by Nancy Carson
The family took turns to take baths when they could fit it in, often between brews when the huge copper boiler on the first storey of the brewery was free to heat up water for cleaning with enough left over. Normal practice was to put the tin bath in the scullery and fill it with hot water, fetched in buckets from the brewery. One Saturday evening in August, Elijah, sweaty and hot from cleaning the mash tun, the coolers and the available fermenting vessels, decided to take a soak himself before getting changed for a night out with Dorcas, which would finish inevitably with some vigorous courting at Jake’s old house afterwards.
In the small brewhouse that housed the mangle that Zillah used on washing day, he lifted the galvanised bath off the whitewashed wall and bore it across the yard to the brewery where he set it on the quarry-tiled floor. He drew off the fresh water that was already heating up, by way of a hose arrangement and, while the bath filled, he returned to the brewhouse to cut himself a cake of soap. On the way back, he fetched a towel from the house and whistled tunelessly as he strutted across the sunlit yard. Back in the brewery he put his fingers in the water to check its temperature. It was too hot so he stemmed the flow of hot water and turned on the cold tap, playing another hose into the bath. He undressed himself, had a good scratch round and dipped his toes in the bath. It was still hot, but bearably so. Having got used to the intense heat of India and enjoying it, bathing in hot water always reminded him of his time there; he liked to get a bit of a sweat up.
He immersed himself in the water, lay back and relaxed. His thoughts drifted back to India and, inevitably, to those beautiful Indian women he’d enjoyed so much there. Such sultry pleasure he’d had in India’s fierce heat with sensuously perspiring, dusky girls with sleek, jet-black hair, dark eyes and wonderful bodies, many of them younger than his niece Ramona. Recalling those times aroused him enormously.
At about the same time that Elijah was getting all steamed up, the tea was ready. Clover had taken pork chops out of the oven all sizzling and succulent and smelling divine, and put them on warmed plates along with fresh-cooked vegetables and steaming gravy. But nobody was around to serve it to. Where was everybody?
Ramona appeared. ‘Do you need any help, Clover?’
‘You wouldn’t like to round everybody up, would you? Mother and Pop are serving in the taproom. Uncle Elijah will still be in the brewery, I daresay.’
‘I’ll go and fetch him,’ Ramona said, wiping her hands.
As she stepped into the yard the whine and clatter of a lorry’s engine trespassed into the late afternoon air as it chugged up George Street, and a neighbour’s pig was squealing discontentedly close by. A dog barked in St John’s Street and a flock of pigeons flapped in a great whooshing arc overhead. The door to the brewery was already open and Ramona wondered whether Elijah had left it so to keep the place cool, or whether the breeze had done it. She stepped inside. Just as she was about to call his name, she saw him standing in front of a fermenting vessel, his back toward her, as naked as the day he was born, dripping with water. Her heart went to her mouth and she was suddenly stricken with a strange inertia. His lean, supple, military back looked hard, rippling with masculinity as a shaft of slanting sunlight glinted off the droplets of water that clung jealously to him. The cheeks of his backside were small and tight and muscular and she imagined cupping them in her hands, like she did Sammy’s, to feel how hard and firm they really were. She was mesmerised. Water lapped against the side of the bath tub as he leaned forward to grab the towel that was hanging over one of the water pipes. She beheld, with a healthy womanly curiosity, his scrotum dangling loose between his legs as he bent over, like two eggs hanging from a nest but still attached to it. Slowly, as she watched, becoming reconciled to this unexpected vision, the ability to move returned. As he began towelling himself dry, she slid silently to one side to conceal herself behind a pile of stacked beer barrels. Through the gap caused by the curvature of the barrels she continued to gawp unbelieving at her Uncle Elijah. He turned around, presenting himself in profile and she gasped when she saw how well-blessed he was – and standing up so hard and so proud, all ready for action.
Maybe, naked in the bath, he’d been thinking of all the things he liked to do with Dorcas when they were alone, she thought. No doubt Dorcas was very accommodating in bed. No doubt he was very active there too.
