Chapter 6
It was around ten o'clock the morning that Margaret awoke.
She lay in bed for a moment or two trying to trace the cause of the delightfully relaxed feeling that had replaced her usual rather tense irritability on awakening.
Then she remembered. She smiled en and her hands slid luxuriously over her rearing titties, barely concealed in a coffee coloured chiffon nightie, to her fanny.
She held it clasped in her hands.
"What a night!" she murmured.
She had only allowed Tony... and for that matter Ernest... to return to the camp on the advice of Agnes.
"Mrs. Peterson," she had said, her normal mode of address having returned to her at about the same time as Ernest had restored her drawers. We've got away with murder tonight. Just say anyone saw these two nipping off in the morning. It could be trouble for you and me. Don't forget I'm stil on a B.O." A B.O., it transpired, was a Bind Over!
"Oh, it's so heartless, Agnes," Margaret had cried. "We've had so much fun and we're going to nice warm soft beds to sleep it off. Let them sleep with us tonight. We just can't send them back to those dreary tents."
"Listen," rapped Agnes, "I'd rather them go back to their dreary tents than me have to go back to a dreary prison. And you... d'you want to go along to the dreary divorce court? I don't say it would happen, but it could. Let 'em go tonight. This isn't the anly night of fun we can have."
Reluctantly Margaret agreed. It was significant that the two boys wishes weren't consulted. On being asked if they minded returning to their camp they had both said that they did and had been promptly ignored!
Margaret's last words, after she had tenderly kissed Tony goodbye and teased him about his swift infidelity, was to Ernest.
"Something you said earlier, Ernest," she had said. "About a party up here. Do you think it could be discreetly organised. And, Ernest, I do mean discreetly!"
Ernest's sang froid returned with the departure of the demands upon his stamina.
"Sure... sure!' he had boasted. "I'll lay it on lor you.
"Hut only boys and girls that you can trust," she had insisted.
She had almost mouthed the words 'boys and girls and Ernest had looked at her with a quick under standing.
"I know what you want. Leave it to me."
"No terrible hurry," Margaret had smiled, "as soon as you can without causing talk."'
He had nodded and had left with Tony.
Margaret was not to know it but the party was to be forced upon her despite any wishes she might have had and a lot quicker than she could have wished or perhaps even desired.
There was a soft tap at her door.
"Come in," she called.
The door opened. It was Agnes. A very different looking Agnes from the Agnes of orgy of the night before. A trim, neat, efficient, cool looking Agnes who lookes as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth let alone cock melt in her fanny!
"Good morning, madam," she said. She held a silver breakfast tray in her hands. "I thought you might like yours breakfast in bed this morning."
Margaret smiled. Was this to be Agnes's only recognition of the event of the night before, the thought that her mistress might feel just that trifle too exhausted to arise for breakfast?
"What a nice thought!" smiled Margaret. "How do you feel this morning?"
This must reasured Agnes as to her reception for she gave Margaret a lovely grin and answered briefly: "Sore!"
She came over to the bedside and placed the tray across the bed.
Margaret wriggled into position and Agnes began to pour her tea.
"I feel quite all right... not even a bit sore!" said Margaret.
"You're in practice!" replied Agnes.
"If you knew more about Gerald," observed Margaret, "you might think I was out of training."
Agnes finished pouring the tea. Margaret patted the bed beside her. "Sit down," she said. "You should have brought yourself a cup."
Agnes sat down and looked gratefull at her mistress. "Where we tight last night?" she asked.
For a moment Margaret genuinely misunderstood. "They didn't seem to find us tight... Oh dear my one track mind! You mean drunk! Well, I think I might have been just the weeniest bit tizzy. You were all right, though."
"Thanks very much!" cried Agnes.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked Margaret, staring at her in surprise.
"What you're saying is that what you did you did when you were a bit drunk while I did it while I was sober."
"In didn't mean that. Eventually... perhaps not so quickly, but eventually... I'd have done the same thing sober."
Agnes wrinkled her nose. "Thanks!" she said. "I've been thinking all morning that I was just a loose little tart giving way to some pretty nasty feelings but that you were just a silly who's had too much do drink."
