‘He’s very much younger than you,’ Stephanie pointed out in genuine concern.
‘Fifteen years, I believe,’ he answered with some asperity, ‘and while I’m not in the habit of smacking your bottom, young Stiffy, any more impudence and I might change my mind.’
‘Sorry,’ Stephanie said quickly, ‘but still, a duel …’
‘I could hardly refuse,’ he said. ‘The ancestors would be spinning in their graves. But you are forgetting that as the challenged party I will have choice of weapons.’
He gave a wry chuckle and they walked on in silence for a space, down the long slope of the lawn. When they reached the lake she decided to act.
‘Grandpapa,’ she said, ‘do you remember that I asked if you could advance me twenty pounds until my allowance came through?’
‘Ten, I believe you asked for,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘Ten then,’ she said, ‘if you’d like to reconsider, that is, although twenty would be nice.’
‘I believe my sister is watching from the house,’ he replied, ‘so if you don’t want that little bottom of yours reddened up after all, I suggest we wait until we’re safely in the Emperor’s sty.’
‘Does that mean I click?’ she asked. ‘Even though I’m in disgrace?’
‘Why not?’ he responded. ‘Damn it, I’m the head of the family. Why should I worry about what Vicky thinks, let alone my daughter-in-law? But you be careful, young lady.’
‘I will,’ Stephanie promised earnestly. ‘Thank you, Grandpapa.’
They had reached the sty, and the money changed hands under the incurious eyes of Cyril Wonnacott, who was mixing the Emperor’s morning feed. Wary of her great-aunt, Stephanie waited until what she considered a decent interval had elapsed before leaving the sty and walking nonchalantly back to the house. An idea had occurred to her, and she went straight to Hermione’s room.
‘Got it!’ she announced, waving the four large, white five-pound notes she had received. ‘Do you suppose if we ran over to Bridestowe we could get it on the Emperor before Porker hears the news?’
‘Probably,’ Hermione admitted, ‘but he’s bound to be suspicious.’
‘No,’ Stephanie explained. ‘He’ll just think we heard first. There’s no reason to suspect we pinched the pig.’
‘He’d be jolly cross,’ Hermione said, with a smile that immediately gave way to a grimace.
‘Never mind that,’ Stephanie said. ‘Would he pay up, that’s the thing?’
‘He’d have to,’ Hermione answered.
‘Four hundred pounds?’
‘It would clean him out, just about,’ Hermione said with considerable satisfaction, ‘but he’d have to pay, or everyone would start demanding their money back and he’d be in real trouble. Besides, we could threaten to tell old Tredegar.’
‘That’s true,’ Stephanie agreed, ‘and speaking of telling old Tredegar … no, never mind.’
‘What?’ Hermione demanded.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ Stephanie said hastily, having remembered that revealing that she knew what Porker Porthwell had made Hermione do would mean admitting to peeping. ‘Shall I go then?’
‘If you like,’ Hermione answered, and there was no mistaking the gratitude in her voice.
* * *
Stephanie set off, using the stable entrance to avoid any stalking aunts and hurrying for Bridestowe. As she went she tried to decide whether she should accost the curate with what she knew and demand that he stop it, or whether Hermione deserved it for her refusal to accept a sisterly spanking. There was really no choice. Hermione was family and Porker Porthwell was not. By the time she reached the rectory Stephanie had steeled herself for a disagreeable interview.
As before, the door was opened by the Reverend Wallace Tredegar, and it took a while before Stephanie could speak to the curate alone. However, no mention was made of the stolen pig, which would shortly be the gossip of the entire district, and she was confident of broaching the topic of adding to her bet.
‘How are the odds on the Emperor?’ she asked as they walked out on to the lawn from which she had watched her sister masturbate him.
‘I can get you in at twelve to one,’ he replied, abandoning his pious curate’s voice for the oily tones of a turf accountant.
‘Here’s twenty pounds,’ Stephanie said, slipping the note between his chubby fingers, ‘to take the gold medal.’
