Robert was two weeks past his eighteenth birthday and three months short of leaving school. He was a pupil in a prestigious school in southern England in the long, hot summer of 1976. He was of ordinary ability but his parents had money and were prepared to pay large sums annually in the hope that his intellectual mediocrity might somehow be developed. He was a decent young man but like all men of his age, was prone to moments of juvenile stupidity; a tendency of males that does not necessarily abate with age. In these dying months of his school career, one such moment was to teach him a lesson more durable than anything his parents had so far written cheques for.
Miss Pirie was Robert's English teacher, trying to instill into him and his peers some of the subtleties of English Literature. They were not easily receptive. Their bodies were playing grounds of riotous, hormonal activity such that it was scarcely possible for them to think of anything but sex.
The focus of this torrid energy was a young female student called, improbably, Philomena Whyte. She was only fifteen but already burdened with a ludicrously mature body, notably an enormous pair of breasts attached, precariously, to a young and otherwise frail frame. Every smutty thought and fantasy, every morning ejaculation was inspired by Philomena Whyte. They would have sold their mother to a passing horde of bandits just to catch a glimpse of her bra strap.
Whereas the bulbous young woman was the focus of all Robert's and his friends' sexual imagination, Miss Pirie tended to be the target of their jokes. The reason was complex, far too complex for Robert and friends to understand. There was nothing inherently comical about Miss Pirie. She was a very intelligent young woman, twenty three years old, not eccentric in any way, pretty but not in the blond, leggy, outsized bosom sense which was all Robert and friends comprehended. So why was Miss Pirie the focus of their jokes?
The answer, in Robert's case, was that he was, without knowing it, gradually becoming aware of an idea of female beauty rather less quantifiable than mere bra size. This was beginning to trouble Robert rather a lot. To his consternation he realised one morning that the image in his head at the moment of his early morning ejaculation was increasingly Miss Pirie rather than Philomena Whyte. How could this be? Whatever it was stirring in Robert's sexual imagination, it contributed to a humiliating incident that is the seed of this story.
One lunchtime, Robert and friends decided to visit a local bar, an activity that was strictly forbidden. When they returned they had just had enough alcohol to loosen their inhibitions. Walking across the school grounds the boys spied Miss Pirie; Robert, to raucous laughter from friends, let out a very loud wolf whistle at her. Unfortunately, other teachers were in earshot. Robert was duly suspended from school and compelled to appear, with deeply embarrassed and ashamed parents, before the Headteacher. He was reprieved, given a thorough dressing down and required to deliver a written apology to Miss Pirie. The other boys concerned were also severely reprimanded.
Two days after Robert delivered the apology he decided to see Miss Pirie, after school, about another matter. Thoroughly chastened by his actions he wanted to further repair his relationship with his teacher. Also, those pre-ejaculation moments in the early morning were still troubling him.
Robert went to Miss Pirie's classroom at the end of the day as she was preparing to go home.
"Robert! This is a surprise."
"I just wanted to ask you something, Miss. You said something the other day in class about doing extra reading as a way of improving your grades."
"That's right," she replied, her voice full of scepticism at this sudden enthusiasm.
"Well, we've been reading some of DH Lawrence's poetry and you said he was better known as a novelist so I thought it might be a good idea to read one of his novels."
She hesitated, sure there was some other motive for this but unsure what.
"Well, yes, that would indeed be a good idea. What are you thinking of?"
"I don't know, I only know one of his novels."
"What's that?" She asked naively.
"Lady Chatterley's Lover."
She chuckled, "Yes, I should have guessed that."
"Should I read that?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because.....it's not particularly good and has become famous for all the wrong reasons."
"I see," his disappointment apparent.
"And anyway," she continued, "I don't think it would be appropriate for a pupil of mine to take home, at my recommendation, a copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover. There are so many misunderstandings and misperceptions of the work.... it would be unwise."
"I see, what do you suggest then?"
"Try Women in Love or The Rainbow."
"What's Women in Love about?"
She gave a wry smile, "Not what you're thinking."
He smiled back, amused that she had read his thoughts. He agreed to read one of them and let her know what he thought. When he left he realised that it was the first time he had ever spoken to her alone. She seemed different; better.
Miss Pirie in turn, noticed that he was a man, not a boy.
