This chapter follows events after the and the court case that ensues concerning the 'Honour Killings' There is litle or no transgendered material in this 'interim connection' chapter but there is some philosphical exploration of the relationships between faiths and transgenderism. (Have I got an agenda here?) I ask myself. Possibly, even probably, yes.

After phoning the police, I enlightened the baroness.

“Hello! Sally? Yes, it’s safe to talk, they’ve gone.”

“Thank God for that. Where are they now?”

“They’re taking the Salisbury lane that eventually joins to the main road just past your house and St Angela’s School. I directed them to the Dawdle Gate where the bridle path crosses the road and I suggested that they try and access the Dumplin from that end.”

“That’s the long way round, it’ll take them twenty minutes along that winding lane and they’ll have to break the gate down. It’s locked.”

“Exactly, that’s why I suggested that way, it’ll waste more time. Are the police on their way?”

“They’re already here Bev. They’re at my house. Thanks for that information, the police can act now. They’re organising a road block right now.”

I heard her turn again to the police and suggest a location for the roadblock. It was where the lane narrows just before it passed the old forge. I knew Sally had recommended there because of the high stone walls and derelict buildings that would prevent them smashing through the hedges into the fields to escape. The police could also hide ‘mob-handed’ in the old forge’s stable yard. Then she turned to me again and I sagged with relief.

“Oh! Good, you seem to have got that in hand. I, - oh shit! I’ve just remembered; tell them I think these buggers are armed. I think I saw a bulge under one their jackets. I’m not sure though.”

“Ah. That puts different complexion on things. The superintendant is here with me now in the room. You’d better speak to him, - descriptions and all that.”

I heard her turn away from the phone and enlighten the police before a female police officer spoke to me again.

“Now the next main thing is, are you okay Bev?”

“I’m fine. Just had to change my panties but otherwise unharmed.”

The girl chuckled before replying.

“Miss Beverly, this phone is on broadcast now; everybody in the room heard that. Anyway it’s good you’re safe. I’ll be sending a car over shortly.”

“Why? You don’t need to come. How are the twins? They’re the ones that need looking after.”

“I’m afraid we do need to come over. It’s for your protection and we’ll need a statement while it’s fresh in your mind. Now as to your other question, the Twins are fine. Andrew the social worker is with them. He’s a nice guy isn’t he?”

“Okay. I get your point. Once these thugs are apprehended things should return to normal and hands off Andrew! He’s married with two kids. Now what’s the long term plan for the twins?”

“The main thing is security, - and secrecy. How did those thugs find out about the trekking centre? Did they intimate anything to you?”

“Search me Officer. Birmingham Ess Ess will have to address that. There’s a leak somewhere.”

“That’s bad news, oh; and call me Pat, short for Patricia, Sergeant Patricia.”

I heard some radio conversations in the background then she came back to me.

“It’s good news Bev. The police helicopter from Southampton has located them. They’re speeding along the lane just as you directed them.”

“Is the road block in time?” I asked.

“It will be, Baroness Wemite has just shown us on the map where the 4x4 is relative to the helicopter’s report. She’s got excellent local knowledge.”

I smiled to myself as I thought.

‘She flippin’well should do. It was nearly all her estate from Mr Turpin’s fields and my fields on both sides of the lane all the way to the main road.’ Baron Wemite, Sally’s husband, owned a huge tract of land. It would have looked respectable in Nebraska. I could only sit and wait now so I returned to that saving grace in all times of trouble; the kettle. Soon I was sipping my tea and waiting for news. Eventually a police car appeared in the yard and an attractive pair of police women emerged. Pat introduced herself and her driver Wendy.

“Are you up to giving a statement?”

“Yes. Be my guest.”

I described everything as best I could remember and Wendy took it down as Pat went to investigate the yard. She came back a few moments later.

“You didn’t mention that you’ve got CCT!”

