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Heidi By Waldo Chapter 1 - Introduction to Soho It is the first fog of the 1891 season. A great pall covers the dismal ancient buildings of Soho, hiding the second floors of the brick and wooden buildings as if nature hated this traditional British neighborhood. The wind and street layouts alternately hold and push the fog so that some areas are so thick with fog as to limit sight to no more than five feet, while in other areas, the entire block can be seen through the wisps of fog. The sounds of the horse drawn cab being pulled over the cobblestone streets echoes through the street; its solitary middle-aged passenger staring at the papers using the cab's weak kerosene lantern to illuminate his reading. After finishing his reading of the two-page hand-written document, he carefully folds it, placing the document within the security of his inner suit coat pocket. Starting out between the cab's dirty curtains, he beholds the citizens of this community as they step nimbly out of the way of the two horses pulling the cab. He remembers when he lived in this area several years prior. At that time, he was too poor to live in what he now considers to be a decent house or to be able to afford to ride in a fancy carriage instead of walking everywhere. His completion of medical school and subsequent establishment of a prosperous medical practice quickly made him a rich man; allowing him the luxury of spending the last several years as the respected Medical Dean of the medical school where he'd earned his degree so many years before. Staring out the window, he muses how the city hasn't changed at all while so much about him has changed over the years. The buildings are the same ancient and grimy buildings; the citizens are the same mixture of riffraff, beggars, and honest craftsman that he had been familiar with so many years before; and the never-ending fog is so cold and dismal that just looking at it sent chills down his spine. His thoughts drift to the reason why he is returning here. He could've requested this meeting in his office, or at his home, or even at a tavern near his office. But no, he'd sent an invitation with his butler, inviting young Jamison to this ancient and greasy tavern that he remembers so well from his youth. He didn't bother to check to see if the place still exists, because in this neighborhood, the taverns are the buildings that outlast everything. He knows that the young man will come to meet him at the designated place. No one refuses his invitations after the Queen honored him with his latest title - Sir Harold Cowle, although he prefers the title that he worked the hardest to earn - Doctor Cowle. When the cab driver reins in the horses before the address given the driver, the gap in the fog shows Doctor Cowle the familiar dingy street and the gin palace which is his destination. The area hasn't changed at all over the years. The doorways of the closed shops provide shelter for the many ragged children huddled in the doorways; while many women of low morals are standing around the few streetlights, trying to snarl a passerby that they can spend the night with or an hour with, in return for a few shillings. The cab stops as the driver yells his commands to his horses while at the same time he pulls back on the reins, jarring the passenger who has been so deeply engrossed in looking through the window that he almost falls out of his seat. Doctor Cowle quickly regains his composure and waits for the driver to dismount and properly open the cab door for his well-to-do passenger. When the carriage door opens, Doctor Cowle drops a few coppers into the man's waiting hand as payment for services rendered so far, then commands "Return in three hours for me and I'll double that. Don't return and I'll thrash you if I ever see you again." "Aye, M'Lord. It's me pleasure to serve ye." mumbles the somewhat toothless man as he pockets the rich fare which is four times the amount he expected. He'll definitely return for this passenger. Doctor Cowle steps out onto the street, barely missing the pile of fresh horse shit from a previous cab's horse. He holds his walking stick so that he can use it for support or to defend himself from ruffians if necessary. As he approaches the gin palace entrance, a woman steps out of a nearby doorway asking "G'day. Would you like to buy a Lady a drink, M'Lord?" He pauses to stare at the woman as she smiles and turns her face so that he can see that she is still a somewhat comely wench in the dim streetlight. She is wearing a long dress that reveals her sagging bosom yet hides her ankles under a long skirt - the style of London in the 1890's. Her face is heavily coated with rouge and lipstick, while her hair is long and curled every morning with a wood stove heated curling iron. Her makeup and general appearance indicate that she is trying to hide her lost youth behind a painted facade as she patrols the streets looking for someone who will spend a few coppers on her. In return she will offer her body to the man. Smiling at her and knowing that under more favorable economic circumstances, the good doctor knows that she would probably have become a good wife to a hard working man and a good mother to a brood of children. However here in the harsh reality of Soho, she never had a chance to do more than sell her body for a few coins or steal from a merchant. In her youth, she was probably an attractive woman who could easily get any man that she wanted but now she is reduced to curbside pickups. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few coins, which he hands to her as he declares "I think it would be an honor to spend some time with such a pretty young woman. However, I have other pressing commitments and will have to beg your forgiveness. Perhaps next time that I'm down here, we can spend some time together." She smiles a big grin to him, revealing that she is already missing a few teeth from either poor dental hygiene or being unable to avoid someone else's fist. As he turns away from the prostitute, Doctor Cowle decides that the gap in her teeth is probably a combination of both factors. An ivory-faced silvery-haired elderly woman, who obviously spends too many days hidden from the sunlight, opens the door to the gin palace as he approaches the noisy pub. The woman is screaming at and hitting a drunken man with her broom as she forcibly evicts him from the gin palace. The man stumbles out the doorway barely missing knocking down Doctor Cowle. A broad smile forms on the doctor's face as he enters the familiar place where he'd spent so many errant nights in his youth. The woman looks at him for a moment, instantly recognizing that his expensive frock coat and cutaway is completely out of place from the humble clothing of her normal customers. She glances at his receding hairline, his full salt and pepper muttonchops and brushy handlebar mustache until a smile of recognition appears on her ancient face. Instantly recognizing him although it has been more than thirty years since the last time that he stepped through that doorway, she cackles "I think that you still owe me some money from a fight that you were in one night." He laughs a booming laugh "Ethel, you old whore. You haven't changed a damn bit. Still as bitchy as ever and I paid you for that night - at least twice. How are you?" "Fred died so it's just me running the place now. What are you doing back down here in the slums of Soho? Get fired from your big fancy job or are you just looking for woman trouble again?" "I'm meeting someone. Do you have a quiet place where we can talk while we get some of that delicious stew?" "Pour yourself an ale while I go back in the corner and throw those drunks out. Then you can have that