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At dawn, which at that time of year came about six-ish; Angie gave a soft murmur then rolled over to find she had acquired company during the night. Her stirring awakened me for I still slept ‘cysgu ci-dafadd’ (sheep-dog sleep,) in Welsh. She smiled as our sleepy eyes met over the head of our sleeping foster-daughter.

“What time did you two finally come to bed?” She whispered softly.

“’Bout three-ish,” I replied.

“I’m getting up. I went to bed early last night. After the make-up session the kids were just so wound up they needed an extra long story.”

We both rolled carefully out of bed so as not to disturb the sleeping beauty between us and we both slipped silently into my bathroom.

“D’you want to shower first?” I whispered. Angie gave a little giggle and smiled invitingly.

“Shall we shower together?”

“Oooh are you sure you want to do this?” I cautioned. “I mean we hardly know each other.”

“Oh don’t be so silly! We’ve been sleeping together now since whenever. Think of it as the next small step.”

“Step to what?” I asked.

“Well; your recovery for one thing, and mending your hang-ups about sharing a bed. I’ve been reading about cases like yours. For example prisoners would often get attacked in the washrooms. Was it like that for you?”
I fell silent as my old familiar tension crept to the surface. In borstal, the showers had always been a deadly trap and I had been the victim of many an unwanted advance in them. Angie sensed my fear and she reached out her arms.

“It doesn’t have to be like this you know. I’m not going to attack you; look, I’m inviting you to come into my arms voluntarily, from the front. Where’s the harm in that?”

Angie noticed that my gaze had not fallen on her attractive female attributes but they scanned nervously from left to right as I followed her extended fingers. She had been unthinkingly wiggling her fingers and beckoning me in with a wrist motion that made her hands resemble the claws of some giant arachnid. Her unwitting actions had only concentrated my mind on what such other inviting hand actions had done to me as a child. She suddenly realised that my apparent fascination with her fingers must have mirrored my fears. As it dawned on her, she stopped immediately and caught my gaze at it finally lifted away from her now static hands to look her in the eyes.

“My God Bev! Was it always like that; always a betrayal?”

I nodded tearfully and put my head in my hands as I leant against the sink. Angie moved cautiously forward as though approaching a skittish mare. Gently she placed her hand on my arm and whispered.

“I’m not going to hurt you; d’you understand that? I’m not going to hurt you.”

For a moment I tensed at the gentlest touch of her hand but I let it stay there. “Surely I could trust Angie,” I told myself as the black memories lurked in my mind and steadfastly refused to budge.

I thought back to the brief sexual encounters I had had with Sian and Margaret. There had been no attempt at emotion and I had recognised the sexual acts as little more than that. Simply a means for Sian and Margaret to indulge their parental ambitions. Once they had achieved their aims the connection was closed, or at least any emotional connection to Sian and Margaret. Yes, they had used me, but I had little problem with that. Most trannies grow up, at least in their childhood and teenaged years, with little self esteem. After all their needs are secretive, farcical and the subject of much humour. With little or no self esteem it’s but a short step to allowing oneself to being used and or abused. I had been used, but so what, I had always considered myself as shit anyway.

The fact that Sian and Margaret had indulged me hugely by letting me maintain a close and loving relationship with my very own children James and Belinda; had come to me as a huge, unexpected and utterly delightful bonus. It seemed to me that is was the first time that anybody had actually done me a real favour without seeking something in return. At least I still had access to and a firm relationship with my very own children and they shared in the beauty of our extended familial affairs. But this–this insidious development–where Angie seemed to be somehow getting inside my defences, inside my vulnerable psyche; this was something I was truly afraid of. It was something that would take me time to address, and lots of it. After all these thoughts had raced through my mind, I regretfully refused her invitation to shower together. Angie was disappointed but accepted my refusal. At least she was beginning to understand.

The physical intimacy was not that important but the potential for emotional entanglements left me worried. She showered quickly then relinquished the cubicle to me. She did however wait for me to emerge and smiled as she handed me the large bath blanket. She had also heard the girls stirring noisily in the next bedrooms so she had thoughtfully gathered dressing gown from my bedroom to add to my panty-girdle and all-in-one so that when I emerged from the bathroom I would not be immodest. When we did emerge, we found a sleepy Chrissie trying not to look annoyed at having been torn from her slumbers by four giggling ‘younger sisters’ who had appropriated Chrissie’s right to a peaceful `lie in’. Chrissie immediately demanded my support to turf the interlopers out but I enlightened her amusedly.

“It’s not your bed Chrissie, it’s mine. The girls have as much right as you to come visiting. And anyway, shouldn’t you be getting up. Sylvia will be wondering where you are.”

Chrissie rose grumpily and stumbled to the bathroom. I reflected on her bad mood; there can be nothing more ill tempered than a teenager that has been dragged from its bed after only three and a half hours sleep. Once Chrissie was in the bathroom, I flung myself on the bed and started to tickle the kids. Angie immediately joined me and soon the bedroom was filled with delighted squeals that rang out across the yard. When Sian and Sylvia joined us later for breakfast there were questions about ‘all the noise’.

