And Another Thing

At the summit of the steps a landing decorated in mosaic vines leaves and bunches of grapes sheltered under the anonymity of a porch awning supported by mock Doric pillars made of Portland stone in common with the façade in general.  But then that was the norm for this curved terrace of fine upstanding houses.  

The road was not actually called a crescent - in that it did not actually include the word ‘crescent’ within its name – but a crescent it surely was, by any description.  Indeed, in some ways there was little to distinguish this house from any other of the multi-story Georgian or early Regency townhouses that went to make up the crescent, other than this particular house possessed what amounted to an extra story.  This addition was a later afterthought that would not have seen light of day had it been mooted in the modern era of ‘conservation areas’ and ‘listed buildings’ and planning committees.  

As it was, the line of three wood-surround dormer windows extending out from the sloping grey slate roof had been an ill advised late-ninetieth centaury addition.  And even then, back in that era, more than one palm had had to be greased with silver, or so the story went.  The age-darkened iron bars covering the front of each must have looked every bit as incongruous then as they did in the present and surely had never been as obviously justifiable as those covering the basement level windows.  But if questions had ever been raised, then those misgivings too had presumably been eased in a similar manner, for that jail-house style adaptation had clearly survived all criticism to that very day.  

Once upon a time, perhaps fifty or sixty years previously, a pretty snub-nosed worried little face might have momentarily appeared at one of those windows, ghostly pale, her sun-starved complexion like porridge, the flounced white pinafore over the sailor-suit style school dress at odds with her teenaged years.  Maybe she would have glanced urgently about with nervous watery blue eyes, her pig-tailed head twisting this way and that as if desperate to take in as much detail as possible of the world beyond, perhaps committing to memory the broad-leafed London Plane trees, the orange-grey scudding clouds, the smoke from the earthenware chimneypots, the cluster of pigeons foraging around the granite kerbside and the gutter and all the rest most would take for granted, if not disregard.  

Perhaps a gaunt thin-lipped face would have appeared behind her from the shadows topped by a no-nonsense bun and riding above the stiff white collar of a dense black heavyweight satin dress, a silver fob watch pined glinting to the breast.  A thin yet firm hand emerging from a tight-buttoned starched white cuff might well have appeared on the sad-faced waif’s shoulder, meaning to turn her about.  And perhaps, just perhaps - if the window, opening inwards, happened to be ajar – two sets of slender white-knuckled fingers might have momentarily tightened around two of those vertical, blackened, iron bars, transiently resisting being turned away, before surrendering to the weight of the uniformed woman’s authority as much as to her physical strength.   

Then, if the window had indeed been left ajar, after a justifiable pause there might have wafted from up there along the roofline the sounds of sharp-tongued scolding – and of soft-spoken crest-fallen apology.  Then maybe there would have come the scraping of a chair and the squeaking opening of a particularly stiff drawer, then perhaps a series of hissing, swooping and swishing sounds - culminating in one terminating in an almighty sharp crack like a showman’s whip or a starting pistol going off… and a girl’s high-pitched scream.   Then another… and another… and another… A never – ending sequence of nerve-stretching angst spaced out perhaps five seconds apart.  

Then the window might have been slammed shut.  But it might well have been that the words and intentions would still have reached the outside, if all were quiet enough:  

“If the street out there is too distracting for you to concentrate, we’ll just have to do something about it.  We’ll have the shutters closed from now on, and a nice big heavy padlock to make sure you don’t fiddle with them – and we’ll have the curtains pulled across I think; it’s bright enough in here for you with the gaslight on.” 

What could a girl of Alison’s age and background know of such ghosts and memories - or any others living thereabouts - now that so much time had passed?  After all, such goings-on were hardly likely to have been documented - and all there was to show for such conjecture now was the glassy blank black empty look given those high attic windows by the fact that behind those panes, very solid, very heavy, hinged shutters were to this day padlocked across.   

Questions and Answers

In a comment appended to my last posting an anonymous contributor posed a few questions regarding the pair of brief extracts I have shared with you over the last couple of weeks.  As a couple of the issues brought up are in areas for which I could do with a little creative input I thought it best to reiterate the contributor's queries here, together with a little of my own input.  You'll see what I mean in a minute, when you read through.

“What's the book going to be called?

Just what hold does Gyrick have over Miss Anders?

Where's Alison’s aunt gone, why was school uniform the rule?

What are the social workers doing there and why do they insist on full school uniform, including blazer, tie and hat?

What's going to happen to Alison?”

At the moment I’m not yet sure exactly what this particular book is going to end up being called.  I am presently writing it under the working title of ‘Alison’, which mainly reflects that this is the name of the heroine.  But like the other characters portrayed ‘Alison’ is a temporary character name and is likely to be changed before publication, especially as it is perhaps too similar to the main heroine's name in my last publication - of which, before long, there will be a second part - and so may lead to confusion.  Similarly the other character names in the story are likely to change before publication, the only exceptions being the lawyer and ex-wartime RAF Hurricane 

pilot – Squadron Leader (Retired).. Stamford Gyrick MBE – and the girl’s aunt’s housekeeper - Mrs McAlistaire.  (and perhaps Miss Anders, the lawyer's legal secretary, should I decide to pursue and expand upon that angle further).

The sharp eyed among you will have spotted that the good lawyer's name and title has changed already.  The RT. HON. Alistair Gyrick has now become Squadron Leader (Retired) Stamford Gyrick MBE.  

So I guess what I'm saying is:  as far as the title goes I am open to suggestions - similarly with the main character name.  Any suggestions?

As for what hold Gyrick has over Miss Anders:  I, myself, am not absolutely certain at present (just as I am uncertain as to whether to expand on the relationship at all or just leave it floating in the reader's imagination).  Once again: what do you think?  Any ideas, inspirations, scenarios?  

