Mrs Grainger's Gift 31

By Ritchie Moore

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This work is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It may contain depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Mrs Grainger’s Gift
PART XXXI

Sunday 23rd August

Train from Paris to Calais, ferry to Dover.

Lydia Grainger came for them in the mid-morning, and the lovers lost no time in telling her about the café talk. She at once nodded and said “Oh yes, that’s an acquaintance of mine, and his wife, who’s a bit older than him. But did you say you saw someone with bad eyes? That would be a writer named Joyce, who wrote that Ulysses book they were talking about at the dinner. So he’s here? Yes, Raoul said …. Probably dining at his expensive restaurants again. Hah! He tries to be a dandy, and wants everyone to see he’s in good form, money-wise, yet we all know he’s threadbare and a spendthrift. But enough of that. I haven’t run into him on this trip yet, and he probably won’t want to run into me. But Ernest too, back from Spain with a novel? And Max, and the Reverend Summers….? Hm, he’s probably over here consulting the Bibliothèque Nationale. The Enfer collection, too! And eyeing up the field, perhaps, as well, if I know him. I must remember to invite him to dinner. He has some good anecdotes. Ah but….”

Her voice came to a sighing halt, and she glanced at Bauvais, seemingly deciding not to say what she’d intended. “Well, we’ll see. Thank you for telling me this. And didn’t I say the cafés often had interesting conversations?”

She looked up at the sky, then at them with a curious expression on her pale face. “Well,” she said, “anyway, you’ve made it this far. Now you’re going back the way you came, Calais, Dover, London, Summerton. By way of Scapa Flow! Hah!” She gave a short bark of laughter at her obscure joke.

“I’ve written down instructions at some length for you. Here.” She handed Matthew a large envelope. “Don’t look surprised, boy. Obviously you’re leading the party, since you’re a man.” A cynical smile twisted her lips. “All the documents you need are in there. Just follow the directions, talk to the people, they’ll serve you as they would me. You’ll be in London overnight, and – yes, Matthew, but you’ll not be visiting the Malvern girls, I’m afraid, you’ll be stopping at the Thornton Hotel. They know me well there. Two rooms are booked.” Her eyes narrowed in thought, as if something had just crossed her mind. “If I were going of course it’d be the dear old Cavendish on Jermyn Street. I like dropping in on Rosa Lewis. Anyway, there’s enough money in there to carry you through where you can’t ask for a deferred bill. And I’ve also given you some blank cheques.” She laughed at Matthew’s expression. “Yes, Matthew, I’m trusting you with a potential lot of money. A lot of money….” She smiled in an odd sort of way. “But there it is. I’m staying in Paris … for a bit. You can tell Abigail to carry on as usual.” The orphans looked desperately at her, but she continued to smile as she interpreted their expressions correctly. “Yes! We’ll take up where we left off. A bath, a haircut. Or more Sans-Poil! When I return….” She drew a deep breath. “We’ll see. Have you any questions?”

They couldn’t think of any, and shook their heads. “Fine. Then off you go to the gare. Hail a cab, and I’ll talk to him.” This was swiftly done, and she talked to the cocher for a while before paying him in advance, apparently. They clambered in and looked out at her, who was gazing at them with an inexplicable wistfulness. Then she raised her hand in farewell, and the cab took off. They looked back at her, still standing rather forlornly on the trottoir, looking after them.

Catherine broke the silence. “She seems so sad, or something! Maybe she’s sorry the holidays are over.”

“No, Catherine,” said Amelia. “She said she was sticking around in Paris for a bit. I bet you she’s living the high life with her champagne and dancing and fucking that sexy boyfriend of hers, without having us to bother about. But on second thoughts she may be looking to the autumn and the dreary school and things. The only thing that cheers me up at the prospect is that you’re still with us, Matthew! What say, Jennie?”

The other girl laughed. “You’re right, ’Melia! If it weren’t for Matthew here we’d be bored to death.”

Catherine stared at their merriment and bit her lip, looking at her lover ruefully. He grimaced and muttered something, then busied himself with the contents of Lydia’s envelope, which included typewritten instructions, lists of names and addresses and telephone numbers, and even a small booklet of useful phrases for the Englishman in France. Mrs G had evidently thought of everything. Then they were at the station, and quickly presented by an official with their tickets, led to their compartment, and installed on comfortable first class seats. No sooner had their baggage been loaded than the train took off. Homeward bound! But what awaited them there?

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On the Dover ferry they settled into a comfortable corner with a table and thought about ordering coffee. Matthew, as leader of the group (because he was a man, for goodness’ sake! How stupid!) managed to waylay a waiter and ordered coffee all round. A stout gentleman with top hat and spats had just entered the lounge and looked at them idly, then again, and came forward. He tipped his hat and said “Excuse me, ladies, sir, have we met? You all seem so familiar.” They looked at him closely and Catherine flushed and said “Oh my goodness. It’s you, Mr … Whiston, is that correct?” He smiled and said “Yes, that’s right. And you – oh, heavens! It’s you, young Catherine, isn’t it? And,” he turned to Matthew, “you’re Matthew, the young man who was interested in Telemachus. And you other girls were there too. Excuse me, but I didn’t recognise you at first.” He coughed behind his hand. “Well, you weren’t, hem, hem, dressed last time. I hope I don’t embarrass you. I’m pleased to have met you under these circumstances, for I can apologise to you all for what happened at the dinner.”

Matthew frowned and said “Mr Whiston, I’m … I’m glad you want to apologise, and to tell you the truth you seemed to be the most reasonable of that crowd.”

Catherine smiled gaily at him and said “Do you want to join us? Please don’t be embarrassed by what happened. You were all under the direction of Mrs Grainger.”

He sat down and put his hat aside. “Thank you, miss. You’re right about Lydia, she stage-managed the whole thing. I enjoy her parties, for good conversation and, let me admit it, the unbuttoned freedom of discussion, no reticence, no hypocritical ‘refinement’. And she runs it very well. You do realise that there’s always some excuse made to punish a servant? You two, and I apologise for it, served Mrs Grainger excellently – may I say, young lad, that I admired your defiance of your mistress. That can’t have been easy to do.”

Matthew flushed and said “I had to speak up. I could see that she was going to be stripped, probably, and she was surely going to be beaten! But she wasn’t used to that….”

“Yes, lad, and your intervention prevented that. I rather think she’d have taken it badly.” His eyes moved to gaze sympathetically at Catherine, who was looking at the ground in some embarrassment at the rehearsal of the scene. “But again I should apologise for your treatment. By that time in the evening, of course, the company were well-oiled, so to speak, and uninhibited to the point of recklessness. I can only hope that your memories of that night are not too lurid, and will soon fade.” They looked at him and made noises of agreement, though the lovers’ cheeks remembered how they had hugged in Matthew’s bed afterwards.

Their coffee arrived, and after they’d helped themselves Matthew said, with an expression of curiosity, “Mr Whiston, I was wondering about your experiences. You seem to have travelled a fair bit, to Russia and India and places, Do you speak their languages?”

Whiston smiled somewhat ruefully. “I can understand what’s said, and what I read, even in their outlandish alphabets,” he said, “but I’m not so good at carrying on a brisk conversation, I’m afraid. In St Petersburg, mind you, everyone I met spoke French, and a few German, so that was all right. In India, there’s a good percentage have English, for obvious reasons – though not the King’s English. The babus, as they call them, can be quite amusing in the way they express themselves, half flowery, eupheuistic, and half fawning, in that odd singsong intonation that sounds almost Welsh. I always remind myself, however, of the ludicrous figure an Englishman cuts in his dealings with the ‘lesser breeds without the law’ as Kipling calls them. I’m referring,” he said hastily, “to the all-too-common attitude of the Raj, and indeed all the expatriate crew who find themselves in positions of authority (for one reason or another) over those of another nation. All over the globe, managing that empire on which the sun never sets. Canada, Rhodesia, and so on and so on. Their arrogance is amazing, and their supercilious belittling of ‘the natives’ engenders nothing but contempt in me. As for the natives, I’m sure they laugh up their sleeves at the deliberate British ignorance of their language and traditions – not just ignorance, but downright wilful uninterest, a haughty deprecation of the other’s speech, stories, entire culture. After all, it was the unthinking use of animal grease on the Enfield cartridge that started the Sepoy Mutiny! If you can accept my advice, try to see the world through the world’s eyes. Don’t just gaze at the temple carvings of India and call them obscene, but try to revere them as sincerely pious, and even joyous, depictions of the personified emotions and aspirations of men and women. Don’t scorn the childish tales of the aborigines; don’t decry the strange tonalities and intervals of the songs of the Chinese.”

