It’s My Birthday (Party) – And I’ll Add Blogs If I Want To! (Three – New!)

It’s my birthday.  Well’ actually it was my birthday yesterday, strictly speaking, but I don’t intend to acknowledge it until next Monday (sort of offsetting it by a week).  Partly this is because I’ll want to imbibe a few beers by way of celebration and that will make it a month since I last did that sort of thing (Brighton, a week’s worth following the London – Brighton cycle ride and my successful scaling of the mighty Ditchling Beacon:  Toyntanen, umpteen – hill, 0).  And partly it is because the weather is crap anyway – although perversely the sun has come out here in North London – and I have done nothing to alert old chums of my intentions. 

So… What have I been up to?    

I’m still hard at work on three novels in parallel but most of my efforts of late have been channelled into a stand alone novel which has little to do with the rest of the series, being set in the early to mid 1960s.  The latter started as a rewrite of a book I once read but has become influenced in places by the work of Richard Manton / R.T.Mason (who used to write for Janus magazine but is also now known for his novels, in particular Elaine Cox), the idea being that a young girl (late teens) has been consigned to live under the authority of a woman in a house in London which turns out to have been once owned by the professional Victorian-era disciplinarian that features in the Richard Manton penned Janus (issue 38) tale, ‘Whips Incorporated’.  Google it or look on Mr Whacker’s blog (check out the blog list in the right hand sidebar).  I have also been doing a little early preparatory work to test the feasibility of a short graphic novel based on the 3D graphics work of ‘Snooz’ – a few examples of which you can find scattered throughout the blog archive.  

Now, I’ve added three blogs to the right hand sidebar blog list this time that I want to briefly tell you about.  

‘Intimate Invasions’ – by Mr Strict - features the enforced application of enemas and non-consensual anal play, much of which is quite inventive, good inspiring stuff which I have to say I really quite enjoyed.  See image top left (taken from the site).  To visit, click on blog title or look for the link in the sidebar blog list.

‘Mr-Tawse’  Doesn’t really do what it says on the tin, to be honest with you, in that there does not seem to be that much content actually dealing with the use of that trusty implement of correction – the tawse.  But having said that, there is an awful lot more going on there that would recommend a visit or three!  (See right hand picture – taken from the site), click on blog title to visit or look for the link in the right hand sidebar main blog list.

‘Spanking the Shamrock’  A strange title and one that I only picked up on while perusing the ‘referrals list’ on my blog’s ‘Sitmeter’ widget – a little gizmo situated near the very bottom of the right hand sidebar (just above the clock) that allows myself and others (visitors – that means YOU!) to monitor the number of folk visiting and so on.  The author has kindly included a link to my blog on his site.  This blog differs from the majority in that it seems to be based around original short and inspired essays written by the author covering various topics pertinent to the disciplining of young ladies such as ‘Corner Time’,  shaving pubic hair (or not – far more imaginative; all sorts of possibilities open up), cold showers and ice baths and young women being made to wear school uniform as a punishment.  To quote from the latter:  

“…being put back into school uniform [should] remind her of how it used to be, to be governed by rules and regulations over which she will have no control but which she has to obey.  She should be required to consider why she has been put into uniform and acknowledge how she looks in it and why she deserves to have been put back into uniform. 

Anything which increases for her the humiliation of being put back into school uniform is to be considered an advantage - the wearing of the uniform should be a punishment in itself.”  

Interestingly the author quotes directly from the magazine interview with one of the actresses from the 1960s film of ‘The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie’ that I have mentioned in the past (try the search facility situated in the upper portion of the right hand sidebar) in which an (18 year old) actress describes how wearing the school uniform every day for filming affected her mindset and how it started to make her consciously feel and act as if she were a genuine schoolgirl still at school.       