“We could hear it across the yard. You should keep your windows closed.”

“Could Mr Turpin hear it?” Angie countered.

“Don’t be silly. His farm is a mile away.”

“Well there you are then. That’s why I chose this cottage in the first place.” I argued. “We can scream or shout to our heart’s delight and nobody is affected.”

“You started Belinda off crying and that started James off.” Sian scolded.

“Well bring them to me. I can cuddle them. I am there mummy-dad after all.”

“Don’t worry. We intend to, and where’s that sleeping beauty?”

“Who? Chrissie?”

“Yes.”

“I’m here, why?” A sleepy voice interrupted as a yawning Chrissie appeared in the kitchen doorway, “what’s for breakfast?”

“You’ve got the stables to muck out.”

“No, I said breakfast. I don’t eat horse shit.”

“Well eat the oats on the kitchen table then you can see to the oats in the stables.” Sian Riposted.

“Neigh, neigh, thrice times neigh.” Grinned Chrissie to the general groans around the table.

Eventually, despite more pathetic attempts to continue the pun theme, we got through breakfast and I gratefully put the girls into the car to drive them to school. I had to meet Margaret in town then accompany her to a management meeting down in the docks. It was just another day in my so-called retirement.

A few weeks later we got notice of the court hearing for Chrissie’s forthcoming adoption. By this time she had started on her hormone regime after she had deposited a suitable sample of viable sperm in the sperm bank. On the morning of the hearing Chrissie had a fit of the heebie-jeebies and it took all of Angie and my efforts to persuade her to attend. I was delighted to learn that Elizabeth Porter had agreed to sit in on the hearings but she was only an observer because of her known connections to me and my previous adoption of Jenny and Bea. The day before the hearing, Elizabeth had arranged to meet me privately and offer a few pointers. In a quiet backroom of a discreet restaurant in Salisbury she tipped me the wink.

“As you’ll know, Chrissie’s parents have hired a crack barrister from London who has been paid for by the fundamentalist church they attend. He’s good, really good and he knows his law.”

“It’s not law that’s the issue here,” I sighed dejectedly, “it’s Chrissie’s safety and sanity.”

“Yes. You know that and I know that because we’re from the alternative community but this judge is a bit of an old crusty. Despite his youth, he’s known to have relatively conservative views about ‘traditional family values’. It’s fairly certain that he won’t allow Chrissie to be returned to her parents because of Chrissie’s attempted suicide. That more or less precludes such action by the court and also because of the previous established record of violence towards Chrissie. Her parent’s visit to the farm and the attack on you has done their case no end of damage. However there’s the other side to this coin. He’s not the most liberal of judges when it comes to same sex relationships and same sex parents. You’ll have to pick your way carefully. Fortunately, I’m senior to him and he will be looking over his shoulder a bit. He knows about my more liberal views and my unmarried motherhood state is no secret on the circuit. However, he doesn’t know I’m gay, nor do any of my brethren and I’ve got you, Sian and Margaret to thank for that. Now here’s what I think is the best plan of defence.”

I listened as Elizabeth gave me some vital pointers as we picked our way through a light lunch that I had to pay for. Eventually we worked out a viable strategy using important parts of new European legislation concerning human rights and transphobic misconduct. I wished I could have had my own barrister beside me but that would have utterly compromised Elizabeth’s right to sit in as an observer. The barrister would have been in serious breach of professional rules for as it was, Elizabeth was sailing close to the legal wind. The reason she had chosen (rightly,) to refuse to hear the case was because of her known friendship with me. Fortunately, that friendship enabled her to legitimately dine with me as a friend.

The following day, Tuesday, the hearing commenced.

Eventually I hardly had a part in the proceedings. The judge was much more concerned with Chrissie’s safety and he spent the whole of the first day privately interviewing Chrissie. On the Wednesday morning Sandie and her colleague took the judge through the learning concerning the latest ideas about transsexuality and he emerged a very thoughtful man. It prompted a second interrogation of Chrissie in the court on the Wednesday afternoon with all the parties present and I was impressed with Chrissie’s performance. For a frightened, fourteen-year-old kid, Chrissie performed admirably.

She was adamant she wanted to remain where she was and to demonstrate this she had resumed her schooling. She explained that despite the privation of struggling to keep her physical gender a secret and choosing to ‘live in her preferred gender’ she was determined to stay with Angie and me because that was where she felt safest and happiest. The judge tried several different tacks as he considered different solutions but always they came to grief on Chrissie’s avowed determination to remain with me. On this she refused to budge and at fourteen the judge was forced to give Chrissie’s feelings their proper due. She had after all, already demonstrated an adult degree of maturity by choosing to live in her preferred gender role and this was supported by her doctors who both supported Chrissie’s choice of finding her new home amongst those who best understood her needs.

