Harry Mclaurns Lament

Harry McLaurn's Lament, or

The Leprechaun, the Teacher and Bessie Babcock

by Maximilian Cummings

Part I

Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn, the leprechaun, was on holiday—What! A leprechaun on holiday you exclaim and say what nonsense; indeed what can I be thinking of and who has ever heard such a thing? But why not? Are not the wee folk entitled as much as we Bigguns to a vacation? And if you could have looked, there Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn was sitting in a patch of sunlight between a dock leaf and a dandelion, just getting out his flask of blackberry wine and peeling off his red coat and brightly coloured holiday shirt to let the sun warm his rather shaggy hide when he heard Harry McLaurn's lament. Now Bearach did not usually take the side of the Bigguns or help them in any was at all—certainly not—not after that time when he had tried to be kind to Molly Mackie and ended up in that pail of milk. He'd swum about for what seemed like hours—and he didn't like swimming in any case—before he'd been rescued and that by his sister of all the embarrassing things (she didn't let him forget the event and that must have been nigh on seventy year ago). Now I'm not saying he did the other thing—play tricks or worse: he wasn't a Pooka after all. But, by and large, he kept himself to himself so far as the Bigguns went.

Harry McLaurn sat at the side of the road, an old dusty road he had known since childhood, sitting carefully on a patch of grass, as he rested from his long walk through the day. A long walk indeed as he had risen at six as was his habit and, apart from bread, cheese and ginger beer at a wayside inn had been walking steadily right into the long afternoon. It was a Tuesday, a workday, and all his life it seemed he had been busy: yet he wasn't anymore. No? He had been made redundant. Sacked from the job he loved, his profession what is more, dismissed from his post as a teacher of mathematics for 'inefficiency.' All his life, since college, he had been teaching. First boys in a 'prep.' school and more recently in the state, not public school system, both boys and girls the fascination of mathematics or 'maths' as he liked to call it. But that was over now.

Harry sighed. He did not find it easy to have leisure time on his hands but he had applied himself to the new challenge and certainly during this first summer had crossed and re-crossed the local countryside finding the paths and hidden places he had not known about. Outwardly he looked little different. Certainly if you met him in the street he was still the tall distinguished tweeded gent with the big bristling moustache (a left over from the army) and blackthorn walking stick but underneath he was much harder, muscles now firm with considerable exercise and, fair enough, you could not miss the nut brown complexion which was the result of being out in the sun (and wind and rain for this was England after all).

He had not really understood why he had to go—well the dismissal had been quite clear from that rather odd new head teacher, what was her name? It didn't matter. But what had he been doing wrong? The results in examinations were as good as ever (and, even being modest, he knew they were very good), the children interested (keen even) and discipline perfect (not one boy or girl put a foot wrong or he would have been on them like a shot). No, he could not see that he had failed at all as a teacher. But she had been on about lesson plans, filling in innumerable pointless forms, following the current ways of teaching the subject (this month's particular fad—or so it seemed to him. Maths was maths and hadn't he taught it successfully for many, many years in a way he had found achieved the objective—or at least what he thought was the objective—children understanding maths and passing their exams as well). She, this new head teacher seemed to think doing things the new way (this month) was what really mattered. It was peculiar.

Of course he was not as young as he had been but, there again; he had not been required to leave because of age. He had had no desire to leave. The dismissal had not been, at least ostensibly, about his age but his 'inefficiency.'

"Perhaps," he said out loud, "I have always been doing things wrong. Perhaps I've never been any use." It sounded quite dejected.

Well this wasn't good. Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn did not like to hear this sort of talk. Too depressing by far and, what is more, he on holiday and about to have a picnic.

"Perhaps I should have taken more interest in women rather than the boys and girls."

Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn's eyebrows shot up. What sort of talk was this?

"Perhaps I should never have been a schoolteacher at all."

Ah! Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn was much relieved. That explained the boys and the girls.

"It would be good to have someone to share the long evenings without the marking." He sounded almost wistful as if he missed reading the homework.

Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn frowned, surely that would be tedious in the extreme? He could only see the homework as so much bother: far better to be out and about on the frolic.

"But I've never had much success with the fair sex: or any inclination really." There was a deep sigh then silence.

Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn put down the flask of Blackberry wine. This really would not do at all; no interest in women; no success with women! This was sad indeed and not the sort of problem Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn had. The problem for him was rather the reverse and in part accounted for the holiday though the reasons behind that were perhaps better not gone into (or, indeed, what his sister had said on the subject—thrice). Now it was not at all usual for him to bother himself with Bigguns problems but really... and his sister was not here to criticise him. He pursed his lips.

Not far away Bessie Babcock had been entertaining her young man, Charlie Creek, or perhaps it was the other way around? Anyway, they were entertaining each other in the way young people like to do in the long grass at the sides of fields, in the haystacks or hidden dells of the countryside. It was a tryst they had been keeping the whole summer long—a carefree time twixt school and work—a time of laughter, joy and coupling.

Now Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn had espied them in the field, for he was not one to miss such things, but had not dallied to watch their merry doings for he was more intent on his stomach and the prospect of luncheon in a shadier place. He could hear them now coming up a field path for his hearing was much sharper than you or me; indeed you only needed to look at the size of his lugs, and pointed ones at that, to guess his hearing was as acute as many a creature that scuttled in the undergrowth. Whilst he had not dallied, he had not missed that young Bessie Babcock was comely and rounded in all the right places. Indeed her nakedness, and that of Charlie Creek, had left none of these right places hidden from his view and he had nodded appreciatively as one might do to a particularly good bottle of Oxlip wine, or blackberry wine for that matter, for he was a connoisseur of such things, as is only right. The juxtaposition of the imminent arrival over the stile of young Bessie and the seated Harry McLaurn presented an opportunity in Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn's mind; an opportunity to remove the cause, or at least part of, Harry McLaurn's lament.

Harry McLaurn looked up from his dejection as the sound of voices to his left seeped into his thoughts. Just at the moment he looked up Bessie was swinging her leg up and over the stile close to where he sat. He caught a glimpse of long brown leg rising up and up, indeed right under the summer dress she was wearing, so high indeed that had she been wearing any Harry would have seen her knickers. As it was, he caught, or thought he caught, a glimpse of auburn curls for Bessie was a red head: that happy left over of the Celts but alas something she had been teased about at school—'copper knob' and such names. How she had wished she had had just plain ordinary brown, black or fair hair rather than the cascading copper that was her lot—or glory depending upon your point of view. Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn was of the latter view.

Now up to that moment Harry McLaurn would have been at best embarrassed, at worst offended by the sight but his reaction was unexpected and uncharacteristic. Of course the sight of long brown legs, the dapple play of light under and through a yellow summer cotton dress on smooth thighs, the sight of a pretty girl, copper hair swinging and a smile on her face would have caught the attention of any normal red blooded man without the special glimpse afforded Harry.

It was, of course, the doing of Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn. You will know that many of the little people can 'do' magic to some extent or other and this leprechaun was uncommon skilled—indeed how else do you think he had come to England on holiday? Do you imagine he had gone to an aerodrome and hopped aboard an aeroplane? Well, no he hadn't. And how did he do this magic I am sure you are just dying to know? Did he waggle his pointed hairy ears, did he pronounce ancient Gaeilge incantations, did he produce a magic wand and wave that about? Well, yes, the latter actually and this was another thing that so annoyed his sister. "Why Bearach do you have to do that? Why can't you waggle your ears or your conk like any self respecting leprechaun? Why do you have to wave that around—it's plain disgusting that's what it is!"

The magic, as it happened, was not actually terribly substantial to either Harry or Bessie but it was sufficient. A little tampering with the mind or inclination, hardly anything really.

To Harry's surprise he felt desire, a movement in his trousers—a readying of an organ never used for one of its intended purposes, yes he felt a swelling—an erection. Harry looked at the girl with great interest, watching the second leg come over the stile and the pronounced bounce, as she dropped to the ground of what any impartial observer would confirm was a generous bosom. She did not see Harry and turned as her friend came over the stile,

"Tomorrow then?" she said.

