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Suzanne, it emerged, had had some sort of formal training in needlework; she was a dab hand at dressmaking and the like. She told Maman that she did a great deal of mending and darning at Daubeny. Well, her parents were haberdashers, after all. And to tell the truth I think needlework was about the limit of Suzanne’s intellectual capacity. She was a nice girl, but she was never going to be any threat to Simone de Beauvoir.

She was also, lest I appear to criticise, a good-hearted soul who was prepared to work for her keep. She was absolutely no sort of a princess, and one morning I found her cleaning the loos. Not because anyone had set her to it, but because she thought they needed doing. Which they did, actually.

So, once Maman found out about the skills with the sewing-machine, and once Suzanne had volunteered to do any such work which Maman happened to have lying around, they set to work on a pair of curtains. In fact more than one pair, as I recall.

Each morning, after breakfast, Suzanne and Maman would set up shop. They used Maman’s study, which she had taken over from Papa. And they would talk as they sewed.

I, needless to say, did not hang around. I went into the town and met boys of my own age and background. We wandered in and out of shops and had coffee and messed about in the park. Come lunchtime, I went home.

In the afternoons, Maman, Suzanne, and I would go out somewhere. Do things together. This was hazardous because Maman was a terrible driver, but we survived. Once, for instance, we made it as far as Cambridge without mishap.

On several afternoons we went to Siston Ford, which is (or was) a local beauty spot on the river. The river at that point is about twenty yards across; it is still a long way from the sea, slow-moving, and dark brown in colour. In those days you could swim in it quite safely; I don’t think you could now.

Suzanne and I changed into swimming costumes and swam. Maman did not. Though there was nothing wrong with her figure; in her late thirties she was still an attractive woman.

I changed first and ran in as quickly as possible. Otherwise the bulge in my pants might cause embarrassment. Suzanne followed. She liked swimming and was quite competent at it.

Later, I would go fishing, Suzanne would sunbathe, and Maman would read. We used to take a picnic tea. As often as not, on a weekday, we had the place to ourselves.

I have a memory of one such day. We parked the car just over the bridge (the ancient ford at Siston was replaced by a stone bridge sometime in the eighteenth century).

Suzanne was wearing a dress, a light summery affair, with a loose-fitting skirt. She was sitting on a rug beside the car, her knees together, her legs slightly bent, her feet flat on the ground; she was filing her nails.

I was lying on my side, on the ground, a little further away, towards the river.

As Suzanne sat there, a gentle breeze stirred. It lifted her skirt and billowed it out, so that I could see right up it.

She was wearing knickers, what are now called French knickers, loose fitting in the leg. But I could see every detail of her thighs and groin, the white silk covering only the most private parts. Her legs were brown, smooth, curvaceous.

I thought I might very well have a spontaneous orgasm, right there on the spot.

Suzanne made no attempt to smooth down her skirt, and I was able to look at her without interference or objection from anyone.

After a moment, or perhaps a whole minute, Suzanne looked up at me, realised what I was gazing at, and smiled. It is a smile that I remember always. I knew as I looked at it that I would remember it all my life, and I’m sure that I shall.

I was very fond of Suzanne. Yes, as Maman said, I was just a stupid randy schoolboy. But even such low orders of humanity can feel tenderness and affection as well as lust.

***

Reminder: This extract from Daphne before She Died is told from the main-character, first-person point of view, with a good deal of author/character comment, offered subjectively.

This novel is available in Kindle ebook format.

APPENDIX 3:

Topp Family Secrets

Michael Allen

Topp Family Secrets is a novel set in the 1930s, and it centres around a young working-class woman by the name of Grace Topp.

Grace works in a factory owned by a Mr Marshwood – a man who had once made a living by conning old ladies out of their money. But in the 1930s most businesses ran into trouble, and Mr Marshwood’s factory was no exception.

But then, unexpectedly, a certain Mr Hitler provided a helping hand.

Ernest was as worried as anyone when war was declared, and it was not until the middle of September that he began to understand that the onset of armed conflict might have some unexpected benefits.

Mr Murgatroyd, the Company Secretary of Granborough Electrics, practically forced his way into the office very early one morning. Ernest could tell that something special had happened because Murgatroyd’s demeanour was normally gloomy and pessimistic, but today he was glowing with excitement. Ernest hardly recognised the man.

‘Yesterday afternoon, Mr Marshwood,’ Murgatroyd began, ‘while you were out, we had a visit from a civil servant. A Mr Winterbourne, from the War Office. He had some very interesting news for us.’

Ernest managed to persuade Murgatroyd to sit down and to take his time over the rest of the story.

‘Well,’ said Murgatroyd, when he was settled in a chair, ‘it appears that the government is going to go flat out to produce arms – guns, tanks, planes and so forth.’

Ernest reflected that it was scarcely a surprise if a government which had declared war on another nation should decide to buy a few guns, but he allowed the man to continue without interruption.

‘Now, hitherto Granborough Electrics has not been involved in armaments, but it turns out that the War Office has been doing some tests, and our electric motors are absolutely ideal for a new tank they’re building. Part of the gun turret I believe, but Mr Winterbourne couldn’t be precise – Official Secrets Act, you know.’

Ernest nodded, as if he knew all about the Official Secrets Act, though in fact he had never heard of it.

‘Now, what this means, Mr Marshwood, is that our factory is going to be working flat out for as long as the war lasts, making electric motors for tanks!’ Murgatroyd’s eyes positively gleamed at the thought.

Ernest was less impressed. ‘That’s all very well,’ he said. ‘I’m pleased to hear that we shall be able to make a contribution to the war effort. But I suppose it means we shall make even less profit than before.’

‘No!’ burst out Murgatroyd. ‘That’s the whole point! It will be done on a cost-plus basis!’

‘Cost-plus?’ echoed Ernest.

‘Yes!’

Ah. Murgatroyd’s excitement began to make sense at last.

Cost-plus was a concept which Ernest understood very well. Cost-plus was the method which you applied when you were dealing with rich and elderly ladies.

What happened was, the old lady decided that she would like a new radio, or a suitcase, or a widget. Something that required time and effort to buy, and perhaps a little technical knowledge as well. And, if she trusted you, the old dear asked you to buy it for her. And she offered you money, cash in hand, to take with you to finance the purchase. And you, of course, demurred.

‘No, no, my dear Mrs Thingummy,’ you said. ‘I couldn’t possibly take money from you at this stage. After all, I might disappear with it! Ho, ho! You might never see me again, ho, ho, ho! You are too trusting by half, Mrs Thingummy. You just wait here and I will go out and buy one for you.’