Memoirs of a Gentleman

It starts with me sitting to watch (On British TV), the first full Post Mortem to be carried out on a human being in public in England since 'COURTS' – the department store - DIDN'T have a Sale advertised that "Must end Sunday."

Apart from being shown to a live audience in the theatre, it was broadcast live on National Television. My particular interest was that I was missing a few internal bits myself – (No, darling, I was NOT hoping to pick up some cheap replacements) - rather, as I had been asleep on the four occasions when the surgeon removed mine, I had an interest in what the bits I had missing actually looked like? Sort of 'Up close and personal.'

My wifey brought supper through just as the introduction started. Instead of sitting to watch, she said she was going to have an early night, and read - or something. She gave me a nudge, wink, and urged me not to be long, as the battery on her pacifier was running low.

Well let's be honest: Watching a body being carved up whilst eating supper, somehow has less appeal than the promise provided by a bit of '- or something', in the comfort of the bedroom. So my setting the Video to record just about gave her time to reach the bed, where I joined her. (No pun intended.)

Morning found me comfortably arranged in front of the TV, avidly viewing the recording, whilst scoffing my breakfast of tripe, kidneys, and soft-poached eggs.

I had just gotten stuck into the kidneys, as the surgeon - having made a large 'Y' cut on the corpse, and was removing the ribs and sternum, when the doorbell announced we had a visitor.

Following a brief conversation at the door, Wifey ushered in a 'man of the cloth.' - A rather ugly one at that: He had the weediest of bodies, which sported a wide, flattened head with over-large eyes, buckteeth, and a VERY red bulbous nose.

As he introduced himself, Wifey left us to it; grabbing her breakfast and switching off the TV in the same movement - just as the slit gall bladder was oozing thick green gunge - then departed.

Well, at least I knew that my visitor was French – because he told me he was a Parish Priest. (I didn't notice his lisp at first, ha, ha.) Once he had ascertained I was the right person; he asked me if I knew Alice Springs?

This caused some confusion at first: I had stopped by Alice Springs on a couple of occasions – but that was 'down under.' – and here he had just told me he came from Paris? (Did I mention he tended to slur his speech somewhat?) Then it crossed my mind he may be trying to make a joke, about some girl called Alice springing? (Well Parsons oft try to tell a feeble joke - to break the ice before holding out the begging bowl.)

Having told him 'No, I didn't know Alice springs – but I would buy it.' I waited for the punch line, which was, apparently, 'Well she certainly knows you?'

I waited... That seemed to be it... Some Frog joke, I figured, that lost something in the translation. As I ruminated, he just stared with eyes that seemed to grow larger by the minute. I swear his nose was growing redder, and his teeth seemed perched ready to spring.

'Oh! Shit.' I wondered silently, 'He's not one of those New Age 'New and Improved' Vicars, surely?' I leaned back slightly, as I didn't want to be hit by a pair of joke motorised maulers once they had been in that mouth!

He leaned back too, and hesitated to tell me that it was 'a rather a delicate matter' he wished to convey to me. Seems this lady called Alice Springs, had left his Abbey to return home. Well that seemed a natural, and sensible thing for any woman to do – Imagine having to see THAT apparition every morning, as you were sitting down to breakfast...?

I took a bite of tripe, then - remembering my manners – offered him a fork full. He declined less than gracefully, and for once, my quick prayer had been answered. The thought of those teeth on my fork, made me shudder – And besides, it was a nice piece of pig's belly. I started tucking in quickly, lest he change his mind.

Mouth stuffed full, and juice dribbling down my chops, I still managed to squeeze another hunk of kidney in, and wondered how far the dismantling of the body would have got to, if I hadn't been so rudely interrupted?

His slurring speech cut in on my machinations, to inform me that the lady had returned home to die: Indeed, she was so near death, he had given her the last rites prior to his leaving to search me out. (I had an idea that if she had not been about to die naturally, any administrations HE had performed would certainly have started the process.)

He had been talking the while, but what with the lure of my now greasy cold breakfast, and wondering how human kidneys compared for size with pigs' ones? I confess a good part of his speech had passed me by. It was only when he stumbled over getting out 'house of easy virtue', that Alice sprang (no pun intended) to mind - with a vicious recall of memory. So sudden and dramatic was the effect that half my mouthful of food spurted out before I could contain the remainder.