It was Charlie who first caught sight of Harry and his eyes opened wide and the colour mounted on his cheeks,

"Sir," he mumbled, "er, good afternoon, Sir."

Despite Harry's surprise at his own reaction to the girl he was not slow in recognising in the young couple two former pupils, children he had taught for several years some time back. He recognised them notwithstanding the change just a couple of years had made. What had been very clearly schoolchildren—rather skinny and awkward in Charlie's case and rather verging on plumpness in Bessie's had turned into fine young people. Harry knew their names; he did not forget easily any of his charges—indeed he could quite unnerve former pupils with his recall.

"Ah, Collins Minor, you never did give me that piece of algebra homework did you?" The man was forty and a successful accountant crossing Green Park deep in thought when he had bumped into Harry.

"Sorry Sir, no Sir," he had said instinctively despite not having seen Harry McLaurn for twenty-five years or so. Slightly embarrassed at his reaction, he had been delighted to meet again the man who had had such an important influence on his life—his interest in numbers.

Harry got to his feet holding out his hand to shake his former pupils warmly by the hand. Conscious of the swelling in his trousers, certainly puzzled by it, but reasonably confident of the obscuring nature of the trouser material.

Unlike Charlie, Bessie did not redden and, rather than an embarrassed mumble of a greeting, her smile was warm and, perhaps, surprisingly welcoming as she looked at her former teacher, clasped his hand and readily began chatting about what she had been doing, asking after him, how the school was and so on. She was surprised to hear he was no longer teaching. Charlie, on the other hand, was only too glad to be away and having already arranged to meet Bessie the next day and with an appointment to keep was soon heading away down the dusty road and, as it happens, out of our story.

Bessie dallied. It surprised and rather pleased Harry that this former pupil was so happy to talk to him, moreover he liked her company, liked particular the way her bosom rose and fell as she talked, the way she tossed her hair and moved her eyes and lips. He did not find his erection subsiding, indeed it seemed to push at his trousers all the more but he tried to ignore it despite the presence of this pretty young girl in what seemed a very thin cotton dress.

Now Harry McLaurn may well have been surprised at his reaction but Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn was not surprised at all. No, not at all. Nor at Bessie having stayed to talk—indeed flirt a little with her old teacher. His grin was broad, stretching nearly from one hairy, long and pointed ear to the other. No, this was his doing and not a surprise at all. A little basic mind changing—comparatively easy compared to..., he thought carefully as he uncorked the bottle of blackberry wine and reached for his picnic, well to some other things like placating his sister when annoyed. Events, he judged, could now unfold at their own pace. He could check on them later. The wine poured out in a long lilac-purple, indeed blackberry coloured, stream.

Bessie was surprised to find Harry McLaurn by the road and moreover over dressed for a hot summer's day, had the man no practical sense, why not walking shorts and a light shirt? Harry had, of course, rolled his sleeves up and put his coat over his shoulder but he had not really expected the day to turnout quite as fine as it had. She was pleased to see him again—what a good teacher he had been, oh yes strict, but everyone liked him, respected him. He had been interesting to listen to—even about maths.

"Have you swum?" she said.

Harry hadn't, had not even thought of the idea and, in any case, had no idea there was anywhere to swim nearby. Bessie had laughed and taken him by the hand and led him over the stile. This time he had not caught such a glimpse as before but the drawing back of the material up her thigh as she stepped onto the stile sent an ache through him. He knew he shouldn't but could not really resist, it was so very pleasant—no more than that—to have this girl's hand in his, such a small soft delicate thing pulling him on.

He had not known how close the river was, how well it still ran despite the summer or how inviting the chalky stream looked in the cool of the overhanging boughs.

"It would be good to dip my feet," he'd said wistfully.

"Don't be silly," she'd said. "It's for swimming."

Harry was about to say something about swimming costumes and that not only had he not brought one but did not possess one when Bessie did a naughty thing—she lifted, yes lifted in one simple fluid movement, her dress over her head. Well, would you believe it; she had nothing on underneath—not a stitch. She half turned to Harry with a sly smile on her face.

