The Playroom

This is a simple gentle story. If you want violence, rape, incest or such stuff please look elsewhere.

This story is set in the same village as another of my stories, 'The Chair in the Corner', but is in no way a sequel. I hope that it stands up on its own, as they say.

I hope you like it. If you do, I'd like to know. If you don't, then I'd also like to know why, so that I can do better next time.

Our house is next door to the Running Fox, one of the village pubs. In fact, in the past, it had been a part of the pub. We don't have the records, but it looks as if a row of old outbuildings were repaired and made habitable in order to provide extra rooms in the days of the coaching trade. Then, with the decline of coaching they were split off again into a separate house, long and low, but warm and comfortable. In layout, it was just a series of rooms joined by a corridor, much as a hotel corridor might be nowadays.

At one end the room had been converted into a kitchen, and the next into a living room. Then there are two bedrooms, what is now a bathroom, then a store that I use as an office, and then two more bedrooms. The doors to the outside are in the kitchen, and at the further end of the corridor. The last bedroom differs from the others. The walls are rougher, and the window is smaller. We suspect that it was used to accommodate the servants of those staying in the other rooms.

When the twins were younger this was their playroom.

It was lunchtime. The house felt empty. So unlike yesterday.

By yesterday evening we had been in the pub. I was looking across the room at the twins, Liz and Dave. They were both a little drunk, but gloriously happy. Liz had just got married. We were all in the Fox. We raised our glasses, and by we I mean all our families and friends, and half of the rest of the village, to the happy couple.

Liz picked up her now husband's hand in a rather peculiar way. She stroked his palm. He had blushed, and she led him outside, and next door, to raucous cheers.

I had heard a quiet voice. No, I couldn't have heard it in that row, but I thought I heard someone, a woman, say, "He's a goodun, and she knows what she's about. They'll be happy enough"

I had looked round, but I was surrounded by most of the village football team. Was it my imagination, and perhaps the odd beer and chaser. But I had recognised that voice from somewhere.

A shame their mother wasn't there, I thought for the umpteenth time that day.

Their Mum, my darling Libby, died a couple of years ago. She got an infection soon after we were married, and it affected her heart. We were told that the strain of having children might be too much for her, but Libby wanted kids. It happened, but having the twins, we were then told, would almost certainly be too much. But there they were, as fine a pair of kids, no make that young adults, as you could hope for.

It's just a shame she hadn't been there to see it.

And we had almost lost Liz as well.

They were four or five. They were playing together in their play room when Dave had rushed through to Libby, crying,

"She says she's very ill, Mummy, she says that you have to get help."

Libby had rushed through. Liz was lying on the spare bed in there, she was feverish, her skin was blotchy. Libby rang the Doctor, and only minutes later she was in an ambulance. They had said that is was one of the fastest and most severe cases of meningitis that they had seen. That if we had waited a few more minutes we might have lost her. They warned us about possible severe side-effects, but Liz had recovered completely.

An only child will sometimes have an imaginary friend. But with twins, it is not so common. Stranger still, Liz and Dave did not have one friend each, they shared her between them. They had said her name was Feebee. It was only much later that they learned the correct spelling, Phoebe. They said that their friend Feebee looked after them.

I remembered first time that Dave got drunk. He was in the football team, yes, with the rabble that was surrounding me, and they had actually won a match, a real rarity.

He was more or less carried home from the pub -- not the Fox, the other one, and I sat him in the kitchen with some water and a bowl. Then he started talking.

"It's true what they said, isn't it, Liz might have died."

He paused.

"I wasn't the hero, you know."

Another pause. I tried to persuade him to drink some of the water.

"It was Phoebe you know. She told me to get help."

"Yes mate. Now drink up. You'll feel better in the ... "

But not now. He got most of it in the bowl. I soon had him cleaned up a bit and in bed with the bowl beside him.

How many years? Ten? No nearer fifteen. He still remembered their imaginary friend.

What had brought this to mind? The sight of Dave supping beer? Perhaps.

The Bride and Groom leaving meant that the others started to drift away. A minibus arrived to take folk home. I didn't want to go home just then. I wanted to let the newly-weds have a bit of time to themselves before I rolled in.

I'm not suggesting that last night would have been their first time for anything. They had been living together, in the room that had been a play room, for a couple of years. It was that it was their first time as man and wife.

