“Well?” she
asked, her patience apparently running out.
Gaëlle told her
about the night-time carriage ride and how Mario had invited a
drunken stranger to caress Emmanuelle’s legs, then ordered him to
take off her knickers, before thrusting the man away. He declared
that Emmanuelle wasn’t to give everything she had to just one man,
but to offer the various parts of her body to several men, in
sequence or as a group.
“I see.
Exciting as a fantasy, I suppose,” Maya commented. “Not so sure of
it in practice, though. Especially that it wasn’t her
decision.”
“It was, in a
way. She could have refused.” Gaëlle said. “But since she’d put
herself in Mario’s hands for her sexual education, it wouldn’t have
been easy to back out at that point, I agree.”
Gaëlle went on
to tell Maya about some more of her experiences and when Maya
called a halt, pleading the need to cook for her family, Gaëlle let
her go.
“The cooking is
the simple part,” Maya said as she was leaving. “I can foresee Eric
will be demanding some activity later, based on this evening’s
revelations. You know, I totally forget that he’s listening in,
now. He says I haven’t talked in my sleep since he was invited to
hear our discussions. My subconscious must have wanted him to know,
I guess.”
“It’s a relief
to me that you aren’t having to hide anything from him,” Gaëlle
said. “Give me a call to tell me when you can come again.”
“I wouldn’t
miss our chats for the world. Bye.”
Gaëlle closed
the door and went back to sit down. Being reminded of the carriage
drive incident in
Emmanuelle
had brought back the memory of
something that had happened not long after Jérôme and she had
arrived in England. She’d been in her mid-twenties and her English
at that point had been rather hit-and-miss, so she hadn’t felt
confident enough to take a job. There had been days spent
decorating their house, of course, but she’d felt the need to find
a way to practise her spoken English. A neighbour, Mary, had come
to the rescue. She ran a group that visited old people who lived
alone, giving them company and providing minor assistance. Gaëlle
had taken to it with enthusiasm, as the people she went to see were
less concerned about her grammatical mistakes than that she was a
punctual and cheerful visitor. Then Mary had asked her to take on a
man who was said to be difficult.
“
He’s the
stereotype of a grumpy old man,” Mary told Gaëlle. “He’s in his
late seventies, has only one arm and is in a wheelchair. He can be
very abrupt. Will you give him a go?”
Gaëlle pulled
up outside the man’s bungalow with a degree of trepidation. She
rang the bell and went in, as she had been instructed. At the end
of a long corridor, a figure was sitting in a wheelchair. He must
have been a big man in his youth, and she could see the remnants of
a fine bone structure in his face.
She went up to
him. “Good morning,” she said. “My name is Gaëlle. Mary sent me.”
Now she was closer, she could see the signs of plastic surgery on
both his cheeks. Mary had told her that he’d suffered a severe
facial injury during the war which had also shortened his tongue,
so he would be hard to understand. Gaëlle’s first job was to read
the newspaper to him, because with only one hand, he found it
difficult to manage. Mostly he grunted with displeasure or disgust
at the news, with which Gaëlle could sympathise. Over the next few
sessions, she began to feel more relaxed in his presence, enough to
want to have a conversation. It was difficult. His inability to
articulate frustrated him hugely. She didn’t always understand him,
and that was when she witnessed the anger that Mary had warned her
about. Gaëlle thought hard about how to overcome the problem. She
turned up a few sessions later with a large pad of lined paper. She
pushed the wheelchair over to a table and handed a pen to him.
“
If I don’t
understand you, just write what you want to say,” she told him. The
grunt that was his reply, as well as the expression on his face,
seemed to her to contain elements of pleasure and satisfaction, as
well as surprise that she’d cared enough to think of this way
forward. Over the following weeks, she learned that he’d been in
the British army at the fall of Singapore, and had spent several
years as a prisoner of war, labouring on the notorious Burma
railway. That was where he’d been wounded, while trying to escape.
The scars and the damage to his tongue had come from a bayonet
thrust intended to kill him. Gaëlle had read The Bridge on the
River Kwaï, so she had an idea of the background. The ice had been
broken between them.
