Chapter 3

I waited as the four girls trooped to the bathroom, one at a time, with their clothes; came back and dumped night clothes ready for the next night. Then I got up and looked at the surprising stickiness on my stomach. My first night time emission, or wet dream! This was regarded by boys as a signal that they were ready for sex, and by strict adults as a sign that the boy was thinking of disgusting thoughts. At school the boarders were beaten for having wet dreams if they were caught. I was lucky in being a day pupil so I need not worry too much about that. But I did worry that mother might be disgusted. Still, at least I was not wearing my pyjamas. I dressed in them and ran to get washed and dressed. The pyjama trousers stayed clean for being held away from the stickiness. One boy at school said it was good to taste, but we knew he was decidedly strange so I was not tempted enough.

Downstairs, over breakfast we were told there were multiple old people to visit with food. I thought that, since it was just before Christmas, they would likely have laid in stores in any case. I said nothing, such thoughts are often seen as uncaring, though I thought them practical.

The two youngest girls were not expected to help outside, they would help with making the food parcels and then with the decorations for the coming celebration. We three would trudge through the snow along the lane with baskets of food. We started taking the pony and trap, but only made it to the first house before the snow deepened in the dip and poor Coal – the pony – could go no further. We returned to the house and took fifteen minutes making Coal happy and warm again in his stall. The stables had a warm fug from the three horses, we put in extra hay and made sure he had plenty of oats. Mother came out and said “Perhaps you should wait until the road is cleared. J agrees.” We suspected that she would have agreed only reluctantly, but in any case we now saw it as an adventure.

Loaded with baskets and wrapped parcels, we set off back to the dips where Coal had turned back. Carefully edging along the side of the road, we could walk along the ridge beside. Careful not to slip down the side into the drainage dyke or down the other side – marginally better – into deep deep snow. The drainage dyke stank in the summer, the water did not all flow away; so beneath the attractive white layer was ice that covered fetid black mud and water. We did not want to fall in; and the walk back in the cold would be intolerable.

Mr Toad was not his name, but we had called him that for so long we had nearly forgotten his real name. He was a considerate, kind man; and one of the ugliest people I have ever seen. His head was too big for the shrinking body. He was one of Aunt J’s ‘unfortunates’ and to be truthful he probably deserved the title. He had never held a good job on a farm, though he was good with animals. Somehow his work always fell through. He became ploughman to the Dribages and then Mr Dribage died of consumption and they sold up. The new buyer would plough himself and had no need of Mr Toad. This seemed to be the story of his life, one unfortunate event after another. I felt guilty for thinking that everybody would have laid up stores for Christmas. Mr Toad had little or nothing and the snow was something of a Godsend for him since it meant we were sent out with food for him. He smiled and invited us in for a warm drink. Milky posset filled out stomachs (hot milk and black molasses). We thanked him and waded through the snow back to the road. “No ee be careful. Don’ get call. Y’ear?”

“What did he say?” I asked, unused to the strong country accents.

“You be careful, do not get cold, do you hear? If only everyone spoke the clipped King’s English Jay.” Mary said.

“Oh, you!” I flung a snowball at her and we were distracted for several minutes as we threw the feathery snow back and forth. The snow had fallen as flakes and made good snowballs for it had not yet frozen into hard packed snow.

Widow Trink (Widow Twankay to us) was inordinately grateful for the oranges and bread and cooked ham. “Now, di’u come all this way for I? You shouldna, yee’ll catch death o’cold.” But we assured her that we were warm as toast in our coats and boots (which were by the front door); the truth was: we were enjoying ourselves. Helping others was good – we felt we were being good, but being out and unsupervised and able to act the giddy-goat was good too. Widow Trink insisted we have a warming drink before we left, for which we politely thanked her before heading for the Old Lady.

