Grace and Mrs. Miller

Carol entered the small smoke filled room and gave a cough. She could cope with the permanent lingering smell of cigarette smoke out in the large newsroom, but she disliked the impenetrable haze that hung over meetings in the editor's office.

"I'm going to open a window and let some fresh air in before we all choke to death."

"Morning Carol, glad you could join us."

"I'm not late so don't start."

Carol Miller was a tall, attractive, athletic looking woman of 42, she'd been a reporter at the Middlesex Chronicle for twelve years. She covered fashion in the main, but also wrote about weddings, garden fete's and household tips as well as occasional family matters. It was a job that she enjoyed most of the time, and she'd been doing it since she'd left the her role in the Publicity and Information Section at the War Office in 1945.

She'd been married for twenty years to Patrick Miller, a successful banker, fifteen years her senior. Her loveless, childless marriage had been a huge disappointed to her, but she had resigned herself to her fate and had made the most of the trappings of her husband's wealth. They slept in separate rooms in their large house in the suburbs of London. She knew that he'd had several affairs but she played the role of dutiful wife so that, to everyone else, they appeared to be a contented if somewhat boring married couple.

Carol sometimes thought that she ought to start an affair. She hadn't had sex with anyone but herself for almost a decade. Whilst she was fond of some of her male acquaintances, she didn't find any of them desirable. At 42, she knew there must be more to life, but she didn't know where to look to find excitement and affection. All of that was about to change.

Her parents had both died in the last couple of years. Her father had been a distant, cold man and her mother had been unhappy. According to the many doctors that had seen her, her mother had suffered with her 'nerves,' and had been prescribed a cocktail of medication, that left her dull and listless. Carol had benefited from their demise, she was an only child and they had left her a modest house worth about three thousand pounds, and a similar sum in savings. Patrick earned a high salary, and she had independent means and didn't need to work, but she thought she'd go out of her mind if she didn't have a job to keep her occupied.

Reg, the Chief Editor, called the meeting to order, "Right, let's get started, there's lots to do this week. Bob, how's that case of yours going? Are you expecting any significant developments this week?"

"God I hope so, the judge adjourns proceedings at every opportunity, probably needs to nip out to the pub for a refill. Should be over by Wednesday though, so there'll be time to do a big piece on the verdict for this week's edition."

"Good, It'll be front page and I'll give you a couple of columns on page three as well. Phil, how's your investigation into Councillor Smith's connections to Fred Owen's development company?"

"Nothing concrete yet boss," said Phil to groans all round.

"Well keep at it, and keep your awful puns out of anything you eventually write."

"Okay boss," said a grinning Phil.

"Carol, I've got something a little different for you this week, the English Women's National Bowls Championship is taking place at West Ealing Bowls Club on Wednesday and Thursday. Apparently Middlesex are expected to do well, home soil and all that, can you go and do something that might interest our female readers? Henry's at Lords for the Middlesex Surrey match"

"Henry practically lives at Lords during the cricket season."

"It's a tough job old girl but someone has to do it," said Henry with a smug grin.

"I can't exactly say I'm gripped at the prospect of women's bowls, but I'll try to make it interesting."

"Good girl Carol, that's the spirit."

Carol scowled at being referred to as "good girl" and "old girl" but it was 1957 and quite normal for women to be patronised in this way. She was the only woman on the editorial team at the newspaper, but she generally got on well with her male colleagues. Reg was a hard task master but, he'd taken her under his wing when she had joined the team, and had always seemed to believe in her ability.

As the meeting broke up, Carol asked Henry, the sports reporter, for advice, "Henry do you know anything about bowls? I can't remember you ever writing about it."

"Sorry old girl, dreary pastime if you ask me."

"That's rich coming from a cricket correspondent," laughed Carol.

"Greatest game in the world old girl, nothing finer than sitting with a sherry in one hand whilst recording the demise of the Aussie batsmen with the other. Look, I must dash, need to get there for start of play and all that, why don't you pop down to the library, they're sure to have a book or two about bowls."

"Looks like I'll have to," said Carol as she deliberately peered out of the newsroom windows at the sky, "Are those rain clouds gathering in the direction of Lords Henry?" she teased.

