---

---

 

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?