1955 In the Days Before Rock n Roll

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Apologies to nearly everybody in the Principality, especially the wonderful people at the Farmers' Arms at Nottage and the lovely ladies who used to work in the lingerie department at Howells of Cardiff. I was writing the dialogue for the policeman and Windsor Davies kept speaking in my head so I'm afraid that we are all stuck with PC Jones (who was originally going to be from Glasgow).

I don't apologise in the slightest to anyone who works in the Cardiff Council Parking Department, especially the person who gave Gerald, and everyone else parking on the grass outside the University, a ticket when Helen and I were shopping while he and Harry were watching England losing at Rugby, even though there's no sign to say you can't park there. Now that's what I call a crime.

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An English village is a strange creature. A warm blooded creature.

So it was with St Wite Angelorum. Set way back from the Dorchester to Honiton road nothing much disturbed it. That was just how the villagers liked things. Most of the people who lived there had always lived there. So had their forebears. There were a few incomers but even they had been there for years.

The two World Wars had left half a dozen names on the War Memorial in the churchyard but little else had changed since the turn of the century. Queen Victoria herself would have approved of the fact that every woman in the village kept a close eye on the morals of everybody else.

Even in the ten years since the end of the war the biggest change was that four families now had televisions. Every evening, groups of children, with hands and faces scrubbed clean, would crowd into neighbour's sitting rooms to squat in the blue glow and watch 'Children's Hour' on the telly. Once it was over, they went home again.

If you took any warm blooded creature to a vet in Dorchester, he or she would most certainly know where its heart was.

St Wite Angelorum wasn't that sort of creature.

The Vicar believed that the heart of the village was the old grey stone church. It had been there for a thousand years (give or take a century of two).

He was an incomer. It was 1949 when he was sent to minister over the souls in this out of the way place. At first there was talk of some sort of scandal. The Rev had never brought a wife with him.

He was a man of simple tastes. As long as no-one expected him to do any work, he was happy with a few pints and packet of fags. If occasionally he could persuade a lady parishioner to suck him off, with the promise that it would help her on the day of judgement, that was a bonus.

Most village ladies confessed that they tried not to be alone with him.

The sign above the door of the pub said that the licensee was one Frank Hardy, a man in his early sixties who was totally devoid of a gorm. In reality the pub was run by his wife, Norma. At about fifty-nine, Norma was still a stunningly beautiful woman who always dressed impeccably. The seams on her nylon stocking ran straight up her gorgeous legs. Norma's nearly blonde hair was never out of place.

Most women in the village thought that she was a tart which suited Norma just fine as it meant that their husbands spent money in her pub. The wives believed that they went there to drink beer and play darts or euchre. Norma knew that they were really there to get a glimpse of anything she chose to show them, a bit of cleavage, a black bra strap or a flash of stocking top. She had no doubt where the heart of the village was.

Frank and Norma had moved into the pub in 1936.

Two other incomers were William Miles and his wife Ruth. Together they managed the Village Post Office. You had to be 'respectable' to run a Post Office. It was a stipulation of the Postmaster General. It wasn't written down anywhere what 'respectable' actually meant but everyone knew what 'respectable' wasn't. All the women who came into the Post Office to gossip about all the other women in the village agreed that Norma Hardy at the pub wasn't 'respectable'. Equally, it was an indisputable fact that Ruth and William Miles were highly 'respectable' indeed.

They were both fifty. Well, Ruth was just fifty and William was nearly fifty-one but that's not important to this story. They arrived in St Wite Angelorum just after William was demobbed from the army in 1947. Unluckily, three of William's distant relatives were killed in the Blitz. In each case William was their only surviving beneficiary and he had used the inheritances to buy the Post Office. It is an ill wind that does nobody any good.

They were a very loving and passionate couple who still enjoyed each other's bodies but as the village women may not have considered that sort of thing 'respectable' they kept it to themselves. They had never been blessed with children, something to do with the tests that the Ministry of Defence had made William and his mates watch, they thought.

The couple always had a cheery word for every customer and would do all they could to help even if there was nothing to be gained financially.

