Growing Up A MasterChapter 11 Introducing the Harrisons
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Mrs Harrison free porn video
Looking back, I guess my parents were sort of latter day hippies. My father always said that they were serial entrepreneurs, but that doesn’t quite tell the whole story. The businesses that they started were almost always ‘fringe’ businesses – good for the planet but not so good for the family’s bank account. A few of them almost succeeded. But mostly they failed. And sometimes they failed spectacularly.
I think that part of the problem was that both of my parents were easily bored. As a result, we were always moving on to pastures greener. By the time I was 16, we had lived in 18 different places – including in a tumbling-down farmhouse in Normandy and on a former fishing boat that was always threatening to sink. But mostly we just moved back and forth across the southern counties of England.
Because we were always moving, my schooling was far from normal. My mother had briefly been a primary school teacher (before she had become bored with life in the classroom), and so I was mainly home schooled. The only time that I attended a proper school for any length of time was when we lived just outside of Rye in East Sussex.
My father had a plan to produce ‘collectible’ hand-printed and hand-coloured postcards with scenes of Rye harbour, the Martello Tower, and various other picturesque local landmarks. I sometimes think that having gone to school in Rye is why I have a bit of a soft spot for the Cinque Port village. If I’m ever down in that corner of the country, I usually try to stop off in Rye for a cup of coffee or a sandwich or something.
As it happens, about six months ago, I had to be in Hastings – just along the coast from Rye – for a meeting early on a Monday morning. I could have caught the train, I probably should have caught the train. But I decided to drive down on Sunday afternoon. And, yes, I also decided to make a little detour though Rye on the way.
I arrived in Rye at about 3:30 and managed to fluke a parking space almost right outside one of the coffee shops. Rye itself didn’t seem to be that busy, but the coffee shop was packed. Nevertheless, I ordered a coffee and one of the delicious-looking scones, and looked around for somewhere to sit.
It seemed that all of the tables were occupied but, at one of them, a middle-aged woman was sitting all by herself reading a traditional paperback. I decided to ask if I might perhaps share her table.
‘But of course,’ she said, looking up from her book. ‘Be my guest.’
I thanked her, placed the plate with my scone on the table, and waited for the waitress to bring me my coffee.
‘Just visiting?’ the woman asked.
‘On my way to Hastings,’ I said. ‘But I have a bit of a soft spot for Rye. I usually try to stop off for a visit whenever I’m in this corner of the world. How about you?’
‘I live here,’ she said. ‘Well, just outside. And, yes, it is the sort of place that you can get to like, isn’t it.’
There was something familiar about the woman. I couldn’t quite decide what. Perhaps I’d just seen her on another of my visits. Or maybe she was an actress or something like that. A BBC producer that I knew had told me that there were a number of film and TV people living in and around Rye. And then it struck me. ‘You’re not by any chance Miss Brownlow, are you?’ I asked.
She looked at me with a look that clearly said: And why are you asking this, young man? Should I know you from somewhere? ‘Gosh,’ she said, after a moment or two, ‘that was … that was a while ago. Before I was married. For the past 20 years or so I’ve been Mrs Harrison. But, yes, I used to be Miss Brownlow.’
‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that you don’t remember me, but you were my teacher. Quite a while ago now, of course. I’m Jerry Turkle. Jeremiah back in those days.’
She narrowed her violet-blue eyes and frowned slightly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, Jeremiah Turkle. I do remember you. Your parents were artists, weren’t they? They had a studio or whatever down by the harbour. I remember your father making brightly-coloured pictures – watercolours, I think.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Postcards. I think they were all individually hand-coloured. I was only about eight or nine at the time.’
She nodded again. ‘Jeremiah Turkle. Well, well.’
‘Are you still teaching?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘I retired almost three years ago. I now run a small B&B.’ And she reached into her handbag and produced a printed business card which she handed to me. The Smuggler’s Cottage. ‘It keeps me busy,’ she said.
‘Thank you. I shall have to remember your establishment next time I’m down this way and need a place to stay.’
‘Well, well, Jeremiah Turkle. I remember you having long, curly hair,’ she said. ‘But then, I suppose most of the boys had long hair in those days, didn’t they?’
‘I guess they did. To be honest, I can’t really remember.’
‘And so what are you doing these days?’ she asked.
I explained that I was a partner in a project management company. ‘We tend to specialise in major IT projects within the public sector,’ I said. ‘We try to keep the job on time and on budget, while stopping the public sector customers and the software vendors from visiting violence upon one another.’