“Where's Alison’s aunt gone, why was school uniform the rule?”  I can't answer the first part without giving too much away and as for the second - just one of the woman's disciplinarian foibles and part of her old-fashioned views on what makes for a suitable disciplinary regime for a girl in her late teens.

As for the social workers:  A similar consideration reigns, in that to explain more would give too much away - suffice it to say there is a twist in the tale involved.

“What's going to happen to Alison?”  What indeed?  Perhaps I am not sure myself - then again; I think I've just glimpsed a blue flashing light between the slats of the aluminium Venetian blinds … and I can definitely hear the intermittent ringing of an electric bell coming up the street below, sounding like a cross between a bicycle bell and a ringing phone, it's shifting pitch giving the impression that it is moving, coming closer, slowing to a halt…. 

In The Lawyer's Office - Another Snippet

I thought you'd like another snippet from the 1960s based piece I have been working on.  Well it takes my mind off all the Queen's Jubilee celebrations!  The pics are a couple of those marvelous Benson period pieces.  They don't really fit in with this part of the story but I love them anyway.

In The Lawyer's Office

There came a shuffling of brogues on hardwearing office carpet and a brassy rattling and then, behind her, the business-like glass-topped door burst open, readmitting the rotund lawyer.  Shuffling past, blathering a less than sincere “sorry about that”, he retook his seat on the far side of his vast expanse of self-consciously overstated desktop.  He plunged a large sausage-pink finger down on the lever switch of the obsidian bakelite intercom box, leaning towards its sloping cream-fronted plastic speaker grille and seemingly speaking out the side of his mouth:

 “Miss Defaux, a doctor -  a woman - is going to call.  When she does please be a dear and put her directly through to my extension here in my office when the call comes through. 

A disembodied voice came back, scratchy and high-pitched, yet cultured, educated and feminine despite the best efforts of the vacuum-tube valves glowing red like hot glassy fingers visible through the air vent slits at the rear of the intercom.

“Yes sir”.  Brisk, efficient and respectful.

“Thank you, dear.”  His tone, avuncular, bordering on patronising – but only bordering.

Alison realised at once this 'Miss Defaux' had to be the slender early-twenties blonde she had glimpsed behind the extendable patch cords jack plugs and coloured lever-switches of her 'bull’s-eye' switchboard.  The latter she had spotted nestling behind its rosewood partitioning a in a rear corner of the ground floor foyer on her way in.  She remembered the girl had been dialling out, the end of a biro dangling between her manicured fingers being put to use inserted in the finger holes of the rotary dial, her legs crossed showing a little too much dark tan nylon stocking and her skirt so tight that the outline of her girdle's suspenders could be made out through the fabric.  

Straightening up the lawyer once again looked straight past the flustered teenager, continuing on from where he'd left off almost as if he had never left the room:

“You should see these depositions – I really doubt they can be taken at face value.”  He was dismissively flicking through a sheaf of typewritten papers he had plucked from off his desk as he spoke,   occasionally screwing up his nose.   “The boyfriend's testimony is insignificant hearsay for starters – he only reiterates what his mother told him of her conversation with the girl.  And even then, his own mother refutes much of what he has to say in her statement - added to which we have the fact that he is emotionally involved with the complainant, i.e. the girl, here.  All in all we can safely discount anything he has to say!”  A look of disdain on his face he bundled a group of papers together as he was speaking, unceremoniously consigning them to a golden brown wickerwork wastepaper basket beneath his desk.

He leant again to his right, flicking down another of the row of cream bakelite lever switches on the intercom.

“Miss Anders, please.”

There was no more than a momentary pause before the super-efficient Miss Anders sauntered in, her nylons swishing as briskly she breezed up to the lawyers desk, her wasp-waist figure clearly the product of a long-line corselette.  That the latter was one of the older-style boned garments was evidenced by the stiffness with which the legal secretary bent to retrieve the sheaf of papers he indicated from his desk.  She did so from the side and Alison was shocked to see the lawyer quite blatantly reach around and run one of his podgy paws over the woman’s protruding elastane -moulded behind, one finger dropping down to trace the outline of a suspender strap.  Seeing the teenager looking the woman noticeably reddened, biting her lip, but made no effort to move away. 

Withdrawing his hand and opening out another of those ribbon-tied cardboard files the lawyer passed further copies to his secretary with a shrug as she straightened up.  The latter clutched both bundles together to her almost conical, artificially-elevated bust line. 

“Are these all we have on this case, Miss Anders?”

“Yes, Mr Gyrick.”   There was a timidity in the woman’s voice that had been absent out in the outer office.  Out there, that was her domain and she held sway – and probably made herself felt, too, amongst the other, more junior, employees.  In here she was positively mouse-like.  In his office she was the most junior of juniors, despite the maturity of her years.  At least that was how he made her feel – and the avuncular Mr Gyrick was most adept at it, too.

Alison felt her blood chilling in her veins, she was horrified: This was the modern world, the 1960s for heaven’s sake, not the nineteenth centaury.  But this man was treating the woman like his chattel, lording it over his secretary as if he were some feudal baron or something. 

As if reading the disconcerted teenager's mind the Rt Hon Alistair Gyrick made an airy arm-waving gesture of semi-humorous regret towards the red faced woman sanding at his side.

“She’s an absolute treasure, our Miss Anders - been here a long time, too.  Educated at Harvard - across the 'pond' in the good 'ol 'U.S. of A', don't you know.  She had qualified as their equivalent of a solicitor and was well on her way to becoming a barrister when we got our claws into her.  Present company accepted...”  He glanced around meaningfully at the female social workers ringing Alison.  “...we don't go for all that 'modern thinking' in this practice – women lawyers and the like.”  Now tapping his fingers together, clicking his manicured nails, he paused as if considering whether further elucidation was called for – then, seemingly deciding it was he went on:

“I know it may seem a horrendous waste of such prodigious talent but you have to understand:  This is a traditional law firm, run on traditional lines – and with traditional roles set for our lady employees.”  He smiled condescendingly around at the assemblage, puffing out his cheeks in self-righteous smugness.

