Reformatory Girls Ch. 15: Rebecca Lucie 02

Rebecca has barely recovered her breath when a car slows down, continues hesitantly some yards past her, and stops. She hastens towards it and finds the driver leaning over, opening the passenger door.

"Do you want a lift?" he asks.

She stifles an impulse to remark that that would seem obvious, and takes in a clean, clutter-free interior, and a man in his sixties, tall and neatly dressed.

"Please," she says.

"Where do you want to go to?" the man asks.

She's about to say 'anywhere' but checks herself:

"London," she says.

"I'm going to Bowlands Wood," the man says, before going into a rigmarole as to which junctions might be best for her. She nods impatiently, casting anxious glances back down the lane towards the school.

"Any of those would be good," she says, climbing into the car.

The man reminds her to fasten her seatbelt and at last they are in motion. She closes her eyes gratefully, breathing in the smell of freshly valeted upholstery, feeling her heart still thumping in her chest.

"Are you alright?" the man asks presently. "Only you seem a bit flustered."

She looks at him again: he is clean-shaven with thinning hair and bushy eyebrows: there is a kindly look to him.

"I was running," she says.

"Ah," says the man. He studies the road again and checks the speedometer. He has brown mottling on the backs of his hands.

"Forgive me for asking," he asks presently: "But are you in some sort of trouble?"

"Trouble?" asks Rebecca, thinking: where would I start?

"With the Police?" asks the man.

"The Police?" says Rebecca: "No - only school."

"Ah," says the man. "Look, I know it's none of my business - but I've always found that in the long run it's better to face a problem than run away. We haven't come far: I could turn round and run you back?

"I'm sure it's not as bad as it seems," he adds, when Rebecca does not reply.

"Oh, it is," says Rebecca. "And thank you for the offer, but I'm not going back."

"Well, it's you decision," says the man. "Can I ask you your name?"

"It's Julia," Rebecca says.

"I'm George," says the man. "Well Julia, we should be at the Orbital Road in about an hour. Let me know where you want me to drop you off.

They drive in silence for a while. Some classical music is playing quietly on the car radio. Rebecca glances in the vanity mirror and takes in her dishevelled appearance: grass-stains and mud on her knees and skirt, the buttons of her blouse missing or hanging by threads. The adrenalin rush is diminishing: the enormity of what has happened is starting to sink in.

"Look, tell me to mind my own business," the man's voice interrupts her thoughts. "But do you have anywhere to stay?"

"Not really," says Rebecca.

"No family? No friends?"

"No," says Rebecca, and suddenly it is all too much, all she wants is for someone else to take over, look after her or tell her what she should do. She struggles against the urge to cry.

"So what are you planning to do in London?" the man asks.

"I don't know," says Rebecca. "I hadn't thought that far."

The man looks thoughtful. Outside the car window traffic is increasing, and buildings are taking over from fields.

"It's getting a bit late to be alone in London with nowhere to stay," the man says. "If you'd like to you can stay at my flat."

"Could I?" says Rebecca, with more animation than she's displayed since she got into the car. "I'd be so grateful - that's so kind."

The flat is small but neat and clean - perhaps obsessively so. The furniture is good quality but old-fashioned, mostly dark oak. The dining table and chairs are similar to those Rebecca remembers from her grandparents' shop.

"I bought it four years ago," George explains. "My wife died - we have no children and the house seemed too big."

"I'm sorry," Rebecca says.

"We had a long and happy marriage," says George. He hands her a photo from the mantelpiece: George and his wife from their younger days, smiling, arms around one-another. There are many more such photos distributed around the room.

"I expect you'd like a shower," George says, with a glance at the mud on her knees. "Or perhaps a bath?"

A bath sounds like heaven to Rebecca: so George switches on the immersion and tells her it will take an hour.

"And food," says George. "There's not much in the flat, but we could order a takeaway. I've got some menus here."

He takes some glossy menu cards from a drawer and hands them to her. Chinese; Indian; Thai. Her mouth starts to water.

"These look lovely," she says. "But I don't have any money."

"Don't be silly," says George. "My treat."

Encouraged to order whatever she wants she selects from the Indian menu.

"They won't be open yet," says George. "I'll order whilst you're in the bath."