Ramona watched, transfixed as he took the towel and dried his hard, extended rod with gentle care and attention; understandably, for it was such a handsome piece of equipment. But he must not see her watching him. She waited for him to turn away, hardly able to divert her eyes from his very excellent tackle. Deftly, but with great reluctance, she silently side-stepped back through the open door and back onto the yard.
‘God!’ she murmured to herself and smiled impishly as a wayward thought flashed through her mind. ‘Oh, my God! Uncle Elijah! You’re magnificent.’
Back in the scullery the others had all sat down to their meal. Elijah’s was placed in the oven to keep warm. They had been eating for five minutes or so when he returned, his hair plastered down where it was still wet, a sheen of perspiration seeping from his forehead.
‘Your dinner’s in the oven, Elijah,’ Clover said, trimming a piece of fat from her meat.
He grabbed a cloth and pulled the plates, one upturned over the other to keep in the moisture, out of the oven and placed them on the table.
‘You’ve been a while,’ Mary Ann commented as he put the covering plate into the sink.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise I’d been so long.’
‘I sent Ramona into the brewery to look for you,’ Clover added innocently.
‘Oh?’ Elijah turned and looked from one to the other, a light of realisation brightening slowly in his eyes at Ramona’s refusal to meet his.
Her face was already rubescent. ‘But I couldn’t find him,’ she was quick to blurt out with a brief but guilty glimpse at her uncle.
‘Well, you didn’t look very bloody hard,’ he said, wilfully catching her glance and evidently finding it amusing.
No, but you did, she wanted to say and lowered her eyes as she ate.
Chapter 7
Next day, Sunday, Tom Doubleday called after dinner for Clover, as he did every Sunday. By this time they had been stepping out together for two months and love was blossoming. Sometimes, they went for a walk around the fields of Oakham, sometimes, a tram ride into Birmingham where they enjoyed window shopping in New Street and Corporation Street. Today, they intended to take a leisurely walk through the Castle Grounds. The weather was settled, although typically humid for August, and they decided they might find some cooling breeze in the shade of the trees that covered the elevated paths to the castle keep. On the way, it was necessary to pass Tom’s studio.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ Tom said, stopping outside it.
Still holding his hand, Clover turned to him in a swirl of sleeveless summer dress with a scalloped neck. ‘What?’
‘You look so beautiful – so fresh and breezy…I feel inspired to take a photograph of you. It’s time I did a really nice one.’
She smiled at his compliment. ‘I don’t mind. If you want to take my picture…’
‘Well, we’ve been courting for ages now, Clover, and it’s a sin that I haven’t got a studio photo of you. And the light is perfect, look. Bright and hazy. No hard shadows.’
‘All right,’ she agreed easily. ‘As long as I can take one of you as well.’
He laughed at that and said she could as he took the key from his pocket and opened the front door. They entered into a small foyer, with examples of his best work hanging in frames from a picture rail, and a small carved counter facing the door where transactions were concluded. Plush velvet curtains hung from a brass rail along the side wall and similar drapes, tied back, adorned the deep window. Tom led her through the door into his studio which was, by now, familiar in any case, since she’d called on him a few times while he was working. Tom had had the room
extended in the fashion of a conservatory to make best use of the soft north light, with a glass roof and vertical windows that stretched to the floor. Roller blinds had been fitted to the roof windows to adjust the intensity of light, and rich floral curtains hung from floor to ceiling. Two of the solid walls of the studio were decorated to look like the drawing-room of some stately home, even with a false, but very ornate door and frame let into one wall. Odd pieces of furniture stood randomly; props that could be included in a photo as required. A mahogany whatnot stood with a shiningly healthy aspidistra sitting on top in a brass pot. There was a screen, several armchairs in various styles, all ornate, a variety of occasional tables that subjects might rest their backsides on for a jaunty pose, a music stool, a chaise-longue that looked soft and comfortable, and a soft bearskin rug on the floor.
‘How do you want me to pose?’
‘Oh, all ways.’
