by Nancy Carson
Eli Meese waddled up to Murdoch and spoke. Kate decided it was her cue to move on and she took Clarence’s hand.
‘We’ll leave you to it, Mr Osborne,’ she said apologetically. ‘See you at rehearsal Wednesday.’
‘That you will.’
‘I don’t like that Eli Meese,’ Kate whispered to Clarence when they were out of earshot. ‘He gives me the creeps.’
‘He seems all right to me, Kate.’
‘I ain’t very fussed with this music they’m playing either, Clarry,’ she said forlornly, and sipped her drink. ‘It’s a boring old party, this. All these folk from the Amateur Dramatics Society, all with a bob on themselves. And these boring old fogeys what’m Harriet’s relatives …’
‘So what would you like to do?’ Clarence asked. ‘We can’t just announce that we’re leaving yet. We haven’t long arrived.’
‘Why announce it?’ she suggested, glad that she’d planted the idea to leave in Clarence’s head.
‘You mean, just go without saying a word?’
‘Who’s going to miss us? They’re all too wrapped up in themselves to notice anybody else.’
‘But it’s cold out. Where would we go?’
Kate shrugged, disappointed at his lack of imagination. ‘I dunno. Somewhere warm, I would’ve thought, where we can be on our own.’
His eyes lit up. ‘My folks are away in Nottingham, aren’t they?’ he said at last. ‘If you fancy going back to my house …’
She smiled smugly to herself. ‘Without a chaperone?’
‘Since when have you needed a chaperone? You’re well able to fend off my advances all by yourself, if past experience is anything to go by.’
‘Well … all right … Your house. If you promise to be on your best behaviour.’
‘I can’t promise any such thing, Kate, my angel,’ he said triumphantly. ‘We would be by ourselves, except for Myra – the maid. And she’s hard of hearing, so unlikely to hear us.’
She smiled coyly, enchanting him with her big brown eyes that glanced up at him so temptingly from under her lovely brows. ‘When we’ve finished our drinks then … We’ll just slip out …’
Doctor Froggatt’s was a large house set in its own grounds, well back from the Stourbridge Road where it met the Pensnett Road at Holly Hall. It overlooked fields at the rear. Because of its elevated position, you could see in daylight the locomotives and trucks of the mineral railway, articulated reptiles volleying steam and smoke as they snaked in the middle distance between the Himley Colliery at Old Park and the wharf on outlying Wellington Road in Dudley.
When Kate had alighted from the dogcart, Clarence tethered the horse to a post and looped a nosebag over its head. As he unlocked the substantial oak front door to let her in, he put his fingers to his lips to ensure her silence. He ushered her into the drawing room and took a spill from the mantelpiece which he ignited in the fire, then lit the gas lamps in turn, which exploded one after the other with a little pop. He turned them down low.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Another gin would be nice, if you’ve got any.’
‘Of course …’
Kate sat primly erect at one end of a vast sofa, waiting, taking in the ambience of the room. It didn’t look anything at all like she’d expected. The furniture was hardly contemporary, although a grand piano stood at one end, and a handsome mirror hung over the fireplace. Rather, it looked as though it had been furnished in the first flush of old Dr Froggatt’s prosperity, and hardly in the best of taste, and it reminded her of the town hall. It harboured a peculiar smell as well, a cross-current of strange medicaments that wafted in from the adjacent surgery. A canary emitted a tweet of protest at the intrusion, from a cage of brass wire shaped like the Crystal Palace, lithographs of which Kate had seen in the newssheets and magazines.
Clarence returned presently with two drinks.
‘Here … Bottoms up.’
‘Bottoms up,’ she repeated. The words, as she took a sip, elicited an image in her mind of his naked bottom aimed squarely at the ceiling with herself pinned secure beneath him.
He sat at the other end of the sofa swigging the whisky he’d poured for himself, and smiled at her.
‘Aren’t you going to sit a bit closer?’ she enquired with a hurt expression.
‘I’d be delighted. I was merely trying to maintain the good behaviour you require of me.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with sitting closer,’ she cooed. ‘As a matter of fact, there’s nothing wrong with a kiss or two neither, so long as you don’t imagine it’s going to lead to anything else.’
