that the imam gives of his lessons freely and that says a lot. We only pay his travelling expenses. He’s a very philanthropic man.”

“Seems perfectly fair to me,” I concluded’ “just one other thing though. Where did they learn to ride? My girls say that they obviously know their way around horses.”

“As I said earlier. They come from a wealthy family. They had riding lessons and they owned their own ponies. Anyway, riding comes naturally to an Arab. Haven’t you ever heard of an Arab horse?”

I reflected silently that a Kurd would probably object to being called an Arab just as a Welshman or Scotsman would object to being called English and I grinned philosophically. Dot was gently teasing me. Andrew smiled and I could see that they had a lot of paperwork to complete. Having satisfied my curiosity and now able to enlighten my girls I returned to the cottage. They were getting ready to go into town shopping with Angie and Chrissie. I told my children the story and it was a damned good thing that I did. They left to go shopping and I didn’t go with them; I had some work to catch up on with the Morocco File. It was coming to fruition slowly and occupying a lot of my time.

The following day, Sunday dawned warm and sunny. Sian had told the riders that because the weather was so fine she was taking them up the Dumplin a day earlier than she intended to and if the Social workers wished to accompany their wards they were welcome to. This would empty the trekking centre of all its horses. It also meant that sometime that day, Sian would give the message to the horses and the horses would be under each rider’s individual control. Apparently she started doing this as each child began to gain confidence.

Naturally, the moment they felt free, Maha and Emir decided to show off and started galloping away from the party. Sian had long realised that the twins were excellent riders but she felt obliged to keep tabs on them. Despite Sian calling to them, the twins continued along the bridal path and were soon out of Earshot. Sian had to chase them on her hunter while Sylvia kept an eye on the others. They came back looking very sheepish for it was the first time they had experienced discipline whilst out riding.

Previously, before their mother had been murdered, they had enjoyed the freedom of the Yorkshire moors when out riding. They had been indulged and spoilt by the same men who had killed their mother for when out riding previously one of those same men had always accompanied them and chaperoned them.

It had been a ghastly shock for them to have endured such a wicked betrayal. Horses and riding had become synonymous with their trauma when those same men their great-grandfather and grandfather had murdered their mother. Consequently they were somewhat unsettled by the return to riding and when Sian had berated them for riding off, they both burst into tears. Sian was nonplussed by the sudden change in the twin’s demeanour and it was her first real insight into the extent of the damage some of the children had suffered. She suddenly found herself with two distraught eleven-year-olds crying hysterically until Andrew quickly came forward and restored some calm. It was a salutary lesson and an epiphany for both Sian and Sylvia. Despite their own hard roads from childhood, they now realised that some of these children had walked, and were still walking, a far rockier
road.

While the trekkers were up on the Dumplin and my girls were shopping and James and Belinda had gone to a birthday party with Margaret, I found myself alone at the cottage. It was nice to stand in the yard that was normally so busy and savour the silence of that warm Sunday afternoon. I had never found the place so silent since the first days I had bought the place. It brought back memories of those early peaceful weeks and I sighed as I looked around.

`Crickey, Bev,’ I thought with an uncertain smile, `things have certainly moved on around here. Whatever happened to that secret little bolt-hole with roses around the door? You’ve come a long way, girl.’

I decided to pour myself a long cool white wine and soda, and a jug of cold lemonade then take my laptop with me to the patio and get on with some more work on Morocco. The business plan in response to the Tangier Port Authority’s offer was all but complete; just a few loose ends to tie up before I flew out on the Tuesday. I could hear the soft, distant growl Mr Turpin’s tractor in the fields across the vale and that was the only sound to disturb the afternoon’s silence. It was a comforting sound, not too intrusive but somehow reassuring and even neighbourly. I settled down to a warm, comfortable afternoon’s summarisation of the business plan.

It was about three-ish I suppose when I heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the lane. I stirred reluctantly and peered around the corner of the patio to see an unfamiliar 4x4 picking its way between the high dense hedges of the lane to finally arrive in the yard. At first I intended to go and meet it but its approach speed told me that this wasn’t some casual horse owner or equestrian participant looking for some equestrian activity.

The vehicle bounced into the yard and slewed to a stop as four individuals of apparently Asian origin scrambled out and started immediately searching. This was not a friendly visit and I immediately remembered Dot’s words about the hunt for Maha and Emir. They meant business as they shouted to each other in some foreign language. It was not Arabic, for I knew quite a bit of that important Semitic language so I presumed it was some other tongue like Farsi or Urdu or Kurdish. Whatever language it was they were definitely not friendly. I hid down in the small ha-ha that separated the patio from the orchard and quickly dialled my mobile phone. I knew I could not get hold of Sian or anybody riding on the Dumplin so I decided to call Baroness Wemite who’s large house lay on the opposite side of the hill. More importantly, if she was in, she would be able to saddle one of their horses and get a message to Dot, Andrew and Sian. My next call was to be an emergency one to the police but I never had time to make it.