 “But as I say: Our Miss Anders, here, is an absolute treasure and we like to keep tabs on her.  We have to keep a careful eye on her, make sure she's not poached by one of our competitors.  And we like to take care to guard against her being snapped-up by some boyfriend or husband, come to that.” 

Pointedly he glanced up at the obviously embarrassed woman as if to clarify his point as he went on:  “We can’t have that happening, now can we?  Although I suppose there's less danger now of the latter - now that so much water has passed under the bridge, so to speak.  But even so, discipline must be maintained, even among the members of the fairer sex, perhaps especially so - isn't that so, my dear?” 

He once again proprietarily patted the woman's behind through her tight dogtooth check skirt.  The blood rose in the mature legal secretary’s cheeks, her face blazing with mortified shame. Nervously the woman’s gaze involuntarily swung across to a small walnut writing-table tucked away in a corner as she answered her employer, her voice small and faltering.

“Yes Mr Gyrick, sir.”

Although the woman's gaze might have shifted for little more than the briefest of unguarded instants, the merest flickering of her eyes, the look of despondency written across her face had been more than enough to draw attention to the otherwise unremarkable furnishing.  But it was the leather-upholstered bench seat set before it that held the eye once drawn, or rather that which lay across its red padded top: a thin plaited leather riding switch.  The inference was both shocking and writ clear in the eyes of the onlookers, Alison's among them.  The only thought running through the teenager’s mind was what the hell sort of hold must this beast have over the woman to be able to treat her in so shocking a manner and for her to not just up and leave.

“I do sometimes wonder sometimes, though, if she might not be finding it a little difficult to keep up with the younger secretaries nowadays… I mean once a woman passes her thirty-filth birthday… present company accepted.”  He laughed.  It was the second time he had used that phrase and it had become no more amusing.  He tapped his fingers against his chin as if considering some important point in court.  “There comes a time when a woman’s place is more becoming to the home…Hmmm  Perhaps something a little more domesticated.  My wife could do with a live-in home-help…”  His voice faded off as if daydreaming.  Then his eyes again sharpened, his attention springing back to the pretty teenager sitting in front of him and the matter in hand.  Leaning across his desk to emphasize his point Gyrick spread his arms indicating the empty files and the few scattered papers that still remained there:

“Well there you have it!  Of course where a child is concerned, any allegation should be investigated…”

“Please… I’m not a child… I’m a grown wo…”  Bristling with indignation Alison - despite all that had so recently happened to her - had finally plucked up the temerity to speak out.  She was swiftly cut off, in mid-sentence and in no uncertain terms.

“In the eyes of the law you are, dear – until such a time as you attain what we call ‘the age of majority’; and that, I’m afraid, is still some time off.”  His eyes seemed to bore into her as he patiently spoke.  Then, his eyes now scanning the others arranged around his office and smiling pointedly he went on:  “True there has been talk of lowering that age from the present twenty-one to eighteen…” he laughed, gently, lowering his voice as if divulging some secret “…but I really don’t think we need concern ourselves at present – I can’t see that happening anytime soon.  My best guess would be the early 1970s – these things tend to take a good ten years to sort out!” 

He had been toying with a cigar and cigar cutter while he had been talking and having chopped the end off the fine Havana he now lit it, somewhat theatrically, as if in celebration of some imagined victory or triumph.  Sitting in front of his desk on a chair that had seemed from the outset to be far too low for her Alison could think of little to celebrate as the cloud of pungent cigar smoke wafted around her ears. 

To the flummoxed blond teenager it smelled like old socks burning and made her want to cough.  She glanced up at the legal secretary now dutifully standing alongside his desk, her arms folded across a wad of documentation, her back straight and her ankles and stilettos smartly pressed together almost as if at attention.  She noticed that the woman’s beautifully made-up face had again coloured.  The woman’s cheeks were suddenly burning scarlet, the colour visible even through the layers of foundation and blusher, as if this ritualistic ‘lighting-up’ was a portent of something she new all too well.    

Drawing heavily on the fat cigar, his jowly cheeks puffing out like pouches, and blowing out the acrid smoke with a look of smug satisfaction on his face, his eyes again fell on Alison.  The latter, far from sensing the reassurance she had first felt when initially told she was going to be taken to consult a lawyer, now felt even more intimidated than when she had been in her aunt’s hands. 

There, living in her aunt’s home, at least she had come to know what to expect. She had been some poor sick twisted woman’s plaything and the game had been the cane and the strap across her bare behind, and the concoction of the excuses to do so. She understood now, it was some illness that had driven the woman and those around her - and possibly infected by her - on.  The latter was the reason she was so baffled by the vague manner all those references to mental illness were being banded around – clearly that part of it was clear cut?  But there was some other type of game afoot here, something, she sensed, that was infinitely more serious and far-reaching than a simple spanking, strapping or caning - or even the threat of the sexual exploitation she had nearly fallen victim to.  This was something far more considered, something calculated, not simply some crazy woman’s compulsion.