When she
arrived the next time, a large photo album was sitting on the
table. After the newspaper ritual, she sat beside the wheelchair
and opened the album. The first caption, next to a photo of him as
a young man, surprised her. He’d been a captain, with several
decorations for bravery. She made appreciative noises. His life in
Singapore prior to the Japanese invasion had been great fun, it
seemed, to judge by the photos of parties, horse racing and sailing
boats. He’d been an attractive man and she commented on the number
of different women with him in the photos. He pulled the pad
towards him and wrote—
Just friends!!!
Flirting allowed.
Gaëlle smiled
and turned another page. It showed a wedding photo, but clearly
after the war. The captain’s scars were very apparent. Gaëlle had
the impression the bride was also damaged, but psychologically,
perhaps. The captain wrote again.
Damned fool.
Her, too.
“
Both of
you? Why?” Gaëlle asked.
Widow of best
chum. Went down with battleship. Both of us in mess. Thought help
each other. NBG. She left.
“
NBG?”
Gaëlle asked. He guffawed, his open mouth revealing the stump that
was all that was left of his tongue.
Sorry. Forgot
foreign. No Bloody Good.
“
At least
you tried. Your intentions were good.” Gaëlle turned the pages,
discovering nephews, nieces and other family members. The captain
wrote names and cryptic comments about them, some of them very
cutting and witty. As she was about to go, an envelope fell from
the back of the album. She held it up.
“
Do I open
this?” she asked. She was shocked to see tears beginning to slide
down the captain’s scarred cheeks. He waved his hand in dismissal,
clearly wanting to be alone. She put the envelope away again,
patted him on the shoulder and left.
When she
returned a week later, the envelope was the only thing on the
table. She looked at the captain quizzically. He nodded. Gaëlle sat
down and opened it. There was a newspaper cutting, yellow with age.
Gaëlle unfolded it.
Ex-Luftwaffe
pilot tells all
said the headline.
How 200 Wrens died in a
dive-bomber attack, on their way to their first posting in
Gibraltar in July 1942.
“
Someone you
knew?” Gaëlle asked.
Margaret.
Fiancée.
“
Oh, that’s
awful. And you didn’t find out until after the war?” He nodded.
Gaëlle looked in the envelope again and pulled out a photograph of
a young woman. She was blonde and slim, and was wearing a light
summer dress with a striking geometric pattern. It must have been
taken on a windy day, because the dress was blown tight against her
legs.
“
She was
beautiful,” Gaëlle said. “Did you take the photo?” He nodded, and
wrote—
Last leave.
Never saw her again.
“
I’m so
sorry,” Gaëlle said.
Never shown
photo. Nobody interested
“
Then I’m
honoured,” Gaëlle stood and kissed him on the forehead. He smiled,
and wrote—
Newspaper
now?
“
Of
course.”
Gaëlle told
Jérôme all about the captain each time she returned from visiting
him. He was fascinated and also happy that Gaëlle had found
something to occupy her.
During this
period, while Gaëlle was preparing herself to find a job, she’d got
into the habit of wandering round the charity shops. It was a new
experience for her, since these shops seemed to be a particularly
British phenomenon. There were books, baby buggies, china tea sets
and racks of clothes, and while browsing one day, she came across a
dress not unlike the one that she’d seen in the captain’s photo, a
cotton summer dress, a frock, the woman in the shop called it, calf
length, buttoned all the way down the front. It was cream in
colour, and with a blue and red flowered pattern. She was unable to
resist.
“
What on
earth is that?” Jérôme asked when he saw it.
“
I thought I
might wear it for the captain,” Gaëlle said. “If I take it in a
little, it will fit me.”
“
You don’t
think he’ll take it wrongly?”
“
I don’t
think so. After he’d shown me the photo, he seemed relieved, much
happier. I suspect he’s been bottling up his feelings for all these
years.”
“
Well, if
you’re prepared to take the risk. You know him better than I
do.”
