The New Star
By
Julian Porter
Copyright Notice
© All rights reserved, copyright Julian Porter 2012.
The intellectual property rights of the author have been asserted.
Contents
Chapter 1: The Start
Chapter 2: The Middle, with Gerald
Chapter 3: The Middle, with Lydia
Chapter 4a: The Ending where Lydia takes things far too seriously
Chapter 4b: The Ending where Lydia loses her mind
Chapter 4c: The Ending where Lydia lives happily ever after
Chapter 1: The Start
There was a new star in the sky; a star so bright that it could even be seen in broad daylight, looking almost as if there were a gigantic, reflecting vessel, larger and higher even than a barrage balloon, hovering above the Earth. Lydia, who was rather proud of having come up with this whimsical piece of imagery, decided to make it public, hoping against hope that it might provoke her husband, Captain Gerald Marsden, into removing his attention from his breakfast and having a conversation with her, even if it was only to rebuke her for allowing her fancy to stray too freely or to recommend that she should increase the dosage of her calming medicine. But, as it was, she was, as seemed always to be the case when she tried this kind of thing, doomed to disappointment, for his sole response was to grunt, “That’s nice, dear. Busy” without once removing his eyes from the copy of the Morning Post that had engaged his full attention since he had emerged from his bed-chamber this morning. Lydia sighed at this failure of her plan and reflected on the changes a few short years had wrought in her marriage. Time was when Gerald had enjoyed listening to her conversation and positively encouraged her in her flights of fancy. In those happy times, a subject such as the new star could have been the foundation stone on which a whole edifice of cheerful banter could have been built. But now Gerald preferred to use his mouth to macerate his eggs and toast; he had pronounced a whole four words and the topic was dead, like the conversation and, she feared, the marriage. For what else could she say of its state when she and Gerald inhabited separate beds (which was bad enough: she knew, for so her governess had told her, she was just meant to lie back, think of England and feel terribly glad that, having spawned number one heir and a back-up, she would never have to do those filthy things again, but actually she had discovered, once given the opportunity to find out for herself instead of relying on hearsay, that she rather enjoyed doing those filthy things, and that lying back and thinking of England was the last thing she was inclined to do while they were going on, and so it was a source of some pain that Gerald apparently believed that she was a traditional County Wife who didn’t like to do that sort of thing any more than was strictly necessary for dynastic reasons, and a source of even greater pain that he had apparently never thought of asking her for her opinion on the subject) and increasingly separate lives. Of course, Lydia understood that Gerald’s work for the Army was terribly, terribly secret (for had he not told her so himself?) and that she mustn’t ask him anything about his extra-mural activities, because one careless question on her part could result in that beastly Hitler Sieg-Heiling all over Ilchestershire, and she could quite see why that would be a bad thing. But on the other hand, though she trusted her Gerald implicitly, she would dearly love to know exactly how it helped the Allied cause for him to tumble back home at all hours with alcohol on his breath and what looked suspiciously like lipstick on his shirt collar. If she hadn’t known that he was engaged in top secret work in the back room of the Dog and Duck, she might have thought he was seeing another woman, presumably because, he had lusts which needed to be slaked, and couldn’t slake them with Lydia, because she was a conventional County Wife, and it was a well-known fact that conventional County Wives didn’t go in for lust slaking, being positively Romish in that regard. And anyway, even if his hush-hush job did involve his having to go off and kiss strange women for victory, surely he it wasn’t unreasonable of her to wish that he might keep some time free for kissing his wife and tending to her needs, or even taking the trouble to ask her if she had some lusts that she wouldn’t mind slaking every now and then? Lydia, at least, thought not. She reasoned that perhaps, what with his having to, as she had hypothesised on one long evening when she was left alone with nothing to do but knit mufflers for our boys, an activity very conducive to flights of fancy, spend every day teaching Free French tarts how to undermine the moral fibre of the Wehrmacht by doing the sort of thing that she wasn’t meant to want to do, because she was a County Wife, Gerald had, being sated with female company, lost sight of the fact that she was not just another County Wife, but his own, outrageous, sexy Lydia. So she had, one evening, by way of reminding him, outfitted herself in a diaphanous negligee which had always been a favourite of Gerald’s, at least judging from the enthusiasm with which he had removed her from it in their early days together, and then lain languorously in wait on the sofa, something no County Wife would do. And that, of course, just had to be the evening that he brought his CO home from the pub for dinner. Lydia didn’t know where to look, which was embarrassing; Gerald showed no interest in looking, which was heart-breaking, the CO clearly did know where to look, and enjoyed it enormously, which was simultaneously