Prior Engagement, or Plagued to Death! Page 4

  He couldn’t recall exactly how it had happened but, by Jingo! He was glad it did. It couldn’t have been the symbolic coconut rings and Farley’s rusks, ready and waiting meaningfully for his arrival. No, it had something to do with pink ribbons and him wearing his judicial wig. Inexplicably, both had appeared at the same time during one of their hitherto quite innocent sessions. Thereafter, there was no stopping them!

  Perhaps Cynthia had noticed a lightness in his step leading up to his birthday that year. Why else should his wife have bought him a pair of boxer shorts with a picture of a grouse and the words ‘I’m Game!’ emblazoned across the front?

  But age and prolonged inactivity had taken their toll on Cedric’s prowess. However much he tried and in spite of all the coaxing encouragement and tender care at Fatima’s experienced hands, he simply could not rise to the occasion. Perhaps it was the continuous, unrelenting feeling of guilt. Chatting to and enjoying the company of another woman is one thing; committing adultery is quite another. But, by God, they had a lot of fun in the process!

  It came as a terrible blow when Fatima announced, completely out of the blue, that she had to leave Wellingley.

  It had been at the end of October last year. Cedric was halfway through a cup of tea shortly before he was due to leave. Fatima dropped yet another limp but unused condom down the toilet, washed her hands and tidied her hair, wondering how she should break the news. Would he have a heart attack? No chance! He’d the stamina of a stallion! Pity about the equipment, though. It would have been interesting to find out . . .

  What had Cedric advised? If there’s bad news to break, follow it up with something positive. She sat next to him on the sofa.

  ‘Cedric . . . I have something to say.’

  He felt something turn over in his stomach.

  ‘My mother’s seriously ill and I have to look after her.’

  ‘And?’ His voice quivered.

  ‘It’s terminal. The doctors haven’t said how long she’s got before . . .’

  Carefully applied mascara dribbled down her cheeks like rivulets of black blood. Cedric put his arm around her.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he croaked, dabbing her eyes with a grubby handkerchief.

  ‘No,’ she sobbed.

  ‘How long will you be away?’ Hell’s teeth, that sounded callously selfish. She didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘What isn’t wrong with her! She’s almost ninety and everything is falling apart. They say her heart will just stop beating and . . . and she’ll be gone!’

  Cedric waited a few minutes until she had calmed down.

  ‘There’s nobody else to take care of her,’ she continued. ‘I’m all she’s has left. She’s terrified of hospitals and wants to spend her last days at home. Professional carers are so expensive, so it’ll have to be me. Besides, I wouldn’t want anyone else to look after her, anyway. It wouldn’t be decent.’

  They sat in silence, hugging each other. Eventually, Fatima took a deep breath and looked Cedric straight in the eyes.

  ‘You have no idea how much you mean to me, Cedric. They must have broken the mould after you were born! No, please don’t say anything!

  ‘You’re not like any other man I’ve met,’ she continued. ‘You don’t make demands, you never say horrible things, you always treat me with respect . . .’ her voice tailed off.

  Cedric was at a loss for words.

  ‘Our relationship is so special but it can’t go any further. I know you too well to ask you to leave Lady Cynthia and come with me, it wouldn’t be fair on her, or you. She’s done nothing wrong. And Blister Grange means everything to you. You have far too much to lose and it wouldn’t be right to take you away. I knew the time to end things would come sooner or later. I’ll never forget you, Cedric.’

  Cedric was stunned.

  ‘I’ve handed in my notice to the landlord; I’ll be leaving for Southport at the end of next week.’

  ‘You won’t be coming back?’ He could barely speak.

  ‘No. There’ll be a lot to sort out . . . afterwards and I think it best to make a fresh start. This isn’t really the sort of life for me. I haven’t been very successful at it. You’ve been my only customer.’

  She smiled apologetically. It seemed to lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘Tell you what. How about if we have a little going-away party next Thursday? On the house, just bring yourself . . . and don’t forget your wig! Let’s celebrate the good times!’

