Mrs Grainger's Gift 15

By Ritchie Moore

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Mrs Grainger’s Gift

Part XV

Sunday 14^th June

Aftermath. Mrs G’s 3rd letter

“Well now,” said Abigail briskly, “does anyone want to talk about the dinner party?”

They looked at her and toyed with the salad and murmured, till Jennie said “Oh hell, why not? It was just as awful as last time. The guests fingered us up and drank too much. They got their excitement when Catherine dropped wine on that lecherous old goat, and poor Matthew’s bum was beaten sore. They had a good time, and Mrs G said she was pleased. I should hope so, we did our damnedest to give them what they wanted….”

The rest nodded, and Abigail said “We all contributed something. I gave Sir Graeme a thrashing he enjoyed, and those boys were serviced pretty well.”

Jennie laughed and said “Yes, you should have seen how Daniel acted when I offered to frig him. And the others were well taken care of.”

Matthew looked around at Mabel, who had sucked off Michael, and Phyllis, who had been sodomised by Gregory Mayne. There was Pat looking a bit uncomfortable, who had, he was sure, been fucked by Thomas King and David Marshall simultaneously. She caught his eye and blushed. He had the idea that some others had had to pleasure other guests, but didn’t dare mention it.

“But some of them were taking care of each other,” said Amelia. “That politician, Barlow, for instance. He was having a high old time with the girls. Cassandra Whatsername, who played with you, Matthew, who seems to be a prodigy or whatever you call it of that artist, she and Barlow were at it hammer and tongs. They went into the game room after a bit and were there for ages.”

Matthew frowned. “She can only be seventeen at the most,” he said. “And Barlow has to be forty at least.”

Abigail laughed. “Oh Matthew, you’re surprised at the difference? Or maybe that she was seduced by an older man? Don’t worry. She knew what she was doing, and so did he, the sly rogue!”

“Did you see that Diana girl,” said Jessica, “Isobel Shaw’s cousin, isn’t she? She was absolutely squiffed, smoking those cannabis cigarettes.”

“Huh!” snorted Abigail, “I suppose she wasn’t used to them, like the Munroe girl! So she went a bit wonky, and Matthew took care of her.” She looked meaningfully at him.

He coloured and said “I tried to help her, she didn’t know what she was doing….”

Catherine looked dismayed, and Abigail said “More than that, Matthew, surely! You took her into the game room, naked. What did you do there?”

The others joined in gleefully, and Catherine had a flush as she said “Don’t tease him! He was helping her….”

“Yes I was. I know you think I … felt her—”

“Fucked her!” cried Amelia.

“But it was those boys, they took her to the lav to see her pee, and then Michael Brent tickled her and … and … fucked her. Yes.”

Catherine looked horrified. “But she can’t be more than sixteen! And she was drunk!”

“I know,” said Matthew miserably, “but I couldn’t stop them. And I’m sure she was a virgin.”

The others exclaimed, some with pleasure, some aghast. “It serves her right, the stuck-up snob,” said Amanda viciously. “She’s a real bitch. I heard her at the start, before she got those cigarettes from Mrs G, talking loudly about the rest of us. She looked down on us, couldn’t care less—”

“Yes, I heard her too,” said Norah. “It’s to be expected, mind you, we’re just servants, and all, like that Mr Whiston said. But she was also making remarks about Catholics and Jews and all sorts, and she was insulting poor Mr Mayne. It’s not his fault he’s a homo.”

“Isn’t it?” asked Georgina in wonderment. Norah looked at her in exasperation and shook her head.

“She does sound unpleasant,” said Christina. “It just goes to show a pretty face can hide a nasty personality.”

“And I thought she was a sweet thing,” said Laura. “Well, well….”

“But did you see her,” asked Norah, “masturbating at the table? I couldn’t believe my eyes. She had a good time, I should think, overall. But she maybe doesn’t know she was fucked that way.”

“Anyhow, the rest of them had a pretty good time, it seems,” said Amelia, dismissing Diana’s problems. “Did you see that Gilbert Hunt fellow, he was the man in his late forties who was sitting beside Mrs G, a gentleman farmer, evidently, he went off with the nice policewoman, Norma something, who must only be about 30 or so, but that isn’t a great difference, Matthew! – and went into the game room to be birched.”

“Oh yes,” said Abigail, “several did that. That’s what the room is for after all.”

Matthew blinked. “But what about those hooks in the ceiling, and things?”

She looked witheringly at him and said “Matthew, don’t be so fucking stupid.”

“But they also like to see one of us flogged,” said Pat. “I think that’s a sort of tradition now.”

“Yes,” said Abigail. “I’ve seen four of these entertainments so far, and there’s always an excuse to beat the shit out of a girl. It suited Mrs G rather well though to have you beaten, Matthew. It made a bit of a change.”

“You’ve seen it four times?” asked Matthew.

“Oh yes,” she replied complacently, and lit a cigarette. “Let me see. Last year it was the Cohen girl, she was beaten rather severely by Lord Patrick Severney. Have you heard of him? A scion, as they say, of a most distinguished family in Rutland. A second son, of course. No good. Now, he’d get on with the Fairfax, because I know for a fact that he has a really dreadful loathing of Jewish people. I mean it’s almost physical, as if he’ll be sick to come in contact. His main topic of conversation was a book, something called The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, which is all about a supposed conspiracy on the part of the Jews to conquer the world, financially I think, but anyway Mrs G told me later that it was really a hoax by some Russian or other, and she was laughing at Severney’s naïve belief in it. Anyway, before that, the first time I saw it, was in 1921. It was a girl called Myrtle Smith. She was fifteen, like Catherine. Same as me, come to that, at the time. That was a bit of a show, I must say, for she was paddled, like you, by a woman, a Mrs Enderby, who must have been sixty at least but had a fine strong arm. But the topper was that she took a dildo and thrust it into the arse, then stood back and let someone else do the honours.”

Catherine was bewildered. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Why, you stupid thing! One of the men came forward – a boy I should say, he was about seventeen, another public school boy, who’d maybe had experience before this, you know what they say – and he took the place of the dildo. He fucked her in the arse, and she got carried away and screamed, not so much in pain, mind you,” she added, seeing the horrified frown on Catherine’s face, “as in ecstasy. It really was. You could tell. That was her initiation. The next time, she was in the game room with the rest, and in fact she made a sort of exhibition of it. I know at least half of the men had a go at her. Though which of her holes they used,” she said crudely, “I can’t tell. So anyway before this—”

“Wait,” said Matthew, whose stomach was churning at this matter-of-fact recital. “What happened to her?”

“Oh,” Abigail said carelessly, “she left. Everyone does, eventually. I think she went to one of the university towns, to meet the students. And be their whore, I expect.”

Matthew looked at Catherine, who looked at him with a wrinkled nose. The other girls seemed to take these anecdotes in their stride, though much of the tale had to be new to them.

“There was another before that, in ’nineteen, evidently, but I only heard about it. That was a boy, or young man. It’s probably remembering him that made Mrs G get hold of you, Matthew. He evidently fucked up something chronic, and was beaten naked and made to ejaculate before being buggered by one of the guests. It sounds quite melodramatic, doesn’t it? I wish I’d been there…. Then in 1922 Sir Norbert Fulham had the honour. He was another aristocrat, about seventy years old, another old goat! The girl he got to attack was Freda Swayn. She was 17, just a maidservant. I can’t remember what she did, got in someone’s way maybe, caused some commotion. Fulham was offered a real birch, just the sort they use in public schools, as I understand, and he thrashed her naked arse till it bled.” Her eyes seemed to light up in reminiscence. “She had to leave the dinner, go to bed – she was there for days. She got over it after a while, but she was changed a bit, sort of made reckless, as if she didn’t care what happened to her. And then she was pregnant. I don’t think she knew who the father was. She’d evidently been lending her favours to several boys in the village over there, and persuaded one of them to marry her, so she left, in 1923, and that was that. Moved to Heighsham, disappeared. I must say,” she said, looking at the pair of them sardonically, “that you got off rather lightly, all things considered. Anyway, that’s the sort of thing the room was for, just a bit more private than the dinner-table.”

“Well anyway, I cleaned up the room afterwards, but it can do with more work,” said Norah. “It had certainly been used! We’ll have to take that carpet out, it’s going to be badly stained otherwise.”

“What with?” asked Georgina curiously.

“Oh for God’s sake, child!” said Abigail, “semen mostly, am I right?”