On the Thursday morning Betty the Social worker was called and I was delighted to hear her paint a glowing picture of my cottage. How she and her team had been so relieved to have been able to find a genuinely safe place for a transsexual child who had already suffered considerable trauma. She explained how her department had been doing back-flips in their desperation to find the child a place of genuine safety. On learning of my place from the county psychiatrist, (Sandie) she had clutched at the straw and been very pleasantly surprised.

“So,” the judge pressed, “would you use the facility again?”

I seethed silently at the description of my beloved private home being described as ‘a facility’ but I bit my tongue. Anyway there was no need for me to protest, Betty soon put him right.

“Your honour, the Rosy Cottage is not a council run facility. It is a private dwelling owned by Miss Beverly. The fact that she has inadvertently discovered and adopted two other waifs and strays who suffered almost fatal trauma in the tropical seas was simply an accident of location and local politics. Those two little girls have totally recovered from their incredible ordeal and that is in no small part owed to Miss Beverly’s compassion and care. The Dorset social services are satisfied that the cottage is a safe and suitable placement for Chris, or more correctly now, Christine.

As to your question if I would ‘use the place again’, I would have to say that if Dorset Social Services were encumbered of another sexually dysphoric child I would certainly approach Miss Beverly with a view to a similar solution. Though I must emphasise that Rosy Cottage is still a private dwelling belonging to Miss Beverly.”

The judge chewed thoughtfully on his lip and thanked Betty as he dismissed her. The next interrogation concerned Chrissie’s parents and they made fools of themselves. Despite obviously careful coaching by their barristers, their bigotry and prejudice showed through. When tackled about their violence towards their own child they had no proper defence and no plausible excuses.

It was exactly as Elizabeth had advised me; the judge had clearly decided there and then that returning the child into the obviously dangerous family environment was an obvious ‘no-no’. It was now a matter of what to do with the child.

After various other parties were called to give evidence it was finally my turn. Friday afternoon and it seemed to me like doomsday.

The experience was for me a nightmare. I have stood in plenty of witness boxes and indeed I’ve even stood in the dock before hostile judges but never before had I had my sexuality trawled through by a judge who had obviously researched transsexualism and also asked to see Sandie’s private case note about me. He even asked me stuff about myself that I had never known. Stuff going back to my childhood that Sandie had dug out and researched without me ever knowing. Apparently, Sandie had studied the academic literature and deduced where some of my records might lie. She had discovered some fragmented notes of the more auspicious situations concerning my years in the psychiatric unit but to a layman they would just seem to have appeared as gratuitous sexual indulgence. Only a good psychiatrist would have garnered anything useful and Sandie had decided that the material would have only distressed me to the point of harm if she had ever shown it me. Now this judge had accessed Sandie’s most private notes and he was using them like a howitzer to destroy me.

I was knocked sideways by his revelations and if I had ever felt like a rat on the laboratory bench as a child, this was far worse. It was like being the central target of a concentrated artillery barrage. I was blown away and Sandie was livid. Several times I just slumped with shock or despair as he produced an article from my notes that utterly contradicted my interpretations of events from way back in my childhood. Some of which I had utterly forgotten because everybody has different memories of shared events.

At the end of the interrogation, I was in pieces and I had to be helped from the dock like some hysterical misfit. It was late Friday afternoon and the hearing was over. I felt it was a set-up and I had been held until last to prevent me having a chance to see the notes from half a century before that Sandie had discovered and then counter the claims after a more reasoned and balanced examination of them. Most of the conclusions and remarks had been placed in the notes by long dead psychiatrists whom I had absolutely detested as a six-year-old prisoner. They had tortured me for God’s sake!!

When I finally recovered from my collapse in the courtroom, Sandie approached me with horror in her eyes.

“Oh shit Bev. I’m so sorry! I’m just so sorry. I had no time to warn you and it was my mistake to never reveal them to you. There’s just so much stuff in there that is totally wrong. I thought it would be too painful to expose you to it. That bastard judge is a monster. There are clear annotations to those notes expressing my reservations and total disagreements with their opinions. Things have moved on so much in psychiatry and that man used Neanderthal thinking to pillory you. I’ve already sent a strongly worded letter to his honour.”

“To what end.” I gasped between sobs.

“Oh to a very important end. His treatment of you was vicious. Did you see Elizabeth’s face?”

“I didn’t see anything. It was just a red haze to me, like a prolonged bomb blast.”

“Yes. I can well imagine. Well he’s not getting away with it.”

Eventually I made it, with Sandie and Betty’s help, to a cafe across the square from the courthouse. Sandie’s mobile rang. She switched it to ‘voice’ for my and Betty’s benefit.

“Sandie, it’s Elizabeth. How is she?”

“How do you think?”

“Well tell her not to be too worried.”

“Tell her yourself. She’s right here beside me in ‘The Coffee pot’ across the square.”

“Oh good! I’ll be over directly.”

We three settled to our coffees and pastries as we spotted Elizabeth hurrying across the square. I hoped she had some good news. I was still shaking.