Several times he goes to check the hot water tank.

"It's ready now," he tells her. He shows her into the bathroom and insists on explaining how everything works. "There are towels in the airing cupboards," he says. "And you can wear this bathrobe if you want to. It might be a bit big, but it is clean."

Basking in the hot bath, covered with scented foam, Rebecca feels some of the ugliness of the day dissolving away. Baths at Windsor have been hurried, functional affairs: there was never enough hot water - the girls claimed this was deliberate, to deter them from masturbating. And if you did start playing with yourself there was always the possibility of another girl barging in. Now she luxuriates in the hot water, running her fingers over her trimmed pubis, feeling herself, not with any intention of bringing herself off, but needing the comfort.

In this way she passes an hour, topping up the hot water until it begins to run cool. She half expects George to come in on some pretext, but no-one intrudes upon her.

The bathrobe, though white and soft and gentle against her skin, hangs off her like a tent.

"Oh dear," says George, when she reappears in the living room, the shoulders hanging off her own shoulders, the sleeves obscuring her hands. They share a small laugh.

"Let me," says George. Carefully he rolls up the sleeves until her small hands are visible again. His nostrils quiver: the scent of her, warm and fresh from the bath, hangs in the air. Then he sits at the table opening his post, whilst at his behest she flicks through channels on the television.

"You look as though you haven't eaten for a week," he jokes, when the curry has arrived and been served.

"They don't serve food like this at Boarding School," she says.

She savours the dishes, even taking, at his insistence, more than her share. At the back of her mind she suspects she is raking up a bill that will have to be paid one way or another. But after all she has been through she scarcely cares. She is tired, battered by recent events: all she wants is sanctuary: somewhere no-one will pursue or torment her. And if George wants something in return she's sure it will be less unwelcome than what the girls had in mind.

After they've eaten, and George - declining assistance - has washed-up, there is a moment when he seems not to know what to do with his guest. He makes her a cup of tea: he dries up and, with what she has come to see as his habitual meticulousness, puts the cutlery and crockery away. Then he suggests they watch television. They sit on the sofa together, she on one side he, very proper, on the other, and watch a wildlife program. Then, although it is only nine o'clock, he yawns and says he is ready for bed.

Rebecca yawns too.

"It's been a long day," she says.

George gives a little throat-clearing cough:

"There's only one bed I'm afraid," he says. "Are you happy to share?"

"Yes," Rebecca says.

"Are you sure?" asks George: "Come and take a look." He opens the door of the bedroom - clean and neat as the rest of the house - and gestures at the double bed, as though it were the quality of the bed itself, rather than the fact of sharing, that would influence her decision. "One of us could sleep on the sofa if you prefer."

"George," she says, trying to summon up through her tiredness one of her old, winsome looks. "I'm happy to share."

"I'll just brush my teeth," he says. "There's a spare toothbrush in the cabinet - I'll sort it out for you."

When she, in her turn, has finished in the bathroom she finds George standing, still mostly clothed, at the far side of the bed. The light is off, but light from a street lamp percolates through the curtains. She stands at her own side, hesitates briefly: then takes off the bathrobe, gives him a brief sighting of her naked, then slides into the bed. From there she watches as George starts to undress. She takes in the little half-moon sags of flesh at his breasts; the line of hair down his stomach; the inevitable paunch. His penis peering out from a thatch of pubic hair like a tortoise head from its shell. She remembers the protestations of revulsion the girls at Windsor used to make, against the supposedly leering, drooling elderly men who tried to kiss or grope them at house parties. She, too, ought to feel distaste: but she does not. Instead she feels a perverse kind of superiority: she is prepared to go where none of those girls would: to do it with a man whom they would recoil from.

George, knowing nothing of her thoughts, slides into bed beside her. Although the night is not cold the sheets, not slept in for a week, are initially chilly.

"Shall we warm each other up?" says George.

They roll over to face each other; he wraps her in his arms, sighs, holds her still for a while then starts stroking her.

"It's been so long," he breathes.

He strokes the back of her head, her shoulders, the small of her back, tenderly. As his hands glide down over her buttocks she feels his penis stiffen against her tummy.

"Will you make me happy?" he asks.

She strokes his back in a gesture of willingness; his penis hardens.