“Of course,” said Norah. “And blood. They were banging away in there all the time. We were too, but the guests were using it throughout the evening. That Damian boy and the Hungarian, is he, for instance; a nice pair they made, I thought. But didn’t I see you come out of there at the same time, Matthew? Did you make a threesome, eh?”

She looked at him saucily, and he flushed to deny it. “Don’t fib, you randy bugger!” said Amelia laughing. “I saw you too. Tell us, you were there! Who did what?”

He swallowed and started to explain how he was an auditory witness to the seduction, if that’s what it was. “So they did make love?” asked Jennie.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I’m sure they did. They got naked and said that the other was nice-looking, then it sounded as if they were kissing.”

“Fucking, surely!” said Jessica. “Don’t be mealy-mouthed!”

“All right,” said Abigail, “we’ll get the carpet out of there. Maybe I can persuade Mrs G to get a new one. It’s a pity in a way, she told me one time just after I got here that it was an expensive import from Persia Mr G’s father had got a long time ago. But it’s seen good service, by gosh!”

“Anyway,” said Jessica with something of a shudder, “that’s the whole bloody thing over for another year or so, thank God.”

“Yes,” said Grace, “and so you won’t be here, Matthew, to be mistreated again. I bet you’re relieved.”

He nodded, saying “Yes, I am glad of that. It wasn’t much fun for me. I don’t know how you girls can bear it.”

“It doesn’t happen that often,” said Christina, “and maybe you can say it’s a small price to pay for our security here. After all, Mrs G looks after us pretty well. And besides,” she added with a lascivious grin, “this time she brought us a bonus – you!” He bit his lip in chagrin as they chorused approval of his presence in their world, and Catherine looked across at him and smiled ruefully to comfort him.

That didn’t last, for Abigail, ever ready to make them cringe, drawled “Of course, you do realise Matthew could be back?” Everyone looked at her, and she continued “What’s to stop Mrs G from asking Maude Crossley to send Matthew back next year, around the same time? Then he’d be here to amuse another generation of Academy girls….” Matthew blanched. “And to keep you lot company….” Laura grinned. “And keep up with his regimen of baths!” They all cheered and he looked at them with a flush. He caught Catherine’s eye, and saw that she was thinking of the two of them being together then, and had to smile crookedly and nod.

Pat suddenly looked up and said “Crossley! I’m sure that was the name of that woman last time. Does anyone remember? She was a tall dark-haired woman with beautiful long hair.”

Matthew looked at her in surprise. “My mistress looks like that,” he said. “So she was a guest last time? When they beat the girl Naomi?”

“Yes, that’s it, Matthew,” said Jessica. “I don’t remember her doing anything outrageous though, except I’m sure she went into the game room with somebody. So that’s your mistress, hm? I suppose Mrs G didn’t invite her because you’d see each other, and it would alter your relationship when you went back. But anyway, I’m sure she’ll get a commentary on what we did and what you did from Mrs G. All right. Let’s forget about it, bury it. Until next time…. When, you never know, you could be back!”

Laura was prompted to ask about the library. “You may be back to carry on with those books, Matthew,” she said. “Tell us about them. Is it true they’re all full of dirty pictures?”

He flushed again and said “Well, not all of them. It’s true that most of them are stories about sex, as far as I can see, but half of them are in other languages and I don’t know what they’re about. It’s true though that there’s quite a lot of portfolios of pictures, old prints, some photographs, naked women and such. Some of them are so ridiculous, they’re very funny, they’re not at all exciting, arousing, which is what they’re supposed to be, I expect.”

“But some are,” said Liza, “surely there’s some to tickle your fancy? Or are you so jaded with the whole thing you don’t even get a twitch down there?” She smiled at him humorously. “Come, confess!”

The others repeated the encouragement, and Catherine looked at him too, expecting a denial. “All right,” he said with a sigh, “to be honest, yes, there’s some that arouse me, but they have to be artistic. I mean real works of art. And not necessarily pornographic either. Actually let me tell you, some of the old pictures would put anyone off sex. Really.”

“But not you, hmm?”

“Oh yes, I mean … it’s difficult to tell without showing the pictures. Just believe me. The pictures of course were made for people who were starved of such things and anything rather rude was acceptable. Nowadays it’s a bit different….”

“Yes, Matthew, but it’s still a bit unusual, isn’t it?”

“No, Liza, I mean these are the Twenties, after all, of the Twentieth Century! Things are a bit more daring, advertisements that you wouldn’t see fifty years ago; dresses are shorter, for instance—”

“Yes,” said Jennie, “you see bare knees these days, but not from modest people. That’s still the usual thing. I imagine, mind you, it’ll get even freer and easier in time. Skirts will get shorter and shorter till we’re showing everything but –! Does that rouse you, Matthew?”

He flushed and said “I might as well be honest. Yes, it does a bit. I’m only human, and men (and boys) always want to see naked women. Maybe it’s a racial thing, I mean it’s part of human nature, for evolution’s sake? I mean, it’s the sex drive. Mankind is supposed to have sex in order to carry on the species.” They agreed cheerfully, and Catherine smiled at him with what seemed a promise. He knew he’d see her naked again.

Amelia took up the theme. “The thing is, in the good old days gentlemen seem to have got in a frenzy if they caught sight of an ankle, or bare arms, or an undraped bosom. And now, dresses are shorter, as you say, women show their arms. We don’t show our breasts though.”

“We hint at them, though, don’t we?” said Jessica. “The men all know what’s there. Yet, it’s funny how the latest fashion is not to have any breasts at all! Flat-chested girls like Laura here are the height of fashion.” The girl named flushed and muttered about big bosoms, with a sidelong glance at Abigail, who smiled a little sardonically and asked Matthew about the pictures he preferred. He flushed himself and tried to continue to be honest.

“I suppose I like the artistic pictures, where the woman is posing in a pleasant way and seems to be caught accidentally. The picture, whether it’s a drawing or photograph, seems to tell a story. Something is happening there, and it’s interesting and intriguing to guess what the story is. There are a lot of pictures, though, where nothing is happening except a woman showing her nakedness to the painter, or camera. Nothing’s happening, she’s just displaying herself, and it’s … it’s not right, it’s demeaning, it just caters to the … worst side of men. I know,” he said deliberately, “that most boys would jump at the chance to see them. I did myself. But then I was able to compare them with other pictures, which showed naked women, yes, but somehow they’re more acceptable, not just shoving her breasts in my face, not just concentrating on her … vagina, but … artistic, showing how beautiful she is. Do you understand me?” He looked at them and at Catherine, who nodded at him and smiled. The others laughed and agreed that boys were awful and had only one thing on their mind.

“So you want pictures of naked women that tell a story?” asked Abigail. “Well, have you seen a series of pictures by Burne-Jones, the Pre-Raphaelite painter, on the Pygmalion-Galatea story? Four of them, with titles. ‘The Heart Desires’, ‘The Hand Refrains’, ‘The Godhead Fires’, ‘The Soul Attains’.”

“No…, but wait, I have seen them, they’re in a folder of things in the library, yes. They’re beautiful. Yes, that’s the sort of artistic nudity I mean.”

“What’s the story?” asked Amelia.

“Oh,” said Abigail, “it’s this sculptor, called Pygmalion, who makes a beautiful statue, and he falls in love with it. Then Aphrodite, or Venus, takes pity on him and gives her life. Bernard Shaw used the story for a play. So anyway, Matthew, you saw the pictures. And did you look at them carefully to see if Galatea had a vulva?”

He flushed and blew out an embarrassed breath. “Well, I –”

“You did! Hah! Of course you did. Let me remind you that if Pygmalion hadn’t made her a slit, he wasn’t going to get too far, was he?!” The rest laughed and teased, and Matthew bore it with as much grace as he could.

“But it’s true,” said Jessica, “he’d have to make it real-looking, like Adam in the Sistine Chapel.”

Abigail hooted. “Not the same, you silly girl! Adam has a belly-button, which he shouldn’t have, because he was never born. The Galatea statue doesn’t need a quim till Aphrodite imbues her with life, and if Pygmalion hadn’t put a slit on her, he’d have been – so to speak – fucked.” The others guffawed, and Matthew had to smile and agree.

Catherine however rather unexpectedly pointed out that it didn’t have to be so. “When Aphrodite quickens her, what more easy to do than supply her with a vulva? She will need one, after all, if only to … piss with.”

Abigail laughed. “You’re coming out of your shell,” she said. “That’s a good point.” Matthew looked at her in some surprise, and smiled. Yes, she was coming out of her shell, and he hoped to see more of her like that. The experiences of the night before, of course, had changed all their relationships, he felt, and most importantly his and hers.