Catherine smiled at him and said “Yes, Mr Whiston, well said! We should try to tolerate other people’s ways as well as their personalities, though it can take a bit of doing!”

Matthew chimed in as Whiston offered cigarettes. “We’ve been staying at Mrs Grainger’s estate in Provence, and we heard their folk music. It was different, not what I expected.”

Jennie spoke up. “Abigail was right, though. She said it was all high whistles. It took a bit of getting used to.”

“Ah,” said Whiston, “Provence! Yes, Lydia has that little property at … where is it?”

“Vaulx,” said Catherine. “And the music was quite fascinating, I thought.” She flushed slightly as she added, “They danced the farandole—”

“Oh yes! That would be interesting for you. D’you know Bizet’s version of that? In the suite, L’Arlésienne?”

“Yes,” she said, “and he captures it pretty well I think. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Appreciating another people’s art and music.”

“Though it can take a bit of doing, too!” laughed Amelia. “And what about the other way round? How many Frenchmen, for instance, understand, or even like, English art and music and stories?”

“A good question, miss,” said Whiston. “In fact I know several French who have only the vaguest idea about our ways, our institutions, our culture. Though they may well deny that, and protest they’re perfectly au courant with the whole Anglo-Saxon edifice…. One gets an idea, maybe, from the way they treat our poetry. There was one who deafened you with declarations of how he liked, nay loved, Shakespeare, his genius, his eloquence, the music of his lines, but then he’d start quoting something to prove it, and you never heard such a performance.” He looked aside and thought, then began to recite in an outlandish accent with theatrical gestures.

                                   “O zat zis tutu soleed flesh would melt,

                                   Zaw, an resolve itselve into a doo,

                                   Or zat ze everlasting ad not feexed

                                   Iz canon gainst selve sloter….”

They laughed. Matthew said “I suppose that’s what I sound like when I’m trying to speak French. But I think if I stayed long enough, I’d gradually get the native sound, wouldn’t I?”

“Oh yes,” said Whiston, “especially if you’re keen to do that, and I can see you’re interested in languages. Here, have a cigarette.”

“But he’s not bad,” said Catherine. “Actually he’s quick to pick things up, and he’s lots better than when he came. He hadn’t had any way to hear the pronunciation or anything.”

“But what about that funny dialect they speak?” asked Jennie.

“Oh well, miss—I beg your pardon, what may I call you?”

She looked at him in surprise. “I’m Jennie,” she said, “and this is Amelia.”

“How do you do?” said Whiston politely.

He glanced at Matthew, who looked at him in amusement as he blew out his match and said “Mr Whiston, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re not really a reactionary Tory who thinks servants are a breed apart, are you? You’re treating us politely, graciously, though you know our status is the low untouchable slavey. Admit it: you’re a Socialist!”

Whiston guffawed. “Hah, Matthew, my boy, I am discovered! I suppose I must admit it to you, in these abscond circumstances – I’m sure it won’t go any further, and,” he winked, “who’d believe a mere servant, anyway?! No, young people, I’m a sort of libertarian in class attitude as in (ahem) other things. As for politics, I suppose I’m a secret anarchist actually. I don’t hold with extremes, mind.”

“Modus in rebus!” said Matthew.

“Exactly!” Whiston said with a smile. “I see you were listening to the conversation that time. Anyway, I don’t hold with Proudhon, for instance, who said Property was theft. That’s easy enough to say, a smart apophthegm, but it has to be amended and explained. No-one, obviously, who is at all sensible or aims at altruism will approve of the fanatic with a bomb. After all, look at what such adventures bring in their train. A Russian emperor is killed, and immediately the authorities increase their stranglehold on the throat of hoi polloi. (I’m talking of Alexander II. If he’d lived to put through his reform plans, Russia might well have become a constitutional monarchy, and we’d have been spared the Revolution, Ekaterinburg and everything.) No, I’m a quiet sort of anarchist, admitting to a profound distrust of what powers may be, a disciple of Bakunin and Kropotkin rather than Czolgosz. If, that is, he was an anarchist. So anyway I do try to practise what I think, and sometimes preach. As now.” He looked around. “Excuse my sermonising.”

Catherine said “No, Mr Whiston! I like hearing you talk. You’re interesting, and you’ve had lots of experiences. Were you in the army, maybe?”

“How did you guess? I was indeed, serving in India, Africa, and China too. I’m glad I had the opportunity to travel. Everyone should who can. Have you young folks been abroad before?”

“I don’t think you girls have, have you?” The two servants shook their heads. “Nor have I,” said Catherine, “and Matthew hasn’t either, I know. It’s been a great experience. We saw the exposition in Paris—”

“Ah yes,” said Whiston. “An extraordinary affair. And I bet you were amazed at the Eiffel Tower, hm? Paris has so much to offer. The artists, the cafés, and the history! Then there’s the … music halls, though you folks are too young for that,” he said archly. “Saucy songs and dances, you know.” Matthew and Catherine exchanged a hot glance. “Frankly that’s a part of its charm, for many. I mean the freedom of expression, its sophistication. In contrast to the landward parts of the country, I mean your sleepy villages and conventional habits. There are things that shock the insular Briton of course – the public pissoirs on the streets, where a girl can hold the hand of her boy while he relieves himself.”

The girls drew shocked breaths, then Amelia laughed. “I think, Mr Whiston, you’re trying to embarrass us! But it won’t work. After all, you’ve seen us bare-arsed, you’ve seen those two completely naked, and we’ve all heard the naughty conversation you people got up to last June. It won’t wash.”

He smiled and nodded. “I admit, mea culpa, guilty as charged.”

“And we’ve seen them, those things in the middle of the street. But they’re only for men, aren’t they?” she asked pertly. “What are women supposed to do? And what do men do, come to that, if they’re caught short and need a shit?”

Catherine looked scandalised, and Matthew looked askance at Whiston, but the old fellow’s eyebrows went up at her vulgarism and he laughed. “Oh, Amelia,” he chortled, “you are a denizen of Summerton right enough. If you or any girl needs a pee, you’ve got to find a café, I would say. And especially if it’s a shit you want. If there’s no cover handy, then in the less salubrious parts of the city, and there are quite a few of those, you’ll have to pull down your pantalons and let rip in the gutter. You’ll see that sight, I assure you, in Paris as well as the untamed countryside.”

Amelia laughed. “We saw an old man at Vaulx, standing by the roadside, pissing! And he just looked up at us and raised his hat and said Bonjour! We laughed about that.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Whiston, “it’s not uncommon. But I grant you, the ladies are ill-served by public conveniences, which are after all erected, if you’ll excuse the term, by men.”

Jennie laughed. “Do they forget that girls pee as well, or don’t they care?”

“Ah, Jennie,” he said, “there are those who would deny that the fair sex are prone to mortal frailties, and among them the necessity of using the necessary house, as they used to call it.”

Matthew grinned and contributed to the bawdy conversation, “Like Swift’s friend who discovered to his horror that ‘Celia, Celia, Celia shits!’”

Catherine looked startled, and glanced round to see if anyone could overhear the vulgar talk, then grinned in her turn. Whiston replied, with a grin of his own, “I see you were indeed listening to our free conversation at the dinner. It’s true though that girls are not well served, and that’s the very reason – prudery on the part of men who make decisions about lavatories, and women who would never dream of mentioning the subject. As it is, we can thank Paris for inventing the structure. They’ve been there for a hundred years, maybe, and the idea has been exported to other cities. They call them, or used to anyway, vespasiennes, ‘Vespasian columns’ (that’s why it’s feminine, you see, ironically enough), after the first-century Roman emperor Titus Flavius Vespasianus.”

“Why on earth did they do that?” asked Jennie in wonder.

“It’s a sort of joke I suppose,” said Whiston, “because he’s famous for establishing public urinals in Rome and placing a tax on urine collected from them for use in tanning and dyeing, getting rid of the grease from wool, and so on.”

They looked at him dubiously. “Don’t you know about the uses to which urine can be put? For one thing, there are the famous (or maybe not so famous) ‘waulking songs’ that they sing in the Hebrides as they work at fulling their cloth, kneading it in their hands – a whole crowd of women round a table, squeezing the cloth that has been soaked in piss. In China they put human refuse, shit and piss, to good practical use, let me tell you.