table." Doctor Cowle steps around the tables full of loud men and shrill women as he finds a mug that isn't being used, then fills it with a frothy load of the warm brew that he remembers so well. Turning around to stare at his fellow drinkers in the heavy smoke-filled tavern, he feels a twinge of pain as he remembers his days of wasted youth sitting here talking to the always ready and sometimes 'free' women. In the corner, a man plays old drinking songs on an accordion and some people dance in front of the player while a burning fireplace built into one wall knocks the chill out of the air. The big place is full tonight, seating about sixty-some people and there is a four to one ratio of men to women. He stares at one youthful wench that is sitting on a man's lap as they flirt with each other, partially missing those partying days while the other half of his brain knows that he would've died an early death if he'd stayed here in Soho. The frequent battles over women combined with the nightly heavy alcohol abuse would've killed him sooner or later. But those wonderful days and nights of his youth is why he came back here tonight. Sitting down at the back table and feeling comfortable with the tavern's casual environment, he loosens his tie for the first time in public in thirty some years. As he sips his strong ale, he sees young Jamison Brett enter the smoke filled tavern. Standing up and waving at young Jamison, he also catches Ethel's eye and points at his tankard. She picks up an unused tankard, pausing to pretend to clean it with her dirty apron, before re- filling it for the new arrival. Doctor Cowle stares at young Master Brett as he works his back through the crowd. The young man is as much out of place as the middle aged and expensively dressed Doctor Cowle is in this bar. Doctor Cowle wears the slightly out-of-fashion Cravat around his neck that he's worn all his life, while the younger man wears the more fashionable ascot. Although young Jamison comes from a family that is currently experiencing financial difficulties, the young man manages to own several suits and is always fashionably dressed. Most people his age only have one suit, while he must have at least three or four different suits and at least eight or nine shirts, most of them in the current French ruffle fashion. The tall and slender boy doesn't look a bit like his solid and dark-haired father; instead having more of the fair Scandinavian look of his beautiful blonde- haired mother. His long flaxen hair is the current style rage and length of the more daring young people and reaches almost to his neck. Smiling at the handsome son of his best friend, Doctor Cowle stands and shakes his hand in greeting. As soon as Ethel presents Jamison with his drink and leaves the two men alone, Doctor Cowle asks in a loud voice because of the noise from the other patrons "Did you have any problems finding this place?" Jamison is covering his lower face with a silk handkerchief, trying to prevent some of the heavy smoke from entering his lungs. He waves the handkerchief as a frown wrinkles his brow "I thought that these places didn't exist except down at the docks any more." "It's the place that I grew up in. I used to come here and get so drunk that I probably bedded Ethel a couple of times when I was too drunk to know better." Looking at the ancient hag arguing with a customer over bill payment, the young man mumbles "I don't think that I'd ever get that drunk." Laughing out loud, Doctor Cowle remembers when he'd also said the same thing. For several minutes, the two of them make small talk as they eat the bowls of hot, spicy stew that Ethel brought them. Then Doctor Cowle gets down to the subject that he'd called the meeting about and has postponed as long as he can. "Look, Jamison, I'm having a difficult time keeping the trustees from kicking you out. Not only are your grades exceedingly bad, but also you're missing a lot of mandatory classes and that episode last week where you fainted is causing a lot of instructor controversy. I've had to table a couple of written requests from your instructors to dismiss you permanently, but I can't do it again. I took the liberty of writing to your parents and telling them what my plans were." "I told you, just as I told my parents, that I really didn't want to be a doctor. I prefer a career as a writer. As for fainting, the sight of blood makes me sick. I couldn't stand the decaying smell of the cadaver and when they opened up its swollen belly...well, the strong stench overwhelmed me." "But your parents invested the most of their remaining money in your schooling so that you can have a good start in life. Since the day that you were born, your father has looked forward to the day when you are awarded the title of doctor. It would break his heart if I had to fail you." The young man ignores the argument that he's already responded to during so many previous discussions on the same subject. Picking up his tankard of Ale to change the subject, he smells the warm frothy brew before placing the tankard on the table, untouched by his lips. Looking at his mentor, he inquires with a mild snarl on his lips, "Could I get some wine instead? Perhaps a nice Chardonnay?" Doctor Cowle laughs at the totally unreasonable request "If Ethel can't make it in her basement gin shop, she won't sell it in here. I'd be afraid of anything but this ale." Pushing the full ale tankard aside, young Jamison waves his handkerchief in front of him, trying to fan some of the dense cloud of smoke away as he asks "I need to urinate. Is there a bathroom in this establishment?" Doctor Cowle cleans the last dregs of his stew from his bowl with a chunk of bread before he responds "Through that back door, which will lead you outside into the alley. You can piss against the wall or there's a two-hole outhouse. I'd feel safer using the wall." Jamison works his way through the boisterous crowd, ignoring the mild and somewhat friendly taunts and jeers of the other customers who enjoy teasing outsiders. Outside the tavern, he easily finds the dark outhouse from its stench in the dimly lit alley. He fumbles with the door, quickly discovering that there isn't any way to lock it from the inside. As he unbuttons his fly, he is slightly startled when the door jerks open again. Turning to look quickly at who is opening the unlockable door, he sees the back-lighted silhouette of a woman as she enters the outhouse. "I'm sorry, but someone's in here. I'll be finished in a second." "So will I. This crapper's got two holes and you can't use them both unless your manhood is three foot long..if you get my drift. Seeing that we're going to be somewhat intimate for a few seconds as we answer nature's call, my name's Gretchen. Who are you?" She asks laughingly as she shuts the door behind her. Jamison just stands there slightly shocked as to her impudence as he listens to her lift her crinoline skirt and position herself on the empty outhouse hole. "Jamison Brett." He declares as he debates his next move - to wait until she finishes her business and leaves the outhouse, or to leave the outhouse himself until it is empty again or to accept the crowded condition and pee. Determined to show this shameless hussy that she can't upset him, Jamison continues unbuttoning his fly as he listens to the sound of her urine falling into the smelly trench below the outhouse. Holding his penis in his left hand, he tries to judge the way he aims it in the dark outhouse so that he won't spatter it on the seat. Satisfied that he can accurately aim his flow, Jamison lets the natural pressure on his bladder start the urine flow, as he listens for the sound of his urine. Suddenly a bright light startles him, causing him to jerk up his free hand to shield his night