"I swim here often with Charlie. We don't bother with costumes."

Harry's mouth dropped open for he had never seen anything quite like it, a vision of erotic naughtiness. There Bessie was, breasts firm and full, pink nipples standing, a little tummy with dark pool of tummy button and then the swell of hips and rounded bottom with its crack rising to two little dimples. A naked women, all curves, pinkness and naughty copper curls, standing, one thigh a little to the front of the other, in a glade by a slow running river all dappled with sun and shade—a vision from another time.

"Are you coming too?"

Well Harry said he couldn't, couldn't possibly and he couldn't. He had never, never done anything like that before, it would be... and, in any case, how could he with his penis so obviously swollen. What would the girl think of her old teacher so obviously aroused by her nakedness?

Bessie slipped into the cool water. Harry felt jealous; it really would be good to be out of his hot clothes and into the river. He watched Bessie, watched her graceful movements—the school had taught swimming—watched her bottom and the steady movement of her limbs. She really was a lovely creature. He would so like to touch her.

He was thinking that perhaps he should leave, return to the road, when, all of a sudden, Bessie came out of the water and came up to Harry. Having this dripping naked creature suddenly before him unnerved Harry. It was simply not in his experience.

"Come on, Sir, you must come."

And before he could stop her, wet fingers began to undo buttons. It was, of course, difficult to resist, difficult to say no, difficult really to do anything but let the disrobing happen. Well, could you, would you have resisted? I think not.

Hands on Harry's belt jolted him out of his inaction.

"Really I... young woman I don't think..."

But it was too late, with a yank the trousers were down and the prominence of the erection obvious in the limited confines of the boxer shorts. It wasn't as if it was a slight swelling, a tendency to tumescence. No, Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn had seen to that, it was a rock hard No. 1 boner of an erection.

Bessie had looked up from his trousers at him with a grin. "The cool water'll see to that, Sir—it does to Charlie."

"I'm sorry," he'd said but had not prevented her easing the waistband of the boxers over his erection.

Harry had found it strange but somehow not embarrassing to be standing on the riverbank with Bessie despite both being naked and he painfully erect. He could not recall ever being so erect even when waking early morning with a need to relieve himself. His foreskin had rolled back fully exposing the head of his penis—he had not even the modesty of that covering. Bessie had taken his hand and led him towards the water. To be just there in the shade and coolness of the riverbank naked, erect and with a young naked women beside him was so very peculiar but so very pleasant—liberating even and certainly erotic. But feeling erotic was not Harry McLaurn—it was not him at all. He thought it better to get into the water than think about Bessie's nakedness, or indeed his own, too much.

It was, as she had promised, such a delight to slip into the silky cool water, wash the dust and sweat from his body as it cooled. How Harry wished he had thought of doing this before, of finding places to bathe on his long summer walks—not that he would have ever thought of sharing it with a naked young woman.

Despite the time spent in the water and its cooling effect, there seemed to be no diminution in Harry's erection, indeed the slightest touch of Bessie's skin swimming near him seemed to give it added strength. He wanted to get out of the water and dressed without Bessie noticing but she got out before him and sat on the bank watching him so there was no opportunity and he had to climb out still obviously encumbered by his erection or, if you prefer, still obviously sexually aroused and with a puzzling and unfamiliar desire to quench his need.

Bessie was sitting by his clothes. He was unprepared for her next action when, as calm as anything, she reached up and cupped his balls in her hand. The sense of feeling that shot through him was quite unlike anything he had felt before, the sheer delight of a naked young woman holding him there.

It was perhaps surprising, and Bearach Candlestick O'Floinn must be complimented in his work here, that Harry did not come straightway, did not simply spurt as Bessie held his balls, the unused seminal glands sending a spray of creamy fluid jetting all over Bessie's face and hair. Oh Harry gasped all right but did not come; he continued to simply stand quite amazed as Bessie's cunning little fingers played with his ball sack.