David made no effort to understand this mysterious statement; instead he turned on Gerald: “And you, Marsden,” he said, “I wouldn’t expect anything better of these oiks,” gesturing grandly at Mr Hardcastle and the Engineer, “But a gentleman like you should have known better than to let this happen. What were you thinking of?” Unfortunately, Gerald’s relationship with the bottle had been more effectively consummated than was being Clarissa’s with the small green person, so he just looked owlishly at David, said “Oh hello, Barton, cheers!” and fell asleep. David had nobody left to blame, given he was loathe to admit that his Clarissa was a woman capable of taking responsibility for her own actions. He was about to try blaming Lucy Rivers (she was obviously a wrong ‘un for agreeing to marry Hardcastle, after all) but Clarissa, realising that she wasn’t going to get satisfaction from her man (at least, that’s what she thought he was) just yet, and, with the slight reduction of ardour that realisation brought about, concluding that it might perhaps be better if their love were consummated somewhere more private than Mr Hardcastle’ drawing room, had decided to take an interest in events beyond her immediate desires. Thus, just as David was about to open his mouth in remonstrance, she said “David, if you want to blame somebody, try yourself.” David quivered; he quivered primarily at the spectacle that forced itself on his unwilling eye: in her corset and stockings, with hands on hips and bosom held proudly aloft, Clarissa looked, for all the world, save for her lack of a cigarette and high heels, like a German cabaret artiste or an American film star, and he wasn’t sure he was too happy about being engaged to a girl who looked like a German cabaret artiste or an American film star; secondarily he quivered in intellectual shock, for he had never thought of blaming himself: it just didn’t seem reasonable. “You see,” Clarissa continued, “You just don’t understand me. You don’t take me seriously as a person, and you don’t take me seriously as a woman either. So I’m leaving; I’m going away with this gentleman to...” she tailed off, and the small green person helpfully interjected “Barnard’s star,” whereupon she continued, “Thank you; to Barnard’s star, where people will really appreciate me. So there.” “Well, the Admiral will appreciate you, that’s for sure,” said the Engineer, eyeing her liberally displayed figure, and then, to the small green person, “Is she the one, then?” As the small green person nodded, David began to protest, that of course he took Clarissa seriously, but she had to realise that he was wiser than her and more mature than her and, well, well, a man, so obviously he knew better than her what was right for her, it only stood to reason, but Clarissa was no longer prepared to be a good County Maiden, and she silenced him by saying “You just don’t get it, do you? You’ve always treated me like a toy. So basically, David, what I’m trying to say is: fuck you and fuck that bloody horse you probably rode here on. You love it more than you would ever love me.” And then, after a pause to let this masterly summary of the situation sink in, she filled the stunned silence by asking “Can we go now?” to which the small green person, replied “Sure”, taking a strange device from his pocket and fiddling with it for a second or two, whereupon, as their audience watched amazed (apart from Gerald, of course), Clarissa and the two visitors vanished into thin air.
Chapter 3: The Middle, with Lydia
True to the Engineer’s prediction, it hadn’t taken the Admiral very long after Gerald and the others had left the house to get Lydia out of her dress and into bed, and now, a good while later, with Lydia’s horizons considerably broadened, the two lay together in a comfortable after-glow. And when, as it inevitably does in such circumstances, conversation came to the fore, the Admiral discovered that her horizons were being broadened too, and not in a way that was particularly enjoyable (which seemed rather unfair, given that Lydia had found her intellectual enlargement profoundly so): she was discovering, at first hand, the collection of neuroses, inhibitions, prejudices and plain, simple hang-ups that together went to make up the mind of a County Wife. Of course, Lydia wasn’t a particularly good one, but enough had worn off on her, in the course of her desperate attempts to salvage her relationship with Gerald, for her to display all the major signs and symptoms. And that was the problem; because the Admiral’s thinking was very much predicated on the assumption that Lydia’s relationship with Gerald was at an end. She may, if she so wished, see him one last time to say good-bye or heave an old boot at him, whichever she preferred, but apart from that, the Admiral had been led to believe, by the way that Lydia had responded to her love-making, that her loyalties had been, as it were, rearranged, and Gerald was now no more to her that the rather distasteful memory of a transient faux-pas. And, being a woman of few inhibitions, the Admiral had said as much. And this was where the trouble started.
