French Lessons

by Georgia Harries

  Tamara smiled and nodded, though Eleanor pretended not to notice.

  “Maybe Tamara could join you tomorrow?” Harry persevered as Fabien arrived with a tray of oysters.

  “It would be nice for the two of you to see Monte Carlo together, wouldn’t it? It’s not for me, all that haggling and trying on jewelry!”

  Tamara laughed and tried to gauge a response from the young woman.

  “Sounds sweet, Harry. If you don’t mind us working our way through more of your money!”

  “Well, maybe...” Eleanor said quietly, not looking at either of them. “But the clothes I like would look really very silly on an old person.”

  There was an awkward silence. Harry determined not to rise to his daughter’s cheek. Tamara rode it out too.

  “I might be ageing, Eleanor. But I’d like to think I’m doing so in the manner of a fine, vintage wine!” she proclaimed, and Harry chuckled.

  This was nothing but more bait for the teenage blonde.

  “Whatever you say. Fine wine! Of course! Fabien!” Eleanor called out to the steward. “Could I have some more, please?”

  Schooled long in professionalism, Fabien moved to do as bidden. But Harry raised a flat palm and spoke curtly.

  “No thank you, Fabien,” he said, stalling the confused man. “I’ve said only half a glass for my daughter, and that is my last word. It seems she has drunk the wine she was given rather too quickly.”

  Fabien withdrew. Eleanor glowered.

  “Daddy you’re such a bore! I’m on holiday!”

  This time Tamara interjected,

  “Oh, Eleanor! Come on. We’re all on holiday. Can’t you have fun without wine?”

  “Ooh Elean–awr!” the teenager mocked Tamara’s strong New York accent. Tamara looked down awkwardly to her plate, saying nothing. Harry erupted in fury.

  “Eleanor! That is quite enough! How dare you cheek Tamara in that way! I am disgusted with you. Apologise right this very second!”

  Eleanor recoiled at her father’s shouting, attracting as it did the embarrassed attention of Fabien and the other stewards. She played with her glass and retorted sulkily.

  “I was only having a laugh. Sorry ... “ the last word was barely a murmur.

  “Really?” her father snapped. “Well, I reckon you’ve had more than enough of a laugh for the time being. And of everything else!” He snatched her wine glass from her. “Get to your cabin this instant.”

  “No Daddy!” Eleanor protested, “It’s only dinner time!”

  Harry stood up. Quietly, he rested his hands on the dining table and looked his daughter squarely in the face.

  “Your cabin now, Eleanor. Or I warn you most sincerely. I’ll get your suntan off to a very fine start. On a certain spot, young lady! Do you hear what I say?”

  Eleanor blushed deeply, and fled from the table towards lower deck. Simmering humiliation washed over her. A tan in a certain spot? Yuck! How absurd. Her father hadn’t done – that – to her in over five years. As if – at nineteen! How silly of Daddy to say such a ridiculous thing to a woman of her age. Maddened by the scolding, Eleanor made swiftly for her cabin. Anyway she thought, it would be fun to play about with her cosmetics on her own. She had a brand new French nail polish she wanted to try out. There was a whole holiday ahead to enjoy the rest of everything, and she would just avoid them both as much as possible. Especially if Daddy were going to treat her like a baby.

  Up on deck as the sun began set, Harry relaxed at last and took his wife’s hand. The candles burned low, and he waved a silent no–thank–you to Fabien when he enquired if there was anything else monsieur or madam wanted.

  “Shall we take the rest of this bottle down to the lounge, sweetie?” Harry asked, looking lovingly into Tamara’s wide, blue eyes. She seemed worried.

  “Harry, I don’t like the fact that you’re arguing with your daughter on holiday like this. It feels like it’s my fault. And I’m not her Mom, after all.” A tear came to her eye.

  Harry sighed. She was such a very considerate woman.

  “No, and neither of us wants you to be. But there’s more than enough room in my life for both of you. While she still lives under my roof, she’ll do as she’s told. Or I’ll sort her out with a trip over my knee.”

  “Would you really do that Harry? At her age?” his wife asked tentatively. Harry was firm.