As always: to visit (highly recommended)  click on the blog's title - or look for it in the sidebar blog list (coz just like the other two blogs outlined above I have just added a link to it!  Duh!). The pic, above left - pinched from the aforementioned oddly-named site - is from the 1958 German classic, ‘Maedchen In Uniform’, Incidentally; highly influential!.

More Shades of Grey - Re-using Old Shop Assistant Uniforms for Disciplinary Purposes

Harking back to my ‘Brighton  Shock’ posting of last week; I've been surfing the net trying to find a colour photo of the shopgirl uniform mentioned - i.e. an adapted vintage 1960s Marks & Spencer's staff uniform dress - as I imagine many of you will have been left in the dark despite my floundering attempts to paint a picture in words.  This was the best I could come up with.  I've had to play around with the colour balance a little as the original had a noticeable red cast to it, possibly due to the original photograph having been exposed to light and having faded over time.  In so doing I've relied on memory to try to get the dress colour right as the priority rather than worry about skin tone (possibly a mistake, I don't know).  The odd thing is that I recall from the period (although I was rather young) a thin light-blue plastic belt being worn with it – and indeed it was such a belt that was threaded through the belt loops of my shopgirl chum’s dress, not the broad dark belt as shown in the photograph.  It was all man-made fibres - a woven terylene and nylon blend, I believe - practical but not exactly comfortable.  In the summer the staff must have sweated buckets, especially with a girdle or corsellete beneath – but what wonderful discipline for a girl of today to undergo.  

The reason I am so fascinated is that many years ago (mid to late 1980s) my wife of the time and I had a girl in her late teens living with us in what developed into something of a genuine D/S lifestyle (I have written about this before - albeit rather sketchily - and it can be found in the blog archive using the search facility in the right-hand sidebar and a little imagination).  Anyway, to cut a long story short the deal was that she did the housework in return for room and board and a little pocket money (and I mean a little).  With Penny (the girl's name) acting as housekeeper and cleaner and day by day becoming noticeably more firmly under my wife's authority it just began to seem right that something be done to make clear her position within our household.  

For purely practical reasons a pinafore apron had been procured (from a very traditional small independent department store in the Holloway Road, North London) but never looked right over jeans and T-shirt nor even the old skirt Penny sometimes wore.  Then one day - perhaps a few months in to the relationship, I can't quite remember exactly - a friend of the wife's who happened to work for Marks & Spencer brought around an old shopfloor uniform dress (M & S were just updating their uniform to a new look at the time), a cream coloured polyester dress with a green and ochre lattice check pattern (I just looked it up that uniform changeover on the Marks & Spencer's archive web page and it would date the period to 1986).  

There was much whingeing and moaning from an outraged Penny but my wife's somewhat domineering personality won the day and despite the girl's complaining that besides anything else the dress just didn't fit - she was rather a plump young thing and it was true that the buttons could hardly constrain her bust and the fabric did stretch at the seams over her bottom and hips - coupled with pinafore apron worn over the top, it soon became her daily outfit.  I seem to remember the dress had long sleeves with fitted cuff s and it definitely buttoned up the front, even though the closest I can find from that period on the Marks & Spencer's archive website is short-sleeved and zip fronted - and to be honest I can’t explain the discrepancy.  It also came with a plastic belt threaded through belt loops - I later used  to use it across her bottom; but that's a different story! 

The problems with the ill fitting dress, incidentally - which I personally found quite charming - were later solved when a visit to a charity shop unearthed a genuine vintage Playtex girdle (which of course became an excuse for insisting on stockings, and it all went on from there).   

In hindsight I think I would have given anything to have seen Penny in one of those 1960s dresses (Although I did get to see her put in a nylon overall from that same period - furnished by the same charity shop as I recall!).

Why Fifty Shades of Grey When One Shade of White Will Suffice?

An anonymous contributor as part of a posted comment sent in a link a good few weeks back to a fashion photo set entitled INSTITUTIONAL WHITE as photographed by STEVEN KLEIN (click on his name to visit the original set on the Interview Magazine site).