"Do you have a condom?" she asks.

George's hands freeze:

"No," says. "I wasn't expecting..."

She almost gives in. She's tired, she wants to get it over and go to sleep, and she is battered by the events of the day to the point where she hardly cares. What judgement she has left tells her George is a most unlikely carrier of disease; and she thinks she is at a safe point in her cycle.

Almost, but not quite: her mother's two golden rules are engraved in her mind like commandments on stone tablets.

"Lie on your back," she says to George.

George does as he's bidden. Rebecca closes her hand over his penis. The bedcovers, weighing down on her hand, impede her movements, so she squirrels down, raises herself on one elbow and makes a low tent with her shoulder, beneath which she can just see his cock in her hand. She can trace the veins with her fingers and can smell his sex in the confined space. Slowly she works her hand up and down. She wonders if that is sufficient, or if she should try to improve her position, maybe get a grip round his balls: but George is breathing more rapidly and his thighs are starting to jerk, so she continues to pump him until his back arches and he lets out a long groan. She feels his penis spasm: the sticky warmth of his sperm covers the back of her hand and spurts up over his chest and his stomach, tangling with dark hairs, forming a wet sticky mess on the sheets. She holds onto him until his breathing subsides, squeezes the last drop of semen out over her fingers and finally releases him. Surreptitiously she wipes her hand on the sheet before allowing it to fall back upon him and sliding back to her own side of the bed.

George seems to have lost the power of speech. His eyes are closed, his jaw hangs open giving him an imbecilic look. Rebecca gives him a light kiss on his shoulder: then, hoping that he won't want to talk, turns her back on him and settles to sleep. Just as she is dropping off she hears the rustling of tissues and feels the disturbance of the bedclothes. Then she feels George's hand resting on her hip. But that is the extent of his intrusion: and satisfied he wants nothing else from her she falls asleep.

It is such a luxury to sleep in a comfortable bed with no rising bell. She's aware, in the morning, of various street sounds, and a change in the light: but when she stretches out and finds that George is no longer beside her she extends her limbs across the full width of the bed and goes back to sleep again. When George reappears and simultaneously she returns to full consciousness, it is eleven o'clock.

George is dressed, and carrying a tray with a silver teapot and a china cup, saucer and milk jug upon it.

"I didn't know whether to wake you," he says. "But I thought you'd rather sleep. Would you like some hot croissants? Or some toast?"

She looks at the tray: to balance it, to eat and drink, she'll need to sit up in bed: which means, since she's not wearing anything, exposing her breasts. For herself she's unconcerned: but she doesn't want to put out to George when she's barely awake.

There's no alternative, though: so she props herself up against the bed head, and says that the croissants sound nice. George's eyes go straight to her breasts: but he contents himself with looking, and returns with the croissants, warm and buttery on a china plate.

"I went to the bakery while you were asleep," he says.

He's clearly not sure whether to stay or go. In the end he leaves her to eat and drink in peace: but he must have been hovering close to the doorway, for when she has finished he is back for the tray. He takes it away, returns again, and sits down on the edge of the bed. He looks from her bare breasts to her eyes to her breasts again.

"Shall I get back into bed?" he suggests.

Rebecca, who by now is keen to use the bathroom, lays one of her hands over his.

"George," she says. "If we're going to do this properly we need some condoms."

"Ah," he says. "Yes - of course."

"Now I need to go to the bathroom."

"Yes - of course," says George, and leaves the room.

Rebecca uses the lavatory and brushes her teeth. Her school clothes, which she had left crumpled on the floor, have been folded and put on a stool, and she wonders whether George's fussiness ever got on his wife's nerves. The clothes are uninviting, but she puts them on - knickers, bra, blouse, skirt and socks. The tears and stains on the skirt are worse than she'd thought: in the mirror she looks a sorry sight.

She finds George at the dining table, studying a utilities bill. He looks her up and down.

"I was thinking," he said. "You're going to want some new clothes. Since we need to go to the Chemist, how about a trip round the shops?"

"George," she reminds him: "I've got no money."

"No, but - I'd be happy to buy you something."

Rebecca goes up to him and puts an arm round his shoulder.