He took the money without hesitation and ducked behind a yew hedge to write out her receipt. For a moment she worried that he was just a little too confident, but pushed the concern aside. Gathering her courage, she looked up at his imposing bulk and addressed him in her sternest tone.
‘There’s another thing I wish to talk about. You will stop bothering my sister, or I shall know what to do about it.’
For an instant he looked surprised, then answered her.
‘Your sister is a dirty trollop, and she enjoys every minute of what we do together.’
‘How dare you!’ she gasped. ‘How dare you call her a … a …’
‘A dirty trollop,’ he filled in as words failed her, ‘which is what she is, whatever she may have told you.’
‘She didn’t tell me anything,’ Stephanie retorted. ‘I saw, the last time she came for a piano lesson.’
‘Then you’ll have seen how she deliberately tossed me into her mouth, and all over those fat little bouncers of hers,’ he said, ‘and you, Stiffy Truscott, shouldn’t be peering in at people’s windows.’
‘Miss Truscott to you,’ she snapped back, ‘and you made her do that, you filthy beast!’
‘I think not,’ he answered. ‘Last time, she let me do it over her bottom, after I’d spanked her. She even ate some off her finger, just to show off for me.’
‘I don’t believe you! She hates you!’
He shrugged, then answered in a thoughtful, almost philosophical tone.
‘It is a curious thing, human desire. Perhaps she does hate me, in her own little way, but she loves being my trollop. Did you watch her rub her cunt after she’d finished with me?’
‘No,’ Stephanie replied, ‘and I don’t believe it either.’
‘Oh, she did,’ he assured her. ‘She sat on the stool with her legs wide open, showing me everything and rubbing my spunk into her bouncers while she diddled herself, and when she came … ouch!’
His description of Hermione’s behaviour ended abruptly as Stephanie’s shoe made contact with his shin. But as she fled from the rectory garden she was far from sure that he’d been lying.
Rather than return to the house, Stephanie walked up towards the main road with the intention of catching a train for Postbridge. The two-seater would be ready, and she was itching to get back behind the wheel, although rather less keen on the prospect of teaching Hermione to drive. Then she heard her name called. Recognising the voice of Claude Attwater, she said a rude word under her breath before turning around and forcing a smile.
‘Hello, Claude. I was just on my way to the station.’
‘I’ll walk with you then,’ he offered, extending his arm. ‘You will of course be at the rally at the Okehampton Show?’
‘Um … yes,’ she agreed.
‘Excellent. I am expecting a good audience, and intend to speak on social decay and the dangers inherent in Bolshevism.’
He paused, then spoke again.
‘A beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Rather dull, I thought,’ Stephanie replied, glancing up at a sky the colour of lead.
‘So it is,’ he agreed. ‘I hadn’t noticed, and the reason I hadn’t noticed, Miss Truscott … Stephanie … I may call you Stephanie, I trust?’
‘If you like,’ she answered cautiously, somewhat alarmed by his tone of voice.
‘Stephanie,’ he went on, ‘every day is beautiful to me and always will be, so long as you, my darling, are upon this earth. Your face lights up the dullest day, the blackest night, the darkest coal bunker. I worship the ground you tread on, Stepha
nie, and so it is with both ardour and pride that I ask you to accept the honour of becoming my wife, and thus honour me in turn.’
He had got down on one knee in the middle of the road, causing considerable inconvenience to an oncoming bicycle.
‘Um … er …’ Stephanie faltered, too flustered to make a coherent response to the proposal. ‘Mr Attwater, please …’
‘I love you, Stephanie,’ he repeated, taking her hand and beginning to kiss it as a metallic clatter signalled the failure of the bicyclist to remain on his machine.
‘No, you don’t.’
‘I do,’ he insisted. ‘I adore you, Stephanie, as no man has ever adored a woman before.’
‘No, you don’t. You’re only saying that because you saw my Aunt Lettice spank me, aren’t you?’ she answered, and immediately regretted it, blushing crimson at her own words.