Ruth had a pretty face and a petite figure which made William smile every time he saw her. In a quiet modest way Ruth and William knew that the Post Office was the heart of the village.

P C Trefor Jones didn't give a tinker's curse where the heart of the village was.

He had joined the Dorset Constabulary about three years ago. He was formerly with the Swansea Police. There may have been the odd question mark about his conduct in West Wales but the Dorset Constabulary were short of officers willing to take up rural beats so they didn't enquire too deeply.

St Wite Angelorum had a Police House which was where PC Jones lived. When he first arrived the locals all thought that he had a funny accent which was fair enough because he thought that they did too.

At first they didn't like him but after three years they still didn't like him which was fair enough as........you get it.

He was a very fit man of forty-nine. It was probably all the cycling around the country lanes. They didn't mention the bike when he took the job. It could have been why no-one wanted the rural beat.

Transport wasn't really an issue as there was hardly any crime in the area. PC Jones chased the odd poacher but never caught one. The poachers couldn't understand what his problem was. They were poachers, poaching was what they did.

There was so little crime that the only places that bothered to lock their doors were the Pub and the Post Office.

Mostly PC Jones spent his time being bossy and annoying. When he wasn't riding his bicycle he was strutting around like he was something special. He felt that because he wore the Queen's uniform he should be automatically respected. He insisted on being called PC Jones even when he was off duty. He got quite nasty when anyone called him Trev.

Just at the moment PC Jones was working on his most high-profile case to date. Several items of ladie's intimate apparel had been stolen from washing lines in the village.

He wasn't working too hard on the case because he knew that he wouldn't catch the culprit. For the simple reason that the culprit was PC Jones himself.

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Mondays and Thursdays were quiet days in the Post Office so Ruth had Mondays off and William had Thursdays off. Something they would swap days with each other but that was rare.

10-35 am on a rainy Monday morning and William was uncharacteristically annoyed. PC Jones had leaned his bike against the front window. There was a large sign that said, 'DO NOT LEAN CYCLES AGAINST THIS WINDOW' but evidently PC Jones thought that it didn't apply to him.

As the Constable entered the shop, the little bell above the door rang loudly. He didn't wipe his boots and he dripped all over the floor. None of these things made William less annoyed. He didn't know why but there was something about PC Jones that he just didn't like.

William never joined in when the village women gossiped in the Post Office. Simply because he wasn't good at the finer points of the art. Ruth did. She could walk that tightrope. She could agree without actually confirming what was being said. She could disagree without actually denying what was being said. The pinnacle of the art was withholding information without causing offence.

Nevertheless, William listened.

It was the general consensus that PC Jones' wife had left Trev before he transferred from the Swansea Police.

"Good morning Police Constable Jones," said William, cheerfully. It was part of a sub-postmaster's duty to pretend that you liked someone you detested.

"What can I do for you?" he went on.

"Just thought I would have a browse and get out of the rain," replied the Constable.

William carried on counting postal orders while PC Jones looked around. Obviously, as well as being a Post Office the shop stocked all sorts of bits and pieces.

After about five minutes, the policeman came over to the counter holding an old Mackintosh that William kept hung up by the door. He left it there in case he had to help unload a delivery in the rain.

PC Jones had a large grin on his face as he said, "Is this yours by any chance?"

William frowned a little and replied, "Oh yes, you can leave it hanging where you found it."

"Only this was poking out of the pocket. Your wife will be looking for it," said PC Jones as he laughed and held up a black brasserie.

William looked astounded. He was so shocked he didn't know what to say.

"Mind you boyo, it looks too big for your Mrs. She's a tiny little thing."

He studied the label closely. "Cadolle 80F. Why does that sound familiar? Just a minute."

The P C reached into his raincoat pocket and pulled out his Police Notebook.

"Here it is,

"Stolen from the washing line of Mrs Norma Hardy One Black Underwire Bra by Cadolle de Paris Size 80F. The lady brazenly informs me that that is 36E in English."

"Can you explain how this item came into your possession, Sir?" said PC Jones, becoming official.