"Oh very funny old girl, the forecast is for a fine day, have fun at the library."

Henry gathered his notepad and waved a cheery goodbye to his colleagues, leaving Carol to contemplate a pile of readers' household tips, before she set off for the library.

********************

Two days later, on a delightfully warm sunny mid August morning, Carol readied herself for her assignment as a stand in sports reporter. She wasn't sure that bowls ought to be described as a sport, and she chuckled at the absurdity of the situation in which she found herself. It wasn't that she was a complete stranger to the notion of sporting competition. Before the war had intervened, she had, in fact, been a promising tennis player and, at the age of 24, had won the Middlesex Ladies Singles Lawn Tennis Championship in 1939.

She knew that she would be facing the critical appraising eyes of lots of other women today, so she made a special effort with her appearance. She looked cool and elegant in a lemon coloured summer sheath dress, with a large boat neck collar that emphasised her bust. It had a narrow waist, and her curvaceous hips were bound inside a pencil skirt. Carol fastened a white bead necklace around her throat, stepped into her white heels, tucked her hair into a lemon brimmed hat, and looked at herself in the hallway mirror. Pleased with what she saw, she set off for West Ealing.

Carol had grasped the basics of the game from a book that she had borrowed from the library, and she tried not to feel like a fish out of water as she entered the pavilion at the West Ealing Bowls Club. She'd phoned the County Secretary the day before, to tell her that she would be reporting on the event, and the woman had seemed delighted at the coverage that the tournament would get in the local newspaper.

"Hello, you must be Mrs Miller from the Chronicle?"

"Yes, that's right, and you must be Mrs Bell?" said Carol as she shook hands with a short, rotund woman in her mid fifties.

"Welcome to the tournament, let me introduce you to Alice Lockwood, one of our star players, and a contender for the ladies pairs championship."

Carol greeted the tall well proportioned woman in her early fifties who she thought must have been quite a beauty in her younger days. From her research, Carol knew that Alice Lockwood and her pairs partner had been runners up in the previous year's national championships held in Oxford.

"We're hoping that you go one better this year by lifting the trophy for Middlesex Mrs Lockwood."

"Thank you, it was so disappointing to loose in the final last year, we're determined to win it this year, we've got home advantage of course, I've played on these greens many times."

"Let me introduce you to my daughter Grace, we've allocated her to you for the next two days, she'll provide anything you need, and she knows about the rules and tactics of the game. Gracie darling, come and meet Mrs Miller, she's the reporter from the Chronicle that you're going to look after for us, I've got to dash now, our first match starts in ten minutes."

"Of course, good luck."

A striking young woman of 21 made her way over to shake hands with Carol. Grace certainly lived up to her name as her lithe young body glided elegantly over to where Carol was standing. Carol's pulse quickened slightly at the sight of the lovely young woman, half her age, in a high necked, tight waisted, pale blue summer dress with a loose swing skirt and white two and a half inch heeled shoes.

"Hello Mrs Miller, it's a pleasure to meet you," said Grace as the two women shook hands.

Carol thought that she bore more than a passing resemblance to Lauren Bacall, with her auburn hair, soulful hazel eyes, full red lips and a wry enticing smile. She was smitten by the young woman. A tightness arose in her chest as she stammered her reply.

"Er yes, yes, the p-pleasure's all mine, you're very...very..."

"Very what Mrs Miller?"

"Very... well, pretty."

"Well thank you, it's nice to receive a compliment from stylish, attractive woman like you, shall we go and sit outside by the green so that you can get a good view of the match? Please ask me anything you want to know about anything."

"That's quite a challenge you've set yourself," said Carol, having recovered her composure."

"Oh yes, I'm sorry, that did sound rather conceited I suppose."

"It's okay Grace, I'm just teasing you, come and tell me all about your mother and her chances of winning."

Grace explained the basics of the game, and gave Carol a quick resume of her mother's bowls career to date. She had quite an irreverent sense of humour and she clearly didn't take bowls, or her mother, too seriously. From her research, Carol already knew most of what Grace told her, but she listened politely. She felt pleased that such a charming and attractive young woman would be her 'companion' for the next two days.

"So what are you going to write about Mrs Miller?"