Robert's parents were equally mystified by their son's sudden attachment to reading; maybe, they thought, the incident with the teacher had forced him to take a good look at himself.
Unfortunately for both parent and Miss Pirie, Robert struggled badly with Women in Love. The prose he thought was turgid, repetitive and the whole thing seriously lacking in action; he only read twenty pages. He returned the book to the school library and browsed through a copy of The Rainbow but it looked much the same. The following day he returned to see Miss Pirie.
"Robert, have you come for further disquisitions on English Literature?"
Sulkily, he replied, "If you mean have I read DH Lawrence, the answer's no. But I tried."
"And?"
"It was so boring."
"Ah yes, 'boring' the word young people use when they have to concentrate for more than five minutes."
"No, I understood but....what's the point of it all? It took me hours to read about twenty pages. And there's nearly three hundred."
Miss Pirie laughed good humouredly.
"Well, Robert, novels are not for you."
"Can't I read Lady Chatterley's Lover instead?"
"Well, I can't stop you reading anything can I?"
Robert recognized the suggestion of collusion. That Miss Pirie, his English teacher, was considering, albeit obliquely, the possibility of entering into some secret pact with him.
"But I can't find a copy anywhere," he pleaded, "neither the school nor the town library stocks it. Do you have a copy?"
She knew it was pointless to lie; of course, he knew she did. All that she could do was small mindedly say 'yes, but you can't have it.' She was cornered. He waited for her to speak.
Very quietly she replied, "I really do want you to do this reading, Robert, but I want you to make sure your parents don't see you are reading this book; nor anyone else in this school. It's an old fashioned school, as well you know, and encouraging young people to read this would be strongly disapproved of. That is a deeply philistine attitude but that's what it's like."
"I promise."
He left with the book but that was not the prize; the prize was that she had entered into a pact with him. She treated him as an equal. Soon he would be leaving school. They might become friends. They might become lovers.
Robert duly took away the book. That evening he continued to impress his parents with his love of reading only this time he said he needed to concentrate carefully and so retired to the solitude of his bedroom.
To begin with it appeared to be the same turgid verbosity as the previous two. He skipped a few pages every now and then until he found what he thought might be the start of the action and soon his interest grew. Of course, he kept skipping pages, sometimes quite a few but he retained a sense of the story. To his astonishment he began to enjoy it, mainly because of his admiration and envy of Mellors, the Gamekeeper. He was disappointed that Lawrence provided little description of what Lady Chatterley looked like but felt sure she was a "stunner" (the highest accolade Robert could award any female), a mature version of Philomena Whyte. In such ways did the male adolescent brain work. After only four days Robert had finished, minus the skipped pages.
The following day, after Miss Pirie's class, she asked him to wait behind in order to get her book back (she was convinced it would fall into the parent's hands). She asked him how he was getting on with the reading and did not believe him when he said he had finished it and she was cross when he told her it was in his bedroom at home. It was Friday so there was no chance of getting it back until Monday morning; two more days for his parents to discover it and write a strongly worded letter of complaint to the Head. Robert promised none of that would happen and he would return it first thing Monday but privately he had another plan. Every morning he went out running; he knew where Miss Pirie lived and would deliver it to her Saturday morning. Any irritation at visiting her home would be alleviated by knowing the explosive book was now safe.
He usually ran early but the following morning he delayed it by an hour: he did not want his plan to be ruined by arriving when she was in bed.
He ran the doorbell which was answered quickly. It was fear more than any other emotion that she expressed when she saw who was making the early morning call.
"Robert!"
Before she could say anything he thrust the book in front of her and she reluctantly let him in quickly, fastening her dressing gown across her chest.
"What on earth are you doing here? How did you know where I lived?"
"Some one told me."
"Who?"
"I can't remember."
"Liar."
At this he smiled and this seemed to take the edge off her irritation. She relaxed a little once the outside door was closed. Looking at her wearing her nightclothes was a strange sight; she looked more vulnerable, less in charge.
Her recent realisation that he was a man not a boy was quickly confirmed; particularly seeing him this close in his shorts and running shirt. Physically, he was a magnificent sight: muscular arms and legs, straight back and a firm stomach. No wonder there was always a posse of girls hanging around him and his group. She was almost glad he had come but would not let him know that.
"So, Robert," she began, sitting down at the other end of the sofa to him, "what are your thoughts on the Dirty Book?"
"I liked it."
