Miriam Hancock rarely absented herself from Fairyfield during term-time, but the need for extra finance to fight off the threat of the National Trust meant her having to take time off to cajole, threaten or physiologically squeeze her donors. Alec Grimshaw was a case in point, he had not contributed for quite some time and to see him she had to travel to York.
During the drive south she took the opportunity to appreciate the countryside and view the bloom of the Yorkshire moors in all their Byronic summer glory. Her eyes constantly strayed over the towering flanks of the fells as if seeing them for the first time, gazing up at the high tops and the patterns of walled green fields won from the yellow moor land grass.
That summer was turning into a scorcher, the grass was parched. Weeks of unremitting heat seemed to have drawn every last drop of moisture from the soil, but weather, no matter its type, always dramatised the rolling landscape. She'd calculated a two hour drive to reach the county town, and as a break to boredom she'd decided to visit a potential client on the way. A stop-off would not only be refreshing it could also provide some income in the future, so it seemed sensible to kill two birds with one stone.
The hamlet of Codswallop was just a few old grey stone houses of one or two storeys nestling together under tired and sagging grey slate roofs, and she swung her car at a fork in the road to head between them. On the other side she dipped her foot on the brakes just before a humpbacked bridge to ask a farm labourer for the location of Sitt Garth.
The house she sought squatted on the west side of the village where a shady lane lined with gorse and briars snaked up the side of the dale. It had whitewashed walls covered with climbing ivy and clematis, a thatched roof, and a trendy brightly painted cartwheel leaning nostalgically against its gables.
Pulling to the side of the road she climbed out. The sky was a piercing blue arc above, unblemished by cloud, the golden sun a perfect sphere, and on that balmy summer morning nothing stirred. Not a blade of grass or a leaf moved; the only sounds being the faint buzzing of bees hovering about clumps of willowherb embedded in a crumbling brick wall.
A moderately attractive woman in flat shoes greeted her at the gate of a small front garden. She was holding a watering-can, but was clearly expecting a visitor. "Miss Hancock?" Miriam smiled, and the woman smiled back. "I'm Mrs Pumphrey. We spoke on the phone. I'm so pleased you decided come in person. Come around the back of the house, it's shady there and I have some Pimms on ice."
Miriam followed behind her into the sanctum of a small, cool garden surround by high brick walls. The garden was remarkably well-tended - lawn, koi pond, waterfall and a massive clump of honeysuckle. The rear of the house was lime-washed and enhanced by earthenware tubs spilling out lemon-scented ivy leafed geraniums. There a small table and some basket chairs were set out on the flags of a modest sized patio.
A face peeped out through a small window, hair set in banana tresses and the epitome of the girl just home from school, but from the previous telephone conversation she'd had Miriam knew that the girl was in fact Mrs Pumphrey's son.
"Is that Freddy?" she asked.
"I call him Felicity when he's being a girl." Mrs Pumphrey replied, then turning to the face in the window she called softly. "Do hurry up, Felicity; Miss Hancock is impatient to meet you. Put on your loveliest girly things and come out here or Mr Strappy will have to make a visit."
The face disappeared and the woman offered a slight sigh, "I've always been very supportive of Felicity's sissiness. I've shown him how to wear make-up and polish his nails, and even taught him to walk in high heels. But now that he's attained maturity it has become more and more difficult for the sweet boy to hide his true nature. Worse, he's beginning to experience funny feelings. Sex feelings. Feelings that makes his popsy stiff and drippy when he's in the company of certain men. My intention is to invite a local gentleman to come and lodge with me at Sitt Garth, but I fear problems arising from the arrangement unless I find a suitable place for Felicity.Fairyfield Grange has been recommended to me by a number of ladies of my acquaintance."
Miriam smiled warmly. "It's flattering to find my school so widely known and well thought of, and of course I'll help you in any way I can."
"I shall miss him of course," continued the woman thoughtfully, "But he can't stay with me forever, can he? Every sissy-fag must break his mummy's heart and her apron strings at some time."
Miriam leaned back in her chair and studied the woman for a moment. Her clothes were well cut and expensive, if unimaginative and worn without flair, and there was a volume of poetry at her elbow, so she was clearly quite cultured. Was she an out-at-elbows heiress or an authoress who found inspiration in the loneliness of the moors?
"Sitt Garth is an unusual name for a house, even when one understands that garth is the Yorkshire term for a field." she said.
"It means 'field of the River Sitt," the woman smiled wryly in return, "Unfortunately there's never been much of a river since the larn at Skeriton was turned into a reservoir, but one shouldn't be too selfish or sour. There always seems to be a shortage of water in Yorkshire when there's a good summer, so the sacrifice serves a purpose."
The koi pond shimmered like pewter as they watched the golden shapes moving beneath the surface. For a while they chatted amiably whilst sipping Pimm's and chilled lemonade, but it was a delay longer that Miriam had anticipated and she began to feel restless. At last the crisp trip-trapping of high-heeled shoes on the patio tiles announced the arrival of Felicity, and if he had been sweet looking peeping through the window, he was gorgeous now.
A doll-like creature, lipsticked, beribboned, perfumed and pantied and as glamorous as any chorus-girl at the Folies Bergere as he minced slowly before them, one hand on his hip and the other held out in a limp swish. Even from several feet away she could detect his delicious perfume, an undeniable feminine scent. Miriam had viewed enough sissies to gauge a good specimen when she saw one, and this one was exemplary. His expression was three parts innocent angel and one part tantalising streetwalker - the combination that through the ages had driven men insane with desire.
