Laundry Tales 11 The Maze

Laundry Tales 11: The Maze

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Copyright jeanne_d_artois August 2016

(jeanne_d_artois is an alt of oggbashan who also posts stories on Literotica)

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

This story is one of a series of tales told by Martha the ghost. Each one is complete in itself and they can be read in any order.

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The laundry of my ancestors' house is now my workshop. I'm a potter and good enough at my trade to make a reasonable living from it.

The main attraction of the laundry room was Martha, the resident ghost. I was aware of her from an early age. I would sit on the scrubbed table and ask Martha to tell me a story. She always did. When I became an adult, she told me about incidents from previous ages at the Hall. Each time I become the heroine of the story and experience the events exactly as she had. This is one of those stories.

***

Whenever I'm tired or lacking in inspiration for my pottery figures I tend to drag a suitcase of ancient clothes out of the laundry's attic. I hope that whatever I find will inspire Martha to tell me a story about the original owners of the clothes.

The attic is massive. It had to be to store everything I took away from The Hall when it was sold. Most of the items were cases of clothing that weren't worth selling at auction, even if I had wanted to. They were my family's history, and Martha's tales brought that history to life.

This particular suitcase was large and heavy. Unusually the label was less than helpful. It just said 'Maze'. What could that mean? I opened it carefully.

The large suitcase contained female clothing but it was stuffed very full. The main item seemed to be a very large brocade skirt with many layers of underskirt, hundreds of yards of fine material. It looked impossible to walk in with so much material hampering the wearer's legs.

I looked closer. The skirt was made from many panels of heavy brocade, possibly 18th Century, with a large split in front that would show the underskirts. The underskirts were mainly white, slightly faded to cream, but with some layers of black. The other items were an enormous black apron, a smaller one with very long streamers, a couple of short skirts and half a dozen odd shaped satin nightdresses.

I tried to lift the skirt by its waistband, letting the bodice drop down the back. I couldn't. The skirt must be eight or nine feet from waist to hem but the bodice looked as if it would fit a normal woman, even me.

"That's The Maze. It's shorter than it was." Martha's voice sounded in my head as she usually does.

I sat back on my chair with the masses of material draped over my legs.

"The Maze?" I thought at Martha.

"Yes. Originally it was made in the early 1920s to amuse children at the Village Fete, held in the grounds of The Hall. It was your great-grandmother's idea but her nieces made it. They started with an ex-Army Bell Tent pitched over one end of the small culvert that drains the Ha-Ha ditch after heavy rain. People could crawl through the culvert and emerge inside the tent, but most were coming OUT of the tent through the culvert."

I couldn't see the point. I knew the culvert, of course. The Ha-Ha is a walled ditch that prevents sheep from coming into the formal gardens yet allows an uninterrupted view that a fence or wall would have obstructed. The bridge over the culvert has a gate at one edge, but that gate can't be seen from the hall.

"They turned that tent into a large version of Queen Anne Boleyn, wearing a skirt, originally that skirt, over a crinoline. The Bell Tent was the crinoline. Your great-aunt Hilary was the main architect."

I felt myself slipping away from my humdrum existence as a middle-aged potter and becoming Hilary. As her I was dressed in a cord skirt and a woollen jumper, wearing practical boots. I was directing the covering of the tent with the brocade skirt. My acknowledged boyfriend George was standing beside me. He and Nigel had been invaluable when we were erecting the tent, but their role was finished. Nigel had already gone to have a driving lesson with the family chauffeur. George would have his lesson when Nigel returned.

George put his arm around my waist and gave me a gentle hug.

"What was that for?" I asked.

"It's time for me to leave. Nigel should be back any minute. Anyway I think you have everything under control, Hilary. I'll be back in less than an hour."

His arm withdrew and he was gone. I would have liked a kiss, but we couldn't, not in public. Later perhaps?

At the top of the tent a ladder was protruding past the central pole. My cousin Joyce was wrestling with the waistband of the skirt, tacking it to the top of the tent with thick thread. She was struggling because the tent's material was so heavy, and the brocade was thick. Several hands protruded around her, holding the skirt in place as she sewed.