“But anyhow, to finish with Vespasian, he was twitted by some because of this tax, and replied with a phrase that’s become proverbial: pecunia non olet, which means ‘money doesn’t smell.’”

They laughed, and he continued, “But I was serious about the unutterable charm of the city. I never tire of it myself. When I was away from Europe I pined for it, and I came back to it with relief. Although I’ve seen some magnificent places.”

“So you’ve seen those carvings in India and things?” asked Matthew.

The old man laughed. “Oho, Matthew, you’re interested in erotic statues, are you? Well, I could describe them, but it’s hard to do that. They’re simply magnificent carvings of gods and goddesses copulating in various inspired ways, but (and this is my point) they view these things as natural, to be enjoyed and not proscribed. I may as well tell you, children – please let me call you that – that you should enjoy life to the hilt, rejoicing in living and loving, as well as you can. And I mean also making love.” He caught the glances between the others and smiled. “As the ancient Hindus knew, and discussed – there’s a book in Sanskrit called Kama Sutra, which translates I suppose as ‘Treatise on Love’. Kama is love, and sutra really is a string, or thread, then an aphorism or precept, or a collection of such, so it comes to mean in this case a manual or textbook. They took sex seriously! Yes, I’m preaching what you might call an uninhibited sexual carnival, as far as it can be attained.” He sighed. “Of course, I’m a little past it, but you are young, bless you! As the student song says, Gaudeamus igitur, iuvenes dum sumus. Let us rejoice, while we are young!”

Amelia laughed rather coarsely and said “Oh no, Mr Whiston! You’re still up for it. You’re not that old. Fifty-something? I saw you go into the game room, you old humbug! With that flute player! What kind of pipe was she playing then, eh?”

Catherine went pink and began to remonstrate, but the old gentleman brushed her protest aside. “Mea culpa again, I confess! We didn’t go into the room to discuss music!” He smiled at Amelia. “You’re right of course. I didn’t say I was totally out of commission, you know. Just that I take it a little more easily these days, and have to find a willing partner. And it’s maybe easy to find one at Lydia Grainger’s parties.”

“I say, Mr Whiston,” said Matthew, “if you know that Kama Sutra book, maybe you know about the Congress of the Crows. I was wondering ….”

“Bless me,” said his mentor with a smile, “where did you hear that? No matter. Yes, that rings some bell or other. Yes, ‘Congress’. Ah-ha. It’s in the section where the various positions are listed and explained, with various titles, quite descriptive, or poetic, even. This one is – yes, it’s called … Kakila. That means ‘crow’, and it’s probably onomatopoeia, though I’m not sure why it’s called that. It’s described as, how do they put it? ‘Oral congress between a man and a woman who lie alongside each other inversely and kiss each other’s organs.’ And it applies to congress between two men and two women as well, obviously. In the West, in France we call it soixante-neuf, sixty-nine. It’s the same in German, naturally, neunundsechszig. Because it resembles the figures 69, I mean the two bodies are imagined as numerals. There’s also the expression gamahuche, which I would use solely of oral stimulation of the woman, by the man tonguing her vulva. It’s a French word, though where it’s from I don’t know. In Latin it’s called cunnilingus. As for men….”

Matthew frowned and contributed a memory of the dinner: “Don’t they call it ‘sucking off’? But whatsisname at that awful party spoke about ‘fellowship’ or something.”

Whiston guffawed. “No, Matthew, not quite. He spoke about fellation, which means precisely that. Stimulation of the penis by the mouth. Of a woman or a man, obviously. Melville probably was thinking of a heterosexual pair, but it may in fact be more employed by tribades and male homosexuals, I don’t know. I suppose ‘fellowship’ does cover it.”

Catherine smiled a little self-consciously, remembering Andrew and Jeremy at Vaulx, and was prompted to change the subject, saying “When we were at Vaulx, we had a visit from your friend Mr Bator, and his friend, young Damian Collins. They were on their way to … where was it?”

“Spain,” said Matthew. “I suppose by way of the Pyrenees. They’d just been to Czechoslovakia and Poland.”

“How did they look?” asked the old gentleman. “I ask because I haven’t seen them, either of them, since that dinner. So they hit it off, did they, hmm? I’m glad. Young Collins seems a nice boy, and friend Tadeusz is in need of friends. He’s alone in the world, you see.”

“Oh,” said Catherine, “he’s another orphan? So are we, actually. Say, how did you come to meet?”

“Ah,” said Whiston, “we met in a little bookshop in Salzburg. I’d only gone in there accidentally, you might say, to escape the Schnürlregen, as they call it, a local drizzling rain. I was just browsing, without anything in mind. You never know what you may pick up, of course, and after the war there were several unfortunate families who lost most of their money – the inflation rate soared, and it’s still very high – so they were forced to sell their possessions, such as the family library, at quite reasonable prices. I was just looking over things, and I heard this voice asking the proprietor if he had any manuscripts. Of course, said the owner, we have quite a few. So he was showing these papers, and a few bound volumes, to this young fellow. It seems there was a little diary written in French, with old letters stuffed into the pages, and another one in English about a trip to the Rocky Mountains in Canada. The boy (he was a boy, you know) seemed to have a grasp of all those languages, though he spoke very pure German, and he evinced an interest in some of the manuscripts, particularly some of Ludwig Tieck. I made a comment, and we got talking.” Seeing incomprehension on their faces, he explained, “Tieck was a writer of a hundred years ago, who among other things wrote what you might call anti-romantic fairy tales. Anyhow, Hofmeister, the bookseller, had a few letters of his, and a story that had never been published. So this young man snapped them up, and I congratulated him on a bargain, and I bought a couple of things of Kafka—”

More incomprehension made him sigh and explain again. “Franz Kafka was a Czech writer, in German, who died just last year of tuberculosis, at the age of forty I believe. He didn’t publish much when alive, though I hear there are interesting things in manuscript. Anyhow, Hofmeister offered me two of his things, a rather disturbing story called In der Strafkolonie, that is ‘In the Penal Colony’, about a rather ghastly torture and execution device; and also another odd story called Die Verwandlung, which means ‘Transformation’ or ‘Metamorphosis’, about a poor travelling salesman who wakes up one morning to discover he’s been changed into an enormous vermin.”

The young people stared, and Whiston smiled and continued.

“We left together. Had dinner, talked about our purchases, exchanged cards, parted. Saw him again next day strolling along the Getreidegasse, a fine old street in the old town, where Mozart was born, at number nine. Had coffee, got more acquainted. He told me his adventures, and for a youth of twenty, he’s had quite a life. But he’d have to tell you himself. He’s quite an accomplished poet, by the way, in several languages. In Polish, he’s probably a latter-day Norwid, I’d say.” They looked blank. “Sorry,” he said, pulling his ear, “he’s a rather engaging poet of last century. Who’d I compare him with? Browning, maybe. Anyway, we met as I say (this was last March, by the way), and over the next little while we became friends, I think I can say, and when I came back to England he accompanied me. Lydia had invited me to her dinner, and I wrote to ask for him to be invited too. This is one thing I’ll say for her, she’s very indulgent with her guests, and I believe she’s only been disappointed once. Once is enough, mind you, the guest and his awful friend have never been invited back.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“Tadeusz? No, I’d offered to bring him but he had come in his own car, and he left in it, along with young Collins. He had come as a guest of Miss Waterson, the charity woman, who is some relation or other, and as far as I could see she didn’t care what happened to him. He disappeared, that is, but she didn’t turn a hair. His parents, I know, are in New Zealand, and I’d have thought she was delegated to be in loco parentis. Anyhow I was pleased that I was introducing Tadeusz to new people, and I may as well say that I trusted him to make his own choices. Which he did. So he visited you, did he? And the boy, were they getting on well?”

“They made a nice couple,” said Catherine. “They’re young and beautiful, and they seem to suit each other. They’re very easy in their manner towards each other, and you can see the affection in the way they look at each other, even in the way they banter each other. I liked them. I’d like to see more of them, actually.”

“Well,” said Whiston, “that may not happen too soon. Lydia will be resuming her ways again once she’s back at the estate. You should see however if you can attend some of the parties, or a theatre, this autumn. Maybe I can invite you, hmm? I know you’re only servants, but still….”

Matthew looked darkly at the old man. “Oh, Mr Whiston! If only we could! Listen, we’re on our way back to Summerton to take up our duties again, and they entail … oh fuck it!” he exclaimed, “Mr Whiston, we’re constantly being embarrassed by that bitch, and you’ll guess I think what she does to us. This is the end of our holiday, we’re going to be shamed again and again, it’s back to normal.” He laughed bitterly. “Normal!”