For a moment I thought she was going to walk right past the cafe but she turned down a narrow side alley and slipped in through the other entrance from the car park. She gave us a reassuring wave and ordered her coffee then came to join us. We all looked at her expectantly as she settled into the fourth chair.

“Don’t be alarmed. He’s not as anti Beverly as he seems. I’ve just been discussing this afternoon’s interrogation with and it appears that because he’s not long been appointed he doesn’t want to be seen as a push over. He wanted his interrogation to be seen as rigorous and intensive.”

“Is that what he thinks it was?” Betty gasped.

“I did mention to him that he should not be looking at Bev as a man but as a woman and to go easy on the fairer sex. He acknowledged that you did pass for a woman but the records still showed you to be a man. He had some issues getting his head around that. He wants to come out and visit your cottage. If the set-up is as good as Sandie and Betty say then he feels he should come out and judge for himself. Will Saturday do?”

“What! Tomorrow!”

“Yes.”

“But we’ve got the new batch if kids from Birmingham coming tomorrow, plus some ordinary trekkers. It’ll be chaos!”

“All the better perhaps. Then he can see what really goes on. Plus he’ll be able to chat with the Birmingham social workers. I’m sure they’ll support you.”

I let go a huge breath. Elizabeth was right on that score. Dot and Andrew had sent Sian the analysis and decision by the full council meeting by Birmingham city council to include our modest little enterprise on their ‘favourites list’. We could not have wished for a better endorsement. I wondered why we had not made a bigger play of the trekking centre during the foster hearing. It had at least won the endorsement of one of the biggest social services organisation in Britain. I began to warm to the idea of a judicial visit. After all, Rosy Cottage and then later, it’s trekking centre, had won over many others before him, Sandie, Mrs Bodkin, Betty, Dot, Andrew and Elizabeth to name but a few. What was one more judge?

Thus reassured, we finished our coffees and went our separate ways; Elizabeth back to chambers to confirm the judge’s visit. Later I got her phone call on my mobile.

“He and I will be there about eleven.” She confirmed.

“Oh great!” I responded, “right when we’re at our busiest!

“Can’t be helped,” she added, “it’s the only time he’s got.”

I shrugged as I closed my mobile. Eleven o’clock it was then.

The following morning it happened exactly as I expected. The Birmingham children arrived by ten and we were still trying to create order out of chaos when Judge Evans arrived at eleven with Judge Elizabeth Porter. Chrissie was doing her level best to sort out the luggage whilst the Birmingham children milled around the stables generally exciting the horses and prolonging the disorder. Dot, Andrew and several other social workers were constantly counting heads and I would never have believed there were only twelve heads to count. It seemed like twenty with all the disorder. To add to the chaos, Mr Price had turned up with his team to work overtime that Saturday morning in order that the work on the alterations stayed on schedule. He often did it but usually with a few men to address a specific task that might have fallen behind. Now he had arrived ‘mob handed’ with his whole team to finish the work quickly because Margaret and Jane had found some work for him down at the port repairing some quays or something.

All in all, it was bedlam in my yard. Then to cap it all, as I was checking first the children’s luggage list, then Mr Price’s job-sheet and being generally up to my neck in organising a dozen different jobs, the two judges appeared at my shoulder.

“Busy?” Elizabeth asked, trying to make herself heard above the clamour.

“Of course I’m blood-! I snapped as I turned to find to my horror, Judges Evans and Porter.

“Oh. Shi- I’m sorry. So sorry, it’s just chaos here at the moment. It’s not usually like this. I didn’t recognise your voice, Elizabeth.”

Both judges smiled indulgently as they surveyed the activity. I desperately explained to Judge Evans.

“You’ve got us on a busy Saturday. The Birmingham party has just arrived, the builders have turned up unexpectedly and to cap it all there are about a dozen private trekkers come to exercise their own horses on the Dumplin because it’s such a beautiful day. They use the centre as a base to access the bridle path. Hence we’ve got all the horse-trailers and four by fours parking up along that wall. I’d invite you in for coffee but there just isn’t time. Watch your back. Here’s another horse trailer.”

The pair stepped smartly aside and frowned at the driver as he sheepishly apologised for his thoughtless driving and made a feeble attempt at a wave to demonstrate his remorse. I decided to invite the judges into the house to a place of safety.

“You’d better come inside the house. Some of these drivers are bloody stupid.”

In the kitchen Angie was making tea for the builders so I deposited the judges with her and left to resume marshalling operations in the yard. Eventually, by noon we had the situation normalised. All the private trekkers had left with their horses and the Birmingham children were under control inside the large training ring. The yard was silent and I sighed with relief.

‘Time to attend to the judges,’ I decided.

As I returned to the house I found the judges, Angie and Mr Price the builder sitting in the conservatory which was the most peaceful place on the whole site. They were sat drinking tea and I was relieved to hear them laughing so at least their mood seemed ok. That always helped if somebody was going to access you or judge you. I stepped into the conservatory, ‘the lion’s den’.