vision and also causes him to miss the hole slightly as he continues to pee. The light dims almost as quickly as it appeared, dropping to the minor flame of a match. He stares somewhat transfixed as he watches the burning match approach the cigarette in her mouth. Then he realizes that she is staring at his exposed penis, which can be seen quite easily in the match's dim light. Turning his head so that he is staring straight ahead at the dark wall of the outhouse, he keeps urinating, ignoring her obvious stares at his most personal body part. "Looks like the g'Lord forgot to let some parts of your body grow, Jamison!" she laughs, her slightly drunk voice echoing loudly through the small outhouse. Pressing down internally on his bladder, he stops his urine flow and turns around, fumbling for the door with his free hand while his other hand tries to stop the still dripping urine flow. Pushing the door open, he steps outside, still hearing her loud laugher behind him as he slams the door shut behind him. Holding his penis tightly as he runs over to a nearby wall, he discovers that he didn't stop the complete urine flow and his hand is lightly coated with his own urine. Stopping for a second, he completes his urination in the middle of the street like a common peon. As soon as his bladder is empty, he tries to wipe himself dry with his silk handkerchief. Throwing the slightly soiled expensive handkerchief away because he doesn't want to put the soiled garment back into his pocket, he buttons his fly and walks back into the tavern. He is wishing that he can keep walking and never come back to this wretched and sordid place. Doctor Cowle is laughing with Ethel when the angry young Master Brett walks back to the table and takes his seat beside his mentor. Jamison barely hears the raunchy joke that Ethel is telling the good doctor because the young man's attention is focused on staring at the backdoor. When the door opens, he feels like sliding under the table but instead picks up his ale tankard and takes a big swig of the horrible strong brew as he stares over the tankard top at the backdoor, watching the young woman as she re-enters the tavern. She stops just inside the tavern door; her cigarette still dangling from her bright- red lips as her dark and gleaming eyes look around the tavern searching for something or someone, before locking in on the table where Jamison is pretending to guzzle his ale. The young woman is an attractive dark-haired local wench, wearing the clothes of a maidservant. Something about her is different and it takes Jamison a moment to notice that her hairstyle isn't the normal hairstyle that most women wear. Most women, even the young women, either part their hair down the middle or put it up in a tight bun so that every hair is in its exact place. This woman does something to her hair to push it up, to make it look fuller and to let it float around her face, forming a curly frame of dark hair to highlight her already beautiful young face. Placing his tankard back on the table, Jamison stares at the woman who is so obviously staring back at him, looking at him as she waits for a silent invitation to join him at his table. She winks at him but he ignores the wink. She smiles at him as she arches her back, pulling her shoulders back which thrust her generous bosom out as if she is advertising that she has tits, pointing her bosom in Jamison's direction. Instead Jamison picks up his tankard again and takes another sip as he turns so that he appears to be looking at Doctor Cowle, ignoring the still- standing young woman's obvious desire to become better acquainted with the young man. Ethel quickly finishes her bawdy joke, emphasizing the punch line by shaking her closed fist over her mid-body as if she is a man masturbating and leaves the table chucking louder over her own joke than the good doctor chuckled. Doctor Cowle picks up his tankard and salutes his young prot?g? with his upraised drink as he asks "Who is your new friend and why don't you invite her over to our table?" Turning his head slightly, Jamison observes that she is still standing there, looking at his table as if she is waiting for an invitation to come sit beside him. Feeling his face turn red with embarrassment because the Doctor so easily notices the interaction between him and the impertinent wench, Jamison stammers "There's a distinct class difference. She's a simple servant and I'm..." "You're about to become an unemployed student who can't rely upon his father's non-existent funds anymore. Then there won't be any class difference and it'll be her looking down on you." interrupts Doctor Cowle. "I beg your pardon." declares an upset Jamison. Pulling his papers from his inside jacket pocket, Doctor Cowle explains his unsettling statement "I wrote your father that you don't have a desire to become a doctor and that you're on the verge of being expelled from my school. I told him that you also have an attitude that you can sit in your room and write those romantic French novels under your nom de plume, instead of studying your medical technical manuals. You know that if I know about your writing and study habits that the rest of the school does also." Dropping his gaze to stare at the grimy and scarred floor, Jamison sheepishly replies "It is a passing fancy. I happened to read a romantic story one day and declared that I can write something better than that story. I wrote a little story just to prove it to myself and sent it off to a publishing house, knowing that they would probably reject it. However they were very pleased with my flowery descriptions and romantic plot twists and asked for more stories. I was glad to do it, because I discovered that I'm hooked on building the romantic plots in my mind and seeing them in print fulfilled an egomaniac desire within me. The small stipend that they pay me for publishing my stories barely covers my cost of buying the papers and inks, but I enjoyed it more than reading the boring medical journals at school." "What you do in your personal time is your business, after you graduate from my school. Until then, it is my business. Your father agreed with my plan which I've already discussed with him. I recommended to him that you pull out of school temporary and take a Sabbath working holiday, rather than be expelled. That's why I asked you to meet me here. I told your father that you grew up in a sanitary environment where you are never exposed to the harsh realities of life; that you had never experienced the grim facts of life; and that your personality reflected the gentler side of life. I'm not putting you down, but just stating the facts. You don't know about life yet and need to learn about it. So I recommended to your father that you spend your Sabbath here in Soho, working and living with the type of people that you see here; learning what it's like to be a man and to earn your own keep." Jamison jumps to his feet, his anger rising and he starts to walk away but Doctor Cowle grabs his sleeve. Staring straight ahead, Jamison discovers that the woman had apparently tired of him ignoring her and is now sitting on a man's lap at a nearby table. Her arms are entwined around the bearded man's neck as she whispers private thoughts into his ears, giggling like a schoolgirl sharing naughty secrets with a fellow conspirator. Turning back around to face the long-time family friend and mentor, Jamison hastily sits back down "I apologize for my hasty act, which I committed in anger. I meant no disrespect as I know that you're looking out for my welfare." Doctor Cowle reaches into his pocket, removing two cigars, offering one to Jamison. Refusing the cigar because he doesn't smoke, Jamison declares as Doctor Cowle proceeds to add his own cigar smoke to the heavy cloud