Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown

by Daniels, Alan

  "Ten o'clock," said Dieter. "Tell you what, I will stop by your camp spot at nine, fix your brake. Just have to tighten the cable that's all. Take five minutes."

  Pem drained the last of her schnapps.

  "If the rig's a-rockin' don't come a-knockin'," she said. It was something she had read on a bumper sticker on her way to the loo.

  "I beg your pardon," said Dieter. Then the penny dropped. They all laughed and Pem took George's arm as they walked back up the hill.

  "All rise!"

  The usher in charge of decorum at Shoreham-on-Sea Magistrates Court called the public to order as Lady Geraldine Ponsoby-Warmington JP entered Court Room No. 1 with a judicial flourish and settled in her seat behind an imposing wooden dais. It was a bank holiday Monday morning when the court is not normally in session, but out of fairness to the defendant, a visitor from Baden Baden, a special session was considered appropriate so that British justice could be seen to be swiftly executed. Her ladyship was not happy. She would rather be bird watching.

  The prosecutor rose to his feet.

  "Your Honor, the defendant, Dieter Schitler, is charged under sub-section 2 of the Sexual Offences Act of 1872 in that in the Lazy Daze Campground in this borough, in the county of Sussex, he did indecently expose himself contrary to the said Act."

  "How do you plead?"

  Herr Schitler stood to face his accusers. "Not guilty, Your Honor."

  From a bench in the spectators' gallery that ringed three sides of the court room, George Aloysius Brown nodded his approval. While Dieter had been fixing his brake he had briefed him on how magistrates should properly be addressed. He had seen enough of the inside of courtrooms during his days in bylaw enforcement to feel confident of an acquittal.

  Lady Warmington glanced at the rest of the cases on her sheet; twenty guilty pleas to parking without lights in the fog, one breach of probation, and a probable adjournment on a drunk and disorderly, and decided that Herr Schitler and his allegedly rampant member would at least keep her mildly amused.

  "Proceed," she said.

  "Madam, the facts in this case are as follows. Sgt. William Johnson of the Shoreham police detachment was cycling past the Lazy Daze Campground yesterday at about 3 p.m. when he heard a disturbance emanating from said campground including much shouting in German. Upon investigation of a possible breach of the peace, he witnessed the defendant, who was in a state of nudity, adopting an aggressive posture and berating a fellow camper. By this time quite a crowd had gathered. In Sgt. Johnson's opinion the defendant was in violation of sub-section 2 and therefore cautioned and charged him."

  "Are there photographs you wish to submit to the court at this stage?" asked Lady Warmington, hopefully.

  "No, your Honor."

  She frowned.

  "Nothing on YouTube?"

  "'Fraid not, your Honor."

  Her ladyship could barely conceal her disappointment. She was thinking, "Every damn thing is on YouTube these days. How can a tourist from Baden Baden waive his whatsit around in my jurisdiction and somehow elude the digital scrutiny of citizen reporters?"

  Of course, she made no such comment for the record, instead shuffling her court documents in silent irritation.

  "Carry on," she said.

  "Call Sgt. William Johnson," said the prosecutor.

  Entering the courtroom, the sergeant groaned inwardly when he saw who it was on the bench. He had had a crush on Geraldine Warmington when they were both teenagers. She was easily the prettiest girl in their class. But he had admired her from afar, too shy to declare his awkward adolescent feelings and terrified of outright rejection. Even now, thirty years later, he felt flustered in her presence. His problem was that under the law covering indecent exposure the crown would have to prove the defendant had an erection if the case were to be successfully prosecuted. And that unenviable task fell to him.

  As his evidence unfolded, the dreaded moment arrived.

  The crown counsel was on his feet.

  "At some stage in your investigation at the campground you decided that Mr. Schitler should be charged with the offence that is the subject of today's proceedings, is that correct?"

  "Yes sir," said Sgt. Johnson.

  "Exactly what was it that you saw that brought you to that conclusion?"