“Well good morning again ladies and gentlemen. Sorry about all that activity but you rather sprung the visit upon me.” Elizabeth smiled and nodded.

“That’s okay Beverly. It was our intention to find out the nuts and bolts anyway. We didn’t realise you were so busy on a Saturday.”

“It’s our busiest time.” I replied.

Mr Price nodded and added.

“I can vouch for that. I usually steer clear on Saturday unless I’ve got to meet a deadline.”

“Yes,” I replied tucking some stray hair back into my headband and fixing my bun” now your honour, what is it exactly that you want to see?”

He looked at my feminine fiddling with my hair and smiled. The smile was meant to reassure me but I rarely trusted smiles–childhood conditioning again. I turned from the mirror after checking my lippie and finally presented myself for the grand inspection. Judge Evans stood up and made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

“Well I’ve come to see the whole operation and I’m sorry about the short notice.”

“Well no harm done, at least you’ve seen how busy it can get. Where d’you want to start?”

“I need to see the set up for the boy Christopher or Chrissie as you call her.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes and Mr Price’s jaw sagged slightly as the judge inadvertently revealed Chrissie’s transsexuality.

“Well uuhhm, Christopher or Chrissie as we call her is busy in the stables. It’s her Saturday job.”

“Oh it’s not so much the child I need to speak to, it’s the accommodation arrangements.” Mr price harrumphed softly.

“That sounds as though you’ll be wanting to see the new bedrooms. Wait here I’ll get you some hard hats from one of the vans.” The judge turned mildly surprised but nodded and waited. He turned to me as Mr Price scuttled away.

“So there are big changes afoot.”

“Yes, Mr Price has had to refurbish all the bedrooms on the south side of the upstairs hall. I think you’ll be impressed with his work. I am.”

“Would that include the child Chrissie’s bedroom?”

“Yes. Her and Angie’s bedrooms were the first. They were completed nearly a week ago. Mr Price can show you his work schedule.”

I secretly sighed with silent relief. We could at least demonstrate that Chrissie had her own bedroom and en-suite bathroom. Mr price had stuck rigidly to the deal to do the bedrooms ‘two-at-a-time’ thus enabling Angie and Chrissie to have their own privacy during the alterations. The biggest problem was avoiding the inescapable dust and clutter and I had to hand it to Mr price, he had taken more than reasonable steps to ameliorate the problem. The upstairs landing had been longitudinally separated off and access to the rooms arranged according to where the work was going on. The last two bedrooms were nearing completion.

Eventually Mr price arrived with helmets for Elizabeth and Judge Evans while I collected mine from the coat rack in the porch. Yes for all Mr Price’s excellent efforts we could not avoid the house being a building site. Even as we prepared to go upstairs, Mr Price’s son David appeared at the top of the stairs with a heavy plastic bag of assorted rubbish on his powerful young shoulders.

“Gangway!” he called as we were forced to step aside.

“Always give way to the burdened,” I remarked, trying to make light of David’s apparent disregard for title or status.

“Yes. I worked on a building site as a student.” Judge Evans replied as he grinned again and squeezed himself against the wall.

‘Good,’ I thought, ‘he’s not up his own arse then; or full of his own importance.’

David lumbered past and we climbed the stairs to view the bedrooms.

To put it bluntly, Judge Evans was impressed and I was relieved. As we finished inspecting all the cottage’s facilities, we stepped out into the yard and he turned to me.

“That’s a very high standard. I never had my own en-suite when I was growing up.”

“Neither did I, but to tell the truth it just turned out like that. Originally this was to be my retirement bolt hole but events
overtook me.”

“Bolthole?” He queried.

“Yes. When I retired from the sea I was paranoid about my sexuality. It was my intention live here in splendid isolation. Nobody for a neighbour for at least a mile and the land surrounding me for that mile to be owned by me. Nobody could build next to me because I owned the land.”

“Why that’s a huge parcel of land.” That’s three decimal one four square miles or thereabouts.”

‘At least he’s numerate’, I thought as I replied.

“Yes, well needs must when the devil cracks his whip.”

“Meaning.”

“Well if God or the devil made me into a transvestite then I have no choice but to circumvent their intent. The land is a physical manifestation of the boundaries I set around myself back then when I bought this farm to protect myself.”

“That sounds as if your superstitious or deeply religious.”

“I don’t think a deeply religious person would try to circumvent God. Anyway, I’m neither; it’s a figure of speech.”

“A very archaic one.” He observed

I shrugged. My access to books had always been limited. I didn’t really know what was archaic and what was modern. As a child there were virtually no modern children’s books to be found in the unit, they were mostly old, small-print, second-hand, hardbacks that people had given away to charity, and even the charities had selected the best books to sell in their shops before dumping the dross on places like the psychiatric unit where I was put away. Later in my life, in borstal it was even worse.