My jaw sagged as I remembered. Sian had had it installed after the trauma of Chrissie’s parental visit. Shit! I was getting forgetful in my old age! I blinked and wagged my head slowly as I remembered. Pat grinned indulgently as I looked up apologetically.

“I, - I’m sorry. I completely forgot!”

“I’m not surprised, they’re very well disguised. Is the system working?”

“It should be. There are sensors that activate the system if anybody approaches sensitive areas like the stables or the yar-, the yard! Of course, the yard!! He was gabbling into his phone in the yard. Wendy reared back as I erupted from the table and scuttled across the yard to the secure room next door to Sian and Margaret’s bedroom where all important records and stuff was kept. The recording equipment was there. When Pat saw it she grinned contentedly as she informed her superintendant on her radio.

“No. It doesn’t appear to have been tampered with. The locks and everything seem intact; they don’t even seem to have got into the room. Can you send Fred up with his gizmos?”

The superintendant agreed and Pat motioned to me to return to the kitchen table to complete my statement.

“But you’ve got it all on video tape. You’ve got them bang to rights.”

“Yes Miss Beverly, but we still need your statement. This film will simply corroborate your statement and support your version in court and hopefully, very well I might add.”

I shrugged and did as requested, returned to my cottage kitchen to finish my statement.

Later, as Wendy was finishing the last line, there was a clatter of hooves in the yard. Sian and Sylvia had returned with the trekking party. We compared notes and concluded that the police roadblock must have succeeded. We asked Pat and she confirmed that they had four of them in custody.

“They wounded one of my colleagues but he’s not in danger. It was a gunshot wound in the arm, that’ll earn them another fifteen years.”

“Good,” I concluded, “maybe we’ll get some peace now.”

“Not necessarily Miss Beverly. They might try again. This is a very powerful family in the Islamic Yorkshire community.”

“Bloody hell,” I protested, “they’re not bloody warlords or something. This is bloody England for God’s sake!”

Pat shrugged her shoulders and made a wry smile.

“These are desperate people. We’ve had to detain several important witnesses in protective custody to protect them from their own family. Mostly other women and children from the same family who were also forced to watch.”

“Yeah, I got the gist from Dot yesterday. These honour killing things are something else.”

“Well this time we’ve got them.”

“I hope so. For Maha and Emir’s sake.”

“Amen to that.” Agreed Pat.

With these words, another police car arrived and Pat introduced the video technician Fred. Sian produced her keys to the armoured video recording machine and in short order he was replaying the video. The pictures weren’t bad but I was disappointed with the sound track.

“Don’t worry,” Fred assured us all. “I’ll clean this up in the lab, or at least a copy of it. This is too important as evidence. We’ll soon know who he was talking to.”

Fred was as good as his word and by the next morning, Pat was back in our yard. Dot and I met her as she emerged from the car and informed us.

“They’ve arrested a Muslim Councillor from Bradford for assault and a young Muslim lady social worker from Birmingham for disclosing information. They’ve broken the children’s act not to mention a million other laws. It’s Sorted Miss Beverly; we’ve exposed a mini conspiracy. These people were powerful bullies. Many people are afraid of them. We have already determined that the young social worker’s children were being threatened if she didn’t reveal what she knew. The background to this case is being blown wide open now we’ve made a breakthrough. There’s dozen’s of decent, law-abiding Muslims coming forward.”

“Okay.” I sighed with some small degree of relief. “I’m glad that issue looks as though it might be getting resolved. Now, what about Maha and Emir?”

“They’re safe. Only Dot and Andrew and the Baroness Wemite know where I’ve taken them.”

“You?”

“Yes. Dorset police have advised Birmingham SS that the children are now in protective custody awaiting the commencement of the trial of their grandfather and great grandfather.”

“Didn’t you object?” I asked Dot.

“This is a criminal case now Beverly. You were attacked by an armed gang on Dorset Police’s patch and one of their officers was shot! How much power do you think that we in the social services have?”

“Well the murder of their mother was a brutal crime but Social Services seemed to have a lot of say in the care of the twins.”