At the entrance to the tent other women were tacking the split skirt to each side of the open triangle. As I watched carefully the tent started to look like a very large hooped skirt. It was working. On the ground in front of me, carefully layered across an old carpet, the underskirts were ready to be attached inside the tent.

It took at least half an hour before the brocade skirt was sewn in place. The next task would be more difficult. We had to attach the underskirts from the inside. I hoped that George would be back by then. He might be useless with a needle and thread, but he could help hold the material in place while we women sewed.

We took a tea break once we were sure the skirt was secure. One of the maids had brought the tea and laid it on a table that had been used for some of our sewing. We stood around congratulating ourselves for our progress so far. I moved some things off the table as Joyce started to pour the tea.

I swore under my breath. It was early in the morning, still cool, but there was Cousin Ralph strolling across towards us. He is a pain. He thinks he is God's gift to women, particularly his young female relations. We have to repel his wandering hands if he catches us alone, and sometimes even when we are not alone. He's been sent down from University for too much womanising and not enough work. They'll allow him back for his final year after the summer but we're stuck with him until then.

Ralph had been critical of the whole project of The Maze since my mother first suggested it. I think she's been very clever. She outlined what she thought it should be and left it to the young women to execute. We think most of it is our ideas, our design. It isn't. She just drops a casual hint whenever we appear stuck. The finished project will be exactly as she wanted it to be, but we'll think it's ours. I won't. I know my mother too well. She wanted work for idle hands and for us to use our brains. So far it has taken us a week to this stage. Within a few hours it should be finished. It can stay erected for the next few days until the Fete on Sunday afternoon. All we need to do is put the flysheet over the whole contraption and it will be wind and weather proof whatever an English summer throws at us until Sunday.

Blast! Ralph's here.

"Well, Cousin Hilary? Wasting your efforts again?"

"No, Ralph. We're succeeding -- without your help."

"If you ask me..."

"I didn't!"

Ralph ignored that. He was speaking so loudly that all of us could hear him, his usual obnoxious self.

"...this thing is going to be a flop. What children will want to burrow under skirts to find a few sweets? If you wanted a maze, you could have made one by marking the grass..."

"But we wanted something different, Ralph. This will be. Very different."

"It's too easy, Hilary."

"You think so? Very well, Ralph. Come here before dinner this evening and you can show us how easy it is. Surely you can find your way through a children's maze? Or do you need a successful university career for that?"

I had offended him. I meant to. He is a pest. If I hadn't been clutching a mallet and some tent pegs he might have grabbed at me. But he knew I'd use the mallet.

"OK Hilary," He shouted as he retreated hastily. "I'll be here at seven to show you how stupid this thing is."

He stalked off, presumably to have his late breakfast. The maid almost scuttled away towards the kitchen. She didn't want to meet Ralph either. I put the mallet and tent pegs down. I hadn't used them. The tent had been erected by our helpful male relations, not including Ralph, yesterday evening. I had just moved them so they wouldn't be in the way of the tea things.

We stood around the table drinking tea, but Ralph's visit had dampened our spirits. He is obnoxious. If he wasn't a relation we would ignore him.

We started work again. I walked into the tent and looked up.

"Hilary? We're ready for you." Joyce announced from the apex of the tent, now a skirt. Joyce was descending the ladder. I picked up the separate bodice and climbed the ladder. At the top of the ladder there was a platform for me to sit on, with my body concealed below the waist.

I pulled the bodice over my head. It was a loose fit but would be laced at the back. I arranged the attached short skirt to cover the hole in the apex of the tent, at least from the front.

"How's that?" I shouted down to the women assembled in front of the tent.

"Looks good," Joyce replied, "but the apron would help. I'll pass it up."

Shortly afterwards she shoved a mass of black shiny material past my waist. I lowered most of it forwards where two of them spread it across the entrance to the tent while I was tying the waist ribbons behind my back. The waistband was wide, almost hiding the short skirt. The weight of the large apron pulled my waist against the opening at the top of the tent.