If only Libby had been there as well.

As Libby had got weaker, she needed a special bed, and it was not a double. When she was strong we used to use the playroom bed for our gentle love making -- as much as we could. But mostly I would try to sleep on a mattress on the floor beside her bed -- until she complained that my snoring kept her awake, and I started to sleep in the play room. I rigged up the old baby alarm so that she could get me if she needed anything.

The first night or two I got no sleep. I was so worried that she would not be able to wake me. I lay listening to the tiny sounds that she made that were transmitted through the wire.

Then one night, I lay there. I must have snoozed. I dreamt.

A woman was standing beside me. I knew where I was, I was on the playroom bed, but there she was. She had picked up my hand, and was carefully and gently smoothing my palm. She took a tiny bottle from a pocket in her gown, and let a drop of something touch my lips. It was the last drop in the bottle. She was whispering something. In my dream, I licked my lips and tasted ... tasted fruit, apples, but more than that, there was the fire of a whisky or rum. I relaxed, and fell into deep refreshing sleep. I awoke, mostly revived, the next morning.

There, in the emptying bar, I remembered that dream.

I had other dreams in that bed.

I thought that it was the drugs that Libby had been given. I thought she had been hallucinating.

"Darling, I know we can't do much together, now. If you ever want to, you know, have ... relief ... it would be fine."

I heard what she said, but assured her that it was not likely to happen.

"A lady came to see me. She said that she would be very happy to -- entertain you."

Libby hadn't had any visitors for a few days.

"Please think about it Darling." Libby was quite insistent.

As I have already said, I had other dreams in that bed.

It was after Libby's suggestion that it started. The dream lady came to me and offered herself to me. I could not reject her offer, but I did not feel I could accept, dream or no dream. I think that I said "Too soon," or "Not now, " or some such delaying message.

Libby had raised the subject of sex again, encouraging me, I remembered.

In time, I accepted the lady's offers. She would slide into my dream bed, take my hand, and stroke it. Then we would kiss and cuddle, we would tweak and fondle. Sometimes I just lay there while she pleasured me with mouth and breasts and with her sweet sweet cunny. Other times she would demand more from me and we would writhe and plunge, I would lick and suck and bite and slide and sweat.

The pub was almost empty by now. I emerged from my thoughts, feeling somewhat in need of some cold night air, and I decided that it was late enough for me to go home, but then Sid, the Landlord came and stood by my side.

"Here mate, taste this."

He gave me a tiny shot glass. The contents were warm and deep brown. I sniffed it and knew it. It was the same brew that the lady gave me that one last drop of, but with hot water diluting it.

"Make it last. This is the last bottle I've got. Perhaps the last bottle anywhere -- and it's nearly empty."

He held up an old green glass bottle. It looked hand blown. There was less than half an inch of liquid left in the bottom.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Some sort of cider brandy. An old family recipe I think. My grandfather said that he had been left three bottles, my father two, and now just this."

I sipped. Apples, yes, but autumn leaves and spice and spring flowers as well.

"Its not every day that you give your child away. Its our family tradition. Having a drop of this at a wedding."

Sid had three married daughters.

"But I'm not family." I protested.

"As good as, living just through there as you do." He indicated the adjoining wall.

I sipped it slowly, savouring it. Then I thanked Sid and left.

Early next morning I drove the two of them to the airport, and on the way back dropped off the last of their stuff at the house I which they would be living on their return. Then I went back to my empty house.

Dave? Yes, he still sort of lived there, but he spent most of his time at work or at his girlfriends.

So, back to where it started. Lunchtime in an empty home. I am not one for drinking at lunchtime, but, I thought, perhaps one of Sid's roast beef and onion sandwiches, that held more appeal.

I know that you are not reading this for culinary tips, but Sid knows what he's doing with a roast beef sandwich. Slices of crusty home made bread, beef sliced thinly, but several slices. The thin slices meant that you got more flavour. It wasn't a steak sandwich -- it was good roast beef. Served with freshly sliced onion in a bowl of vinegar. Mustard or horseradish were optional. I always went for the horseradish.