of smoke within the tavern "I'm not like my father and refuse to be bullied into doing anymore of his horrible make-believe jobs. When I was a kid, he pushed me to play sports with the other kids and he wasn't satisfied with my lackluster performance, no matter how hard I tried or what I accomplished. I wasn't athletic at all but he constantly tried to make me into a star athlete, to attempt to live the dream life that he wished for himself. It was wonderful when he had to go to work every day, leaving me at home with my mother to play with my pets and to read my books. My mother and he used to fight all the time over me and his plans for my childhood activities. My father would always win while my mother and I would constantly lose. Then not satisfied with just screwing up my childhood life, he decided my future, deciding that I would follow him into the medical field without caring what I really wanted to do. I'm not here because I want to be here, but I'm here because I didn't have any other place that I can go. Is it any wonder that my grades are so bad?" Holding his cigar in his hand and spinning it slowly as he stares at it as if he can obtain the wisdom of Solomon from the slow burning tobacco, Doctor Cowles states in a somewhat hush-like tone "It's only natural for a man to wish success upon his only son and to push him, sometimes to push him too hard in an attempt to create the perfect son. I told your dear father that you are a good lad and that he should give you time to decide your own fate - to put you in charge of your own destiny." Pausing, the doctor puts his hand on the young man's shoulder as if he is a wise uncle offering advice to a favorite nephew instead of a medical school Dean that is getting ready to kick out a non-performing student "That's probably the main reason why your father agreed to my recommendation. As trustee of your limited remaining funds, I've taken the liberty of pulling the rest of your paid tuition back from the college and investing it for you in some mutual funds that are doing quite well so far. Your father has agreed to turn the funds over to you after a one year Sabbath to do as you wish, with his natural preference being that you return to medical school. In return, I guarantee you placement in the school, where you can pick up where you left off." Using his cigar to point at the bar, the doctor continues "There are some requirements that you must comply with or it's over. You must live and work here in this neighborhood, and you must work at a job that I've arranged for you. One of my former students, a likeable chap who graduated about ten years ago, has a small practice here and does some research work for one of the larger medical laboratories. I've arranged for you to work with him as his assistant, so that you have a better understanding of medical terminology and surgical procedures by the time that you're ready to return to school. I've also arranged for a room to be rented in a very nice nearby men's boarding house that I stayed in myself years ago. All you have to do to claim the remainder of your medical tuition is to follow the plan that I just described." The young man stares at him, his thoughts whirling as he contemplates the almost mandatory scenario just described for him. Finally after ten quiet seconds of thinking he asks, "When do I start?" "Tomorrow, you go to my office and sign papers requesting the Sabbath. Then you move out of the dorm and into your new quarters. You start working for my former student the following day." "What if I don't get along with my new boss?" "I'll guarantee that you don't have to worry about that. He's a good personal friend of mine, an excellent medical practitioner and a very personable gentleman. After he graduated from my medical college about five years ago, he came here to help take care of the sick and homeless of Soho. He's able to help them because he also has an excellent paying practice left to him by his deceased uncle, who was also a doctor. We called my friend TJ but his real name's Jekyll - Doctor Thadamus Jekyll." Chapter 2 - Meeting my new boss Dear Diary It's been awhile since I've had anything interesting happen to me that is worth documenting but that has changed. This morning, I signed the papers putting me on official Sabbath status for what I really consider to be a year of exile from school and from the friendly society of my peers that I'm just now learning to enjoy. I may be a lousy student but I enjoy the social atmosphere of my school. I packed up my few possessions in my dorm room, bid farewell to my few friends who will be continuing on with their medical studies, and moved into my new room at a men's boarding house. As rooms go, it's very acceptable. It has its own heat - one of those new things that they call a radiator which heats a room with boiling water. I would prefer the coal burning stove that we have in our dorm, but beggars can't be choosers. It gets too hot in my room at night so I sleep with the window open which my new landlady swears is an unsafe thing to do in this community. Soho - although it's a central district of London, it was originally established by immigrants in the 17th Century. Today, its population is still a mixed community of every nationality and all of the social classes. In addition to the many slums, there are also several areas of fine homes, such as where Doctor Jekyll lives. Within my own low-rent boarding house, there's one black man, six Irish, four French, two German's and one American. The landlady's mother is Irish and her deceased father is German. I don't dare tell my parents that I'm living with such an ethnic mixture or they'll think that my rooming house is much worse than it really is. I miss my old school neighborhood with its cultural mixture of restaurants, theaters, and nightclubs - places where a gentleman can go and feel at home. Today I saw Soho when it wasn't covered with the fog. Now that I've seen it, I'm glad that it's covered with fog most of the time. God, why did I ever agree to this wretched deal? I only hope that this Doctor Jekyll is a decent man or I'll never make through this year of exile. ****** Dear Diary, It's been one week since I wrote my last entry and a lot has occurred since the last journal entry. I met Doctor Thad Jekyll or TJ as he instructs me to address him. He's a tall man with broad shoulders and a mass of dark hair, with heavy brooding eyebrows that cause him to look somewhat evil in dim lighting conditions. However, he's the most gentle and kind chap that I've met in a long time. Ten minutes after I met him, I decided that I liked him and that he will be the one saving factor in this yearlong exile. My job is to be his assistant. I schedule his patients, make sure that his patients pay (for those that can afford to pay), and help him with his research. Right now I already know more about something called the atrial natriuretic factor, than I ever wanted to know. It's simply a hormonal substance produced by the right atrium of the heart that stimulates the excretion of sodium and water by the kidneys and helps regulate blood pressure. TJ is doing paid research by a medical laboratory to develop new medication to provide that function through drugs which the research laboratory will then sell. My job is to ensure that his time-proven and very boring scientific method of eney-miny-mity-mo doesn't overlook any common potential answers to finding an answer for his research project. While TJ is a brilliant and personable doctor, he doesn't really care about doing any research himself. The only reason that he signed up for the research project is because he thinks that being a prominent researcher will bring him the public notice that he desires, faster than being a good