Chapter 3

In my opinion I’m always right, and nothing humble about my opinions either, but then I’d guess it’s the same with you. I have a theory which is that our only reason for our being here is to breed, to reproduce, to carry on our species. Not just us, but every other organism on the planet from a bacterium to a blue whale. You, I have little doubt, will tell me that I am wrong and that man is destined for higher things, to sing and dance, to write books and poetry, to paint, to praise his Maker ... utter bollocks. The more you read about the people who do those things, the artists the writers the drama queens, the more you will come to realise that the higher they reach in their chosen field the randier the buggers become. Augustus John, Eric Gill and many others were grade ‘A’ shaggers and perverts to boot. And the lady artists of every genre aren’t a lot different, Virginia Woolf, Vita Sackville West and many others all had difficulty in hanging on to their knickers if they even had any. With either sex. And I need say nothing about gentlemen of the cloth, the fourth estate does that ad nauseam.

The main problem with this theory (well, fact, because it is mine) is of course religion. There isn’t, as far as I know, any major religion that sanctions shagging for pleasure. No, it is always for reproduction, you’re only supposed to do it with intent. Intent to reproduce. Recreational sex is out, a no no, must not do it; ducks do but that’s another story. The curious thing is that this permeates every level of society, making many people feel guilty about what is perfectly natural. And it alters, or at least has a bearing on scientific theory. Take ‘what ever happened to the Neanderthals’ as an example. The answer is of course very simple; they were rogered out of existence, all their genes absorbed by homo-not-so-very-sapiens. Now, all those nice academic guys would say that was nonsense, smart handsome Cro-Magnon blokes weren’t going to roger some ugly Neanderthal tart. No? They had two legs and we know what they had in between, their man has just been knocked on the head and they’re up for it. And a standing prick doesn’t worry about what she looks like, it just wants to get where it belongs. Not pretty? Bit hairy? Doesn’t matter, they’re just for relief. So how do you shag them out of existence? If a black woman has a white man, or the other way round, then the offspring will probably be brown. And if that child grows up to mate with another white the offspring will be lighter, and so on. Just occasionally you’ll get a throw back, and probably some unfortunate consequences when the husband sees the little person. There are other implications demonstrated by a limerick that illustrates Gregor Mendel’s observations of sweet peas:

And I was taught that by the biology master at school. But that was a very long time ago.

Now for heaven’s sakes don’t accuse me of prejudice, political incorrectness perhaps, but all I have done is state and illustrate facts. The Neanderthal or Cro-Magnon women didn’t have a choice, the conqueror always took ‘droits de seigneur’. They still do.

So you can see that I am quite happy with my life style, spreading a little happiness and the occasional baby in any direction I can manage. I don’t have any hangups, and I obviously don’t have any religion. That would definitely interfere with my pursuits, and we couldn’t have that could we?

Now, carrying on from the previous part you may recall that we ended up with a little difficulty. Well, I did anyway. Joan looked at me with a clear question in her eyes. One I didn’t want to answer.

“Elle and Kate, Auntiekate that is, were here last summer,” I told her. “Hang on a mo’” I continued to Kate, “I’ll just tell Joan what she needs to know for HL...”

But Joan was already peering into the pram and cooing as women are wont to do when babies are involved, and then asked how old he was and so on, gathering all the incriminating stuff into one big pile. I continued to chat to Elle, and a few minutes later Joan left, looking at me with an expression that told me I was in deep doodoos. Kate and I then had a chat and I enthused over little Woger, yes, yes Roger, but you know how it is when a kid says something just a bit wrong and it amuses you and you just keep saying it. Well, you do don’t you?

I was, of course, looking forward to a possible rerun with Kate, although nothing specific was agreed, and I had a suspicion that, without actually using words a man would understand, Joan had staked a claim, set a few land mines and made sure that anti-tank weapons were implied if not on show.

I was up in my office later that evening when the storm broke. I heard footsteps stomping up the stairs, the door burst open and a small fury burst in.