  Sgt. Johnson took a deep breath. "The defendant was, was ...the defendant was ...well...fully armed," he blurted. He stared at the shine on his boots, embarrassed. He couldn't bring himself to say the word. Not in front of her.

  Her ladyship, however, had no such qualms.

  "What do you mean 'fully armed?'" she intoned from on high. "May I remind you this is not a firearms charge, sergeant; it is one of indecent exposure."

  Manfully, but even more embarrassed, Sgt. Johnson tried again.

  "What I mean is, he had a huge... a huge..."

  Lady Warmington looked at her watch. She was running out of patience. She had never liked Billy Johnson, a common little boy who always seemed to be hanging around the schoolyard water fountain whenever she swept by with her friends.

  "The witness may write it down," she said, "if for some reason he finds himself unable to say it."

  The usher jumped forward with pen and paper and, like a messenger with a forked stick, duly conveyed the note to her ladyship.

  She took it from him, moving her spectacles to the end of her nose with theatrical exaggeration.

  "Erection," she said loudly. "Let it be recorded that Sgt. Johnson's evidence is that the defendant had a 'huge erection.'"

  At this, the reporter from the local paper could no longer contain her mirth. Her stifled laughter rang through the courtroom and spilled into the hallway.

  In the public gallery George and Pem clutched at each other and laughed until their eyes watered. Her ladyship was also similarly indisposed, hiding behind a copy of Abbreviated English Case Law. She was the first to recover.

  "Order! Order!" she thundered. "Or I shall clear the court! Now where were we?" she demanded of the court stenographer, who studied her stenography machine and dutifully read back what was recorded.

  "…the defendant had a huge erection, your Honor."

  This started everyone off again as her ladyship had suspected it might. This was turning out to be more fun than bird watching.

  She addressed her next remarks to the defendant.

  "Do you have any questions for this witness?"

  "No, Your Honor." Secretly, Herr Schitler was rather pleased at how things were going so far. He couldn't wait to tell his friends in Baden Baden that the size of his penis had been alluded to in evidence in a British court of law. He threw an encouraging smile at her ladyship who blushed becomingly and brushed an imaginary strand of hair from her brow. But she had not quite done yet with Sgt. Johnson.

  "Two things, before you stand down, sergeant. Firstly, size does not matter, at least in this court. And secondly, 'erection' has one R. Thank you for your evidence. You are dismissed."

  At this point, the court adjourned for its morning break, so that her ladyship, who loves horses even more than birds, could study the Racing Form and mark her card for the afternoon races at Sandringham. She liked to place at least one bet on a whim, usually based on word association and there were several contenders that caught her eye based on the evidence so far before her: Rising Rocket in the 2:30, Morning Glory and Great Expectations in the three o'clock, and In Tight in the four o'clock. She finally settled on Right Honorable Member in the Breeders' Cup and made a hurried phone call to her bookmaker.

  "You sure about that, Geraldine, the odds are pretty long," he told her.

  "Apparently, so is the member." she laughed. "Twenty quid each way."

  When court resumed, Dieter Schitler elected to take the witness stand to give evidence on his own behalf. George had briefed him to describe events exactly as they had happened, to do so plainly and simply without embellishment. On the perplexing problem of his persistent erection he patiently explained the su
rgical procedure that had enhanced it and, because of all the excitement going on, his temporary inability to deflate it.

  Lady Warmington listened with mounting incredulity.

  "Flicking a little switch, is that all it takes?" she asked him. "Like turning on the lights?"

  She was fascinated by the mechanics of the defendant's 'huge erection' and had conjured up a mental image that was not altogether displeasing.

  "So when it's up, it's down?" she surmised.

  "No, when it's down, it's up," he replied.

  This prompted more laughter in court and the gavel got another pounding.

  She was also increasingly concerned that she might have picked the wrong horse. She quickly consulted her oracle concealed in a copy of The Legal Review. Damn! She knew it. A three-year-old called Pumped Up was a late entry in the final race. Her ladyship was wondering if she had time to change her bet. There might be if she got on with it. She fixed the defendant with a steely stare, exhibiting to Court Room No. 1 the full might of magisterial authority.