"Well, you can forget that. I know it's wrong of me and I know I should be ashamed of myself and I know that I should be worrying about how I can even look Gerald in the face again, but the plain, honest truth it that my conscience hasn't said a word to me and I'm looking forward to the next time."
"My conscience has been giving me hell!" said Agnes. "After all I kicked off with a kid of seventeen..."
"You're only seventeen, yourself," interrupted Margaret, with a smile.
"...and finished off with a kid of fifteen!" finished Agnes, grimly.
"And enjoyed every second of it!" laughed Margaret.
"That's what worries me!" She paused for a moment and then her beautiful young face broke into an impish grin. "I read something once that amused me. Someone said The best way to get rid of a temptation is to give into it!' D'you believe that's
"I suppose I shouldn't... but I do!"
"Oh, to hell with it! I suppose what I'm really worried about, if I'm honest, is getting found out!"
"I don't even think I'm worried about that," said Margaret, sipping her tea.
"You must be getting on pretty badly with Mr. Peterson," observed Agnes, curiously.
"Not very well, I'm afraid. Not in the way we're talking about, anyway. You see, I've never realised it properly before, but I'm a sexy woman."
"You're telling me!" said Agnes, dryly.
"Well, Gerald isn't a sexy man."
"That usually spells trouble."
"You're quite profound in these matters for your age," smiled Margaret.
"I've been around... so help me, I've been around! I've seen it both ways. A man's got a cold wife... they're the one's / usually get! Or a woman's got a cold husband, or says she has... It always works out the same, then. She grabs the first stiff... listen to us! Aren't we getting coarse?"
Margaret threw back her head and chortled with laughter.
Agnes watched her with a smile. "It's true, though, isn't it? When we let our hair down it's a wonder we don't trip over it. For me it was always on the cards I'd meet some youngst er and let him drag my pants down as soon as he showed he wanted to. But you!" She shook her head in amazement. "But the way you took to this sort of thing. It's none of my business... but is this the first time? I mean, since you've been hitched?"
"Yes," said Margaret. "It is. Mind you, there haven't been a lot of temptations. There was one though." She finished her tea and put the cup down.
"Another?" asked Agnes.
She nodded. "Please. I went up to Town to meet an old school friend. Gerald drove me up and I had couple of hours to waste before I met the friend. I went to a cinema. I was before lunch and the cinema was almost empty. A man came and sat beside me..."
"That can only mean one thing!" coccented Agnes.
T suppose I knew that. He offered me a cigarette and I refused. You know, thinking back on it, that was my cue to move if I really hadn't wanted to be pestered." She looked at Agnes and smiled.
"Needless to say I didn't move. He was a man in his middle forties as far as I could judge. His knee touched mine."
"The old routine!" sighed Agnes.
"I suppose so. Then he put his hand on his knee and that meant it was only inches to mine. He touched my knee with his fingers. I moved it. He was quiet for a bit, then over came his knee again. I had moved mine so far that to move it any farther I'd to have shifted seats..."
"So you stayed where you were? I've done that!" chuckled Agnes.
"Again his fingers touched my knee. I realise now that I only had seconds... or fractions of a second, even... to act. I did nothing!"
"I know what you mean," nodded Agnes. "The bastard exice you although you don't want to be excited."
"Yes, despite oneself. Anyway, when he touched me I wanted to move away but more than that I suppose I must have wanted to see what he was going to do. Call it curiosity, if you like."
"What happened?"
"Well, as soon as he realised that I wasn't going to knock his hand off my knee or call the attendant or move to another seat, he started... well, perform "I once sat on a Mexican bullfighter's lap in a News theatre and got myself well stuffed!" remarked Agnes, dreamily.
"Oh, it didn't go as far as that, thank goodness!" laughed Margaret. "No, he put his mac over our legs and put his hand up my dress. At first I was shivering with dread..., whether from the realisation of what I was letting a complete stranger do to me; from fear someone would see us or from the very devil of it, I don't really know. As I've told you, the cinema was almost empty and there wasn't really much chance of us being seen. He wanted to take my knickers down but I wouldn't let him. Funny, I didn't tell him that he musn't... in fact during the whole thing we never spoke a single word to each other, it was a sort of tacit understanding that I was in the mood to be messed about with and it ended when we both finished... I just hung on to them. It was just as good without them down. He pulled them aside and gave me the most lovely frigging I think 'Ive ever had. I'd got my legs stuck out straight unde the seat in front and when I spent... well, it's a wonder didn't have half the cinema staff around us. I gave such a veil!", "And what about him?" asked Agnes, who had been listening to this recial with keen interest.