Whiston looked at him seriously. “Matthew,” he said, “I do know, or can guess, what Lydia Grainger is doing. All I can say is, you have my sympathy. If there’s anything – anything – I can do to help you, promise me you’ll get in touch with me. Here’s my card. Believe me, whatever I can do will be done. I like you young people, and I’d like to help you. Promise me you’ll write.” Matthew and Catherine nodded gratefully, and the old gentleman put on his hat, saluted, and left.

“Well!” said Amelia, “that was a surprise! The old codger was really human. I can’t think how Mrs G got hold of him. Or how he got hold of her. According to Abigail, it’s quite a, what d’you call it, honour, feather in the cap, to be invited. Among a certain crowd, obviously. Lady Astor isn’t going to attend, she throws her own parties anyway, nor any really big people. But in that layer of society (what they call society), the … the undergrowth, you might say, a Lydia Grainger invitation is boasted about.”

“And they’re all the same?” asked Catherine plaintively. “All those awful people, showing off and swapping dirty stories? Singing rude songs? And … and sniffing drugs, and fucking each other, and us?”

Amelia broke into laughter. “Yes, Catherine,” she gasped, “they’re all the same. As you’ll see, for I guarantee you’ll be here next time to take part. Which might be in six months. Abigail was hinting that, Mrs G wants to make it a regular thing. With any luck,” she smirked lewdly, “so will our shy friend here. And I don’t see how that old fellow can help you, either.” Matthew looked sadly at Catherine and sighed. She was only too right.

=====================================

In London overnight.

When they got to the Thornton Hotel, Matthew paid off the cab and they had their few possessions unloaded into the foyer. A fat man in his fifties puffed up to them and enquired their wants. “There are two rooms booked,” said Matthew, “in the name of Grainger—”

“Say no more, sir,” said the man fawningly. “All is ready. Boy!” A small pageboy ran up. “Take this gentleman and his ladies to number twelve. You can sign the register, sir, at your convenience.”

Jennie was suppressing mirth at the man saying “his ladies,” as if he had a harem. But he did, didn’t he? He’d fucked her and Amelia, and she was sure he’d fucked Catherine too. Her bawdy thoughts lasted till they were ushered into a plushy sort of drawing room, as she thought of it, and shown two bedrooms off to the sides.

“Thank you, lad,” said Matthew. “Can you bring up our bags?”

“Thwaites will do that, sir,” said the boy. “For now, you can have dinner if you like. You can freshen up in here,” showing a well-appointed bathroom, “and I’ll tell the dining room you’re coming if you like.”

“Thank you! And here’s something for your trouble.” Matthew handed him a guinea, at which the young page beamed and saluted, then left tossing the coin in the air.

“Hey, Matthew, for God’s sake,” said Amelia, “don’t scatter your money like that. Even if it’s Mrs G’s money. You’ve got to tip this Thwaites fellow who’s bringing the luggage too. And everybody else. Here he is!” A tall cadaverous man in an improbable blue suit appeared to unload a steel cart laden with their bags. He got a half-crown and was well-pleased with it, and Jennie said Matthew was learning fast. Then they all visited the bathroom in turn before finding the dining room for a late supper. Matthew signed the register, feeling ridiculously adult.

Back at their rooms, Amelia looked at Jennie, who said “The one on the right with the green wallpaper is ours, right?”

Amelia nodded and grinned at Catherine, to say “And that one with the pink wallpaper is yours.”

Catherine looked at Matthew and flushed as she said “Yes, it is.” She picked up her two bags and went in, and Matthew followed her with his.

The other two exchanged grins of their own and nodded. Jennie threw her bag onto the large double bed and mused “I wonder if he compares her with the other girls he’s had? How do you think she measures up?”

Amelia guffawed. “How does anyone? I’m not getting into a contest with you, Jennie, like the three whores in Winnipeg, as to who has the best cunt, or the biggest, or anything. She … I think she’s just getting into the use of it. They can’t have fucked all that much. Now, though, they’ve got an entire night! How often do you think they’ll do it?”

“What’s the point in guessing, or betting? We’ll never know. If you want a figure to gloat about, though, try five or six. He’s got the stamina, though maybe not as much as old Jeremy, God knows! and I bet you she’s got the appetite. Bless them!"

In the room with pink wallpaper, Catherine looked gaily at Matthew, who had a questioning look on his face. “If you’re troubled by the sponge, love, don’t be. My flowers have gone, they never do last long. So I’m all yours. All of me.” She threw her arms up and cried “All of me!”

“Yes, Catherine, sweet love, and I am ready to give you all of me.”

They began to undress slowly, with all the time in the world.

===================================================================

Monday 24th August

Summerton again

They reached Summerton in the afternoon, ready (if not willing) to be thrust back to work, expecting to be told of awful things to happen by Abigail. They learned from Grace that Bryden was away somewhere doing something mysterious. Abigail was disdainfully uninterested in the old man’s activities. She looked at her charges and smirked.

“Well, Catherine! And Matthew, my goodness, you’ve been in the sun, haven’t you? You do tan very attractively. You wouldn’t have got that here, I’ll tell you. It rained, and it was dull, and it was an ordinary English summer. So now it’s good weather again, and school is about to start, which we’ll have to talk about. For now, maybe you can get back into harness by doing your catalogue. Why don’t you help him, Catherine? Mr de Groot is here, I saw him not long ago. He’s been here most days, and he said a few days ago that he missed your company.”

“That’s nice,” said Matthew. “I like him, he’s very knowledgeable, very pleasant company.”

“Right, then. We’ll talk tomorrow about what to do with you.” She flapped her hand to dismiss them, and they went off, looking at each other in some nervousness.

“What do you think she means, Matthew? About what to do with us?”

“I’ll tell you, love,” he said grimly, “she’s going to think up some shameful situation, or maybe Mrs G has already devised something, and we’ll certainly get back to the grind when she comes back from Paris. For now, though, let’s forget that and seek out that nice Mr de Groot. You’ll be able to help. Though remember, most of the books are about sex, and naked people, and things….”

“It’s all right, Matthew,” she said with a smile. “I’m quite ready for it. At least,” she said with a wry laugh, “it’s only on paper!”

De Groot shook hands with them with evident pleasure, and told them how far he had progressed. “I took the liberty, Matthew, of continuing the catalogue check,” he said, “but I didn’t take much away from your occupation. There’s plenty more. I made some more discoveries. There are several series of books here, such as Richard Burton’s Thousand and One Nights, the ‘Arabian Nights’, you know? Only this is the complete and unexpurgated version. The children’s books are naturally bowdlerised. Some stories, mind you, don’t allow for that, you can’t eviscerate them at all, you’d kill them entirely.”

“Is that the man who went to Mecca,” asked Matthew, “in disguise—”

“Yes, Matthew, indeed. A remarkable chap, to pass for a native Arab in that centre of Islam! There’s some more of his books here. The Kama Sutra—”

“What is that? Is it here? I’m asking because they were talking about it at a dinner party a while ago. Is it the same as a book about various positions for … intercourse?”

“Where did you hear that? You’re right, it’s an Indian treatise on the art of love, how to make love, that is, with your partner. How to behave, various positions for intercourse, et cetera. It’s quite plain in what it says, and Burton translates it with relish, as he rendered the Arabian Nights, quite lushly! There’s also a run of the publications of Krauss, who edited collections of erotic folklore. Yes,” he continued cheerfully, seeing frowns of disbelief, “folk tales and fairy stories can be highly charged with sexuality. Even basically to do with sex, where the entire raison d’être is sexual, designed to titillate. I hope, young lady, I’m not shocking you.”

Catherine smiled and replied “Once upon a time, Mr de Groot, you would have. But as you’ve come to know I think, this establishment quickly renders one … not unshockable, but just less susceptible. More thick-skinned. Anyhow, can I help with your catalogue and so forth?”

“But of course. May I call you Catherine, by the way? Thank you. And listen, we shouldn’t have polite formality to me either. Please call me Adriaan.”

“Thank you, … Adriaan. A nice name, if I may say so.”

“Thank you!” The little scholar flushed with pleasure. “It’s the same as Adrian, or Hadrian, you know, the same as the Roman who erected that wall to keep the terrible Picts and Scots at bay.”

“Oh yes!” said Matthew, “Hadrian’s Wall, of course.”

