Chapter 2

“Del, Mrs Passendale wants to meet you ... in there,” Jackie pointed to the kitchen. “She asked who you were, I told her and she just asked that’s all. Nearly all done now, so go on, excused boots,” she chuckled.

I sauntered across the hall, through a pair of double doors, towards the toilets and turned right into the hall kitchen. The lady who was expecting me, leaned unsteadily against the laminate worktop that surrounded me. There was a glass of white wine in danger of spilling the contents on the vinyl floor in her heavily ringed hand, the other hand steadying her, stiff at 45 degrees from her shoulder.

I could see her state as I approached her to shake her offered hand.

“Looks like a good do,” I suggested, her gnarled tanned hand squeezing mine firmly. There was an adjustment in her stance without letting go of the worktop edge. “ How do you do, I’m Del Hants, Mrs Passendale I believe?”

I studied her as she replied advising I call her Monica. “No place for such formality when one’s a much valued helper,” she slurred, ever so slightly, in a cultured well rounded tone and accent. “I’m ever so grateful Del, can I call you Del?” her voice tinkled. “Apparently Bob would have done this, but you’re here.”

Monica with a blue rinse, combed straight and curled in at her shoulders, was tall, powerfully built and upper class, if there is such a thing these days – I firmly believe there is. Her teeth would never have got past first base in the State, they were badly aligned, her top brace full on out jutting. Oth than that, she just oozed high born, wearing a form fitting, olive green, vee neck soft top, which proudly layered over stout and bulky tits, held high and firm, the undergarments frame clear to my practised eyes. The neck line wasn’t low enough to show cleavage. She had a classic string of pearls round her neck. Her lower torso sported a plain, mid grey, light skirt to knee, exposing visible panty lines, which I guessed from the marks were not huge bloomers, almost briefs. Her bare legs weren’t toned and her ankle bones non existent, her feet in dark brown two inch court shoes.

“You’ve all downed some booze,” I chuckled, waving a hand at the multitude of empty wine bottles.

“We had to give Helen a good send off,” Monica agreed sipping more of her wine. “She started this group and ran a tight ship, this is a bit of a release. Like some? It’ll not be cold ... ah hah, yes there’s still a bottle here in the fridge, ready opened ... eh?”

I accepted a too full glass, catching the label reading Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, hmm nice! Taking a sip after offering it as a token toast, I leaned against the worktop at right angles to Monica. Seconds later she had slid round to my side, her butt staying supported by the roll edge. Fuck! She smelled nice. Above the booze, there was a perfume, almost masculine, I got sandalwood, ginger, citrus and other exotic spirits but it damn well suited Monica.