Chapter 5: Interruptus

"And she married a Greek?"

"Well, sort of. Prince Philip. And they had these kids, Princes and a Princess. And they've had kids, too."

"That's a funny word! Kids." She tried the word, wonderingly, as if tasting it. "There's so much I don't know. What about the War? Was it the same as the War?"

"The same as World War One? Sort of. The same teams playing." They were strolling beneath the trees in Archdeacon Park, which stretched out on the opposite side of the street from Number 12a. From here, on the grassy slope, you could see clear across the fields to the railway viaduct. It was all houses now, down there. Now, but not now.

A train was pulling away from Staunchbury station, piling mounds of clean white steam into the crisp still air. It clanked on to the viaduct, its motion gleaming and sparkling in the sunshine, a shining green engine, weeping wisps of steam; a pounding monster hauling a brief train of four carriages and a small black van like a full stop at the end. Ethel appeared not to notice it at all.

"See the bridge down there? The railway?"

"Of course. What about it?"

"They say a bomb blew a blooming great hole in it. Just about where the train is now. It's closed now, the railway."

"Closed?" Her brow furrowed. "Because of the bombs?"

"No. It's just closed."

"But how do you get to London?"

"The trains come out of the station and go the long way round. But most people go by car, of course. Everybody's got a car."

The steam drifted across the face of the sun and Ethel shuddered. "Let's walk again."

"I said I was going to bring you something, didn't I?"

"A pair of that Jean's trousers."

"Jeans, yes. They're in the shop. I left them there. I didn't want Sally to see I'd brought you a prezzie."

"A prezzie? Present? You've got all these silly little words. Like baby talk. Can I try them on when we get back? Dare I?"

"Of course! They're yours."

"I can't imagine what I'd look like. I never saw a woman in trousers like that. Are they tight round the bottom like yours?"

"Probably tighter!" He patted her gently, bringing a little gasp and a furtive glance round the park. There was hardly anyone in sight, only a man in a flat cap with two gambolling dogs in the distance. Warm bottom. Russ allowed his hand to rest there for a moment. She clutched his arm urgently.

"Russ! We mustn't! Can we go back? To the shop?"

Russ felt a trace of disappointment. "If you like."

"I can let Herbert go home. He said he would wait until we got back. Sally called him Herbie! Nobody ever called him that before, he said."

"I think he made quite an impression on young Sally."

"She made an impression on him! I don't know what she said to him, but he was shaking like a leaf after you took her back. I told him you'd taken her back to school! He just gave a kind of groan. Poor Herbert! I don't think he's ever been courting. Must be the first time a tart's ever spoken to him!"

"Tart? Sally? She may look extreme, but she's a nice girl. I wouldn't be surprised if she was still a virgin. Maybe the last survivor in her class. You won't catch her admitting it, though."

They paused to scrape the mud and leaves from their shoes, then crossed Archdeacon Street, as a navy-blue-uniformed nanny trundled a large-wheeled pram up the street. It bounced over the cobbles: the nanny pushing wearily against the gradient.

"That's the first time I've ever seen anyone around here. It's always been deserted. I wonder what it would be like if anyone was watching at the moment I did my disappearing act."

"I could watch you go, and let you know?" She laughed up at him and pushed open the door.

Ethel emerged from the kitchen shyly, staying behind the table.

"Come on out, let's have a look at you!"

"I'm shy!" But she edged out from behind the table. "I put the jumper on as well. You didn't say you'd brought one of these. It was for me, wasn't it?"

"Of course. It's a sweater, by the way. I had to guess at the size." A reasonable guess, he had to admit. She stood beneath the lamp, holding her knees together, shoulders drooping slightly. "Come on, dear! Stand up straight. Shoulders back!"

Ethel obeyed, then performed a slow turn. She had a waist, he realised. And a bottom to die for. He had to reassess his first impression of her bust. Now, gathered in by the sweater and with her waist pulled in tight, Ethel's breasts swelled out most interestingly, actually overhanging her waist by three or four inches. No wonder she was shy. And blushing like a beacon. "What do you think?" A tiny voice.

"You look stunning! Come here." She did, stopping about a foot short. "Closer. That's better." Much better.

"Hold me tight, Russ." It was barely a whisper. But enough.

"You're shivering."