“…Ah, yes!  The early 1970s…I dare say we’ll have you safely out of harm’s way by the time you reach the age they’ll likely change the legal attainment of adulthood to then, let alone the current age of majority now.”  The words came out with another puff of dense smoke and he glanced down at one of the few documents still in front of him, before again locking eyes with Alison.  “I see it’s still a month or two till your eighteenth; I think we can safely say we’ll have you - err, your case - out of the way by then.” The stumble seemed contrived and he laughed, his eyes glancing up and over Alison’s shoulder at one of the women behind her back, one of the social workers, as if sharing some private joke.  From behind her back Alison thought she just caught a jingling little feminine laugh echoing his.  “Now stop worrying your pretty little head - just sit quietly and sip your tea, and we’ll sort it all out.”  Disregarding the now speechless girl, who despite herself now found herself obediently sipping the sickly-sweet brew, Alistair Gyrick again scanned the room, continuing on from where the stunned teenager had forced him to break off:

“In law she’s still a minor. And as such has to be under the control and custody of some legally responsible adult or authority if not ensconced in the institution of matrimony – for which she would need the permission of a legally accountable, legally assigned guardian.  Now in this case – if it should ever become a case, and I would seriously advise against it, given the sparsity of reliable evidence and the dubious witness statements – it is the figure against whom the accusations are levied that is the legally accountable adult. 

Now, where there is a possibility of delinquency, or perhaps evidence of malicious or mischievous intent attached to a complaint – as perhaps evidenced by some of the more outlandish, largely unsupported, allegations she has made - or of sliding morals – witness the indecently short skirt the child is currently sporting… Well, under such circumstances I would recommend one of the charity-run parochial children’s homes as an interim measure.”  He lent back in his chair cradling the back of his head in his hands as if pleased with him as he added, as if an afterthought:  “…The discipline would do her good.”

Alison felt her blood suddenly boil in her veins, despite the drowsy heavy-limbed lethargy that was gradually beginning to overwhelm her.  She almost shouted now, her voice coming out loud enough yet sounding rather odd to her own ears, her speech strangely mumbling.  She seemed to be suddenly stumbling over words and syllables, as if her tongue were too large for her mouth or her lips had turned numb.   

“Wwwwhat d,d,d you mmmean, ch,ch,children’s hhhome?  I’mmm near, near, nearly eigh eeenn… I mmmean eigh, eigh eight – een… EIGHTEEN!”  She finally managed to blurt out with a burst of effort that left her suddenly bone- achingly weary.  She took another deep swig of the warm, soothing tea to try and lubricate her increasingly dry mouth: “I c,c, can’t poss, poss, possi…possibli… I can’t go in a chil, chil, children’s h,h,hhome; I’mmm not a ch, ch,child!”  She protested, frustrated at her own incoherence.  “And my, m,m,my sshskirt…”  A spastic spray of spit had accompanied the sibilance at the beginning of ‘skirt’ and now trickled down her chin; she tried to wipe it away but her arm swiped at it aimlessly, entirely devoid of coordination.  She took another sip of tea to try to steady herself:  “My, skirt is nnot m,m,my fffault… is, is m,m,my school oo oo, my school un ee, uneee f,f,for uniform. It, it’s th,th rrrullesss rules, auntie’s rules… school uniform m’must be worn at all times.”  

The last part had been so well drilled into her, was so well-practiced that it almost came out on its own accord, the most coherent of all despite her faltering speech and failing coordination.  It was so unfair.  What she had just said had been the God’s-honest truth.  She had been given a medical examination gown to wear and a basic plain cotton nightdress to sleep in.  But when the time had come to attend this meeting the social worker woman could find nothing to fit her other than the clothes that had been brought in with her from her aunt’s house – and that meant her aunt’s take on what constituted a school uniform for a girl her age. 

She wasn’t some delinquent tart with loose morals – the hem of the skirt she was wearing was not as brief as it was to titillate onlookers, rather it was designed to help extinguish the pride of the wearer.  That was why the knickers that had originally gone with it had been designed the way they were; close-fitting school knickers which outlined every contour in any case, they had incorporated a transparent polythene panel in place of the kite-shaped double-gusset which would ordinarily have been there.  There pair she had on at present were of a more conventional design but just as snug fitting.  Presumably tennis knickers which somebody had produced from somewhere, they were full in the body but of extraordinarily thin white cotton – no more substantial than a handkerchief – and were embellished by rows of babyish frills across the bottom and around the elasticated leg openings. 

Below the hem of the little wide-flare pleated skirt her long, slim legs were bare until the little white anklets with the blue ribbon bows at the sides and the matching blue tee-bar ankle strap shoes her aunt had favoured.  She needed little additional encouragement to keep both her knees and ankles pressed together and her hands smartly folded in her lap, the latter to help keep smoothed-down the front of the skirt.   Quite the opposite of her being some exhibitionist schoolgirl vamp, the uniform her ‘aunt’ had come up with had taught her shame and modesty and had augmented her natural shyness to the point of virtually denying her the ability to make eye contact with others.  In short it instilled obedience and had turned her into a shrinking violet. 

She had quickly learned that dressed as a child it became incredibly difficult to relate to others in any manner other than as a docile child.  And in turn others tended to naturally relate to her and treat her as if she were a minor.  The latter of course only went to reinforce the former – and so it went on.  It came as little surprise, then, that she was having such difficulty in standing up for herself now.  If she had been in leather jacket and jeans or cargo pants it might have been different – she might have been able to regain a little self-confidence. 

As it was, the social worker women had dressed her in the school uniform her aunt had made her wear – right down to having her knotting her school tie around her neck and putting her hair back in the plaits her aunt had always insisted on.  They had even come up with a couple of additions of their own.  A sky blue Alice band had been procured from somewhere and put to work to hold her two ribbon-tied pigtails back behind her ears, a sailor hat with a band of ribbon in school colours around its crown had been pushed on her head, secured by a ribbon tied in a bow beneath her chin, and a tight-fitting sky-blue bum-freezer’ type blazer had been produced from a cupboard and added to the ensemble. 