That afternoon Catherine was helping to clean the school with Hettie and Deborah, two nineteen-year-olds, who could be taken for sisters, one slim and one chubby. They were eager to talk to her about the boy next door. They hadn’t been at the medical exam and lecture, since it wasn’t their turn, and they’d been busy in the kitchen during the party, but they’d heard about his attributes and wondered whether it was true he had an eight-inch cock. She blushed and said no, and of course they asked how big was it then? She stammered and finally, to allay their questions, gave in.

“It’s about six inches long when it’s erect,” she said, “and about three inches maybe when it’s down.”

“And what about when he spends?” asked Hettie. She bit her lip and decided to brazen it out.

“When he … ejaculates,” she said hesitantly, “it’s a jet of white cream that spurts out of his penis a couple of feet or more. It’s a great sight,” she added reminiscently, unmindful of the two bawdy girls, “it’s wonderful actually, beautiful….” A vision of what she’d seen from the treehouse came back to her and she smiled to herself. And as for last night….

They looked at her, grinning. “And so when do you think we’ll get our chance to bath him?”

This shocked her back to reality. “Oh,” she said, swallowing, “that’s up to Abigail I suppose. She’s been dishing out cards, and the highest pair gets to do the bath. But … I suppose … it’s only a matter of time,” she said despondently, “till you get your turn. Mrs G seems to want to give everyone a chance, so that all thirty of you can do it.”

“So you’ve done it?”

She looked at the girl and shook her head. “No,” she said, “I’ve never done it.”

“But you want to, don’t you?”

“Yes!” she cried. “Now let’s drop it and get on with the cleaning or we’ll never be finished.”

----------------

“Matthew,” said Mrs Grainger with a smile, “I did say the baths would be suspended.”

He looked at her with a chill feeling in his belly, and licked his lips.

“Yes,” she went on, “but that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to be unclean. So I’ve decided that you’ll wash all over….”

He hung on her words, and looked into her implacable eyes with a wordless entreaty.

“All over, in a shower.”

He pondered this for a moment. Then understanding dawned on him, and he closed his eyes in despair.

“Yes, boy! You will use the showers over there at the gym. Miss Cramond has been instructed, and she is very willing to have you. The first one is today.”

He blinked and stammered “Wh- when is it, madam?”

She looked at her watch. “It’s three o’clock now, more or less, and the girls are starting their last class of the day. If you hurry you can join them for a bit and then have a shower all to yourself before they go for theirs. That should work out. One more thing: obey Miss Cramond. Yes?”

“Y-yes, of course,” he said. As he was approaching the Academy he saw a class of a dozen or so girls of about thirteen maybe out on the lawn, dressed in those flimsy smocks that were not too good at covering naked bums, and he approached them with fluttering in his stomach. Miss Cramond, who didn’t like him, saw him and beckoned him to the front. She looked him up and down, and he was going to point out his lack of costume, but she horrified him by saying “Right, boy. Take off your clothes and stand there.”

He was paralysed for a moment, then put his hands slowly to his shirt buttons. Her face darkened, and she came up to him and gave him a vicious cut across his trousers with the omnipresent switch, and he howled, as the class broke into titters. He was down to his underpants when the class was arranged in three lines of four, facing him, staring expectantly. He yanked off his last garment and tried to shield himself, but it was no use of course. Miss Cramond yelled at him to follow the exercise moves of the class, and stepped to the side with a stentorian “Go!”

The girls immediately broke into some rhythmic movement, and after a moment he was able to imitate them. It was naturally one that placed his privates on public display: legs astride, arms to the sides, bend forward and touch a toe with the opposite hand, left on right, up, right on left, up, and so on. He was feeling a bit dizzy by the time the teacher clapped her hands to start another, which involved bending the knees to squat, the arms stretched out in front. Matthew could see most of the girls’ vulvas in this position, which brought a tremor to his own member, but then he knew they had an excellent view of it, and he knew he’d be erect very soon.

A quarter of an hour later he was feeling quite sweaty, and looking forward to a shower, all by himself. Miss Cramond gave them all a minute’s breather, and turned to him “We’re going to be doing a folk dance,” she said, “out of Cecil Sharp’s book, but you’ll be out of your depth so I suggest you go off for your shower now. Go on, go.”

He nodded and turned to go, then stooped to pick up his clothes. “Leave them,” said the teacher sharply. “No-one is going to steal them. Go!”

With a sigh he walked off into the gymnasium, and stood in the middle of the room flexing his muscles. His penis, which had been trying to erect, now managed to stand, for some reason, and he laughed to think that the girls would be annoyed to have missed it. Then he went into the shower room and turned on the taps. As he stood under the water he relaxed and began to enjoy himself. To think of it – he was washing all by himself! How long was it since he’d had the privacy? Well, by God he was going to savour the moment, however short it was or how rare it would be. He soaped himself up and took his time about rinsing it off, grinning as he lathered his groins and the perineum, that attractive arsehole that everyone had fingered – it was a bit strange to do it himself. He rinsed off and daringly lathered his so-called privates again, daringly pushing a finger in to his popular rectum with a snigger of They’d like to do that, wouldn’t they, the bitches!

Lastly he soaped his head and washed away the sweat of his exercises, his eyes closed, then felt around to turn off the water and search for a towel. Someone put one into his hands.

What! He opened his eyes to see the class standing there, all with beaming grins on their faces. How long had they been there? Oh God, had they seen his obscene foolery? Yes, their looks told him they had. He held the towel in front of his tumescing cock and swallowed, turning his back on his audience to dry himself, wondering about going outside, through that crowd, to find his clothes.

“That’s enough, I think,” said a pert redhead, “you should be dry by now. Aren’t you?”

Whatever answer he gave it would be wrong. If he said Yes, they’d want to feel him to make sure. If he said—

“No, not—”

“Well, we’ll just have to finish it. Where’s that towel?”

She grabbed it from him and began to go over his body, rubbing him down with vocal glee and commenting on his great body – again – and Christ! inviting them all to join in.

He was assailed by half a dozen towels, and half a dozen pairs of hands that followed, making sure no little cranny harboured a drop of moisture. The results were foreseeable. His erection was saluted by a chorus of admiration and stroked by twenty-four hands till he came, groaning in pleasure, in the midst of them, they eyeing him and clapping their hands in thanks for the performance.

He went outside and found his clothes where he’d left them. Should he bother to dress? What the fuck, it didn’t matter, did it? He snatched them up and made his way to the house, where he lay on his bed and thought about missing tea. But no, he’d go, if only to see Catherine, the sight of whom cancelled out a lot of the anguish of his life in this crazy little world Lydia Grainger had created in prosaic twentieth-century England.

…………………………………………………

                                               SUMMERTON MANOR

                                                           14^th June 1925

Dear Maude:

Just a note to tell you how the dinner party went – very well indeed. In addition to the two dozen guests I told you of last time, all of whom showed up, there were eight others – a pretty flautist about 6 or 7 years older than I called Millicent Carstairs, who gave a recital last month in Liverpool, and she of course gave us a party piece. There were quite a few soloists, Gregory Mayne playing to accompany (he’s very good at that), including a pleasant thing from your Matthew, who sings very nicely. More of him later. Another late entrant was Quentin Small, who’s trying to get his writing published. A novel (even 2 novels), some verse, though I’m not sure of the quality. He and Gregory were deep in conversation about collaborating on something till Small got completely insensible on the drugs. Then there was Gilbert Hunt, another voluptuary of the rod, and Norma Parkinson, who’s about 34 or 5 and loves to wield the whip (a fine pair they made). She being secretary to Struthers, the Chief Constable, maybe brings some authenticity to the role! Two others were young people, a 17-year old girl who’s the protégée of Lady Ethel I wrote about, name of Cassandra Munroe, an exotic-looking girl, maybe Spanish blood. – The other a young boy of 16 or 17, not sure which, who came with Enid Waterson, a rather scrumptious-looking morsel called Damian Collins. The last to arrive, lately invited and late to RSVP, was Robert Tarrant, another musician (about 60), teaches music, several instruments (accompanied Millicent C), and teaches more than music to his pupils, for Norma tells me the police were enquiring about him quite recently. It’s a shame that paederasty is so frowned on, as he says whenever we meet, for it has a noble history. I was hoping for a grand debate about that from him and Gregory and Somerset and the rest, but it never materialised. Still, the conversation was lively enough. – I see I’ve forgotten a young (twenty year old I was told) poet called Tadeusz Bator, which name seems a combination of Polish and Hungarian, who came with George Whiston, who picked him up in his travels in eastern Europe. He spoke perfect English with that eloquence we’d expect from Conrad, maybe, and had some good things to say. He and young Collins hit it off very well, I thought, and I’m sure I saw them disappear into the Game Room.

