The Seehofer Chronicles Vol. 01

At seven o'clock Rebecca and Sybil ate in the kitchen, still the coolest room in the house yet cloyingly warm all the same. Becca produced a bottle of wine, which they shared during the meal. They ate discussing matters of trivial interest, to the extent that Sybil almost forgot the nature of the first interview. A reflective silence ensued during the loading of the dishwasher. Sybil had changed into a pair of jeans and green tee shirt. She remained braless, for she had the impression, rightly or wrongly, that Rebecca had actually encouraged her to dispense with it. She was unused to going 'unfettered'; it was frowned upon by her mother for inducing premature sagging. To be fair to her mother, many of her girlfriends slept in bras, something Sybil deemed above and beyond the call of duty.

She had to confess, there was something liberating about 'going braless', not in a sexual context, more by way of simple corporeal liberty. She guessed that's why naturists did what they did; perhaps naturism was the final evolutionary state of her hypothesis? Sybil also felt a delectable sense of emboldenment, perhaps an aggregation of many facets that had occurred that day, but whatever the cause, it was true and palpable.

"Granny, do you mind if I smoke?" asked Sybil.

Rebecca failed to answer the enquiry, resolved as she was upon removing the stubborn amalgam of chilli concarne ingredients intractably melded to the bottom of the casserole dish, which had proved to be beyond even the capabilities of the dishwasher, despite the claims of the proprietary brand of detergent.

"I'll smoke outside if it upsets you?" added Sybil in a conciliatory tone, interpreting Rebecca's silence as an unspoken rebuke of displeasure. "I'm sorry, Gran..."

"Go and fetch the ashtray from the front room, and my cigarettes," instructed Rebecca. Sybil walked slowly towards the lounge, her body language flaunting the censure she felt she had foolishly earned. "And Sybil?"

"Yes, Gran?" Sybil stopped in her tracks, preparing to be admonished for her impropriety.

"Please stop calling me 'gran' or 'granny'. I know I bloody well am, and if it makes you feel happier, call me gran when anyone else is here. But for God sake, when we are alone, call me Becca."

"Yes, Gran, sorry... Becca," laughed Sybil in relief.

Sybil returned with the items and sheepishly withdrew the blue pack of ten Mayfair cigarettes from her jeans pocket along with a cheap disposable lighter. Becca watched with a sense of mild amusement when Sybil lit the cigarette and instantly blew a stream of smoke, which curled insidiously around in the heavy atmosphere of the kitchen. The smoke patently stung the young woman's eyes. It was clear to Becca that Sybil she was a practiced smoker but was patently unused to the dynamics of smoking indoors. Further unfamiliarity betrayed itself when Sybil flicked the cigarette tentatively at the ceramic ashtray, unaccustomed to using the object. She belonged to a generation of smokers who had only smoked outdoors.

"Are you ready for the next instalment?" asked Becca, her keenness apparent to Sybil who was swooning with the head rush of only her second cigarette of the day.

"Sure, Gran... Becca. Only...," Sybil paused.

"Only what?" Becca's words seemed hollow, cowled by her own cigarette smoke that loitered around her larynx.

"Could we follow a chronological path? I realise you wanted to start with something that grabbed my attention..." Sybil broke eye contact at the memory of the sexual shenanigans in the canteen and focused upon the ashtray. "Could we not start at the beginning? According to the song, it's a very good place to commence?"

Becca smiled approvingly at Sybil's suggestion. God, Sybil so reminded her of herself at that age. How similar they were they would be revealed over the next few days.

CHAPTER 5 - THE INTERVIEW.

Tuesday, 15^th August 1967.

The Department for Cultural, Artistic, and Technological Studies.

The clicking metal tips of the heels resonated alarmingly around the marble foyer as Becca walked towards the reception desk, introducing an involuntary hesitancy into her gait, which she attempted to counter only to compound the awkwardness of her bearing. It felt as if every eye in the foyer would be drawn to her apparently gauche bearing, scrutinising the child walking in her mother's heels.

Becca stood before the receptionist, placing her black leather attaché case on top of the laminate desktop before smoothing the sides of her coarse green plaid skirt with her clammy hands, waiting to gain the receptionist's attention.

"Good morning, may I help you?" enquired the receptionist peering disdainfully over the top of her large rimmed oval reading glasses.