As I entered the bar Sid was talking to someone I could not see. They were behind a pillar. Sid caught my eye, and I mimed eating a sandwich. Sid nodded. mimed supping a pint. I thought a moment, and nodded. Without breaking his conversation for a moment, he started pulling my pint.

Sid gestured that I should sit down, and that he would bring me my refreshment. I picked up a newspaper and turned to the crossword.

A minute later Sid came over to my table. He was empty handed.

"Can I ask you a favour?"

"Of course, Sid."

"Can I use one of your rooms for a bit."

When the Fox was busy it was not unusual for Sid to 'borrow' one of our bedrooms. I did not have to do anything. Sid's staff did the beds, the breakfasts, the cleaning and laundry. I just made the visitors welcome

"Of course. I have plenty spare now."

She's one of my cousins or half cousins or nieces or some such. I lose track."Sid declared. "They call her Fi." He pronounced it as 'fee'.

"Fi?" I expected more.

"Just Fi. It's short for something or other.

"It's just that she's ... she's a bit, you know, uncomplicated. She's a good lass, a good worker if you show her what to do. It's my turn to look after her for a bit. She sort of gets passed round the family."

"Of course, Sid, she'll be a bit of company."

"I'll bring her over."

Sid led an unremarkable woman to my table. She was neither tall nor short, plump nor skinny. She had her hair tucked into a woollen hat. She wore a shapeless coat. Sid was carrying her big old suitcase.

Sid introduced me. "This is the Prof." Yes, I worked at the University, but I was a certainly not one of the high flyers, however all the Fox regulars insisted on calling me 'The Prof'.

I gestured for Fi to sit.

She did so nervously.

"I'm Fiona, but call me Fi"

"I've got a room for you. You can stay with the Prof." Sid told her.

"Thank you very much." she said. Her voice was hesitant. She said the words almost as if choosing them had been difficult.

Sid had disappeared, but he returned moments later with a tray, on which was a glass of cider for Fi, my pint, and two beef sandwiches. Sid put them down and disappeared again.

We munched.

When it was polite to speak, I swallowed my mouthful and spoke.

"Will you be working for Sid then?"

"Urr, Well, I will do what I can. I don't like hard jobs -- using stuff sort of thing. I wash up and make the beds and stuff. I can do some of the cooking, but not the hard stuff. I'm a bit scared of electric things."

She was not a conversationalist. We ate and drank our lunch. Then I picked up her case -- Sid had made it look light -- and led next door to my home. I left the case in our kitchen, and led her along the corridor.

"I'll show you the rooms. I'm afraid, it's a bit of a mess."

"Yes, Sid said that you've had a busy time."

"Yes, and I am not too good at tidying up."

I laughed. She smiled.

This is my room, this is my son's, then the bathroom. That's my office. Now, you can have one of these two."

She opened the first.

"Oooh, it's very nice, isn't it." I got the feeling that she was more used to rougher quarters.

Then she went into the old playroom. It still showed signs of the couple staying there, but she obviously felt more comfortable with it.

For the first time there was some emotion in her voice.

"Yes, please, this is my room. Can I really live here?"

"Of course."

"Yes, yes, yes. This is my own." She almost bounced on her toes, "This is Fi's room."

She had only opened the door. I encouraged her to go in, while I went back to fetch her case. As I returned with it I heard her talking to herself. She was telling herself how lucky she was, and how happy she was going to be. She went quiet when I entered and I put the case on the bed.

While telling her to make herself at home, the doorbell rang. It was one of Sid's staff. She was carrying a pile of bedding and towels. I directed her to the end room.

"Do you want a brew?" I shouted down the corridor.

Two voices replied.

"Oh yes please. Tea please."

"No ta. I have to get back."

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Yes please and no thank you." Fi replied.

"Do you want it there?"

"No, I'll come for it. I don't want to spill it while we make up the bed."

I brewed tea, and took two mugs through into the living room. I heard Sid's chambermaid let herself out. I drank half my mug of tea.

One reason that I rarely drink at lunchtime is that it makes me sleepy.

I awoke. Fi was sitting opposite me patiently. She was smiling. She had taken off her hat and brushed her brown hair. With a smile on her face she was transformed. She was not the unhappy waif, now she was quite an attractive woman.

"I didn't want to wake you." she said. With some confidence, her voice was different. It was not quiet, hesitant and apologetic. It was ...