My heart gave a leap of joyous relief when the Baroness answered almost immediately.

“Hello. Sally Wemite?”

I whispered urgently into the phone.

“Sally! It’s Beverly! This is urgent. Sian has a riding party of Children out on the Dumplin. You must get a message to her urgently. I’m in danger making this call. I’m down at the house and some thugs have arrived looking for two Children. Just tell Sian and the Social worker that four Asian thugs have arrived looking for the children and they seem to mean business. Then tell the police about me. They are trespassing on the farm and I can’t hide much longer. They are searching the whole farm for the kids.”

“What the hell’s happening, Bev,” Sally gasped.

“I’m in danger. Just get that bloody message to Sian. She’s trekking on the Dumplin! Hurry!

Sally was nothing if not sharp and she immediately despatched her son Peter with the message. I had great cause to be thankful that Sally was such a proactive quick thinking individual. She immediately advised me to act as though I didn’t know anything and to continue talking to her as though it was a perfectly normal social call.

“Pretend we’re exchanging recipes,” she suggested.

I grasped her reasoning and decided to let the thugs find me as though I was innocently talking to Sally on a typical tete-a-tete between friends on a Sunday afternoon. I stood up from the ha-ha and walked towards the fruit trees chattering idly as I went.

As soon as one of the thugs emerged onto the Patio he saw me and shouted at me in English. “Hey, you!”

I turned and regarded him civilly as I tried to keep calm.

“Are you speaking to me, sir?”

“Yes, you!”

“Do you realise that you are on my property and it would be good manners to address me as Ma’am or Miss! What do you want?”

“Where are the children?”

“What children?”

“The children! The children! Where are they?”

“Which children. There are dozens of children!”

“Don’t mess with me, you bitch! Where are the children?”

I repeated my earlier declaration with a bit more confusion and anger. The longer I could sow confusion, the better the chances of the children escaping.

“What children, which children? D’you mean my children, the council children, the other children, which bloody children. There’s dozen’s of them around.”

He looked fit to explode but as they had so far found nothing but some clothes and footwear obviously belonging to numerous children the gang had nothing to go on. The leader then appeared and stamped towards me.

“Listen, you stupid bitch. We’re looking for two children, two Muslim children who have been kidnapped by the infidels.”

“Infidels. Where the fuck do you think you are? This isn’t some stupid tribalist cesspit full of Wahhabist idiots. This is Britain. There are no infidels here.”

“Yes you are. You are the infidel!”

“No I’m not! I’m Christian; I have a Gospel and a scripture. Even The Prophet’s own teachings in the Koran, (Peace be upon him.) declare Christians and Jews to be ‘children of the book’. A Christian is not an infidel!”

“My knowledge and my use of the respectful form of address for The Prophet flummoxed him. Obviously here was somebody who knew something of the Koran and I knew I was on fairly safe Muslim theological ground. The Koran clearly stated that Christians were children of the book and not to be considered as Infidels. Infidels were ‘unbelievers’.

I made him hesitate for a few seconds and seconds counted. Then the first one stepped forward.

“Who were you talking to just then?”

“What, on the phone? I was speaking to my friend Sally.”

“What about?”

“Bloody hell! Everything! What d’you think women talk about; recipes, the children, the weather, holidays, husbands, sex, money; everything! You bloody name it! I’ve been chatting to Sally for nearly an hour.”

I threw the phone at him and he checked the last number dialled. Fortunately on my older type mobile, it only listed the name and number, it didn’t show how long I’d been talking. The name ‘Sally’ tallied with the phone and he was forced to take my word.

“Who’s this Sally?”

“My friend! Ring the bloody number and ask her? What the hell are you doing here anyway?”

“We’re looking for two children–two children of the faith.”

“Which faith?”

“Don’t mess with me, woman. The two Kurdish children.”

I pretended total ignorance and wagged my head incomprehensibly.

“Kurdish children? What Kurdish children. They’re all from Birmingham, that is apart from my own and my friend’s children.”

“There are two Kurdish children; a girl and a boy–twins!”

I shrugged again and lied. The more time I could delay these thugs the better.

“I’m sorry. I don’t recollect any Kurdish children. There were four black kids.”

The leader cursed with impotence for they had expected to find all the children on and around the farm. It was a pure accident that Sian had taken them out on the Dumplin because of the fine weather. The whole trekking centre was empty but for me. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me across the yard to where one of the others had found the Social services paper work.

“What’s this?”

I peered at it thoughtfully then shrugged again.

“It looks like the paperwork. The details and the plans for the kid’s holiday. Look there’s a list of names.”

He snatched it from my hands and studied it feverishly. There were no Kurdish names or any other Islamic names. Finding nothing he gave an oath and started shouting in Urdu into his mobile phone. I noticed the mood of his associates begin to change. They were getting nervous. This in turn made me nervous. Whenever criminals get nervous because things are going wrong, they start to act out of fear first then panic. Panic often causes the bad things to happen.