embarrassing and a bit uplifting. Worst of all, the next day the County, naturally, knew everything. Lydia definitely overheard that odious Miss Sparrow telling her flat-chested charge Anne Beaconsfield “And whatever you do, don’t expose yourself like that brazen hussy; men don’t like that sort of thing.” Lydia had contemplated pointing out that (a) Anne Beaconsfield had nothing to expose, so there was no fear of anybody being unduly put out, even if she were to parade stark naked down Ilchester High Street, (b) Gerald did like that kind of thing, thank you very much, or at least he had used to, before he started to value the opinion of people like Miss Sparrow more than his wife’s charms, (c) judging from the tone of the letter she had received from him the next morning, Gerald’s CO had liked it so very much that he was anxious to arrange for repeat viewing, preferably in private, and (d) given Miss Sparrow was only too prone to point out at the slightest provocation that she was a virgin, how would she know what men liked? But nothing short of a thousand pound bomb would suffice to penetrate the carapace of Miss Sparrow’s self-satisfaction, so Lydia just ground her teeth together and walked on. If only Gerald still were still his old loving self, she wouldn’t care about Miss Sparrow, but as it was now he was more annoyed with his wife than ever, because if there was one thing he cared about, apart from his job and the Morning Post, it was the County. So this morning, Lydia sat miserably, toying with her egg as well as the idea of ripping her clothes off and yelling “I’m your wife, damn it; why don’t you love me any more?” while knowing that if she did Gerald’s sole reaction would be to chide her for disturbing the servants. So instead she continued wearing down her teeth, and eventually ventured once more into the conversational arena, saying “Isn’t it unusual for there to be a new star?” Gerald didn’t even bother to reply to this one. He just pushed his plate away and said “Got to go to work; home late”, making to get up.
At this point the maid entered. This was not in itself unusual; she knew from long-established tradition, that there was a ritual conversational exchange between the love-birds at this point in the day, and her presence was required to smooth over any little unpleasantness that might arise if the Master actually went so far as to listen to some of the things that the Mistress said. What happened was that Gerald, thinking that this proved that he was still a caring husband, would ask his wife if there was anything he could do for her, or anything she wanted, assuming that she would, being a good, repressed Englishwoman, say “No”, and leave him happy in the knowledge of
having done his marital duty well. What actually happened was sometimes rather different. It might be that Gerald would say “Anything you’d like from town?” and Lydia would reply “Poison,” and so the maid would add “Yes, the rats in the wood-shed are really getting above themselves; they had a dinner-dance out there last night.” Or it might be that Gerald would say “Anything you want?” and Lydia would reply “Death,” and so the maid would quickly add “...in the shrubbery. It’s a new thriller.” Today Gerald said “Anything I can do for you?” and Lydia replied, in thrilling tones as she started to unbutton her blouse, “Take me! Take me now!” But the maid, for once, did not render this into Geraldish by explaining that Lydia had meant to say that she wanted to be taken into the village, so she could visit the Mothers’ Union’s exhibition of potatoes resembling Mr Churchill, for she had a burden of news of her very own to impart. So, positioning herself so as to try to keep Gerald’s attention away from the ongoing striptease, she said, “You aren’t going anywhere, mister.” Now, this mode of expression was unconventional in the context of a domestic addressing her master, and as such of a nature generally sufficient to result in a stern rebuke, or even being given notice without references, but the domestic in question had a well-established habit of taking direct action when upset (Gerald would never forget the time when Lady Diana Prestbury had thrown up all over him at dinner on being informed that the ‘Souris en Fourrure’ she had enjoyed so much was, in fact, deep-fried mouse, and all just because he had objected to the maid offering to put poison in his tea if Lydia wanted to be rid of him) and so Gerald refrained from taking her to task, saying merely “Oh and why not?” while simultaneously trying to recover his right hand from his wife, who was now more or less inhaling its fingers while growling deep in her throat and rubbing herself up against him in a most disturbing way. “Because,” said the Maid, “These foreign soldiers has turned up with a letter from your boss, and it says as you’re to escort them round while they do some stuff.” Gerald boggled: his CO was an eccentric man, as shown by his very vocal approval of Lydia’s peep-show, but surely even he wouldn’t give quite such a vague order? This must, he surmised, be a maidenly paraphrase, so he said, carefully modulating his manner so as give minimal opportunity for taking offence, “Are you quite sure that’s what he said?” The maid, nevertheless, did take offence, saying “Ho, you don’t believe me, do you? Can’t even keep your own wife satisfied and you don’t believe me. Makes me glad I’m a lesbian, it does,” which made no sense to Gerald as he had always thought the girl was from Ilchester. “Here,” she continued, brandishing a letter, “You read it then, seeing as how you don’t trust me.”