Again she frowned slightly. ‘Did you have a leaning towards maths when you were younger?’ she said. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘I was always fascinated by geometry – you know … shapes … patterns … sequences … relationships. And I was quite good at board games – chess … backgammon … stuff like that. I applied to several universities, but none of them were particularly interested in a kid who had only had a couple of years of ‘proper’ schooling. So I managed to get an apprenticeship with some quantity surveyors. From there, one thing just led to another. I guess I got lucky.’
Mrs Harrison smiled. ‘I like it when things work out for people,’ she said.
We chatted on for another ten minutes or so and then Mrs Harrison announced that she had better get going. ‘One of the drawbacks with a B&B: someone has to be on the premises at all times. I had better go and give Ashley a break.’
‘Well … nice to see you again,’ I said. ‘And I shall have to keep The Smuggler’s Cottage in mind for my next visit.’
‘Yes, do that. And nice to see you, too,’ she said.
‘By the way, is it, was it, really a smuggler’s cottage?’ I asked.
She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Who knows? It makes a good story though.’
The Monday morning meeting went well. We were awarded the project. And the following Sunday afternoon I was again headed for the south coast – only this time my overnight destination was The Smuggler’s Cottage.
From the road, The Smuggler’s Cottage was pretty much what I had expected: vernacular brick and timber, with a roof of what appeared to be handmade terracotta tiles. But, as I pulled into the gravelled car parking area at the side of the cottage, I noticed that, at the back of the building, the 18th century architecture gave way to something from the early 21st century. And, what’s more, at first glance it seemed to work.
‘Welcome to The Smuggler’s Cottage. I trust you had a pleasant journey.’
‘Ah, Miss Brownlow. I mean … Mrs Harrison.’
‘Linda,’ she said.
‘Linda?’
She smiled.
‘Ah, yes. Linda. Right.’
‘Do you need a hand with your luggage?’
‘Umm … no. No, I’m fine, thanks’ I said. ‘Just these two bags.’ I followed Linda into the house.
Considering the apparent humble beginnings of The Smuggler’s Cottage, the entrance area was surprisingly spacious. I guess it would have originally been the main living area.
‘I’ve put you in Romney,’ Linda said. ‘It has a nice view across the marshes. If you’re interested in birds, we seem to have a pair of Marsh Harriers here at the moment. I’m not sure whether they’re nesting or just passing through, bu
t I’ve seen them several times now. The male is a particularly handsome fellow, almost silvery, with distinctive black wingtips.’
Romney was situated in the modern extension that I’d spotted from the car parking area. The extension was connected to the original cottage by one of those short glassed walkways so loved by planners and heritage people. ‘This is very nice,’ I said.
Linda smiled and nodded. ‘Yes. It took rather a lot of wrangling – with the planners, etcetera – but in the end I think it has all worked out very well.’ And then Linda peered into the en suite bathroom and frowned slightly. ‘Oh dear. No towels. That’s not very good, is it? I’ll get Ashley to bring you some.’
While Linda went off to find Ashley and the missing towels, I unpacked a couple of things and then stood at the window, taking in the panoramic view out across the marshes. Somewhere in the middle distance I spotted a large bird, flying low and slow, its long wings held high between languid beats. But it wasn’t silvery. It was a muddy brownish colour. And then there was a knock on the door.
I opened the door to be greeted by an attractive young woman of about 20. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Ashley. Mum said that you didn’t have any towels.’ And she handed me a small stack of warm, fluffy towels.
‘Oh. Thank you.’
‘Is there anything else you need?’
‘No. That’s fine, thanks.’
I was a bit surprised that Ashley was, first, an attractive young woman and, second, Linda’s daughter. When Linda had mentioned Ashley in the coffee shop (‘I had better go and give Ashley a break’), I had assumed that she was referring to her husband. But apparently not.
I made myself a cup of instant coffee and drank it while flicking through the neat (but definitely handmade) compendium that was lying on the coffee table. There was a delightful ‘possible’ history of The Smuggler’s Cottage, a rather more evidenced history of Rye and the surrounding areas, a selection of recommended local walks, and a selection of local dining establishments. One in particular – The Armourer’s House – looked as though it might be worthy of a visit. But then I noticed that it was closed on Sunday evenings. I decided to wander back downstairs and get a recommendation from Linda.
‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘Sunday night can be a bit tricky – especially at this time of the year.’ And then she said: ‘Look, Ashley is going out with some of her friends this evening and I’m making roast chicken. You’d be most welcome to join me. Nothing flash.’
I was a little taken aback. ‘That’s very kind,’ I said. ‘But, umm ….’
‘I mean … only if you want to,’ she said. ‘I always think that roast chicken is a meal best shared.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
Linda smiled. ‘About six-thirty then?’
‘Thank you. I think I may even have a bottle of wine with me. Just for emergencies, you understand. I think it should go with chicken.’
‘Everything goes with chicken,’ Linda said.
Over supper, I learned that Linda had met her husband, George Harrison (not the Beatle of that name, but an entertainment industry fellow nevertheless), when he was directing a film shoot on the outskirts of Winchelsea. It was for a TV commercial and, at the last minute, the production company had needed to recruit a few extras from among the locals.
‘My friend Hannah and I thought that it would be a bit of fun. We didn’t have to say anything. It was just a walk on and walk off again role. By the time the commercial went to air, I think that I was on screen for just under two seconds. But it was fun. And when the shooting finished for the day, we all retired to The New Inn for a few drinks. One thing led to another, and I ended up spending the night with George.’
A few days later, George flew off to Brazil to take up a job as second unit director on Peter Branguin’s now largely forgotten melodrama ‘Jennifer, Jennifer’.
‘When I called him to tell him that I was pregnant, I think he initially had trouble remembering who I was. But he said that he’d come down and see me when he got back to England. True to his word, he came down to Rye about three weeks later and, in a funny sort of way, I think we were both surprised when he said that we should get married.
‘Conveniently, Ashley was born during the August school holidays.’ Linda laughed. ‘George picked up another second director job from Peter and the three of us – George, Ashley, and I – went off to Spain for a few months. When we got back from Spain, I went back to teaching and George continued to flit hither and thither.’
‘And so what made you go from teaching to B&B proprietor?’ I said. ‘If that’s not a rude question.’
‘Well, George had done quite well for himself over the years. He was very good at staying in the address books of the people who counted. And he decided, since we had a few pennies in the bank, that we should semi-retire. The plan was that we would buy a place like this, and then he’d do perhaps one or two jobs a year, more or less for beer money. But then, a couple of weeks after we had moved in here, he arrived back from London one day and announced that he was moving to Spain. Not we. He. It seems that he’d been having a long-running thing with one of his editors.
‘I can’t say that I was entirely surprised. I suppose that in the 18 years that we were together he was away at least half of the time. I knew he had the odd little fling. But I always thought that he’d come home at the end of it.’
‘So you’re not …?’
‘Not for a couple of years now,’ Linda said.
I thought that Linda seemed a little sad, so I switched the topic of conversation. ‘I saw a large bird out on the marsh. It was flying low and slow,’ I said. ‘But it wasn’t silver. It was brown – a sort of dull brown.’
Linda brightened up. ‘Ah, yes. The hen, probably. It would be nice if they decided to nest.’
The following Sunday I again checked in to The Smuggler’s Cottage. ‘I’ve put you in Romney again,’ Linda said. ‘You didn’t seem to mind it too much last time.’
‘How are our Marsh Harriers?’ I asked.
‘I think they may be here to stay for a while. They’ve been quite active.’
‘Nesting?’
Linda smiled.
‘And where would they normally nest?’ I asked.
‘Oh, pretty much anywhere in Western Europe,’ Linda said. ‘But they do have a tendency to drift south. To have them here is not unknown, but it is a bit unusual. Oh, by the way, do you like duck?’
‘Nesting?’
‘I was thinking more of slow roasted, with some roasted potatoes, and perhaps a cherry glaze.’
‘I do,’ I said.
‘Good. Shall we say six-thirty?’
‘Just as well I stopped for a bottle of wine,’ I said.
When I presented myself for the second time in as many weeks at Linda’s kitchen, I noticed that the table had again been set for just two diners. ‘Is Ashley not …?’
‘She’s gone out to Spain to visit her father for a few days,’ Linda said. ‘Another couple of weeks and things will start to get a bit hectic around here. ‘Go while you have the chance,’ I told her.’
‘I suppose Sundays are a bit quiet anyway,’ I said.
‘Nights, yes.’
On the previous Sunday night I had been the only guest.
‘Friday and Saturday are our busiest nights. But over the summer, and then again around Christmas, the weeks are usually pretty busy too. Funnily enough, we seem to have quite a core of regulars – bird watchers, fishermen, people like that. And we even have a couple of unlikely swingers who come every month, rain or shine.’