William was visibly shaken. From the look on his face he couldn't explain his own name and date of birth.

"I don't know. No, I don't know. No. No, I can't. No," was all he could say.

"Theft is a very serious matter in its own right but this sort of theft begs all sorts of questions.

"I would suggest that you take some time to think about your answer to my previous question. Come to the Police House at eight in the morning.

"The answer that you give me then will determine my course of action.

"In the meantime I advise you to discuss this with no-one, Sir.

"I will take these two items as evidence," PC Jones concluded.

With that he left carrying both the Mackintosh and Brassiere.

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Ruth couldn't understand it, William had never not eaten his dinner before. She was a good cook and always made an effort to ensure that mealtimes were never boring. She had cookery books by Mrs Beaton and Fanny Craddock as well as Elizabeth David. Living in the country there was a wide range of fresh ingredients. Ruth had even sent off for packets of French and Italian herb seeds to grow in pots in the backyard.

"Are you feeling unwell, Will?" she asked.

"No it's not that, I'm just not hungry. I think that I will just go out for a walk while you wash up," he replied.

Ruth was a little worried about William.

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The next day it did nothing to ease Ruth's concerns when William said that he would take another walk before they opened the Post Office at nine. He hoped to be back in time for the 'pensioner's rush' as they secretly called it.

PC Jones lifted the counter to allow William into the room that served as both office and interview room. The two men sat either side of a table.

"I still can't explain how that thing got there. I didn't even know they made black ones," said William, shaking his bowed head.

"Well that's the French for you, kinky bastards," replied the policeman.

"I can only go on the facts. It has been stolen and it was found in your possession.

"Going on that alone, I should send you to the next Magistrates' Court in Dorchester.

"I'm not surprised at your behaviour, I was in the Swansea force right through the war, I'm Welsh you know. I didn't believe some of the things that perverts like you got up to. And not just men, some of the women were even worse.

"My sympathy is with your lovely wife. Even if the Magistrate goes easy on you, the mud will stick. Your reputation will be shot. I doubt that the Postmaster General will let you stay on. Your poor wife wouldn't be able to show her face in the village." he went on, shaking his head in reproach.

"But I'm not a pervert. It's a mistake.

"Please don't do this, my wife will be devastated. You could let me off, surely," said William shaking.

"I don't know. I would be taking a risk. You may well reoffend.

"But I wonder if we could find some way around it?" mused PC Jones.

"I have money, if that's what you want," said William.

"That sort of talk will get you into a lot of shit. I suggest that you don't repeat it unless you want to wind up in there," growled the officer, nodding towards the open door of a small cell with a bed in it.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean that. This is a nightmare," mumbled William.

There was a long silence before PC Jones said quietly, "Let me think. I don't believe that you are an out and out wrong'un. Maybe there is a way around this."

"Yes, yes, yes. I will do anything. Just give me a chance."

The constable turned to his left and opened a filing cabinet drawer. He retrieved a Kodak Brownie 127 Camera and placed it on the table.

"Do you know how to use one of these?" he asked William.

"Yes, I think so," he replied, looking confused.

"Everyone knows that your wife is a fine looking woman, right.

"This thing can take eight black and white photos. You bring it back to me by this time next week unopened. If when I develop the film there are at least six decent pictures of your Mrs in her undies, I will make the evidence disappear, right.

"I don't want you just taking any old rubbish shots so they all have to show her face. Oh and I want at least two of them with her tits fully on show. Is that understood?" said the policeman.

"No, I'm not sure I do understand." said William, "Why do you want them? My wife is a respectable woman."

"That's the point. It's a little hobby of mine. I like to collect risqué photos of respectable married women. No-one else would ever see them.

"It's your choice. Photos or Magistrates' Court. Take the camera, if it's not back by next Monday expect a summons," PC Jones concluded.

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"He said that there's nothing he can do about it," said Mrs Broomfield, looking up at Mrs Vizard. Trudy Vizard was of average height.