“You are a blackguard!” where did she get that one from? “You just don’t care do you? You go around seducing women without any thought for the consequences...” and it went on in this vein for some time until she finally ran down to “ ... and you didn’t think twice with my girls, or me and now you’ve ruined this poor girl. Like fat ones do you”? she spat.

“Enough!” I said. “I like all women, and may I remind you that your own daughters are no lightweights.” And I should know, I’ve been under them often enough. “And Kate may not be small but she isn’t fat. And what the hell does it matter, I don’t mind whether they’re big or small, curvy or straight up and down.”

“Fancy the vicar do you then?”

“What?” Ouch. “Don’t be silly. Not only that,” I continued, “but your girls tricked me into getting them pregnant, you were a mistake I’ll admit, but I didn’t imagine that a woman of your age wouldn’t be on the pill, and Kate was only too delighted. Hell, we only did it once!”

I closed the distance to her and she burst into tears. I hugged her to me and she sobbed on my shoulder.

“But you’re on the pill now aren’t you?”

“Yes. No. I can’t stay on it, it’s making me ill.”

“Oh! And you don’t want any more babies.”

“That’s the problem. I loved being pregnant and I do want more.”

Ah!

I turned her face up and kissed her.

“Better get started then...”

The next morning I decided that it would be best if I kept a low profile. HL had remarked at supper that Joan had seemed a bit off and wondered if I knew why. Well of course I didn’t. So I went into town, wandered about a bit, no host of daffodils, it was too late for that, and eventually sat down at a table outside ‘Perk of the Town’, and ordered coffee from Sandy, who was one half of the couple that ran it. The other half was Julian, who looked after the cooking side, producing lots of lovely sticky things that come under the heading of ‘Bad For You’.

“You’re looking very thoughtful today,” Sandy commented.

“A lot to think about,” I replied.

Sandy giggled. “From what I hear the thinking is a bit late love,” he said.

“Ah, many a true word...”

I was just sipping my coffee when a voice called out.

“Ooo, look what I’ve found!”

And a moment later I was surrounded by two young mums and pushchairs. And a pair of hands covered my eyes.

“Guess who?”

“Hello Ruth, I can tell you apart now, Hello Louise. How are my favourite girls and their lovely little ones.”

Ruth gathered her bosom between her hands.

“Not so much of the little, and we hear that you’ve a penchant for even larger ones.”

“Mother been on the phone then?”

Yes. And she says she’s pregnant again.”

“What? But we only started last...”

Clearly whilst Joan had gone to stay with her sister, ostensibly until the pill was working, she hadn’t been taking it for some time. Someone was going to have a very sore bottom later. ‘Better get started’ indeed.

The girls thought this was highly amusing.

“You didn’t know? And now it seems you’ve got something else that you need to tell us.”

“I have?”

I didn’t think I was going to get away with this anyway, but the game was clearly up when another pushchair hove into view piloted by none other than the lady the girls wanted to know about. So now they could ask her themselves.

I introduced Kate to the girls.

Now if there is one thing I can say about Ruth and Louise it is that they never seem to suffer from jealousy, unlike their mother, and they are generous to a fault when it comes to spreading my favours about. So in no time at all they had sorted out all there was to know about Kate, including that she wanted a little sister for Woger, sorry, Roger, and had sorted out when Kate and I could meet at their house. Very kind I’m sure, and equally sure they were looking forward to extending their home video collection. I had some nasty suspicions about what they were doing with their videos, they never seemed short of money and they certainly had never been known to suffer from moral scruples. Something I’d have to look into.

I left them to it shortly afterwards, there was no point in my listening to their schemes, I’d find out what they had in store for me sooner or later. So I went home.

Joan assured me that evening that she did not enjoy having her bottom well and truly smacked, but I have to say that the way she reacted afterwards left me in some doubt as to the truth of that. If she hadn’t already been pregnant then I am sure she would have been after that.

The next day I went to see the girls, Ruth and Louise. We sat round the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and they filled me in on their schemes, the ones involving me and Kate that is.

“Have you told her she’ll be the star of your latest video?”

The girls looked at each other.

“I think you ought to, you know, seems only right. Especially when you put it on the website.”

