Whip Hands (3 page)

‘You do this as a business?'

‘On a branch librarian's wages, my dear, I could never afford to keep this place up.'

‘But how could Karl possibly afford it?'

‘Believe me, Verity, he could afford to come every night if he wished. His family treat him generously. I understand you have not yet visited his luxurious flat just around the corner of the square.'

‘I thought he lived in the boarding house. So why couldn't he pay the library fines for the overdue books?'

‘Because he dreamed up this way of putting you in my hands for an evening. With the best of intentions, he thought I could... bring you on a little. And that is exactly what has happened. I hope you enjoyed your first taste of classroom punishment and will go on to enjoy more.' Miss Praeger sighed softly. ‘Now Karl is waiting for you in the hallway. Enjoy the rest of the night, my dear.'

The evident sadness in Miss Praeger's voice made Verity wonder about her love life. For the first time she felt she was seeing a vulnerable side of her superior. Impulsively she went up to her and held her fleetingly in a cheek to cheek embrace.

Then, with a ‘See you tomorrow' tossed over one shoulder, Verity made a beeline for the door. Tripping nimbly down the staircase, she looked down to see Karl's squat figure dark against the white marble floor of the hallway.

He owed her an explanation. And she knew she would get it, eventually, when he was ready. Hugging her nakedness beneath her coat, she was strangely excited at what awaited her.

 

 

 

‘Higher, please.
Piu alto, signorina. Eccola!
' Eloquent hands indicated that I should pull the hem of my skirt higher. Much higher than I would normally have worn it.

The scene was like something out of a B-movie, or a bad dream. A single mother needing a part-time job, I had walked into the restaurant off the street after seeing a hand-written notice in the window. The inside was rather more cheerful than the steamed-up windows had revealed, with red check tablecloths and colourful posters of beaches and historic cities on the walls. So far, so good. I was desperate for extra income and I was expecting something in the kitchen at best.

I didn't know anything very much about Italians, except that you took everything they said with a pinch of salt. That's what my friend Nerys said. Especially with a holiday romance, she'd added. I wouldn't have known because holiday romances were not on the agenda after I'd married at eighteen.

However, this skirt-raising business was going a bit far. Apparently I was being considered for a job as a waitress. Costanzo - at least, I assumed that was his name as the place was called Costanzo's - twirled with his downward pointing finger and I did a slow pirouette before letting go of my pleated cotton skirt. That was his lot as far as I was concerned.

He looked crestfallen. Even his moustache drooped further than it already did. This was just what you should expect from these volatile Mediterranean men, apparently. I'd done some waitressing in pubs and hotel bars but never anything where an inspection of my legs had been part of the interview process. I was about to ask who else was on the staff. It was then I noticed, through the glass porthole in the swing doors, a pair of dark brown eyes inspecting me from the kitchen.

A plump girl in a black waitress tunic inched her way out and smiled at me reassuringly. She nodded at Costanzo, who seemed unsure. ‘Okay,
signorina
,' he decided reluctantly. ‘Your hours will be from six till midnight three nights a week, including Friday and Saturday. You understand? You will be paid five pounds an hour and be permitted to keep your tips. When can you start?'

The money didn't sound great, but the tips could make all the difference. I knew at the weekend I could get my mum to baby-sit. So I said I'd try it.

Friday came round in no time and when I once again threaded my way through the narrow back streets towards the restaurant I began to suffer misgivings. This was not a very salubrious part of town, with half the shops boarded up and the others being used for storage. Still, Costanzo's cast a cheery glow into the surrounding winter gloom when I pushed open the main door, which was festooned with raffia dolls.

Fidellina was the name of the other waitress. She beckoned me over to a table where she had been talking with a distinguished, silver-haired man who wore some military ribbons in the lapel of his well-pressed suit. Excusing herself, Fidellina drew me towards the back of the restaurant, beyond the bar with its long-necked wine bottles and fake fruit, and opened a door under the stairs. It contained a dingy cupboard just about large enough for two at the high end.

‘We call this the staff changing room,' she told me. ‘Luckily there are not very many staff here. So we manage okay. The cook, Riccardo, changes in the kitchen anyway.' Whilst I was absorbing this information, and eyeing up the tunic I imagined was for me, she told me her name and asked me mine.

Fidellina was second-generation Italian, so her English was good. With Costanzo and Riccardo it was difficult to know how much they really understood, as both preferred to give me long looks rather than actually open a conversation.

‘Now, Geraldine, you must get changed
pronto
,' Fidellina said. ‘The customers will begin to arrive within half an hour and then we will become very busy.'

I emerged five minutes later, tugging desperately at my black nylon tunic. The top half didn't fit too badly but the skirt was much shorter than I would normally wear.

To begin with I felt very self-conscious about bending over to serve anyone, but Fidellina demonstrated that bending at the knees was the best way to retain a figment of modesty. The clients seemed to be entirely male. First of all they ordered flasks of wine. They then spent hours playing cards, or another game like dominoes in a noisy fashion. There was a whole lot of gesticulation and shouting across the room. Not really a place you'd go to if you were looking for a romantic night out. Mind you, the food was very tasty, and I could take leftovers home with me most nights.

A number of the patrons had black armbands which, according to Fidellina, who was able to converse in Italian with them, indicated they had lost a close relative, possibly a wife. They generally had something to eat after eight. They finished the evening off with some clear spirit that burned the back of my throat fiercely when I tried a sip.

The following night, a Saturday, there was more of a crowd. Fidellina seemed to be getting large tips from some of the regulars; in fact, there seemed to be some rivalry as to who could offer the biggest. Becoming flustered by all the attention, she eventually declared enough. After due consideration she pointed to one large chap with a red face. He stood up and made a mock bow, which was greeted by shouts and clapping. It all seemed quite friendly, but then, of course, I couldn't understand a word.

