A Shared Quim Is A Happy Quim

Mary Hutchings, who had never expected to have a paid job, had driven a baker's van in the early 1940s and loved it but her husband Sydney had returned from six years of war unscathed -- physically if not emotionally -- and she had been retired to home duties so that he could take back the breadwinner role and come home to a hot meal and a clean house with a wife available for sex when Sydney had drunk enough alcohol to be in the mood. Anthony, their son, was encouraged to work at school though it was their daughter Yvonne who had inherited whatever brains (as well as looks) were available in the family but higher education would be wasted on one whose future was as wife and mother. She passed the Eleven Plus and went to the High School; Anthony failed his and it was hoped he would acquire at his lesser academy the technical drawing skills that would allow him to become a draughtsman.

If he failed at that he might be apprenticed as a fitter (in fact, he eventually joined the police force). Although money was tight, Anthony was given a new cricket bat and football boots; Yvonne got her aunt's old tennis racquet. Anthony had a sports jacket for casual wear; Yvonne spent her leisure hours in the same clothes she wore for school -- a navy gym slip in winter and a cotton dress in summer -- which she wore over the baggy cotton knickers that all English girls of her age wore at that time. At fifteen, she was old enough to leave school and get a job. In her first ever revolt against Sydney's wishes, Mary fought and won a battle for Yvonne to stay at school. At sixteen, she passed all the eight O Levels she took. Two years later, she had three good A levels and her teachers said she really must go to university. The idea appalled Sydney -- educate a girl to degree level? Why? What possible good could it do? Wouldn't it all be wasted when she married and had children?

And so, here she was, eighteen years old with two weeks to go before she started work at Martins Bank. Sydney had generously agreed to make 20 pounds available before the two weeks were up so that Mary could buy Yvonne clothes suitable for a young woman starting work. The money had not yet been forthcoming.

Not all of the men who came back from the war had reintegrated as well as Sydney had. Jimmy Robson had been a bombardier in the Royal Regiment of Artillery and received the Distinguished Conduct Medal for actions which, it was widely held, would have merited a Victoria Cross had he been an officer. Everyone said he was the bravest man they knew; everyone also said that he was completely crackers. Whether this madness came from his wartime exploits or from learning that his wife had left him for a butcher excused service for flat feet was the subject of disagreement. Young people on the council estate where the Hutchings family lived were warned to stay away from Jimmy. "Don't look at him. Don't talk to him. If he offers you something, say, 'No, thank you.'"

While she was still at school, Yvonne had ignored most of the instructions Sydney handed out, including the commandment to stay away from the ex-bombardier. Jimmy Robson was interesting, which was not something you could say about the youths of her own age who pestered her with stupid remarks. "You've dropped something. All right, bleed to death." That was the level of their wit. That and, "Get off and milk it" when she cycled past them nose in the air and head averted. Her mother said Yvonne would be a woman soon and it was a woman's job to tame and civilise men, but that wasn't a task Yvonne felt like taking on. Jimmy Robson had a haunted look about him; he had a past; he was a man in need. A need she was ready to meet.

Yvonne took to dawdling when she passed the gate to Jimmy's garden. Jimmy took no notice. She smiled at him. He did not smile back. She turned, in a way that she knew twirled her summer cotton dress. He did not seem to notice.

She did not really know what to do next. Sex education in the 1950s had more to do with mice than people. Mary had given Yvonne a book for the guidance of girls and talked to her about how the human race was propagated, but this dealt with the mechanics of the act; flirtation was not mentioned. Yvonne decided to practice on someone her own age and work her way up to Jimmy.

The obvious candidate was Christopher because he was a Boy Scout and went to church every Sunday and Yvonne thought he was less likely than some of the others in her street to want to carry things through to their conclusion. Mary's instruction had included the possibility of pregnancy and the fact that no decent boy would want anything to do with a girl who had given birth without first being married.

Yvonne had cycled to school and Christopher went on the bus so there was no possibility of sitting beside him on the way home. She walked past his house one Saturday and saw him with his bike turned upside down mending a puncture or tightening the chain or whatever it was boys did with their bikes. When she paused and stared at him, fluttering her eyelashes, he took no notice. So much for Christopher.