“That was an agreement with Yorkshire Police and Cumbria after the initial Police investigation. This is truly a police matter now Bev and this case is acquiring a huge political agenda. The home office is directly involved because it’s shed a light deep into some murky activities concerning illegal immigrations and forced marriages of British citizen’s to Asian criminals wanting to get into Britain. The boss of that gang who attacked your farm yesterday is quite a big wheel in their organisation.”

I breathed a deep sigh of relief and asked.

“Are he and his cronies going down? Or are we going to have to wait for yet another interminable civil rights hearing about some stupid immigration issue.”

“You can’t anticipate the law, Miss Beverly,” cautioned Pat. “Just remember the wheels grind slow but they grind small.”

“Too slow,” I riposted. “If what you said about them ‘trying again’ is true then there’s no safety for any of us.”

“That’s in hand Miss Beverly,” Pat replied, “your riding stables and trekking business are to be directly connected to the Police

H.Q., by video link at least until this business is cleared up once and for all. There’s no extra expense, your CCTV system is already up and running. It’s just a matter of a broadband connection.”

I stayed silent, there were so many inaccuracies and ‘ifs and buts. Firstly the riding stables and ‘trekking businesses were nothing to do with me, at least for operational purposes. I was strictly the ‘sleeping partner.’

There was little more to be said or done about the events of yesterday. We all had to simply grin and bear it until the case was sorted and the situation made safe. None of we adults felt safe. I had to admire the fortitude shown by Sian, Sylvia and all the other adults in persevering with the children’s holiday but I felt deeply saddened that Maha and Emir were now precluded from it. To be placed in a safe house would have to mean they were virtually prisoners for their own safety. I felt sorry for the poor little kids because God alone knew how long the case would take coming to court. It turned out that the case took over a year to be resolved before the brutes finally came to trial.

During that year Dot and the rest of the Birmingham social services team continued to patronise out trekking centres and eventually, Sian and Margaret’s enterprise began to turn a modest profit. I was as pleased as anybody because we were beginning to see a return on my investment.

Eventually, the arrangement became a permanent deal and Andrew took the opportunity to bring his family down South to Dorset to work as the permanent representative for Birmingham Ess, Ess.

That Christmas, we organised Andrew’s family get-together where he and his sister plus his aunt and Andrew’s cousins plus all the nephews and nieces were reconciled with their uncle Mac and his boyfriend Billy. Sadly Mac’s father, that was Andrew’s grandfather, had died before the reunion could be organised. For the rest of the family the event was a stunning success, not least when the children realised that they had a rich uncle who was a ship-owner and had no-one to leave his fortune to. Mac and I were sat with Billy one evening when we over-heard the mercenary little tykes dividing up their imagined inheritance over a game of monopoly. We smiled with amusement. Children could be just so materialistic.

Apparently my two, Jenny and Bea, had enlightened them about the set up concerning the ships and soon their dreams of huge wealth grew to the proportions of some sort of Euro-lottery ‘roll-over’. We three old friends exchanged indulgent smiles.

“Let them dream,” grinned Billy. “Though I don’t know who I’ll leave my share to. I haven’t seen my relations for nearly twenty years. I’m forty now and God alone knows where they are.”

“Have ye never thought aye looking for them?” Mac asked. “I mean, jes look at my kin. Would ye nay want to find a bunch o’ wee nephews an’ nieces like that? Who’d ha thought less than a year ago?”

Billy shrugged and fell into a thoughtful silence. His family history was every bit as painful as Mac’s had been and there had been no happy coincidence like Mac meeting Andrew. I felt a bit sorry for Billy. He came from Coventry and that was about as much as we any of us knew about his origins. How a Coventarian had ended up going to sea instead of ending up in the car manufacturing industry said a lot of unspoken things about Billy’s past. We knew that he had run away to sea, this much he had revealed a long time ago. (But then most of us had ‘run away to sea’ by one definition or another.)

