Summerhouse Blues

This is a reposting. You, the reader, should share in my heartfelt thanks to Estragon, Rhonda's biggest fan, who persuaded me that it was worth my effort and, far more importantly, worth his effort to correct the innumerable errors in grammar and punctuation so that Tracy's story could be properly enjoyed. Any errors that remain are my fault, not his.

L.J.

Tracy's Story

I was young and naive when I fell for Jack all those years ago. I was seventeen and he, at the age of twenty five, was the leader of the local gang, Jack the lad, the number one, the top dog and, if his way of running security for the local night clubs was a bit dodgy, well, that's the way it goes sometimes. For me he was all the thrills and excitement I seemed to be missing at home and if he was a bit rough with me from time to time, well, that's the way I liked it. I have always found that there's something thrilling about being overwhelmed by a force greater than yourself so yes, I liked it rough and took everything he threw at me even if it was a bit scary at times. It made me feel oh so grown up and sophisticated to be his girl and I did everything he asked, everything he wanted just so he'd let me be with him. And when, the moment I turn eighteen, Jack, knowing a good thing when he sees one, proposed to me I thought all my Christmases had come at once. My parents, of course, were horrified and tried to stop the wedding but I was too much the rebel, too independent for my own good and, anyway, what did a pair of old fogeys like them know about young love.

Well, they knew quite a bit as it turns out. Almost as soon as the ring was on my finger I found the other side to Jack, the mean and jealous side. As far as he was concerned I was his, his to own and his to control and heaven help any other bloke that dared to look at me twice. For that matter heaven help me if I so much as dared to be nice to another guy. It all got much, much worse when we found out that we couldn't have kids, especially when it turned out that he was the one firing blanks. From then on his anger boiled over turning on me as being the one who had failed him and on a couple of notable occasions I even found myself down at casualty having "walked into a door".

And then, fifteen years later, I'm still paying the price for my stupidity as a teenager; just like the old song my mum used to sing, I'm only a bird in a gilded cage. Jack has moved on up from being a hired thug to become a major businessman although I'm pretty sure the basics of what he does are pretty much the same. He's still deeply involved in the nightclub business and, if he comes home late at night reeking of some tart's cheap perfume then I'd best keep my mouth shut if I know what's good for me. As for me, I'm still the stay at home housewife; I once thought about getting a job but Jack won't let me work, he says it's up to him to provide and my job is to keep my self and the house looking nice and presentable and play hostess when he brings the lads round. I joined up at the local gym once, anything to pass the time, but when he saw me trying on a new leotard he threw a total wobbler about other men ogling me and insisted we install a home gym instead. I'd leave him in the blink of an eyelid except I've got nowhere to go. Mum and Dad both died a few years back, Jack scared off all my old friends and, even if I did find somewhere, it would never be far enough to be safe from Jack and his temper tantrums.

And then, one day, we're round at the Andersons' for drinks and it turns out that Jim's got a new summerhouse in the garden and, if Jim Anderson has a summerhouse then we've got to have one. Talk about keeping up with the Joneses. Jack got in one of his tame architects to draw up the plans, one of his tame politicians on the council pushed through the planning permission and, in no time, we've got the builders in.

And then, five minutes later, they were out again. It was their first morning and, whilst they were setting up shop I was working out in the home gym and watching through the French windows. Anyway one of the builders sees me as he walks past outside and he only gives me a wolf whistle. I was flattered and, OK, maybe I did strike a pose but Jack happened to be home at the time and he went absolutely ballistic. He storms outside, finds the builder that had whistled at me and, right there and then, beats the living crap out of him. The other builders knew better than to get involved and, ten minutes later, they were all sacked, taking the battered remains of their mate with them. Jack, still fuming, then came and found me, accused me of acting the tart, of leading them on, of behaving like a slut in front of the help. And so, once again, I got another couple of slaps to teach me a lesson.