Fortunately, most of it landed in my lap, or on the floor at my feet, so I was able to retrieve it. What bit had landed on him he was welcome to, I didn't fancy that any more? He picked a piece off his surplice, rather delicately, and I could imagine him supping afternoon tea with his pinky finger crooked. He didn't eat it though, just rolled it in his fingers and flicked it to his side – as one does a bogie.

Having listened a few minutes more to his speech, I gleaned that the lady had contracted some terminal disease, and - close to death - she was repeatedly calling my name, and begging someone to bring me to her.

Well, I could hardly have gone there and then could I? For starters, that Video was an hour in length, and - with his interruption - it was going to be too near lunch by the time I had watched that through (and re-run any juicy parts). No, I had to be firm. Knowing how to put, or keep the smile on any Holy Man's face - and usually hasten their exit to the next suck – err - next good soul's abode - I reached for, and opened my wallet.

Producing two fifty-pound notes, I proffered them, suggesting he give her that, and gave her my sympathy and best wishes along with them. In the process of secreting it in some vast poacher's pocket in the inner folds of his ample frock, he pleaded that it was not money she wanted - merely to see me for a last time.

As I looked pointedly at his hidden, sewn-in kitbag, he tapped his chest and thanked me for the money - which would be put towards the next batch of communion wine. It was then it dawned on me why his nose was so bulbous and red! – and it accounted for the slur in his speech: the rascal had been taking some altar wine freebies before seeking me out. (About one and three-quarter bottles full would be a good near guess.) I recalled an earlier time, wondering if this cleric before me also suffered from gout...?

That brings me to how this story really began; some several years earlier...

I will interject here that if the meaning of some of the expressions I use escape the Americans, I will happily elucidate. (Pity to miss a joke just because you are a Yank, isn't it?) If any of you readers are from Scotland – You have my sympathy...

Note to readers who may now have lost the thread: – the following took place some years previously...

There were three of us sat having a bite in the café. (There were more – but none of the others were sat at our table.) I sat at one corner of the table (come to think of it, so did my two companions – but not at the same corner). I had my legs sprawled wide apart, relaxing. Across from me sat a young ripe wench, hungrily eyeing my well-filled lunch box. As she did so, she moved as if uncomfortably seated, and first a single, then two of her fingers started moving in and out of her mouth, and the while they were being circled by an exceptionally long, and well proportioned tongue.

My immediate thought was 'a girl with a tongue like that could make a fortune in Hong Kong' – on later reflection, I extended the locality to cover most places on earth. There was no doubt that, despite the two fingers in her delectable mouth, the young girl exhibited the signs of being more in dire need of a good feed in her nether regions.

A glance at my pocket time-piece showed it to be shading six-o-clock. Sadly, I was shortly meeting a friend, to imbibe together a strictly liquid intake in an Inn in an adjoining village. (Aside: That last bit would have taken some saying, had I already partaken of the aforementioned alcoholic beverages.)

As we three were leaving, so the girl was joined by an influx of generally less comely – but equally rollable crumpet, of approximately her own age – A baker's dozen - or more - I hazarded. With a resigned sigh, I journeyed outside, aware that the wench's eyes and tongue followed me until I was lost to her view...

The next bit is even more boring, so I will skip it, moving on to the time I departed the aforementioned Inn alone – and merry - around the stroke of nine the same night.

Rather than drive straight to my lodgings – there was nothing spoiling there – my journey took me by the earlier visited site of victual refreshments. (I had a more than faint hope that -given the bevy of birds that had accumulated their earlier – my pet one-eyed beast could well be getting fresh oats ere the night was out.) Loud music was erupting into the street as I drew nigh.

As I pulled to a halt outside, inside, I espied whirling flared skirts, exposing excitingly large areas of (possibly?) virginal white thighs. My sexual appendage awakened, and commenced to stretch his head, as my eyes took in the view. Here on display were some two-dozen assorted prime young fillies, cavorting in abandonment, to the catchy music – And not a male - save the owner - in sight. I stepped out of the car, the better to take in the scenery.

