The next morning Jennifer Hancock went down the stairs with her hair piled on top of her head and wearing a crumpled pale-blue linen overall to be amazed when Lulabelle said she looked as fresh as a daisy. Her mother was talking on the telephone, and when Jennifer appeared in the sitting-room she clapped her hand across the mouthpiece.
"I've been negotiating things with Mrs Boroclough. She'd like to have a few words with Poppy now, would you fetch him from the kitchen?"
When Poppy arrived he took the stem of the phone in one hand and cupped the mouthpiece with the other, reverently raising it up as if he was about to kiss a pair of testicles.
"Poppy speaking." He didn't say much after that, but an occasional timid "Yes, yes." and a lot of emphatic nodding of his head signified he was paying great attention to something being said. After a short while he murmured a soft "Thank you, Mrs Boroclough. See you soon. Bye, bye."
When he put down the phone a wide toothy grin was stretched across his face. "Mrs Boroclough says I'm going to have a white wedding in church, and then have a honeymoon in Torquay." His grin turned to Jennifer, "That's a holiday town on the south coast."
Miriam sighed in her extra-special patient fashion. "The lady didn't say Torquay, dear. Mrs Boroclough said she would take you to Tuscany. Tuscany is in Italy."
Looking slightly confused, Poppy straightened up and jangled his earrings. He looked from Miriam to Jennifer and back again, then finally shrugged his pale-pink shoulders in dismissal. "I don't really care where it is, as long as it's near the seaside."
The moment he'd gone from the room Jennifer gave her mother a look of disbelief. "She can't possible mean to marry someone like Poppy in church. It must be at odds with all kinds of ecclesiastic law."
Miriam calmly poured herself another cup of tea. "Don't underestimate that woman, Jennifer. She's a pervert, but she's a rich pervert, and in any day and age that makes a great deal of difference. I've insisted that it should be done directly after Open Day. Next week, before the school breaks for recess."
She's some kind of squillionaire and probably wealthier than Lord Chance-Barton. She's certainly rich enough to have contempt for polite society. As for the wedding, Parson Roper is massively in debt to her, so he'll do exactly as he's told."
Poppy took both jam and cheese as well as bread to the dining area up the stairs. "Mrs Boroclough says I'm going to Tuscudy for my honeymoon." he told everyone sitting there.
"Tuscudy? Do you mean Tuscany?" asked Bambi.
Poppy's mouth twitched. "Erm, it could be the same place. People call it different names."
"Tuscany is in Italy. My gran' once went there." said Pompom, slotting a slice of bread into the toaster. "She said it was all mountains."
Poppy nodded. "Yes, there's probably some hills there," he conceded, "but I think there'll be a seaside-bit too, with a funfair on the beach." His mouth suddenly wreathed into a beaming grin. "The Big-Dipper roller-coaster ride scares me and makes me squeal, but I love it."
He began telling the others how Mrs Boroclough was sending him an engagement ring in the post, real gold with real emeralds on it, and when Bambi mentioned that it was rather unusual for a man to be the wife of a woman Poppy became as cross and began berating him like an irate hen.
"Everyone needs to get married at least once, it doesn't matter to who. The trouble with you younger people today is you see everything in black and white and make no allowance for change." he chunted with a wag of his finger, "I'm grown up now and I can make my own decisions, thank you very much. I'm old enough to think about things properly."
The sentiments he expressed had clearly been scooped out of a magazine or a movie, but they certainly fitted his mood at that moment. "No one tells me what to do anymore ...'cept the headmistress - and Jennifer - and Mrs Boroclough."
Bambi sucked a jammy finger. "And policemen, and the Queen, and anyone who shouts loud."
Poppy threw back his chair, and flushed with annoyance brought up his hands like a pair of spiked talons. "Shut up, Bambi. If you keep making fun of me I'll - I'll scratch you."
With that dire ultimatum ringing in everyone's ears he swivelled on his heels and flounced from the room.
Amanda finished buttering his toast. "Mmm, yum. Where's the jam?"
Sammy pushed a pot of jam across the table and spoke for the first time. "Poppy's sweet. I'll miss him if I come back for next term. Will you miss him, Bambi?"
The other she-boy thought for a moment. "Yes," he said with a wobble of his head, "no one else is so easy to beat at Scrabble."