As soon as I could get away I disappeared off upstairs to patch myself up and keep out of his way, leaving Jack to get on the blower to sort out some new builders, or, as it turned out, a new builder. After making a number of calls Jack talks to Joe Southern who recommends an outfit called "Betty's Builders". Yeah, I know, I laughed too, well, until Jack told me in no uncertain terms to shut my trap if I didn't want another slapping. Anyway it seemed that Betty's Builders was, believe it or not, an all woman building firm which, Jack reckoned, would keep me out of mischief and, as he so sweetly put it, maybe we can get the fucking thing built this time.

Early the very next day Betty herself arrived. Well, she wasn't called Betty really; it turned out that she was called Rhonda and she only used the name Betty to make the name of the firm rhyme and, despite it being Betty's Builders with an 's' on the end, it was a one man, or should that be one woman, show. I was still upstairs in the bedroom when the roar of a powerful motorbike announced her arrival so it was Jack who went to the door to meet her. They didn't go through the house but went around the side and straight out to the garden to look things over and all the while I'm watching them from behind the bedroom curtains. Right from the start I could see that Rhonda was everything I'm not. Take how we dress for a start. Jack gets stroppy if I'm not dressed like some sort of barbie doll and given that clothes shopping is one of the few pleasures left to me it's something I quite happy to oblige him with; my dressing table is my morning temple where I put on the war paint, my wardrobe is my treasure house. My clothes are all from the top designer stores, Jack wouldn't have it any other way and shoes, god I love my shoes. I've gotten used to heels, four inches being my standard, five if we're pushing the boat out and he wants to me to impress. On the other hand Rhonda was wearing biker boots, jeans, a tee shirt and a black leather jacket.

But it wasn't just the way she dressed, it was the way she held herself. Right from the start there was a no nonsense attitude about her; she was no one's possession, she wouldn't take any bullshit, not from Jack and definitely not from a little mouse like me. She was big and strong, hey, she's a builder, right, but it was more than that; Sshe looked like no one, no way, was ever going to push her around.

As they disappeared around the side of the house I couldn't see them anymore so I threw on a dressing gown and rushed down to the kitchen so as to carry on watching. Quite why, I'm not sure but I'm following every move as I stand at the sink staring out of the window watching them map out exactly where the summerhouse should go. Then they turned towards the house and came in through the back door.

"Trace, this is Rhonda. She's going to be building the summerhouse starting next week. Rhonda, this is Tracy, my missus. Excuse the dressing gown; the little tart is so bone idle she hasn't even got dressed yet," Jack said as he led Rhonda into the kitchen.

"How do you do?" I asked politely holding out my hand. "Can I offer you a cup of tea?"

She took my hand and stared into my face. I'm sure I'd hidden the worst of the bruising from Jack's beating under my make up but she seemed to be staring right at it and I felt naked and exposed.

"Yeah, tea, nice one. I fancy a cuppa," she said eventually before releasing my hand.

"Yeah, cuppa tea, doll," Jack said. "Come along, chop, chop. We workers haven't got all morning to laze around like some I could mention."

They stood in the kitchen watching me as I boiled the kettle, filled the cups and poured the milk. I wasn't that surprised when Rhonda told me she liked hers strong with three sugars, real builder's tea. Jack also seemed to approve; she was just the sort of no-nonsense type he liked to deal with. With the tea poured it was my turn to stand and watch, keeping out of the way in the corner of the kitchen while Jack and Rhonda sorted out how long she expected the job to take and exactly when she could start. I hardly heard a word that they said; I just stared at Rhonda, she had taken off her jacket to reveal the skin tight Motorhead tee shirt underneath which, whilst perfectly clean, had seen far better days. The body it revealed was strong and fit; this was a person who did hard physical work day in, day out and, without being fat in any way she was stocky, well built, hard and, although Jack would never have found her attractive in a million years something about her spoke to me.

"...and I'll see you Monday week." Rhonda turned to me as she finished.

"Err... what... Yes, of course." I pulled myself out of my day-dreaming.

"Don't you worry about my Tracy," Jack joked. "She's a dozy little cow at the best of times and pretty useless at most things but if there's anything you want, anything at all, you come and ask her. Ain't that right, Trace?"

"Yes, please, anything you want, just ask," I echoed.

"Anything I want, eh? That's an offer I can't refuse," Rhonda laughed and, with that, she and Jack went off and I was left with an empty house. Again.