‘No, no,’ he assured her, rather too hastily, she thought, ‘that is not the case at all. I will grant that I am not immune to your physical charms, only a statue would not be, and that I am pleased to discover that you take a correct attitude to domestic discipline, but my love for you is pure and true, unsullied by base carnality … well, not as such, anyway. And think, Stephanie, I am destined to be a man of importance, and you will be my helpmate, and one day a great lady.’
‘Look, Mr Attwater, I –’
‘What can the matter be? We are in agreement on political matters. We share the same religion. My family is above reproach, while I have seven thousand a year.’
‘Please, at least let me think about it,’ she said desperately.
‘Why, of course, of course,’ he replied. ‘How foolish of me to expect a delicate creature such as yourself to provide an immediate response, and yet –’
‘That’s my train,’ she said, cutting him off as to her immense relief she saw a plume of greyish steam rising above the trees. ‘I really must hurry.’
‘You take my heart with you,’ he answered.
‘I do beg your pardon,’ Stephanie remarked to the large pair of boots that were all that remained visible of the unfortunate cyclist, who had ended up in a ditch. Then she made a dash for the station.
As she threw herself into a seat on the train she caught her breath and began to see the amusing side of his proposal, but at the same time she felt immensely embarrassed. Whatever he said, his sudden love for her was clearly the result of having seen her upended and bare behind, and yet she had found his manner too comic to be taken seriously. Nevertheless, good manners demanded that she make a polite refusal, and as the train headed south she began to compose a suitable response in her mind.
By the time she reached Postbridge she had decided exactly what she would say and was rather pleased with her effort, which would be demure, as kind as was possible in the circumstances, but absolutely final. She even rehearsed a few of the lines out loud, stopping only when a passing yokel threw her a curious look, by which time she had reached the garage.
‘Afternoon, Miss Truscott,’ the mechanic greeted her, touching an oily hand to an equally oily cap. ‘Here she is, good as new.’
As he spoke he pulled open one side of the wide doors that closed off the repair shop. Within was her car, easily identifiable by the STF 1 registration plate, a choice that had earned her a spanking of record-breaking duration from her great-aunt. Every dent had been removed, the chrome glinted in the sunlight, the paintwork shone, but there was one major failing.
‘It’s yellow,’ she said.
‘Buttercup,’ he corrected her. ‘Very popular colour, buttercup.’
‘But it’s supposed to be red,’ Stephanie pointed out.
‘Couldn’t get red, Miss,’ he answered, and sucked a little air in between his teeth, ‘not without ordering specially from Bristol, and that would have meant waiting another week, and you did say you wanted it urgent.’
Stephanie gave a vague nod, barely aware of his words as she tried to work out how she could explain away a bright yellow car when she was supposed to have a red one. Not that owning a yellow car was a spankable offence in itself, but her explanation would definitely have to avoid all mention of dents and scratches.
‘I suppose I’d better take it,’ she sighed.
‘Very popular colour, buttercup,’ he repeated.
‘So is red,’ she answered, ‘especially with my aunts.’
He accepted the comment at face value and she paid the bill and set off. For all her concerns, it still felt wonderful to be behind the wheel again, with the wind in her face, as she put her foot to the floor on the gentle rise west of Postbridge. She was careful to slow for the Hairy Hands bridge but opened up beyond, thrilling to the speed and freedom she had adored since her grandfather had first taught her to drive. For the full length of the moor road nothing else mattered, but as she crossed the flank of Black Down she found herself wondering if she should check on the pig.
She parked beside the gates of Stukely Hall and walked back down the road and in at the gate to the wood. There was no immediate sign of the Porker, although he had already reduced the interior of the makeshift sty to mud and his thick, musky scent hung heavy in the air. Outside, the wood was quiet, bathed in gold-green sunlight filtering down through the young leaves, while the first of the year’s bluebells had begun to open. Tempted by the solitude and the sensation of being bare under her dress, she quickly peeled off and kicked her shoes away, to be naked but for her school boater. It felt deliciously naughty, and also free, the air cool on her skin, making her want to stretch and wriggle for sheer delight in her nakedness.