Next to catch her attention was Keith, one of the young men in her neighbourhood who worked as a fitter in a factory that built tanks. No fitter was likely to meet her long-term aspirations -- she wouldn't dream of marrying him and having his children -- but he could get her over her first hurdle of needing a man to be seen with. What she wanted was to loiter with her hand in Keith's outside Jimmy Robson's gate so that she could be seen, and seen as a sexual being. Getting Keith on the hook, however, proved no easier than attracting Christopher's attention. When she saw him on the street about to get on his motorbike she tried to strike up a conversation. 'That's a nice bike. Do you go far on it?'

Keith looked at her as you might at a strange and perhaps dangerous animal encountered on the African plain. 'Far enough,' he said as he stamped on the pedal causing the bike to roar into life and took off into the distance.

Mrs Hibbert, a neighbour the Hutchings considered too common for normal intercourse, had seen this exchange. 'You're too young, dear.'

Yvonne stared at her. 'I beg your pardon?'

'You're too young. Or he's too old, take your pick. A young man like Keith wants someone who knows what she's doing.'

Well! Of all the cheek! Yvonne turned on her heel and walked away, nose in the air, aware at some level that her wounded pride would be laughable to anyone watching.

Now she was eighteen, school was at an end and soon she would be a wage slave. Mrs Hibbert was not the only person who had watched Yvonne's activities with interest. The estate had no trouble with anything the police might consider a gang, but there was some kind of hierarchy and Norman Holmes was at the top of it. No-one really knew why thirty year old Norman spent so much time there: he had inherited from his deceased parents a tea and coffee wholesaling business and a very nice house some distance away in which he lived alone. And yet, he would be seen about the estate at weekends with Martin Burton and Henry Armstrong, two younger men about whom the common belief was that, if they'd had a little more intelligence, they could have made it as petty criminals.

At the end of Yvonne's street, just at the point where you turned into a slightly larger road, was a place that was not overlooked. Young people used it for necking purposes when they didn't intend to go all the way and could not take the other person home for fear of being laughed at by siblings. There was no-one there when Yvonne turned into it on her way to a bus stop, but a Humber Snipe pulled up right beside her, a window rolled down and a voice said, 'Yvonne. Let us give you a lift.'

Why would she refuse? A Humber Snipe was an expensive car. Not in the Bentley class, but most people on the estate walked, cycled or used public transport; what cars there were were old, cheap and frequently stopped running. Apart from that, it wasn't as if she didn't know the people in the car: Norman Holmes and his two local buddies. 'Okay. Thank you. I'm going into town.'

Martin Burton was in the front passenger seat, so Yvonne got into the back with Henry Armstrong. It soon became clear that they weren't driving in the direction of town. Yvonne said, 'Where are we going?' and Norman Holmes said, 'Somewhere you can let your hair down, my dear. And maybe a few other things.'

Other things? What other things might she want to let down? She asked the question out loud.

'Your knickers, darling,' said Norman. 'You might want to let those down. And we might want to help you.'

A shudder went through Yvonne. It was not a shudder of revulsion. She wasn't in any doubt: she should demand that he stop the car right now and let her out. Nor was she in any doubt that she intended to do no such thing. Jimmy Robson didn't seem to want to let her meet his needs. Perhaps Norman Holmes, Martin Burton and Henry Armstrong also had needs. As if to confirm this, Henry Armstrong placed a hand on her thigh. She did nothing to push it off and felt just a touch of regret that he left it where it was and that the cotton of her dress and her slip separated it from more interesting places.

Yvonne knew a huge amount about the history of Europe from 1815 to 1914, because that had been the A-level history syllabus. For the same sort of reasons, she knew all that needed to be known about Balzac and the comédie humaine and about the development of the English novel since Jane Austen. What she knew less about was what went on between men and women. The little she did know, she had learned from the other girls at school, and girls in the 1950s were not like the girls we have now. Ill-informed, Yvonne wanted to know more. What she wanted above all was to know from experience instead of from what she had been told.