And so it was, come Monday week, a battered white van pulled up on the driveway and Rhonda got out and started to unload her tools. After a quick word with Jack she loaded up a wheelbarrow and went through the garden, round the back and set to work, putting down pegs and tying string between them to mark out where the foundations were to go. Once this was done she set to with a pick and shovel removing the turf and digging the trenches. As she worked away I stood staring from an upstairs window completely spellbound. I tried to put my finger on what it was that fascinated me so. Watching someone working, well, that in itself had to beat daytime television, watching a woman working, watching a woman do hard, physical work, that had rarity value but neither of these were sufficient explanation for why I stood for so long just staring at her. There was a competence, a self confidence about all her actions, whether it was placing the pegs or swinging the pickaxe. I was so mesmerised I hardly heard the door close as Jack left for the day. Meanwhile, in the garden, it hardly seemed like five minutes before Rhonda had filled her first wheelbarrow load and went to take it round to the skip that was waiting in the driveway. As she did so, she looked up and saw me watching at the window. I pulled back as fast as I could, blushing furiously.

But however much Rhonda bothered me I'd been brought up to be the dutiful hostess so I finished getting dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen to make her a cup of tea, I made myself one too, put them on a tray and took them out into the garden stepping gingerly across the lawn as my stilettos dug in to the turf.

"Is that for me?" Rhonda called out as I approached. "You're an angel. I'm as dry as a bone."

I passed her the mug, I knew she'd want a mug rather than a cup, and as she drank I stood sipping from the cup I'd brought for myself.

"You're getting on very quickly," I commented. "You'll be finished in no time working like this."

"Yeah, well, this topsoil's easy to shift. It'll get harder later," she replied. "And if I don't get on with it it'll never get done." She put down her mug of tea and turned back to her shovel.

"Do you mind if I stay and chat?" I asked.

"You're the boss, it's your house, I can't really stop you," she replied.

"I just don't want to be a nuisance," I said nervously.

"Darlin', you could never be a nuisance," she replied. I wondered what on earth she meant.

And then we chatted, or at least I gabbled away inanely whilst Rhonda got on with digging out the foundations and grunting the occasional reply. All the while I couldn't make head nor tail of this woman working in a man's job; how she was so strong and powerful and yet still so much a woman.

"Do you mind me asking...?" I started.

"Well, whether I mind or not it ain't stopped you so far," Rhonda replied.

"Your husband, what does he think of you being a builder?"

Rhonda stopped digging, rested on her shovel and looked at me if I were some sort of idiot. "Husband," she repeated, "what the fuck would I want with a husband?"

"What, aren't you married?" I asked.

"Married? Nah, never have been, never will be. I'm not the marrying kind," she said as she returned to her digging.

And then the penny dropped and I felt small and stupid.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry, you're..." I started as my face glowed red with blushing.

"That's right, darlin', I'm a dyke, a lezzy, a rug muncher, can't be doin' with the boys, only fancy the girls; what's up? Does that bother you? Scared I might attack you?" She flung another shovel full of dirt into the wheelbarrow and looked straight at me. "Maybe you're scared that I won't attack you."

"No, no, I'm not like that. I mean, I don't mind what you are but I... I'm not like that." I felt like a fool and was certainly acting like one.

"Liar," was all she said as she picked up her pickaxe again and, for a while, there was nothing more to say.

I took the empty cup and mug back to the kitchen and rinsed them out all the while deep in thought. Of course I knew what lesbians were, well, sort of. I remembered oh so well how vicious we had been to poor Julie Peterson back at school when she had made the mistake of confessing that she fancied Annie Roberts. How we refused to have her in the showers with us after games, how we called her a perv, how we did all the things that school kids do to those who dare to be 'different'. I did feel sorry for Julie at the time but I knew enough not to do anything about it; better to be a bitch to poor Julie that than be tarred with the same brush.

Now, here in my back garden, was Rhonda who not only was a lesbian but didn't seem to care a fig about who knew. Once again I stared out of the window but this time my curiosity had a focus. I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like when she made love. What would she do? I mean, I remember all the whispered jokes from school about 'strapadictomy' and so forth but I could never really understand them. What's the point in a fake dick? How would she get off on that? Of course it never occurred to me to put Rhonda in anything other than the man's role.