She was doubtless immaculate in their eyes, in her blue serge blazer, bib-fronted pinafore skirt, and felt sailor hat – but that was certainly not how she felt.  If not for her biologically mature silhouette any onlooker, at first glance, could have been forgiven for taking her as a particularly gangly twelve or thirteen year old.  It was little wonder the man in front of her was treating her in the way he was – and now he was talking about putting her in some sort of children’s home.  But he knew her chronological age; he could read it for himself on the documentation in front of him. 

Ignoring Alison’s outburst other than to give her the space to vent her spleen, the lawyer carried on where he had left off:

“…Of course if the matter of mental competency is brought into the equation…” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and took another draw on his cigar. “…then perhaps something along the lines of a residential rest home would be more appropriate – but that would be for a doctor to decide.  And they are not short on discipline in some of those places either!  In either case I know of the perfect establishment – and in a manner of speaking both institutions are linked.  It might be that she would benefit from starting in the one and progressing to somewhat - longer-term - care in the other.  But we'll talk more about that in a moment… and see what the doctor says when she calls and we give her the chance to give the girl the ‘once-over’.”

“Miss Anders, you may go now.  Please deal with the case files as I explained earlier... Oh... And don't forget to ensure the lift is kept available.”  Laughingly smiling, he dismissed the mortified Miss Anders with her armfuls of disregarded evidential statements, landing a resounding slap on her wobbling bottom as she teetered away from his desk, her hips swaying in her near skin-tight knee-length pencil skirt. 

His eyes followed his secretary out, hungrily devouring the girdle-moulded coke-bottle figure and the bewitching 9-denier fully fashioned seamed nylons sheaving her shapely calves.  His mind seemed to jump back to something he’d said earlier:  “…Hmmm…  At least she wouldn’t have to spend all that time in the beauty parlour… and all that money on clothes… a simple black dress… No… blue, a light blue – like the young girl’s school uniform here… with white collar and cuffs… and perhaps a matching apron…”  He laughed again, his eyes twinkling mischievously as the harassed woman hurried from the room.

With the door having clattered shut behind the departing expertly humiliated legal secretary, he turned again to the furrow-browed worried teenager, the latter fidgeting uncomfortably in her seat under his penetrating gaze.   Fidgeting uncertainly under his gaze, her composure having now all but disintegrated, Alison nervously took down the last of her mug of tea, not knowing what else to do.  Her hand shaking uncontrollably she watched as if stupefied as the empty mug bounced on the carpet, the handle having been fumbled awkwardly in fingers that seemed all of a sudden to have become like sausages.  As if from far away she heard herself giggle stupidly, a strange ringing filling her eyes and her lips rubbery and dribbling. 

Discipline in the Psychiatric Rest Home - Quite a Long A Snippet

It's a week since I last posted and I thought you might appreciate a - not so brief - snippet taken from something I have been working on.  It has no direct link to anything else I have published other than for some similar character names - and which may well change in the fullness of time - and is set in the early 1960s.  The story as a whole is highly derivative of something I read a very long time ago and always wanted to rewrite and adapt.  I am working on this tale in parallel to finishing off the2nd part of my last publication and a book on mad cows disease. The pic is something someone emailed to me a while back and which just seemed appropriate.  If it is yours and you don't want it used or alternatively you want credit for your work posted, then please let me know.

Discipline in the Psychiatric Rest Home

The red tramlines on her cheek had largely disappeared below a layer of hurriedly applied foundation powder and subtly applied blusher, though they smarted still.  What smarted to a greater extent was her frustrated retribution.  She had been stopped at the point when she had been about to really deal with the girl.  


She  had been about to shove the girl across the top of the school desk, hold her down by the scruff of the neck and lash her bottom with the folded leather belt until the girl lay like a rain-soaked  rag doll, broken and sobbing.  Then she’d have put the girl on her knees and made her ease the ache she now had in her knickers with that soft pink tongue and mouth of hers.   


That was how you broke a girl like that one – you put her in a maid’s uniform, put her on the end of a lead, and put her to work under the dining table at the beck and call of any and all guests.  A girl never regained her pride after that – especially if you then had her serve at the table side, fetching and carrying and filling glasses, her face glossy and damp with the sated lust of others and the laughter steadily growing in her ears.   What you did not do was pussyfoot around with all sorts of new-fangled modern psychological methods aimed at remoulding the girl’s sexual predilections – ‘reassigning’ her sexuality or whatever it was called.  If her friend truly wanted the girl out of the way - and not just around as a plaything - then her way was the way to go about it.  She was going to see to it that that faux niece of hers was put away in a psychiatric home by the time she was finished.  She had done it before, with that stupid dark haired Romanian girl, the one who had led her on for what she could get and then refused her when the time came.  


She had put the silly little pussy-teaser through the whole thing, had her do ‘the rounds’ on the end of a leash below the table at one of her dinner parties.  Then she had had that one particular friend of hers - Janice, her of the overabundance of hips and bottom, those huge pendulous udder-like breasts and that obese stomach apron - take the girl to the restroom with her.  ‘Restroom’, what an apt euphuism that turned out to be for the girl – the ‘rest’ part at least.  There was a lot a strong-willed and physically overpowering dominant woman could do to a girl in a ‘restroom’, if she were possessed of certain… unusual, perhaps somewhat… distasteful, predilections.  And Janice never dirtied the porcelain under those conditions – she never talked about it, but all could guess what Janice liked most.  