doctor. TJ wants to someday be known as Sir TJ. He turns me loose in the lab, which his late uncle had converted from the deceased Doctor Denman's surgical theatre and I've discovered already that I'm expected to do the majority of his research project for him. It's really his deceased uncle's lab that TJ re-opened when he moved into the estate left him by his departed uncle, Doctor Henry Jekyll. There are a lot of books and his uncle's personal research notes. TJ has never looked at his uncle's notes and doesn't even know what his uncle was working on at the time of his sudden death. Maybe one of these days, I'll prowl through the notes to see if there's anything in there to help me do my mandatory service. No sense in re- inventing the wheel, my father used to say. The lab is full of dust-covered books and locked cabinets. It even has its own apothecary with drawers of drugs collected by the deceased Doctor Jekyll. However because the stored drugs are from the period of Doctor Jekyll and Doctor Denman's ownership of the house, TJ recommends that I don't use any of the ancient and weak drugs. But he doesn't have to warn me about that. Even I know that a drug's potency can change over time so that it has a much lesser effect - or even a different effect. In addition to the research, I also help him with his patients. Every morning, TJ and I go through his patient list and he tells me which ones that he wants me to pay special attention to their arrival and comfort. Today, there is a Lady Diana Hertington on the schedule and TJ has me postpone the next person's appointment so that he can spend more time with her. When she arrived, I saw why he is treating her so special. I thought from seeing her name and the way that TJ prepared for her arrival that she would be an elderly dowager, similar to those other widowed women who used to join my late grandmother for tea. I pictured her wearing a black suit - still mourning her departed husband - and a head full of solid white hair covered by a big hat with a small veil. A woman whose only passion in life is using her social position to make life miserable for those people whom she considered inferior, such as myself. I was very surprised when a young, and apparently very healthy, beautiful woman stepped into TJ's parlor. She's a young woman, about my age, whose father is the Earl of Hertington. While I don't know anything about the Earl's politics, the young lady is certainly someone that has a brilliant future ahead of her; not just because of her birthright, but because of her positive attitude and unrelenting spirit. Her hair is colored a deep red, a color that I've only seen before on prostitutes. However on her, it is a striking color and adds a depth and sensual dimension to her overall appearance that is difficult to describe. Instead of her hair being combed down and tucked up into a tight fashionable bun, her hair is puffed up and curled similar to that servant-maid that I saw in the gin palace that first night. Lady Diana has been to America and that's where she learned her modernistic clothing styles and attitudes. Yes, dear diary, she has quite an attitude. She strode into the office, pulling off her gloves as she marched across the floor. She looks quite fashionable wearing a bell-shaped skirt that shows off her tight- corseted waist and blouse with balloon sleeves, instead of the bustle that's only fashionable among older women. Removing her feather-and-ribbon-trimmed hat, she shakes her hair, brushing her hair higher with her hand as she stares at me as if I don't exist. I bow low and start to formally introduce myself when she demands loudly "Tell TJ that I'm here" as if I was nothing more than one of the servants who don't deserve respect. She calls him by his first name as if they are the best of friends. I bow again, and hurry into his office where I give him the signal that his next patient has arrived. I observe that he immediately begins hurrying his current patient and I return to the waiting area, where she is smelling one of the cigars in the humidor that TJ keeps for his male patients. When she sees me approaching, she puts it in her mouth as if she is going to smoke it and arches her eyebrows rapidly several times as if she is one of those vaudeville comedians telling a risqu? joke. Then holding the unlit cigar in her mouth, she wants to know who I am. I try to introduce myself again, but she cuts me short by commanding me to "cut the blarney out", so I shorten my introduction. She walks around me slowly, checking me out as if I'm a piece of prime horseflesh that is for sale; the cigar moves to her hand so that she can use it like a pointer. I'm slightly dumfounded when she asks me "where do you buy your clothes?" When I tell her, she complements me on my fashion taste and remarks that "most young men wear the same stuffy type of old fashioned suit that their father wears". I'm saved from her further questions when TJ comes into the room as she asks me one last and very personal question "am I seeing anyone?" TJ's arrival and subsequent subject change saves me from admitting the truth to her - that I don't have a girlfriend. From the way that she is staring at me and getting more personal, I'm afraid that her next question would've been an inquiry into my sex habits. As TJ personally guides her into his examination room - she is still holding the cigar - I'm very relieved to see her leave yet at the same time, she immensely intrigues me. I can easily see why TJ wants to give her more time than the normal patient. When her medical examination is completed and TJ personally escorts her outside to her waiting carriage, I'm a little disappointed that I don't get a second chance to gaze upon her beauty. You see, in the romantic novels that I've been writing for the last three years, I've been describing the effect that women have upon men. After she entered TJ's examining room, I discovered that she caused me to feel that deep desire and attraction that I've been trying to describe in my novels. It is with some glee that TJ comes dancing back into the house to announce that he's been invited to her house for a dinner the following night. Then after ten seconds of chest-bursting silence, he declares that I'm also invited. So dear Diary, I've been here in London for over a year and this is my first adventure into the real social structure of London. I've spent all evening getting my best suit ready and tomorrow night, I'll accompany the good Doctor Jekyll to Lady Diana's house. ****** Dear Diary, It's been two whole weeks since my last entry into my little book. And a lot has happened since then. So much that I can write a hundred books and still have more to say. So it's with difficulty that I try to compose my thoughts into these few lines. I should start with the dinner. Lady Diana's dinner partner is Bruce Wayne, a young millionaire from America whose father made a fortune in shipping and whiskey, allowing him to send his son to the best schools. I can see why Lady Diana chose him because even if he doesn't have a title, he has the wit, the character, the personality and most of all, the looks to charm any woman. I observe TJ as TJ tries to compete with Bruce for our hostess's personal attention but it is no contest with Bruce winning the nod from our beautiful hostess to allow him to escort Lady Diana into the dining room. I didn't try to compete for her charms although she did stare at me once or twice and then give me a funny little smile, which I'm not sure of its meaning. Two days later her butler knock on our door and is escorted into TJ's office where TJ and I are discussing the next day's patients. When the butler announces that he is from Lady Diana, TJ almost trips over his own feet getting up. Then the butler