The continuation of the story of Delphine’s schooldays I am writing in collaboration with Posy Churchgate. Read Chapter Four here
ST. FAITH’S SCHOOL – SEPTEMBER 1952
Lotbiniere was shaking as I slammed he door of my study. She was only half dressed, carrying her tarty shoes and bag. I walked up and down before saying anything, to heighten her anxiety. –
“Take those tarty shoes off and place them on the floor next to you.”
She complied, saying nothing.
“Put your hands on your head and stand on one leg.”
Again she complied without saying a word. For the best part of two minutes I watched her with a sneer of contempt, noting how she was having to correct her balance to avoid falling over, how she was finding standing on one leg increasingly uncomfortable. I could have left her there all night.
“Moral standards have been in decline in this country for some time” I began. “I blame socialism. And foreign influence. At St. Faith’s we bring girls up in the proper English spirit of duty, of service, of commitment to wholesome family life. I am well aware that French women are brazen tarts, painted sluts who want nothing nothing than to open their legs for the nearest oily, Gauloise smoking Monsieur. Is that not so Lotbiniere?”
“Do you think I have not been to France and seen for myself? Do you?”
She said nothing, trying hard not to cry. She placed her left foot on the floor to avoid falling over.
“I said stand on one leg!”
“But Miss I…”
“I don’t care. You do as you’re told in this school.”
Lotbiniere raised her left foot again.
“Did I say take your hands from you head? Did I?”
She sullenly replaced her hands on her head. I continued,
“Dior’s New Look that was all the rage back in ’47. What was that but a blatant attempt to turn well bred women into cheap sluts? A more unEnglish mode of dress I cannot imagine.”
She flashed me a defiant look.
“Put those shoes on. And give me your bag.”
I took out the powder compact and dabbed powder on her face. I painted her lips roughly with her gaudy lipstick making sure I ran over the lip line to make it messy.
“Now Lotbiniere, parade up and down like the tart you evidently aspire to be.”
She walked up and down on the carpet with hesitancy and evident distaste.
“Walk like a whore,” I ordered, “walk like you want to attract business.”
So she sashayed across the room, swinging her hips, wiggling her pert bottom as he turned to walk towards me, miming the swinging of a handbag. She stood in front of me. smiled, said
“Bonjour cherie” and blew me a kiss.
“Madame, do you ever….. the other girls say that you don’t, you know, with men?”
She smiled again. I felt myself going red. How dare she? How dare she? I felt myself impotent with rage. In that moment I had the first intimation that, almost for the first time, I might be doing battle with an equal. It excited me.
“I am not a girl, Madame. I am a woman. And although the time for l’amour has still to come for me, I know it will come soon, I know that I will before long meet the man who will……the man.”
After repeating the word “man” she smiled again. She was openly mocking me. Her fear had gone. But I had regained my composure and was ready to regain the upper hand. I began to shout and she looked at me startled.
“Putain. Whore. A common slut. That’s what you are. Isn’t it?”
I took my cane from its stand in the corner and moved towards her.
“You are a whore are you not?”
She bowed her head and her response was barely audible.
“We have already had one St. Faiths’ old girl end up in the oldest profession. And we really don’t want any more.”
My thoughts wandered back to Catherine Spencer-Harrington, the daughter of Sir Lionel Spencer-Harrington, of Dunwich Grange in Sussex, leader of the pro-appeasement lobby on the Conservative backbenches before the war, and a man I thoroughly despised. Catherine had left the school in 1938 after an academically undistinguished career and turned up in wartime London as a high class courtesan, with a manfriend, or pimp I should say, who had made a lot of money on the black market and was known as “King of the Spivs” . During the War, when the school was closed, I had a number of assignations with Catherine in a guesthouse in Pimlico, where I stayed whenever I was in town. I had charge of the school bank account and was used to taking a few guineas a month for my modest needs, the comfort of the pretty young woman who was once my pupil and a bottle of whisky. At the memory of her tongue on my cunt I began to be aroused.
I looked again at Lotbiniere, ridiculous in heels and bright red lipstick, and knew I had to put these thoughts out of my mind.
“We don’t want any more. Do we?”
“Do we?” I shouted.
I threw the powder compact on the floor.
“Tread on it.”
“But Miss, it is monogrammed silver, it is a present from my father.”
“I don’t care. Destroy it. Now!”
She didn’t move.
“Very well Lotbinere, I will destroy it. And punish you for disobedience.”
With my plain army surplus shoes I stamped hard on the compact, the metal twisted and bent and the powder cake cracked and pieces spilled out onto the carpet.
“Pick it up and put it in the bin.”
This time she complied meekly. I saw a tear roll down her cheek.
“You are going to learn to be a proper lady and if that means I have to beat the sluttishness out of you. Now take your shoes and give them to me.”
She gave me the shoes.
“I hardly need tell you that these shoes are totally unsuitable for a respectable girl. I am confiscating them.”
“But Miss please.”
“Please miss nothing. You will also write 200 lines and place them in my pigeon hole by 5.30 tomorrow afternoon. You will write ‘the British nation achieved greatness with pluck, fortitude and chaste modesty.’ Do you understand?”
“You are dismissed. Return straight to the dormitory. Do not make a sound.”
She shut the door behind her and I heard her footsteps going down the corridor. More satisfying still, I heard her sobbing.
I picked the shoes up and kissed them tenderly. Later, in bed, I laid one shoe on the pillow and used the other to masturbate, To my horror I realised I was masturbating to Delphine, Delphine stepping out of the shadows on the Rue de Strasbourg to say
“Hello Madame, do you remember me? Can I can make you ‘appy tonight?”
I desperately began to think of Catherine, Catherine going down on me, Catherine looking up, blonde hair falling across her face, her knowing smile.
It was to Catherine that I came. Catherine Spencer-Harrington, old girl of St. Faith’s, retired call girl, now Madame of a Soho brothel. I made a mental note to ring Catherine the following day. We had business to discuss. .
TO BE CONTINUED
A post for Wicked Wednesday. You can find more wickedness here.