  "So even though you admit you had an erection, there was no intent on your part to have one and still less to exhibit it in public," she said.

  "That is correct, your Honor."

  "Very well," she said. "You may sit down."

  Lady Geraldine Ponsoby-Warmington JP sat back in her chair and gathered together her documents.

  "I find the defendant Not Guilty," she said. "Case dismissed." And she headed for the door to her chambers.

  "All rise!" bellowed the usher.

  In the public gallery George nudged Pem in the ribs.

  "All rise, except Dieter," he whispered.

  They had a good laugh over that and then they adjourned to the pub next door to celebrate.

  After lunch they parted company, Dieter and Anagrette to continue their tour at Stonehenge and George and Pem to return to the campground for their last night before they returned to in London. The four of them shook hands and hugged like old friends.

  "I'll watch the local newspapers in case you make the headlines," George assured him. "If it does, I'll send you the link."

  "Yes, thank you," said Dieter. "I need proof. I don't think my friends will believe me until they see it in black and white."

  They laughed and shook their heads at the absurdity of it all.

  Overhead, the sky darkened. Huge black clouds rolled in from the sea, churning, colliding, and the first fat rain drops splattered around their feet.

  "Looks like bad weather is coming in," said George. "We had better get back while we can still make it up the hill."

  That night, from their cliff-top perch, they had a front row view at what was shaping up to be the storm of the century. They lay on their bellies under the sheets, enjoying the light show through the rear window. They counted a dozen lightning bolts simultaneously venting their fury at the black metallic waters of the bay. There was sheet lightning too that lit the horizon like a theatre set, turning dusk to dawn, and crazy horizontal flashes, miles long, so low overhead that they ducked. Shards of lightning formed parabolic shapes, fiery crosses, circles in the sky, lightning chasing its own tail, ripping at the fabric of the dark and angry night. For two hours the storm raged until finally, exhausted, it rumbled out to sea.

  The storm excited her. There was something in its raw power, its energy, the random violence of it, the constant thunder that struck fear in her and heightened the sexual tension she felt. Its intensity left her a strange longing. George sensed her mood. When her hands moved to caress his buttocks he knew he was in for more than a massage. Normally she liked to be dominated during sex. When he told her to, she would fetch el cepillo and stand at his side until he told her to bend over his knee. Role reversal, although always an option, was rare. When sometimes it happened, on wild and wet nights such as this, George was thrilled.

  "We were lucky," she told him, casually. "You should have fixed the hand brake. You knew it was faulty. Somebody could have been hurt. I think you need a reminder to be more careful in future." He didn't say anything but he knew what was coming. She allowed him a few minutes to think about it, then she reached under the bed for the switch. She had picked it up from the trail during one of their Sunday morning walks on Hampstead Heath, carrying it like a prize, playfully swishing it through the air. It was birch, about 30-inches long, thin and whippy. "Are you taking that home?" he asked her, smiling. "I am," she had replied. At a roadside flower shop across from the bus stop, he bought her bunch of long-stemmed lilies and shyly presented them to her. "Why, thank you, sir," she responded and hid the switch among the blooms away from the curious eyes of their fellow passengers during the ride back to Pimlico. That night she had been the first to feel its sting. Now she was on her feet and she had it in her hand.

  At her bidding, George turned over and raised his hips so she could slip a pillow beneath him. Satisfied he was sufficiently elevated she laid the switch on the bed where he could see it and took up a position on her knees alongside him. He saw her reach for it and felt it tap lightly on his buttocks. Then, swish, swish, swish. "Listen to it swoosh," she said. "I like that sound." George liked it too. The birch rose and fell. When his bottom was striped she bent to kiss it, her lips as soft as the wings of a moth. They both stood and she flung her arms around his neck. Then she bent and spread her legs so George could take her standing up.