Suffice it to say that Janice had picked up a cane on the way out - and it had been well used by the time it had been replaced in the stand by the dresser.  And so had the Romanian girl, her light blue button-through serving dress saturated, the matching contrast-trimmed apron, with its blue and white piping, stained yellow across its bib and the white Peter Pan collar marred with tell-tale streaks of clay-like brown.  Her white cuffs too had been similarly marked, where ill-advisedly she had wiped her mouth and cheeks – an act that had apparently cost her an additional thrashing across her bare behind, a fact made obvious as she had emerged obliged to carry her discarded knickers between her hands out in front of her.  Janice had brought up the rear, one hand on the scarlet-faced girl’s shoulder, the other carrying the long whippy cane she had used.  The girl’s knickers Janice had clearly used for her own needs, that fact clearly evident to all, and once back in the dinning room, the cane having been put back in its home and with the place an uproar of female laughter and delighted clapping of hands, the girl was made to hitch up her dress and pull the defaced garment back on.   


The girl had spent the rest of the evening kneeling weeping in the corner facing the wall; none had been too keen on her serving them after that.  But one visit to the ‘restroom’ had been all it had taken – she was finished after that.  The very next day she was taken in at a psychiatric rest home.  Perhaps with good psychiatric care and good nursing she might one day have made some sort of recovery, but it was not that sort of place.  Bedsides ‘recovery’, ‘rehabilitation’ would have been in nobody’s interests – and there had been some quite influential women present at that dinner, women who could well do without the scandal.  As it was she went straight in to a nice bare white-painted secure solitary room, all alone behind bars and a whitewashed window.  Later they moved her on to a long-term secure ward, once she had been safely diagnosed as in need of an indefinite stay.  


She still went back to visit the girl from time to time – at the psychiatric clinic.  They made them work there, the inmates, work for their keep.  The latter always made her laugh as she knew full well that there were a couple of the women present that night who were footing the bill.  But employment, even in what amounted to a sweatshop environment, was said to be good for the patient.  They made them wear a uniform too, an old-style, calf-length button-through nylon work-dress with an apron over the top and a matching mob cap on their close-cropped heads.  The later was a shame as the girl had possessed such a wondrous crowning glory of luscious black locks tumbling to her waist.  


It was the dress she heard rustling first, long before the girl appeared, whenever she visited, the girl shuffling along with her ankles hobbled by leather restraints.  It was all in a dull chocolate brown except for the breast pocket which was decorated by a gold threaded coat of arms and the hospital care home’s name and she often wondered if the colour reminded the girl of that night and how she came to be in the place.   She sometimes brought a bag of sweets along with her or a newspaper, well aware that neither was allowed in the hospital.  


On occasion she would actually offer a sweet across the table, knowing only too well that the supervising matron would swipe it from the girl’s hand no sooner had her fingers wrapped around it, usually crushing it underfoot in a rainbow shower of shattered candy.  The latter was pretty much the only colour to be seen within those walls other than chocolate brown work dresses, dark green and cream split-colour walls - green on the lower half, cream above - and the navy blue staff uniforms, with matching elastic crepe belt and silver clasp buckle.   


She found it cute the way the girl, having been led in, was obliged to perform a deep curtsy, greeting her visitor with a cheery ‘good day’ and expressing her thanks to her visitor for coming, before sitting with her manacled hands on her head, fingers interlocked.  And the matron would think nothing of barking at her patient to ‘sit up straight’ if the girl should slouch at any point.  The rule, apparently, was back straight, elbows out to the sides and chin up.  And she wasn’t allowed to break eye contact no matter how embarrassing or upsetting her visitor’s comments might be – to do so was to risk earning a sharp slap around the face from the matron.  


The latter was usually a substantial, buxom woman in her early forties or so dressed in the uniform typical of a British hospital matron, her calf-length navy-blue dress having long sleeves with stiff white buttoned cuffs and a high, stiff white collar and covered by a starched white cambric apron.  Regardless of which of the three such she usually encountered, the woman would have her hair pulled back in a tight bun and her crown covered by a white cap with a high front.  It made for an intimidating image, especially when backed up by a heavy-looking leather strap hanging from her belt and the ubiquitous bunch of keys jangling on a chain at her side.  


It was little wonder that the poor thing would mumble her way through that humiliating formula without fail each time she visited, her curtsy seemingly lower and more respectful on each occasion.  And then when she got up to leave there would be a repeat performance, the girl this time obliged to thank her from the bottom of her heart for paying for her residence.  The irony of that part was delicious; it always made it worth travelling there, to that isolated moorland institution, no matter what other sport she enjoyed with the girl while there.  To hear the girl actually thank her for being instrumental in keeping her incarcerated in that place was priceless.  It always made her laugh aloud, which in turn always, without fail, brought on floods of tears.   Then she’d be off into the blazing sunshine and the purplish grey-green of the moors while her Romanian chum would be ushered off back to the workroom and her needle and cotton, there to labour in strictly-supervised uncommunicative silence.   


The no-talking rule was meant to allow for contemplative meditation, but it was more to do with certain individuals exerting their will over the young women they had there and little to do with any kind of ‘therapy’.  The only ‘therapy’ in that place came in the form of the strap or the cane - and the malady it was prescribed to treat was ‘misbehaviour’, this being any behaviour not fitting with the institution’s credo of absolute and complete obedience and total submission.  And that submission really was expected to be total.  There were certain members of staff in that place, she knew, that struggled with all sorts of unholy desires.  Or at least, had they been employed in the outside world they would have struggled.  Within those grey moorland granite walls and decaying, yet still secure, gnarled window bars, what reason could there be to struggle when one’s most bizarre hunger could be slated – and with only a diagnosed lunatic’s word to bear witness?   Indeed some of that ‘sport’ she on occasion had had with her Romanian chum had been vouchsafed with a little silver crossing palms in order to secure the privacy of a comfortable side room for the afternoon.  


These days the type of 'sport' she favoured on visitor's days no longer necessitated any particular degree of seclusion.  She had to be honest with herself.  The Romanian beauty's incarceration... well, that was just it, the girl was no longer all that beautiful – her incarceration had done the girl no favours, physically.  Of course the lovely shiny coal-black mane had gone, victim of the nit-comb, delousing powder and a nurse's shears.  But that had come about long ago.  It would have been one of the first things to have befallen the girl and was a standard part of the admission proceedings, along with being stripped of personal belongings, valuables, outside clothes and anything else that might tie her to her past.  