It must have been some sort of private Spring Chicken – as opposed to Hen – party, I thought. Whilst I stood there, two girls came out of the door and crossed the road to the public pissoir. The café only had the one facility to piddle in, and from the amount of empty drinks vessels cluttering the tables lining the far wall, it was probably the subject of over demand.

Without warning, there was a light touch against my thigh, and a melodious voice said, "Oh! Sorry –Oh! I saw you earlier didn't I?"

She had been in the public urinal presumably, on my arrival. Instinctively I knew she had not tapped into me accidentally. We eyed each other a long five seconds. My own eyes on her pouting nipples, straining her thin party dress material: Hers, on my filling lunchbox, then our optical orbs rose in unison to meet. She was smiling, awaiting my response. I answered her pleasantly, "Surely, I saw you here alone earlier. So what's going on?"

She shrugged, offhandedly, "It's supposed to be my birthday party. I'm eighteen at midnight. We're just about finishing, we can only have this place until ten PM."

"Sweet eighteen eh? Mmmm" I was not much over the age of twenty, at the time. Single and free. I was thinking, 'When apples are ripe, they're ready for plucking. When girls are eighteen they're ready for ... and boy! Did she look ready...?

As my single-minded lower protuberance started to press my trouser material, her gaze dropped to it. For a moment, she looked away, but her gaze was drawn almost magnetically back. It was my turn to feel uncomfortable, and I changed my stance to partially hide her view.

She looked up sharply, as if about to speak, I was trying to think of something to say too. She just beat me to it. "You new here? Haven't seen you before?"

"Yes" I confirmed, qualifying the reply with – "Well I've been here these past two weeks: I'm lodging with a couple of other goodly fellows, down Crown Street, with a Mrs. Buryman. You live here? You know the lady in question?"

She giggled, "Sure do. Her old man died last year. You would never guess – He was the Undertaker." She laughed, "Pretty good eh? Buryman? Undertaker?" I laughed too, and asked her name. "Alice. Alice Springs. Mum runs a..."

Her voice dried up at that point, and she looked down, and started playing with her fingers.

"Something wrong Alice?" I queried. "I think that's a lovely name for a very pretty female personage."

She looked up, and then down again. "You are new aren't you? What did you say your name was?"

"Sorry, I didn't. May I introduce myself: The name is Fortescue, but the young bucks address me as Rolli - Is something wrong, fair Alice?"

She shuffled her feet. I couldn't help noticing her firm bosoms bounce just a little. One-eye had been starting to droop; he reared to almost full attention.

She glanced quickly at him, and back to the floor, explaining, "There used to be a big Army barracks up the road, and a Naval Supply Depot over between here and Kensands Mire. Well – the men were – well you know what I mean – They wanted girls."

She stopped, so I answered quickly, " I suppose you mean it was their urgent desire to dip their John Thomas's into the local maiden's pee-holes eh?"

"Yes. I suppose so. And there weren't anywhere near enough girls to go round. There were thousands of men, and not more than twenty unmarried girls old enough, that wanted anything to do with the Servicemen," She added rather circumspectively "and not many more married ones either. So... You ever been in a brothel Rolli? ... You know what one is?"

"Most certainly I do, but I was unaware they were available in this local?"

"Well they are" She affirmed. "They don't call them brothels here; they call them One Night Stop-Over's. They are supposed to be Bed and Breakfast places for truck drivers, and such, but really, the men just stay there whilst they – they do it with one of the girls.

It's only a small village, but there's still seven of those places – Eight if you count the Annex. You got anything against girls like that?" she asked tentatively.

I shrugged, "No. Up to them I suppose – You got yourself a beau? A pretty damsel like you must be overburdened by suitors?"

She looked openly straight at me. "Not that's done anything like that. No... See, Mum says I'll be worth a lot of money if I don't loose – you know - if I didn't do it until I am eighteen." Her voice suddenly changed. "Look, I had better go. You won't want to know me when you know?"

Her sudden change threw me. She stood as if ready to hurry off, yet was being held back. I had to keep her talking. "Look, don't depart my presence just yet Alice, you are the first fair maiden I've had recourse to exchange pleasantries with in over a full moon. Do you want to be seated in my carriage, it's getting chilly for you out here?"