She began to walk up through the wood, wondering if it would be nice to play with herself, perhaps sitting on the ledge where she and Hermione had licked each other’s quims and bottom holes, or simply spread naked among the bluebells with her fingers busy between her open thighs. More than once she had been made to go nude but for her boater by Myrtle, and she was just telling herself that she would come over something other than those memories when a loud grunt made her turn in alarm.
Singularis Porcus stood behind her, peering at her naked body from eyes sunk in the heavy folds of his porcine face. It was the first time she had seen him in full daylight; he looked even more impressive than he had in the dark, and rather more alarming. There was a definite glint in his eyes of something evil, an interest either lustful or gustatory, perhaps both. Not wishing to find out, she hurriedly pulled her dress back on, found her shoes and left.
Amazed at her boldness in stealing the monster, she walked back to her car. Above all things she wished to avoid Claude Attwater, who was quite likely to be lurking at Driscoll’s, while there was also the problem of the car being buttercup yellow. For a long while she stood in the lane considering her options, but she had had no lunch and it was already late afternoon. Tea was beginning to call to her, and the previous day Mrs Catchpole had hinted that there might be a ginger cake, something Stephanie was particularly fond of. Finally she told herself that it would be easy enough to park the car out of sight and at least postpone explanations, while she could ask Hermione to chaperone her and thus avoid any further embarrassing protestations of love from Claude Attwater.
Ten minutes later she was approaching the gates of Driscoll’s. She turned in, praying that no aunts were lurking along the drive. None were in evidence, and she drove on to the stables, where Gurney and Annaferd were rubbing down a trio of horses. That almost certainly meant that Great-aunt Victoria had been out riding, probably with Aunts Gertrude and Lettice, and that her brief pause in the roadway outside Stukely Hall had been just long enough to prevent a meeting. Luck seemed to be on her side. She parked the car in the long building that had been converted into garages, between the end of the wall and her grandfather’s far larger vehicle. After washing her face at the pump and adjusting her hair, she went indoors. The family were about to sit down to tea, and to her vast relief Claude Attwater was not among the company. There was, however, a ginger cake, a large, moist-looking specimen deco
rated with pieces of candied peel. As she took her place she allowed herself to relax and begin the important estimation of how large a slice she could get away with without risking an accusation of greed.
‘Manners, Stephanie,’ Victoria Truscott stated. ‘Bread and butter first.’
Stephanie had not realised that her appreciation of the ginger cake had been so obvious, and quickly turned her attention to the thin slices of bread and butter that family etiquette demanded be consumed first.
‘Wherever have you been, dear?’ her great-aunt continued.
‘I went to Postbridge to collect my car,’ Stephanie explained, sure that nobody would decide to go and inspect it with the prospect of tea in front of them.
Having selected two slices of bread and butter while Mrs Catchpole poured out tea, Stephanie ate in silence for a while. Hermione was already applying her fork to a large slice of ginger cake, and, when the time arrived to take her own, Stephanie was careful to ensure that it was of identical size. Great-aunt Victoria was talking to Aunt Lettice at the time, and other than a brief glance of disapproval from Aunt Gertrude there was no reaction. Now well pleased with herself, she gave the slice a liberal coating of butter and tucked in, at which point the doorbell rang. Catchpole appeared a moment later to announce the visitor.
‘Mr Frederick Drake.’
‘Hello, Freddie,’ Hermione chirped up before Stephanie could decide on a more measured greeting, but when she turned in her chair she saw that he was far from his normal amiable self.
‘I, ah … terribly sorry,’ he stammered. ‘I didn’t realise you were in the middle of tea. Shall I wait?’
‘No, no, sit down,’ Sir Richard said affably. ‘I expect you’ve come to arrange the duel?’
‘Um … er … yes,’ Freddie managed. ‘I mean to say, father’s in the most frightful temper about his pig, and he seems to have got it into his head that you stole it … silly idea, of course, but there it is. I understand that Stiffy … er, Stephanie is your second?’
‘What is all this?’ Victoria Truscott demanded.
‘Didn’t I mention it?’ her brother answered her. ‘Apparently some fellows have stolen Murgatroyd’s pig, and he thinks I did it –’
Portrait of a Disciplinarian Page 13