"Oh, I rubbed him, of course. He had a nice smooth, thick one! Oh, but when he came! It went all over my hand, on my coat sleeve and somehow over my skirt. I was in quite a mess. I had to go to the ladies and sponge myself off with my handkerchief!"
"And you never saw him again?"
"I told you. It seemed to be understood that we just enjoyed ourselves there and then and then went our separate ways. As soon as I'd got over my... my come I got up and went to the ladies. He made no move to follow me and I never saw him again."
"You're lucky," said Agnes. "If I let the bastard get up my clothes in a cinema or anywhere they'd want me nude on the bed in ten minute I never seem to be able to have a little bit of fun without some damned complications. Of course, you've got the dignity to carry a thing like that off." She sighed. "Men just seem to look at me and say, 'She fucks!' and go straight at me, baldheaded. D'you know, I was broken in by a man of fifty when I was fourteen. He was wonderful! Kissed my thighs... and the rest..., for two hours before he went potty and put it in me. Oh, I fell for him all right! Hook, line and sinker I went for him. It was because I made such a fuss of him that he got into trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" asked Margaret.
"It came out... he got three years. I suppose it served him right. Until he got hold of me I wasn't a bad kid. Men shouldn't muck about with young girls. It's not so bad woman to muck about with boys... but girlse they're different."
"As the French say, 'Vive la difference!" laughed Margaret.
"What't that mean?"
"Long live the difference," translated Margaret "Had a Frenchman, once," mused Agnes. "Was he good?"
Agnes shrugged. "About the same using his old doings. But with his tongue! What did he call it?" "Soixante ncuf?"
"That's it! Sixty-nine! But that was after, I mean kissing each other at the same time. First of all he used to kiss me. .And could he kiss. Talk about and educated tongue. He used to have me shrieking the place down. Camming is what I call it... but I expect there's a nice word."
"We used to call it French kissing at school," said Maragaret.
"I thought that was just using your tongue for ordinary kissing," said Agnes.
"I expect it rather depends on your school!" lauged Margaret.
She looked at the window. "Not a very nice day, but I suppose I should be getting up."
"Nine o'clock news gave a storm warning. It's been raining in the night."
"Take the tray, Agnes."
Agnes took the breakfast tray off the bed and Margaret swung her legs over the edge of the bed with a flash of long white thighs.
She sat of the edge of the bed and when one superb white breasts tumbled from her nightie in a mound of trembling glory she casually and absent mindedly thrust it back without a trace of self consciousness.
"I'm a bit hazy about last night," she said. "Did we make any arrangements for the boys to come up tonight?"
"Nothing definite."
"I suppose they will come. Throw me that dressing gown."
Agnes handed her the dressing gown. "Try and keep them away," she said, dryly. "I don't fancy that Erenst though."
"Don't you think he could be trained?"
"Is he worth it? After all, he's nasty little bastard. He could drive a girl nuts while she's training him."
Margaret slipped into her dressin gown. "Wasn't there some talk about a party," she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.
"There was some talk... it didn't get very far, though."
"Oh!" And the wistful note in fer voice was not lost upon Agnes.
Suddenly there was a roar of thunder from the darkening sky and the windows shook.
"Well!" gasped Agnes. "II never saw any lightning."
They stood for a few minutes watching the storm little realising that what it was doing to solve some of their problems and soothe some of their desires.
It was some two hours later and long after she had bathed and dressed that Margaret realised the significance of the storm. She was standing at the drawing room window looking out into the garden where the wet trees dripped melancholity on to the paths and rockeries and the leaves hung heavy under their burden of wetness.
It had been raining for almost two hours and she had not once until then thought of the camp at Long Wood.
"Goodness, they'll be flooded out!" she gasped. She strode over to the bell and rang for Agnes.
She went back to the window to await her and gazed out at the bleak prospect of the garden. The door opened and she turned.