“But it’s also the name of a pope, Adrian the Sixth,” said de Groot proudly. “He was only pope for a short time but tried to reform a corrupted church. Actually he was elected somewhat accidentally. The cardinals were at an impasse, the Spanish and French parties deadlocked. As a compromise, they thought of Adriaan Boeyens of Utrecht, who was a scholar and teacher at Leuven – one of his students was Erasmus. He was elected, in …1522 I believe. I think only one other foreigner took the name, that would be Adrian or Hadrian the Fourth, who was English.”

“Oh, there was an English pope? I didn’t know that.”

“Yes indeed, Catherine, the only one, I think. This was about four hundred years before, or a century after the Norman Conquest . His name was Nicholas Breakspear. Another reformer actually. And he’s of interest also because Hadrian the Seventh took the name as the next English pope.”

They looked their confusion, and he smiled and explained. “Frederick Rolfe, who called himself Baron Corvo, wrote a novel about twenty years ago called Hadrian the Seventh, where he imagines an English pope being elected practically in the same way as our Dutch pope, because of deadlock in the cardinals’ conclave. That’s probably where Rolfe got the idea. He takes the name Hadrian because of the previous English pope, very rightly. And he proceeds to reform the church of course. It’s an interesting book, and has a personal interest because it’s really autobiographical. Rolfe never did become pope of course, he didn’t even become a priest, though he dearly wanted to. Poor man, he died penniless and neglected in Venice in 1913. Curiously enough, another Death in Venice was written about in 1912, by the German author Thomas Mann. I sometimes think art imitates life and sometimes life imitates art, as Oscar Wilde said. In his book The Decay of Lying. That’s here, too, with a few more of his things.”

“Corvo!” said Matthew. “As in Raven, maybe?”

The bookman smiled. “Indeed, Matthew! ‘Black’ is nero, or negro, but ‘raven-black’ is corvino. You have capigliatura corvina, raven-black hair.”

“But no relation,” said Catherine.

“No,” said de Groot, “and it’s just as well, for by all accounts the fellow was quite difficult to deal with. He alienated all his friends, and was always very demanding of them, as if to say ‘I am more important than you’. He borrowed money and imposed on everyone. I had this from a mutual acquaintance, who was in Venice at the time, and had some alarming things to say about him. He didn’t like him much, I suppose.” He looked askance at Matthew, and added “He is said to have been too friendly with the young gondolieri, if you follow me.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Matthew, “I understand. Oh dear.”

“But all the same,” said Catherine, “he didn’t deserve such a lonely death. No-one does.”

Matthew looked at her and said “Catherine, you’re always on the lookout for good things to say about people.”

She shrugged, and de Groot smiled at her in understanding. “Anyway,” said Matthew, “maybe we should start. Where’s the catalogue? Right. Now suppose I take a book and find it in the catalogue and pass it to you, Adriaan, to value, then Catherine shelves it … no, what about you take the book and value it while I look in the catalogue for the title you read out to me? Catherine gets the book if it’s not listed and makes a note for the second list. Is that better?”

“That’ll do fine,” said de Groot, and Catherine nodded, getting the sheets of paper and pen and ink ready for her share. “Right! Then here we go. Adriaan, what’s next?” The Dutchman lifted a small volume and said “Hmm, under N, you may find this, again it’s one of those long titles. Listen: Nocturnal Revels: or, the History of King’s-Place, and other Modern Nunneries.”

“Nunneries?” repeated Matthew.

“Yes, that’s what it says, but just listen.” He continued, “Containing their Mysterious Devotions and Sacrifices. Comprising also, The Ancient and Present State of Promiscuous Gallantry: With the Portraits of the most Celebrated Demireps and Courtezans of the Period: as well as Sketches of their Professional and Occasional Admirers. By a Monk of the Order of St. Francis. In Two Volumes. Vol. I – oh dear, I think there’s only the one. Anyhow, The Second Edition, Corrected and Improved, with a Variety of Additions. A quotation from Terence, etc., and the date, 1779. Have you found it?”

“Yes, Adriaan, it’s here, only one volume. What’s that Terence thing?”

“Oh, it’s a piece of his comedy The Eunuch, Let me see. Something to the effect that … ‘I’ve done well to have found out the way by which a young man,’ hmm, really, adulescentulus – young boy, like yourself, Matthew – ‘can come to know the minds and manners of courtesans, so that by knowing them in good time, he may detest them ever after.’”

“Oh,” said Matthew artlessly, “That’s about the fellow who pretends he’s impotent—”

The little Hollander raised his eyebrows. “Yes! Where did you get that? Anyhow, I think this is a typical piece of its time, it’s a guide to the red light district, with anecdotes and biographies and scandal. Hah, here’s an account of the origin of the Cork Rumps. Can you imagine, children, how seventeenth-century ladies of fashion thought it became them to exaggerate their bums? They wore special padding on the behind, also called a ‘Bum Roll’, and it was of course satirised unmercifully. It died out by 1800 I think, but it came back, as fashions tend to do, with the bustle in Victorian times.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Matthew. “It was called the cul de Paris.” He flushed to show his informed knowledge, and De Groot looked at him in surprise.

“Well! You’re right I think. Did you get that in France? Anyway…. Hm, hm, I don’t think it’s terribly valuable, but still….” He made a note. “Next….”

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

Tuesday 25th August

Abigail set the staff about their business – all was to proceed as usual till Mrs G returned, presumably the next week.

“Matthew, we’ve got lots of things arranged for you. Something exciting happening every week. We have a new generation of girls, you see, so they’ll be making your acquaintance shortly. In the drawing classes, and science classes and so forth, French, and German. Fräulein Benz heard about how you helped Mlle Maury with her students, so she thought she’d do the same for hers.”

“Miss Benz? A German teacher? What about Miss Barnes?”

“Oh, she’s indisposed, and we have a substitute. She’s Erika Benz, all the way from Heidelberg. She’s a bit younger than Miss Barnes, about twenty I think. But she comes highly recommended. So anyway you’re doing German with her twice this coming week, the fourteens and the fifteens. All right?” He had to acquiesce, but hoped against hope that the young teacher would not be as willing to exhibit him as Justine had.

“Besides that,” the awful girl continued, “there’s the ping-pong contest coming up. Oh, you won’t know about that, it’s at the start of the Autumn Term. I think it’d be amusing this time for you to take part in the nude.” Matthew stared in horror. “And the loser gets a spanking from everyone. That was a suggestion from Mrs G for the next time.” Matthew opened his mouth to protest, but found himself dumb.

“And as for you,” she turned a sly smile on Catherine, “we’re sending you to St Vincent’s again.”

Catherine panted and stammered “N-no, please! Not again! It was awful, I couldn’t do it again!”

Abigail widened her smile and said “It’s all arranged. Mrs G set it up before the holidays, and this is the first of many visits. You’ll be going there every other week. There’s a lot of classes you can help in. Posing naked for the art class, being a model to illustrate their anatomy classes and sexual instruction, even the gym class – I suggested that one.” Catherine put her face in her hands.

“P-please,” she moaned, “I’ll never be able to bear it!”

Matthew’s face twisted in fury. “You are a fucking bitch, you know that? You—”

“Oh Matthew,” she replied with a yawn, “of course I know what I am. I admit it. Yes, I’m a fucking bitch. But you are a poor orphan at the command of a woman who can make your life even more hard than it is, and make things very treacherous for your unfortunate family. Catherine is another pauper of an orphan without any protection in this vale of tears from a cruel woman up in Cumberland. So you and she will put up with a little mortification, or it’s out for both of you. Now! You are to turn up dressed in all your clothes, like you did before, at eleven o’clock on Wednesday, tomorrow, in the German room. You know where it is. Catherine, you will be taken off to Mr Bradley at nine o’clock that day. You’ll be there all day, as before. I’ve no idea what Mr B has in mind this time, but I’m sure it’ll be imaginative and enjoyable. For the boys, the randy little buggers! For now, off to the kitchen. Matthew, back to the catalogue.” She stood there till they left in their different directions, casting longing looks at each other, then she smiled broadly. “Oh, Lydia G.!” she breathed, “how true it is! The rush of excitement, the hot shiver that you said I’d get, the amazing feeling of invincible power to make and break, to cause to weep, to shame to death!”