"Well bowls of course Grace, and please call me Carol, if we're to be working together for the next two days, I think we should drop the formalities."

"I'd love to be a journalist, it must be a really interesting job, when you're not reporting on bowls that is."

"It certainly can be, what do you do with yourself? Do you work or are you studying"

"I'm working part time at the Register Office as a secretary, I can type and I did really well in English at school."

"And you'd seriously like to become a reporter?"

"Yes, but mother wouldn't approve, she thinks I should already have been married off to a nice young man."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Goodness no, I've tried that and I didn't like it much. I can't seem to meet any men that I'm attracted to. Mummy keeps fixing me up with the dullest men she can find, mostly sons of her friends and acquaintances. I'm resigned to being a spinster."

"Oh surely not, how old are you?"

"Twenty one."

"That's rather young to be resigned to spinsterhood."

"Are you married Carol?"

"Yes, you might call it that, anyway, I won't bore you with my less than exciting marriage. If you were reporting on this event, what would you write about?" said Carol, changing the subject.

"Oh, well I'd say something about the bowls of course, but I'd focus on the participants and the ladies behind he scenes, the spectators and so on."

"In what way?"

"Well, I'd describe what they were wearing, how competitive they were, on and off the green, how the umpires are all like stern headmistresses, that sort of thing. I'd dig around a bit to see whether there were any particular jealousies or rivalries."

"Goodness, you'll make a splendid reporter Grace, you'd be wasted on a bowls tournament though," laughed Carol.

Carol felt an unexpected warmth toward her attentive young friend. Whenever Grace got up to fetch her a glass of cordial, or sandwiches and cakes at lunchtime, Carol couldn't take her eyes of her. She watched her move with such poise and balance; the swing of her skirt, her slender, shapely legs, her pert breasts inside the tight bodice of her dress, her alluring smile and warm eyes. She was aware that Grace had made quite an impression on her, and she felt unaccountably bereft whenever the attractive young woman was occupied elsewhere.

As expected, the Middlesex Ladies Pairs breezed through the early rounds and qualified for the semi final on the second morning of the tournament. Carol made copious notes, and made sure she'd got details like names and scores absolutely right. She'd decided to bring a note of fashion interest to her piece. Amongst the couple of hundred spectators were a smattering of fashionable well dressed ladies, and she noted down details of what they were wearing. She interviewed some of the spectators to get a handful of quotes and interesting comments. As the first day came to a close, she spoke to Grace's mother about the day's play, and her hopes for the second day. She also thanked Grace for her support and assistance, and told her how much she was looking forward to seeing her the next day as she squeezed her hand.

"It's been a pleasure Carol, I've really enjoyed your company today, you're so different to all of my mother's stuffy friends; I can't wait for tomorrow."

"I'd like to interview you tomorrow, I want to include something in my report on how bowls is not as dull as some people might think when fashionable and attractive young women like you are involved. Readers like that sort of thing, they never get bored of reading about pretty girls, and in your case, I'll stress your independence and ambition. It might not go down well with your mother, but I suspect that won't trouble you too much."

Carol wondered if she had gone too far, but was soon reassured by Grace's enthusiasm for the direction of her article.

"That sounds splendid, but I'm not sure I'm all that interesting."

"Oh you most certainly are," thought Carol as she bade her new friend goodbye.

Carol took the Piccadilly line home to Hounslow, she thought about how her report might take shape, she thought about what she would make for dinner that her unadventurous husband might not object to, but mostly she thought about Grace. She wished that Grace could be her friend, that they could go for afternoon tea together, but who was she fooling? She was twice her age, but she hoped at least that Grace had found her interesting and good company. She had no real friends of her own, long working hours and a desire to avoid her husbands 'circle' had seen to that.

When she arrived the next morning at the bowls club, there was no sign of Grace, she looked for her for several minutes before she came across her mother.

"Good Morning Mrs Lockwood, I haven't seen Grace yet, is she here today?"

"Oh dear, no I'm sorry Mrs Miller, her sister sprained her ankle quite badly this morning on a loose step in the garden and Grace is with her at the hospital outpatients department at the moment. You know how long these things can take, I'm not sure she'll make it today."

"Oh well, not to worry, she was very helpful yesterday so I'm sure I'll manage. Good luck today, I hope you win the tournament, it'll make a great story."