He continued staring into his brandy while Mac and I chatted quietly about various things until the children burst through the study doors and demanded that we join in the festivities. Mac and I were dragged not very reluctantly into the drawing room while Billy remained sprawled out in the ‘saggy chair’ in the study. By the time the games and festivities were over, Mac was thoroughly enmeshed in his family’s affections and knew now that he would always have a family to call his own. Late that night as Uncle Mac savoured the sheer delight of putting seven nephews and nieces to bed in one of the trekking centre dormitories, I returned to find Billy still brooding.

“Penny for your thoughts Bill,” I offered as I poured us each a slug of brandy.

“I’ve been on your computer. You left the friends reunited site open.”

“Oh that wasn’t me; it will have been the girls or Chrissie. Chrissie’s also on Face book.”

“Face book?” Billy wondered.

I explained how it worked although I didn’t go on it much. Then I asked him point blank.

“What were you looking for?”

“I was just curious. About the family you see. I tried a few family names but there’s so much stuff out there it didn’t return much of anything useful.”

“Well, Billy Williams, or more correctly William Williams is a pretty common name. I don’t suppose you’d have much luck. How many Billy’s were there”

“Oh there were hundreds.” He sighed. “And the photos don’t help. My brother was twelve when I left at fifteen.”

“Well if you give your details to Chrissie, she might find something. She’s a dab hand at it.”

Billy nodded so I called to Chrissie who was in the drawing room chatting to Sylvia. Reluctantly, she disentangled herself from Sylvia’s embrace and joined us. I explained what ‘Uncle Billy’ was looking for and she grinned. I was giving her Carte’ Blanche to my computer. She was fifteen now and I felt she was old enough to be allowed unrestricted access.

Chrissie was always begging me for her own computer. She didn’t know it yet, but Angie had bought her a lap-top and a dongle for Christmas. Meanwhile up until Christmas she only had open access to the internet on the children’s computers but they had parent filters.

After tapping away on my computer for several minutes and occasionally asking Billy about his family, she rotated the screen to Billy and smiled.

“Is that your brother Uncle Bill?”

Billy peered uncertainly at the picture on Facebook and frowned.

“Hmmm. I don’t know. It might be.”

“He’s got two sisters listed as friends.”

She tapped away again and brought up two enlarged pictures. The given names matched Billy’s sisters but their family names were different and his eyes widened.

“Now they could certainly be my sisters, and the given names match. I suppose the family names are because they’ve married.”

Chrissie grinned and returned to Sylvia’s embrace. They were looking at fashion magazines and debating what to get for Christmas.

Billy and I studied the Facebook pages.

“It could be them,” Billy suggested, “especially that one. She looks like my youngest sister Beryl.”

“So, do you intend to find out?” I asked.

“Well not now, not just before Christmas.”

“Why not? It might make a nice Christmas present.”

“Yeah; and there again, it might not.”

I shrugged; it was entirely Billy’s prerogative. We emailed the details to Billy’s computer on his ship the Speedway. When he returned to his ship he would play with the information as much as he liked.

With all the children bedded, the mood of the evening turned quieter and it wasn’t long before only I and Chrissie were sharing one of our private moments in my study. Chrissie studied me as she painted her toes.

“Are all seamen lonely, cussed creatures?” She asked.

“No. Not all, but a lot are.”

“Why’s that? Are they running away or something?”

“Yes darling; something like that.”

“Where you running away Mummy?”

“Yes darling, sort of but very much a sort of-.”

“And Mac and Billy?” She persisted.

“Yes; and Mac and Billy as well.”

“What happened to you? Angie is always making excuses: always saying ‘she not surprised’ or ‘what d’you expect’ or other stuff whenever they are talking about you. What really happened?”

“You don’t really want to know love. It’s not a pretty story.”

“But I do. Sometimes when I’m angry with you, Angie gets angry with me and tells me off for stuff I don’t understand and haven’t started. If I don’t know the truth, how can I be fair to you?”