And if she were in the man's role... at this point my thinking became muddled. I imagined her strong and powerful, taking what she wanted and crushing.... No, start again. Her hands, strong and calloused from all that hard work, her hands around my arms, holding me.... No! No! I stared at the cup I was still rinsing out but I had become some sort of zombie. These thoughts of Rhonda, these stupid, stupid, thoughts... I dropped the cup in the sink and turned and ran to my bedroom.

In a daze I did what I always do when I'm upset; I changed into my leotard and went to the gym. Turning the treadmill away from the window I put some Kylie on my iPod, turned the speed setting up to high and pounded out the miles. Whether I was running away or running towards was neither here nor there; on a treadmill you're going nowhere fast. I ran and ran and ran until my muscles ached and the sweat flowed. My mind went blank, lost in the pound, pound, pound of my trainers against the treadmill matching the pound, pound, pound of Kylie's disco beat in my ears. And then, still lost in the music and the running, I felt a tap on my shoulder, I turned and there she was. In my surprise I completely stopped, the treadmill whisked my feet out from under me and I would have fallen if she hadn't made a grab for me and I ended up falling rather clumsily against her. For just a beat too long we stood there with me wrapped safely in her arms. For a moment I even wondered if she were going to kiss me. Heaven knows what my reaction would have been had she done so.

"Careful, you'll hurt yourself!" she said lightly. "I knocked but I guess you didn't hear me. I really didn't mean to surprise you like that. Seriously, are you OK?"

I found my feet, stood up and eased myself from her.

"I'm fine," I lied. I was far from fine but I wasn't going to confess this. Physically I wasn't hurt; emotionally I was a complete disaster.

"Oops, it looks like you've got a bit of mud on your leotard," Rhonda laughed. She reached out and started to brush it off. The mud was right on my chest and as she brushed it off she was effectively stroking my tits. This was more than I could stand and I pushed her hand away.

"Well, if you're OK can you point me at the little girl's room?" Rhonda asked.

Still flustered I showed her where the downstairs loo was and took myself off upstairs to shower and change. I looked at myself in the mirror. There didn't seem to be any mud on my leotard, maybe she had brushed it all off. What was showing, right through my leotard and sports bra, was they way my nipples were rock hard from when she had brushed against them. God I was a mess, really a mess. Somehow that bloody woman had got me so I didn't know whether I was batting or bowling. I took a long, long shower, so much so that I was wrinkly by the time I had finished and we were all but out of hot water. This calmed me down and I was able to push all my confusion to the back of my mind.

For the rest of the day I avoided Rhonda as far as possible.

That night I had trouble sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes I had visions in my mind of how Rhonda had caught me when I fell from the treadmill. Worse still was how these visions were accompanied by that old familiar feeling from 'down there', a feeling I hadn't had in quite a while. When I did finally drift off I had the most vivid dreams, one of falling, falling, falling until, whomph, I was there in her arms where she held me safe and warm and... I woke up shaking and sweating; as soon as I had got back to sleep there was another one where we were in the garden and she once again offered to wipe the mud away. I looked down and I was stark naked and my body was covered in lumps of thick oozy gunk like I was some sort of mud wrestler. Rhonda reached out but, just as she touched me....

"For fuck's sake, what's up with you tonight?" Jack snarled from his side of the bed. "I've got an important meeting in the morning and you're keeping me awake with all your tossing and turning. If you can't lie quietly then fuck off and sleep in the spare room."

Discretion being the better part of valour, I slipped out of bed and went off to see if I could sleep any better in the spare room.

After my restless night I was so bushed I only got up to make Jack his breakfast before taking myself back to bed and finishing my beauty sleep so it was gone ten before I woke up properly. When I finally came to I ran a brush through my hair, put on a pair of panties and a dressing gown and went down to the kitchen to make some well needed coffee. I looked out of the window to see Rhonda there hard at it in the garden. It was a lovely morning so I made her a cuppa and, still in my dressing gown, took it out to her.