No it was not the girl's hair, or lack of it.  Rather it was the weight she had put on.  She liked her girls to be well-cushioned, as it were, but trim with it.  Her Romanian squeeze had entered as a curvy yet lithe, and vital young thing.  Over the months and years the girl had been there – and it had been at least two, if not three now - she had seen first that vitality wane and the twinkle in her eye fade and then watched as, little by little the girl's figure had filled out to dumpling-like proportions.  That was what she called her now, when she visited, if she was feeling particularly spiteful – 'my little dumpling'.  


Dimpled cheeks and a double chin just didn't do it for her.  Neither did a pendulous drooping bustline.  But with only a nylon full-slip and knickers beneath her work dress - other than for a most rudimentary bra, which offered little or no support - that was only to be expected when a girl was as well-endowed as her Romanian lass was.  Often now what passed as having ‘sport’ with the girl sometimes came down to simply sitting, silently reading a book or magazine perched on her lap and ignoring the girl in her drab institutional uniform dress sitting across the table from her with her hands on her head like a naughty schoolgirl.  


The enjoyment stemmed both from the fact that the girl was forbidden to talk unless spoken to first and the knowledge of just how desperate the poor creature was for human contact, for conversation however banal, controlled and contrived.   Sometimes she would, eventually, ask some trivial question as to the girl’s wellbeing and so on.  Or she might regale her with a description of some trip or outing she had enjoyed – always careful to subtly contrast her experience with the drab environs of the hospital.  On other occasions she might well find she had squandered the entire duration of the brief visiting slot while reading and had never actually gotten around to saying a word.  Well, these things happen!


It was just ironic that the girl had always taken such pride in her trim figure.  Once off the street and ensconced in her home the girl had proved fanatical with her exercise routines, fussy with her diet and ‘picky’ in the extreme over what she would – and would not – eat and drink.  In the charity-run mental hospital that was her home these days ‘freedom of choice’ was not so clear cut.  There she – and others like her - ate whatever was served up.  More often than not the chow came from unlabeled cans donated as out-of-date stock through the generosity of local shopkeepers and that new ‘supermarket’ place that had recently opened on the high street of the closest large town.  


Actually ‘chow’ was a good name for the fare served up in the care home.  She was confident the girls were frequently served canned pet food amongst their daily ration – she had arranged a longstanding regular donation from a famous pet food manufacturer herself.  Of course it had to be re-routed via the animal sanctuary an acquaintance of hers had set up, but that was easy enough to accomplish and everybody was happy all round.  The food was healthy and nourishing enough, full of calories and vitamins and better nutritionally than a lot of stuff young people ate today in the 1960s.  It was just that it was not particularly palatable, was all – and she enjoyed that idea, just as she enjoyed the concept in general.  


And the nuns that largely staffed the place had no time for fussy eaters.  Charity was a God-given thing; to leave food on a plate while others in the world were starving was a sin.  And a sin had to be expunged through the ‘mortification of the flesh’.  The latter translated as a good half dozen with a bamboo or rattan cane across a girl’s bottom, skirt up, knickers down and bent across the rough splinter-infested wooden dining table they all sat along.  


Where choice came in to the regimented routine of mealtime was ironically when it came to portion size.  The girls and young women were allowed to make the choice between opting for a small or large portion.  If the patient opted for a large portion they would oft times be served far more than they would be likely able to eat and if they did not eat every mouthful, then out would come the cane or the strap.  
On the other hand, should a patient choose a small portion on a regular basis, the portion size would be adjusted downwards until the point was reached when the meal amounted to little more than a starvation ration.  It usually wasn’t long after that point was reached that the more finicky eater would opt for the larger portion size.  


And the quality and palatability of the food making up these portions was routinely changed – in a very subtle and manipulative manner.  For one thing, the larger portions came with more variety, in both texture and taste.  For another; the larger the portion, the more palatable it would be made, or it would come with the addition of sweet sticky syrup or molasses.  And of course she would be consistently encouraged and praised throughout.  Combined with – and juxtaposed against - the contrasting dreary tedium that constituted the remainder of the day, the result of all this was a sort of obsessive fixation on food, meals and mealtimes.  In time even the most finicky, pernickety of eaters came to greet near whatever was placed in front of her with a crazed, wide-eyed enthusiasm.      


If there was a point – and there had to have been one at one time – it was the misguided assertion that a plump patient was necessarily a healthy patient.  But like so much of the regimen and the culture permeating the ecclesiastically-run hospital this part of the regime had been hijacked over the years to satisfy the very human need to believe in the superiority of one ideal over another – or one group over another.  It all came down to the same thing in the end; the seductiveness of power, of the authority of one individual over another, the sheer joy of domination.  


If an attractive late-teen or vivacious young thing in her early twenties was energetic, quarrelsome and intractable, then fatten her up until she is docile and plump – that seemed to be the credo.  If a girl can be manoeuvred into over-eating - tricked in some manner - then all well and good; if not, then there was always the cane, strap or tawse.   If it should take the encouragement of the latter then it was only apt that the implement used be one of leather, split and forked like the devil’s tongue – for was not defiance of the dictates of The Church a form of bedevilment?  Then there was the beguiling switch they would make to using food as a reward for obedience – it was such clever psychology, a masterpiece of manipulation.   And jiggling chubby bottoms, rounded plump bellies, fat thighs and pendulous full breasts made for far more satisfying targets in the eye of the beholder if and when physical chastisement became necessary.         