“The truth can hurt Chrissie, but you already know that.”

“Please tell me. It’s not fair, whenever I’m with the adults and you’re not there, and the conversation turns to you, I feel that I’m somehow shut out; shut out from my own mother’s life. Tell me; please!”

I studied her sitting there as her toe nails dried and wondered.

‘Was she old enough?’ I asked myself. ‘The fact that she referred to me as ‘mummy’ was evidence enough she was determinedly attached to me. There could not be a more definitive declaration of her affections and endearment to me.’

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how she might react. If this was what Chrissie wanted to know it was going to be a rite of passage akin to the beating she had received on the train. Not as painful physically, but still a burden that might return to haunt her. I opened my eyes again and frowned. Chrissie was still staring intently at me.

“Well; are you going to tell me?”

I hesitated for a few moments more then replied.

“Okay. I’ll tell you over a pot of tea. Come on, let’s make it and I’ll explain.”

Chrissie’s eyes widened with expectation and she tip-toed delicately out of the study because her toe nails were not yet dry. I grinned at her girlish precautions and nodded to one of the high stools at the breakfast bar.

“You’d better sit there until they’re dry. I suppose I’d better make the tea. Get yourself a cake or something out of the tin.”

She opened the lid, studied the contents, made her selection and offered the tin to me. I smiled and refused her offer as I prepared the pot while the kettle boiled. Once the tea was made I settled beside her at the breakfast bar and laid it on her ear, chapter and verse.

I had to admire the girl, several times she wanted to ask something but she had the good grace to let me get through the saga before I finally finished. By that time there were tears in her eyes and mine and she simply leaned against me with her arms around my waist.

“You’ve had it worse than me mummy,” she whispered as she discreetly palpitated my arm and finally located one of the deformed breaks to my humerus that had never healed properly.

“How many times did they do that?”

I had no need to hesitate with the reply. They were carved into my permanent memory.

“Nine different breaks and five times to the emergency room, I replied. Sometimes my arms got broken twice, one each side; usually the ulna or radius as I covered my head but occasionally the humerus as well,”

“I’m surprised that you can remember with such accuracy.”

“Oh I’m not Chrissie, believe me; I’m not surprised.”

“And nobody was ever punished.”

I shrugged.

“It was very different in those days Chrissie. They virtually burned trannies at the stake. They looked upon me as some disgusting form of disease or something.

“Are they still alive, d’you think?”

“I doubt it. I was twelve or thirteen and they were mostly retired senior N.C.O’s, out of the forces. That would make most of them over fifty five even back then. They’d be in their nineties or even their hundreds by now, don’t forget, I’m nearly fifty seven now.”

She reached up and softly kissed the unobtrusive lump of bone on my right humerus that marked one of the breaks in my slender feminised arm. It was just noticeable as I extended my arm towards the teapot for a second cup. I couldn’t help but smile as her delicate lips lingered for a moment and I left my arm extended to savour the warmth.

“D’you think magic kisses work then darling?” I asked her.

She looked up and I saw a tiny tear glistening in her eye. I realised it was time for bed. I was already beginning to feel guilty for having burdened someone so young with my issues. Chrissie needed to sleep on it, not dwell upon it. We each finished a second cup in silence and then made our way upstairs.

At the top of the landing Chrissie turned to me and asked.

“D’you want me to keep you company tonight?”

My stomach twisted as I realised that even at such a tender age, Chrissie had the wit and compassion to recognise that others also needed comfort and succour occasionally. I couldn’t stop myself from tearing up and hugged her to me. She whispered in my ear.

“I’ll take that as a yes mummy,” and we padded softly down the landing to my room at the very end.

Angie muttered something as we slid in behind her but we ignored her and we were both asleep almost as soon as our heads hit the pillow.

The next morning, Sylvia took all the children over to Sally Wemites’ for an enjoyable trek. They were gone all day and that enabled Mac to have a long reconciliatory chat with his family. Billy spent much of the day debating if he should ever follow Mac’s example while we older girls advised him. Sian was the best able to advise him for one of her own nieces had recently contacted her after learning of her Aunt Sian’s early prowess with horses.