"Agnes, look at this weather. I've just realised... their camp. I have been flooded."
Agnes joined her at the window. "Yes, I've been thinking about them. They'll be like drowned rats down there."
"This'll ruin their holiday."
"If it's messed up their camp they may have to go home... that'll ruin our holiday," grinned Agnes.
Margaret looked at her and smiled despite herself. "No, seriously, Agnes, we must do something for them."
"What?" asked the practical Agnes. "Well... something. Could we take them blankets and things?"
"We might be able to take them 'things', whatever they are. We haven't enough blankets!"
"We must do something, poor little devils, at the hest they must be knee deep in mud."
"We could house them up here for the night."
Margaret stared at her. "Why, that's a wonderful idea!" she cried. "That's what we'll do!"
'That gets over the party problem, too," observed Agnes, with a strange glint in her eye. "I mean, nobody could talk about us giving shelter to a bunch of wet kids... now could they?"
"Agnes,'' cried Margaret, "you're dreadful! But you're quite right... they couldn't!"
She walked across to the door. "I'm going to get ready and take the car and go down to them. You get on to the shops and see that we've got plenty of provisions for them... get grub and whatever kids like. Cakes and lemonade and that sort of thing."
"Cakes and lemonade for that mob! II they're anything like Tony and Ernest there more likely to want marijuana and rum toddy!"
"Agnes, do as you're told and do'nt try to make out that you're not as pleased with this as I am!"
Agnes laughed and Margaret ran out to get her coat. to the garage and got out the car. She drove down towards the house gales with a feeling of exultation in her heart. But as she turned out on to the road it faded and the old perplexity, the old feeling that this wasn't her acting like this swept over her.
Her foot even, momentarily lifted from the accelerator as she said to herself, "What are you doing? Are you really going to fill the house with children in the hope that some wild, mad orgy will develop?
Do you really think that these chicken will start copulating all over your rugs and in your beds unless you deliberately incite them to? Do you really believe that the storm is a legitimate excuse for filling your house with these youngsters other than for the purpose of giving them shelter? Margaret Peterson, are you quite mad?"
Her foot went down again on the accelerator. What the hell? She'd be careful, she'd be cunning. Who'd ever know? Gerald? She shruggerd to herself. How much did that really matter? She'd now committed adultery. It would be the last word in hypocrisy to even allow herself to listen to the suggestion that this might be the first and only time. From now on if any man attracted her and it was possible... Well, it would happen!
It was thus in a mood af almost conscious selfdestruction that she drove down the lanes to Long Wood.
She parked as near the camp as she could. From where she stood in the lane the camp looked quite as it should. There were five tents and they looked tight and snag. A few figures moved about around the site.
There was a gate nearby and she opened it and walked through into the field. She strode over the soaking turf and up to the tents.
One or twa of the figures looked at her but she aroused little interest until she went up to one of them, a girl, and said, "Well, things don't look too bad?
The girl, a pert looking blond in jeans and check shirt that did little to conceal her buddin breats-shape, looked at her.
"Look bad? Why should things look bad?"
"Well, the storm?"
"Oh, that," said the girl, carelessly. "These ten are Army surplus. They're made to withstand hurricanes... anyway, worse things than a bit of rain We're all right."
"I'm Mrs Peterson."
"Yes? I'm Doreen Harfield."
"How are you. I... my husband owns this field, and that wood."
"Oh! Oh, Mrs Peterson. Oh, I say, I am sorry. I didn't realise who you where."
She turned around and waved to the others. "I say," she yelled, "Mrs Peterson has come down to see how we are getting on."
The rest of the group outside the tents began to drift over to them and one or two others came out from the tents themselves. One girl, Margaret noticed buttoning her blouse as she came through a tent flap held by a rather flustered looking youth!
Margaret began to sincerely regret her precipiate visit.
"Oh, don't bother to disturb everyone," she said. "I just looked in to see that you hadn't been washed away. I... I was going to offer you shelter at my house."
"Well, that's very decent of you, Mrs Peterson," said Doreen, "but we're really quite O.K."
She looked around at the other. "Anyone like to get out of the damp and stay up at Mrs Peterson's house?"
There were friendly grins and assurances that they could make to with the camp.