She looked at my scarlet and green sedan. I could feel she would like to avail herself of its offered shelter. She rubbed her arms realising that by my very having mentioned it, she was indeed feeling the chill of late evening's air. I opened the door of my motorized chariot, and urged her in, saying that it need only be for a fleeting moment or two.

The comfort of the vehicle interior beckoning her, she prepared to comply with my suggestion: "Okay then, but just for a little while. I have got to be home by midnight to..."

She made to get out again. I placed a gentle restraining hand on her. She made her mind up; turned to face me challengingly, "Fuck it – You will soon find out anyway – Mum runs one of them places. She has six girls. Well they call 'em girls, but they are all in their twenties and thirties."

She waited, almost daring me to reply - yet ready to flee. I eased her with restrained force into the passenger pew, smiling the while. Smartly swinging around to my own door, I slid in to faced her, and continue the broken conversation, "So, well? And so what? Looking after the earthly wants of our brave militia is indeed an honourable vocation. And to be highly commended by all but prudes, and Papal fodder. I 'spect they are all nice people they girls –" Adding quickly – "And your maternal parent, most naturally." I reached for her hand. She took it limply.

Looking down again, she spoke more slowly, and with less conviction. "She's alright I suppose, but – But after tonight – Well she expects me to be one of them." She shrugged, adding resignedly, " There's not much other work around here."

She waited but was not expecting an answer, however, it seemed meet for me to offer "Needs must, when the devil drives, dear Alice. She then continued her illuminatory dissertation: "Mum started doing it when she was nearly thirteen. I don't mean she was somebody's girl like she has girls now." She strove to remove any misconceptions I may harbour:

"A couple of young soldiers got her drunk, then both of 'em did it with her properly, put their things right in, they did. She said it hurt a bit, and when she cried they gave her some money.

After that, she wanted some more money, so when she saw them two in the street, she told 'em that if they didn't hurt her, and gave her some more money, they could both put their things in her again."

She gave a bit of a sigh and relaxed nearer to me. "Mum started letting their friends do it to her, as well. They all paid her – only a few pence though. She said she got so she really liked it. By the time she was thirteen-and-a-half she was sometimes having twenty of 'em on a Saturday and Sunday, and sometimes ten on a weekday."

Alice had forgotten any shyness, as she got engrossed in her tale, and continued to speak apace. "They all paid her each time, and when she agreed to let some of the older men do it, those paid her more for a go. She had to hide all the money, because she was making so much."

Alice paused a moment, "Some of the older women started loosing their best customers, and one day one of the women said Mum either had to work for her, or she would get cut up. Mum was scared at first, but the woman paid her more for each man Mum looked after than she had been getting off them herself, so she was happy then.

She hadn't a dad, and her mum worked on war work. She thought my Mum was out playing with one of the other girls. She was, after a bit, 'cos Mum got her friend started with the soldiers too. They both worked for the same woman. She paid them a shilling a time.

My hand had strayed to the girl's upper knee. Her legs parted unconsciously, to facilitate the action, as she scoffed, "Mum says if she had only known then...? That woman was charging the men two pounds a fu - two pounds a time. She said she knows now that men pay lots more for really young girls."

She took a long breath. I didn't disturb her thought train. She looked up expecting to surprise me, asking "You got any idea what Mum can get for me after midnight? She's got one of these big noises – I think he's a Judge, but I mustn't tell anyone – He's going to pay her a thousand pounds. Honest, A THOUSAND POUNDS – just to be my first. Can you believe that?"

Forsooth, I could not conjure an appropriate retort, so resorted to asking, "How do you feel about the proposition? Are your feelings ones of fright?"

"Yes – Just a bit. I've seen him, he's ever so old – I hope I don't be sick? Mum said he wouldn't hurt 'cos he goes with some of the other girls and he only has a tiny Willie..." She sounded almost disappointed at her revelation. She added suddenly, in a brighter tone, almost making the observation a question, "Bet yours is bigger than his...? What did you say they call you?"

I had been trying to hide the eagerness evident in my loins; the talk had stiffened One-eye right up. "Rolli." - I half croaked the name.

She looked puzzled. "So why they call you that?"

I took the plunge, "You said you thought I had a big one – well Rolli is short for Rolling Pin."