“You can’t blame your siblings for what your parents did.” Sian explained as she described how therapeutic her own recent secret contact with her niece had been.

It had only been a brief meeting in Salisbury as her young niece had travelled from Warminster by bus to make the secret rendezvous and then hurry back that same afternoon to hide her absence under the pretence of being ‘out in Warminster Saturday shopping with her school friends’.

Sian had not even revealed where she lived. All her niece knew about her was that ‘Auntie Sian lived somewhere near Poole in Dorset and that she had a son.’ The girl knew nothing about her second female cousin Belinda and she was shocked and delighted to learn of her. Sian’s niece was fourteen and after learning that she had a lesbian aunt, she was also savouring the extra Kudos she could purvey to her group of friends who were all exploring their sexualities. Sian recognised the girl’s mildly prurient interest but did not let it be cause for enmity. Indeed, she felt honour bound to answer every one of the girl’s questions, if only to spread the gospel.

As Sian explained this to Billy he nodded his head.

“I don’t suppose it could do any harm. After all, I suppose they can only ignore me. That’s the beauty of the internet, all these contact sites like Face Book and Gene’s Re-united. I’ll give it a whirl when I return to the ship after Christmas.”

As we chatted, we prepared the house for Christmas. It was going to be a huge party. My dreams of a secret quiet ‘bolt-hole’ for my retirement seemed like hundreds of years ago.

The party lasted three days and it was a huge success. There were a few days break and then New-year, or more properly, Hogmanay took us into the second of January before the festivities finally desisted. Then that was followed by a week’s skiing for Sian, the children and Sylvia in Austria. Somehow, Margaret and I muddled through with the help of Mr Turpin our farming neighbour and his son to look after the horses. Even so it was an onerous responsibility and we were relieved to be able to hand back the twenty four healthy horses that Sian had bequeathed to us.

Life then entered a peaceful phase for Rosy Cottage. It was to be March as the weather warmed before Birmingham Social services resumed the trekking parties. When Dot returned with the next group, Andrew confirmed that he was moving down to Dorset to become a permanent organiser and co-ordinator for several different activities concerning Birmingham Social Services and several other large authorities, to include sailing and trekking. The good news meant that Mac would get to see his family pretty frequently. The good news for us was that Sian’s trekking centre would get more business from other local authorities.

More good news was to follow in the summer of the year. The case concerning the honour killings was heard in Manchester. It exploded across the national media and the sentences handed down were immense.

I was called with many others to give evidence and I met with Maha and Amir as they finally achieved safety from their abusers. I also met with Imam Yusaf the teacher who had been educating the twins during the most terrible year of their lives.

We shared the same hotel because he was giving evidence on several counts including advice on interpretation of the Koran. I learned that he had been a top scholar and professor of Islamic studies at one of the most prestigious universities in the Islamic world. There were few better qualified than he to give learning about Islam and I was told by observers in the press and public galleries that his performance in the witness box was a spectacle worthy of the last judgement.

He made mincemeat of the family’s lawyers. It was in no small part, his opinions and textual quotes that served to educate the jury and convince them that the family had acted totally out of line with Koranic teaching. This only served to infuriate the Wahabist fundamentalist faction attending the court and they were finally thrown out by the judge for shouting and issuing threats to many different people at the trial.

In the evenings, I fell to chatting with Imam Yusaf at length over dinner and we found quite a bit in common. I had expected that even he would be censorious and judgemental about my circumstance but to my pleasant surprise he wasn’t. In fact, he was more interested in finding out as much as possible in order to try and more accurately decide where he actually lay on the issues of transgenderism.

He spoke down to me, as most religious teachers are want to do, but that has been water off a ducks back to me since I was able to live my own life. At least he was prepared to listen and he asked question after question.