Gerald took the letter in the hand which was not fighting off Lydia, who was, for some mysterious reason or other, trying to undo his fly buttons (what down there could possibly be of any interest to her?) and read: “Dear Mr Gerald, Hi there! This is your Commanding Officer speaking, so listen up and listen good. You must drop everything and provide escort for the three guys and dolls who brought this, and help them do their stuff, by Jingo! Thanks a million; love and kisses, The Man.” It certainly read peculiarly. Very peculiarly. In fact, Gerald wasn’t entirely sure what some of the idioms meant. But he was able to deduce that the maid had been quite right: he had been commanded to escort three people and help them do some ... stuff. And it must be from his CO; after all, it said it was, and what kind of world would this be if people were to go around pretending to be someone else? That would be so terribly un-English that it was quite unthinkable, about as unthinkable as the idea that a County Wife like Lydia might actually enjoy her, er, marital duties, and that she might be mounting a determined effort to storm his crotch because she was prepared to do for free those things that Flossie the barmaid would only do in return for hard cash up front, so Gerald didn’t think it. Instead he pulled himself together, in the process dislodging Lydia, and said “So where are these, ahem, people then?” The maid replied “Oh, they’re in the hall; shall I call them in?” Gerald said, “Yes, please,” then he realised that the current situation was not one he wished to share with others, being almost as embarrassing as what had happened the other night, and quickly said “No! Not yet. What about my wife?” “Oh, I’ll handle her,” said the maid, and then she bent down to where Lydia lay wracked with tears at her Gerald’s rejection (the forty-seventh this week alone) and pawing ineffectually at his feet, and whispered urgently “Listen toots, the leader’s a real hottie; spruce yourself up and you’re in with a chance,” which had the necessary effect. Lydia uttered a low cry and rushed off to her chamber in search of a comb, make-up, extra-strong foundation garments and her best party frock, while the maid went to the other door, opened it and called out “Hey, you lot, you can come in now.”