  Afterwards, they rested for a while before she prepared a simple salad which they ate sitting side-by-side by candle light at the van's little table. George had brought a crusty baguette from his favorite bakery on the Kings Road and they tore chunks off it to dip into virgin olive oil. For a while they didn't say anything, comfortable together in silence. Then he turned on the interior light and gave her a hug. "Your birthday is coming up," he said. "It's a bit early, but I want you to have your present now." He produced an envelope from behind his back and handed it to her. "It's a special treat for your fortieth. And, in case you're wondering, I already checked with your office. It's okay, you can get the time off."

  "What's okay?" she said. "What's my birthday got to do with the office?" She tore open the envelope and pulled out its contents, squealing with excitement when she saw a return air ticket to Bali plus a confirmed reservation at a five star hotel at Kuta Beach.

  "Oh my God, George. I can't believe it's been ages since I went back. Thank you, thank you. What a wonderful surprise. But only one ticket? Where's yours?"

  "Pem, I'm sorry, I can't go with you. We're redrafting the bylaw on wetlands development permit applications and it's going to be crazy busy at the office. This will be a chance for you to spend time with your family. Plus, you have a couple of months to get organized. We'll have our own special celebration when you get back."

  "Oh, George. You're so sweet. I love you so much." She refilled his wine glass and while he reclined on the bed she undressed slowly in front of him, a sexy and impromptu striptease for an audience of one. Then she gave him a long, loving massage. The marks on his bottom had already faded.

  They went together to the airport on the day she left. George felt it was better to be early than late and they stopped for coffee after she had checked in. In ten years of marriage they had never spent time apart except for a few short trips he had made on council business.

  "George, I've been thinking," she said, using her spoon to scoop up the foam that had settled in the bottom of her cup.

  "Uh oh."

  "We have a good life, don't we? We have it all, a nice home, jobs, we're healthy, we have pensions to look forward to."

  "And we have each other." George was wondering where this was going.

  "We need to give something back."

  "You mean volunteer?" A life time of dealing with elected officials had taught George not to volunteer for anything.

  "I don't know. I was thinking. Something like Meals-on-Wheels."

  "Hey, that would be perfect for you, just up your ally as a former flight attendant." He laughed.

&nbs
p; "What's so funny about that?"

  "Half an hour after you take them their meals, you'll be back with the drinks trolley."

  Pem smiled.

  "Then just when they're trying to get some sleep, you'll come clattering by with duty free."

  Pem laughed, seeing the funny side.

  "Seriously, though, what do you think?"

  "I think it's a lovely idea. Tell you what, When you get back we'll look into it."

  "Promise?"

  "Promise."

  Pem looked at her watch. "I had better get going, the gate opens in thirty minutes."

  They walked hand in hand to the entrance to security, the parting of the ways.

  They hugged for a long time, not wanting to let go.

  "Goodbye, Mr. Wheels."

  "Goodbye, Mrs. Meals."

  They laughed together.

  "See you in two weeks," they both said it at once.

  "Safe travels," said George and he turned away.

  It wouldn't be so bad, he consoled himself. He had a lot of work to do at the office, and time would pass quickly enough.

  Her birthday was the night before she was due to come home.

  Half a world away on the evening of October 12, 2002, on the beautiful island of Bali where she was born, Pem was getting ready to go out to dinner with her mother and two sisters at their favorite downtown restaurant. She wore traditional dress and a white orchid in her hair and at that moment she was as happy as she had ever been. She had had a wonderful time but tomorrow she would return to London and she was looking forward to sleeping in her own bed. Damn the traffic, she thought, as the taxi crawled along. It was moving so slowly that five blocks from the restaurant on Kuta's main thoroughfare she decided it would be quicker to walk.

  George's predictions about late nights at the office had proved correct and it was after 10 p.m. before he finally got back home. As it was her birthday he was hoping she might phone. He flipped on the TV to catch the news and poured himself a glass of wine, only vaguely aware of what he was seeing, the smoky ruins of a nightclub somewhere, people running, screaming, rubble everywhere. In a world gone mad, it seemed to George that the news was always bad.