He grinned. ‘You’re such a tease,’ he declared resignedly. ‘And if I kiss you, I’ll only get myself worked up into a lather.’
‘I quite like to see you get worked up into a lather, Clarry …’
‘Do you? Then since I aim to please …’ He put down his drink, took hers and put it next to his on the occasional table in front of them. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her, a long, lingering kiss. ‘I love the way you kiss,’ he murmured.
‘Do you?’ she whispered kittenishly.
‘I’d die for your kisses.’
He kissed her again and his hand wandered, drawn inexorably to her cleavage which had been tormenting him all evening. She allowed the tips of his fingers to enjoy the feel of the soft smooth skin of her breasts for a second or two before she playfully removed his hand in token resistance, knowing full well that he would attempt another raid soon.
And he did.
But she got such immense pleasure from his kisses that she herself was too overwhelmed with desire, without pretence, to repel him next time anyway, and he delved deeper into her bodice, managing to cup one breast entirely in his hand, squeezing it amorously. It all fell in beautifully with her plan, and her lack of resistance encouraged Clarence.
‘I should hate to tear your dress,’ he breathed. ‘May I unfasten it?’
‘You’re taking a lot for granted, Clarry,’ she felt bound to say, to let him think she was still safeguarding her virtue.
‘Not at all, my angel. I have no doubt you’ll refuse me.’
She smiled at him enigmatically and rested her head momentarily on his shoulder, as if in helpless submission, and resigned to it. ‘Well … maybe I won’t … Just this once …’
They broke off their embrace and he attended to the back of her bodice. He found a hook, fumbled inexpertly with it, and eventually released it from a loop of thread. Then another … and then a line of tiny buttons … He slid the shoulder straps down her arms and the front of the bodice peeled away from her, exposing her breasts, like firm, round peaches.
Clarence gulped, unable to think of anything suitable to say, lest it was the wrong thing, that might make her realise she had made a scandalous error of judgement in allowing him such outrageous liberties. So he gently took her chin, turned her face to him and kissed her succulently again instead. At first, he did not touch her breasts, illogically believing she needed some time to get used to the idea that they were naked and at his disposal. Also, he was gallantly affording her the opportunity to draw back.
But she did not draw back. She showed no inclination to draw back as they kissed again, more ardently. Rather, she seemed to melt under the pleasure of all these kisses and limply swayed backwards so that she was lying stretched along the sofa, naked from the waist up. Clarence eased himself onto her, heartened by this sudden surprising power of seduction that he evidently had after all, and confidently took a handful of breast, kneading it with loving care, savouring the firm but soft, feminine smoothness of her flawless flesh.
‘Oh, Kate …’
‘Oh, Clarry …’
Mouths met again, as if they were trying to chew each other’s lips. Greatly encouraged, he lifted the hem of her skirt and petticoats and risked ruining all his hard work hitherto by running his hand up her leg. Silk stocking, so smooth and sensual … a garter above her knee. Then the warm, creamy smooth
skin of her thigh … Oh, God … He thought his heart would burst forth from his chest, it was pounding so hard. Yet still he encountered no resistance. He was breathing hard, finding it difficult to keep his lips in contact with hers as he reached down and let his fingers glide up the inside of her thigh till it came to the obstacle of her silk drawers, also erotically smooth.
‘I’m afraid of ruining your dress,’ he murmured, with the sort of mistimed gallantry that could ruin the moment and mar forever what he had thus far achieved. ‘I was thinking … it might be better if we removed it …’
‘If you’ll turn the gaslight out, Clarry …’ she responded with a whisper and a shy smile.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he rapidly agreed, content to accede to her commendable modesty.
He reached up and pulled on the chain that shut off the gas as she began undressing herself. He began fumbling with his own clothes, but his nerves were so unsteady that he could not unfasten his shirt buttons so he tore off his shirt and pulled off his trousers, almost losing his balance in the process. He glanced at Kate and was bewitched by the sight of her naked body as she stepped out of her silk drawers, bathed in the warm glow of the flickering fire. The dancing coruscations played over the soft curves of her breasts and the taut skin of her belly, caressing her delta of lush dark hair below it, which seemed to glisten by the light of the frolicking orange flames. He could scarcely believe this was happening, and took a slug of whisky to steady his nerves.
