Emily 29

I first met Emily at The Copper Kettle. The Copper Kettle was a coffee house. It was back in the days when most coffee houses were stand-alone establishments. I think there were still several Lyons' Corner Houses dotted about, but that was about it. There were certainly no Starbucks or anything like that -- certainly not in The Cotswolds.

The Copper Kettle faced out onto the market square and it always seemed to be busy. The wisdom of location, location, location, I guess. And, on the day that I met Emily, The Copper Kettle was particularly busy. When I arrived, there was only one vacant table. Emily and I both went for it at the same time.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' I said when I realised. 'You take this one. I'll... umm... wait. I'm sure that someone will be leaving before too long. Always someone coming and going, eh?'

Emily laughed. 'That's OK,' she said, looking me up and down. 'We can share. Unless, of course, you are expecting to be joined by ten friends.'

'No, no. Just me,' I said. And so share we did.

Even though it was a long time ago now, I'm pretty sure that Emily ordered a hot chocolate and I ordered a black coffee. After that, we both settled down to read our newspapers. There were no phones or laptops to keep us occupied back in those days.

Just as I was getting to the end of my coffee, Emily suddenly looked up from her paper and asked me if I had heard that Westerman's was closing. (Westerman's was the local ironmongers.)

'No,' I said. 'Although that does come as a bit of a surprise. I think Westerman's has probably been in its current site on Sheep Street since Roman times, hasn't it?'

Emily laughed. 'I suppose we will have to go all the way into Cheltenham next time we want a screw,' she said.

Doing my best to maintain a straight face, I pointed out that there were ironmongers in both Moreton and Chipping.

'Not with the selection that Westerman's has though,' Emily said. 'Do you know that Westerman's even has left-handed screws?'

'I don't think I did realise that,' I told her.

And then she asked me if I was left-handed.

'No.'

Emily smiled and nodded. 'And your wife? Is she left-handed?'

'I'm not married,' I said.

Again she nodded. 'Fair enough. Just checking.'

And, since she had started the particular line of questioning, I asked her if she was married.

'No.' And she frowned slightly. 'Although I expect I shall probably have to get married. One of these days. But for the moment....'

'Not everyone chooses to get married,' I told her, in what I hoped was a reassuring tone of voice.

'That's true. But my parents feel the need for grandchildren. And they are rather traditional.'

'You have no siblings who could perform this service for your parents?'

'I do have a sister. But she mainly bats for the other side. It's not something that my parents ever speak about. Georgina's preference for girls. But they know. So that just leaves me.'

'I had a great-aunt who batted for the other side,' I said. 'And yet she managed to produce a daughter. She now lives out in Australia. The daughter, I mean. Sadly, my great-aunt -- of whom I was very fond -- died a few years ago now.'

Emily shook her head. 'I don't think my parents would approve of that -- my Lesbian sister producing a daughter. They wouldn't think that it was quite right.' And then she suddenly looked out across the market square. 'Gosh. Is that the time?'

I consulted my watch. 'A tad after four,' I told her.

'In that case, I must go,' she said. 'But we should talk again. What are you doing on Saturday? Afternoon perhaps.'

'I was thinking of going to watch a bit of cricket. The local team is playing over at Chipping Norton. Do you like cricket?'

'Will we be allowed to talk?'

'I see no reason why not.'

'Very well,' she said.

'Give me an address and I'll drive by and pick you up,' I told her. 'Say one o'clock? We don't have to watch the match from the very start. Oh, and I'm Jeremy by the way.'

'Yes. I know. I'm Emily,' she said. 'And I look forward to it. Both the cricket and the chat.' And then Emily took a small notepad from her handbag, wrote something on it, tore off the page, folded it, and handed it to me. 'I've put my telephone number there too,' she said. 'You know... just in case something comes up and you have to... well... you know.'

I slipped the folded piece of paper into my pocket, and confirmed that I would see her at one o'clock on Saturday. It wasn't until later that evening that I removed the folded slip from my pocket and read the address she had given me: Wulfmere Hall, Little Westcote.

Funnily enough, Little Westcote was where my Lesbian great-aunt had lived. I had been there many a time in my younger years. But Aunt Milly's house was to the right as you entered the tiny village. Near the small church. And Wulfmere Hall was to the left. Out of sight. Tucked away behind a small wood. To be honest, I could not recall even having seen it. But I did know that it was the home of the Heskeths. I assumed that Emily must have been the daughter of the current Heskeths: Sir Jasper and Lady Joan.