There was no sign of either Ernest or Tony.
The girl noticed Margaret's roving eye.
"Were you looking for Tony?" she asked.
Margaret's heart gave a wild leap. Did they know, then?
"Tony?" she faltered.
"Tony Devereaux... he was up at your last night with Ernest."
Margaret licked her dry lips. "Oh... oh, that Tony. No, I wasn't looking for him, particularly."
Doreen's next words reassured fer. "He told us he'd been up to the house making arrangements to get water when need it."
Margaret breathed a sight of relief. "Oh yes," she said, "I've told him to help himself... anytime." She smiled to herself as she realised how true this was... in an entirely different connection!
The girl was speaking again. "I expect you remember camping from your day... calico tents that would'nt stand up to a shower. These things," she waved her hand towards the khaki tents, "will stand any kind of weather and keep us as snug as bugs in rugs! Still, it was nice of you to come down and inquire how we were."
There was a chorus of agreement from the others.
One boy, a rather handsome if suppercilious looking fellow, stepped forward.
"Now that you're here could we offer you a cuppa?" he asked.
Margaret noticed that his eyes were cool and confident as he appraised her carefully and she was suddenly very aware that she didn't really look her best in her heavy driving coat. She let its wing idly open.
"That's very nice of you," she said.
"/ should have asked you." apologised Doreen.
"My name's Neil Franks," said the tall, handsome boy who had first offered her the camp hospitality, raising his eyes from where her breasts plumped out her sweater.
Margaret shook hand with him.
"Neil is really more or less in charge of everything,' said Doreen. "I don't know whether because he's the oldest or the biggest!"
"Perhaps a combination of both," suggested Margaret, laughing.
"Let's go into the Mess tent," suggested Neil. His hand took her elbow possessively. A slight quiver ran through her. It was a strange feeling. The very touch of his hand seemed to establish an understanding between them. It was as if he had actually said. 'Look, I know you do, but when do we do it?"
He led her over to a tent that stood a little apart from the others.
"This is the mess tent... and in rather a mess, I'm afraid," he smiled.
The others followed them as she stepped into the gloom of the tent. Benches were arranged around a plain trestle table and he motioned her to sit down.
"Put the pot on for tea, someone," he shouted.
Several of the youngsters began to work at the Primus stove while another dashed out for water.
Margaret stamped her feet on the groundsheet. "Why, even the ground isn't wet. It's as good as a house. More fun, anyway."
"I wouldn't say that." remarked Neil.
A dark girl in a very young looking ensemble of gym slip and short blue serge skirt perched herself on the back of the benche opposite with a flash of little young legs. She leaned her elbows on her kness and her chin on her hands and surveyed them frankly. Her legs were slighty apart and Margaret could see that she wore white knickers.
"Gee, you two make a fine pair,' 'she remarked.
"This child," remarked Neil, "is from across the wide blue sea. Which sea and in which direction I'll leave you to guess."
"Doesn't he talk cute?" asked the girl, admiringly.
"I wouldn't blame you if you got a crush on him... I'm nuts about him myself."
"You're from America?" asked Margaret, poised between being shocked and amused.
"Right in one, lady," replied the girl.
"Now come on, Ann, shift yourself and try and behave." said Doreen. "You know, Mrs Peterson, she's a problem child whose parents think an English school influence might cure her of whatever it is that bothers her."
"There's nothing wrong with me," said Ann, adding frankly, "I'm just plain neurotic. My ma and pa are more nuts than me. Look at me. This get-up is their idea of what a civilised girl of fourteen should wear. If they get to hear I ain't dressing properlylike wearing brassiers and French panties... they'd cut my allowance. So what can I do?"
"You are only fourteen?" asked Margaret.
"And a half?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Fourteen and a half. Gee, ain't he cute. Plays cricket, wears blazers, smokes a pipe sometimes, flops around in them big brown custom made shoes... a real Englishman. Ain't he a honey?"
Neil took this eulogy quite calmly.
"Ignore the brat," he advised Margaret. "We all do."
"He's speaking the truth," admitted Ann, frankly. "He never once gave me a tumble. You'd think I'd got two heads, or something. Mind you, I think it's just he's too much of the English gentleman to make a pass at a kid in an outfit like this. Gee, wish he would though. Really, ain't he cute?"