We wanted the apron to cover the entrance. Those coming into the Maze would lift a side of the apron which would then fall back into place. It should look as if I was wearing the large skirt with the bodice and apron concealing the join. There would be a gap behind me where the top of the tent pole protruded but that could only be seen from the other side of the Ha-Ha -- out of bounds to those attending the Fete.

"That's great," Joyce said after she had emerged from under the apron. "It's exactly what we intended. You can come down now."

I reached behind me to unfasten the apron but wobbled. I had to stop myself falling forward. The canvas opening of the tent was so strong and stiff that I couldn't have fallen, even if I tried deliberately. I ducked my head through the hole and climbed down the ladder. Inside the tent the addition of the apron had made it dim and dark. It would be even darker once I was in position with my short skirt spread across the top. Those entering the Maze would have to rely more on feel than sight.

Now we had to get the mass of petticoats inside the tent, attach the top of it to cords we had sewn to the inside of the tent and spread it out before it could be entered.

The idea of the Maze was simple. Once behind the apron the child would be faced with a wall of petticoat. They could turn right or left. One way would lead to a seam and by turning back around that seam could progress further. If the start was the wrong way, that mass of material would end in a sealed end and the child would have to reverse. Some of the through passages were at each end, some in the middle and could be easily missed.

If a child became stuck, all they had to do was drop to the ground and crawl under the petticoats to the centre. If they reached the centre by successfully negotiating the Maze they would receive a bag of sweets from the woman stationed in the centre. If they had to crawl underneath the petticoats, they would get a smaller bag of sweets.

Once they had their sweets they would walk down steps and through the culvert to emerge in the open air and could rejoin the Fete.

We had decided that only one child should be in the Maze at a time. Joyce would be at the entrance. I would be Anne Boleyn at the top of the tent, acting as barker for the Maze, and also telling Joyce when the previous child had reached the centre. In theory the woman at the centre would tell me. In practice I think I would hear the child getting the sweets and leaving via the culvert.

During the previous week we had used hundreds of yards of material, originally a yard wide but sewn in a triple width to get enough height inside the tent. We had borrowed several treadle sewing machines. One woman worked the treadle, one directed the cloth under the needle, and two more fed the mass of material on and off the machine. By the time we had added pin-tucking, rows of lace edging, and lower frills, we had sore fingers, and the treadle operators had aching legs.

George returned without Nigel. He seemed very pleased with himself. I raised an eyebrow. That was a sufficient signal for him to explain.

"Sorry, Hilary. Nigel isn't coming yet. He made a mess of his driving lesson and has taken a horse for a gallop to console himself."

"And you didn't?"

"No. My lesson was successful. The chauffeur thinks I only need a couple more lessons before I can take a car out by myself."

"Well done, George. But we could use both of you. We're about to fit the maze and it is all hands to the pump."

"OK, Hilary. I'll do what I can. Nigel shouldn't be long."

All of us fed the mass of the Maze inside the tent, trying and failing to keep it straight. We didn't have enough short ladders to reach up to where we wanted to attach the top of the Maze. George could have stood on a beer crate but his sewing is appalling. Although he could reach, what was the point?

I did something no well-bred lady should do. I rode on his shoulders while I sewed my section of the Maze at the top. I was very conscious that my panties were pressed against the back of George's neck. I was getting warm between my legs, not just from the work I was doing, but because of the contact between my crotch and George.

He seemed to be enjoying it too. My naked legs were locked around his body, and his hands were holding them in place. Although I had a shorter skirt, shorter than my mother would ever have worn, as I worked that skirt slid. George's head disappeared inside it. I didn't have a free hand, neither did he. He was shrouded inside a lined cord skirt, breathing my natural perfume, subtly enhanced by some of my expensive Parisian scent. Why my scent? I knew, or hoped, that I would get George's head inside my skirt, so I had lightly sprinkled some of my scent on the lining.

He was breathing hard as I worked. Was he short of breath because my skirt was smothering him, or was there another reason? I cheated. I stretched further up than I needed to. My skirt totally hooded his head. When I sat back down on his shoulders his head was bagged in my skirt.

