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.