  IV

  Sir Cedric arrived at Fatima’s doorstep as arranged, not knowing quite what to expect. He was astounded when she let him in.

  They negotiated their way through the lounge, which was full of packed tea chests and cardboard boxes, and into the bedroom beyond. What a sight met his eyes!

  There were inflated condoms, Fatima’s entire stock, hanging from the ceiling, walls, window (with laced curtains, of course), bedposts and even strewn across the floor! More to the point, they were of an incredible variety of colours and shapes. He hadn’t realised how much choice was available! Then he saw they were all suspended or tied in place with . . . pink ribbons. That did it!

  For the first time in goodness knows how many decades, Sir Cedric completely lost control of his emotions and any semblance of refined restraint. Fatima, barely concealing her shapely figure with a pink baby doll nylon nightie with matching frilly bra, panties and garter, was amazed, staggered and rather impressed by the change in his performance. If only they’d done this years ago!

  Fatima didn’t want to hurry things too much. Well, to be honest, she did, but kept her head and slowed the proceedings down with the help of an occasional pink-tinted flute of pink champagne (on special promotion at OddCrates for £6.99 a bottle). Sparks began to fly, so the nylon nightie had to go.

  Activities were proceeding at a pleasantly even pace until Fatima mischievously slid the wig off Cedric’s head and placed it on her own. That was the final straw. Cedric was unable to control himself and, utterly stunned by what followed, actually managed to consummate their relationship. It was well worth the wait and effort.

  Ah! What a wonderful afternoon it had been!

  But what a disappointing and confusing time followed. Cedric drifted around like a ship without a rudder, his life turned upside down. Warm, comforting visits to Fatima’s were replaced with furtive Thursday afternoon trips to Wellingley’s public telephone boxes, whatever the weather, in search of business cards offering professional substitutes for her caring services . . . to no avail. Lurid descriptions of the joys on offer seemed rather seedy, and nothing remotely suitable was advertised in the Yellow Pages or Personal columns of free local papers.

  The search for an heir seemed doomed . . . and he wasn’t getting any younger. But it wasn’t just this fruitless search that affected him. After such an astounding climax to the affair (he wished there was another word to describe it; ‘affair’ seemed so sordid for such a wonderfully illicit experience), Cedric felt a renewed stirring in his loins the like of which hadn't been felt for many a year. There was life in the old dog yet! Even if he had, reluctantly, to relinquish all hope of a successor to the Foot-Wart dynasty, it didn’t make sense to go out without putting his revived faculties to good use. He’d have to patch things up with Cynthia. But how?

  ‘Lady Cynthia has returned,’ announced Hives. Cedric’s bubble burst with a loud bang. ‘Tea will be served shortly.’

  Good heavens, thought Cedric. I must have been daydreaming for hours!

  ‘Thank you, Hives,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ll be through in a few minutes.’

  Lady Cynthia Foot-Wart was already in the dining room when he entered, somewhat unsteadily, and sat down opposite his wife at the far end of the highly polished, walnut veneered, late Georgian table. Hives stood respectfully next to the serving table. He’d carried the food through to save Euphemia the effort.

  ‘Been drinking
long, dear?’ Cynthia enquired cautiously. ‘It’s not good for you.’

  Cedric shrugged his shoulders. She was quite right, of course. ‘Only one or two,’ he muttered. He purposely didn’t elaborate on the size of the measures.

  ‘Good day in court?’

  ‘That damned Constable Blossom!’

  ‘Oh.’ Just the mention of the policeman’s name was enough to stifle further discussion.

  ‘Mick Sturbs again, would you believe! I simply cannot understand why the police solicitor allows him to bring case after case before me! I suggested they give Sturbs a special dispensation from prosecution but it didn’t seem to go down very well.’

  ‘That reminds me. Someone delivered a fresh wood pigeon this afternoon. Neither Hives nor Crimp saw who left it.’