I had bagged George in more than the literal sense. I had claimed him for my own and now he was blindfolded, perhaps even gagged, inside my skirt. I was enjoying myself and working efficiently.

Beside me several women, perched on the few short ladders, were sewing furiously. After about a quarter of an hour, when I needed yet more thread for my needle, I looked around. On the opposite side of the tent Nigel's head was inside Joyce's skirt as she sat on his shoulders.

Poor Nigel! Joyce's skirt was much longer than mine and she was wearing silk stockings. Nigel was covered almost to his waist. He was probably having difficulty breathing, was much hotter than George, and had suspender clasps digging into his cheeks.

Later, I could see the marks of those suspenders on Nigel's face. So could the other women, but we all pretended we couldn't. The marks were fading but still visible at dinner.

It took over an hour and some very unladylike language before we were satisfied. The inner layer was a hooped crinoline, much smaller in diameter than the tent. It held the Maze as a wide ring between the inside of the tent and the crinoline. There was a slit in it and the exit from the mass of petticoats was sewn to that slit. George and Nigel were very relieved to shed our weight and be able to breathe freely.

I know I had had an effect on George. After I had dismounted, while we were still in the darkness inside the tent, he kissed me very satisfactorily. Both of us had been aroused by our close contact. He and Nigel left us so that they could clean themselves up before lunch, they said. What they would really do is ask the Butler for a couple of bottles of beer.

Joyce was the first to try the Maze. We had two advantages. We knew how the passage through the petticoats was arranged, and because I wasn't blocking the light from the top, we could see the seams easily.

But Joyce had a disadvantage. The Maze was designed for children. She was too tall and her upper body became entangled as the petticoats bunched together in their upper sections.

Joyce, even though she knew the way, took ten minutes to reach the centre. We hadn't expected it to take that long. She admitted she had almost been tempted to burrow out underneath.

I was the next to try. After Joyce's difficulty, I decided to try on my hands and knees. I could do that in a short skirt and bare knees. Joyce was still wearing silk stockings.

I took about two minutes from entering to the centre. That was acceptable. Even if a child took several wrong turnings, they should succeed in less than five minutes. I went back to the entrance by burrowing under the lower edge of the petticoats. That was simple perhaps because I had enough light to see what I was doing.

The others were expecting me to return via the culvert. I startled Joyce who was standing with her back to me. OK. I had slapped her backside as Ralph does -- too often.

"Hilary!" She exclaimed.

"That was a reminder, Joyce. What are we going to do about Ralph when he comes to show us how stupid we are?"

There was an animated discussion. Our conclusion was that we should ensure that he failed to negotiate the Maze and preferably that we should humiliate him, but how?

We could make it difficult. If we put the tent's flysheet over everything, as we would do every evening, it would be much darker under Anne Boleyn's skirt. He would be unlikely to crawl around, as I had done, and since he was taller than Joyce or I, he would become entangled. But was that enough? We didn't think so.

I don't know whose evil idea it was but we were going to cheat. At the exit from the Maze through the slit in the crinoline, if Ralph got that far, we would attach a full height dead end pocket as a complete circuit. Unlike the rest of the Maze, it would be sewn at the lower edge. If Ralph tried to push through it, his pressure would activate a draw cord, sealing the end he had entered from. I and several others would use the culvert to come into the centre, waiting for him. Once he was trapped, we would detach the temporary dead end and drag him outside as a petticoated prisoner.

One of the elements of the whole design was that the whole effect of the Maze would be very feminine. That was deliberate. So many of the children's attractions at each year's Fete had been aimed at boys. We wanted one for girls.

The petticoats had been trimmed with flounces and lace at the lower edges. The wall of petticoat revealed on entry was flounced or pin tucked from top to bottom. The whole mass would be scented with cheap perfume. We hadn't done that yet because the scent would be gone by Sunday.

We hoped that would deter the boys. We thought it would. What little boy would want to burrow under a skirt and search through petticoats? But Ralph was going to -- and would fail.