asks, "Which of you gentlemen is Master Jamison Brett?" I hesitantly step forward and the butler hands me a sealed envelope. I checks it to verify that it does have my name instead of TJ's name and then flip it over breaking the wax seal on the back. The envelope emits the most delightful fragrance and I'll admit that for a second, that very heady thoughts of a picnic rendezvous with Lady Diana flickered through my head as I enjoyed the sweet lilac scent escaping from within the envelope. My daydreaming of sitting beside a gurgling mountain stream with the beautiful Lady Harrington, is interrupted by TJ's impatient cry of "Good lord man, are you going to read it or spend the rest of the day smelling the envelope?" Inside the envelope is a handwritten invitation for me to join her for tea the following afternoon. It is written and signed by her and bears the same wonderful lilac scent. While her butler waits patiently for my reply, I sit down at my desk and start writing my acceptance. Then I'm startled by TJ asking the butler if there is another envelope...perhaps addressed to him; only for the butler to confirm that I'm the sole invitee. I pause in my acceptance and stare at TJ, as I consider declining her invitation. After all TJ is not only my friend, but he's also my employer; and he does have a more than normal personal interest in her ladyship. TJ resolves my dilemma by putting a phony smile on his face and pushing me to accept. We have a short discussion where he points out that I'm new here and she probably wants to introduce me to some of her female friends in a different social setting. That sounds logical so I write a quick acceptance. The rest of the day is very awkward for me but as soon as I get to my room, it hits me like a ton of bricks. She wants to see me in a proper social setting. I become so giddy and enthused that I find it difficult to sit down. I pace the floor. I examine my best suit so many times that I become paranoid over my preparations. And falling to sleep that night is the most difficult thing of all. My mind is whirling with so many confusing thoughts that I can't relax enough to fall asleep. The next day, TJ releases me from work early and I walk to her very nice neighborhood on the fringes of Soho. I arrive promptly at 4 p.m., and am escorted by her butler into her father's study, only to find that there is no party - just a private tea session for Lady Diana and myself. I sit ramrod straight on the couch across from her as we sip our tea and talk about our lives. She is very inquisitive about my parents, about me, about my relationship with TJ and about my future career plans while I'm inquisitive about what she thinks about America. After an hour's delightful chat, she dismisses me. I thought that I couldn't sleep the previous night, but trying to sleep after my Tea session with her, is even worse. I lay in my bed and remember her beautiful smile, the cute dimple when she laughs, and the smell of her most fragrant perfume that I can still lightly smell from my nearby suit. The next morning, TJ bombards me with questions as soon as I walk through the office door. TJ's smile disappears when I truthfully answer his questions about the tea - that it was just the two of us and none of her female friends that he expects that she is trying to introduce to me. But later in the day, her butler shows up with two invitations to a dinner that same day - one for me and the other for TJ - thank god. TJ is so enthused because she invites him also that he cancels his afternoon appointments so that he can visit his barber and haberdashery. That night his glee disappears when he discovers that I'm supposed to be Lady Diana's dinner partner. Being the trooper that he is, he quickly covers up any disappointment and is his normal jovial self. As for myself, I'm in seventh heaven twice. The first time being when I find out about her choice of partners and the second time being when I offer her my arm like a proper gentleman. She puts her small arm through my arm, allowing me to escort her into the dining room, followed by the rest of the guests. Lady Diana had taken the liberty of asking a single female friend to attend and to be TJ's dinner partner. Afterwards Lady Diana's father singles me out and escorts me to a private tour of his library where he offers me one of his prize cigars. I somehow smoke my first cigar that night and live through it. God, it made my tongue so fuzzy and my head so dizzy that I couldn't think straight. The next day at work, another invitation arrives for me to join her at tea again. I accept without asking permission from TJ; recognizing that it will only hurt him to divulge any more details of my private association with my new friend. Besides, I feel that I have treated him honorably. There has never been anything more than a one-sided dream of a romance between them and Lady Diana has made it quite clear to both of us that it is my company that she prefers. When I arrive at her estate, the butler escorts me up the stairs to her private quarters where she surprises me twice. She is dressed in a chemise-type form-fitting dress that she is wearing without a corset, something that she brought with her from America; and the second surprise is being allowed to sit in her private study as the butler serves us tea. I suppose it is because her bedroom door is only mere feet away that the butler stays with us the entire time standing quietly by the window, but he didn't need to do that. I don't have the opportunity to tell him that I will behave as a perfect gentleman around her Ladyship, even dressed as she is. While I enjoy staring at her very delightful looking body which obviously doesn't need a corset, her dress is somewhat provocative and I don't expect that style to ever become fashionable. While the women in America may be brazen enough to wear something like that, England's proper ladies will continue to dress appropriately. In retrospect, I realize that her butler is there to protect the Lady's reputation more than to protect her from me. She tells me that she wants the tea in her private quarters because that is the only place that her father tolerates her to smoke cigarettes. Yes, she learned the bad habit while she was in America and she offers me one. I accept of course, resulting in a little silent mirth from her after I break into a minor coughing episode from the strong foreign weed. She tells me that she is going on a business trip with her father and will be gone for several weeks but that she wants me to join her and her parents in a private dinner when she returns. When our tea time is over, she asks for my arm and walks by my side as we walks to her front door, a journey that I assure you is much too short. When we reach the door, she surprises me by standing on tiptoe quickly and lightly brushing her lips against my cheek. Startled I can only stare at her gleaming eyes; then she turns and leaves me standing in the doorway with the butler holding my hat. I don't know or remember how I got home. Only thing that I remember is that she kissed me. That night I can't sleep again and I feel such fires of passion burning within my chest. Opening up my writing desk, I begin writing a new story, which I finish before dawn. It's a story filled with romance and passion. A story of love and desire. A story of honor and respect. A story that mimics my own tumultuous feelings. Finishing my romantic fictional story in one short writing session, I feel so confident in my writing that I don't bother to spend hours editing it and sent it off just as I'd written it. Two days later, a return letter from my editors include a very generous check. They advance me more for this one new story than they paid me for several of my previous stories. My