Chapter 15: To Greenwich

Sir Bristow had proposed that I bring the Tusker sisters to meet with him at Greenwich. He was using, he said, the splendid Painted Hall of the Royal Greenwich Hospital for Seamen as the venue to interview those Institute members adjudged as potential beneficiaries of the Institute's bursary. There has been a deep relationship between the Institute and the Navy; so many of the innovations of the former have been of benefit to the latter. Such was the warmth of the relationship between the Navy and the Institute that the Navy was happy to make their facilities available whilst the Institute were engaged in advising on the creation of a museum of the country's nautical past that might one day grace the site.

My client claimed that he needed the meeting to assist in the selection of suitable candidates. For my part, I suspected that it was as much a matter of salacious curiosity as of any genuine need to assess my pupils. It suited me to indulge him, however. The girls had not been outside the Highgate house since the day of their arrival and, while a pale complexion is often thought attractive, I am of the belief that fresh air can be beneficial. "Fresh" was not, however, the adjective that could be applied to the sultry atmosphere that hung over town on the morning of our expedition.

The girls were at first surprised and then pleased at the prospect of being allowed to dress for the first time since their arrival at Highgate; I had no wish to outrage public morality or to excite comment by parading two naked and crop-welted women through the streets. Equally, I chose to allow them to venture out unbound. They had been shackled, strapped or roped in one way or another for the preceding three weeks. They had become acclimatised to having their mouths filled or strapped shut. It would have been no difficulty to have contrived to have them helpless in such a way as to be unnoticeable to passers-by, but I determined that they would find it rather disorienting to be unfettered save for the belts that protected their maidenly status and that suited my purpose. So, for now, they were free except, of course, for the padlocked belts they wore beneath their clothes to protect against sexual exploitation by themselves or others. The two of them evidently found the experience novel, even disturbing, but, to their credit, conducted themselves well, accompanying me on the first stage of our journey through Highgate in silence.

We took the Over Rail. Its ingenious combination of pneumatic traction and a monorail track hung from gantries running over the streets of the capital gave us a smooth and almost silent ride. The great wrought-iron bi-pod gantries that carry the track bestride the capital in a most impressive way and while there are those that feel that the Over Rail is a blot on the city-scape I find the stateliness of the structures a constant source of wonder.

At the Over Rail Exchange near Hyde Park Corner, we disembarked from the glazed torpedo-like car to await our connection on the Dockside Line. Amanda and Estelle waited patiently, standing close to me and saying nothing to one another. The other travellers took little notice of us. I wondered what they would make of the fact that the two girls had belts of rubber and metal chained in place across their sexual parts and that both bore thick welts and bruises on their buttocks as a result of their recent education. I had little doubt that few of them would understand the benefits that my two charges gained from my treatment of them.

The Dockside Line Over Rail car arrived and we stepped through into the comfortable interior. Its padded seats and leather armrests meant that our journey would be no more tiring than it needed to be. The press of the early morning commuter traffic had dispersed and we had most of the car to ourselves as it pulled away with a quiet hiss from the Exchange. The Over Rail straddled Grosvenor Place as it headed down towards the Embankment. I remembered the outrage when it had first been proposed. The idea that people would be able to see from the Over Rail cars down into the grounds of Buckingham Palace had been a great source of scandal in the tabloid media. The fact that Her Majesty had seen fit to use the Over Rail on one of her own journeys soon overcame that!

The track took us onwards along the north bank of the Thames. The river was busy with barge traffic, small tugs dragging their strings of lighters upstream puffing hard against current and tide.

Estelle and Amanda sat silently. It was so very different from the first time that we had shared a carriage. Hands in their laps, they contented themselves with the view from the car. It may be that they had some apprehension regarding what awaited them in Greenwich but, if so, they gave no evidence of it.

The Pool of London was busy with steamers, paddle freighters and sailing vessels, all fighting for berth space to unload or load their cargoes. As we passed Limehouse, Amanda gave a nervous glance towards an ocean-going junk that was moored there. I suspected that, for a moment at least, she imagined she was about to be consigned to the fate that she had fantasised for herself so many times, but we soon left the Hong Kong company's wharf behind us.

The car hissed to a stop at Island Gardens, a most inappropriately named stop, I feel. The small park was in shadow from the great forest of masts of the ships moored in the river. The road alongside was noisy with the toing and froing of numerous trucks carrying their cargoes on to the rail yards to the north. I ushered the girls towards the domed housing over the entrance to Sir Alexander Binnie's foot tunnel[1] under the river to Greenwich. They had evidently never heard of the footway and seemed surprised when we emerged on the southern riverside to be greeted by Sir Bristow on the steps of the Royal Naval College.

Ngoya Mbute was standing behind him. She was dressed in a cream silk outfit that hung closely to her figure. I found myself regretting that she was not a guest in my rooms at Highgate. Her appraisal of my companions seemed no less penetrating than that of Sir Bristow as she stared at them coolly; one hand slapping a long glove into the opposite palm and drawing it sensuously through a strong grip.

"Very nice," Sir Bristow affirmed. He took the time to inspect my charges thoroughly, walking around the two girls, peering closely at their complexion, examining their hair, lifting each girl's chin in turn to allow him to look them clearly in the eye.