The voice the night before. That voice was her voice. And it was the voice of my dream lady.

But no, it couldn't be. Sid had told me that Fi had arrived this morning.

My mouth was dry. I looked at my half mug of tea. It was cold. Her mug lay empty.

"Do you want another?"

"I'll make it if you show me where things are." I tried to get from my seat. She saw me struggle. "Don't bother. I'll find them." She picked up our mugs.

What a difference. Confidence? I heard the whoosh of the tap and the click of the kettle. I heard cupboard doors open and close.

I looked at the clock. I had slept the whole afternoon. I turned on the television for the news. I watched the headlines. I got up and left the TV talking to itself.

In the kitchen Fi had made the tea, and was washing up some of my clutter.

"Are you hungry? Do you mind left over's. There's a lot of stuff left over from the wedding in the fridge."

I got a couple of plates and encouraged her to fill one of them with pieces of pork pie, cold sausages, pieces of chicken and various salads.

"Bread?"

I cut a couple of slices.

We spent the evening in a companionable way, watching rubbish television.

Despite my afternoon nap I still wanted an early night. She was tired, and happy to go to her room at the same time.

If I did dream I did not remember it.

However, my mind had obviously been active in the night. I awoke. I had an idea in my mind that I could not believe, but equally, I could not dismiss it. I lay thinking about it for an age.

I got up, made coffee, and took it to my office. I had work to do, emails to answer.

I heard Fi moving about. She was tidying her room, and then the bathroom and the kitchen. She was back in her room when the door rattled and my son, David came in. He went into his room and clattered around for a bit.

I hesitated. My idea was mad, but I had to test it.

I heard him carry something to the kitchen.

"Dave?" I shouted along to him.

He put whatever it was down, and stuck his head round the office door.

"Come in."

He did. I pushed the office door closed.

"What have I done." I realised that I had done exactly what I would have done if my son was getting a telling off.

"No, nothing. It's just that ... "

This was embarrassing me.

"Dave, you remember your imaginary friend?"

"Yes, Dad. Phoebe you mean?" His face looked as if he was either about to protest about 'imaginary', or to deny the memory, but then thought better of either these options, and nodded.

"Can you describe her?"

"Well, she was ... ," he described an average woman. A woman, not a girl. But it was certainly not a description that the police could use for an arrest.

"Dave, we have someone staying with us. I want you to meet her."

I opened the door.

"Fi, are you busy?"

She came along the corridor. As she entered, Dave involuntarily stepped back and sat on a box.

"It's you, isn't it?" he said.

"My, how you have grown." Then Fi realised what she had said. She was confused.

I was confused. I think of myself as a rational person.

"Fiona, Fi, Phoebe? Have you ever stayed with Sid before? Could you have met Dave before?"

It was the hesitant Fi that answered.

"No sir. Never sir."

"I need to think." I said mostly to myself.

Fi went back to her busy-ness.

Dave looked stunned.

"Well it was a long time ago. Phoebe? I would have been a lot smaller. Phoebe! She seems so small now. It's how many years? She was always a woman, so how old would she be now?" he asked himself.

"Are you OK son?"

"I think so. Dad, I think so?" he stood up again.

He shook his head. He was returning to reality perhaps.

"Dad, I'm taking my old record player. Her Dad's got some old vinyls that he wants to get on disk."

I heard him leave.

I tried to return to work. I could not concentrate. Visions of my dream woman, of Phoebe, occupied my mind. Erotic visions. I thought of lying on top of her. Me taking my weight on my elbows, looking into her eyes. Smiling. Watching her breasts undulate when I pushed up inside her. Of the way she would rock her hips to rub me against her, inside her.

I thought of lying on my back. She was impaled upon me. She was bolt upright. She was circling her hips in time with me kneading her breasts and tweaking her nipples.

I thought of sweat and sticky patches.

I needed more coffee.

Fi, or was it Phoebe, had found the coffee maker, and a pot of hot strong coffee was waiting on the kitchen surface.

Black strong fresh coffee.

I sat in my chair in my living room. I heard her in the corridor, and she entered with her own mug. She was carrying an old cardboard filing box. She put it on the table beside her. From it she took a sheet of yellowed paper. She passed it to me.

"It's some old family stuff I've collected as I've been moved around."