Slaveholder Ch. 02: Slaveowner

"No, No. I'd die without you. I'm afraid I'm pregnant."

His hug got tighter, and a big goofy grin covered him from head to toe. I could feel him grinning even with my head buried in his chest.

"We're gonna have a baby? Well bugger me, I never dreamt. I've been dreading to hear that you have found someone else and wanted to go off with him. A baby. Just wait 'til I tell Mum and Dad. You know we'll have to get married now, don't you?"

Married? Me? I can't get married, I don't know much about the world, but I know that much.

"Jim, I don't know how to be a real person, I don't know how to be a mother, I'm scared stiff. You know there's a screw loose in my head. I don't think I'm a danger to anyone, but I can't be sure."

"Tottie love, you've got me. I'll take care of you. I swear I will."

That Sunday we went over to Bow, and broke the news. Jim's Auntie Eileen and Uncle Sid were there and we had an impromptu party. The womenfolk talked weddings - imagine, I was a womanfolk! We agreed that it should be a soon as possible, and that food and drink should feature strongly.

Alfredo has already suggested that we have the reception in his upstairs room, and this went through on the nod. Soho has its own Register office, courtesy of the Borough of Westminster, and choosing a day seemed no problem. It all seemed to be running away with me.

When we got home, Jim was looking solemn, and I knew that something was up.

"Tottie, love, we have to go and see your parents. For all we know they might think you're dead. We can't let it go on any longer. They have to know they will be grandparents quite soon, and that their only child is getting married. We don't need anything from them, but we have to ask for their blessing.

My True Master is always so reasonable. I was torn between wanting to kiss his feet and wanting to wring his bloody neck. (When MTM read that over my shoulder, he roared with laughter and nibbled my ears until I turned round and kissed him. One thing led to another...)

Mum and Dad's boarding house was on the Pentonville Road, a stonesthrow from the Angel and not much further from Kings Cross and St. Pancras Stations. The row of early Victorian houses were built in pairs, each pair with the name of a West country fishing harbour. Ours was called Brixham, so when we saw the big banner Brixham House Hotel welcomes visitors to the Festival of Britain, with the ubiquitous Festival icons. One question answered, anyway. It was still a boarding house, but was it my family's?

MTM had asked what time of day would be best for a visit. I said, ten in the morning or four in the afternoon were always fairly quiet, but the afternoon gave the best prospect of not being disturbed for a while. I was hanging back, close to wetting myself with apprehension, and MTM had to grasp me firmly by the arm and pull me up the five limestone steps to the front door. The door opened, and there stood my Dad, and behind him, my Mum, rather worn looking, but radiant.

It was all a setup. They knew we were coming. Jim had paved the way with a phone call. He told me afterwards that he phoned and spoke to Dad, and asked if we would be received. Dad said, as near as I can get to his exact words:

"Received? We have never stopped praying that one day we would see her again. Our lives have been in suspension until now. Bring her. Bring her as soon as you can. We can't wait to have her in our arms again."

We have never been a demonstrative family, not huggers or cuddlers; we did not fling terms of endearment around, and I suppose I felt that I would not be missed. This is what comes of taking things at face value. I was hugged and kissed within an inch of my life, and MTM looked on with tears in his eyes as we cried our hearts out.

After I left so suddenly, Dad managed as best he could with a succession of cleaning ladies, until Mum left her job to join him. It worked out for the best. The Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, (MAFF), successor to the wartime Ministry of Food had a policy of getting rid of married women from the Civil Service, and she took an enhanced pension and came home to support Dad. How good it had been, she said, to work together after all these years. The workload was heavy but containable, and this Summer's Festival of Britain was going to make them a nice retirement nest egg - they were fully booked already for nine whole weeks from the end of June.

Later that evening, after MTM and I helped serve evening meals, we took the tube home. I had something very serious to ask him. We had already agreed that I should help them in the mornings until the baby got too obtrusive, (it's just a couple of stations away on the Northern Line) and Dad had promised to give me away at the Registry office, but now I had a ritual that had to be performed, and I needed my True Master to agree.

"Master", I whispered, "I really, really need you to do something for me, something really important."

"You need a real whipping don't you love?"

"Yes Master, I feel so guilty about abandoning them for so long, and they greet me like the Prodigal son in the Bible. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve your, or anything..."

Tottie the human watering can. As we walked down Tottenham Court Road, towards home, it was settled. I would get what I need; punishment and atonement.

I hated to ask it. My master tries hard, believe me he does, but he knows I have needs that sometimes distress him. I am getting better, I really am, but somewhere inside Tottie, Twat is lurking. One day I shall have the strength to kill her.