I had down loaded the pic and had it all set up to post while away in Brighton after the London – Brighton cycle ride.  But as you now know, due to changes in the way Blogger works and its incompatibility with the browser supported by my portable notebook computer (coupled with my inability to update said machine) I was unable to upload any graphical content while away from home.  I have been back around a week now but what with various personal dramas and yet more health concerns I have done little until now.  I did get quite a lot written in the pubs in and around Brighton though; the place is just so inspirational in one way or another – of which more next time (I took pics on my phone which promptly died on me and so I’m waiting until I can persuade it to let me download from it!).  

Back to the photo set and having followed the link and looked through the pictures I have to say I found this one the most evocative.  The nurse or institution wardress uniform is not really my cup of tea as you know, preferring to imagine (and evoke in my writing) the more traditional British nurse or hospital matron’s uniform of the 1960s and early 70s but the steel key ring dangling from the belt as a sort of badge of office or token of authority is just perfect.  It's these little details that go to build the picture - and write the story.  The same can be said for the protagonist’s facial expressions:  There is that look of despair and desperation on the face of the patient as she senses her mind, her personality, her very soul, being drawn from her by the rigid control and strict discipline of the bleak institution she has been placed in.  As a counterpoint there is the passion written across the face of the nurse or carer as she knowingly and lovingly works towards that very end, not so much driving the girl out of her mind as gently guiding her, expertly dismantling her sanity piece by piece, perhaps for her own ends, perhaps to satisfy the aims of others.  Whatever the woman's motives, the look of utmost passion on her face is enough to assure one that her methods would only be those embodying the most exquisite subtlety.  

As a teller of the tale, then, the question for one's imagination becomes exactly what those techniques might consist of.  Given, say, six months before the girl comes up before a psychiatric review panel, the question becomes; how best to ensure her tenure in the institution is extended when the time comes?

Well, there is food for thought!  And why Fifty Shades of Grey?  Because some misguided pundit recently emailed with the comment that certain parts of my work constituted “The Fifty Shades of Grey for the really kinky!”  Personally I don't think there's enough eroticism in the content of much of what I write for such a comparison (not overt eroticism anyway - although there are quite a few apparently who find the fattening up aspect in volume 3 appealing), but nevertheless praise indeed!  

Brighton Shock

It was the early nineteen-sixties, and the world seemed on some sort of cusp.  In some ways it was still a time of innocence and modesty.  In other ways it was the start of the modern era, the first of the supermarkets just beginning to creep on to the high street, even in the more rural regions of the country.  Perhaps that was it more than anything else, the way the shape of the high street seemed to change overnight, or at least the shape of the shop fronts.  There were modern flat-fronted shop windows appearing everywhere and the papers crowed on about the space-race and 'The Bomb' but there was also still the cry of the rag and bone man and the coal still came on the back of a horse-drawn wagon in huge black sacks.

Man was working towards a quest for the moon, while in the distance on a hot summer's night with the windows open one could still hear the rushing sound of engines letting off steam over on the railway.  There were nuclear power stations and there were gas lamps still visible in the local family-owned department store, strange glass amber and white affaires like upside-down sombreros with a pair of rust-coloured chains dangling, one each side, apparently provided to adjust the light.  There was television in practically every home and telephones in many, even if only on a shared 'party line', but likely a coal fire burning in the grate ignited on the crumpled remains of the previous night's news and a network of sticks.