Betty Broomfield was married to Fred Broomfield, the haggler. In these parts a haggler was someone who bought and sold stuff. Fred bought and sold anything and everything. He had met Betty when she was working as a barmaid over Winterbourne Abbas way before the war. Fred fell for her because she had big tits and was an insatiable shag. Once you got your hand in her knickers there was no holding her. The locals all called her Queen Mary, because once she was up to full speed she was bloody difficult to stop. Fred was about five years older than Betty.

Her sexual appetite was the reason they got married. Well, that and the fact that she thought she was pregnant; which she wasn't.

During the war Fred greased a few palms and managed to avoid any sort of service. This left him free to buy and sell all the things that everybody wanted but couldn't get, as well as a load of stuff that the Ministry of Defence thought that they had but couldn't find. By 1945 Fred was pretty well off.

Betty Broomfield was in her late fifties and now insisted on being called Elizabeth. Her ass had nearly grown to match her tits. Above all this, she was now respectable. So respectable in fact that she was unofficial head of the unofficial morality committee in the village.

William kept out of the way and Ruth smiled and nodded without actually having an opinion as Betty continued to tell Trudy, "He said that if dressing like a tart was illegal all the coppers in Cardiff would be on permanent overtime. Then he told me again that he is Welsh. Why do they do that? I don't keep telling him I'm English, do I?"

"Dunno," said Trudy resting her hands on her bump, "insecurity, I suppose."

Nobody was more surprised than her when she and her husband, Keith, found out she was pregnant. They had been trying for nine years. Now that they were both thirty-one they had thought it would probably never happen. She put it down to too much Babycham on Christmas Eve. She was pretty relaxed by the time Keith had shagged her behind the church hall. Why he couldn't wait until they got home she didn't know. Still she appreciated the passion.

Keith was a cowman at a farm just outside the village.

William wasn't sure how much profit they would be making on four stamps and a tin of Brasso but never mind two customers was, two customers. He often thought that they only came in to gossip. They bought something so they wouldn't feel awkward.

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Saturday evening and Ruth had had her bath and was drying her hair ready to go to the pub.

At first William was angry about being blackmailed by PC Jones. Very slowly the thought of taking photos of his wife for another man's pleasure awoke a strange feeling in his testicles.

"Pose", said William as he came into the bedroom looking through the camera's viewfinder.

"What!" laughed Ruth, "I'm only in my bra and knickers."

"Come on, pretend you're a model for Tit-Bits."

So Ruth posed. Leaning forward. Then turned round and looked over her shoulder. All the poses she'd seen in the magazine.

In his best impression of a sleazy photographer William said, "OK darlin', now a couple with your top off.

Ruth obliged and William took four more photos.

"Where did you find the camera?" asked Ruth,"I hope that you're not going to send the film to Boot the Chemist to get it developed."

"Someone left it in the Phone Box outside. I don't think that there's actually any film in it," laughed her husband.

"Still it was fun. I'd never have the nerve to do it for real. From what I've seen of Tit-Bits, it pretends to have proper articles in it but people just buy the magazine to look at women in their undies," said Ruth.

She slipped off her knickers and pulled William towards the bed. "Someone will save us a seat if we're a bit late getting to the pub."

Pulling off his dressing gown, William tried to climb between Ruth's legs. She was having none of it. Ruth pushed him over on his back and straddled him. She found his stiff cock and guided it into her fanny.

Ruth thought to herself, "I'm so glad it wasn't just me that was turned on by that game. I would have felt really stupid."

William tried to buck under her but she said gently, "Keep still, I'm riding you for a change."

He did as he was told while his wife rose and fell on his prick. Each time she adjusted her position slightly so he touched the places that she wanted touched.

To be fair, William was quite happy with her chosen angles until he felt the novel sensation of the spunk leaving his balls and travelling upwards. He grasped Ruth's hip and tried to make her sit still. The little minx kept trying to carry on with her ride, well aware that any movement would make his brains scramble.

William managed to tip Ruth off him. As she tried to get off the bed he pulled her back. Holding her down, he got her legs apart and his head between her knees. She knew what was coming.