Very little
alteration was needed to get the dress to fit Gaëlle, and she
modelled it for Jérôme a day or so later. “Actually, you’re right,”
he said. “It suits you. Those little puff sleeves hide your mighty
shoulders. It makes you look almost feminine.”
Gaëlle biffed
him casually with the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be
the telephone directory. It made a satisfying thunk on Jérôme’s
head. He grinned, and said, “And if you were to open a few of those
buttons, it could become quite sexy.” Gaëlle unfastened several of
the buttons and spun round. The skirt of the dress flared out,
showing most of her thighs. Jérôme applauded.
“
Told you
so,” he said.
Gaëlle arrived
at the captain’s house the following week wearing the dress. As she
walked into the room, she was nervous, hoping he wouldn’t be
offended. She needn’t have worried. His eyes lit up and he nodded
vigorously.
Lovely,
he
wrote.
Suits you.
The session
passed quickly. As she was gathering her things to leave, he wrote
again.
Same dress
another time?
“
If it makes
you happy,” Gaëlle said, and smiled. She kissed him on the forehead
again before she left. She wore the dress for him several times
after that. Eventually, though, the time had come when Gaëlle was
ready to get a job and she signed up with an agency. She’d already
told the captain that the coming week would be her last session
with him. She dressed with special care, wearing thigh-high
stockings. She put on more makeup than usual, basing it on a Rogers
and Astaire film she’d watched on television. She felt good as she
walked into the sitting room at the captain’s house. She looked at
the pad in front of him. He had already written—
I will miss
you.
“
I have to
earn money!” Gaëlle joked. “Do you like my final
performance?”
He nodded and
smiled. She sat down and read the newspaper to him. When she’d
finished, he picked up his pen.
Walk for me?
You walk well.
“
Like this?”
Gaëlle asked. She stood and walked around the room. The dress made
her feel as though she should swing her hips, so she did, allowing
the material to swirl around her legs. She sketched a dance step,
holding the dress out wide, then curtseyed to the captain.
He laughed and
banged his hand on the table in appreciation.
Gaëlle
unbuttoned the dress to just above her knees and looked at him, a
question in her eyes.
He nodded.
She unfastened
the dress further, revealing more of her thighs. The appreciation
in his eyes was obvious. Should she do more? She let go of the hem
of the dress and saw disappointment in his face. She pulled a
dining chair over and sat down facing him. Slowly, she allowed the
front panels of the dress to fall apart, revealing first her knees,
then her thighs, then the tops of her stockings.
The captain
looked her in the eye and nodded again.
Gaëlle
unfastened one more button and showed her underwear to him. In the
spirit of the dress, she had chosen to wear cream silk French
knickers. She pulled the dress back together, draping it decorously
over her knees.
The captain
pulled a face.
Gaëlle let the
dress fall apart again, taking her time to reveal her legs. When
the dress was hanging open on either side of her thighs, she moved
closer to his wheelchair.
He reached out
his hand and plucked at the elastic of Gaëlle’s knickers.
“
Would you
like me to take them off?” Gaëlle asked. His nod was emphatic. “I
have a better idea,” she said. “You can take them off for
me.”
He waved his
single hand and grimaced.
“
Don’t you
want to try?” she asked. She slid forward on her chair, thighs
apart, so that she was within reach.
The captain
stretched and slipped his fingers under the elastic. He tugged, and
the knickers slid down a little.
Gaëlle decided
she’d have to help him, so, as he pulled them down at one side, she
imitated the movement on the other hip. Gradually, her knickers
slipped off her. Once they were round her thighs, he was able to
ease them off entirely. Gaëlle unhooked her feet and parted her
legs more widely.
The captain
reached out his hand again, and Gaëlle boosted her pelvis towards
him, to allow him to touch. He stroked her sex and raised his hand
to his nose. He nodded and picked up his pen.
Wonderful
perfume. Thank you. Please go now.
Gaëlle stood
up, letting the dress drop to restore her decency. She gathered her
coat and retrieved her knickers, putting them into her handbag. She
leaned over and kissed his forehead. The captain took hold of her
hand and bowed over it, in a formal kiss. He waved his hand in
farewell and Gaëlle went home.