They reached the sofa together and fell onto it in a frenzy of longing, lips drinking lips in delicious kisses. She could taste the whisky he’d just had, still lingering in his mouth, loving this sort of sensual intimacy. His hands, meanwhile, explored her urgently, savouring as much of her as was possible before she inevitably changed her mind.
But Kate was not about to change her mind. She manoeuvred herself so that she lay directly beneath him, perfectly positioned for his inevitable entry, for she could feel him hard, pressing hungrily against her.
‘Promise to be gentle, Clarry,’ she sighed.
‘Oh, my angel,’ he simpered. ‘As if I could be otherwise with you.’
‘But they say it hurts a girl first time.’
‘So they say.’ He lined himself up and pressed forward, anticipating some difficulty, but was amazed and gratified by how effortlessly, how smoothly he was sucked into her, despite her little gasps that suggested otherwise.
They rocked together gently, their arousal becoming more profound.
‘Get closer into me,’ she said, almost impatiently, he thought. ‘Firmer … Rub yourself against me more …’
He tried and, for a couple of minutes or so, his efforts seemed to elicit a more animated response from Kate. The effect on him was significant; he could no longer contain himself and he squirted his seed into her, groaning silently as the ecstasy of intense but premature orgasm overwhelmed him. Kate was thrusting herself against him still, with a phenomenal enthusiasm that astonished him, emitting a series of very worrying gasps and cries before she fell into total stillness, as if suddenly relaxed by some ethereal sedative his father might have invisibly administered.
They lay together unmoving for some minutes, Clarence still in a state of incredulity that this had really happened. If it had been a dream, it was the most amazing, the most lucid dream he’d ever had in his life, and hoped he would dream it every night.
‘You’re going to pop out,’ Kate said with cruel reality, making him fully understand that this was no dream at all.
‘Yes,’ he answered, and it happened exactly as she predicted. He rolled away from her.
‘You won’t tell anybody about this, will you, Clarry?’
‘Of course not,’ he said earnestly.
‘You mustn’t. It would ruin my reputation. I’m already ruined now as it is …’
‘What sort of man do you think I am? Of course I wouldn’t breathe a word. It’s our secret …’
She smiled at him. ‘You let go inside me, didn’t you?’
‘I couldn’t help it, Kate. I’m sorry.’
‘Let’s hope nothing comes of it.’
‘Yes … Let’s hope.’
He lay snuggled up to her and they both fell asleep, each content that their mission had been accomplished.
They were still asleep when Myra the maid came down from her garret to make up the fire. The light from the hallway fell on the young couple as she opened the door. Mr Clarence was curled up on the sofa naked alongside an utterly striking young woman, also naked except for her pale silk stockings. She gasped with shock and made a silent but very rapid exit.
Chapter 11
Algie and his workmate, Harry Whitehouse, were working together one morning at the beginning of October, assembling yet another of a seemingly infinite series of brass bedheads. That area of the factory reeked of metal polish, paint, and the lubricating tallow they used for cutting threads; a fusion of heady chemical smells that neither of the men disliked. In the centre of the workshop stood a stove, its chimney piercing the tin roof through a hole only approximate in diameter to that of the hot pipe, so that during a good rainstorm, water trickled down it and onto the smouldering surface of the stove where it bubbled and hissed. Thus it was that morning.
‘Piss-begotten weather,’ Harry declaimed with high rhetoric, eyeing the gap in the roof with some contempt.
‘Piss-begotten roof,’ Algie replied.
‘It’s a long time till next summer, Algie, my mate. I don’t know if I can stand the thought of another cold winter.’
‘Nor me,’ Algie agreed, his mind at once turning to thoughts of Marigold and the prospect of months of cold and draughty courting.
‘How’s that wench o’ yourn? Still getting your leg over even while the weather’s rotten?’
