B. helps herself to another shot and, as an afterthought, tosses the remainder of the bottle into my glass.
‘Do you know what I’d like to do now?’
There is a faint flush about her throat which may have something to do with the twenty-six fluid ounces of booze inside her and her not inconsiderable tits are jostling each other to get at me. Yes, I do know what she would like to do now.
‘No,’ I say innocently.
‘I’d like to lay you,’ she says fervently. ‘I’d like to take your firm young body and give it the fruits of my years of experience.’
I should be jumping up and down and clapping my hands together but the minute she starts talking about years of experience I begin to get nervous again. What was nice about Mrs Daphne Richards was that I was in control. I was giving her the fruits of my years of experience. Too often these days, I am being used as a sort of dildo on legs. I must write to my MP about it when I get a moment.
‘Take off that ridiculous little jacket,’ says Mrs Beecham. ‘It’s too tight for you across the shoulders.’
‘Thanks for the drink,’ I say. ‘Ring when you want the tray picked up.’
Mrs B.’s eyes open wide. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you want me?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Are you queer, or something?’
‘No, of course I’m not. I just don’t like being taken for granted, that’s all.’
‘But baby–’ She comes towards me and slides her arms round my neck.
‘Mrs Beecham. You’re drunk and you’d be better off in bed–alone.’ I don’t mean to sound so pious but once I get into my stride there is no holding me. It is as if I am getting the satisfaction I might have got in bed from being unkind to her. Vere interesting eh, Herr Doctor?
I remove her hands and turning on my heel, make for the door. Immediately, Mrs B. bursts into tears. ‘Don’t leave me,’ she sobs. ‘Not now, I couldn’t stand it. I’m sorry if I offended you. I just need to be with someone. I don’t want to be alone.’ She collapses on to a sofa and the whole upper part of her body is shaking in time with her sobs. Very impressive it is, too. The minute she starts doing that my whole attitude changes. My frustrated desire to dominate is unlumbered and a happy urge to rip her knickers off flows through my system. Any bird who starts crying when I am around stands a good chance of making an appointment with Percy. Nasty, aren’t I? Careful! I heard that.
‘Why don’t you have something to eat?’ I say not unkindly. ‘I looked out a nice piece of turkey for you.’ I extend an arm and take her hand but she does not move; just squeezes my fingers tight. I sit down beside her and tilt her head up.
‘Come on, cheer up. I’m sorry, too. I know how you must feel. I came over a bit narky, that’s all.’ I take out my handkerchief–there’s posh for you–which by some miracle is fairly clean and start dabbing at the make-up smudges under her eyes.
‘You look as if you work in a coal mine.’ It is not the funniest joke ever made, but it raises a smile.
‘Stop crying, I can’t keep up with you.’
She is beginning to relax a bit now. Still quivering, but blinking fast to stop the flow of tears. Women in such a condition give off a very back-to-nature pong which turns me on like the Blackpool Illuminations. I can feel myself wilting. No, not wilting. That is completely the wrong word. I can feel my determination to push off disappearing faster than Ted Heath’s re-election prospects. The rest of me is coming on strong.
‘There, that’s better.’ Suddenly, I am doing all the talking.
‘Thank you.’
We sit in silence for a moment and then something not entirely unrelated to nooky-craving makes me kiss her gently on the lips. Oh, the taste of tears and the smell of booze. A very stirring combination.
‘Are you going to go?’
‘I’ll think about it’.
Slowly I slide my arm about her and draw her into the hollow of my shoulder. Our mouths get better acquainted and my greedy fingers plunder her bristols. She slips her hand inside my shirt and grabs hold of any spare flesh she can find. Luckily there is some, otherwise I would not be able to bend down and tie up my shoe laces. We continue like this for a few happy minutes and then my restless fingers are on the move again. Five stubby soldiers of fortune heading into the great known. Under cover of her skirt they set to with a will while Sadie responds to their advances with delighted moans. You have to work long hours in this job, but it does have its fringe benefits. Mrs B. sighs and sends down a pandy to check on my own movements.
‘Aren’t those pants a bit tight for you?’ she observes.
She is dead right and they are getting tighter every minute.
‘Let’s go next door. It’s more comfortable.’
We uncouple and, when I throw open the bedroom door, the bed is illuminated in a pool of light. Standing beside it, we help each other off with our clothes, smacking our lips at the thought of what is to come. Sadie wriggles against my chest and gently tugs down my pants while I unhook her bra.
‘Don’t put the light on,’ she murmurs. ‘I’m an old woman. I don’t want you to see my body.’
‘An older woman,’ I reassure her. ‘There’s a lot of difference.’
She falls back across the bed and I lie down beside her feeling the cool satin counterpane against my back. She is a very curvy lady.
‘Can we get inside the bed?’ she says. ‘Please. It’s cold.’
She is right. The central heating which makes a noise like a tank regiment advancing through wooded country has been turned off from just before the cold spell in May. One thing about the Cromby, they do a very nice bed. Eiderdowns, counterpanes, the lot. Very snug you feel with that on top of you. That and Mrs Beecham pressing in on you like an inspirational new hot water bottle design.
‘Oh, baby,’ she breathes. ‘Baby, baby, baby!’
I think I have mentioned before that some of my happiest moments have been spent in the company of those ladies who have taken advantage of the advancing years to gather a rich harvest of experience and Mrs B. is no exception. She also has a great deal of typical Yank enthusiasm. A high-spirited ‘get up and go’ approach which I have to prevent matching with a ‘get up and come’. I am also conscious that I am performing for England and to a lesser extent, Mr Beecham. Also that this is Mrs B.’s wedding night. Quite a weight of responsibility for young shoulders to bear but fortunately I find myself more than equal to the task.
‘Oh baby,’ she breathes. ‘I feel beautiful.’
‘You’re right, you’re right,’ I echo. We thunder on, forging Anglo-American relations with every hammer blow, until Mrs B. starts fizzing like a catherine wheel and we both break out into what seems like the end piece of a Fourth of July firework display.
It is while I am