Most of the thugs were illiterate. Before I had ended up at sea, I had picked up what little literacy I had where and whenever. I must have picked up the expression somewhere in my twenties when I was so desperate to address my academic shortcomings.
I had never been sure what, ‘needs must when the devil,-‘meant. In those days I was like blotting paper sucking up every written word and literary expression. I’d have read used lavatory paper if it had script. Later on, when studying for my master’s licence I found out.

“I suppose in your profession it would mean something like ‘Force majeur.”

He nodded thoughtfully as I demonstrated some legal knowledge that I had been forced to study in my gaining my Foreign-going Ship-master’s Licence.

“Very interesting,” he replied noncommittally. “Shall we go and see the stables?”

I had no idea why he should want to see the trekking business, after all that had little to do with me but who was I to question a judge? As we entered the stabling area Elizabeth gently pulled on Judge Evan’s arm and restrained him momentarily.

“Hold on a minute Harry. They’ll be hosing down the stables.”

“So what?” He wondered.

“The last time I arrived un-announced, I got a soaking. The girls were fooling around.”

Even as she spoke, there was a squeal from one of the empty loose boxes and Chenille erupted as Jenny pursued her with a shovel full of horse manure.

“Bugger me,” cackled Elizabeth as the girls pulled up short, “It’s de-ja-vu! Do you girls ever stop?”

“Sorry your lordship, grinned Chenille as Jenny slowly lowered the steaming shovel.”

Judge Evans stared down at the girls and smiled paternally at their shit stained faces.

“Are these urchins yours?”

“One of them,” I replied, “that’s Jenny, the one brandishing the shovel.”

“And the prey?”

“That’s Chenille, Margaret’s daughter.”

Judge Evan’s wagged his head with amusement as he looked down at the girls and asked.

“And do you girls always fight with horse shit?”

Both girls tried to suppress a smile at the judge’s use of the word ‘shit’ and their amusement only served to make the filthy faces even more attractive. They were in their filthiest sports shirts and shit stained jodhpurs so the shit was hardly an issue.

Chenille looked up boldly in their defence.

“We were only fooling about because we’ve finished the dunging out. Chrissie’s just wheelbarrowe’d the last load of horse-shit out to the compost pile.”

“Chenille! Don’t use language like that!” I scolded.

“Why not Auntie Bev? He just did.” She argued as she motioned her pretty head towards Judge Evans.

Judge Evans grinned conspiratorially.

“Touché Miss Beverly, the young lady is right. I did.”

I wagged my head in amused defeat and chuckled.

‘Well this man can’t be all bad,’ I thought. My opinion of him was improving slightly.

As we turned to go to the training ring the wheelbarrow suddenly re-appeared unaccompanied through the large double doors. It slid noisily along the concrete and came to rest neatly in its allotted recess as Chrissie appeared whistling cheerfully and walking across the doorway towards the same training ring that we were heading for. She had obviously practised the wheelbarrow manoeuvre many times and it clearly symbolised ‘job done’.

I called loudly to her down the working aisle.

“Chrissie! Judge Evans is here!”

She stopped in midstride and stared transfixed with suspicion at our group. Then her whole demeanour changed. Her whistling stopped, her smile disappeared and her shoulders fell. There could be no misinterpretation of her fear. Even Judge Evans noticed and he turned to Elizabeth.

“My God. Do we have that sort of effect on the kids?” He asked, totally forgetting the eight little ears that had now gathered to hover right beside us.

Elizabeth nodded slowly and mouthed ‘yes’ as I nodded simultaneously. Judge Evans looked soberly at me.

“You think it as well.”

“I don’t have to think it your honour, you just saw it. She’s dreading what you’ll do to her life.”

I think that moment was Judge Evans’s epiphany. He wagged his head slowly and sucked thoughtfully as he motioned to Chrissie to come to us. She approached reluctantly hardly daring to look any of us in the eye but shifting her gaze nervously like a trapped animal looking for an escape route. We could all see the dread in her eyes.

“What are you frightened of boy?” Judge Evans asked in as unthreatening a voice as he could muster.

Chrissie stared at him, wagged her head then started to tear up as she moved to put me between her and the judge. The act was clearly done to indicate where her fears lay and where her security lay. From behind my back she spoke softly.

“Tell him mum.”

I hesitated uncertainly as my mind raced to try and anticipate Chrissie’s feelings. Then I had a very rare flash of inspiration. For once in my insensitive life I actually realised what Chrissie was frightened about. I looked directly at judge Evans as I expressed my opinion.

“I think it would help, your honour, if you asked Chrissie what SHE was frightened of.”

He looked at me and squinted hard into my eyes but I held my gaze levelly. There was no doubt in my mind that Chrissie was terrified of somehow being denied the route that she had made abundantly obvious was the route she wanted to go, namely feminisation.

Judge Evans chewed his lip thoughtfully as he chose his next words carefully.

“Is that for definite Chrissie? You really do want to be a girl?”

She nodded vigorously.