  “You bet I would. She had some pretty unpleasant spells across my lap as a child. If she persists in behaving like one, I’ll have no hesitation in reminding her how naughty youngsters are treated. Believe you me.”

  Tamara smiled sweetly, regretful that her own father had not cared as much about her. Looking up to Harry, she kissed him slowly. He sighed heavily and took her head in his hands, stroking her thick, shiny black shoulder–length hair. In an instant he knew he needed to make love to Tamara again immediately. Within two days of meeting they had been to bed, and it had been the most magnificent sex of his life. Harry had long resigned himself to the fact that he might well end up the saddest living cliché. A lonely rich guy forced to pay for the occasional, miserable fumble in a hotel. But like everything else in his life, Tamara had changed all of that spectacularly. Now he grew stiff in his trousers as he felt her soft tongue meet his, and her body grow limp in his arms. Standing up, he took her firmly by the hand. The yacht was still busy with activity but he just could not wait to haul her to bed. Descending to lower deck quickly, they giggled like teenagers as they headed for their cabin with Harry carrying the remains of the bottle of wine.

  Tamara’s excitement grew, aware that in the confines of the vessel they would have to be careful not to be heard. It all added to the magical excitement she thought, as Harry pushed their cabin door tight shut behind her and began to tear at her dress. His hard, warm hands slid up the backs of her thighs. He grasped her bottom, then caressed the small of her back as he filled her mouth with his eager tongue and breathed noisily, needing her. Breaking free for the briefest of seconds, Tamara held Harry’s chin in her hand.

  “You know, it’s just as well you had those oysters, Walker,” she murmured teasingly. “You’re in for one helluva long night...”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cosy in her cabin, little did Eleanor know that less than twenty feet away her father was making love to his wife, like a man half his age. At the opposite end of the lower deck, she remained annoyed at being banished from the dinner table like a small child. Harry’s last stern words to her now rang loudly in her ears. And such an embarrassing choice of words – his lower class upbringing coming out in him. Tanning her, indeed! Sadly for her, Eleanor Walker knew only too well exactly what that particular experience felt like. Punishments had been few and far between in her charmed life. But they had been quite unforgettable.

  She sulked as she gazed out the porthole at the calm, dark navy water lulling the yacht as though trying to rock it to sleep. The harbour lights were a mild yellow, and scattered along the castellated streets of the town there were windows lit by candles. The mixed sounds of laughter and clinks of glasses came from the taverns. It wasn’t fair. She wanted to be out there too. Walking the narrow winding streets and going for a drink by herself, atop a barstool with a handsome man to light her cigarette on a stick. Just like they did in the movies. Like Grace Kelly!

  Sitting at her vanity table to paint her nails, Eleanor thought about what a great father really Harry, even if he could be very strict. She knew it would always have been the case, supposing he hadn’t had a penny to his name. It had been hard on them both, losing her mother so young and so brutally to a stroke. Eleanor had only been four, but carried vague, distressing memories of her father weeping. She recalled his colleagues rallying, a distant aunt looking after her for three months while Harry went abroad alone ... finally throwing himself back into his work to grieve only in private. It had taken a long time for their home life to settle into a working routine. There was a nanny for Eleanor while her father grew the business, working ar
ound the clock. There were strict instructions to Nanny Thomson, and every second weekend was for father and daughter together. They had tremendous fun and of course his money helped. Eleanor had enjoyed exciting trips abroad, as well as theatre, skating, and lots of fancy restaurants.

  But Harry was determined that no matter how much wealth he accrued, his daughter would not be spoiled. When she misbehaved, he put her firmly in her place. Harry insisted on disciplining his daughter himself, the old–fashioned way. Eleanor had been spanked a total of three times, and she remembered each occasion as though it were yesterday. Unlike a lot of the girls she knew who seemed to earn a smacked bottom as a matter of daily course, Harry took spanking a lot more seriously. He used it sparingly but extremely thoroughly. In recent years, he had felt confident that her very occasional but painful trips across his knee had helped turn Eleanor into a fine young adult.

  Alone in the cabin, the evening waves gently washing the sides of the motor–yacht, Eleanor grew sleepy as she lay back on her bed and blew her polished nails to dry. Her father’s earlier rebuke now brought the memories back clear as day.