You know that we usually get a punishment of some kind, like the Cohen girl that time – well I was pleased to see exactly the same come about because Sir Graeme Childers was fingering young Catherine’s quim and she dropped the wine. That was good enough, but your gallant Matthew protested her punishment and so was punished himself – beaten on the bare bum and made to spend in public. Oh, it was excellent!

All in all it was a great success, and I’m determined to make it a regular event, maybe every six months. Of course Matthew won’t be there next time, so it’ll be all right if you come, but the Hammond girl well might be. She by the bye has been forced into some dreadfully embarrassing situations, and Abigail has been quite inventive in this regard. The girl has been exposed to a crowd of visiting schoolboys, from two different schools, one being a group from St Vincent’s, who were returning a visit we paid to them where we were treated to an exhibition of caning on the bare backside. The girls loved that, and I had some grateful comments. One boy, totally naked, was tickled by the girls till he came in the midst of the crowd, before he was caned; a great sight that tickled them. Well in return I saved up our girls’ punishments and had them parade naked for the boys when they visited, and allowed our guests to smack their bottoms – or anything else. Catherine protested, which was all it took as an excuse to strip her and add her to the line. So she was spanked, and naturally felt up as well. I’m sure she was provoked into an orgasm.

I’ve also managed to have her exposed and even felt up by some boys at a skirt-fitting session, and when she was bathed, rather as has been happening to Matthew (I’ve tried, as you may guess, to put them in the same situations.) – He has also proved useful in the library. He is presently checking the accuracy of the catalogue that Henry got made by that strange little Jew just after we got married. He asked if it had ever been appraised, and I said not to my knowledge. So I sent off a query and a little Dutchman turned up from Amsterdam who is highly pleased to be offered a look at it – he says already it’s worth quite a bit, and he’s hardly started examining them. I got a Dutchman because there’s no Englishman, evidently, who is willing to admit to an interest in erotic books. The Dutch, for all their Calvinism, seem to have fewer inhibitions.

We’ll be off to France in a fortnight. I’ll write you from there. Once again, reassure M’s father & sister that he’s well and happy, and you can say (truthfully) that he’s looking forward to his trip to Provence.

Love

Lydia

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“Ah, Matthew.” He paused and waited in dread for some news of another embarrassment. “You were such a success with some of the teachers that they’ve asked for you back.”

He licked his lips nervously and said “Yes, madam, who is it?”

“Mlle Maury for one, she was very pleased with the way you helped her in the French class, and wonders if you’d do it again for another class, the thirteen-year-olds.”

He looked at her in anguish and stammered “Do I have to?”

At once he saw that was not the answer she wanted. She set her jaw and said through her closed teeth “Yes, you do. I wish it, it shall be done. Tomorrow after lunch.”

He sighed and nodded. He could see no way out. He’d be exhibited to a class of thirteen-year-olds who, he was sure, would be only too keen to look at his nakedness, and he’d be sure to get a hard-on, which they’d greet with howls of amusement. Mrs G continued, “The other is Miss Thorburn, our art mistress. She says the class thoroughly enjoyed having you pose for them, and so she’s asking you to do it again, to an enlarged class, three actually.” She looked at him grimly. “You don’t object?”

He swallowed and said tiredly “No, madam, how can I? I didn’t know I was going to be posing in the nude for them, though. Now I know what to expect. A big crowd of girls all looking at my naked body,” he gulped, “and drawing me. Three classes!”

“Yes,” she said smiling, “about fifty girls, fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds. All admiring your nude proportions. You can look forward to that the day after tomorrow. All right?” Without waiting for an answer (for none was required) she strode out of the room.

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Monday 15^th June

Another French lesson; Catherine models for Lady Ethel

Matthew had been told in the morning to dress himself in his get-up from the store, with hat and coat and everything. He surmised this was going to be an even more detailed stab at French vocabulary, and he changed after lunch with a heavy heart. He wondered how his friend Justine would think about doing this to him, but answered himself that she was as much under the thumb of Mrs Grainger as anyone, and Mrs G wanted it, so that was that.

Matthew recognised several of the girls in the class, and they recognised him, whispering and tittering. He began to go red from that minute. Justine introduced him and they applauded, some with huge grins on their faces; they evidently knew what to expect.

Justine placed Matthew at the front of the class, where they all had a good view of him. “Now, class,” she said, “I am going to write the French word on the blackboard, and translate into English, and Mathieu will point to it. You understand?” They understood. “Right. Le chapeau, the hat.” Matthew obligingly pointed to the stylish hat he wore, and the class wrote it down. “Next, the gloves, les gants.” They proceeded with the outer garments, finishing with shoes and socks, and the teacher said “Now we ask him to take off this clothing, ôter ces vêtements, to see what he wears underneath.” Off came the hat, the gloves, the coat, the shoes, the socks, the girls being asked to chorus the word as the garment came off.

A girl raised her hand. “What is it, Millie?”

The girl said “Do you think he could take off the thing after he shows us what it is? I mean one at a time?”

“Certainement. Mathieu, do that please. So there is the jaquette, ou veston, the jacket.” He pointed to his jacket and removed it, putting it beside the other clothes on a bench. The waistcoat followed, the tie, then the braces.

Matthew found himself getting red as he removed the supports for his trousers, which were followed inevitably by the trousers themselves. The girls were looking excited by now, and were enthusiastically writing down all the words and relishing the repetition. “Next, la chemise, the shirt.” He dragged it off and stood before them in his vest and underpants, with the beginning of a hard-on, which the girls at the front noticed and giggled. He looked at Justine, who seemed to be prolonging the agony. “Now the under-vest, the gilet de dessous.” Only his underpants stood between him and nudity, and his penis knew this and got harder, to push out the material, and evoke more giggles. Then what they were all waiting for – “Maintenant, le caleçon, the drawers, or underpants.” Matthew steeled himself and slowly slid the pants down over his excited penis and off his feet. The class reacted with a loud buzz of comment and laughter, and he stood there scarlet, hiding his erection as well as he could while a dozen thirteen-year-olds ogled him with beaming smiles and bright eyes.

“All right, thank you Mathieu, now we will have the parts of the body. The hair, les cheveux.” She came over and stroked his hair fondly, then wrote the word on the board. It was a repeat of the first embarrassing lesson, and Justine had no qualms whatever in handling his body – chest, belly, calves, toes, groin, scrotum, erect penis – while the girls were in great excitement. When she ran out of parts of his body he nearly drew a sigh of relief, but cringed to hear her say “Now, girls! Here is a test. Come up to the front in a line and answer, showing the part.” They quickly formed a queue, the first straight in front of his flinching body, and the teacher called out “Cheveux!” The girl put her hand up to touch his hair. She was directed to go to the end of the line, and the second girl was told to indicate the toes. She did so, putting her face quite close to his crotch, and his penis. The third had to indicate the chin, the fourth the knee. He groaned when the fifth was told to find the buttocks, and she gleefully pulled him round to show her knowledge, slapping his bum in a pleased way. The next – oh God – was asked to find the anus. This she was very ready to do, pushing him forward and spreading his arse cheeks, and the class was noisily approving. Calf, shoulder, heel, thigh, chest, nose, hip, pubic hair –, and then finally the scrotum and the penis, the prepuce and the ballocks.

By this time he was trembling in anticipation of an ejaculation in front of the randy class, and looked at Justine pleadingly. She however was just as interested in his groin as any, and asked the girls to touch those parts again and again. He felt thirteen-year-old Caroline Chalmers grasp his erection firmly and deliberately rub her hand up and down, and her companion, casting aside all pretence, seized his testicles and the shaft at the same time, while the others broke the line and gathered round to join in the fun. He was handled by a dozen girls in all the excitable parts of his anatomy – his nipples, his backside, his perineum, his ballocks, his cock, and inevitably he surrendered and came with force, to the yells of the girls, who stood back to watch the amazing process, which none, probably, had ever seen before. Justine used the occasion to instruct them further, giving them words for coming and sperm, and putting her finger to pick up a trace of his ejaculation, telling them “Ceci, c’est le foutre. Foutre. I will write it on the board, it means what you call ‘come’, in English. And there is a rude expression using it, va te faire foutre, which means literally ‘make yourself fuck’. There is a past participle of the verb, foutu, meaning ‘ruined’, or ‘fucked’, as you say.”

