Chapter 1: The Wash Line

Gazing out the guest bedroom window at an oblique angle, I can just see Debbie’s wash line. It bears the usual mixture of clothing today: underwear, blouses and shorts, shirts and trousers, dresses and skirts, socks in all colours.

I ignore anything belonging to Debbie’s husband, Harry, or her son, Jonny. (Without an H, as I often call him.) The remaining garments belong to Debbie and her teenage daughter, Chloe.

Chloe is 14 years old. She is a tall girl, slender, almost the height of her 17 year old brother, inches taller than mum. I am stymied, unable to distinguish Chloe’s underwear from that of her mother. The knickers and brassiere’s all look alike, fashionable and expensive looking, nothing plain vanilla at all. Shouldn’t Chloe’s knickers and brassieres be standard issue schoolgirl white, waist huggers and iron-clad bosom protection like you see in old movies? What Debbie hung up to dry are little bits of nonsense – scandalous thong panties and bikini’s, lacy knickers in pink, mauve, purple and black, tiger striped and polka dotted. White knickers--yes, I did find a pair!--with red hearts. These can’t all belong to Debbie, but I refuse to believe they come from little Chloe’s underwear drawer. Logic demands her knickers and brassieres be standard issue schoolgirl white.

Debbie appears to be a sensible mum. Based upon the age of her offspring, I believe her age to be in the 40-45 years old range, though I tend to see her as closer to 45 than 40. She is pretty and petite, with hazel eyes and blonde hair. Her breasts are moderately sized, probably a B-Cup verging on C. She wears her shoulder length hair almost exclusively up on both sides in attractive barrettes. She has lovely ears, inherited by her lovely daughter.

As I watch, Debbie appears with a laundry basket in hand. She is sensibly dressed in white capri’s and a white and yellow cotton shirt. Behind her ear is a pencil, and I guess that she has taken a break from grading papers to bring in the wash. The fence and shrubbery bordering her garden is high enough that she could easily collect the wash in her pink and white thong footwear, and a pair of the sexy knickers hung on the line. Closing my eyes, I imagine it the pair of white bikinis with the little red hearts. Or maybe the black thong, leaving her bare bottom exposed. Such a fine bottom it is, too, wide yet firm, the ideal bum for a married neighbour-lady. She looks up and around, gazing in all directions for prying eyes. The only pair looking are those of her neighbour in his just-visible guest bedroom window next door. Her neighbour with a bothersome erection straining his pants. I laugh, feeling rather foolish. Debbie would more likely have anti-social leanings, than wander about topless in her back yard.

Chloe appears at the patio door. She converses shortly with her mum, then disappears back inside. Her dark hair is long, hanging well below her shoulders, loose today, rather than worn in a ponytail or braid. Her eyes are chocolate brown and myopic, requiring delicate, stylish tortoise-shell glasses that instantly boost her IQ by 20 points. Not that she needs the help; Chloe carries a 4.0 grade-point average, the best in her freshman class. She is slated for Cambridge on a scholarship, I am sure.

Chloe appears at her bedroom window. Sliding it open, she calls down to mama. I’m startled to see her dressed in her smart school uniform blazer and skirt. At the patio door she’d worn a sleeveless blouse and shorts, revealing her tanned shoulders and long, lovely legs. I’m bothered to note that she is unbuttoned, her crisp white blouse open to reveal a widening V of stomach and chest, broken by a beige brassiere cupping her small breasts. She buttons as she talks, never gazing anywhere but down. Seeing is better than imagining in Chloe’s case, and I strain the front of my trousers even harder.

There is an incident I need to recall. It occurred the day of Chloe’s 8th birthday. This requires caution on my part, as this recollection directly involves Chloe and her mum. As noted, Chloe was 8 years old and too young to involve in any manner not conformed to current mores.

In was a hot summer day and Samantha and I went around to Debbie’s garden for the birthday party. On the side of the yard away from the barbecue pit, Harry had erected a paddling pool and 30’ long grass slide for the kid’s entertainment. Two dozen were in attendance, girls outnumbering boys 2-1 as could be expected at a 3rd grade girl’s birthday party. Surprisingly, considering the invitations had specifically advertised an afternoon pool party, the majority of children had arrived without proper attire for swimming. Being 8 years old, no great concern was voiced over what they wore in the stead of swimsuits. Samantha laughed, thinking their attire quite darling. As did most of the men, I directed my attention elsewhere.

“Mr. Carter! Mrs. Carter said I should open your present right now!” Samantha headed Chloe off and directed her to the stack of bath towels provided for the more inappropriately attired girls. She made her approach to the group of adults safely wrapped in a maroon towel. I was still uncomfortable with Chloe being inappropriately dressed in the first place. It was her birthday party for Lord’s sakes! Debbie needed taking to task for this.

“Here you are,” I said. The gift was of modest cost, but strikingly appropriate for the occasion: a diver’s face mask, and snorkel tube and mouthpiece.

Ripping apart the bright wrapping, little Chloe jumped up and down, squealing in delight. Following a big hug for us both, she went tearing back to the pool and her friends. Debbie thanked us for the gift.

“May I have a word?” I asked. “In private?”

Grinning conspiratorially, she ran her arm through mine and retreated with me behind a nearby tree.

“You want to blast me over Chloe’s lack of swimming attire.” It wasn’t a question.