“But I can’t leave Gerald,” Lydia wailed, which made no sense at all to the Admiral. “Why on Earth would you want to stay with Stinker,” she said, “when you can have me? Do I need to remind you what you were saying a few minutes ago? I do seem to recall it was something along the lines of ‘Oh, oh, oh my God, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me; please don’t stop’. And, I might add, I wasn’t on my best form. So, am I right in thinking you’re saying you’d sooner pass up the chance to have that happen to you every night for the next couple of hundred years, and stick with Stinker, who clearly wouldn’t know what an orgasm was if you showed him an illustrated diagram?” The question was pointed, and apt, but Lydia was distracted from it by a side issue: “Couple of hundred years?” she said, “What do you mean, couple of hundred years?” “Well,” said the Admiral, “I like you and all, but I don’t suppose the relationship’s going to last more than a century or two; we’ve got to be realistic, you know.” “But, but,” said Lydia, “How can it last a century or two? I’ll be dead in much less than that.” The Admiral smote her brow and said “Good Lord, I keep forgetting just how backward you lot really are. Look, honey, we’ve got drugs that’ll make you live as long as you like. Take them and you’ll look as young and sexy as I do when you’re five-hundred, which, I might add, I’m not going to be for a few years yet.” Lydia was overwhelmed: she had thought the Admiral was about her age, certainly she was incredibly athletic and, well, well-preserved, so she said, timidly “So you’re saying that you’re, er, hundreds of years old?” “Yeah, that’s right,” said the Admiral, and then a light, as it were, went off in her head, “So that means you’ve gotta do what I say: people in your society obey their elders don’t they?” She put on an extra-deep voice and waggled her hands in a quasi-significant manner, saying “Thus sayeth the oldster: leave that piece of shit you’re married to and shack up with me.”
Which took things back to where they had started, with Lydia saying “But what would the County think?” and the Admiral sighing deeply, groaning a little to herself while she did it. “The County?” she said, a little tetchily, “Why the hell would the County think anything? Are you people so primitive you still personify geographical abstractions?” This meant nothing to Lydia, containing as it did, at least three words she didn’t understand, so she continued “The County would talk.” “My God,” said the Admiral, “What have I done? I’ve fallen for a woman who thinks local administrative units talk to her. How. Do. I. Find. Them?” this last being punctuated by a thump of her head against the mattress between each word. This still meant nothing to Lydia, who blithely continued, “And I hate to think what people would say about me if I left my husband for a woman.” Light finally dawned: “Oh, you mean the pillars of society do you? The nobs? Why didn’t you say so?” said the Admiral, “Who cares what they say? What matters” she added, caressing Lydia’s breasts just to remind her of what she’d be missing out on if she stayed with Gerald, “Is that you’d be with me instead of Stinker.” “But I do care,” said Lydia, “I can just imagine what Miss Sparrow would say,” she added, a new tone of horrified fear entering her voice, at the thought of the ultimate in County Wife degradation: being talked about. “She’d make some terribly cutti
ng remark about me running away with an American, and how she’d always known that I wasn’t quite nice, and then compare me with that awful Beaconsfield girl, and I don’t think I could bear it.” She hid her face, overwrought. The Admiral, seeing both the flaw in her argument and a chance to get in a spot of persuasion of the physical kind, took Lydia in her arms, kissed her, and extended the range of her fondling, saying “There, there; it doesn’t matter. Because, first off, I’m not an American, in fact I don’t even know what an American is. And second, if you come away with me, it won’t matter what a bunch of joyless old women who’ve never had a decent orgasm in their lives say, because you won’t be there to hear them, will you?” Lydia looked up and said, “Oh, I never thought of that.” Then she paused; the fear of being talked about was so deeply ingrained that even being talked about without being there to hear it happen was terrible to her: in fact it was the worst of all social disasters, for then she would always have that nagging fear that behind their ostensibly friendly faces, her friends and acquaintances (and Miss Sparrow) knew. She tried to explain: “But I’d know they were saying it, which would be just as bad.” “Aha,” said the Admiral, applying an extra squeeze, “But you’d also know that you had me to look forward to every night, plus not having to put up with Stinker any more, plus a, how shall I put it, slightly more exciting lifestyle. Of course,” she began to ramble, “we’d have to find something you’re good at, apart from fucking, given that ‘Admiral’s Girlfriend’ isn’t a job description the fleet recognises as such, but that’s something for the future. And anyway,” she added, back on track at last, in a cheerful tone, as if somehow this made everything all right (which, of course, it did in her way of thinking) “If you’ll just point this Miss Sparrow out to me, I can always kill her, if that’ll help” which left Lydia aghast, both with shock at the cheerful bloodthirstiness of this woman of her dreams and horror at the fact that her first impulse had been to give Miss Sparrow’s address and ask if she could come and watch, plus could they do Anne Beaconsfield at the same time. Instead, she moderated herself, not giving in to her impulses, just like a proper County Wife, and said “But that wouldn’t be proper, would it?” “No,” replied the Admiral, “but it’d be fun.” “But murder’s wrong” said Lydia, this being something of which, even in her current confused state, what with the conversation and the fondling and the residual wonderful, yet sinful, bliss from earlier, she was certain. “Ah yes,” said the Admiral, “but it wouldn’t be murder if I did it. Think of it more as improving the species by thinning out defective individuals. So anyway,” she said, returning to her original theme, “You can’t seriously mean that this Sparrow female is more important to you than getting more of this?” which she underlined with an expert tweak which caused Lydia to cry out “Oh God, no, of course not, please don’t stop; I don’t care about anything so long as you don’t stop.” “Ha,” said the Admiral rather smugly, “I thought so. So, I assume this means you are coming with me when I leave, then?”