  The first time Harry had seen fit to spank her, Eleanor was six. She had been caught with a playmate’s toy concealed in her schoolbag. The other child had cried, wanting it back. Harry had given his daughter one chance to come clean and apologise, but she had lied and denied taking it. The toy was discovered when Harry took the schoolbag from her himself. It was such a beautiful toy – a miniature jack–in–the–box. Eleanor had only wanted to keep it for a little while. Without further ado, Harry apologised to the child’s mother and bid her good day. He carried his daughter yelling out to the car, where he told his chauffeur to step outside. In the back seat of his Rolls Royce and for the very first time in her short life, Eleanor found herself lying face down over her Daddy’s broad lap. Before she could process what on earth was going on, he had lifted up her pinafore and pulled her stockings and pants down to her knees. Hating to hurt her but knowing he had to punish her for telling lies, Harry had then given his little girl a dozen very hard smacks. Her bare, plump little bottom tingled deep pink under the large palm of his strong hand. Eleanor had gasped and howled, incredulous that her darling Daddy could do such a terrible thing! They were driven home with Eleanor still bawling, and Harry ordered Nanny Thomson to put her straight to bed. By suppertime she was still in tears, her bottom still warm and her heart broken in two. Harry had cuddled her in his arms and heard her say sorry, over and over again. For weeks the young child resented that brief, horrible minute she’d been forced to spend over her father’s knee with her bottom bare in broad daylight. But it wore off, and Eleanor never again told a deliberate lie. Harry Walker still had a Rolls Royce, amongst his other top of the range cars, and Eleanor could never sit in it without thinking ruefully of that day.

  In the cabin as night fell, her polished nails were drying. She removed the velvet bandeau from her head and rose to comb out her blonde curls with her ebony hairbrush. That made her think, too. Some of her girlfriends had often talked of being spanked with a hairbrush. Mothers especially, seemed to find it useful when punishing over the knee. As Eleanor held hers in her hand, she felt relieved she’d never felt anything so hard and heavy across her seat. That must be very painful indeed, on the bare. Daddy had always just applied his hand.

  As she brushed her hair Eleanor recalled her second spanking. It had been administered around two years after the first. At bath time, she had refused to have her hair washed by Nanny. A messy tantrum had ended with the bottle of shampoo being thrown at the woman, along with a well chosen swear word. Nanny Thomson was greatly shaken, and tearfully ran to tell Mr. Walker, unsure of how best to deal with this alarming matter. Harry was in no doubt whatsoever. He had marched in to the bathroom and yanked Eleanor up from the cooling water. He then bent her over the side of the bathtub in the crook of his arm, and applied the rough palm of his large hand to her small, naked wet bottom. The spanking was hard and fast. Eleanor had screamed the house down in disbelief at how very sore it was, and how deeply ashamed she felt. Time and again her Daddy’s hand smacked her reddening rear end until he decided she was suitably punished. Nanny had had to comfort her for hours. By the following morning though, her bottom still smarting and uncomfortable to sit on, Eleanor had learned another valuable lesson. There were no more bath–time tantrums, or swear words. Putting on her pyjamas now, she remarked on how well she had learned that sorry lesson.

  In Eleanor’s mind, her last spanking was always associated with Hallowe’en. She recalled every detail now as she clambered into her cabin bunk with her pop magazines. She was fourteen when it happened, and had gone to a Hallowe’en party with friends from school. Things had got out of hand with jive dancing to records, and a table and gramophone were broken. The mother of the girl who had invited everyone, telephoned around and complained to each of the girl’s parents. She was a widow without much money, and was at the end of her tether. Even now Eleanor felt a stab of real guilt. One by one, exasperated fathers had arrived at the house. War weary, many had more than enough on their hands as their children began to grow into what the world had christened “teenagers.” It was a lively time in London. But the older generation felt these young folks had too many distractions, and too much freedom. Harry Walker certainly felt that way. Discipline had to be tightened in his view. In all, ten angry, disappointed fathers arrived to take their offspring straight home. No arguments were listened to. All were girls and as they were packed into their respective Daddy’s cars, a group of teddy boys watched from a wall across the road, laughing and pointing. Exchanged red–faced looks between the teenage girls revealed the fear of what awaited them at home, further amusing the boys. While sullen, knowing nods from father to father confirmed that each man had a short, sharp shock in store for his little girl.