Jet airliners had begun to roar overhead but still infrequently enough to prompt the inquisitive child to query “what  is wrong with that 'planes engines, mum?” while closer to home smog still ruled the early morning winter streets, the dense smoke-grey mist turned amber by the sodium streetlamps keeping that same child from school lest his asthmatic lungs should pay the price.   The British Motor Corporation' s mini car was already swamping the tarmac but In the shop windows that other 'mini' had yet to grace the manikins, Playtex were only just beginning to promise that '18 hours of comfort' while the hangover from Dior's new look of 1947 could still be seen everywhere young women were employed to serve the public.  Stockings were still de rigueur while in the workplace manmade fibres ruled the roost. Hardy Amies was designing for Sainsburys using nylon for staff dresses, despite the fact that cheese, ham, butter and any other fat-based grocery product of the ilk would 'dissolve' in to the fabric causing permanent staining, and the women and young girls in Marks and Spencer’s wore charmingly sweaty powder blue dresses in 'Bri-Nylon' with dark blue buttons down the front and tight blue plastic belts threaded through the belt loops.  There was even a gold metallic broach that came with the outfit with the letters 'M' and 'S' entwined with the ampersand '&' in a sort of monogram arrangement  which one day - in a dyslexic manner, in a particularly dyslexic brain -  would come to mean something different entirely.  

Or so I wrote recently in the opening section of the new book I'm working on.  You may also recall I'm still hanging around in Brighton on the Angle-land south coast.  And if you're really paying attention you may know I have taken a shine to a certain blue-streaked blond-haired barmaid in the Brighton North Street Wetherspoons (it's a pub chain here in the UK, you non-believers).  Well she's pierced in all sorts of places, a ring through the lip, another through the nose – you get the picture?  It's not my scene, all that piercing malarkey, but the folksy country accent sort of is... Hmmm... what's that all about?  Who knows?

Anyway, I digress (don't I always) the thing is (and I don't expect you to believe this, not the later bit anyway)  is that down here in Brighton a couple of years ago I developed something of a shine for a young thing that could almost be this barmaid's twin – right down to the blue-streaked blond locks, the piercings, everything...  She owned a vintage clothing / bric-a-brac shop and had done since it was a start-up business she'd created on leaving school so she was a smite younger than one would have thought for a young business women.  Oh God, I digress again... I originally went in – as I remember it  - because she had a box of vinyl on the counter and I was looking for a synthesiser thing by one Walter Carlos.

I'm digressing yet again, but that's hardly surprising considering the turn of events (which you'll understand in a moment – but I really don't expect you to believe).   How to put this?   How best to put this across?  Well, remember my recollection outlined above – about the Marks and Spencer’s shop assistant uniforms?   Perhaps that's not the best place to start... Hmmm?  Ok!  Look, I walked in to that same shop this morning, some two years or so on from the last time.  From the outside it looked the same – the same  sort of stuff in the window, bakelite 'phones, old radios, a couple of ferns for decoration, a manikin in a fitted floral dress, that sort of thing, even the seventies-style script flowing across the window in gold paint and repeated on the cornflower-blue board above.  It was on the Inside where the shock was lurking.  Ok, so the shop assistant had changed – the new proprietor as it turned out.  The girl now behind the counter was a tall angular-featured mop-headed  thing in navy blue trousers and a waistcoat and with more than a hint of masculinity to the cut of her jib.  The previous assistant, in addition to all the piercings and blue streaks and stuff, had been little, fluffy and feminine  and perhaps just a little... well, tubby, to be honest.   But she had had this subtly submissive thing going on, and that I guess I had picked up on.

This new one, though, was very different; this one was quite frankly, aggressive, a bit of a dyke, the archetypal Brighton dungaree-wearing lesbo you could say – and you wouldn't be far wrong!  Well, ownership changes and shops change hands – and in this day and age that shouldn't be so much of a surprise; the real surprise these days is actually the enterprise having survived at all, in any form.  So, ok, that was a surprise in itself, that the business was still there and hadn't succumbed to having changed into a charity shop.  But imagine my shock at spotting my petite yet now not so tubby would-be-squeeze out back.  Well, obviously that wasn't the shock since at that moment I had no idea that the business might have changed hands, so why shouldn't she be out back with dustpan and brush cleaning the lino?  