"Yes, my name is Rebecca Seehofer, I'm here for an interview with Mr Caruthers," replied Becca a little louder than she had intended when enunciating her rehearsed words. The receptionist glanced down enquiringly at her notes before her and spoke without raising her eyes to Becca.

"Suite seven on the fifth floor, you may go up." Becca was effectively dismissed.

For the first time Becca appraised her surroundings. The foyer was large and imposing, no doubt as the Victorian architect had intended. Not only was the stone-carved interior impressive, but for the likes of the soon to be twenty-two year old female Becca, grossly intimidating. It was a consequence of design that would have delighted the nineteenth century misogynistic autocrats.

The small cage lift, somehow accommodated in the old building, juddered Becca without surety to the third floor and she found herself in a narrow corridor, the worn red mottled carpet issuing a diffuse musty odour implying age and prevalence. She thought it smelt of old men. A wooden plaque pointed the way to the department of Internal Affairs and Becca now trod silently, directed by the sign down the empty corridor, which ended abruptly with a ninety-degree turn to her right.

Immediately she was greeted by a small lobby large enough to accommodate four wooden fabric coated chairs and an imposing oak door, virtually twice her own height. An A4 sheet of paper was clumsily taped to the cream painted plaster wall informing her that she had arrived at the candidate waiting room.

In ominous silence, Becca perched diffidently on the edge of the chair nearest to the door. She glanced nervously at her wristwatch, a twenty-first birthday present to herself, and noted the second hand creeping towards the eleventh hour of the day. Self-consciously, she toyed with the top button of her plain blue blouse, debating whether she should unfasten it or leave it buttoned. She wore what she considered to be a rather demure outfit. A green plaid woollen suit, the skirt of which fell just below the knees of her black stockinged legs and a jacket buttoned high above her breasts, so offering a minimal glimpse of the blouse. A necklace of fake pearls adorned her slim neck, which she hoped offered the impression of maturity and style. Was her look too staid? Would undoing the top button appear unseemly before the interviewing panel?

Whilst her fingers hovered with uncertainty, the oak door slowly opened and Becca instinctively rose to her feet in preparation for whatever lay ahead. A man wearing a dark blue pin striped suit emerged from the interview room. Perhaps in his mid thirties, he wore his dark hair side parted to the left, his face tanned by a recent holiday and darkened further by the stubborn dark bristles of his beard despite the wet shave that morning. He smiled warmly as he offered his hand in welcome.

"Miss Seehofer, my name is Caruthers, please follow me."

Becca had expected an older man; the name seemed to deny anyone a youthful vigour. Becca reassuringly clutched her attaché case and followed the man through the door; she smelt his pleasant aftershave when he paused to close the door behind her and pointed to a chair on the nearside of a huge rectangular boardroom table.

She smiled softly at the enquiring faces of the man and two women already seated at the far side of the table. Becca's butterflies took flight in her stomach, she had not expected to be interviewed by four people and immediately the visualised image of the interview she had created when lying nervously in bed the previous evening was torn asunder.

The seated man evoked the aura of the alpha male. In his fifties, his face was lined with years of patronage in the civil service. His grey hair had thinned to a point of baldness and his heavy brown-rimmed glasses gave his face an owl-like appearance.

The two women could not have been more dissimilar. The older woman could justly have been classified as a contemporary of the alpha male. Sitting to the man's right, the woman reminded Becca of her headmistress at school; such was her tweed suit and stocky, dependable appearance. The heavy chin and jowls gave her a fierce mien and her half-moon glasses offered the impression of intellectual disinterest.

The younger woman, sat to the older woman's right, was simply stunning in the eyes of the impressionable Becca. In her late twenties at a guess, she had glowing, long brown hair centre parted to fall past her shoulders. Her long face was immaculately made-up, flaunting her high cheek bones to its maximum advantage. Her deep brown eyes smiled welcomingly at the interviewee.

Becca stood by her chair until Daniel Caruthers positioned himself behind the table and asked Becca to take a seat. The four interviewers stared intently at the papers in front of them while Becca placed her case on her lap and nervously clasped the arms of the Queen Anne chair. She instantly regretted having applied for this position in the Department of Cultural, Artistic, and Technological Studies. She had just graduated and this was only her second interview. She lamented her casual approach to her preparation, assuming with the naive confidence ingrained upon her by three years at Cambridge that she could blag her way through the interview.