She thought she detected a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. ‘No, you must tell me, Tom. I’ve never had my picture taken in a studio before. You’ll have to suggest something.’
He was fiddling with his plate camera. ‘Well, we can have one of you reclining, one sitting, one standing, full length, three-quarter or just head and shoulders. Personally, I’d like one full length and a head and shoulders. You choose the pose, Clover. Just be yourself.’
She stood with her hands on the whatnot, partially hidden by the aspidistra.
‘No, stand to the side of it, my love. The damned plant’s hiding you…Yes, that’s better.’ He bent down to look through the class screen and pulled the dark cloth over his head. ‘Thrust your bosom out a bit, Clover…Ooh, lovely.’ He focused the image and emerged from under the black cloth. He smiled as he inserted a plate into the rear of the camera. ‘That looks good. Now…A nice smile…Smiling is a part of your nature, Clover, so I want to see a smile.’
She smiled.
‘Don’t forget to thrust your chest out a little…That’s good. Hold that.’ He pressed the shutter release bulb and Clover stood perfectly still.
The next was a head and shoulders portrait, three-quarter face, which captured her exquisite nose to perfection, although Tom deliberately did not say so for fear of protest.
‘I think I’d like one of you reclining like some Greek goddess now,’ he suggested. ‘Like those girls in paintings by Alma-Tadema in diaphanous dresses, lounging on animal skins draped over marble. Have you seen them?’
She laughed dismissively. ‘Not that I can recall.’
‘As lifelike as any photograph, except they’re in colour.’
‘But there’s no marble to drape myself over,’ Clover replied.
‘I know. Pity. We’ll have to make do with the chaise-longue.’
Clover swirled over to the chaise-longue and sat on it, half reclining. She looked up at him with all her love in her eyes and smiled. She was enjoying this experience, this attention. She only ever received loving, caring attention like this from Tom; only ever kindness and consideration. No wonder she loved him so much.
‘You don’t look comfortable, Clover,’ he said and left his camera to walk over to her. He knelt down and adjusted the folds of her dress as it draped over her legs. ‘Rest your head on the headrest and raise one arm languidly above your head…No, that doesn’t seem right…I know, pretend you have a new ring on your finger – an engagement ring for instance – and your lover has had to go away. Now you’re wistful and pining for him…Oh, yes, that’s beautiful. Can you hold that while I—’
‘Tom…Can I not do that? Please? I think it would be a bad omen.’
‘A bad omen?’
‘Yes, you photographing me looking all heartbroken because my sweetheart has gone away.’
‘Oh, Clover,’ he said, full of tenderness. He leaned forward and took her in his arms. ‘Have no fear, I’ll never leave you. I’m yours for as long as you want me, my sweetheart.’
‘Oh, Tom.’ She squeezed him and felt his cheek reassuringly against hers. ‘I love you so much. I couldn’t bear to think of losing you…even for a short time.’
‘You’re not going to lose me,’ he said. ‘Ever.’ He turned his face towards her and kissed her full on the lips, a hungry, searching kiss.
She responded as she always responded, with warmth and enthusiasm. She took his head lovingly in her hands and drank his kisses as if they were some potent wine. She closed her eyes and when his tongue passed between her lips she thrilled to the taste of him. After some minutes they broke off and he whispered how much he loved her. They kissed again, long, luxuriously, sensuously. He was still kneeling beside her and she felt his hand on her breast, gently, lovingly kneading. She made no attempt to stall him. His mouth left hers and traced a cool, moist trail down her throat as he kissed her neck. She was tingling in the most surprising places and, as she wriggled with pleasure, she slid herself down on the chaise-longue.
‘I wish there was room for me on there,’ he breathed. ‘Why don’t we lie on the bearskin?’
‘Is the door locked?’ she whispered.
He nodded and kissed her again. ‘Come on. It’ll be more comfortable. I’ll get a couple of cushions to put under our heads.’