“Why are you so curious Imam?” I was forced to ask after an hour of questioning following the first day in court.

“Call me Yusaf,” he replied as he explained, “it’s just a subject that is so new to all the faiths. I mean up until recently transgenderism was all but unheard of, at least in my world.”

“Yes,” I conceded, but from what little I’ve read, The Koran is like The Bible on these issues, “there are clear prohibitions about cross-dressing. They’re pretty explicit and almost impossible to skirt around.”

“First tell me when a person is cross dressed.” Yusaf countered.

He had me there. It was only recently that women had taken to wearing trousers after the Edwardian era in Britain. Now women wore trousers more frequently than they wore skirts and they were more provocative if they were tight fitting, especially leggings and I had seen Muslim girls wearing them because nobody could charge them with not having their legs covered. Head scarves, yes but they complemented this with a short waisted coat and leggings. Yusaf smiled and asked me.

“When do trousers become leggings? And so when do they become indecent?”

I shrugged; Yusaf had answered his own question. The whole question of cross-dressing was nothing more than a matter of culture and clashes of cultures.

“But what about men wearing makeup and stuff? That’s deception,” I persisted, as I played Devil’s advocate.

“Go to the Sahel Beverly,” he smiled.

“Sorry I’ve never taken a ship across the Sahara.”

“Well you can be assured that many of the Islamic Bedouin tribesmen wear makeup to attract a wife. And isn’t that exactly why women decorate their faces.”

“So what about the Burkah and those hijab things?

“Beverly, they are not even mentioned in the Koran.”

My jaw sagged, I knew about the advice to women being only that they be modest but I had never encountered the negative perspective being extracted logically from the Koran.

“But that’s being a bit pedantic, I mean leggings and all sorts of modern clothing are not mentioned in the Koran. The book,’ The Word’ as you call it, is open to so many interpretations.”

He smiled.

“And isn’t that a good thing Beverly, for when some fanatical bigot tries to use a literal interpretation, they cannot invoke

chapter and verse in some literal manner. Take this simple latter-day argument based upon true reality.

Cars are not mentioned in the Koran so why are women not allowed to drive them in some fundamentalist Wahabist countries like Saudi Arabia and Yemen. Obviously it is a perfect demonstration of Wahabist oppression of women and it can be used in reasoned argument to confront bigotry. Thus are such bigots forced to use interpretations and argument to try and impose their oppressive views. Bigotry rarely survives reason and fair inquisition and it will always fall eventually.

If of course they are only interpretations, then they are open to re-interpretation or even misinterpretation. Uncertainty like that forces people to think, intelligent people that is-. Thus I try to get intelligent young British Muslims to study their Koran and bring a more tolerant perspective to bear. Just as the Spanish Moors provided sanctuary to Jews and dissenting Christians during the times of the earlier Spanish Inquisition, so I try to reintroduce that tolerant, compassionate, occidental Islam of the Mediterranean basin before the strictures of fundamentalism and Arabian wahabism causes its end. I strive to bring back tolerance and compassion to the faith I hold so dear.”

I was impressed by the man’s arguments and realised that he had a long row to hoe. I explained to him where I was coming from.

“Well, as a transvestite, which is what I am, I can only wish you the best of progress and god speed you on your mission. Sadly, I look at the present day Islam in Britain and only find censure and intolerance. This is especially so when I see how the women are treated. That is unacceptable by my western mores. That’s an intolerance that could me and my sisters facing the gas chambers in some later scenario.”

“Well Beverly, I’m saddened by your conceptions of Islam for it makes me realise how hard is the road I must tread. You seem to me to be a kind and compassionate person, just the sort of helper I need at my side.” I smiled. I wouldn’t mind somehow helping the man, but not at his side. I was a physical coward and feared pain. This man’s life was in constant danger and didn’t want to be near him when the suicide bomber finally got close enough to blow him and his compassion to ungodly bits. I told him this and he smiled wistfully.