‘Where there’s a will, Harry.’ He winked waggishly.
‘What yer doing tonight?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘Not seeing her?’
‘I doubt it. They only left Brierley Hill Monday. I doubt if I’ll see her again for another fortnight.’
‘Fancy a pint then? We could have a wander to the Bricklayers. There’s generally a doxie or two knocking about as we could have some fun with. Keep you in practice while Marigold’s away.’
‘If you like,’ Algie said, but without enthusiasm, as he took a rag to a length of brass rod to polish it.
‘So how often do you get to see this Marigold?’
‘It depends.’ He eyed up the length of the brass rod for signs of any blemish. ‘It depends on what work they’ve got, to bring ’em our way.’
‘So how d’you know when to expect her?’
‘I don’t. I never know till Marigold knocks on our door to say as they’ll be moored up somewhere close by. Her old man’s keen on the beer at the Bottle and Glass, if he can find a mooring there. If they’re within striking distance next night I’ll generally bike along the cut to find her.’
‘You don’t half sound keen, biking along the cut. Think you’ll marry the wench?’
Mr Benjamin Sampson appeared at that precise moment, obviating the need for Algie to admit that it was his private intention eventually. He walked straight up to Algie, looking cursorily at what they were doing.
‘A word, if you please, Algie. Would you follow me to my office?’
‘Yes, course, Mr Sampson.’ Algie glanced at Harry with a puzzled frown as he put his work piece down on the bench they shared, then followed the gaffer, believing he must be on the carpet over some misdemeanour or other.
Benjamin Sampson walked with deliberate briskness; it was yet another way of demonstrating his superiority, his aloofness, a means of making his bone-idle men realise that he was in charge and that they had to go at his pace, not he at theirs. Neither did he speak again until they were inside his office and he’d closed the door behind them.
‘Sit down, Algie,’ he invited, sounding surprisingly amenable.
Algie sat down, and his appre
hension began to diminish.
‘I expect you’re wondering why I’ve asked you up here,’ he said, his face even erupting into an expansive smile.
‘I was wondering, like.’
Benjamin took a silver cigarette case from his pocket, opened it and offered Algie one.
‘I don’t smoke, Mr Sampson.’
Benjamin put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, and his head was enveloped in a miasma of blue smoke. ‘Your little scheme to manufacture bikes, Algie …’
‘Oh!’ Algie registered some surprise, especially as he believed the idea was dead as far as Mr Sampson was concerned.
‘I’ve been thinking … and I’ve done a bit of investigation into the things you told me …’ Algie smiled, delighted that his scheme had elicited a flicker of interest after all. ‘I’ve took a look at some bikes – one or two different makes – and I reckon you might have a point about manufacturing ’em. I reckon we could make ’em easy. There seems to be a good market for bikes, as far as I can make out, and they look easy enough to chuck together. Not only that, they’d fit easy into our own way of doing things. You have to keep an open mind about such things these days. In other words, hoist your sail when the wind’s fair.’
‘What about the question of resistance welding, Mr Sampson?’
Benjamin drew on his cigarette and pensively blew out smoke in a gust. ‘I need to look deeper into resistance welding, Algie. But such as I’ve heard, I reckon it would be the right way to go about it.’
Algie beamed, and nodded. ‘Good, sir. I’m glad you think so.’
‘I’d like to talk this over with you a bit more, Algie. I reckon we could be of some help to one another. We could come to some arrangement whereby we could all benefit from getting our heads together.’
Algie continued beaming. ‘Well … I’d like to think so, Mr Sampson.’
‘Well, no bird ever flew on one wing, you know. What I’d like to do is to talk the whole thing over a bit more informally – bandy about a few more ideas. If you and your missus would like to come to my house on Friday evening – say seven o’ clock – we could talk it over a bit more … over a nice bit of dinner, eh? We could get to know one another a bit better. It’s all well and good us making bedsteads for ever and a day, but maybe we should be looking to broaden our horizons. Sampson’s needs to look at other things. It’s daft to have all your eggs in one basket, I’m thinking.’