But Lydia was destined not to answer, because at this point the doorbell rang. “Blast,” said the Admiral, but Lydia was more sanguine, saying “Don’t worry, the maid will get it; well probably she will, anyway, just don’t stop, whatever you do.” But this reminded the Admiral that now there was no maid to answer the door, so she said contritely, “Er, well, actually I kind of disposed of her earlier, so she won’t. Sorry. But don’t worry, I’ll go see who it is” and before Lydia could tell her of this society’s rather strong nudity taboo she was off the bed and down the stairs to answer the door. It was the least she could do.
Doctor Dixon (for it was he who had rung the door-bell) was surprised when the Marsdens’ door opened and he was greeted by a naked young woman who said “And who the hell are you?” It wasn’t so much the brusqueness of the welcome that surprised him, indeed compared to some of the greetings he had received from the hired help when visiting the Marsdens this was actually quite polite; no, it was definitely the nakedness that came as a bit of a shock: in all his experience to date of the Marsdens’ maid, her eccentricity, though great, had not yet extended to answering the door in the nude. But this appeared to be a new young woman, so perhaps poor Lydia had been forced to scrape even closer to the bottom of the barrel and ended up with a nudist, or an exhibitionist, or a vegetarian or some such oddity. And anyway, he was a doctor, and here he was in a situation which most doctors encountered only in their day-dreams: face-to-face with an attractive young woman with no need to invent specious excuses to get her to take her clothes off. It was more or less the holy grail of County Doctoring. Admittedly, she wasn’t his patient, but he was sure he would be able to think of some excuse for giving her a thorough examination; he could tell, already, just by looking at it, that her bosom needed urgent medical attention. So, doing his best to be charming, he said “Why I’m Doctor Dixon, my dear. I assume you’re the new maid, so don’t worry, you’ll get to know me very well” which point he underlined with a friendly pat on the bottom.
The young woman did not respond as anticipated. Usually, when confronted with a twinkly, avuncular, bottom-patting authority figure, female domestics got all giggly and simpered “Or you are a one” or something similar, and were entirely accepting of his little (and, progressively, not so little) liberties. The only exception had been the Marsdens’ previous maid, who had always refused to undergo examination, holding out for (of all things) a lady doctor and, when she was told that such a thing was contrary to nature, saying, “So is that thing between your legs, if you ask me.” This one only continued the trend, being, if anything, an even tougher nut, given that her reaction to the pat and its follow-up in the form of a gentle caress applied to her right buttock was to give Doctor Dixon a distinctly severe look and say “Get that thing” referring presumably to his hand, “off my butt right now, or I’ll have your arm off and make you eat it. The only man who gets to touch me is my personal physician, and then only with written permission signed in triplicate, and you sure aren’t him anyway” and then, when Doctor Dixon failed to follow orders immediately, for this was surely mere maidenly persiflage, instead saying “Oh come, my dear” and enhancing his fondling to incorporate the left buttock within its scope, she said “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you” and, seconds later, he was looking up at her from the floor, where he had taken up painful and involuntary residence, though he was not entirely sure how or why. “What did I do?” he asked weakly, to which she replied, “It would take too long, and you’re too un-evolved to understand anyway. So just tell me what you want.” Then she put a hand to her face and said “What am I saying? As if I don’t know what your primitive monkey brain wants,” she turned her attention back to the quailing Doctor Dixon and said, in a tone which made his flesh creep, “Look, buster, just tell me why you’re here, and no funny stuff, or else. Understood?” He nodded immediately, eager to avoid discovering what might come under the heading of ‘or else’ and said, “Er, right, I’m, er, Mrs Marsden’s doctor. Her husband said she was having one of her turns. So I’m here to, er help.” The woman continued to stare at him with that unnerving aura of ill-defined menace that she did so well, but her response, viz “Who the hell’s Mrs Marsden?” was at least not immediately threatening. Instead it was deeply puzzling: what kind of maid wandered around stark naked and didn’t even know her employers’ name? But he had a further surprise to come, when she said, “Oh, you mean Lydia do you? Why didn’t you say?” for what kind of maid wandered around stark naked, beat up visiting professionals and referred to her employer’s wife by her Christian name? And the surprises just kept on coming, because now this very strange servant shouted, “Hey lover, the quack’s here to see you, better get out of bed,” before turning her attention back to Doctor Dixon (who was still on the floor), and saying “Here, I suppose you might as well come in,” giving him a good kick in the crotch to stir him to action.