“I told you in court, why won’t you listen? I don’t want to be a girl, I already AM a girl! I don’t want to become a boy! Why can’t you understand? Doctor Sandie understands, Betty understands, Mummy Bev understands, if you’re a judge and so clever why can’t you understand.”

I scolded Chrissie.

“Chrissie! Don’t be rude! Apologise immediately!”

“Why! Why should I apologise to some monster who’s going to ruin my life? Why? Why?”

Judge Evans’s eyes flashed with annoyance.

“What d’you mean, ‘ruin your life’?”

“You are! You want to stop me becoming a girl down there like I’m a girl up here; up here in my head! Where it really matters!! And now you want to take me away–away from the only place I feel safe and happy! I hate you! I really, really hate you!!”

With these angry words Chrissie ran sobbing out of the stables and disappeared down the lane.

I cursed and minced after her as fast as my two-inch heels would allow but bearing in mind Chrissie was in wellingtons she was soon beyond my reach. Fortunately As I stood cursing in the yard, David appeared out of the house shouldering another plastic bag of Rubbish.

“What’s wrong Miss Beverly?”

“Oh it’s that stupid girl! She’s only just gone and run away.”

“Where to.”

“Down the lane. She’ll probably try and catch a lift or something. She’s really upset.”

“D’you want me to go and get her?”

“Would you? That would be marvellous. Just try and calm her down until I can get to talk to her.”
David needed no further encouragement and he shouted to me to tell his dad where he’d gone. I did as asked then clambered into my Landrover. I found David remonstrating with the tearful run-away about a couple of hundred yards along the road.

“Chrissie! Chrissie!!” I squealed. “For God’s sake calm down.” Things aren’t as bad as you think.”

“Don’t lie! I heard him give you that awful grilling.” She squawked between heaving sobs. “I know I wasn’t meant to hear anything of the case, but I told Betty I was going out for a cup of coffee then I doubled back and slipped into the public gallery during the recess and hid beneath the empty seats. I saw and heard everything. He hates you and he hates me. He’s a brute. He’s just like my dad.”

“No Chrissie. It’s not like that. Honestly, it’s not. He’s a new judge. He was just a bit over-zealous because he didn’t want to appear to be a push-over.”

“A bit!” She shrieked. “He reduced you to a fainting fit and he drilled so deep into my brain I thought he’d hit oil.”

“Yes. I know he did, well at least for my part, I wasn’t there when he interviewed you.”

“Interviewed? Interviewed!!?” Chrissie squealed between deepening sobs. “It was like the Spanish Inquisition. He went deeper than Sandie or Doctor Bridgette ever dug, and in front of all those people!”

By now I had my arms around the hysterical kid and David just stood there baffled by events. I motioned with my head for him to return to the cottage. It would do no good trying to explain stuff in front of the young man.

He mouthed silently, ‘is everything okay now?’ and I nodded so he returned up the lane.

Chrissie continued sobbing hysterically and her shoulders heaved with despair. Eventually I managed to gently turn her to face the cottage and slowly, ever so slowly, I persuaded her to return with me. All the time my arm was around her shoulders as they continued heaving massively and she buried her face into my blouse. Soon the chill of her tears caused me to shiver slightly and she stopped as she realised that I was soaking.

“Oh. Now look, I’ve made you all wet. I’m sorry.”

I realised she was recovering from her distress because she was now concerned about my wet blouse.

“It’s not a problem, Chrissie. You can cry all you want. If it helps you let it out then go ahead.”

She reached up and extended her lips inviting me to kiss them. I realised it was her way of saying thank you and I bent my head to engage her. Immediately she flung her arms tight around me and pressed her lips desperately to mine. I let her. It was not a sexual kiss just the desperate kiss of a terrified daughter seeking succour and reassurance from the only ‘mother’ she felt she could trust. We continued the embrace for several minutes before she finally relinquished her grip and we resumed walking more purposefully up the lane. She then turned to me as her composure returned.

“Are you telling me the truth? Was it really all just an act?”

“I think so Chrissie, well perhaps the greater part of it. To be honest I’m not sure how much of what he did to you and me was for real but since he came here this morning, my opinion of him had mellowed a bit. Yesterday I had the same feelings for him as you. I think it’s best if we both chat to him. He’s never actually seen us together like mother and daughter.

I continued hugging her with my arm around her shoulders as we finally reached the top of the lane to meet Judge Evans, Elizabeth and Dot, the Birmingham Social Worker. It was Dot who took it upon herself to approach us and Chrissie looked at her through red-rimmed eyes. Dot naturally reached out and added her arms to my embrace as she whispered to Chrissie.

“He’s not all bad Chrissie. He used to be a barrister and he often worked in the Birmingham family courts. I’ve known him from way back. He dealt with some tragic cases and he was appalled by what he discovered; especially the paedophile stuff. He was determined he wasn’t ever going to be deceived or hoodwinked once he sat on the bench.”

“So what’s he going to do with me? Will he let me stay here? With Mummy Bev that is!”