"I know. Ooh! What will we do if Herbert comes in?" Despite her question, Ethel snuggled closer and wriggled against his body. So soft and big, those breasts. Where had they been until now? Obviously she just let them dangle, and they reached down to ... God knows where! Russ held her bottom, crushing her to him: the globes of her buttocks deliciously plump and rounded in the unyielding denim. "I can feel you," she gasped softly. Ah, so!

Her lips were so soft, moist and slightly parted, and she shuddered as his tongue probed into her mouth. She seemed oddly unsure of the technique, but soon picked it up and experimented with some little tricks of her own. Delightfully.

She broke the kiss and leaned back in his arms. "What's the word you use? Wow?"

"It seems to sum things up fairly well, I think. Modern clothes suit you. You're a sexy little nineties girl."

"Nineties girl? You make me sound like my grandmother!" She hung her head and looked up under her eyelashes. "She was big. Around here!" She indicated her bosom with an uncertain little circular motion of her hand.

"I think you need one more item of nineties clothing, young lady!"

"A bra, you mean?" Daringly.

Russ nodded. "The trouble is, I won't be able to find one to fit you."

"Not in Marks and Sparks!"

"Certainly not in Marks and Sparks!"

"Where does Sally get hers?"

"I've never asked her! I suppose she gets them from a special shop, or by mail order. They might even be specially made for her."

"You could bring me one of hers, then."

"It would be too big. Around the chest, I mean. She's bigger built than you."

"That settles it, then, doesn't it? You will have to find out where Sally gets her bras, then take me back with you so I can get one. How much will it cost? I've got some money." She slipped away and picked up her purse. "Oh, I've got pounds and simply pounds!"

"It will be quite expensive. Especially if it's made to measure."

"Five shillings? Seven and six? More? Ten shillings? Fifteen?"

"At least fifteen. Pounds! Maybe thirty or forty. I don't know. I've never bought a custom bra before."

"Custom. Another one of your silly words. I suppose it means ridiculously expensive."

"Probably," Russ laughed. "Where are you going?"

"To put my dress back on. If anyone sees me like this, I don't know what I'll do. I would have to join a nunnery." Her face clouded. "And I don't think they'd have me."

"You mean you're a fallen woman?"

She nodded, then turned and hurried into the kitchen. She was upset about something. Women's stuff. So she wasn't a virgin. No big deal, Russ thought. It wasn't really expected, after all. An image of Claire suddenly flashed into his mind. Could he be unfaithful to Claire? Would it be unfaithfulness in fact, if it took place in 1928, half a century before Claire was born? Hardly! Although the circumstances were a little unusual, he had to admit.

"Russ! Could you come in here a minute?"

"What's the matter?" He went to the kitchen doorway and looked inside.

"I can't undo this..." She was trying to unhook the waistband of the jeans, twisting from the waist, straining to see. Her task wasn't being made any easier by her having taken her sweater off. "It's stuck," she almost whispered, looking up into his face. Her blush was spreading down her neck and shoulders, suffusing her upper chest. Not as far as her breasts, as he could now see. They hung well past her waist, getting in the way of her hands. They were heavy and appallingly pendulous. There was barely any discernible swelling until almost the level of her navel, just a mass of stretch marks. These were the breasts of a woman - a very large breasted woman - who had never known a bra in her life.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Could you help? I'll hold myself out of the way." She scooped her breasts up from underneath and held them up and to one side. They hung over her slender forearm. Fat, crinkled nipples were surrounded by richly-textured dark-hued areolae.

Spellbound, Russ hung back, until Ethel gave a little squeak to urge him to action. He almost dived in. It was really stuck. The zipper had become entangled with a bunch of threads. She had tried to jerk it free, but it was completely jammed. "I can't get at it," he complained, tugging at it. Her nakedness was inhibiting, intimidating. "Come out into the light, where I can see." She followed him out into the work room. "Sit up there, then lie back."

Obediently, she perched her rump on the table and lay back beside the horn of the gramophone, allowing her breasts to rest on the table to each side of her body. "Spread your legs a bit. That's better. I can see now! Hold tight. Got it!"

The zipper objected for a moment, then slid down.

"Wow!" she sighed.

"I couldn't have put it better myself."

Ethel remained on her back. "Pull them down, Russ."

He swallowed, but began to work the jeans down her hips. She raised her bottom slightly, wriggling first one way then the other. They slid off at last and he dropped them on the chair. Her knickers were silky - probably pure silk - and voluminous, gathered at the thighs with elastic. Russ found his hand caressing the cool, pink fabric covering Ethel's softly mounded tummy. She squirmed luxuriously, moaning.