Portrait of a Disciplinarian (17 page)

‘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 decorated 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 –’

‘I know about the pig, Richard,’ she cut him off, ‘but a duel? And with Stephanie acting as your second?’

‘She was convenient to hand,’ Sir Richard explained.

‘But a duel?’

‘Why not? It will liven things up a little.’

‘I forbid it, absolutely!’

‘I’ll do as I damn well please.’

‘I expect you will, but you are to have no part in it, Stephanie. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Auntie,’ Stephanie replied promptly.

‘If you insist on such foolishness,’ Victoria continued to her brother, ‘Gurney must act as your second, although frankly I have never heard anything quite so preposterous in my entire life. Do sit down, Mr Drake. Will you have some tea?’

‘Rather,’ Freddie answered, seating himself. ‘So er … you’d rather I spoke to your man Gurney?’

‘I would rather the whole ridiculous idea was abandoned,’ she told him. ‘It will be the talk of the district.’

‘The district could do with something to talk about, once the show is over,’ Sir Richard responded, ‘and surely you see that I can’t refuse?’

‘I see no such thing,’ Victoria snapped back, ‘and as for asking Stephanie to act as second, it’s improper.’

‘We’re fighting a duel, not visiting a brothel,’ Sir Richard countered.

‘Richard!’ his sister responded, but he merely shrugged.

An embarrassed silence descended on the table, finally broken by Freddie Drake.

‘I just missed you on the way over, as it happens, Stiffy. You were turning in at the gate as I was coming up the lane. I do like your new car. Same model, but a spiffing colour.’

‘Do you have a new car, Stephanie?’ Sir Richard asked.

‘Her father always did spoil her,’ Aunt Lettice remarked.

Just as Freddie spoke Stephanie had inserted a large piece of ginger cake into her mouth, eager to buy precious seconds in which to decide on the safest answer. Unfortunately in her haste she had somewhat overestimated the capacity of her mouth, leaving her with bulging cheeks and able to breathe only through her nose.

‘Really, Stephanie,’ Aunt Gertrude commented. ‘Your manners are dreadful.’

‘She always was a little piggy-wig,’ Mrs Catchpole remarked, ruffling Stephanie’s hair.

Everybody was looking at her. She struggled to swallow at least part of her mouthful, made herself cough and projected a mixture of mucus and gingerbread crumbs on to her plate.

‘Stephanie!’ Great-aunt Victoria snapped.

She managed a muffled apology, still trying to decide if it was better to tell the truth and take her medicine, pretend the car was new and postpone the inevitable, or attempt to bluff it out. Taking the first choice would mean a spanking or the cane, very possibly in front of Freddie, which was unthinkable. The second choice would mean extra punishment for trying to evade her fate, but probably in private, which was better. The third was a gamble, and a chance too sweet to ignore.

‘Excuse me,’ she gasped as she swallowed the last of her ginger cake. ‘I think a crumb went down the wrong way. I don’t have a new car, Freddie, don’t be silly.’

‘Oh, you had her repainted, did you?’ he responded. ‘It’s a jolly colour, all the rage too, bright yellow.’

‘It’s buttercup yellow,’ Stephanie said, with sudden inspiration. ‘Those silly men at the garage in Princetown thought I wanted it completely repainted, when I’d only run out of petrol.’

She finished with a light laugh, praying her story would be accepted.

‘Completely repainted?’ Aunt Gertrude demanded.

‘Wasn’t that frightfully expensive?’ Aunt Lettice queried.

‘I had just enough left from my allowance,’ Stephanie said hastily.

‘They made you pay?’ said Great-aunt Victoria. ‘That is outrageous! I shall drive up with you first thing tomorrow, and demand a full refund.’

‘No, no, really,’ Stephanie said quickly, ‘it’s quite all right. I rather like yellow …’

‘That is quite beside the point,’ her great-aunt snapped. ‘It is plain that these people have sought to exploit your innocence and good nature by pretending to have misunderstood you. I, you may be assured, will not be so easily misled. It really is outrageous, the way tradesmen behave today …’

‘It’s the show tomorrow,’ Sir Richard pointed out, interrupting what was threatening to become a lengthy speech.

‘The day after, then,’ Freddie put in ingratiatingly, ‘and I’ll jolly well come with you to lend a bit of support.’

Stephanie threw a panic-stricken glance to where the French windows stood open to the air and freedom, at least temporary freedom. The choice before her was now even worse: confessing the truth, or at least an approximation thereof, or an appalling scene at the garage. To choose the second was to court disaster, maybe a public spanking, delivered in the middle of the road in front of not only Freddie but the mechanics and, with her luck, a large crowd of interested onlookers, who always seemed to appear at such times. It had to be the first choice.

‘Um … actually that won’t be necessary,’ she said weakly. ‘I didn’t want to tell you, because it was a bit expensive, but, you see, I rather fell in love with that yellow colour, so I ordered the repainting.’

Silence descended over the table as she finished. She
hung
her head, studying the mess on her plate as she waited for her sentence. Aunt Lettice spoke first.

‘How extravagant.’

‘How very untruthful,’ added Aunt Gertrude.

‘Fetch me my cane, would you, Hermione dear?’ Great-aunt Victoria asked.

‘Oh, no, not the cane, please,’ Stephanie babbled, half rising in panic and fear. ‘I don’t deserve the cane!’