Emma Twist didn't attend the champagne reception after Poppy's wedding. After helping take most of the students back to the Grange she left them in the capable hand of Margaret Pardoe and climbed into her little second-hand Fiat. It was her preference that day to make a visit to a certain Lavender Cottage on the periphery of Peasmarsh.
The windows were open and the breeze played on her face as she drove along, while Classic FM played an aria from Rigoletto on the radio. LA DONNA E MOBILE. Very apt for a lady on the move. The sun was in its heaven and she was in hers, the National Trust's attempt to acquire Fairyfield Grange had collapsed and the future was assured.
Little had she realised that Jennifer would provide such a fine opportunity for gratification when she'd seen her that morning. It was so unexpected, and so appreciated. She had double-booked herself to be in two places on the same day - and would Emma be interested in standing in for her elsewhere?
Such a thoughtful girl. So unselfish!
Emma crunched the little Fiat into top gear and put her foot down. She could just about afford a slightly newer car if she sacrificed a few other things, but it hardly seemed worth the expense when leading a life that didn't allow time for travelling. Anyway, recess was in the offing and she'd already put all her spare cash into arranging a vacation in Mexico.
Mexico was where her fantasies had first begun to take on realism. In the scattered peasant villages around Monterey the food could be surprisingly good if one enjoyed the ethnic, and the lodgings were cheap if five-star service wasn't important. More important, in such places she could always muster a queue of apprehensive young people offering themselves to be spanked in return for a little gift or inexpensive treat.
Some of the mothers too were willing; willing to have their tits slapped, and willing to be spanked, fingered and shafted by a generous lady who paid them more attention than their arrogant, macho-obsessed husbands ever did.
In a mood of elation she motored down the village street. The buildings were all built of rough quarry stone, but they looked mellow and neat in the sunshine and it was easy to spot the shambolic figure of Mrs Amos standing on the corner by Larkin's store. Not being a frequent visitor to Peasmarsh she felt in need of assistance in finding Lavender Cottage, and she'd summoned the tatty woman to act as a guide, and despite the hammering she'd received at the hands of Gloria on Open Day Mrs Amos had been willing to oblige.
Drawing up at the pavement Emma peered out through the car's open window. "Which way do we go?"
"Up top o' the lane behind the shop," Mrs Amos replied, "It's narrow, so it's best if we walk I reckon."
Climbing out from her car Emma locked the door and gave her travel bag over to be carried. "If you're wishing to get back in my good books you're going to have to try hard today, Mrs Amos. You'll need to pay attention to what I say and be faultless in obeying instructions."
The woman dipped her head several times rapidly in her usual weaselling, sycophantic fashion. "Yes, yes. Dunna you worry Miss Emma, I's learned me lesson."
The assurance was greeted with some cynicism. Emma knew too well that the only way to be certain of anything with this particular woman was to keep a firm grip on the scruff of her neck and give her a regular beating.
She gazed at her companion's face as they walked and recoiled at the sight. She didn't think anyone could be uglier than Mrs Amos usually appeared, but having received a pair of black eyes from Gloria so recently her face looked sunken and had taken on an additional ghoulish pallor.
"You're not looking well Mrs Amos. Gloria gave you quite a hard time I think."
The woman nodded. "Horrible it was Miss. She didn't smack me bum like you do, she just thumped me around all over the place, all brutal like."
"I thought you may have been wily enough to seduce her away from some of the rougher treatment."
"It weren't no good tryin'. There was that posh lookin' television-woman laying unconscious on her bed wi' a cucumber stuffed up her cunt. Erm! Beggin' y'parden Miss - that is, it were stickin' out from her lady-parts, Miss."
"What did your husband say about the state of your face?"
"I tol' him I fell in a ditch. He believes everything I say."
They were forced to move to the side of the road as a car squeezed by, and Emma paused to glance around."This lane is quite well made. I could have driven up and saved myself a half-mile walk."
Mrs Amos grinned like an idiot ape. "Um, yes. I's not much good at judgin' things."
Emma sighed. "No you're not. You've just enough active brain cells to be rated as living."
At the top of the lane stood Lavender Cottage, a handsome, classical-looking structure with leaded windows and a tiled roof buckling with age that soared up to display great patches of coloured lichen. Pretty enough to be pictured on the lid of a chocolate-box, thought Emma as she went up to the front door and knocked. Almost at once she was confronted by the buxom Mrs Clagget.
Emma folded her arms across her chest as their eyes met, and she didn't smile. "I'm Miss Twist. Jennifer Hancock telephoned you earlier to let you know to expect me."
Martha Clagget fidgeted but didn't challenge what she said. Instead she pointed a finger at Mrs Amos. "What's she doing here?"
"She's my bag-carrier." explained Emma without looking round. "She can remain in the hall while we do business, or you can put her out in the backyard."
"I don't want her in my garden," puffed Martha pugnaciously, "She looks like a piece of baggage herself, and if the neighbours saw her on my patio they'd think I'd opened a refuge for tramps. You'd both better come in."
Emma gave Mrs Amos a stern look as they entered. "You'll stand inside the front door and not move from there unless I call for you."
Inside the house Emma took everything in at a glance. Mrs Clagget's sitting-room was small, but scrupulously tidy, without any of the bobbins or tat one could expect of a haberdasher's home. In fact it was rather tastefully decorated, with an Aubusson rug on the floor and a six-foot long traditionally loomed tapestry depicting nymphs in a garden hanging from the dominant wall. Standing on a companion table by the door was a butterfly lamp in the style of Comfort Tiffany, while the space beneath the velvet drapes of the window was taken by a chaise longue covered in chinz.
Polly Clagget was seated on the couch. Big brown eyes and petite body, with blond hair pinned up on the back of her head. A beautiful girl, prim and proper but oozing sexuality.
Mrs Clagget stood in the centre of the room and pushed out her considerable bosom. "I'm not sure I agree with what Jennifer as arranged for today, Miss Twist. She never mentioned when we began things with her that she'd send other people if she couldn't come herself. It's very disconcerting. The relationship Polly and I have with her is - er, intimate and personal, not something to share with strangers. And Jennifer never visits Polly and I at the same time. Not usually anyway. On the whole we're not used to that. I only agreed for you to come here because nothing much else happens around here on Sundays."