Seeing Wulfmere Hall for the first time, as I drove up the drive early on Saturday afternoon, the house certainly looked impressive; albeit perhaps a little tired. Emily was waiting for me. She was wearing a rather fetching sundress and carrying a light cardigan and an elegant straw sunhat.

'I do so like a chap who comes when he says he will,' she said, as she glanced at her watch. And she smiled.

'Nice house,' I remarked, as we drove back down the drive and headed for Chipping Norton.

'Mmm... a bit of a money pit,' Emily said. 'There always seems to be something in need of repair. But if you don't think too much about that then, yes, it is rather pleasing. It was originally built by Jerimiah Smith in the early seventeen hundreds. But my great-great-grandfather was responsible for quite a few alerations during the latter part of the last century.'

We arrived at the cricket ground just as the players were returning to the field from the luncheon interval. Our team had won the toss and had elected to bat first. The match resumed with our team on something like 70 for 3. Not a bad start, all things considered.

'So... what would you like to talk about?' I asked, once we had settled on the picnic blanket that I had spread on the grassy bank, in the shade of the oak trees, just beyond the picket fence.

'Are we permitted to talk of things other than cricket?' Emily asked.

I laughed. 'Contrary to the rather commonly-held belief that men are incapable of multi-tasking, I generally find that I can manage to keep one eye on events out there in the middle while still discussing other matters. Where would you like to begin?'

'The poetry of Roger McGough perhaps? Are you familiar with his work?'

'I am,' I told her.

'And?'

'I find it very... entertaining.'

'And clever?'

'Oh yes, I think so. Why? Do you not?'

'Oh, I like it very much. And some of it is very clever indeed. I just wonder if we are allowed to think of it as proper poetry. You know... Wordsworth? Tick. Yeats? Tick. McGough? Does he warrant a tick? Or is he just giving us rather good jokes?'

'I see no reason why we should not regard his works as proper poetry,' I told her.

And so we continued. As did our batsmen out in the middle. And then, about an hour-and-a-half into the session, with the score at somewhere just over 130, and with the loss of no further wickets, the clouds began to roll in.

'I think the forecast did suggest the possibility of showers towards the end of the afternoon,' Emily said.

'Well, our batsmen appear to have things under control,' I suggested. 'Perhaps we can leave them to it and head back to my place where I can make us a pot of tea. Or something stronger perhaps.'

Emily didn't exactly put up a fight.

'This is a surprise,' Emily said when we arrived back at my cottage.

'A surprise?'

'It's like a little art gallery.'

'Ah. Yes. You can thank my grandmother for that,' I told her. 'She not only bequeathed me her cottage, she also bequeathed me her art collection.'

'Impressive. Was she an artist?'

'No. But during the war, she worked for the Ministry of Information, where she got to know quite a few of the artists who worked on the propaganda posters and such. Some of the artists were already well established. Henry Moore. Paul Nash. People like that. But some were just getting started. Granny also got to know some of the local artists. That sketch above the bookcase is by Raoul Millais. It's not signed, but I think you'll agree it's unmistakably Millais.'

'And this attractive young lady?'

'Yes, that's Granny. It's a study for a portrait by Thomas Tuckwell. The portrait itself is in the collection at the Cosgrove School of Art where Tuckwell was teaching at the time of his untimely death.'

Emily frowned.

'He fell off the roof of the granary over at Tockstead. He was helping his brother to replace some slates. Broke his neck, apparently.'

'Ouch.'

'Ouch indeed.' And then I glanced at my watch and suggested that it was probably already past teatime. 'Why don't I make some sangria?'

'Sangria? That sounds very... exotic,' Emily said.

'You can supervise,' I told her.

'I'm not sure that I am qualified,' she said. 'Aside from red wine and orange juice, I'm not even sure of the precise ingredients.'

'If it's any consolation, there doesn't seem to be a definitive list.'

Emily frowned slightly.

'Last summer, I spent three weeks in Spain,' I said.

'Three weeks? Nice.'

'And I was being paid,' I told her. 'I was conducting research for a visitors' guide. On behalf of a loose association of small hotels. At each of the establishments I visited, I asked the camarero for the real recipe for sangria.'

'And?'

'Interesting. Some counselled beginning with slices of apple; others with orange segments. Some insisted on orange juice; others specified apple juice. And a couple even insisted on both orange juice and apple juice.