  ‘You aren’t suggesting . . .’

  ‘Oh, no, dear! It may just be a coincidence.’

  They ate in silence. Clatter from knives and forks echoed round the room in such a way as to make the atmosphere a little tense.

  ‘How about you? The shop doing well?’

  ‘Very well indeed. I’ve decided to run an Ann Summers party at the Methuselah Retirement Resort in Wellingley.’

  ‘Ann Summers? Who’s she?’

  ‘It’s a business, not a she. It sells . . . adult clothing and toys.’

  ‘Won’t they be a bit old for that sort of thing?’

  ‘Most of them are younger than us,’ replied Cynthia, taking care not to sound too indignant. ‘And a damned sight more energetic! You’d be surprised how many of them come into the shop, wearing large hats, sunglasses and heavy overcoats. Well, they did until I introduced a dress code. And that was just the women.’

  It suddenly dawned on him what she meant.

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, I’m not. Why shouldn’t they enjoy themselves before it’s too late?’

  ‘Why indeed.’

  They fell silent again, both mulling over what she had said. Cedric was first to speak.

  ‘Hives, would you take your leave of us for a few minutes?’

  The butler bowed and quietly closed the doors behind him.

  ‘Cynthia, my dear . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ she said eagerly.

  Was that a hint of excited anticipation in her tone?

  ‘I was wondering. About what you said.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, we’re not getting any younger . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Almost shrieking this time.

  ‘’Would you mind terribly if we . . .’

  ‘No! When? Now?’

  ‘Let’s finish tea first. No need to hurry.’

  ‘That’s what you think! C’mon!’

  They spent a few hours in Cynthia’s bedroom rather than his: it had pink curtains. Although he hadn’t realised until today, this was something he should have done even before Fatima left for Southport. That had been a deliriously instructive afternoon; it had opened Cedric’s eyes and made him realise that, however much they had drifted apart, there was absolutely no reason why this essentially private aspect of his and Cynthia’s marriage shouldn’t or couldn’t be resurrected. And he’d been right. It just needed the right moment.

  As they lay peacefully and happily in each other’s arms, Cedric slid into a pleasant slumber. Cynthia's happy thoughts reflected on the ups and downs of their marriage . . . and how her business interests might improve things in the future now that her husband’s inclination and prowess had returned with a vengeance.

  She’d been a good wife in every way but those early days, full of promise and youthful expectancy, had soon been dashed by Cynthia’s infertility. In spite of all the sympathetic reassurances from Cedric and successive specialists that it was not her fault and simply ‘one of those things’, she found it almost impossible to forgive herself for being the instrument of Cedric’s unhappiness . . . and the sole reason why the Foot-Wart line would end with him. It was like a cursed cloud hanging over their marriage without there ever being the slightest hint of a breeze to blow it away.

  It was, even now, almost impossible to cope with the dreadful realisation that Foot-Wart offspring would never clamber around the furniture or staircases of Blister Hall. Not for her the joyful shrieks of laughter or quelling the whimperings caused by grazed knees. No kicking a football in the grounds or cricket along the corridors. No teaching a young girl how to knit, sew or play the piano. No worrying over suitable boy or girl friends. No grandchildren. Cynthia’s life was destined to be one full of no’s.

  Cedric had been a constant rock over the years. He hid his disappointment well but his former open and humorous nature ultimately gave way to long periods of contemplative silence.

  Whether this was because of his judicial or civic duties she couldn’t say but they always made her feel as though her condition was the cause. Little by little, conversations and banter became less frequent until, inevitably, they drifted apart. Yet their love remained constant.

  It was that love which had led Cynthia to suggest Cedric sought an heir by engaging the services of another woman to provide the heir he so desperately needed. This decision had taken years to reach and several more to convince Cedric of its worth. She had to admit she’d been a tad too over keen once he’d agreed and perhaps the advert in The Times was not quite the right way to embark on such an unusual or ambitious project, but at least she’d shown some wisdom by letting him do what he thought necessary.