Now what she really wanted to see was to have Alison suffer in that same sort of manner, for what she had done.  Her mind was seething with the various punishments she was going to mete out to the girl once all the fuss was sorted out with the girl’s ‘aunt’.  Ultimately, though, what she really wanted was to get the girl placed in the implacable hands of those nuns running the psychiatric care home she had managed to have her poor unfortunate Romanian chum incarcerated in.   

Our Very Own Turnpike Lane Banksy - And Loads of Blog Linnks

Oh my God!  It’s been another week already!  Well at least the sun is shining now here in North London – it’s actually warm for once - there are even swifts screeching high-pitched flying above the street.  Of course now it’s too warm.  But that’s Britain for you; a matter of days ago it was bloody freezing!  Not that my hands were cold; I’ve been so full of ideas that my fingers have been positively smoking (from the keyboard of course!  There are no calluses on my palms… well, there are, but they’re from the gym… Honest!).  In further news I am pleased to inform you that Turnpike Lane (some say Wood Green) in North London now has its very own ‘Banksy’ (see photo - bottom of page).  There, now I’ve gone and associated the socially aware, world-renowned graffiti artist with my dodgy publications – that should put paid to his career; LOL!  Actually I hope not: I really admire his work.  It is interesting that the local council (I think it was) have placed a protective sheet of perspex over it rather than removing it.  My Kids photographed it in its raw state (on their phone cameras) but by the time I got there, the next day, it was under plastic and surrounded by people with cameras and 'phones.

Now, I was considering posting a snippet of a project I have been working on – not something directly linked to the INSTITUTIONALISED series, but something else entirely, if of a similar nature – ie the spanking and discipline of young ladies (I am presently working on three projects in parallel, including a scientific missive on protein conformation or misfolding disorders).  But as luck would have it I just this minute blundered into the list of blogs I have added to the sidebar blog list in recent times.  This is the list I have mentioned before, that I mislaid and that originally had been intended for publication way back in March.  Click on any of the titles to visit or seek out in the right hand sidebar blog listing.  It is always nice to contribute by leaving a comment, by the way – comments keep a blog running (And encourage the author to reciprocate by linking back here, of course).

http://bestspankingblogs.blogspot.co.uk

http://strengerlehrer.blogspot.co.uk/

http://solemnlyswear-uptonogood.blogspot.co.uk/   (Mischief Managed) “the stories and musings of a young woman at the first stages of her journey into the world of spanking.”

http://nylondreams-mt.blogspot.co.uk/

 http://nylonddreams2.blogspot.co.uk/ 

The latter  comes up as ‘Yeh Vast Image Dump’ in the blog list - and I can’t change the name for some reason.

http://daisysub.tumblr.com/   The blog of Daisy, who, we are informed, is “a bad and slovenly girl” who will “never amount to anything”. (you can click on the pic to visit – not the Banksy, silly, the pic at the top right of course!)

This next three appear in the French language blog section:

http://desseins-coquins.blogspot.co.uk/

http://pinupmania.blogspot.co.uk/

http://psychedeslys.wordpress.com/ 

Find Me on Facebook

I have set up a Facebook account.  Not much there yet, other than a few pics of me with my shirt off, but there will be!  Come and 'Like me' - whatever that means!  I may try to use it to put all those albums of scans and stuff I used to host on Picasaweb, before they cut up rough.  I'll keep you posted!

A Domestic Discipline Orientated Publishing Update

Hi folks!  Some time ago I said I'd added quite a few new blogs to my blog list over in the right-hand sidebar.  I never did get around to sharing with you which ones they were exactly.  Well, sorry about this but I have somehow misplaced the list.  I had reason earlier today to go back through my email (for another matter entirely) and came across these three, the links to which I'd emailed myself as a form of backup:

BendoverJesica;


Redrump;


Oldfashionedgirl-anothercountry.

All are worth a visit, and all can be reached by clicking on their titles here or looking up on the aforementioned blog list.

Talking of the right-hand sidebar:  Some of you more observant types may have noticed the sudden appearance of a new facility in the form of a button (second from top).  Pressing (clicking on) this allows the reader to share with their friends and associates stuff the like about the blog and generally notify others out there in Google-land as to what's going on here and so on (and how great it is - hopefully!).  Please take the time to try it out and perhaps consider using a similar facility on your own blog, if you have one.  The more network connections we build, the strong the community! 

Also, scanning further down the said sidebar, you may come across a certain, familiar (from my last couple of postings) book cover... Yes, at long last the new book is out - at least in print form on LULU.  I am presently endeavoring to set up a PDF download facility at LULU (much cheaper) but without much luck, but it might be worth checking in case by the time you read this I have managed it.  For ebook formats it is a case of waiting to see if it gets published through Andrews UK LTD who have managed that side of the exposure of the previous three novels.  I'm only really still messing around with LULU for their print-on-demand facilities as I know there are certain of you (and I'm one!) who prefer to have a nice chunky book in their hands!

Taking advice from various sources I have made the new offering quite a lot shorter than the previous three (especially volume 3, which ran to near-on a quarter of a million words), deciding instead to split it in to two parts.  It also benefits from a much simpler and more straight forward story telling style, with far less hopping back and forth through different time frames and flashbacks and is more directed towards the domestic discipline side of things (at least for much of part one).  So if privately set up homeschooling schemes for the late teens, rigid, restrictive rules and impositions, the hiring of a stern governess and bars discreetly added to attic-room windows are your thing - all overseen by a trained psychologist - then this is for you.  Exactly where it sits within the story arc of the previous three I'm not prepared to say, for fear of giving too much away  Suffice it to say that it does fit a missing piece into the puzzle - or will have done by the end of part two!

And the illustration?  Well, it sort of fits with the subject, although to be honest I just scanned it in from a paper source for use with the next posting I plan to make - a little something I once read and that inspired me to write.