Becca allowed her frightened eyes to break away from scrutinising their respective faces. Her eyes alighted upon the wooden nameplates in front of the interviewers. It was the older man who spoke first and she read his name as Major Tom Dewsbury before raising her eyes to stare at him attentively.

"Your, re-re-résumé reads impressively as regards to your academic qualifications. Te-te-tell me, why do you think you are suitable for the position of re-re-research assistant?" Major Tom spoke in a soft, fatherly voice, his affability enhanced by the stutter.

Becca inwardly cringed; she assumed there would be a little more preamble before she had to sell herself. She parted her lips but nothing came out. Major Tom tilted his head to one side and opened his mouth as if to encourage her words.

"I, I..." Becca's eyes darted between the four silent inquisitors. She feared her involuntary stammer would be misinterpreted as insolence and felt the dreaded warm glow as her chest and neck flushed, gratefully obscured for the most part by her buttoned blouse. Her pale cheeks burned a fiery red.

The beautiful woman smiled sympathetically, the older woman peered sternly over the top of her glasses, whilst the younger man screwed up his eyes in embarrassed consternation at Becca's silence.

"I believe I will offer an enthusiastic and committed approach to my work..." The words babbled like the waters of a mountain spring from the mouth of Becca Seehofer. "I am conscientious and punctual and have a good eye for detail as my résumé points out," she continued, quoting verbatim the bullet points from the manual of facile interview replies.

Major Tom peered absently at the ceiling above Becca's head. "Um," was his sole comment. The older woman spoke, taking Becca by surprise. Becca glanced at the nameplate displaying the name "Mrs Phelps."

"Could you give the panel an example of your recent research work?" Mrs Phelps' question bore a demanding doggedness.

"I researched intensively into the social and economic consequences for East Germany following the building of the wall," replied Becca.

"Have you done any work with regard to emerging technologies; you know, hi-tech solutions to rising oil prices? Have you studied accountancy?" asked the man named Caruthers.

"No, certainly not!" replied Becca indignantly, "I'm no bloody bean counter!" Becca flushed again, this time due to her feisty, inapt reply. It was not the image she had set out to portray but often her natural character devilishly revealed itself at inopportune moments.

"I thought not, pity...," replied Daniel Caruthers. His pen made a distinctive "x" mark on his interview notes.

Further questions were rained upon Becca Seehofer to which she generally responded in a negative fashion and with each answer, she grew more relaxed and resigned. She realised there wasn't the faintest chance of her being considered for the position. Had Becca not been fending off the questions with carefully considered answers then she may have been aware that it was predominantly the two men who asked all the questions whilst the younger woman had not spoken at all.

"Thank you, Miss Seehofer, wu-wu-would you kindly take a seat outside whilst we have a quiet wu-wu-word with each other," announced Major Tom. Becca stood slowly to her feet, relieved that the ordeal was over and strode quickly to the oak door. She wasn't unduly surprised by the brevity of her wait in the lobby. Daniel Caruthers reappeared after less than five minutes. She followed him quickly back into the interview room, eager to get her obvious rejection out of the way and escape the unbearable atmosphere of the building. She was surprised to see that Major Tom and Mrs Phelps had left the room.

"Mrs Weaver would like to have a word with you alone, if that's okay?" announced Daniel before immediately heading towards the wooden panelled wall off to Becca's left. Her eyes narrowed with puzzlement until Daniel opened a concealed door in the panelling and vanished the way of the older two interviewers, leaving a mystified Becca alone with Mrs Weaver.

"Please, take a seat, Rebecca..." The younger woman spoke for the first time; her voice was soft and cultured, complimenting her looks. "My name is Mary Weaver, I'd be grateful if you called me Mary, I really don't feel like a 'Mrs Weaver'." A stunning smile of white enamelled teeth lit Mary's features and Becca could not help herself when she reciprocated the smile and retook her seat. As Becca settled on the chair, Mary elegantly rose from behind the broad table and walked neatly around to lean against the table away to Becca's left, revealing her full figure for the first time.

Mary stood five feet ten inches if one included the two inches afforded by her heeled shoes. She revealed her stunning lilac dress that Becca had failed to pick up upon during her interrogation, as she liked to think of it. It was expensively cut to accentuate her lithe yet full figure, the dress hugging her firm thighs, caressing the swell of her hips and tautness of her stomach before blossoming to emphasise her generous bust. Despite being fully clothed, Becca could not help but notice that the dress was designed to flatter what lay beneath it. Becca had no doubt that the pearl beads around Mary's neck were genuine.