  Although Eleanor protested that the rowdy dancing and the breakages had not been ‘her fault’, Harry insisted she ought to have known far better in someone else’s house. The drive home seemed to take forever. Harry said not another word, completely ignoring Eleanor’s frantic apologies and repeated reminders to her father that she was fourteen. As soon as they arrived home she was marched into his study, Harry nodding grimly to Nanny Thomson in passing. Sitting down on his large leather desk chair, Harry ordered that Eleanor lie over his knee. When she refused in indignation, he gave her one more chance and said he would tell Nanny to fetch a hairbrush otherwise. Trapped and cringing, Eleanor had finally obeyed her father and lain down reluctantly across his huge, hard knees. She was mortified and infuriated. For what he himself imagined would surely be the last time in his daughter’s life, he pulled up Eleanor’s wide skirted party frock, with its pretty lilac net veiling, and yes ... Eleanor shuddered at the very memory of it now.... he had briskly lowered her knickers. She had groaned in deep shame as she felt the cold air of the room on her backside. She told her father tearfully that she would never, ever forgive him for this. Letting her grow accustomed to being bared, Harry had gripped her tight and lectured her sternly. He reminded her that while she was under his roof, she would demonstrate the good manners he had brought her up with. Or she would suffer the consequences, at no matter what age. Eleanor was in floods of tears of embarrassment before the punishment had even begun. Her father’s stiff hand spanking was then doled out. Eleanor sobbed as her soft, bare bottom took the red hot, stinging punishment she had earned through her thoughtlessness. Harry’s scolding had continued quietly throughout the humiliating ordeal. He had made the very measured spanking last, ensuring that her bottom ached for days.

  Eleanor had cried like a toddler, protesting loudly about being treated like a baby and threatening to run away. For a week she sulked and snivelled in self–pity and shame. When eventually she had come round, Harry had warned her one final time to think before she acted. Contritely, she had promised him to do so. Apart from anything else, she never wished to go over that broad, hard knee again as long as she lived
.

  Disciplining his daughter the old–fashioned way seemed to have done the trick up to now. But it saddened Harry to see the turn things had taken of late. In having found Tamara and quickly remarrying, he had witnessed Eleanor’s insecurities come to the fore. There were flashes of spite and a childish petulance he did not like one bit. But if it were the last thing he did, his wife and his daughter would get on.

  As she started to drift to sleep, the yacht cradling her cosily, Eleanor dreamt of quite different plans for her holiday. And Tamara Kelly–Walker featured absolutely nowhere in them.

  Up on his balcony at The Grand Hotel on the hill in Monte Carlo, Charlie Hetherington drank in the heady night air of the Riviera. Leaning over the thick sculpted stone wall, he studied the harbour from on high. There was no doubt at all that the Eleanor–Jane ruled the waves, her broad bobbing hulk dwarfing all the other vessels. Intrigued, Charlie wondered which one of the lit lower cabins belonged to the cute little blonde he had spied aboard. She really was a dream. With no girlfriend in two years, and his tedious apprenticeship now behind him, Charlie felt a dizzying sense of freedom.

  By morning, Eleanor had all but forgotten her father’s scolding of the evening before. The bay looked so beautiful and the motor–yacht was proving to be such great fun. There was even a swim platform with a long dive ladder. Eleanor looked forward to trying out her new French bikini. She was polite when her father asked her what she intended to do with the rest of her day.

  “You are not to go far, Eleanor. And remember. Tamara would like to spend some time with you, please.”

  “Yes Daddy, I know. But maybe we could leave that until the weekend? I rather thought I’d study a map, and work things out for myself. Could I please go for a walk up to Monte Carlo and see the whole bay?”

  His daughter’s innocent enthusiasm disarmed Walker. It was a fine day, and Monte Carlo wasn’t so far away. Perhaps they could all meet later for supper.