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

====================================================================

Wednesday 26th August

German class. Abigail writes to Mrs Grainger. Catherine to St Vincent’s again – promise of baths

Abigail inspected Catherine. The girl had put on a white shirt and red tie, a short black skirt that came to mid-thigh, and a pair of red stockings. Her feet were shod with her usual black shoes with a strap. “What are you wearing under that get-up?” she asked with a frown.

“I have a singlet,” she said, “and knickers.” She lifted her skirt to show the brief underwear that Mr Jackson had created.

“Hmm,” murmured Abigail, “I suppose that’ll do. The mistress’ll probably change it when she gets here, But for now, for today, it’ll answer pretty well.” She looked out the door. “Yes,” she said, “the driver’s here. So off you go. Report to Mr Bradley as usual. Oh, I bet the boys are wetting themselves over this!” Catherine gulped but made no reply. What could she have said? She climbed into the car and sat miserably while she was driven off to yet another appointment with shame.

Mr Bradley’s welcome was more effusive and off-putting than ever. “Ah, Catherine!” he gloated, “back again to help us with the curriculum! I see you’ve been in the sun. Yes, perhaps tanned all over, hey?” His eyebrows went up as he grinned. “Maybe we’ll see, hm?” She blushed. “Oh my goodness, Catherine, you blush so easily and so delightfully! I won’t pretend otherwise, I like to see a young girl blush. And I mean it when I say we’ll be able to appreciate the completeness, or otherwise, of your tan. I will certainly be conveying our pleasure – my pleasure, that is, and that of all the boys here, to see you naked, to Mrs Grainger. Oh yes, I’m being perfectly frank. She and I have decided that one way to keep the libido focussed on the opposite sex is to supply that sex quite liberally. My boys will have no reason to indulge themselves sexually with one another. They’ll focus on you.” He beamed at her and she looked at him astounded.

“Is that what it’s all about?” she asked, “You just want to stop them wanking each other? But they won’t, you know.”

He looked disgusted at her language and said merely “Off you go to Mr Drysdale’s class. Two drawing classes, then lunch.”

She went out into the corridor and paused to orient herself before going off to the well-visited room. There she was welcomed by the teacher, who seemed to have had an invigorating summer, for he spoke in a quite lively manner. “Ah, Catherine, good to see you. Had a nice holiday? All right, undress, and step up here.”

The boys began to trickle in the door, and stopped when they saw her taking off her clothes. “Come in, boys,” said Drysdale, “sit down at your easels. We have a real live model today.” They buzzed in excitement and soon settled down. Drysdale posed her with arms outstretched and feet widely spaced, showing all her attributes at once. She noticed some of the boys taking the class seriously, but most of them made no secret of their bawdy delight in her nudity, and her blush, which had started at the door, grew hotter and hotter till she was sure she was sweating. Or was her vulva betraying her again? She sighed as she realised that her automatic reaction of shame was actually stimulating her body, and she gave a silent scream when she felt her vaginal lubrication begin to drip down her leg.

Was it a reflex of her sexual maturation – if that was the word – in the hot summer just past? Whatever the reason, she was aroused more than last time. It didn’t help her self-esteem when the teacher took a towel to the dais to wipe up some moisture, muttering under his breath. Had the boys noticed? Pray God no! But she didn’t have time to reflect before she was posed anew and the boys (aged about twelve, it seemed, and probably the first year intake) were looking at her while Drysdale gave them some advice on how to draw the curves of her behind. Somehow she got through the class and sat down dolefully on a bench, the teacher leaving the room with a “Five minutes!” remark. The day was just begun, and she was already aroused, though her blushes and moist reactions diminished a bit. But then the new class, aged fourteen or so, piled in and greeted her vision with oohs of delight. Drysdale came back and started off this time with technical directions about her proportions and her curves, demonstrating on a large pad of paper how to draw her breast, and then (oh God!) how to render her mons veneris and that admirable groove. She soon felt her arousal quickening again, and again was sure she had begun to sweat her secretion. All she could do was close her eyes and firm her lips, and hope that her other lips didn’t reveal her state too much.

At the end of the class she made for her clothes but was startled to be told by Drysdale that she should go as she was out to the hall, and as she stared at him open-mouthed two boys were instructed to lead her out. As if in a dream she allowed herself to be escorted out and along the corridor, but she awoke with a shriek as the bell rang and the boys poured out of class all around her. Many recognised her, and grinned salaciously as she was led past them, and a few made bold to slide a hand onto her skin as she went by.

“Wait a minute, boys!” she cried, “I’m naked! I can’t—”

They looked at her in surprise tempered with lust. “We were told to take you to Hall, and that’s what we’re doing,” said one.

Her eyes widened as she understood what he was saying. “You mean Hall, the lunch room?”

“Of course,” said the other. “Come along.” They drew her through the crowd to the dining hall where she was again led to the high table. But this time she didn’t have just a short dress and no knickers to contend with; this time she was stark naked, being led through an entire roomful of adolescent boys, to be seated facing them and displaying all her body. She was ushered onto a chair and sat down quickly, hoping that some cover might come from the table, but she doubted it. The prefects took their places and the strange meal began. She had little appetite, and looked down at the boys as they looked up at her, seemingly also with no inclination to do anything but stare. She did see some hands busy below a table, and breathed deeply as she realised she was inspiring the masturbation Bradley had denounced.

The long dreadful meal came to an end and the top table trooped out. Last time she had been exposed accidentally when her skirt snagged on a corner, and not many had actually noticed her. Now however all eyes were on her naked body, shielded rather unsuccessfully by her trembling hands, as she walked down the steps and through the middle of the crowd, which gave a rousing cheer as she gained the doorway. Outside she dithered for a while as she wondered about the sex class, but a need for a bathroom suddenly made itself known and she began looking around. Meanwhile the hordes of boys were again milling around her and eyeing her privates, and she thought her blush would never end. She couldn’t find a bathroom of any sort close by, and was finally driven to run outside the building and round a corner, where she looked round desperately and seeing no-one, squatted to pee. As if waiting for a cue a dozen or so boys came round the corner to surround her and stare at her private action. She couldn’t stop, and in fact she gave a fart (which made them laugh loudly) and begin (oh God) to shit.

This was something none of them had ever seen a girl do, and they followed the process avidly. Others joined them, and by the time she was finished she had an entertained audience of forty teenagers. Tears came to her eyes as she realised she’d have to wipe her bum in front of them. But how? She looked up at a boy standing in front of her, his trousers clearly showing his interest, and stammered “P-please, c-can you fetch some … paper?”

He looked incredulous and wheeled about, crying “Paper! She wants paper. She wants to wipe her arse!” The rest exploded in laughter, and one dashed off, to return a minute later with a handful of toilet paper, which he offered to his comrades. With a sinking heart she knew they wanted to do it for her. A fond memory of dear Matthew’s gentle ministrations came to her, and she merely moaned as three lewd boys her own age seized her and tended to her backside. “All clean now! Off you go!” With a salvo of smacks on her behind she was sent off tearfully to find Mr Walters and his agonising sexual education class.

Boys thronged around her and gave her the laughing eye as she made her way to the sex education room. She was still trying to cover herself, but wondered why she bothered. But no, came the reply, I’m ashamed to be seen naked, I just want to die! God, just a few months ago I had never been looked at naked, no boy had ever seen my breasts, let alone my bum, let alone, oh God! my vulva! And now I can’t think how many have seen me naked, have even felt me naked, dear Christ have made me come in an orgasm! Only one, though, she thought with a tender shiver, only one has seen me and felt me that counts, only Matthew, dearest Matthew! For him I’ll bear anything. Then she was at Walters’ door and knocked. It was flung open by the young teacher who looked at her in surprise.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “I’d forgotten you’d be back. Come in, come in. You’ve lost your clothes again, I suppose. All right, we were just about to start. Hop up on the dais and we’ll get on with it. Class, this is Catherine, who’s modelling here as a living example, shall we say, of the female genital system and erogenous zones.” They made enthusiastic noises, and she looked out at a class of thirty or so boys all staring at her nude crotch with avid expectation, some of them looking surprised at the presence of an absolutely naked girl their own age, and several plainly squirming with incipient erections.