The girls took in this gratuitous information with big grins, while Matthew stood with his eyes shut, chest heaving, fists clenched by his side. He scarcely was aware of the class being dismissed and yelling “Merci, Mathieu!” as they piled out the door. Justine came over and embraced him. “There, chéri,” she said, “that was not too bad, surely? The girls really enjoyed that, and believe me they will remember that vocabulary. So thank you. Can I help you dress?”

He shook himself, and stammered “N-No! I can manage fine.”

She smiled, saying “You know perhaps that I’ll be joining you en route to the south of France? I’ll be going to Nice, and so I’ll accompany you as far as Marseille. We’ll have a few days in Paris, and maybe we can go to some sights. Madame will have things she wants to do, and if you like we can see things together.”

He blinked and said “Oh, that would be useful. I have some French, but my pronunciation is terrible, and Catherine is better but she’s not fluent at all. If you could take us about it’d be great.” She smiled a little wryly, being reminded that she wouldn’t have him to herself, but gamely agreed. She stroked his hair and kissed him, saying as she left “À bientôt.”

He finished dressing and took a deep breath. Tomorrow he would be naked, he was sure, in front of three classes of gawking girls. But it wouldn’t be long before he and Catherine were together away from this embarrassing place, a theatre to display them naked, a sexual circus where he and his lovely friend were the clowns. But in Provence, it’d be warm and colourful and safe. No lewd boys to ogle Catherine, no bawdy girls to ogle him. Except for Jennie and Amelia of course…. He heaved a sigh. The holidays beckoned, and it wouldn’t be that bad. Even with those two girls lusting after him, he’d be close to Catherine all day. He smiled to himself. Close to Catherine….

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She, meanwhile, had been whisked off in a sporty car by Lady Ethel Burrows, who was determined to accomplish what she’d talked about at the party. “Yes, child,” she said in enthusiasm as a silent chauffeur in yellow livery drove the car through leafy lanes, “you do have a lovely body. I’m going to paint you, and probably do several studies of you. In the meantime, tell me all about yourself.” She glanced encouragingly at the girl, who looked at her timidly and started to give her history. As she spoke Lady Ethel kept observing her with an artist’s eye. Her hair, an interesting colour that blended brown and gold; what a pity her pubis had been shorn! The hair fell to her neck in graceful waves. Perhaps they could tie it up somehow, with a Grecian fillet? Thank goodness she hadn’t had it bobbed like so many other youngsters. It would look different, and have a different shade, when wet, of course. Diana at the bath? Her eyes, blue-grey and bright, above a pretty little nose, itself above a pretty little mouth. Red lips, without make-up of any kind, no rouge on her cheeks, which needed no artificial heightener of their rosiness. But she could be as pale as you like, yes, we saw that at the dinner; pale capable of rosiness, a good colour that! Her neck disappeared into the collar of her simple dress, which Lady Ethel determined to remove as soon as possible, to examine close up the incredible shapes of her interesting body. And perhaps it would be better to have her naked pubis absolutely naked after all. She was, thank goodness, nicely slender with lovely hands and (she remembered) feet. And buttocks. And breasts. Oh, this was going to be so enjoyable!

She was there all day, being sketched, mostly nude, in a great variety of poses. The other girl, the protégée, Cassandra Munroe, appeared after a while, to be introduced again. She was a bit standoffish, jealous even, though Catherine could see no reason for it. She was after all a striking-looking girl with her own kind of beauty. Catherine though couldn’t forget the way she’d accepted the job of masturbating poor Matthew, and was almost as cool as she was. They ate lunch on the lawn, Catherine naked by this time, and Cassandra was chattering about the private school she was going to attend on the continent (of course) before attending London University to study political science. They were served coffee by an anonymous maid who didn’t look them in the eye, and were on their second cups when half a dozen guests showed up, who were introduced to Cassandra, and Catherine as well, as Major Archibald Trinder and his wife Louisa (both aged about fifty), their two sons Brian (20) and Christopher (18) and nephews (sons of Louisa’s sister) Donald (17) and Maurice (15) Cresswell. They accepted coffee and sat to chat, all eyeing the naked model with appreciation. She was soon up on a little stage, the better to be seen and ogled, while Lady Ethel did some more drawings. Catherine was of course blushingly mortified but couldn’t protest. After a while the elder Trinders had to leave for a visit elsewhere and Lady Ethel saw them off, afterwards going in to the house with Cassandra to take care of some business or other; leaving Catherine at the mercy of four young boys, who turned out to be every bit as randy as any others she’d come across. She shielded herself modestly and hoped for Lady Ethel’s swift return. The boys all seemed to leer at her, and asked questions about her background. “I’m not surprised Lady Ethel is drawing you,” said Christopher. “She has a fine eye, you know, for form and the possibility of using it in a composition. She’s pretty good at most sorts but her nudes are best. Your nude body is really fine. Don’t you think so, Brian? Maurice, Donald, what’s your vote? Look at her breasts. Oh, come on, Catherine, don’t hide!” She swallowed painfully and dropped her hands to her sides, and the boys grinned in admiration. “Yes,” said Maurice, “her breasts are just right, I’d say. And the rest of her….” He stood up and approached her, and she quailed as he made no secret of his interest in her crotch. “Your delta, all shaven bare, now, it’s a great sight. The lips of your vulva, too, so plain, out in the open, I like that.” He ran a finger over it and turned to the others. “What d’you think?”

Donald Cresswell laughed. “Oh, undoubtedly,” he said, “if you mean the slit of her cunt is laid bare, so to speak. No wonder Lady Ethel wants to immortalise it in a painting. I wonder what she’ll call it?” Catherine blushed anew as they found merriment in their appraisal, but couldn’t think of how to answer them.

“Hey, Catherine!” said Brian, smirking lasciviously at her, “D’you want to join us for a little toot tonight? It’ll be rather splendid, I think. It’s at a country house not too far away. We can have you back here before midnight, if you have a Cinderella problem. What about it?”

She looked at him in perplexity. “Me?” she asked. “Why me?”

Donald added his plea. “Oh, do come, Catherine! It’ll be jolly. And we’re asking you because you’re nice-looking, and –”

“And we haven’t got any other girls to haul along!” said Christopher. “I know Cassie is going, with her friend Eleanor, but they’ll be separate, they’ll probably get there late. Really, do come. Lady Ethel will let you, I’m sure. I say, Lady Ethel!” The hostess was approaching carrying another sketch pad, and she looked enquiringly at the boy. “We want to take Catherine to the Radcliffes’ tonight. Do let her come.”

“But of course!” she cried, “of course she must go! Catherine, I command you to go.” The girl looked at her anxiously. “But I—” “No buts!” Lady Ethel rapped out, “I want you to go. And I’m sure Lydia would want you to go.” That settled it, for Mrs Grainger’s wants were never ignored. “Now we’ll have tea, and perhaps you can take Catherine away about six? Why not. And that gives me more time for another sketch or two. Catherine, come up here and I’ll pose you a little differently.” The boys watched as the naked girl was put in a sort of seductive position, with arms outstretched and seemingly reaching for a lover. She knew every piece of her was on display, and she blushed anew. When she caught the eye of Maurice he smiled at her in a sort of gloating way, and she got the awful feeling that the evening would not be without its embarrassments. After a little while the maid brought out tea, sandwiches and cakes, and she was invited to join the repast. Naturally, she was not offered any covering, and so she sat in naked glory drinking tea and trying to make stammering conversation with four boys she knew were feasting their eyes on her bare body. She could, however, cross her legs, and so was spared that show.

“Well now,” said the painter finally, putting out her cigarette, “that was pleasant. I think you might all go off to your do now, you want to get there in good time. The Radcliffes are a very attractive couple, Catherine, who live about thirty miles from here in a very impressive Georgian house with lots of room for parties and games, and they have these affairs every so often. They’re only twenty-five or six, and they fill the house with other young folk. I’m sure you’ll have a good time. So off with you.”

“But Lady Ethel!” squeaked the red-faced girl, “I’m not dressed!”

“Oh, I suppose, well, we won’t bother about going back for your clothes. Use this, it’ll keep you cosy and modest to boot.” She produced a large sheet-like robe that turned out to be very comfortable indeed, and while Catherine was very worried about her nude body underneath it, it did cover her and she soon forgot her anxieties. Lady Ethel saw them off in Brian’s car, and they were on their way. The boys kept up a running chatter that kept her amused all through the journey, and it wasn’t till they turned in at an impressive gate that she came back to her position and her condition.