“So be it Beverly, If you ever would like to help, you know where I am. Can I call on you if ever I have need of you and see a way you might be able to help?”

“Only if it’s a peaceful, compassionate way and it doesn’t expose me to danger. I’ve already had enough of that, what with pirates and kidnappers. The last thing I would want to face or contemplate would be assassins.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about your history. Dot told me a lot about you. You’re fascinating. Tell me how you persuaded that Iranian judge to let you keep the girls.”

“You’ve got it wrong Imam Yusaf. I didn’t persuade the judge to let me keep the girls, he had to persuade me to take them back on my ship. I didn’t want the responsibility of two little girls. As I told you just now, I’m a transvestite; I was terrified back then and for all my life before that of somehow becoming a child abuser. In my lifetime of confusion and uncertainty, I thought that any sexual deviation was the fast, short road to child abuse.”

“So what made you change your mind?”

It was the same thing as you mentioned just now; reality. Once the girls were ‘thrust upon me’ I discovered that I wasn’t somehow lusting after them. I wasn’t feeling any disgusting attraction to them. I wasn’t having perverted thoughts or temptations. I was just ‘liking them,’ wanting to see them properly cared for, a sort of motherly need to protect them.”

“Aren’t you sure you mean a fatherly need to protect them. That usually falls to the man and you say you are transvestite.”

“Well; maybe, yes. A bit of both really. I certainly provide the bread for their table and that is usually deemed the father’s job.”

“But the protection Beverly, what of the manly stance to keep them from harm? What about the pirate thing?”

“I don’t know Imam. There’s a lot of woman in me. I’m certainly no warrior. I suppose I’d have just fought and died if we had encountered a determined pirate attack. They never actually attacked us while we were recovering the girls.”

“Oh so it’s not a rescue now, it’s a recovery. Methinks you’re being too modest Bev.”

I smiled beguilingly as a perfect riposte entered my head. It was not a barb, just gentle bit of humour alluding to my transgendered condition.

“And isn’t that what your teachings ask of women, or even us ‘half-women’; that is, modesty?”

He gaped at me for a second then suddenly started howling with laughter. Eventually he recovered his composure and smiled through mirthful tears.

“Oh Beverly, that is priceless! You gently mock me whilst yet mocking your own transgendered condition. You must be thoroughly at ease with who you are!”

I smiled and nodded softly.

“It’s a very recent thing Imam. Just as I have served the girls needs, so have they served mine. The more happiness I give to them, the more joy I seem to receive.”

“Well that is an Islamic lesson; charity! And it's one of the fundamental tenets of Islam.”

“It’s also a Godly tenet. I’ll run with God.”

He smiled contentedly.

“Truly there is no better to run with. Come Beverly, let’s take tea. That is a tradition common to both our cultures and many more. No-one can ever accuse either of us of being un-integrated when we share tea.”

“What about the court case. I’ve still got to give evidence.”

“Look at the time Beverly.”

I glanced at my watch and shook my head. I had so enjoyed my time chatting to Imam Yusaf, that I had lost all track of time.

“My God! it’s four o’clock!”

“And four o’clock is when nice people take tea.”

It was my turn to chuckle at his gentle mocking of the English middle classes. I thought of the Television programme ‘Sorry’ And Ronnie Corbett’s genteel but iron willed mother.

Four o’clock was also the normal time of adjournment for a traditional British court case and even as we stood to leave we heard the Judge adjourn for the night and the usher shout ‘All Rise’.

We exchanged another smile as we rose in synchrony with the court on the other side of the heavy wooden doors.

We went for tea and I was so enchanted by the Imam’s urban and gentle nature that we spent the whole evening together chatting across dinner in the hotel dining room. Fortunately, Angie had returned from shopping to join us at dinner so both he and I were inadvertently obeying any unperceived strictures about there being a chaperone. Finally we made our ‘goodnight’s’ and found our separate ways to bed.

“Nice man that.” Observed Angie was we cuddled up in bed.

Imam Yusaf and I were to become firm friends.