As they approached his house, Norman Holmes passed a key over the back of his seat to Henry Armstrong and said, 'Duck down, Yvonne, so no-one sees you coming in.' She didn't really understand why that mattered, but she complied and so, after Henry had jumped out of a car that was still moving forward very slowly, she did not see him open the garage door or Norman drive through it -- but when she was told she could sit up again she knew the garage was where they were.

Norman opened her door, took her hand and led her through a door in the garage wall directly into the kitchen. Once inside, he turned her sideways, wrapped his arms round her and kissed her. She kissed him back. Presumably this was what happened when you left school and began the process of becoming a woman. If she played along, the experience she'd hoped for might come. When his tongue pressed against her lips she parted them, granting him admission. When his hands slid down to take a firm grip on her buttocks, she did not resist. 'Nice arse,' he said. She had the feeling this comment was addressed to Henry and Martin rather than to her. Then he took a Babycham from the fridge, emptied it into a glass, and handed it to her. 'The happiest drink in the world,' he said, echoing the advertisement of the time, 'for someone we hope to make the happiest girl in the world.' She had to give him credit for panache: you could tell the school he'd gone to had been a cut above hers. And an even bigger cut above the one Martin and Henry had left a few years ago. She drank it in a single gulp; when he poured a second, she drank that, too.

Babycham is only 6% alcohol, but that was the first alcohol she had ever consumed. She was far from drunk, but you could not have called her sober. And the drink had done what Norman had hoped: whatever inhibitions she might have had were cast aside. Norman glanced at his two confreres. 'My God,' he whispered. 'She's anybody's.'

Taking her hand he led her out of the kitchen, through the big dining room and the even bigger sitting room, up the stairs and into his very large bedroom. He motioned to the other two men to stand back and then drew the curtains closed. No-one but a passing bird could have seen in, but he'd found in the past that closed curtains made for a cozier atmosphere, and a cozy atmosphere produced greater feminine cooperation. Then he took Yvonne again into his arms. Experience said this next bit was the most important of all: get this right and everything else you wanted would be granted. As he kissed her, and while she enthusiastically kissed him back, he moved his two hands to the back of her neck, found the zip of her dress and pulled it gently downwards. He was poised for signs of resistance; none came. Encouraged, he stepped back, took the dress by the collar and pulled it forward. She let it come -- in fact, when it had reached her hips she took it from his hands, pulled it down and took it off, holding it out towards the men watching against the wall. Henry stepped forward, took it from her, and laid it across a chair.

Was Yvonne drunk? Courts in those days took a very benevolent view of men in rape cases: they usually found the woman to have been largely responsible -- she shouldn't have been where she was, shouldn't have been dressed as she was, shouldn't have been drinking, shouldn't have behaved as she did, men were, after all, men with all a man's needs and drives -- but Norman was not an unkind person and he didn't want to take advantage. But when he looked closely at the young woman's face, all he saw was desire. She may not yet know exactly what it was she wanted, but by God she wanted it. When he said, 'Take off your petticoat, darling,' she said, 'It's a slip, not a petticoat,' but she took it by the hem, lifted it over her head, and handed it to Martin who put it with the dress. 'The bra, dear,' and that, too, went on the little pile of discarded clothes. Norman let his hands slide over the newly exposed breasts. 'Lovely,' he sighed. 'Beautiful little titties.' And Yvonne's movements, and what sounded like a little moan, suggested she thought so, too.

It was a hot summer and Yvonne wasn't wearing stockings so now only the knickers remained. As Norman wrapped her in his arms, he made a little gesture with his head and Henry stepped past the two of them to draw back the coverlet, the top blanket and the top sheet, preparing the bed for their occupation. 'A towel,' whispered Norman. 'Get a towel,' and Martin disappeared into the bathroom to fetch one. Then, when all was ready, he turned her gently and pressed her towards the bed. She went willingly, lay on her back with the towel under the junction between her legs and the look she gave him removed any reservations he might have had. He took her knickers by the waistband: she raised herself from the bed to let him get them down as though she had been doing this for years. He threw this last garment over his shoulder, pressed her knees apart and placed his own knees between them. As he kissed her,, he slipped his hand between her legs and let one finger slide into her. 'My God,' he murmured. 'She's soaking.'