A few minutes later, taking a quick break in the changing room, where there were two wobbly chairs, I heard a heavy tread on the stairs above my head. Then Fidellina poked her head round the door.

‘Geraldine, can you take over?'

‘Of course, Fidellina. Are you getting off early tonight, then?'

‘No, I will see you again in half an hour or less. I'm just going upstairs. Don't worry.'

She retreated behind the door, whispering something under her breath. She seemed agitated, quite unlike her usual good-natured self. The next moment I heard her climbing the stairs. I was just in time to see her open the door at the top of a narrow flight of stairs leading to an upstairs room. When I returned to the restaurant, through a thick fog of pungent cigarette and pipe smoke, there was an expectant hush in the air. I asked Costanzo for an explanation.

Positioned at the foot of the stairs, he looked more shifty than ever, refusing to look me in the eye. ‘
E niente, signorina
,' he grunted. ‘Is nothing. Everything as usual. Return to the tables and refill the glasses.'

‘
Uno
.' I heard the combined whispering of the assembled diners as I went around the tables. ‘
Due... Tre... Quattro... Cinque
.' Many of them had their eyes turned towards the ceiling in expectation, whilst others had one hand cupped to an ear. I had picked up enough Italian to work out they were counting. But what? No one could explain; each motioned for me to be quiet. ‘
Dieci... Undici... Dodici
...'

As the numbers increased the sense of anticipation grew. I could hear nothing, but once or twice I thought I caught what sounded like a clap and a muffled, high-pitched gasp. At last it was all over; I think I counted twenty. A few minutes later, I saw Fidellina come down the stairs and skip into the changing room.

Even though some customers were holding up their empty glasses for more grappa, I went to see if Fidellina needed any help. On the way I was almost knocked over by the red-faced man as he strode back into the restaurant. He received the accolade of a conquering hero, looking more florid than ever.

When I opened the door, Fidellina turned round in alarm. She had her knickers halfway down her thighs and had been inspecting her bottom with a small make-up mirror. Her eyes were red and puffy but she looked away quickly. I sensed she wanted to confide in me, but Costanzo interrupted by knocking on the door.

An hour later, the last customers had made their way out. At last Fidellina and I were alone. As we were putting chairs on the tables I noticed she sometimes caught her breath as she bent down. Looking over, I saw ugly dark red weals around the tops of her thighs where her skirt had ridden up.

‘Fidellina, do you mind if I ask what you were doing upstairs?' My voice quavered a little as I put the question, almost as if I feared to hear the answer.

She blushed bright scarlet and looked away. There was a short silence; then I was sure I heard a sob. ‘Oh, Geraldine, I feel so guilty,' she whispered. ‘It wasn't right of me to do this to you. But I just cannot do it again tomorrow; it is too sore.'

My head reeled in confusion. Whatever could she mean? ‘Try and calm yourself. What exactly has this to do with me?' I asked.

What she said next made me gasp with disbelief. It was my turn to blush scarlet.

 

‘
Signorina, ecco la mia mancia
. A tip, you understand?
Un piccolo segreto
, okay?' a large fat man hissed into my ear while thrusting a ten-pound note into the pocket of my apron before I had an opportunity to refuse. Fidellina had warned me what would happen on my arrival. The word had spread quickly that tonight I was to be the one.

Greeted with knowing smiles from almost every table, I was alarmed to see that Costanzo's was packed with diners. I had never known the place so busy. Now the
professore
summoned me over to clear away his coffee cup. As he paid the bill he slipped me fifteen pounds in fivers with an inquisitive look. I smiled encouragingly while avoiding his surreptitious attempt to pinch my backside with an unoccupied hand. For all his ascetic appearance, the old man was aquiver with anticipation. Perhaps the black armband explained it.

As Fidellina had put it, they were bidding for the honour of taking me upstairs. It was to be a few playful slaps and that was it, but even so I'd had some serious doubts. The bidding process was done secretly, she explained, making sure I realised how much I stood to gain. Three or four interested parties would each put up an initial bid. If there was no outright winner they were each invited to raise their bid. The total stake money would end up in my pocket. How could I fail to be the lucky winner for half an hour's spanking in the upstairs room?

By half-past ten there were two ‘tips' of fifteen pounds and the three bidders were invited to raise their stakes, without knowing who was in front. Two put up another five pounds each, but the military type produced a further ten-pound note with a flourish from an elegant morocco pocketbook and clinched the deal. Having stuffed my prize haul of sixty pounds into my apron, I took it off and handed it to Fidellina, who smiled encouragingly and squeezed my hand.

My instructions were to waste no time but get myself prettified. After I had quickly tidied my hair in the cupboard, Costanzo came to fetch me. As I started the climb up the narrow staircase I was painfully aware of the expectant hush that was beginning to settle on the diners.

As I pushed open the door, I received a surprise. The upstairs room was richly furnished. A faded terracotta rug covered most of the floor and there was a faint aroma of expensive cigars in the air. The space was dominated by a large dining table carved out of some dark wood with matching chairs. A fireplace at one end gave off a soft glow and the colonel, as Fidellina had identified him, stood near this, holding a tiny tumbler of clear spirit between thumb and forefinger. He was looking out through a large bay window on the other side of the dining table.

‘
Buona sera, signorina
. I think this is your first visit to the club room, yes?' The question was more of a statement, accompanied by the briefest of smiles. ‘Go to the corner cupboard, please, and unlock the door.'