Becca felt decidedly frumpily dressed, and as if to exemplify her feeling, the jacket began to itch around her wrists, where the soft lining yielded to the coarse fabric. Mary posed before Becca, seemingly for Becca's benefit, as if inviting a compliment.

"You are very pretty," said Mary suddenly. Becca raised her eyebrows in surprise at the personal comment following the entirely impersonal interview.

"Thank you," muttered an embarrassed Becca.

"No, I mean it, you really are," continued Mary. Becca found herself blushing again, unable to control her body's reflex. Mary smiled at Becca's modesty.

"Do you like sex?" asked Mary. Again, Becca was stunned. Mary nodded her head, coaxing Becca to reply.

"Of course," muttered Becca, self-consciously looking to the floor. Mary laughed warmly and crossed her arms.

"Actually, I don't think you realise how pretty you are," continued Mary.

"Not as pretty as you," replied Becca. It was a defensive as well as a self-effacing reply.

"I'm not pretty, Becca, I'm beautiful and that, I have to tell you, is an entirely different thing." There was no hint of ego in Mary's reply; it was delivered as a factual observation. "I'm beautiful and intelligent which is a very intimidating combination for many men. They may want me but only the most confident and assured of men would have the courage to attempt to seduce me. Now you on the other hand, have undoubted intelligence but your beauty lacks the terror of mine. You have the air of availability; you do not exude the aura of unattainabilty."

Becca furrowed her brow at Mary's comment. She believed she was being complimented but the content of the speech went beyond Becca's immediate comprehension.

"Have I upset you?" asked Mary, "you look a little hurt."

"No," answered Becca without hesitation, "I'm just a little confused, that's all."

"That is refreshingly honest of you, Rebecca." Mary raised herself and sat on the edge of the table facing Becca, her legs swaying pendulum-like beneath the table as she folded her arms beneath her heavy bust and sunk her head into her hunched shoulders. Her chin appeared to be resting on her up-thrust breasts when she leant towards Becca. "You visited a psychiatrist whilst you were studying, didn't you," stated Mary, her closed mouth smile intimating secret knowledge. Becca lent back in her chair.

"How do you know that?" demanded Becca with a sense of legitimate grievance that overcame her natural reserve concerning the odd direction the interview had taken. Mary's smile morphed into a laugh.

"Oh, come along, Rebecca, you don't believe in all that patient confidentiality rubbish you hear quoted on TV and the movies, do you?"

"Well, actually, yes I do," answered a resentful Becca.

"Good for you, girl!" laughed Mary. Abruptly the smile vanished. "You were treated for sexual cravings," announced Mary. In 1966, there appeared to be few therapists who considered sex to be addictive, especially in women. A young woman exhibiting strong sexual urges would be viewed merely as a perverted delinquent.

"No I was not!" defended Becca, she stammered over her words as she composed her reply after the instant rebuttal. "I was worried that's all! About my studies...!"

"Worried that your libidinous desires might spoil your work," added Mary. "And what treatment did the doctor recommend?"

"Various things," declared Becca, angry that her medical history was being so openly discussed yet still willing to endure the questioning.

Mary smiled, filling Becca with a dread that this woman already knew the details of the hours Becca had voluntarily spent in therapy. "I wonder," announced Mary theatrically, "for whose benefit those thorough sessions were for?"

"I beg your pardon?" asked Becca, again hastily drawn into making some sort of reply.

"I mean, were the sessions for your benefit or the analyst's?" Becca screwed up her face, wondering if she had been asked a trick question. Mary watched Becca's small nose furrow and noted the beguiling effect for future reference.

Becca had booked sessions with a psychiatrist whilst studying at Cambridge, concerned about her repressed, incessant, and lascivious desires for fear of damaging her reputation, health, and academic studies. The balding man in his fifties rationalised that her lustful nature was fuelled by her parent's untimely passing; that she simply yearned for love. Later, he extemporised by suggesting her carnal frailty was in reality her way of punishing her parents for cruelly abandoning her. Despite his unremitting efforts, he failed to correct her aberrations and submitted to her irresistible charisma by fucking her hard one dog day afternoon on his consulting room couch. Becca still recalled the beads of sweat that pervaded his balding scalp when he enthusiastically but ineptly "ploughed her furrow"- his term not hers. From that day on, she accepted her inclinations and embraced them as part of her complex psyche.