To add to the tension my mobile phone started to ring. The thug holding it started nervously then stared at his boss looking for guidance.

“Give it to her. It may be that Sally woman calling back.”

“The second thug stared at the call identity but didn’t acknowledge the identification to his boss. I realised that he probably couldn’t read English. He offered the phone to the boss who cursed and passed it to me.

“It’s Sally. What shall I do?”

“Answer it, put it on voice!”

Sally’s voice came over and I realised she had already garnished from Sian the nature of the situation. She would never have called otherwise and she must therefore have something important to impart.

“Hello? Is that you Bev? We got cut off.”

I looked towards the leader and he nodded nervously while motioning with his hand to ‘wind the call up’.

“Yes.” I replied. “I dropped the phone by the ha-ha.”

“Oh. Good. This area’s just so bad for reception. Listen, I sent Peter out for those two chickens we were talking about.”

For a moment I was flummoxed then I realised ‘for chicken, - read child’.

“Oh, - yes! Did he get them then?” I stuttered back as I picked up the thread of Sally’s ploy

“Yes.”

“Well I’ll be over to pick them up sometime tomorrow. I’ve got to go now. Bye-ee.”

I hurriedly closed down my mobile and passed it to the gang leader. He snapped it open to check the call history then frowned uncertainly.

“What was that about?”

“We were discussing a chicken recipe before you so rudely invaded my property.”

“Why two chickens?”

“Hello, earth to stupid! There’s me, four youngsters, two toddlers, a teenager and three other adults who feed at my table every day, how far d’you think one bloody chicken would go?”

He ignored my ‘stupid’ remark, which told me he was preoccupied with things going pear-shaped.

“There’s plenty of food in that other building.”

“That’s not mine. It’s for the Birmingham kids and the Social workers. They brought it with them!”

“So where are they now?”

“Somewhere up on those hills.”

“How many of them?”

“All of them. D’you see any kids or social workers around here?”

I was giving him information without it being useful. Yes, the trekkers were on ‘those hills’ but nobody knew where. Yes, all the children had gone with all the social workers but I hadn’t said how many. He cursed and asked again.

“How many!?”

“I don’t know. I don’t run the trekking business. You’ll find it amongst the paper work in that office.”

Again this was my ploy to delay them. I wanted time for Sally Wemite to get the kids to safety. My biggest fear was that if the police failed to arrive in time and the thugs caught up with the trekking party then they would recognise the missing count. There would be two children missing.

The leader was forced to check through the list they had found because his three associates could not read or write English, (Such is the insularity of the Bradford Muslim population.)

So many arranged marriages are conducted to get British Asians to marry Pakistani cousins that the community has almost isolated itself from main stream British life. Even the leader had trouble with some of the British names.

I realised this would now add to their disadvantages for ignorance would contribute to any delays. Once these thugs were outside their Islamic bubble they were vulnerable.

Additionally I had not counted on Sally and Sian’s fortitude, nor the bravery of Sally’s children Peter and Melanie. They had substituted themselves for Maha and Emir and their false English identities of Jason and Pauline would match up with the names on Dot’s fake list. Everything would tally if the thugs managed to find the trekkers and force themselves upon them. Maha and Emir would simply not be there.

Having got little from me, the thugs decided they would go and search for the trekkers but they no idea where to start. They looked at me but I could not discern what they were saying. Two of them were obviously at odds with the other pair. The leader approached me again.

“Which is the way up onto those hills?”

“Well, you could try the direct approach, that is straight up over the fields but your vehicle might get stuck in the deep gullies at the top. Or, you could go around via the lane and take the Salisbury road when you come to the junction. A couple of miles along there and you take a right that puts you directly onto the bridle path. The main gate is locked to vehicles though. Only the horse and pedestrian gates are open.”

He sneered as he bragged. “A couple of bloody locks won’t stop me.”

I shrugged, hoping that they would fall to their own macho bravado and choose to attack the Dumplin head on and get stuck in the gullies. To a 4x4 the hills looked temptingly close and an approach from my fields looked easy. It wasn’t until one topped the higher ridges that one encountered the impassable gullies that ran parallel to the bridal path on my side. They were old prehistoric cart tracks that had further eroded to impassability with the millennia and later travellers had gradually developed the more modern path on the north side of the crest.

For once the leader showed some sense and decided on taking the normal rout via the road. This however would eat up more of his time. They glared at me for one last time then smashed my mobile on the concrete and left me stranded–or so they thought, in the cottage yard as they screamed off down the lane. They had ripped out all the phones they could find but they had missed the small Trimphone under the mountainous piles of paperwork in my study.

‘The idiot who had searched my cottage must have been plain stupid,’ I thought. ‘A study-cum-office was the obvious place to have a phone. Why hadn’t he searched more diligently?’ I wondered.

I concluded it was fear for they were now in an even greater hurry.

As soon as I deemed it safe, I called the police and enlightened them of the thug’s likely course of action. It was now out of my hands. My next course of action was to enlighten Sally the baroness.