There were quite a few cars parked on the gravel before the house, which was handsome indeed, being three stories high, with many windows all throwing out light, although it was by no means dark yet. Music pulsed in the air, and there was a great noise of conversation and squeals, shrieks of laughter and voices raised in singing. Catherine was somewhat overwhelmed, and Maurice had to take her hand and pull her along inside the great front door, where he quickly disappeared into the crowd. The party-goers were, as said, all young, none more than twenty-four or five, she thought, and most of them under twenty.

A handsome youth came up to her and said “Hello! I’m Philip Radcliffe. What’s your name, and who are you with?”

“C-Catherine H-Hammond,” she stuttered, “I’m with … er, Maurice … I forget their names, I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said cheerfully, “you’re here, that’s enough! Thank you for coming. The more pretty girls there are the better I’m pleased.”

She flushed at the compliment, and said only “How do you do? I was with Lady Ethel Burrows, you know her I suppose, she’s—”

“Yes,” he said with a smile, “she’s an artist friend of ours. We have one of her paintings here. D’you want to see it?”

“Yes,” she said, “I was wondering what sort of an artist she was. Her style, I mean,” she added quickly.

Radcliffe laughed. “Oh, and if you also mean how good she is, your opinion is as good as mine, or my sister’s.”

“Oh, you’re not married?” she asked naïvely as he led her into what had to be the library.

“Good God, no!” he exclaimed. “She’s a good kid, but I’m damned if I know who’d want to actually marry her. Now, to sleep with, that’s something else.” He paused as she looked at him wide-eyed. “Sorry,” he said a little shamefacedly, “Nancy tells me I’m too outspoken, talk without thinking. I’m sorry if I embarrass you.”

“Oh,” she said, “that’s all right,” thinking that she was getting beyond embarrassment. “I was surprised, that’s all. I assumed you were man and wife. Her name is Nancy, is it? How old is she?”

“Actually it’s Agnes,” he said. “She’s twenty-four. Mother named her after the girl in David Copperfield. D’you know the book?”

“Oh yes,” she said, “it’s a great book. My own parents called me after a book heroine as well, Catherine Morland—”

“Northanger Abbey!” he exclaimed. “That’s an interesting coincidence. You’ll have to tell her when you see her. She’s here somewhere but God knows where exactly. It’s a big house, you see, and I think all the rooms are crowded. But for this one for some reason.”

“I don’t know why,” she said, “it’s lovely, and warm, and cheerful.”

He smiled and said merely “There it is,” throwing a hand out to a large oil on the wall. Catherine looked at it with interest. It was well executed (she thought critically) and employed strong brush strokes and what seemed to be applications of the palette knife, to represent a young girl sitting beside a stream dabbling her hand in the water. She was nude, lying on her side, gazing into the stream with an expression of melancholy, or pensiveness at least.

“It’s very good,” she said. “I do hope her picture of me will be nice like that.”

“Oh,” he said, “she’s painting you, is she? Well, I congratulate you, for she only picks really attractive bodies – and faces too, obviously – for her pictures. What’s your body like, anyhow?” he asked mischievously. “Take off that silly wrap or whatever it is.”

He put his hand out to take it and she gave a little scream. “N-No!” He looked astonished, and she blushed as she explained, “Y-you see I was posing for her just today and then whisked off to this, and I was naked, so she gave me this sheet, and I’m n-naked underneath!”

His eyebrows went up and a sort of smile tugged at his lips. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “I won’t insist. But you’ll have to be careful. I can’t think what Lady Ethel was up to. Though she can be playful, I think. She has a sort of sardonic sense of humour. And Maurice and his friends, I know them, they’re young rapscallions, and I’d watch them if I were you. Verb sap., you know. All right, come back to the party.” As they were leaving Catherine glanced over at a couch turned to the wall and saw a hand raised above the back. She nodded to Radcliffe and walked over to see a couple entirely naked locked in each other’s arms and oblivious to everything, making love slowly and leisurely and giving small groans of pleasure. She stared at the scene with wide eyes and swallowed in dismay, then felt her host at her elbow, who looked at her and laid a finger on his lips and led her away.

He led her through the crowd to a table laden with bottles and offered her a drink. “I don’t think I’m old enough,” she said with a smile, “I’m only fifteen.”

“Fifteen!” he exclaimed. “By God, I wish I was fifteen again! Ten years makes a hell of a difference. Anyway, try this. It’s not too devastatingly alcoholic. It’ll get you into the party spirit though.”

He handed her a glass with a liquid in it slightly tinged with green, and she sipped it cautiously. “It’s very nice,” she said. “Listen, what was the picture called?”

“Oh, Lady Ethel’s picture? It’s a silly title, it’s called ‘Thinking’, though Nancy says it should be ‘Echo’, as in the myth, where she’s lost Narcissus and is pining for him. Actually the girl concerned was an interesting young thing Lady Ethel picked up by the roadside, asking for a lift, about six months ago. It’s a curious story. You should ask Lady Ethel when you get back there tonight – I assume you’re going back?”

“Oh yes,” she said, “I was brought from a place called Summerton—”

“Aha! Lydia Grainger’s place, yes? I’ve always wanted to go to one of her dinners, but I’m never asked. Nancy, now, she was there four years ago or so, and evidently it was a hell of a do. I’ve never got the whole story out of her.” Catherine could well believe it. Radcliffe said “Now you must excuse me, other guests demand me. There’s a whole contingent of young fellows just come in the door and I must act the genial host. Goodbye for now, enjoy yourself.”

He smiled at her and disappeared towards the door. She was left holding her glass and trying to maintain her cover with the other hand. She tapped her bare feet to the music, and looked around with a smile at the company. Yes, this was a jolly party indeed. The beautiful house bursting at the seams with golden youth, all having a good time, smiling at her as they caught her eye, chattering and laughing, oh what a difference from that impossible party at Mrs G’s gloomy palace!

Then a hand caught her elbow. A young man her own age, she thought, who seemed to have a bit of drink in him, said “Come on, dance! D’you hear the music? It’s that new thing from the States.” He dragged her away from the table and she just had time to put down her glass before she was pulled into a larger room with a noisy jazz band at one end and a large concourse of frenetic young people all engaged in some excited manoeuvres that she couldn’t follow at all. She tried to tell her companion she didn’t know how to do it, but he laughed in disbelief and took hold of her arms. “It’s easy”, he shouted over the music. “Everybody knows it. And for God’s sake get rid of that shroud thing.” He seized it and she shied away in terror but the action disengaged it and it left her body entirely. The boy stood stockstill in amazement, his eyes bulging out, and a swirl of dancers came past and engulfed him. Catherine was alone in the midst of a crowded room, and for a while no-one noticed anything out of the ordinary, but she of course covered herself and tried to edge off to the side, through a mass of dancers who thankfully were so closely packed that no-one was able to catch more than a glimpse of her bare limbs.

It couldn’t last, of course. A girl shrieked as she saw her, and her partner looked round and stopped dancing. Soon more were still and staring, and she found herself in the middle of a large dressed audience, staring and laughing and leering at her nudity. The music came to an end, and the crowd applauded the band, then applauded her, and one girl who perhaps envied her looks came up and pulled her hands behind her back, to let her companions see her breasts and her shaven delta. They cheered as they devoured her, boy and girl alike, and her captor cried out “Why not get her to show us how she dances?” An immediate parallel with what Matthew had had to endure came to her mind as she struggled, but it was evidently agreed to have her perform for them, and then, said the girl, she’d get her cover back. She looked out at the audience and saw young Maurice grinning lewdly at her. She’d get no help from there, it seemed. Then about thirty boys all came in the door in a crowd, evidently Radcliffe’s latest arrivals, who saw her and gave a whoop of delight. Her host couldn’t be seen, and they all wanted her to dance nude for them; if not, she wouldn’t get her sheet. She cursed Lady Ethel and nodded in defeat. “Right then!” called another teenager, “Play, Professor! Give us ‘Oh, Baby!’” The band started another tune, and she began to move as well as she could, just moving her body in response to the beat. After a while she got really into it, and began to forget her circumstances, trying to lose herself and her shame in the dance. She was sweating, closing her eyes now and then, opening them – alas, to see crude grins and haughty sneers, and her skin was burning with the blood of her humiliation.