"You've got to speak her language to get any reaction," advised Neil. "Now come on, Ann, scram!"
"That's the way he treats me! All the time that's the way he treats me."
"Cover yourself up and behave!" said Neil. "Ignore her, Mrs Peterson. She tends to disappear if one doesn't take notice of her."
"Give a hand making the tea," said Doreen.
"What do I know about tea?" demanded Ann. "If we'd got what it takes I could rustle you up an Old Fashined."
"Will you go away?" roared Neil.
"He's going to make a play for you, Mrs Peterson!" cried Ann. "I know that look in his eye I saw it once. He caught me putting on my vest after swimming...
"Oh, my goodness!" gasped Margaret.
"Take her out, some of you!" yelled Neil.
Several girls hustled the protesting Ann from the tent and Neil turned to Margaret with apologies.
"I'm terribly sorry about this," he said. "She's the camp terror. She's quite a nice kid really, but so awfully anxious to appear sophisticated."
"She seems very keen on you," remarked Margaret.
"She is, and it could be damned dangerous."
"I agree." She looked around. For the moment they were the only ones in the tent. "It's very difficult for a man when he's pursued like that."
"I'll manage," he grinned.
"You mean, you wouldn't take advantage of her?"
"Frankly, I would," he laughed. "I just don't want the complications that'd follow! There are plenty of others."
"The more I hear of modern youth the more I'm shocked."
"Are you? Are you really?" he asked, softly. She gave him a sidelong, sultry look. "Well, you yourself, are hardly a child," she contered.
"You weren't talking about children," he said, "you were talking about youth. I regret it, but I'm a youth. A knowledgeable one but a youth."
"And I'm a married woman," she said, with mock resolution.
"If I'm being impertinent, tell me."
"You are being impertinent," she said.
He drew slightly away from her. She laid her gloved hand on his hand. "And I love it!" she whispered.
A shadow came across the tent opening. She moved her hand hastily. "Mrs Peterson!" cried a voice. It was Tony. "Tony!
"They told me you were here." He looked at Neil. "Oh, hullo, Neil."
Neil nodded. "Hullo!" he growled.
"I've just been down to the village... to the Post Office, to get some stamps."
"Mrs Peterson didn't think you'd gone to the Post Office to get a pound of porridge oats," snapped Neil.
"As it happens you can get porridge oats at the Post Office, can't you Tony?"
Tony grinned "Yes, you can!"
Neil grunted with irritation as Tony sat down.
"Where's your friend... what was his name?" asked Margaret, naively.
"Ernst? Oh, he's gone to the pictures, to get out of the wet."
"That's why I came down here," said Margaret, "to see how you'd all got on in the storm."
Some of the others came back into the hut. The water was boiling on the Primus. Margaret watched them make the tea.
As they handed her a cup she remarked, in her best casual voice, "Perhaps some of you would like to come up to the house tonight for a late supper."
"That'd be lovely!" cried Doreen.
"Some of the... some the older ones, of course," added Margaret.
"What a mob to invite to your house," growled Neil.
"I think they're a very nice mob, as you call them, replied Margaret.
"Take no notice of him," cried Doreen. "What time do you want us?"
"Shall we say... just eight o'clock?"
"Fine!" chorussed the others.
Margaret sipped her tea. "Then I'll expect you. Why, your tea's quite as good as I get at home!"
This was a disloyalty to Agnes for the tea was harsh and bitter!"
"They'll be dragging mud all over your house," said Neil.
"Rot! We can take our shoes off first!" cried Doreen.
"That'll be nice for everyone!" was Neil's bitter comment.
There was a sudden uproar outside and a boy dashed into the tent.
"Come and look outside," he shouted. "The stream down by the wood has overflowed... we're going to get properly flooded!"
They all dashed outside. A rapidly widening lake was spreading from the stream up towards the tents.
"Oh, hell!" shouted Neil. "We'll have to shift the whole camp!"
Margaret made her offer a few minutes later with a simple sincerity that impressed everybody and raised fevers of hope in quite a number of young people.
"I'll see that they behave themselves," promised Neil.
"Don't you dare!" murmered Margaret, happily.