"Thank you so much, we've got the semi finals this morning and, if we get through, the final at three o'clock. Fingers crossed eh?"

"Absolutely, I'll see you later for an interview with the victorious captain," smiled Carol.

Carol felt disappointed, she'd been so looking forward to spending another day with Grace, that she had a sudden urge to go to the hospital just to be with her. Then she laughed at herself and her silly crush on a woman young enough to be her daughter, and took her place with the rest of the spectators. She concentrated on the bowls and became engrossed when Alice Lockwood and her partner won a closely fought semi final against Nottinghamshire. In the afternoon the Middlesex pair won an even tighter final against Surrey.

Carol wished that Grace had been there to see it, she interviewed her elated, victorious mother, and asked that her good wishes be passed on to Grace, before catching the train home.

********************

Throughout the autumn and winter, Carol worked hard in the job she loved, Reg, the editor, knew that whenever he gave her an assignment, it would be in safe hands, in fact, he thought that her work was always thorough and often original.

She thought occasionally of Grace, and wondered what she was doing. She wondered if she was still working at the Register Office, and whether she had found a boyfriend for herself. She walked past the Register Office now and again, and managed to resist the temptation to call in unannounced, because she was afraid of making a fool of herself with a woman who might not even remember her.

She fantasised about meeting Grace on a warm summer's day in town, and going for afternoon tea with her. In her imagination, Grace was always in a swing style summer dress and heels, and looked good enough to eat. Carol started to wonder if she was sexually attracted to her, but pushed such thoughts out of her mind. She'd often admired other attractive women and was sure that it meant nothing at all. She couldn't see herself as a 'lesbian'. It was a term that conjured up butch women in tweed suits and sensible shoes and, whilst she knew this to be a false image, it was, nevertheless, powerful and pervasive in 1950's Britain.

Occasionally, every three or four months or so, throughout her marriage, she had reached such a level of sexual frustration and arousal that she would reach under her nightdress and finger herself to an orgasm. She had one fantasy to aid her in reaching her goal. She imagined a male figure, vaguely like her husband, naked, on a bed, being ridden robustly by an Amazon like woman.

The woman would be dressed in revealing scarlet top, black stilettos, black seamed stockings and suspenders with her black flowing knee length skirt around her waist. His erection would subside during intercourse, and the offended and enraged woman would throw him out naked into a corridor of a seedy hotel. She would then lie back on the bed with her raven black hair spread around her head, raise her knees in the air, open her legs and masturbate herself to a magnificent orgasm.

The fantasy would make Carol's pussy saturated as she stroked her clitoris with her left hand and finger fucked herself with her right hand. Afterwards, she would feel guilty and ashamed, and she would quickly bury the realisation that she had been most aroused by the image of the woman in her fantasy.

********************

One Monday morning in the following April, during the weekly editorial meeting, as she was daydreaming about buying herself some new summer clothes, she was aware of Reg speaking to her.

"Is that okay Carol?"

"What? Oh sorry Reg, I was miles away, sorry, what were you saying?"

"I asked what you thought of covering the Lockwood wedding, it's likely to be a grand affair and will be of local interest."

Carol immediately thought of Grace and her heart sank, "Yes, I know the family vaguely, I met them at the bowls championships last summer, sorry, who is Grace getting married to?"

"You really were off with the fairies weren't you? I was telling you that Fiona Lockwood was getting married to Sir Philip Baker's son. I don't know who Grace is."

"Oh right, good, I mean yes, of course I'll cover the wedding, I'd love to," said Grace trying to hide her delight at the thought of seeing Grace again, and her relief that she wasn't the one getting married, "yes, Grace is Fiona's younger sister by the way."

"Good, well I'll assign a photographer and we'll do a spread on it. Right Bob, how are you getting on with the London Airport story?"

Carol was surprised at how excited she felt at the prospect of meeting Grace again. In calmer moments she tried to tell herself that Grace probably wouldn't remember her at all, and had not thought about her since the bowls tournament last summer, but she couldn't stop excitement and expectation bubbling up now and again. Later in the afternoon, Alice Lockwood returned a call that Carol had made to her after the editorial meeting.