  It had been a difficult decision and she couldn’t be absolutely certain whether he’d achieved anything or even bothered to try. But if he were to stand any chance of success, she’d have to hold her tongue and wait for an announcement. How she’d react was another matter, one which fell into the ‘we’ll just have to wait and see’ category.

  She had thought of following him around, just to see what he was up to, but couldn’t bring herself to do so. The same applied to hiring a private detective. What was the point? Cedric could get up to all sorts of things but she knew he would always love her. Affairs were not important, provided nothing became public, but an heir was.

  Cynthia waited a very long time for some sort of evidence to appear or for Cedric to make the long-awaited announcement. Nothing. She gradually became more and more frustrated, not just with the absence of achievement but also at being alone, uncomforted and missing Cedric’s loving touch, especially at night.

  Rather than let herself slide into a pit of despair, she wondered how she could revive Cedric’s more basic instincts to reunite them. Her flesh was still definitely willing; it was her spirit that was weak. Unfortunately, Cynthia was, by nature, impulsive and not given to deliberating the pros and cons of a plan before embarking on it.

  She remembered the frock she wore at their first meeting in the summer of 1953. It was her coming out party and the dress, somewhat revealing for such an event, left almost nothing to the imagination. It clung to her shapely figure like a stocking . . . and was pink. Cedric couldn’t keep his eyes, let alone anything else, off her. As the early years of their relationship and marriage steamed by, she soon realised that pink, whatever the shade, had an interesting affect on him.

  So she put the first part of her plan in action. It was achieved without Cedric’s knowledge with help from Hives and Crimp; they knew how to keep a secret. In a matter of weeks, Cynthia’s bedroom had been transformed into her impression of a sultan’s tented harem, resplendent with cushions and an impressive variety of furnishings. All in various pink hues.

  It was during the second part of the plan that things fell apart. She’d seen a rather racy programme on Channel 4 about adult entertainment techniques and accoutrements and decided to investigate further. The upshot was a visit to SAFE (the Sex And Fantasy Emporium) in a discreet alley off New Street in Wellingley. Her first experience was an eye-opener.

  For a start, everyone seemed to be wearing sunglasses, wide-brimmed hats and nondescript coats as if they’d been bought at a charity shop. The bulbs in bar
e light fittings were either red or orange, which made the small print on racily-illustrated cardboard boxes and blister packs difficult to read. The shop was completely silent except for the till drawer which slammed shut aggressively whenever a furtive purchase was made.

  There was so much to see, far more than she could ever have imagined. For a while she thought she’d come to the wrong place because everything appeared to be geared towards the perceived needs of men, until she realised there was a separate area set aside for women. And that was equally astounding. So much choice, barely any explanation relating to the ingenious products on offer or how, precisely, they were supposed to be used. It was all very confusing.

  After spending the best part of an hour examining the stock very closely, Cynthia’s arms were full of exciting merchandise. Unfortunately, the shop did not provide baskets so she had to hang flimsy garments from her arms while clutching small items and pressing boxes against her ample bosom. The matching tasselled bra and scanty knickers in a coat pocket were a complete and innocent oversight; she’d simply run out of places to hold such a vast array of intriguing items.

  The shop owner saw things from a different point of view. Having captured the offence on CCTV, he stopped her (heavily laden with overflowing brown paper bags) outside the shop and rang the local police, intending to press charges. Fortunately for Cynthia, the attending policeman was none other than Inspector (as he was then) George Young who, having witnessed the grainy evidence and realising who the offender was, managed to negotiate a settlement.

  The upshot was that Cynthia became co-owner of the store after investing a substantial sum in the enterprise. She embraced this new interest with open arms and, within a short space of time, completely changed the way it operated. She introduced a dress code for customers whereby no one wearing sunglasses or shabby clothes was admitted. The interior of the shop was redecorated and refurbished, efficient strip lighting installed and small wire shopping baskets provided.