'Some favoured a generous splash of the local brandy; while others favoured dark rum -- even though the rum had come all the way from the Caribbean. And while they all specified red wine, there was little agreement as to the precise variety of red wine to be used. Personally, I now tend to just use whatever I have in the pantry.'

'Makes sense,' Emily said.

That afternoon we went with tempranillo for our red wine, orange for our fruit juice, and brandy for a stiffener. I also added a spoonful of brown sugar (which at least two of the camarero had suggested was essential) and a handful of ice cubes. We decided to forego the sliced fruit entirely.

The cloud that had threatened a premature end to the day's cricket moved off in the direction of Northampton and the sun put in a very welcome second appearance. And so Emily and I took our Cotswolds version of sangria out into the small back garden behind my cottage.

'This is very nice,' Emily said.

'The sunshine or the sangria?'

'Both. Although I was referring specifically to the sangria.'

I must admit that it was rather good. Smooth yet fruity. Refreshing. And still with just enough of a kick to let you know that it wasn't a drink for kiddies.

'Yes. And I'm not really sure why they put pieces of fruit in it,' I said. 'I find it so much easier to sip without having to navigate my way around the chunks of apple or orange or whatever.'

Emily nodded, took another sip of her drink, and then wafted the skirt of her sundress. Our deckchairs were facing each other, and I think that may have been the first time that I realised how absolutely stunning Emily's legs were. Another couple of sips of sangria, a little more conversation, and she again wafted her skirt. This time it came to rest with the hem just above her slightly-parted knees. The view from my chair now included a tantalising peep of her inner thighs and, thanks to the angle of the seat of her deckchair, a flash of her bright red knickers.

'It's very... private here, isn't it?' Emily said.

'I suppose so,' I said. 'There are the horses. Out there in the paddock. They can sometimes be a bit inquisitive. But that's about it.'

We chatted on for a bit (with me enjoying the delightful view) and then Emily said that she needed the loo. 'Through the kitchen and then the second door on the left,' I told her.

When Emily returned, she again 'arranged' the skirt of her sundress and, again, spread he knees slightly. Well... more than just slightly, to be honest. And this time, my view did not include any hint of her bright red knickers. Interestingly for a woman with champagne blond hair, her neatly-trimmed snatch thatch was almost copper coloured.

'Would you perhaps care for another splash of sangria?' I asked.

Emily smiled. 'Thank you. I would. I find it to be exceedingly enjoyable sangria. But first I would like you to fuck me.'

'You would like me to fuck you?' I nodded. 'Well, that can certainly be arranged,' I told her.

She continued to smile. 'I am relieved to hear that,' she said.

I got to my feet, took her by the hand, and led her inside to my bedroom, where I helped her out of her sundress. 'Nice,' I said, as I eased her back onto my bed, and began laying kisses on her shapely thighs, gradually working my way up to her aforementioned copper-topped snatch.

'Oh, fuck, yes,' she said, as the tip of my tongue completed its first tour of her not-inconsequential slippery groove.

I continued to tongue Emily's nether region for several further minutes -- all to an accompanying chorus of Oohs and Aahs -- and then Emily suggested that I was perhaps a little over-dressed for the occasion.

'We can remedy that,' I told her, and I got back to my feet and removed my trousers and my briefs.

'Yes,' she said, eyeing my stiffening cock. 'And are you going to remove my bra?'

'I'm not wearing your bra,' I told her.

She laughed. 'No. But I am.'

'Ah, yes. And would you like me to remove it?' I asked.

'I would. At times like this I am not averse to having my breasts fondled,' she said. 'And, don't worry, if you find your hands otherwise occupied, I am more than happy to do it myself. Or we can make it a joint project.'

I nodded. 'Then, clearly, we must set them free,' I said.

I had not thought of Emily as being especially large-breasted but, freed from their lace and Lycra support, her breasts were certainly substantial. They were also surprisingly soft. And, as Emily had suggested that we might, we made a joint project of attending to them. While I attended to the needs of one breast (while, at the same time, fingering Emily's slippery clit), Emily took my now-hard cock in one hand while tending to her other breast with her other hand.

We might have continued with this delightful arrangement for quite some time had it not been for the fact that Emily caught a glimpse of my bedside clock. 'Gosh, is that the time?' she said. 'I had promised Mother that I would be home in time for drinks with the Hendersons. Marjorie Henderson can be rather heavy going. I can't in all good conscience leave Mother to deal with her on her own. However, before we park this little adventure, I was rather hoping to feel your cock inside me. Ten minutes. Can we do the deed in ten minutes?'