Walters had perhaps revised his lessons during the holidays, for he started off at a very elementary level, showing the ignorant boys various female parts on his large diagram, then his more detailed one, and finally indicating the places on his live model. All this time Catherine was ogled by thirty boys, and she shut her eyes to avoid them. She opened them when she felt the teacher’s hands on her breasts, pointing out the aureolae, squeezing them as he talked about lactation. Then he drew his finger across her abdomen, mentioning the position of her ovaries and womb, and then he was at her slit, pointing out once more how easy it was to see it in the absence of the pubic hair. She tightened her lips as he delicately opened her labia to display the inner wonders of her “genital system”, at which they became very vocal. He quieted them down and asked them, as before, to come up one at a time to personally examine her interesting parts. This was where she had been brought to orgasm previously, and she tried quite successfully to maintain a measure of calm, but oh, it was difficult! Walters didn’t have any condoms, evidently, so she was spared that indignity. Instead, he droned on in a very embarrassing way all about her menstrual cycle, asking her terrible personal questions, which brought new blushes to her cheeks, and seemed to disgust most of his audience. The lesson ended and the class left, staring lasciviously as they passed by, and she sat down on the bench and sighed deeply. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she was surprised to find she was crying. Why? What’s so different about today? Is it just that I’m tired, so tired of all this, being thrust into a salivating crowd of boys, my own age or younger, even, who look at my bare breasts and my shaved delta and lick their lips and think about fucking me? Yes, tired out. Another lesson to go, teaching the itchy adolescents about the exciting dirty bits of the opposite sex, giving them images (and sensations, feelings, textures) to focus their one-track minds on when they’re in their beds, to stimulate their pricks and inspire their masturbation. God help me, but I get stimulated too….

The next class passed without an embarrassing orgasm, but only just. She found herself wishing for sexual release, somehow, hoping that the next boy would bring her to the point of relief, but somehow she never got there, and she was panting with vexation and frustration when the bell finally rang. A boy dashed into the room and muttered to the teacher, who raised his eyebrows and gestured to Catherine to go with him. She tailed after him, shielding her exposure from the mob in the corridor, and was led down to a large hall which was rapidly filling with boys, seemingly the entire student body. Why was she here? She saw a prefect raise his arms for quiet, and was appalled to hear her name called out, asked to come to the front. She stood in front of them all, and they viewed her nude body with a steady roar of delight. She was told to stand up straight with her hands by her side, and the boy looked out at the crowd to tell them her name, as if they didn’t know, and her purpose, to show them all what a delightful piece of work was the female body. Let them come up to make her acquaintance, touch her, and admire all her charms.

Catherine looked at him and gulped. What was he doing? Surely Bradley hadn’t approved this? But already a steady stream, or more like a stampede, had started as the ecstatic horde of randy youth descended on the stage and surrounded her, anxious to touch if only for a moment that smooth tanned skin and her secrets. It was ten times, no, a hundred times worse than that unbelievable experience in the gymnasium. Here there had to be three hundred boys, six hundred eyes, six hundred hands, three thousand fingers. She had been near orgasm before, now she went over, and over, and over!!

After a long time (though it couldn’t really have been more than forty minutes or so) the mob were sent away, advised to visit the lavatories to ‘wash their hands’ at least before getting their tea, and Catherine, sitting on the floor sobbing quietly, was raised to her feet by young Westaway, who looked at her with what seemed to be sympathy.

“Come along now,” he said, “we’ll get you dressed and home again, shall we? My, but you’re really the kids’ favourite now. Christ, I only wish you’d been around five years ago when I got here! Anyway, I envy the boys in the next little while. Bradley let it be known that you’ll be a regular visitor. So we’ll see a bit more of you, if that’s possible.” She drew in her breath to try to scream, but all she managed was a ragged sigh, and said merely “Let’s go.”

She was led to the Head’s study, no longer trying to conceal herself, and pleasing the ribald eyes of the boys in the corridors. Bradley welcomed her in, feasting his eyes on her body, and said “Ah, Catherine! So you did tan all over.” He rose to approach her, and put out a hand to stroke her bare shoulder. “Yes,” he said, “and I must say it suits you.” His hand followed his gaze and she shuddered as he caressed her thigh, his eyes fixed on her crotch. “Ah well! Your clothes are all here. Put them on now, and Westaway will take you downstairs. I really do appreciate this,” he said, eyeing her as she gratefully made herself decent, “your visits are just what the boys are looking for. Don’t you think, Westaway?”

The seventeen-year-old nodded and said “I should say so, sir. We’re all glad she’ll be here on a regular basis, week after week, month after month!”

“God!” she shrieked, “how can you say that? You know I hate it, you know I can’t stand it that I’m shamed, that you all can see me naked, and touch me, and—”

“Yes, yes,” Bradley said soothingly, “but I think it’s wonderful, and Westaway thinks so, and all my boys think so. I’ll be speaking to Mrs Grainger as soon as she returns to arrange the details of the next visit. She was telling me about your baths, helped by the stable-boys and so on, every week; and so it’ll fit in rather nicely if every second bath is taken here, helped by a few of our boys.” He grinned snidely at her horrified expression, as did the boy, who probably remembered the enema he’d given her and relished the prospect of more intimacies. She shook her head and turned to go, and Westaway opened the door to usher her out, giving a conniving sort of glance at the headmaster. Just outside they ran into a stout gentleman with sideburns who looked at them sharply and stood aside to let them pass.

The boy looked him in the eye and smiled ingratiatingly, saying “Sir Bertram! How are you, sir?” He turned to say to Bradley “It’s Sir Bertram Madison, sir, come to see you.” Bradley came to the door at once.

“Ah, Sir Bertram, welcome back! I should introduce you to this girl. Catherine, say hello to Sir Bertram Madison, one of the school governors. This is Catherine Hammond, who’ll be joining us this term.”

“Oh, do you say so?” said the other in a mixture of surprise and pleasured anticipation. “In what capacity?”

“Mostly as a living model for the art class, and also for the sex instruction classes you remember me telling you about.”

“Oh yes,” said the governor with libidinous interest, “that will be very instructive for the boys, I’m sure. When does she return?” Catherine wasn’t pleased about them discussing her as if she wasn’t there, but said nothing as Bradley explained with enthusiasm what was planned.

“So you’ll be giving the boys opportunities to bath her, am I right? When?”

“Next week sometime,” said the Head, “Thursday perhaps, that has to be decided.”

“Oh, a pity,” said the gentleman, “that late? Could it be done earlier, this week perhaps?” Catherine had a thrill of horror. This perverted old gentleman was agreeing to her exposure to the boys, and evidently hoping to witness it! Please God, don’t let him.…

“We’ll see, sir,” said Bradley. “I’ll be talking to Lydia Grainger about it. I’m sure she’ll be sympathetic. Now away you go, Catherine, have a safe journey, and we’ll see you again soon.” She mouthed a goodbye and the smirking Westaway led her off.

In the car she sat in a sort of fog and couldn’t imagine how she’d be able to survive this whole series of exposures, every two weeks! Every two weeks! And talking it over with Matthew wouldn’t really help, would it? He was going to have his own shaming sessions, with the lecherous girls of the Academy, and those baths would probably start up again, too. It was as if the whole process was quickening up, accelerating somehow. Oh God! At least they could cry on each other’s shoulders, and kiss and hug till they forgot their persecution for a little while in that ecstasy of mutual orgasm….

* * *

Matthew was relieved to be told his German debut was put off till the morrow, and he was to help Mr de Groot in the library again. The little Dutchman was pleased to see him and eagerly told him something of the treasures he’d unearthed. At lunch however he heard that he was expected at the science room, to be a specimen for the hygiene lesson, and he got to the room in dread, remembering Miss Derwent’s previous session. This time the girls were sixteen or so, and eyed him curiously as he sat nervously at the back of the room while the nurse spoke about the intimacies of female health. He learned a great deal about menstruation, conception, contraception and abortion, although he was amazed that the girls were being instructed in all this, but told himself that it was as well to be informed about their bodies and what could happen to them. Miss James went on to talk about various infections that could occur, such as chlamydia, which sounded quite awful, and then dilated upon sexual diseases such as syphilis, which was worse. Most of this was new to Matthew, though several of the girls were nodding in corroboration of this fact or that, and he supposed they talked about such things in the dorms at night.

Then the moment he’d been dreading came. “Matthew, up here please. I want to show the girls a few things about male anatomy and talk about mutual hygiene. Up you come,” she repeated, seeing his hesitation. Trembling, he stood before the class, and of course was asked (ordered) to take his clothes off. The girls naturally were vocally pleased by this development, and continued to murmur as he shed his shirt, his trousers, his vest, and stood in the classic hiding pose with a mounting flush and the beginning of a sweat.