Three, for want of a better word, people sidled into the room. They were all in uniform, though not one that Gerald had ever seen, so he immediately concluded that they must be with one of the Allied armies that were so regrettably stationed around Britain in these trying times. That would certainly explain why it was that one of the three was small, of a greenish cast of complexion, had no nose and, apparently by way of compensation for this lack, Gerald couldn’t help but notice, considerably more than the usual number of fingers on each hand. Obviously these people, wherever they were from, went in for inbreeding in a big way, Gerald thought, but then anything was possible with foreigners. Looking at the other two, Gerald found his prejudices confirmed: one he immediately categorised, based on the prominent oil stains covering his uniform and the soldering iron sticking out of his jacket pocket, as being an engineer. And the other was, goodness gracious, a woman, wearing her uniform as if she had a right to it, and with insignia that made it look as if she was an officer of some kind, which Gerald simply refused to believe, no matter how foreign she might be. Why, even Americans couldn’t be so brash as to have a woman officer. Presumably she was a typist who’d been brought along as a treat, or she was the commander’s girl-friend or something like that. And Gerald had no trouble identifying who that commander was: it must be the small green person, so Gerald went up to him, grasped his hand and said “Good morning, Commander, if I may call you that, I am terribly happy to place myself at the service of you and your, ahem, men.” Oddly enough, this didn’t get the response Gerald had expected. Instead of coming out with polite thanks, a suggestion they pop off down to the Dog and Duck for a quick snifter while Lydia entertained the woman, the small green person stared at Gerald as if he had just made a vulgar bodily noise and started laughing and the engineer said “Please, please, let me kill him, please Ma’am, they won’t miss a retard like this, please?” And as if their treating a polite greeting as an apparently capital offence was not sufficient to upset Gerald’s mental equilibrium, the reply came from ... the woman, who replied to the Engineer, “Now remember what I said: no killing the natives. Not unless they’re really annoying. And as for you,” she added, turning on the small green person, “You should be ashamed of yourself, laughing at him. Is it his fault he’s a barbarian?” And then the fell truth of just how foreign these foreigners were in their ways, that was just beginning to make its unwelcome presence felt in Gerald’s mind, was confirmed when the small green person replied “Sorry, Ma’am” and the woman said “Fine, now don’t do it again” and, shifting her attention to Gerald, took his unresisting hand and said “I’m terribly sorry, Captain Marsden is it, but the men are terribly protective, and perhaps I didn’t brief them sufficiently about how primitive your culture is.”
Gerald didn’t know what to say, or, to be more precise, he didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t reveal him as a male chauvinist pig, but as he didn’t think that was a bad thing to be, he just charged straight ahead and said, incredulous, “You’re their leader?” as if such a thing could not be (which it could, of course, not as far as he was aware). The woman’s tone became marginally less friendly and she said “Well, if we’re being formal, technically speaking it’s Fleet Admiral,
but as we’re all friends here, I said, we’re all friends here,” this latter being apparently said for the benefit of the Engineer who was aiming a strange-looking pointy device in Gerald’s direction, for all the world as if it were a toy gun, “You can call me Admiral and I’ll call you Stinker. Is that okay, Stinker?” Gerald, who was finding this pretty hard to take in, women officers being so very far outside his conceptual scheme, let alone women admirals who called him ‘Stinker’, was unable to think of a tactful response, so he continued to exercise his inner porcine, saying “But how can you be an Admiral? I mean, a joke’s a joke, but...” The woman stared at him sadly, dropped his hand like a day-old dead fish, turned to the Engineer and said “You know, I’m beginning to think you were right after all; he really is very annoying.” The Engineer got very excited and produced the pointy device again, saying “You mean I can kill him after all?” and when she nodded he proceeded to aim the pointy device, which was now starting to hum, at Gerald, who didn’t know whether to scream and dive under the table (for the way the ‘Admiral’ had retreated to the far end of the room with her hands over her ears and the very nervous way the Engineer was handling the pointy device suggested that they both thought something pretty compelling was about to happen), to laugh at their antics (how could they hurt him with a humming pointy thing?), or to ring the local lunatic asylum to see if they’d had any escapes recently (the ‘Admiral’ and the Engineer were clearly both insane, and as for the small green person, well, enough said). Fortunately for his peace of mind (for sudden loss of life can often offend, especially if the life-removing implement is wielded by somebody who isn’t entirely sure they know how to make it work) the small green person intervened just before the Engineer’s trembling finger made contact, saying “But Ma’am, we can’t kill him; remember: we need him.” “So we do”, said the ‘Admiral’, rather sourly, “Oh well, put it away, old chap. After all,” she added, brightening, “We can always kill him later, can’t we?” With which happy thought she turned her attention back to Gerald and said, returning to face him, emphasising her observations by forcible prods with her forefinger, “Now listen, Stinker,” (prod) “I am in charge of this lot;” (prod) “We have a mission to fulfil,” (prod) “And your CO ordered you to help us fulfil it” (a succession of prods). “So let’s cut out the un-evolved male posturing and just work on the basis that I outrank you, Okay?” (An exceptionally sharp prod, which left Gerald tottering) “Good. Let’s get started, then.”
The New Star Page 1