'We can certainly try,' I told her.

And in due course, possibly with a couple of minutes to spare, Emily was smiling and saying (for the second time that afternoon): 'I do so like a chap who comes when he says he will.'

That was the first time that Emily and I made the beast with two backs that summer, but it certainly wasn't the last. We even managed an interesting couple of days in the Cinque Port Town of Rye. I say 'interesting', because it started to rain just as we arrived at our hotel on Friday evening and it was still raining when we left again on Sunday afternoon. Not that it mattered much. We spent most of our time in our hotel room where we began compiling a 'ways to fuck' list, complete with Michelin-style ratings. I seem to recall that I gave most positions nine out of ten. (Always room for improvement.) Emily saved her top marks for doggy -- with bonus points for finishing in her arse.

And then, towards the end of summer, Emily moved to London to work for a public relations firm owned by a friend of her father. That's when she met Edward.

'So... will there be wedding bells?' I asked when she came back down to The Cotswolds for a couple of days at Christmas.

'Ask me in another three months,' Emily said. 'Edward is certainly putting a lot of time and effort into wooing my parents.'

'But you're not so keen?'

'He's OK.' And then she said: 'You know it's a pity you're allergic to children.'

I just laughed. 'Well, there is that. But I'm not sure that your father could cope with a writer for a son-in-law anyway.'

Emily and Edward were married at the end of the following summer. Their first child, Myles, was born the following May. 'And now I have to go through the whole thing again,' Emily said. 'An heir and a spare. Or maybe a pigeon pair. I'm afraid it's a family tradition. But I'm definitely stopping at two. Whatever the outcome.'

'What does Edward say?' I asked.

'Edward seems to think that children are woman's work. Although he has booked Myles a place at his old school. I suppose I should be grateful. And grateful that we can afford it.'

Emily's second child was a daughter. 'Voila! A pigeon pair,' she said when she phoned me out of nowhere.

The Christmas before Myles turned five, Edward followed the England cricket team down to Australia for the Boxing Day Test at the MCG. He dressed it up as business. But, on the quiet, Emily told me they were 'having some time apart'.

'Oh dear,' I said, as we shared a glass or two of Christmas cheer in The Bell. 'So am I to assume that everything in the garden is not as rosy as it might be?'

'I fear we may have to contend with the garden being a little drab next spring,' Emily said.

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

Emily shrugged. 'I think I always knew that it was a possibility. But at least my parents are happy. They have their grandchildren. And how is your love life? Are you still seeing your friend from Bath?'

'No. We... umm.... She has moved to Canada. To Montreal. A teaching opportunity came up at McGill, and she decided that it would be madness not to take it.'

Emily nodded. A little sadly. But then she smiled. 'So... does that mean that I can invite myself back to your place?' It was not a question that required too much careful consideration. We finished our wine and headed back to my cottage.

It had been going on for seven years since I had removed Emily's clothes. She had put on a little weight in the intervening years. But she still looked wonderful. At least I thought she did. Emily thought that she should lose a few kilos. 'Perhaps I'll take up tennis again,' she said.

'Should I give Billie Jean King a bit of a heads up?' I asked as my fingers brushed her copper-coloured bush on their way to her cuntal valley.

'Mmm...? I think she'll be safe enough for one more summer,' Emily said. 'Unless of course the Wimbledon chaps see fit to favour me with a wild card. That could put the cat among the pigeons.' And she laughed.

We didn't waste much time on foreplay that afternoon. Perhaps with one eye on the clock, Emily took up her position facing the bed, leaned forward, rested on her forearms, and offered up her delightful derriere. My cock had been growing with anticipation almost from the moment we had entered the cottage. I wiped the cockhead along her slippery groove two or three times and then gently but firmly slipped it into Emily's waiting fuckhole. 'Oh, yes!' Emily said.

Emily's predictions of a less-than-abundant London spring turned out to be correct. Somewhere around the beginning of April, Edward moved out of the family home and took up residence with a female cricket fan whom he had met on the Ashes Tour to Australia. That summer, Emily brought her children across to The Cotswolds to spend time with their grandparents on several occasions. And while her children spent time being spoiled rotten by their grandparents over at Wulfmere Hall, Emily usually managed to somehow sneak an hour or two, sans culottes, over at my cottage.