As he gathered up two cushions from the other side of the studio, it was a delight to see her lying down on the bearskin waiting for him. The fall of her dress outlined her figure tormentingly. Never before had they been in this position and he’d never thought to engineer such an opportunity. But here she was now, lying on his rug of her own volition; this, the most beautiful girl he’d ever had the privilege of meeting, the only woman he’d ever truly, honestly loved with all his heart. And how he wanted her. By God, he wanted her so much. He could have waited but, maybe now it was time.
He lay down alongside her while she turned her head and smiled with her entire fund of affection. He raised himself up on one elbow and leaned over her, whereupon he traced a line lovingly from her hairline, over her nose and lips, to her chin. As her arms went around his neck and their lips met again in another lingering kiss, she realised she was smiling contentedly.
‘Do you love me enough, Clover…and trust me enough…to let me make love to you all the way?’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ she breathed, unhesitating.
He sighed profoundly. ‘Are you sure you understand what I’m asking?’
‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘’Course I do. I love you, Tom. With all my heart. And I know you love me equally.’
He sighed again, uncertain how he should proceed. Perhaps he should solicit her help. ‘Do you think we should get undressed? I mean, you don’t want to get your dress all creased.’
‘Nor you your suit.’ She uttered a little laugh, belying her nervousness.
He took off his jacket and unfastened his necktie. The collar of his shirt sprung open like a metal spring bent back and suddenly released, which made her laugh. He slipped his braces from his shoulders and undid the buttons on his trousers.
‘Let me help you,’ he said, and gently, carefully unfastened the tiny buttons that started between her shoulders and ended past the small of her back. She slipped the straps down her arms and stood up while she passed the dress over her slender hips and off. She placed it with care over a chair and knelt down gracefully. To her surprise, she felt no embarrassment as she took off the rest of her clothes and lay down again. It seemed the most natural thing in the world.
Meanwhile, he took off his shirt and his underpants and looked into her eyes self-consciously. ‘Oh, Clover,’ he said, sighing inadequately. ‘My love.’
She still had her stockings on. With a pounding heart he kneeled before her and gently slid them down her smooth unblemished legs, garters and all. He thought he would burst with desire at the touch of the warm, inviting flesh of her thighs and the sight of her naked body and skin that looked like cream.
He tossed the stockings aside and lay with her. With heart pounding scandalously, she offered her mouth once more and, as he leaned over her, she felt his
leg part her own and she trembled with nervousness.
‘I want to kiss you all over,’ he said.
‘Yes, I want you to.’ Her throat was dry, her voice barely audible.
She tingled as his lips floated over her breasts, barely touching, but she felt her nipples harden nonetheless. She began to ache in the pit of her stomach, an ache of profound longing for him. His hand glided over the smooth skin of her belly and his fingers drew a line from her navel to her crop of soft, dark hair. There, he lingered at the hidden flesh beneath, silky and soft with its powerful, tormenting wetness that told him she wanted him as much as he wanted her. But he resisted the urge to hurry. These moments were worth savouring. He kissed her on the mouth again while his fingers teased her, eliciting little sighs of pleasure that fired him up the more.
As he eased himself onto her she parted her legs.
‘I think you’ll have to guide me in,’ he whispered, half apologetically.
She reached for him between his legs. As he raised himself slightly she held him and was delighted and surprised at what she felt; so lovely and soft and smooth on the outside yet with an inner firmness that was also reassuring. Gently, she pulled him towards her and, as she felt him penetrate at last there was a sharp, incisive pain. She gasped as he pushed deeper into her and he stopped, concerned. Again she drew him into her, just a little at a time till she felt his groin hard against her. Then she held him tight as the pain diminished and the pleasure increased.
The photographs turned out well. Tom brought them to the Jolly Collier on the Monday evening after work. Clover was not due to see him that evening but, after their first lovemaking the previous afternoon, she was glad to see him, just to be sure the magic that had bloomed between them then was still there. Clover didn’t mind him seeing her in her working clothes any more. He’d seen her stark naked so he knew now how God had intended her to look. Whether she wore her shabby working gear or her new best dresses was no longer relevant.
‘They’re lovely photos,’ Clover admitted. ‘Thank you. Have you printed some for yourself?’