‘Swingers?’
‘You know … wife swapping, sexual shenanigans, that sort of thing. Yes, I never would have picked it. He’s a dapper little fellow, does something in Whitehall I think, and she is a rather plump mumsy-looking woman.’
‘And they told you about their … umm … hobby?’
‘Oh, goodness me, no. They are discretion itself. Dolly Boot, the massa
ge therapist that I sometimes go to, she told me. I think Dolly’s a bit of a player herself. She tried to get me interested a couple of times. ‘You don’t have to do anything,’ she said. ‘Not if you don’t feel like it. You can just watch.’ Mmm … right.’
I refilled our wine glasses.
Ashley was still away when I arrived back at The Smuggler’s Cottage the following Sunday. ‘This will be my last stay for a week or three,’ I told Linda. ‘I have to go and kick off a project up in Chester.’
Linda reached out and gently squeezed my hand and made a mock sad face. ‘I will miss our little chats,’ she said.
‘Yes. So will I. But there’s still tonight. I read a half-decent review of The George Grill the other day. I’m hoping that you will let me take you there for a little supper.’
‘Or I could make us something,’ Linda suggested.
‘You could. And I’m inclined to think that Linda-made would beat George-made hands down. But I also think that a little break might be good for you.’
Actually, the food at The George was surprisingly good. We both ordered pan fried scallops as a starter, and roasted rump of local lamb with smoked aubergine purée and braised leeks as a main. The review that I had read had said that the service at The George Grill left rather a lot to be desired, but we had no complaints. Perhaps the reviewer had just caught the restaurant on a bad night.
When we arrived back at The Smuggler’s Cottage, it was still quite early. ‘Perhaps a small glass of cognac?’ Linda suggested.
‘That would be nice,’ I said.
‘OK. You go on up to your room and I’ll bring the cognac up in about five minutes. I just need to sort a couple of things for the morning.’
While Linda went off to do her ‘couple of things for the morning’, I went up to the room, rummaged in my overnight bag for my trusty iPod, and, after selecting an old Peter White album, ‘Caravan of Dreams’, I placed the iPod into the waiting docking station and pressed start. It was only about two-thirds of the way through the first track when there was a knock on the door.
‘Room service.’
I opened the door to be greeted by a tray with a bottle of Rémy Martin and a couple of what I suspect were Waterford cut-crystal brandy glasses.
‘I also took the opportunity to make myself comfortable,’ Linda said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
No, I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind at all. Linda’s idea of comfortable appeared to be largely a matter of swapping the skirt and jumper she had been wearing earlier for a full-length satin-look wrap around robe.
I just smiled. ‘Shall I be barman?’ I asked.
‘Thank you.’
I poured a splash of the Rémy into each of the glasses and handed one of them to Linda. ‘Well … cheers! And thank you for another really nice evening.’
It is I who should be thanking you,’ Linda said.
We both took a slow sip from our glasses and then, almost as if it had been choreographed, we both put our glasses down on the table, took a pace towards one another, and kissed. That first kiss was hardly more than a peck really. But there was more to come. Lots more.
‘Shall we continue?’ I said.
Linda smiled. ‘Oh, yes. I think so. Don’t you?’
I did. And I gave her my answer by covering her neck with little kisses while, at the same time, loosening the waist tie of her robe. Her robe fell open and I slipped my hand inside.
Beneath her robe, Linda was wearing a deep red satin and lace bra (in what I believe is known as the balconette style) and matching knickers. The bra lifted and somewhat exposed her pale breasts, presenting them for my attention. They were just asking to be covered in kisses, and who was I to decline such an opportunity?
‘I think,’ Linda said softly, ‘that you are a little overdressed for this situation.’
She was right, of course. But it was not a situation that I had expected to encounter – even in my wildest dreams.
I kicked off my moccasin-style loafers and, between the two of us, we quickly removed my shirt and trousers. ‘Better?’ I said.
‘Much,’ she said.
‘Now, where was I? Oh, yes.’ And I gently brushed the smooth soft flesh at the top of her thighs with the back of my fingers. Linda let out a little sigh and adjusted her stance, just slightly, allowing my fingers access to the shiny satin gusset of her knickers. I turned my hand palm up and traced the soft, warm outline of her swollen labia with the tip of my finger. Linda let out another little sigh.
Louise
- 25.05.2021
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