“He’s not allowed to say yet Chrissie. He has to give his official judgement from the bench. But I think he’s satisfied that you genuinely want to stay here and that you’re not being somehow held against your will.”

“Against my will!! How can he think that? I told him everything in the courtroom! I begged him again and again to let me stay here.”

“You’d be shocked, Chrissie, at the stuff we have to deal with. Children almost hypnotized into wanting to stay with their abuser. You would be stunned at some of the stuff we’ve un-earthed and he, Judge Harry Morgan was instrumental in exposing a lot of it. He really is the children’s friend.”

“Well it didn’t seem like it to me. Are you sure?”

“Well the best thing is for you to talk to him and to have Beverly beside you. He’s pretty much convinced anyway. Your four younger sisters were the ones who persuaded him that this was an okay place. He’s been chatting to them while you were off doing your thing. He was very impressed by their openness and precocity. Now if you come and speak to him again, I’m sure you’ll be able to finally convince him that you really do want to stay here.”

Chrissie turned to me her eyes wide with doubt.

“Shall we mummy?”

“It seems like we’ve got no choice darling, he’s coming over.”

Chrissie glanced nervously towards the approaching judge as she edged slightly behind me. Dot scolded her softly.

“Don’t be silly girl; he’s not going to eat you!”

Reluctantly, Chrissie emerged from behind me but I could feel the tension in her grip as she held onto my hand for dear life.

Judge Evans noticed her white knuckles and hesitated.

“There’s no need to be afraid Chrissie.”

“I still think you’re lying.”

“Well don’t. Normally I wouldn’t dare say something like this outside the courtroom but I can see you’re frightened. However, I’ve discussed this with my colleague Judge Elizabeth Porter and we’ve decided to make a very unusual exception. You can be sure that I will not be taking you away from this place. There, I’ve said it!"

Chrissie’s grip relaxed and she finally released my wrist. Judge Evans squinted at the ‘crush marks’ on my wrist and wagged his head thoughtfully. He extended a hand to invite Chrissie into his embrace and the girl edged forward whilst constantly glancing back at me.

“Go on. Don’t be frightened.” I encouraged. “He’s just told you. You’re staying here.”
With my words to reassure her Chrissie finally crossed the gulf that separated her from the judge both literally and metaphorically. As she stepped forward Elizabeth smiled and nodded encouragement as though trying to persuade a frightened fawn.

“It’s okay Chrissie, we neither of us bite.”

She hesitated again and asked.

“Can I have it in writing?”

Judge Evans smiled and wagged his head as he disappointed her.

“No Chrissie, you can’t. That would be a further breach of law, and a more serious one. Your parent’s lawyers have to be present in the courtroom for that. You’ll have to wait until we’re back in court next Wednesday. Besides, I haven’t brought any headed court paper; and anyway, my word is my bond.”

“Is that the same as like on the Baltic exchange?” Chrissie asked.

“Well good gracious young lady; I believe it is their motto. Where did you learn that?”

“Mummy Bev’s got some legal contracts with that on the heading.”

I nodded affirmation and Judge Evans smiled as he remarked.

“Your shipping affairs I presume.”

“Exactly you honour. Chrissie’s seen the contracts and the sums of money involved. I explained it all to her because she couldn’t believe that men would make verbal deals of such high value. In fact you couldn’t have chosen a better expression to convince her. I took her up to the Baltic Exchange a couple of weeks ago when I finalised the charter. The traders showed her around and she was very impressed with their honesty.”

“Yeah. They trade in Millions.” Chrissie added. “I’m gonn'a be a Baltic Trader when I grow up.”

Elizabeth and Judge Evans both smiled as their jaws sagged slightly. Elizabeth wagged her head as she remarked.

“Well normally it’s a nurse or a doctor or lawyer, but a Baltic trader, that’s a first. Come here girl, you deserve an extra hug for that one.”

Finally, Chrissie responded and stepped into Elizabeth’s embrace. Judge Evans immediately seized his own opportunity to reassure the girl so he bent down and kissed Chrissie on the forehead. Chrissie had the good grace to blush and then say ‘thank you’. ‘Thanks for letting me stay.’

“The pleasure’s all mine Chrissie. Come on young lady, let’s go and have some of that cake for which your mum is famous.”

Chrissie grinned and turned to me.

“Is that true mummy. How does he know about that?”

“I don’t know Chrissie, somebody’s been talking. Now run along to the kitchen and wash your hands before choosing some of the cakes from the larder. Cut them up into slices and we’ll be along shortly. We adults have some stuff to discuss.”

She released herself from Elizabeth’s arms and trotted contentedly into the cottage. I could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was a very relieved and extremely happy girl. I turned to Judge Evans’

“Thanks for referring to her as ‘young lady’. You’ve done her self confidence no end of good.”

We strolled back to the training ring as we discussed other aspects of Chrissie’s case and we arrived just as the new class of Birmingham children was starting out on their first trek across our fields.