The tune stopped, and the crowd applauded noisily, yelling “Oh, Baby’, as they had throughout the piece, as she covered herself again (why bother? But she must) and stammered a plea for her sheet. “Yes, of course! Where is it?” She didn’t know; the boy who had torn it from her was nowhere to be seen. “Sorry, old thing,” said a leering sixteen-year-old, “I suppose you’ll just have to bear it. Bare it! Haw!”

She screamed at him “It’s not funny! Please,” she turned to the crowd, “please let me have something to wear. Anything. Don’t leave me naked!”

The band struck up again, and she was bewildered as the crowd ignored her and started dancing some frenetic rhythm. She stood in the middle of the floor and gazed around her. The young people who weren’t dancing stood by grinning salaciously, both sexes, and she took a tremulous breath and made her way through them to the door. Once out in the corridor, she decided to scour the house looking for the boy with her sheet, or at least some item of clothing that she could borrow for the evening. There had to be something. Where was her hostess, the Radcliffe sister? Surely she had lots of clothes. Find her bedroom, that was it.

She found a staircase and began to ascend, avoiding the eyes of those she encountered on the steps, some of whom tried to stop her and – what? Talk? Unlikely. She hurried up to the next floor and began to look for a likely bedroom, but evidently they were all occupied by little crowds. Then there was one with only two people, a boy and girl in their early twenties, who were busy fumbling each other on the bed, trying to undress, but with intoxicated fingers they weren’t having much success. They looked up at her and immediately dismissed her as of no account, and didn’t even seem surprised at her condition. Catherine was beginning to realise that nudity of some sort was probably not unusual at the Radcliffe parties, so she was heartened to think she had to be able to find some discarded clothing somewhere, if she looked long enough.

She had of course to fend off the unwanted attentions of several guests, most of whom were intoxicated on something or other. She caught a boy sniffing up a white powder and guessed it was that cocaine she’d heard about, having glimpsed the American tycoon doing the same thing at the Grainger dinner. Then she finally came to a bedroom with a heap of clothes on the floor, and thanking her gods she seized a dress and pulled it on. She wondered briefly what she’d do if someone claimed it, but decided she’d be no worse off than she had been, and boldly set about trying to enjoy the party. The music was too loud and raucous, she thought, though it was rather infectious, and she hummed along to a tune she realised she’d heard before, for her uncle used to sing it with emotion, “Darling Nellie Gray”—but it sounded rather different played in what they called the jazz style. The band music faded as she went up another stair to find more rooms, a few empty and a few with partygoers, some of them evidently insensible with something, and one with a jolly crowd listening to a young man with a guitar singing a song in harmony with a girl. It was very pleasant, and she stopped and stood at the door till a boy shifted along the couch he was on and let her sit beside him.

“Here’s another one,” the young man said, “a love song from Canada, from Quebec. It’s called ‘Si l’amour prenait racine’, ‘If love took root’, or so. Camille here’s from Gaspé in Quebec, and she says it’s her favourite song.” A chorus of approval arose, and he strummed the guitar to make a delicate accompaniment to the delicate words, the verses sung alternately by the young couple. Catherine was charmed, and listened with a pleased smile as the story of the tryst unfolded.

                               “Tout garçon qui sert bien son maître

                              Ne fait pas l'amour le temps qu'il veut.

                              J'ai bien manqué une seule fois d'aller la voir

                              La belle me l'a reproché plus de cent fois.”

                              “Oh, reviens donc, amant fidèle,

                              Ne manque pas d'y revenir,

                              Reviens le jour, la nuit aussi, mon bel ami

                              Pour toi les portes y sont ouvertes, le jour la nuit.”

                               “ Le beau galant ne manqua pas l'heure,

                              Il arriva sur la minuit

                              Belle, dormez-vous, sommeillez-vous, belle endormie ?

                              Dehors ici je vous attends de froid transi.”

                              “Nenni ne dors ni ne sommeille,

                              Je pense à vous toute la nuit.

                              Marchez tout doux, parlez tout bas, mon bel ami,

                              Car si mon papa vous entend, morte je suis.”

They sang the last two verses together, their voices blending in poignant harmony.

                               “Ne furent pas deux heures ensemble

                              Que l'alouette chanta le jour.

                              Belle alouette, que chantes-tu ? Tu nous trahis;

                              Tu chantes l'aurore du jour, il est minuit.

                              “Ah ! Si l'amour prenait racine,

                              Dans mon jardin j'en planterais.

                              J'en planterais, j'en sèmerais aux quatre coins,

                              J'en ferais part à tous mes amis qui n'en ont point.”

“That’s absolutely beautiful,” said the boy beside Catherine. “‘Óh come back, my true love, don’t fail to return. Come back by day, by night – for you the doors are open, day or night.’And then, how did it go? Camille, what does the girl say?”

The young singer smiled and said “She says ‘No, I’m not asleep at all, I think of you all night. Walk quietly, speak softly, for if papa hears you, I’ll be dead!” The others laughed. “But then it says, they weren’t there for two hours before the lark sang daybreak. ‘Beautiful lark, what are you singing? You’re betraying us. You’re singing the dawn of day, but it’s midnight.’”

“And then,” the other singer said, “it goes, ‘If love took root I would plant it in my garden. I’d plant it, I’d seed it to the four corners, in all directions. I’d give some to all my friends who have none.’ It’s a very pretty song, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes,” said Catherine, and flushed at drawing attention to herself.

“Yes,” said Camille, “you understood it, didn’t you? I saw you following every word. We have many good songs like that, in Québec.”

“Actually,” said a boy at the back of the room, “it manages to sound … old-fashioned, d’you know what I mean? It has a sort of antique air about it. I bet you it arose in France centuries ago, and was taken over there by the colonists and, what do you call them, the voyageurs, isn’t it, who paddled over the country. I know you have native songs, indigenous I could say, as well, it stands to reason. But I’m interested in the songs with deep roots, with long histories, like that one, I’m sure. D’you know anything about it?”

The boy who had sung it, evidently called Vivian, frowned and said “Well, my uncle thought it was a real French-in-France song, because he knows another version.”

“Oh really?”said Catherine, joining in the discussion, “can you sing it? It’d be interesting to compare them. Can you remember it? How does it go?” The others encouraged him, and he tuned his guitar and plucked a few notes.

“You have to know,” he said, “that my uncle is a bit of a scholar, or maybe pedant, who keeps on reading old books and quoting them all the time. There’s a certain book that was written away back, centuries ago, which was written to poke fun at the pedants of that time, who were worse than my uncle. The author does this by taking a simple little folk song and giving a scholarly commentary on it, every line of it, as if it were some terribly important epic or other, and he called the thing ‘The Masterpiece of an Unknown’, Le Chef-d’oeuvre d’un inconnu. So he prints this little song, words and music, and uncle taught it to me. Camille knows it too, though we haven’t sung it together.”

“Oh please, Vivian, let’s hear it!”

“All right. Camille and I can sing the two parts of the conversation.” He played another delicate minor tune in three-quarter time, and smiled at Catherine as he began.

“L’autre jour Colin malade

Dedans son lit,

D’une grosse maladie

Pensant mourir,

De trop songer à ses amours,

Ne peut dormir;

Il veut tenir celle qu’il aime

Toute la nuict.

“Le Galant y fut habile,

Il se leva;

A la porte de sa belle

Trois fois frapa:

Catin, Catos, Belle Bergère,

Dormez-vous?

La promesse que m’avez faite,

La tiendrez vous?”

Camille took up the story.

“La fillette fut fragile;

Ell’ se leva,

Toute nue en sa chemise

La porte ouvra.

Marchez tout doux, parlez tout bas,

Mon doux ami,

Car si mon papa vous entend

Morte je suis.”

The others breathed a sigh at recognition of the words. Vivian continued the boy’s part.

“Le Galant, qui fut honnête,

Droit se coucha,

Entre les bras de sa belle

Se reposa.

Ah! je n’ai pas perdu mes peines,

Aussi mes pas,

Puisque je tiens celle que j’aime

Entre mes bras.”

The girl sang with something like real sorrow in her eyes.

“J’entends l’Alouette qui chante

Au point de jour,

Amant, si vous est’ honnête

Retirez-vous.

Marchez tout doux, parlez tout bas,

Mon doux ami,

Car si mon Papa vous entend

Morte je suis.”

Vivian ended the tune with a pleasing major chord, and Catherine clapped in delight, and the others made pleased noises. The boy at the back said “I’m damned if I know which I prefer! That one seems to be the ancestor, isn’t it? But the other, the first one, has a prettier tune I think. Anyway, I like that bit about Papa. And mostly, gang, think of the singers in each generation who passed on that piece of naughtiness, so it wouldn’t be forgotten. They’d be the women, don’t you think, Camille?”