No one was really sure how old she was. Her cottage looked ready to fall down, but it had looked that way ever since I could remember – Aunt J once said she thought it was built like that. Not one window was square, the lintel of the door was at a crazy angle which had required the door to be recut at some point to be similar askew. She walked with a stick and had wrinkles that had their own wrinkles. She had so much hair on her upper lip that would have made me jealous if she had been a man. The only part that seemed as good as ever were her eyes. “SAW YOU COMING!” she shouted.

“WE BROUGHT YOU A FEW THINGS!” we shouted back, and repeated it because even making the noise of the church organ, she only heard half the words.

“THANK EE. COME, SIT AND WARM. HAVE A GLASS.” The glasses we were offered may have been clean once, but not for a decade I think. Still, it would have been rude to refuse a glass of her homemade cider. She warmed it with a poker from the fire, and it was true that it infused the body with warmth. When we left, she whispered: “STRONG STUFF THIS CIDER, DON’T BE TELLING YOUR MOTHER.” She appeared to think we all had the same mother, it wasn’t worth trying to explain.

So we visited the other two old people and then opted to cut across the open fields along the footpath. The fields had less snow than the road for there was less opportunity for drifts to develop. But now we had a problem. We were all sloshing as we walked. So many warming drinks, and now so much cold snow and wind had the inevitable effect. We would not make it back to the house without a stop somewhere, and the spinney was the obvious place.

The spinney was a stand of trees deliberately left to encourage foxes, so the hunters could kill them. Being a towny, I never understood the logic of saying that hunting kept the vermin down, but then leaving stands of trees to give them cover. The spinney was also overgrown and wild and dark. We had to go in amongst the trees. I might have got away with peeing at the edge, but the girls would not countenance the possibility of being seen; and would not go in on their own. So we entered through the gate and made our way in fifty or sixty yards so we could not be seen.

“I’ll go on a little further to give you privacy.” I said.

“NO! I mean, no. Don’t leave us alone. But do not look; on your honour.”

And I did not look, right up to the point where I felt them looking at me. Something about the silence made me cast a quick glance in their direction. They were both watching my hose pumping out a hole of yellow snow. They were fascinated at how easy it was for me to clear my bladder. So much so that I was finished before they were even started. I let out a sigh and made a point of watching them. “You said you would not look! Oh, I cannot wait!”

“You also said you would not look, yet you did. So I am merely reciprocating so you do not feel ashamed at your lack of probity.”

“I shall hold on until you look away.” announced Mary. I stayed looking, and she could hold on no longer. Mary and Lucy proceeded to produce little fountains from between their legs. I saw little enough except the stream of piss and the enlarging hole of melted snow. But it made me priapic and I hastened to hide the fact. The very thought that two young ladies were emptying their bladders right beside me was too much of an exotic and erotic affair. Had they been common women from the town – who were known to wear no underwear and simply to pee under their skirts into the drain if the need arose – then I would have been disgusted, but the fact that I should not see made this all the more enticing.

“Promise you will never tell. Promise!” Lucy begged. I claimed a kiss from each to seal the promise. Then we kicked snow over our yellow memorials for no reason that I can explain, and walked back to the footpath, deliberately scuffing out tracks so it was less obvious that two young ladies and a boy had entered the woods together and left together. The foot steps in the snow were hidden, we thought, though I suspect a good poacher or gamekeeper would have easily interpreted them.

So we walked back, enjoying the peace that overlays a land when it snows. Back at the house, Lucy had got cold, snow had got into her boots and Aunt J said she should have a warm bath. I quietly offered to wash her back and she laughed out loud. “I don’t think so, Jay.”

Aunt J looked at us both and later I heard her say “Yes, I think this must be the last year they all share. They all grow up so fast don’t they?”

If she suspected that things were not as they had been in the bedroom, she said nothing. That night we waited until the two small girls were asleep and then shared one bed for a while; not because it was stormy or scary, just for the pleasure of another’s body next (or on top) of our own. This time we stayed dressed, though I could feel the female protuberances on my chest, and they could feel my one lower down. Hard to believe it was still largely innocent, yet it was. Not that dissimilar to the ‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours’ which some younger people indulge in; yet we never had.