editor's quick note indicates that they think it is the best story that I'd ever written and they demand more stories with that tumultuous passion. Since then, I've been very busy and have written two more stories, which my publisher have also happily accepted. As for TJ, he is amused at my spirited and new hearty personality despite his disappointment at not being the chosen one. He congratulates me on my apparent victory for the young lady's affections. For several days, we have a normal if somewhat terse working relationship but that is about to change for the better. TJ invites me to join him for dinner tomorrow night. I'm looking forward to going somewhere decent with such a refined gentleman and enjoying a relaxing meal with good wine. Chapter 3 - Meeting Bertha The two men walk through the dimly lit fog-covered cobblestone streets, chatting about Jamison's current progress on the research project. TJ hasn't spent much time in the lab since turning the project over to Jamison, so they have a lot to discuss. It is with great surprise that Jamison looks up to see that they are headed to the very same gin palace that Doctor Cowle brought him to on the night that they discussed his future. TJ strides into the tavern, bellowing a loud greeting to Ethel as if he is a drunken sailor instead of a respected Doctor or other professional. A couple of the thirty-some customers nod or acknowledge TJ's entrance. He proceeds straight to a table near the accordion player. The customers move down the table making room so that there are two empty seats next to the cleared floor area where a some-what drunken couple is doing a very suggestive dance. Sitting down, TJ declares loudly as he competes with the loud accordion player "Best place in Soho to eat, or drink or get laid. I recommend that we start with the stew, then work on the drink. Enough drink and getting laid comes easy. Ethel's a damn good cook." Jamison's phony smile tries to hide his disappointment over TJ's choice of a 'good place to eat'. But TJ doesn't notice because he is busy talking to a couple of near-by patrons as if he is a regular customer of Ethel's tavern. Ethel places two large mugs full of ale on the table and TJ's attention is diverted to her as he teases her about something that happened during his last visit. While they joke, Jamison stares at his dark ale, knowing that he is expected to drink it. Holding the large mug in both hands, he sips it, then wipes the frothy suds from his mouth. "You're new here.", declares a soft voice behind Jamison as a hand touches him on the shoulder. Turning around to look at who is talking to him, Jamison's eyes are diverted to stare upward at the underside of two large cantaloupe-sized breasts that are just above his eye level and so close to his face that he is looking up at the underside of the dress covering the breasts. Switching his focus up the woman's body a couple of inches, he stares into the smiling face of a very large young woman. Remembering his manners, he stands up only to discover that she is still taller than he was. He is five foot ten but she is at least six foot one and also outweighs him by at least sixty pounds or more. Her broad shoulders, large bosom, wide hips, long legs, big hands and big arms is somewhat intimidating, even though her wide smile is friendly. Her face isn't beautiful, yet she also isn't ugly either - more of a plain woman who's main beauty is her youthful exuberance and fresh outdoor appearance. She is dressed in a German milkmaid dress, apron, and white socks, with a big wooden cross hanging down from a slender chain around her neck. The dress barely rides on her wide shoulders, then has a big square cut exposed bodice, exposing enough cleavage to prove that she doesn't have two cantaloupes tucked into the front of her dress. Her dark hair is parted in the middle and braided with ribbons. Bowing slightly, he introduces himself "I'm Jamison Brett, assistant to Doctor Jekyll." She laughs a rich vibrant laugh "A gentleman, are you? That's just what this place needs. There ain't many bloody gentlemen that come in here. Glad to meet you. I'm Bertha. Would you like to dance?" Before he can decline her unexpected request, her large strong hand grabs his relatively smaller hand and her superior strength pulls him away from the table and across the two short steps out onto the small dance floor. The accordion player begins playing an Irish jig and Jamison finds himself being lead around the dance floor by this large woman as other couples join them in the lively dance. Jamison isn't a dancer, which is very evident to the clapping tavern patrons, but Bertha doesn't care as she takes the lead anyway, holding Jamison and guiding him around the floor to the amusement of the other dancers. Once as she spins him around, Jamison observes a smiling TJ laughing at them and clapping his hands in time with the music. When the song ends, she pulls him tight against her chest as she exuberantly hugs him before she lets go of him. Both of them are lightly sweating from the exertion and she grins "That was fun. I've got some friends in here but I'll drop by to talk to you later." TJ's ear-to-ear grin disappears as Jamison sits down as the doctor tries to project a serious attitude. It is obvious from his twinkling eyes that TJ is struggling to keep from laughing as he calmly states "If you play your cards right, you might get lucky tonight." Jamison turns his head to stare at Bertha who is bending over to re-fill her tankard with more ale. In that position, her low cut bodice exposes her large hanging boobs. Her head turns slightly so that she is staring at Jamison. She smiles back at him, knowing full well where he is staring, causing him to blush and look away like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. TJ leans over and whispers "She's a cook for a local lawyer so she has to get up early. Do your business and get out of her room so that everyone can get some sleep." Jamison's face turns ashen as he realizes that there is only one way that TJ can know that tidbit of information, then he asks, "You haven't.." TJ nods affirmation and he holds up three fingers to imply that he's scored three times with Bertha. After turning back to look at the large woman again, a very pale Jamison picks up his ale mug and takes a large swallow. ****** His throbbing head feels as if it will burst. Jamison doesn't have much experience with hangovers, but even before he opens his bloodshot eyes, he knows why he feels so miserable. All that damn ale that he'd too freely guzzled as he tried to match TJ mug for mug in their drinking bout. Then he feels the warmth emanating from his bed companion, recognizing immediately that he isn't in bed by himself. Mentally shaking the cobwebs from his head to clear his thinking, he remembers drinking a lot more ale as Ethel kept bringing the tankards of ale as they finished each round of drinks. Then he remembered Bertha coming over to his table to talk to him again, then later dancing with Bertha again as he freely leaned his head on her massive chest, then the three of them drinking more ale as they sat and joked. Then there was that minor flirting with Bertha as she led him outside the pub where they kissed and groped each other in the dark privacy of the street; and then the rushing memory of going home with her where they made love in her bed. He vividly remembers them fumbling with each other's clothes as they stripped each other naked in her small bedroom. Then the large naked woman led him to her squeaking bed and spread her legs for him. He isn't a virgin now. ****** Dear Diary, It's been a week since I met the very loving Bertha for the first time. When I rushed into work an hour late the following morning, TJ didn't say a