“Well, yes,” I said, clearing my throat. “It really is inappropriate as this is her birthday party, and she is probably the least appropriately dressed of all the children here. Is there a reason for that?”

Debbie grinned tolerantly. “Didn’t you just answer your own question, Mark?”

I gazed at her, baffled. “I don’t...”

Crossing her arms, she said, “What’s more important, conforming to normal expectations, or fitting in with your friends and having a good time. What possible use would a swimsuit be when none of the other children have one? No purpose is served by making a child feel out of place and different. Especially as she’s the party girl.”

“I’m not the only one uncomfortable about this,” I objected.

“Nor should you be. Adults should always be uncomfortable with conformist behaviour.”

That was my first intimation that things were not strictly normal at the Tolliver household.

A week following the wash line incident, Samantha and I attended a community event at the Parish Rooms. Local organizations stage activities at the event, and I normally attend with camera in hand. Semi-retired, I contribute to the local paper on occasion.

“The Ladies Auxiliary has a yoga class on the 2nd floor,” Samantha suggested. For propriety’s sake, she always accompanies me to these local events where many events are staged by women. I shot a dozen photos there, before moving next door to an aerobics class, then downstairs to a Zumba class. Among the women of all ages and sizes gyrating to a driving bass line, I spotted Debbie and Chloe in a corner. Facing each other, they moved in mirror-image perfection, dancing freestyle, rather than following the lead of the instructor. The dance was provocatively sensual. Surprisingly, Debbie appeared to be the better of the two. I stood transfixed, until Samantha elbowed me in the ribs.

“What?” I immediately challenged. Samantha laughed and shook her head.

“It’s okay. I’d be hard-pressed not to stand there with my mouth open if I were a man.”

Debbie and Chloe both wore tight black leggings and multicoloured sleeveless tops. The leggings fitted snuggly to both bottoms, down curvaceous legs to white athletic shoes. The outline of sports bras could be seen beneath their skintight tops. Perspiration glistened on bare arms and shoulders. Debbie glanced over, saw me and waved. Chloe did likewise. Abandoning the dance, they headed over. Why had I come in here?

“Hi, Mark. Hi, Samantha,” Debbie greeted. Samantha and Debbie exchanged a hug as Chloe greeted us as Mr. and Mrs. Carter. I think she had called me Mark, once.

“Taking photos for the Sentinel?” Debbie asked.

I nodded.

“You two are just amazing,” Samantha complimented. “How often do you dance together? And do you do it professionally?”

Debbie laughed easily. “We started together about a year ago. It’s terrific exercise and fun too. Chloe’s done really well. Won a couple of regional competitions, haven’t you, baby?” She wiped her face on a towel as Chloe blushed.

“She makes it sound like a big deal. I only got into it to get in shape for modelling,” Chloe said diffidently. “You know I’m taking modelling instructions, Mr. Carter.”

“I did not know that,” I said, eyebrows raising. “Have you done any gigs yet?”

“Well, no,” Chloe admitted, blushing. “I’m only helping backstage so far. Helping the other girls get dressed, hanging up clothes, running stuff around, you know...”

I chuckled. “Of course. You’re still learning the ropes. Believe me, you will make a great Junior’s model once you get before the camera, Chloe.”

Chloe looked aside, frowning. “If I ever get before the camera,” she muttered. Mum whacked her behind.

“Stop being negative! You only need--” She stopped suddenly, giving a startled, “Oh!”

Chloe looked up. “What?”

“Mark... ?”

I raised my eyebrows, questioningly.

She turned to Chloe. “The pictures, Sweetie. I’m thinking about the photos?’

Chloe nodded uncertainly. Debbie turned back to me.

“The thing is, Mark ... Chloe needs a portfolio to submit. Professionals charge a bloody fortune. I wondered if you might ... well, take a few pictures for us. We could do them at our house or in the garden. Maybe one or two on the grounds of the Manor House to lend a bit of atmosphere. (The Manor is on the edge of the village. It dates back to 1610 and was a family home until the 1950’s when it was converted into a hotel. It is now a popular wedding venue.)

I glanced at Samantha, eyebrows raised.

“What a terrific idea! Mark doesn’t get nearly as much camera time as he should. And anything helping Chloe get ahead is super with me. And don’t you dare think about charging them anything, you old coot!”

I laughed, tickled as always at her barbs. “I’d be delighted to, Debbie. Just let me know two months in advance, and I’ll work it into my thoroughly overbooked schedule.”

Samantha rolled her eyes. “Two days notice will suffice. As long as it’s not Wednesday, next week. He has a doctor’s appointment in the morning.”

“I do?”

“With the neurologist. To see about your short term memory loss, dear.”

It occurred to me I was being made sport of and blushed. “How about next Saturday morning, then? Rain check to Sunday if not sunny?”

Debbie glanced at Chloe, who nodded enthusiastically.

“Saturday it is then. I’ll call round about 9 am?”

Mum and daughter nodded in unison, and the date was set.

Saturday morning arrived. mum and daughter had decided in the interim that Manor House was a preferable site over either the house or the garden. Loading up my SUV with Chloe’s selected wardrobe, we headed out, stopping by McDonald’s for a spot of breakfast. Unexpectedly, Samantha had decided against attending.

“This day couldn’t be better!” Chloe exulted. She wore a sleeveless summer frock in a floral print, and spun about beneath the tree I had selected as the first place to shoot. Debbie and I both grinned.