“You tend to think of women, and old women especially, passing on the old songs, yes, but the men do it too. Not just the voyageur songs, like ‘C’est l’aviron’, for instance, you have the lumbering songs, like ‘Dans les chantiers’, about the hard life in the camps. Oh, there’s lots. Apart from ‘Alouette’, of course.”

“Now that is a silly sort of song,” said the boy beside Catherine. “But it is easy, everyone knows it. Still, do you know an old song about the rebels, I think it was a hundred years ago, about a wandering Canadian?”

Camille smiled broadly. “You are thinking of a wonderful sad song called ‘Un canadien errant,’ she said, “about someone banished from his native land – because of the failure of the 1837 Rebellion. And he says to a river, if you see my land, tell my friends how much I miss my home, that I’ll never see again.” She broke into song.

“Non, mais en expirant, O mon cher Canada!

Non, mais en expirant, O mon cher Canada,

Mon regard languissant vers toi se portera.

Mon regard languissant vers toi se portera.

“It’s a beautiful sad song. But I tell you, the man who wrote the words, called Gérin-Lajoie, used an old folksong ‘Si tu te mets anguille.’ It is a merry song about a courtship, the girl says she’ll turn into an eel, a lark, and all sorts of things, to escape the boy, and he says he’ll turn into something else that can capture her, a fisher, a hunter, and so on. It repeats the tune, every line, like the other one. Vivian, let’s do that one. Only a few verses. It can go on for as long as the imagination holds out.” The boy grinned and struck a chord. Camille waited till he got into a swift and jaunty jig time, then started, Vivian singing alternate verses in response to her. The crowd sang along on the repeated lines as well as they could, and clapped if their French was weak. As she sang and clapped, Catherine realised that she was really enjoying herself with these other young people, and had a twinge of regret that it couldn’t last.

The last verses had the girl becoming a nun in a convent, and the boy saying he’d become a priest and get her by preaching; to which the defeated girl said she’d give herself to him because he loved her so much.

“Si tu te mets nonnette, nonnett’ dans un couvent,

Je me mettrai prêcheur: je t’aurai en prêchant.”

“Si tu te mets prêcheur, pour m’avoir en prêchant,

Je me donn’rai a toi, puisque tu m’aimes tant!”

The crowd applauded and laughed. Goodness, thought Catherine, how different this is from that nasty party! Mind you, those others downstairs were cruel … but they were drunk I suppose. All right. Forget that, and enjoy the party. What time is it?

Just then someone poked his head in to say “Grub’s up, everyone! There’s all kinds of goodies laid on downstairs. First come, first served.” Vivian laid down the guitar and rose. “All right,” he said, “lead on! Camille, après toi.” Catherine followed the company out and finally got to a large room where steaming tureens and deep plates held hot food of all sorts. She found a plate and began to help herself. She got to a chair and sat down with a contented sigh to eat, and her neighbour looked at her and said “Hello! Are you enjoying it?”

The speaker was a fresh-faced girl in her early twenties, with shoulder-length dark hair and very dark eyes. Catherine swallowed what she’d been chewing and answered “Yes, very much. Most of the people are young and nice.”

The other forked something into her mouth and mumbled round it “We try to get a tolerable crowd. Mind you, my brother has just thrown someone out for acting up.”

“Oh! Are you Agnes, the sister—“

“Nancy, please. Yes, for my sins, I’m Philip’s sister. And who may you be?” She smiled as she spoke. Catherine smiled back and introduced herself. “Oh!” said Nancy, “Philip was talking about you, you were sent over by Lady Ethel!”

“Yes,” she said. “She was painting me, and Maurice Somebody was there, and he and his friends brought me. Where are they? You know whom I mean?”

“Oh sure,” said the other.”That’s the Cresswells and the Trinders. They’re here somewhere I suppose. Listen, I’d watch them if I were you. They’re famous for so-called practical jokes. Are you going back with them?”

“I suppose so,” she replied. “What time is it? When will the party be over?”

“Ha!” Nancy laughed. “It varies quite a bit. The dancing crowd will keep going till midnight I expect, the singing crowd may last all night. The drinking crowd will last till the booze runs out, and then of course take time to sober up. But you should get back early, I think. Cassie and Eleanor just got here – that’s Lady Ethel’s protégée, and her pal – so they won’t do it. Hey, you’re only fifteen, am I right? Well, I’ll get the boys to take you back by eleven, say. That suit you?”

“Oh yes, Nancy, thank you. Listen, it’s a very nice party. I heard a couple singing French songs, it was very pleasant.”

“Ah, I think you mean Vivian Rankin and Camille Guiraud. Yes, they’re very good. We always invite them. What’s the matter?”

Catherine had gone pale, and put down her plate. “It’s just—oh, Nancy, can I tell you?”

The other girl looked at her soberly and said “Catherine, you can tell me anything. Anything.”

“It’s just that I was so happy at that little singsong, I haven’t been that happy in ages. I wish I could give a nice party and have nice guests like that. I wish….”

Nancy looked at her with a frown and saw tears in her eyes. “Listen, my dear,” she said, “if you want to tell me why you’re unhappy, please treat me as a favourite aunt. I won’t embarrass you by telling others, not even Philip. Tell me.”

Five minutes later they were in an empty bedroom with drinks in their hands, and Catherine was unburdening herself to her new friend. At the mention of the awful dinner party Nancy drew in her breath and began to say something, but held her peace. When Catherine finally stopped talking and finished her glass, she finished hers and said “Well, Catherine, I can’t say very much to you except that I feel for you and what you’re enduring. Matthew sounds a nice boy, and maybe he can help you bear it, as you surely help him. I’m damned if I can see a way out for you, either of you. As for a party, believe me, I’ll invite you back, except you might not be allowed to come. I know Lydia Granger. I was at one of her dinners three years ago, and I’ll never forget it. I had a damned good time, I’ll tell you, but in retrospect it was a bit of a brawl.” Catherine looked at her in dismay. “Don’t worry, Catherine, I’m not a favourite of hers and I won’t be speaking to her. She astounded me by allowing one of her guests to thrash one of the servants, and I mean thrash. With a birch, just like in a school. I didn’t say anything, mostly because I was a bit squiffy with drinks and a wonderful hashish cigarette. Later though I thought better of it. I’ve been invited back since, but I didn’t reply. If you ever give a party, though, please invite me. And Philip, of course, poor soul. And Vivian and Camille. I can see you’d like that kind of party, and I’ll wish you the realisation of it. In the meantime … come, let’s go to the dance room. Now what’s the matter?”

Catherine stammered an account of her humiliation, and her hostess sighed and put her hand on Catherine’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I really think they’ll have forgotten by now. And those that haven’t, well, if they give you any trouble, I’ll personally see them to the door. And if Maurice Cresswell had a hand in it – it wouldn’t surprise me – I’ll speak to him, believe me!”

Of course one inebriated youth tried to paw her and ask her to get naked again, but Nancy quickly escorted him out and (evidently) off the premises. Other boys may have thought about her nude performance, but like gentlemen didn’t mention it, and so Catherine had a good time and actually learned how to do some of those extraordinary dances they were importing from America.

All too soon Nancy was at her elbow. “It’s a quarter to eleven,” she said above the jazzy music. “Come, I’ll get the Trinders to take you home.” The boys were quite sober, but in a cheerful mood, and entertained Catherine on the way home with stories about the jokes they had played. When they got to Lady Ethel’s house they were welcomed and offered more drinks, but thoughtfully declined, saying they had to get back to see what mayhem the Cresswells were getting up to. They kissed Catherine goodbye, to more blushes, before departing with tooting horn.

“Well, Catherine,” said Lady Ethel, “did you have a good time? Yes, of course. I see you lost your wrap, though. That must have been interesting. Anyway, I’ve a little bed for you there in the corner, on the divan. Sleep tight. See you in the morning.” With that the artist left her, and Catherine took off her dress (she must remember to return it) to slip naked between the sheets. What had happened that evening went round in her head till she felt drowsiness coming on, and she surrendered to sleep. Her dream that night seemed to feature her dancing with Matthew, and then their clothes dissolved and left them nude, to embrace and keep on dancing, like Mr Whiston’s story about Ali and the houri. They danced and held each other and kissed, and then…. The morning came too soon, and the wonderful dream itself dissolved, to be sought again but not recalled.

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