Anonymous: The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 2

It soon became clear that the well-set gentleman dressed in a black Vicuna jacket with a silk-quilted collar and cuffs was Mr. Robertson, the eponymous owner of the shop and the younger man, who was wearing a smart grey lounge suit, was a representative of a publisher bent on obtaining an order for his company's latest wares. They were engaged in a keen discussion upon the state of the book trade to which I listened with interest, for if I ever had to enter trade (God forbid!) I would certainly plump for this gentlemanly profession.

'No, no, no, the market for historical texts is dreadfully slow and you'll have to show me something more lively than another of Mr.

Jackley's accounts,' said the bookseller. 'Come now, Mr. Lewis, surely the editors at Burbeck and Newman plan to publish some more contemporary works? The representative gave a tiny smile and passed a blue folder to his unwilling customer. 'Neil, I think I shall have to ask you to write to Mr. Burbeck and assure him that I do drop in here regularly. Your orders have been so small this year that he accused me of missing your shop out of my calls.' 'Well, you can tell him from me that if he published better books, then we would all earn more money,' said Mr. Robertson as he opened the folder and extracted some typed sheets from it. 'Good grief, what's this when it's at home?' 'It's The Courtship of Francesco by Mrs. Heather Adamson which is going to be the biggest seller this year. Neil, I guarantee that come December every lady in Cheltenham will be asking you for a copy of this novel. We've sent out advance reading sheets to some customers and though they deemed it a very fast story indeed, they all wanted a finished copy. 'I'll take fifty,' said Mr.

Robertson after some thought. 'And I'll up to seventy-five if you'll take back a dozen copies of Paris of Today by Louis Baum. When you showed me the book and said it was an intimate look at the city and its inhabitants, I assumed it is was going to be a little racy — and so did my customers, everyone put it down when they discovered that the Moulin Rouge isn't even listed in the index!' 'Ha, ha! You're pulling my leg,' laughed Mr. Lewis. 'There's no call for smutty reading in this high-falutin town.' 'No call for smutty reading?' echoed the bookseller. 'Now you're joking, Michael. If it weren't for the copies of The Oyster I sell every month, the ruddy shop would hardly show a profit. So how about giving me credit for twelve copies of Paths of Today?' Mr. Lewis considered the offer and then said: 'How about sending back six and increasing your order for The Courtship of Francesco to sixty?' 'Done,' said Mr. Robertson without hesitation and the two men shook hands. Whilst they continued talking, I searched the shelves for a second-hand copy of Professor Zanerowski's book. I was about to give up when I suddenly found one in such good condition that I could hardly believe that it was second hand. However, the name of the previous owner was scrawled on the flyleaf, which bothered me not a jot especially as I expected to save a considerable sum by purchasing a used edition. 'How much is this please?' I asked Mr. Robertson. He looked carefully at the book and said: 'Ah, you must be beginning your studies, young man.

Oxford? Well, I sincerely hope you stick at it harder than the previous owner of this volume.' 'Did he not complete the course?'

I asked. The bookseller shook his head and said grimly: 'He was sent down during the middle of his first year for continuous rowdy behaviour caused by drunkenness. He had been given several warnings but when he ripped down his trousers and exhibited himself to the members of the Oxford Women's Institute who were being shown round Brasenose College by the Dean, I'm afraid he had to go. Or so he told me when he came to me to sell his texts.' I looked at the book again and unsuccessfully tried to decipher the signature. 'As the book finished up in your shop, I presume this chap abides in Cheltenham, but I can't quite make out his signature' 'Yes, it's difficult to read, isn't it, but his name is Brindsley Markham. I have recently learned that he used to live at Prestbury a few miles north of the city. His father is General Markham, who has sent him packing on a one-way ticket to America to make a new start.' 'Perhaps it will be the making of him,' I suggested. Mr. Robertson grunted: 'I doubt it, I mean just look at his signature. As you said, it's impossible to read. An illegible signature is supposed to be a mark of bad character — so it is, bad character and bad manners as well!'

'Anyhow, you can see that he hardly opened this book. A brand new copy would set you back twenty-five shillings, so I would have thought that fifteen bob was a fair price.' 'Oh, surely twelve and six is nearer the mark,' I retorted and then I had a brainwave. 'Or how about fifteen shillings if you throw in a copy of The Oyster?' He gave a low chuckle and said: 'You drive a hard bargain, young man, but fair enough. I don't have any of the current issue though, it'll have to a copy of the summer edition.' 'Good enough,' I replied and whilst at my request he wrapped up The Oyster in a separate package, I promised Mr. Robertson that I would never reveal from where I purchased my copy of the naughty magazine. 'Now and then I give a copy to the desk sergeant at the police station over the road, I can't afford to take any chances or I'll end up like old Martin Bressey.' he said. After my late breakfast, all I wanted was a light luncheon so I wandered into this restaurant after a lazy stroll through Montpellier Gardens. The restaurant is not crowded and I have placed myself at a small table in the corner where a pretty waitress has served me Fricassee of Chicken washed down with white wine. As soon as she left the table, I couldn't resist pulling out my copy of The Oyster which Dr Robertson thankfully bound up in plain brown covers. I turned to the opening page, which contained the first of several letters received by the editor. To my astonishment I saw that the first epistle came from a Miss Susie V-of West Trippett, Melton Mowbray, Leicestershire. I put down the magazine for a moment and expelled a deep breath for I immediately wondered whether the writer had been my seventeen-year-old cousin Susie Varnon. I decided it was simply impossible that she had composed this missive. The similarity of the two names has to be sheer coincidence. For it is hardly credible that Susie would even know of the existence of such a journal as The Oyster let alone compose a letter which would be printed in its pages! Even so, the author does seem remarkably like Susie. I have decided to copy out the letter for future reference although this is proving difficult as the waitress seems to be rather more attendant than the best waiter at the London Ritz Dear Editor, I hope your readers will find of interest this true story of my introduction to the delights of lesbian love. As a member of the Sixth Form at Dame M — in rural Derbyshire, I am hardly ignorant of the existence of tribadism. It is not completely unknown for girls to slide into their friends' beds after 'lights out' in the seniors' dormitory. However, through ignorance rather than inhibition, the only such encounters in which I have taken part merely involved open-mouthed kissing and fondling of the other girl's budding bosoms.

Nevertheless, I have sometimes been driven into the ecstacy of a cum from these embraces, the moist flow of love juice soaking my thick bush of pussey hair particularly when I close my eyes and dream it is some handsome young man (like a certain cousin of mine) and that it is his hand inside my nightdress and cupped round my bare breasts…

The school is far from being a hotbed of tribadism, and in my opinion there would be even less lesbian activity if we were allowed to mix more freely with members of the opposite sex (take that phrase as you will, Mr. Editor!). Nevertheless, it is not unknown on venturing into the bathrooms, to find two girls wrapped together in a clinging wet embrace under the shower and I will admit that I have often been invited to join in this sensuous fun. Until last year I had resisted such temptations, but my resolve faltered when after a hard game of hockey, Miss Archer, the senior games mistress, asked my pretty friend Laura, who is blessed with long silky strands of auburn hair, and myself whether we would be kind enough to do her a great favour and collect all the players' sticks and deposit them in the gymnasium storeroom before returning to the pavilion to change back into our uniforms. Miss Archer is a jolly young lady, very popular with all the girls, and we readily agreed to her request.