Once he had managed to get upright and staggered into the drawing room, Doctor Dixon
found therein a rather flustered Lydia Marsden, her clothes in a state of disarray, for all the world as if she had just dressed in a great hurry, which was not at all the kind of thing a County Wife did: Proper County Wives always looked perfect. Then again, Proper County Wives didn’t have strange, naked maids who treated them with, Doctor Dixon felt, excessive affection, given that she greeted Lydia by saying “Well, darling, here’s the quack. Shame it’s a man, otherwise we could have had a threesome. Oh well, better go find my clothes.” And Proper County Wives most certainly did not have highly attractive, naked maids who followed up undue familiarity by embracing them with a degree of enthusiasm which startled Doctor Dixon only slightly less than the enthusiasm with which the embrace was reciprocated. It was clear, Doctor Dixon thought to himself as the mystery nude left him alone with his patient, that Lydia had fallen from her pedestal and only massive medical intervention could help re-establish her thereupon. But, though the Doctor was eager to get down to business, for Lydia was by far his most attractive patient, on this one occasion he felt the need to gather a little information before starting work. Not, that is to say, that he was going to do anything so demeaning as to actually ask a woman patient what was wrong with her; obviously no doctor worth his salt would do that, knowing as he did that the complaint was always some form of hysteria, or else the always useful catch-all of ‘women’s problems’. No, what Doctor Dixon wanted to know was, at least approximately, what had just happened to him, and why, so he asked Lydia, who was still panting somewhat as she recovered from the Admiral’s kiss, “Pardon me for asking, but who was that?” Lydia gulped and blushed as she realised that, yes, she had just wrapped tongues with the Admiral while her general practitioner looked on, and said, hesitantly, “Er, she’s a ... friend ... of mine,” which left Doctor Dixon, if anything, even more confused than before. He was not unfamiliar with that particular intonation of the word ‘friend’ when uttered by a County Wife or County Maiden. Indeed, he’d heard it applied to himself on at least one occasion. The source of the confusion, however, lay in the fact that it was almost uniformly the case that the appropriately intoned ‘friend’ in question was of the opposite gender to the intoner. So, Lady Diana Prestbury was ‘friends’ with her father’s second under-footman and Lucy Rivers was ‘friends’ with the man who did the pigs and cows. The only exception to this general rule was Anne Beaconsfield, whose ‘friend’ was an invisible rabbit called Mister Bunny Tumpkins, but then, given the poor girl’s physique, he was probably the only friend she was ever going to have, so this didn’t really count. Among normally shaped women the rule held good. But now here was Lydia claiming a woman, indubitably a woman, as Doctor Dixon had seen in all too graphic detail, as her ‘friend’. Given that, like Gerald and Queen Victoria, Doctor Dixon discounted entirely the possibility of loving relations between women, he merely took this as further evidence that he had come to attend on Lydia in the nick of time, for she was clearly even more hysterical than usual: what could be more hysterical than for a neglected County Wife to claim to have taken a woman as her lover? A man, yes, they did that all the time, but a woman? If she seriously believed that, then Lydia must be more than just hysterical: she had passed beyond mere hysteria and entered into the dark realm of delusion; if he didn’t save her immediately she might start believing that she had a right to some of her husband’s attention, and then where would they be? And so, given all this and fearing what might happen if she were reintroduced to reality too quickly, he humoured her, saying “That’s nice, my dear. Now, I just need to examine you, if you don’t mind. You know what to do.”
The New Star Page 4