***
At the end of August each year heather blooms in riotous colour across the dun-tinted hills of the West Riding. Waves of purple and magenta swathe the Pennines in such stunning magnificence that even the most jaundiced of eyes fill with admiration. Such a vista was a fitting backdrop to the one day in the year Miriam Hancock felt more important than any other. It was Open Day at Fairyfield Grange.
The rejuvenated gardens were in prime condition in flagrant defiance of the restrictions on the use of water during the summer drought. They were defined on all sides by old stone walls covered with climbers which at the far end scrambled up into two ancient trees, their blossom shining among the dark foliage of the branches like spun silk. Below, in the wide borders under the walls, floribunda roses clustered together in dense blocks, and in the centre, surrounded by gravel paths was the lawn upon which Mr Hardwick now conducted the opening display.
Stepping out in perfect formation the aerobic dance team bounced, skipped and cavorted onto a wide piece of decking set out on the lawn. Heart palpitating the gym instructor dug his fingernails into his palm in an effort to calm himself as he observed them. "Come along, dear things. Try to look animated! - No, not like that Dolly, that just makes you look half-witted - remember what you've been taught, all of you, heads up and smile, and don't let anyone get close enough to get into your knickers."
"We're not wearing any." piped Lulabelle.
It was such pleasant weather that the guests spilled outside to watch without being urged. Gathered in small groups, lounging in teal chairs or simply loitering on the York-stone steps, they stared, bright-eyed and earnest, smiling and gesticulating as the children swivelled their hips, caressed their bodies, wiggled their bottoms and humped the air.
A moment later they were high-stepping like drum-majorettes. Six young men wearing very short little-girl outfits that made the most of their superb bare legs. Some had dark hair, others were golden blond, reflected light framing their heads and playing on the edges of curls and ringlets.
They were all beautiful, each in his own way, their faces lightly made up to retain the lush aspects of youthfulness, their bodies slender and supple, attired in diminutive dresses of purple plush trimmed with gimp cord and black Spanish lace. Jennifer had been keen to dress them in nothing more than a pink ribbon tied around their testicles, but her mother had vetoed that idea. A little decorum was required for the first part of the day.
Even so, they presented a sight to make dead men sit up, and it was impossible to disguise the stirring of loins among those who viewed them. They were tricked out with beads, earbobs, frills and furbelows, but no underwear - not a stitch. Miriam hadn't objected to some titillation, and to the amazement of all those watching the front hem of their tiny skirts had been pinned to the waist to form an outward flowing drape beneath which their lush, creamy thighs and well proportioned genitals had no hope of taking shelter.
Their cocks, each one an individual soft sculpture, were clad with only a narrow bow of pink ribbon, and while their scrotums varied in size and shape they were uniformly soft sacs of pink skin in which the outline of their testes were clearly defined. A ripple went around the people there has they gazing in astonished disbelief at the plethora of femmed-up boycocks on girls.
Extending into line abreast they began with tap in the Irish style, arms motionless at their sides, chins in the air and legs moving rapidly, hop-tapping and heel kicking below. The audio-accompaniment this time consisted of a lively fiddle, a reedy sounding pipe and a lambeg drum, while the rhythmic clack of shoes provided both music and melody of their own.
The tune crashed to a stop and almost instantly the invisible fiddle changed key and launched into a faster jig allowing Candy to spring forward, knuckles on hips, to give a virtuoso display of jazz-jive.
When he dropped to the rear Amanda and Trixie took centre stage in a whirling, synchronised, foot stomping pas de deux that had their skirts swirling in dizzying circles and provided ample opportunity to observe pretty bare bottoms and exposed boy parts.
In a daring move they spun round, back to back, lifting their skirts, bewildering the spectators, taunted them, tormented them, their soft high-pitched squeals hammering like nails into their attention as they wriggled and rubbed their bare bottoms together, while laughing at the intimacy.
There were no hoots and hollers and no stamping of feet, but the tumultuous applause at the end declared it a great success, even if no one had foreseen that some of the guests would afterwards invite the whole troupe in through the front doors for a glass of lemonade.
Inside the house bright sunshine poured in through the tall windows to wash the entrance hall with rafts of pristine light, making the dark stained pine panelled walls take on a lighter hue as if shot through with mahogany, while a set of crystal lamps with cream silk shades added their own glow. The ambience was cheerful.