word although his broad smile indicated that he knew exactly what had happened to cause me to be late to work for the first time. I wish that I know what happened. It was supposed to be nothing more than a simple dinner for TJ and myself that night. It wasn't the place that I preferred to eat dinner but I accepted it as I tried to strengthen the bond of friendship between my new employer and myself. And then the alcohol took control of me. I'm not used to the strong stuff, instead preferring nothing stronger than a simple glass of wine after dinner to help me relax. When my senses return to me in the middle of her bed much later that night, I try to slip out of her squeaky bed, but I awaken her before I can dress. She's quite strong, quite persuasive and extremely amorous in the morning, so I had to partake of her flesh again - this time being somewhat sober with a weak stomach. After we finish what she proudly informs me is my third orgasm of the night, she permits me to dress and leave because she has to get up to fix her master's breakfast. I find my way out of her master's servant entrance and trudge back home, still in a daze from the booze and what I had just done. I rush to my room after work that evening and jump straight into my bed, wanting to go to sleep and to forget about her. To forget what I'd done with her - to forget about losing my virginity to her - to a woman that I certainly don't want to take home to introduce to my mother. Yes, although I enjoy what we did, I just wish that it had been someone else that was my first partner - someone dainty and vulnerable, someone that would look at the sex act as a moment of intimate joy rather than simple satisfaction. I shake my head and groan as I remember Bertha's words when she most intimately expressed her amorous sex life by stating "I ain't had any cock in over a week and I'm growing shut between my legs. Get your ass in bed, Sweetie." All my life, I've saved my virginity waiting for the appropriate woman to step into my life. And then I met Lady Diana, who I feel is the perfect woman. A beautiful woman who I'd be proud to take home and introduce to my parents or take to my local church parish where I learned my moral and social values as a child. A personable woman that's not afraid to live life as it is meant to be lived. A woman who will make a perfect wife for me. And what do I do? I jump into bed with a horny female Paul Bunyon. I share the most intimate and precious moment of my life with a woman's whose arms are bigger around than my legs, a woman's whose large heavy breasts are bigger than my head, a woman whose sexual appetite will shame a sailor, a woman's whose massive girth my arms barely reach around, a woman's whose heavy body can easily pin me to the mattress, a large woman whose skin and body folds provide more areas that are just as real feeling as any natural body cavity, a woman whose mouth.... I'm scared. I think that my emotional reaction is because after I got over the initial shock, I discover that I really enjoyed my quick romance. I can think of nothing else but the enjoyable pleasures of Bertha's bountiful breasts. I've gone from being angry with myself for permitting her to be the woman to deflower me, to wishing that I'm back in her bed. For the last couple of days, I try to busy myself and constantly lock myself in my room, only leaving to go to work; returning to my room as soon as I finish my daily work in the Lab. To keep from thinking about my illicit affair with Bertha, I busy myself with writing a new short story. I put my heart and soul into this new fictional creation, discovering that my short romance with Bertha has given me a new vocabulary and understanding of the romantic inter-actions between men and women. My new story reflects my new knowledge of the female body, its sexuality and the many pleasures that such knowledge can provide the man. Gone are the tittering innuendoes that my girl cousins and I used to talk about when we were guileless adolescent teenagers, replaced with the sexual knowledge that only an experienced man has. I'm so proud of my new writing skill and I know that this story will be my best ever. ****** Jamison returns to his quarters after a hard day's work, discovering an envelope under his room's door. Removing his hat and gloves, he sits down on his bed and opens the envelope, reading the simple one page letter. Suddenly he crumples the letter, clinching it in his hand so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He jumps to his feet and paces the small room's floor for several seconds, unbuttoning his tie as he begins to lightly sweat from the combination of exertion and anger. Stopping in mid-step, he stares at the radiator, cursing the too-warm radiator heat that he can't control. He quickly unlocks the window and raises it, sticking his head outside enjoying the cool and fresh outside air. Looking down outside his second story window, he notices that there is a roof overhang about two feet below his window. One quick movement and he is outside his room, standing on the roof overhang. He sits down on the overhang and uncrumples the letter that he is still clinching. Using the light escaping from his window, he re-reads: "Dear Master Brett, It is with great glee that we receive your latest story, especially since our mutual success in selling your last four stories. However as we read this one, we are sent into shocked dismay. Your normal writing style of romantic and flowery plots has changed. Instead, we discover that your new story is nothing more than a pornographic disaster that we refuse to publish. Instead of concentrating on romantic scenes and leading up to a not-described affair, your newest story is nothing but pure sex. Your story is more experimental than modern in a very overshadowing technique, presenting the essential human confrontation with indifference and irony in a wide variety of lyric and dramatic forms. While you are quite descriptive, our audience isn't interested in explicit descriptions of various female body places where you've put your tongue. It appears that you've forgot that our target audience is the young English girls that are transitioning from pubescent teenagers to the maidens that are waiting for their Prince Charming. Instead of romance, you describe sex to such an uncomfortable degree that it causes even my middle-aged beard-covered face to blush. Your newest treatment of sexuality and marriage is expected to cause an outrage among the puritanical Victorian public that we wish to avoid. It is with regret that we inform you that we can't use your latest story and have destroyed the copy that you sent us. We will be interested in future stories that are more in line with your previous subjects. Your Publisher Edwin Hawkins, Esq." He crumples the letter again and throws it back over his shoulder through his open window as he sits on the overhang, listening to the night sounds of his Soho residence. After a couple of minutes of listening, he decides that he doesn't want to spend the evening trapped in his small room, having to think about his so-far unsuccessful romances. Walking to the edge of the roof, he determines that the roof edge is only about ten feet from the ground. With one quick movement, he jumps off the overhang into the back alley behind his rooming house. He sets off in a brisk walking pace, ignoring his hatless and gloveless appearance; not really knowing or caring where he is going. Wandering through the fog-covered streets for several minutes, he discovers that he is on the familiar street leading to the Gin Palace. Deciding that a drink might settle his somewhat upset nerves, he changes his course to the tavern. Pausing for a second to regain his composure before he enters the tavern, h