“Now,” said the nurse, “let’s compare anatomies. Notice the lack of mammary glands on his chest. I suppose it’s a bit useless having nipples if they aren’t going to be used for suckling a child, but that’s the way it is. They’re vestigial, you can say, hangovers from the past. Nevertheless, they are an erogenous zone like those of girls, and tickling them can increase arousal.” She put action to the word, and he quivered as she stroked his nipples, and felt his penis twitch. “Anyway, in here,” tapping his belly, “we have his own variety of organs, the same as yours, mostly, but here” (she prodded his abdomen just above the penis) “is the prostate. Turn round.” He obediently turned to show his back, and she prodded the vicinity of the gland again. “This is his prostate gland,” she said to the class, who were peering at him with smiles, “a little thing about the size of a chestnut, and it’s got its own part to play in his sexuality. It’s here that most of his ejaculate is made, the milky stuff that squirts out of his penis at orgasm.” Their eyes grew wide. “It combines with the seed, which is made in the seminal vesicles, behind the bladder, and the testes here,” and she tickled his testicles, and he shivered, “and the prostate also has muscles, to drive the fluid forth. I’m simplifying this a bit, but you get the drift, I hope. The prostate is next to the bladder, and can be accessed by the rectum.” The girls gaped and screwed their faces in disgust, while the boy knew some awful embarrassment was coming. “Now the fact that they’re so close means that a full bladder can act on the gland, which makes blood flow to the penis and send it erect. Boys (and men too, of course) quite often find that this happens during sleep, and they wake up with an erection. Though I’m told it’s a coincidence, Dr Braithwaite thinks so, anyway. But if you think about it, being erect inhibits urination.” They looked at her in surprise. She turned to Matthew and said “That’s so, isn’t it, Matthew, you find difficulty in peeing when you’re erect?”

His flush deepened and he nodded. “I- I think so,” he said. “It’s hard—” He stopped in confusion as they all broke into laughter.

Miss James said “Yes, but what I’m suggesting is that since being erect inhibits peeing, a morning (or nocturnal, really) tumescence will tend to prevent enuresis, which is good.” She had to explain herself. “It means bed-wetting, involuntary urination in sleep. Which is not that uncommon in young children, of course. Boys generally don’t start getting erections of any note till later, you see, and I suppose those who have them avoid bed-wetting quite successfully. Incidentally though one does see erections at a very early age – boys have actually been born with an erection!” The girls (and the boy) took in this unusual information and looked for some more.

“Now I said you could reach the prostate through the rectum. Well you can’t touch it exactly, but you can feel it, gauge its size and so forth, through the wall of the bowel.” She looked round at the class, who were looking at Matthew distastefully, and at Matthew, who closed his eyes with a sort of sob knowing what was about to happen. “Yes,” she said, “and I suppose we should demonstrate this. Can I have a volunteer?” One girl put up her hand, and Matthew recognised the girl who had drawn his testicles too big. “Right, Betty! Forward. Now where did I put … ah yes. Here’s some Vaseline. It’s a very useful lubricant, as well as a soother for burns and the like. So Betty, look, here’s a rubber glove. Put it on, it’ll be much cleaner, more sanitary, more hygienic, for both of you. Now, get some Vaseline on your fingers, and Matthew, you’d better come over here.” She motioned him to a little table, and he resignedly mounted it to pose on all fours with his bum facing the pupils. “Now, Betty! Smear his anus with the Vaseline, and try to get past his sphincter into the bowel.” The class made noises both of admiration and disgust as the girl liberally anointed his anus and gradually persuaded his sphincter to relax, to allow a finger in. He clenched his rectal muscles in reflex, and she gave a little “Ooh!” as he clamped down on her finger. Then he forced himself to loosen his muscle and hung his head as she probed in there, Miss James encouraging her to penetrate until she found the mass of his prostate.

She found it eventually, and as she massaged it he felt his penis twitching madly. Miss James made no bones about pointing this out to the class; “You see his penis attempting to rise. This is the result of stimulating the prostate. If it goes on long enough he’ll probably get a full erection. Actually I think we’ll see … Yes! Another volunteer or two.” Matthew cringed as Miss James persuaded a few more inquisitive souls to overcome their distaste and push their fingers into his backside. Just as in that awful medical session with Miss Derwent, he was becoming aroused by this massage after massage, and he began to pant and sweat, till the nurse noticed his condition and called a halt, saying that the girls wouldn’t be disappointed, just wait. “Up you get, Matthew, for a minute. Who can we have … ah, why not you, Cynthia?” The girl blushed and said “What?” “All I want you to do is apply a condom. You don’t have to stick your fingers up his bum, that’s all right. But you can do this,” and she handed her a rolled-up condom, which she took with a grimace and said “What do I do with it?”

Miss James smiled and said, “I want you to put it over the head of his erection there, then roll it down his penis, to envelop the entire shaft. Try it, it’ll be easy.” The girl blushed a bit more and took hold of the member to keep it steady while she fitted the membrane over his glans, now suffused to purple with blood, then stroked her hand down towards his groin and smoothing the condom over the warm and quivering flesh. “Fine!” cried the nurse, “now, Cynthia, keep your hand there at the root of the penis, and girls, continue to feel his prostate! That’s all we’ll need. Watch him, how he reacts!” Another three lent their fingers to his bum and he quickly gave in, giving a loud groan as he reached orgasm and the girls watched the sperm eject into the condom, which phenomenon they appreciated. One commented “At least it’s not messy!” and they all laughed. Matthew was told to put the device in the sink in the corner, and clean himself up, then get dressed. As he did so Miss James stressed to the girls the usefulness of a condom to stop the sperm from going where it wasn’t wanted, and also (with more stress) how it would prevent the transmission of those awful diseases between the sexes. She then thanked the boy for his help, and he was sent on his way.

He didn’t see Catherine at tea, and assumed she was still visiting that dreadful boys’ school, and he made a mental note to talk to her at suppertime. She didn’t show up there either, and he wondered about going to her room, but decided against it, thinking that she might be feeling a bit devastated by whatever they’d put her through and didn’t want to face anybody, not even him.

At ten o’clock he was in bed reading when a tap came to his door. “Matthew, please, are you awake?” He jumped out of bed and threw the door open. Catherine stood there in her robe, her eyes widening as they took in his nude body.

“Matthew,” she said with a sort of laugh, “what if it weren’t me?”

“Oh,” he said, “but it is you, and besides all of the others have already seen me naked. But come in and kiss me.” She entered and carefully closed the door. Then she came into his arms and they kissed for a long time, finally breaking apart to gasp for breath.

“Oh,” she said, “I love kissing you when you’re naked!”

“And I,” he smiled, “love kissing you anytime, but especially when you’re naked. Hey, I found a poem by John Donne, which ends up ‘To teach thee, I am naked first; why then What need’st thou have more covering than a man?’ Isn’t that good?”

“Yes,” she said, “and so….” She undid her robe and it dropped to the floor. He looked at her nudity and drew in his breath.

“Oh Catherine,” he said, “I’ll never tire of looking at you, your naked body, it’s so … indescribable, it’s overwhelming. Look, you remember that bawdy talk that they had at the dinner, comparing art pieces and so on? Well, you are the height of female loveliness for me. I suppose I compare you to Galatea and Andromeda and even that kitschy girl in the September Morn picture (I looked them up), and I find you in the same mould maybe, nicely proportioned, but oh God, you’re so much lovelier, more attractive, more sexy, more erotic, more desirable, more—” She interrupted him by seizing him in her arms and steering him toward the bed, where they collapsed laughing, and she planted a big kiss on his lips.

“Oh Matthew,” she said, “let’s be Daphnis and Chloe again, acting on old Philetas’s advice.”

“Lying down together naked,” he said, “that’s the only cure right enough,” and his hands began to wander over her body, while she stroked his bare thigh and muttered sweet nonsense. Soon they were in a close clinch, and his penis sought entry to her willing vulva, opening like a flower to him and receiving his proud stiffness with a moan of delight. He began to move in and out, in and out, taking his time, he thought, to prolong her pleasure and heighten the tension before she surrendered to her orgasm.

She smiled and said “I know what you’re doing, love, but it’s all right. Let’s go for it.” With a wicked smile she seized his buttocks to hold him to her pelvis and try to draw him into her, and he redoubled his manoeuvres to thrust again and again, to mount her mount of Venus, to ride her like a magnificent mare, to come, oh God! into her cunt and spend, spend, till he felt the sweetest exhaustion in the world. She had got there before him, and they just lay there and panted, drawing breaths to calm down, to deliberately slow the heart, and to slide into contented oblivion.

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