Of course I had no real idea, it was just the sort of question you could laugh off if it was wrong. However, it was immediately apparent that I had hit the nail fully on the head.

There were some spluttering sounds and I pressed home my advantage.

“And what about your mother, does she know?”

“Www...”

“I’ll take that as a no then. And how much are you making out of this highly illegal operation?”

Ruth recovered first and named a figure that made my eyebrows shoot up so far I’m surprised they didn’t stick.

“How did you know? And it’s not illegal,” spluttered Louise.

“I didn’t. it was a long shot which obviously hit. And it is illegal when your stars aren’t aware of what is going on. Me for instance. Your mother. And does Rosina know?”

There was silence.

“No, I thought not. And you two are drawing benefits too aren’t you? How long do you think you’ll get locked up for? And what about the children? Do you think social services will think you are fit mothers?”

The only sound now was of the two girls sobbing. Blow me what a pair.

“I should go and take that site down now if I were you. And then start praying that no one who might matter sees it, including your dear mama because I hate to think what she’ll say.”

“You aren’t going to tell her?” ventured Louise. “Please.”

Well, when you’ve an advantage it’s as well to use it isn’t it? I left some time later.

This had, of course, all happened some time after the next part and it is sometimes difficult to keep the time line in order, but you really need to know about the vicar, a subject on which I had earlier told a barefaced lie. Not a fib, or even a little white one, but a big black barefaced porky pie.

I have been umming and ahing about whether to tell you the next bit. Y’see after I had thought about it and worked out most of it I saw a picture of Justin Welby, he’s the Archbish of Canterbury for those of you who are not Anglicans, and he was surrounded by lady vicars. A delightful lot I’m sure, lovely ladies but not one under fifty, and whilst I have nothing against a little matronly fun, and would certainly never turn one down, if I were to suggest to you that they were the major subjects of my erotic desires you wouldn’t believe me. And quite right too. But then a week or two later I was watching BBC Breakfast, as I do whilst consuming mine, and there was an item about I know not what but they had a vicar sitting on the sofa and she was drop dead gorgeous. Honestly. And then a little while later they had another who was even more gorgeous. So...

What I haven’t told you is that not long after we arrived at our new home we had a visit from the local vicar to welcome us, and obviously to drum up business. I had been out in my workshop when HL called me in to meet her. Yes, her. We sat down and HL produced a cup of tea and we proceeded to chat. I have referred to her earlier, but she wasn’t pregnant at this time, and from Joan’s earlier comment in the previous part you might have assumed that she had a rather slender figure. Straight up and down would be a very accurate description of the lady in front of me. I cannot recall ever seeing a figure which might be described as ‘manish’ before, but it wasn’t really, and it belonged to a person who was clearly female, just lacked bum and boobs. She had very short hair, dark brown and layered to her head, and large hazel eyes. She also had a broad gold band on the third finger of her left hand; yes, of course I looked, same as you do, vicar or not.

I told her that I was an anatheist, which means I don’t give a damn whether there is a god or not, although I have no idea what HL believes in, if anything, and she was unfazed. Not a problem she said, there was a lot of it about. In fact she admitted that probably very few of those who turned up a church on special occasions, other than those who attended regularly, were really believers, commenting at one point on a lady we had met that she wasn’t a Christian but a flower lady. Well, there y’go.

She did, however, have another way of getting her flock to turn out. Every week she led a group of ramblers, better known to farmers as another form of vermin, around local walks, and occasionally further afield. She appreciated that HL would be unable to join them, but perhaps I could be persuaded. To be honest I do enjoy walking and the vicar was a very comely wench despite the figure, so it would be no hardship. HL was very amused by the idea and so a date was set for a few days hence.

There were ten of us including myself and the vicar, all assembled in the local pub car park ready to take a local circular walk. I don’t know if you have been on this sort of thing, but everyone sets off at the same time but quickly fall into a disordered gaggle. Some people stick with their partners, whilst others walk and chat to one person at one time and another later on. I got to meet a number of people, a pair of middle aged ladies who lived together, a couple of married and retireds, several singles, either living alone or without their husbands or wives and of course the vicar and me, both in the latter category.