But surely she'd have the employee out there dealing with that sort of menial task?  You'd think so, but as I say, it was the other one who was now the proprietor.  But that still isn't the shock – and you couldn't make it up – as I said, it was a vintage shop and God only knows how they came about gathering half their stock but... they'd got their hands on one of those 1960s Marks and Spencer’s staff uniform dresses... and that was what the girl had on - and through some miracle it fitted to perfection, tight blue plastic belt and all!

But as I said, she had changed, and not just in stature.  The shoulder-length straggly blond hair randomly streaked in light blue had become a neat, short brown side-parted boyish job that was largely covered by a light blue nylon head scarf, clearly chosen to match the dress.  The piercings were gone, or at least the silver rings that had adorned them.  A waist apron had been added – nothing to do with the original Marks and Spencer’s uniform but of the right shade of blue – and what at first sight was the original metal 'M & S' broach was pinned on the breast pocket.  On closer inspection the latter turned out to actually spell out the new proprietor’s name, but in the style of the original company monogram.      The latter detail was clearly intended to put the finishing touch on what was obviously intended to be the spur of the younger girl and ex-proprietor’s humiliation.  The only detail that detracted from being transported straight back to some half-forgotten childhood memory was that the original knee-length skirt (calf-length? I can't remember) had been shortened to some point, which while longer than the mid-thigh of common fantasy, was certainly way above the knee.  The skirt was flared more than I recall also, but I think by the inclusion of a petticoat or slip worn beneath and while I have no idea what footwear M & S employees wore in the 'sixties  my nylon clad shop assistant was teetering around on a pair of powder-blue high heels that were clearly 'difficult' and a perfect match for the dress – so God only knows where they had come from!

I had been trolling through yet another box of old vinyl disks and trying not to look, but obviously not that well for at least two reasons:

One:  The sheer level of detail I managed to pick up on.

Two:  The fact that having plucked out a copy of Walter Carlos' 'Well Tempered Synthesiser'  (an album I have been looking for years, incidentally)  the tall lean masculine-looking one took clear pleasure in summoning her chum from the rear room to serve me, tossing her tousled head and miming some problem she was apparently having with the cash register...  And then... get this – and its no word of a lie... indicating the younger girl in the vintage faux Marks and Spencer’s staff uniform (who incidentally was blushing royally – and God, how much do I love that?) she suddenly said: “...and do you like the staff uniform?”

Perhaps if I hadn't had a beer or two I'd have nodded and said little – perhaps most would!  As it was, though,  I blurted out everything I knew about the origin of the dress – to the very obvious delight of the taller, butch-looking woman and the equally obvious chagrin of the girl wearing the dress.  I also recounted something of my memories of having  been in the shop some years previously and of the girl's appearance at that time and how it had now changed – meaning the hair and the piercings rather than the apron and headscarf and the rest.  Before I knew it I found myself discussing the girl with the woman as if she wasn't there (the girl that is, not the tall butch woman – I'm not loosing my marbles; I hope!).  Angela, as it turned out the previous proprietor was called was despatched to “finish cleaning the stockroom!”  I was treated to the comment, as 'Angela'  scuttled away, regarding the hair and piercings of:  “...of course, I wouldn’t stand for it – I'm not having anyone working in MY shop looking like a freak!”

I mentioned the uniform again and my childhood memories of Marks and Spencer’s  and my surprise at seeing one of those dresses again and in an unnecessarily (I thought) loud voice (Australian, for what it's worth)  she announced that 'Angela'   “...wears what ever I damn well tell her to - and that's her uniform and that's all she wears nowadays!”  Then glancing out the back door to where 'Angela' was busy sweeping in her dress and apron she called out  “...and there's no more pubs and clubs now I'm in charge, is there, hun!”  Then looking back at me she said:  “...but who'd want to go out dressed like that?”  and then laughed.  As I said; you couldn't make it up – and I haven't... honest... but it's the sort of stuff that i would!  And now I don't have to!

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.