One of the best things Norman's indulgent father had done for him was to arrange his deflowering at the hands of an experienced woman as soon as he reached the minimum legal age of 18. Nothing had been said about the arrangement to Norman's mother. The woman had given Norman experience few young men of that age acquired but, more than that, she had told him about women's needs. 'A lot of men grow up thinking what they have to do is ram themselves in as hard as they can. That's not so bad with an older, experienced woman, but for a young virgin, which is probably who you will one day marry, it is a dreadful introduction to lovemaking. If you do that, you will hurt her and she will associate the sex act with pain.'

'But, surely, the first time for a woman must always hurt?'

'That's what people think, but it need not be so. First, you need to use your fingers to get her excited. Or your tongue: I'll show you what women love you to do with your tongue. Or you can use both, it doesn't matter, they are not exclusive, but the point is to get her on the brink, longing to be taken. Her hips will begin to move as though she had no control over them: if you place the tip of your manhood at the entrance, she will draw you in. Any pain she feels at that point will be minor and she'll overlook it for the sheer pleasure of getting what she was hoping for. And, believe me, she will be so grateful to you that she will want you to be the one who does it to her again. And again.'

'But will I still have done the job?'

'Of course you will. You will still have gone through her maidenhead; you will still have taken her virginity. But you will not have hurt her the way so many women are hurt.'

Norman had taken those instructions to heart. And Norman was a man who liked women. He liked everything about them. As his mouth caressed her sex; as his tongue worked the little nubbin of her clit and he pressed a finger into a vagina moist with desire, he thought how much he loved this. The softness of her upper thighs. The musky scent of the juices that spattered his face, the involuntary way she pressed herself forward in the longing to be taken, the little cries of yearning: all these things combined to make his cock hard as a rod of iron. At last, when he knew his tongue's ministrations had brought her to the very edge of a climax, he took from its packet the condom he had placed on the bedside table, rolled it into position with practised ease, moved up her body and presented his tip at heaven's own entrance. It was enough. As his long-ago tutor had promised, her hips were moving in a way she could not have stopped had she wanted to -- and God knows she wanted no such thing. He was drawn in to the molten pit of love. He hesitated just a moment when he felt the slight barrier of the hymen and then he was through, Yvonne's virginity was but a memory and he was riding her ecstatically while raining kisses onto her face. There was one more thing to achieve: he must not reach his own climax until Yvonne had enjoyed hers. He did not allow himself to fill the condom with his seed until, her back arched and an expression of astonished joy on her face, she had let out a cry so loud he was glad the windows were closed and the nearest neighbour a sufficient distance away. That was the kind of privacy money could buy you.

As he relaxed, he took his weight on his arms because no gentleman would allow himself to collapse on the woman he had just possessed. They lay still for some little while, Yvonne's little moans of pleasure conveying the message that all was well. At length, he withdrew his now soft penis, sat up and waved a hand in the direction of Henry and Martin. 'If you would rather not, my dear, I'm sure they will understand. But...'

Rather not? If there was the slightest chance of repeating the unbelievable levels of ecstasy she had just reached, it must be taken. She smiled in the two men's direction. 'Martin, if Henry takes me first, you won't mind?'

Henry indicated that he would not. Martin undressed with speed and Norman handed him a condom. 'We don't want any after-effects, do we?'

In the days that followed, as she prepared for a life of work at Martins Bank, Yvonne sometimes wondered whether anyone who looked at her would detect the change that Norman, Henry and Martin had taken her through. The question was answered when she passed Jimmy Robson's gate. This time, when she smiled at him, Jimmy Robson smiled back. Turning to walk round the side of his house, he made a gesture with his head. It was slight, but the meaning was inescapable. It meant, "Follow me."

And that is exactly what she did.