out the paper and folded it neatly, and wound the string onto Doreen’s existing roll of odds and ends. It was green. Neither had seen green string before. String was meant to be white. But waste not want not.
As she passed the farm she ran into George, who as it happened had not finished up for the day. She took him back round to the milking parlour and found the tiled floor and wooden stalls still wet from where he’d been rinsing down the vacuum tubes which took the effort out of hand milking, and had meant another three of his friends were now without jobs. Fortunately, the tickets had not got wet, or only a little bit. She showed them to George who said she should tell no one what she had done – as if she was likely to: she’d only left them with George, who was over six foot tall, so he could perhaps have a word with Tim Peasedown the postman, who was barely five foot, to make sure he denied all knowledge of having delivered either parcel or letter. George said he would, and would make enquiries. The tickets might be worth a little: they might be worth a lot. The seat numbers could perhaps be altered or removed; he had friends in the Art Department at college. It was interesting that someone, somewhere, knew the date of the Coronation. He pocketed the envelope and nudged Ivy further into the milking parlour. They would have to be quick. He had to cycle the eleven miles into Bath to get to his two o’clock class with his tutor Mr Edfield on Theories of Perception. Ivy couldn’t be too long away; the Mrs Hon. Rev. would get suspicious.
George was very clever. Just a few more exams to pass and he would be qualified to train as a science teacher. The government would pay him a guinea a week to do so and he would be done with farm life and milking parlours for ever. He was ambitious, not like the other boys in the village. He would go far, and then probably not have time for her, of course, but Ivy would face that when she came to it.
She crept round behind George and put her arms round his large frame. They would only reach so far. She really enjoyed that. There was no fat, it was all muscle. There was a difference in scale between the two of them that she found very satisfactory: he made her feel tiny, helpless and looked after. Though when it came to it, she had to admit, he was more likely to look after himself than anyone else. He would look at you intently with his bright wide blue eyes – he needed glasses; a pity, but whoever was perfect – and smile his easy smile and be so innocent and boyish you would end up doing whatever it was he wanted. He was a charmer, with an instant smile and white, even teeth. People trusted him on sight. She was not sure they were right to, but she knew how to look after herself.
He turned her round, grabbed her arms, quick as a flash and steered her round to the hay pile at the end of the parlour where it was comparatively private and had her on her back – she hadn’t bothered with knickers – and was into her within minutes. ‘Careful, careful,’ she managed to say the other side of her moaning, and he was. He would sometimes ask her to do what the Bible forbade, so he didn’t have to withdraw but could carry on, but so far she had resisted. It didn’t seem decent and her friend Beryl said it hurt a lot though you got used to it. The last thing she wanted to do was get pregnant, mind you, even though her mother would know what to do if she did, so it was a temptation, just to see what it was like. But she didn’t want to end up like Beryl, with a reputation as the village bicycle.
And then he had to be off, but not before he had given her a lecture on how the vacuum tubes of the milking machines worked, and how and why the cows preferred the tubes to hand milking, facts and theories she perhaps had rather not known. George was like that. You had to stand and listen and be told and agree. But it was worth it.
He was going to be late back that night, he was going
As she passed the farm she ran into George, who as it happened had not finished up for the day. She took him back round to the milking parlour and found the tiled floor and wooden stalls still wet from where he’d been rinsing down the vacuum tubes which took the effort out of hand milking, and had meant another three of his friends were now without jobs. Fortunately, the tickets had not got wet, or only a little bit. She showed them to George who said she should tell no one what she had done – as if she was likely to: she’d only left them with George, who was over six foot tall, so he could perhaps have a word with Tim Peasedown the postman, who was barely five foot, to make sure he denied all knowledge of having delivered either parcel or letter. George said he would, and would make enquiries. The tickets might be worth a little: they might be worth a lot. The seat numbers could perhaps be altered or removed; he had friends in the Art Department at college. It was interesting that someone, somewhere, knew the date of the Coronation. He pocketed the envelope and nudged Ivy further into the milking parlour. They would have to be quick. He had to cycle the eleven miles into Bath to get to his two o’clock class with his tutor Mr Edfield on Theories of Perception. Ivy couldn’t be too long away; the Mrs Hon. Rev. would get suspicious.
George was very clever. Just a few more exams to pass and he would be qualified to train as a science teacher. The government would pay him a guinea a week to do so and he would be done with farm life and milking parlours for ever. He was ambitious, not like the other boys in the village. He would go far, and then probably not have time for her, of course, but Ivy would face that when she came to it.
She crept round behind George and put her arms round his large frame. They would only reach so far. She really enjoyed that. There was no fat, it was all muscle. There was a difference in scale between the two of them that she found very satisfactory: he made her feel tiny, helpless and looked after. Though when it came to it, she had to admit, he was more likely to look after himself than anyone else. He would look at you intently with his bright wide blue eyes – he needed glasses; a pity, but whoever was perfect – and smile his easy smile and be so innocent and boyish you would end up doing whatever it was he wanted. He was a charmer, with an instant smile and white, even teeth. People trusted him on sight. She was not sure they were right to, but she knew how to look after herself.
He turned her round, grabbed her arms, quick as a flash and steered her round to the hay pile at the end of the parlour where it was comparatively private and had her on her back – she hadn’t bothered with knickers – and was into her within minutes. ‘Careful, careful,’ she managed to say the other side of her moaning, and he was. He would sometimes ask her to do what the Bible forbade, so he didn’t have to withdraw but could carry on, but so far she had resisted. It didn’t seem decent and her friend Beryl said it hurt a lot though you got used to it. The last thing she wanted to do was get pregnant, mind you, even though her mother would know what to do if she did, so it was a temptation, just to see what it was like. But she didn’t want to end up like Beryl, with a reputation as the village bicycle.
And then he had to be off, but not before he had given her a lecture on how the vacuum tubes of the milking machines worked, and how and why the cows preferred the tubes to hand milking, facts and theories she perhaps had rather not known. George was like that. You had to stand and listen and be told and agree. But it was worth it.
He was going to be late back that night, he was going
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