"George," she says: "you've been so good to me: letting me stay here, buying me a meal. I can't let you spend any more money on me."

"Don't be daft," says George. "You've been good to me to." He grins at her: "And besides, who else have I got to spend my money on?"

George's knowledge of clothes retailers doesn't extend beyond Marks and Spencer.

"My wife used to buy most of her clothes here," he tells Rebecca.

"They're good for bras," Rebecca says.

They turn out to be good for a great deal more. She chooses a bra - then at George's insistence a second one. She chooses two packs of three pairs of knickers (one sensible one 'racy'); two dresses (having been unable to chose between them and asking George which he preferred); a couple of tops; a cotton jacket ("it's much too expensive" - "nonsense"); three pairs of tights; a pair of canvas shoes, and a fabric shoulder bag. George stands by like a proud father and pays with his credit card.

"Is there anything else you need?" he asks, outside.

"No - absolutely not," says Rebecca - before some hair-bands, ear rings and a purse are added to the shoulder bag.

Outside the Chemist's George is hesitant.

"I know the woman who works there," he says. "Would you go and buy them?"

"Sure," Rebecca says. "And - would it be alright if I bought some sanitary towels?"

"Of course: whatever you need."

George hands her some banknotes and she leaves him looking into the camera shop next door. As she walks past the perfumes and health supplements Rebecca realises this is the perfect opportunity to give him the slip. For a second she sees this scenario play out: herself away across town on a bus or a train: the disappointment and sadness on George's face - and she knows she would despise herself. She buys a pack of 20 condoms, the sanitary towels and a tube of lubricant, and rejoins him in the street.

Despite her protests he takes her to an Italian Restaurant for a late lunch.

Back at the flat she unpacks the clothes and goes into the bathroom to try them on. Both dresses are short and tight. She selects one, pats at herself and calls to George:

"Will you help me with the zip?"

He stands behind her, gazing at her bare shoulders, the white strap of her bra. She can feel his breath on her neck.

"What do you think?" she asks.

"I think you're very, very beautiful," George says.

"I'll try on the other one," says Rebecca. George is about to withdraw, but she's already slipped the dress off her shoulders and let it slip to the carpet. She stands a moment in her new bra and knickers, small, perfectly formed, her skin smooth and unblemished despite years of Boarding School food, letting George drink her in with his eyes. The sight is too much for George.

"Come here," he says.

She goes, docile, up to him. He puts his arms around her and hugs her, then strokes her hair, her shoulders, the small of her back. His fingers tremble as he fumbles with the fastening of her bra. When the bra has fallen from her he cups her breasts, as gently as though they were songbirds.

"Shall we go into the bedroom?" he says.

They stand at the foot of the bed, she in only her pants, he fully clothed. One by one she undoes the buttons of his shirt, then continues to undress him until he is naked. She runs the back of her fingers down over his penis and watches it quiver. George stands there; he's still trembling; he seems awestruck by her. She slips off her pants, sits on the foot of the bed, and takes his penis in both hands, kindling it until it is fully erect. She's had the foresight to bring in her bag with the condoms and now she hands one to George. Whilst he is putting it on she applies some of the lubricant to her cunt. Then she wriggles her way up the bed and draws her legs up and apart.

"Come on George," she says.

George moves forward like a somnambulist: then he manoeuvres onto the bed, and with her help guides his penis into her. She draws him deeper and closes her legs around his back and her arms round his neck, until he is in as deep as he can go. He starts to work himself, tentatively at first then with more vigour. His breathing is rapid and shallow: with a strangled groan he climaxes inside her, his dick pulsing, his fingers gripping her bare bottom, his face twisting and flexing against her cheek. He gasps and groans with the joy and relief of it all - and as his cries of pleasure subside they morph into different sounds, and it takes Rebecca a moment to realise that he is sobbing. For a minute or two his whole body is racked with sobs, and all Rebecca, fearing something has gone wrong, can do is to hold him and stroke the back of his head.

"George," she asks at length, as the sobbing dies away and George lies still: "What is it? What's the matter?"

"It's silly," says George. He gives a weak little laugh. "It's just - that's the first time I've done that since my wife died."

"George," says Rebecca, stroking him. "There's no need to feel bad. She'd want you to be happy; she'd understand."