The Seehofer Chronicles Vol. 02

"His name is Merlin, Gran... How do you mean?"

"You could do much better than that..."

"That what, Gran?"

"That androgynous, metrosexual, bohemian, what-ever-he-is..."

Sybil smiled. "He's an artist, Gran... He's supposed to be like that."

"Hardly a real man, is he?"

"You're so old fashioned, Gran!"

"Of course I am..." Becca too smiled. "I invited Isobel and Josh over for lunch on Sunday."

"You what?"

"You heard, Sybil. You might be many things but you aren't deaf. You and Isobel might share diluted Italian blood, but it isn't Sicilian and I'd already decided that this silly feud between you and Isobel should end. Now if you'll excuse me, I have the flowers to sort out at St Oswald's for Easter Day."

Chapter 15 - Easter Rising.

Easter Sunday, 20^th April 2014.

The low-pressure area had moved on leaving a day of convivial sunshine as befitting the holiest day of the Christian calendar.

Having returned from the morning church service at St Oswald's, Rebecca Seehofer was at the sink, washing up having prepped everything for a one o'clock lunch.

The lamb was roasting nicely in the oven. She scrubbed at the dried cornflakes clinging like superglue to the breakfast bowl. As much as she loved Sybil staying with her, her visits always seemed to generate an inordinate amount of washing up.

Sybil was currently in her room, doing whatever she did in there. Even Sybil couldn't masturbate that much, could she?

The back door clattered open and a slight figure garbed in an unnecessary parka coat bustled in. She stood expectantly upon the stone floor of the kitchen as if awaiting further instruction.

"Isobel!" cried Becca with genuine delight. She still loved playing the hostess.

"Hi, Aunt Becca!" declared Isobel Torricelli when clambering out of the coat. "How are you?" asked the twenty-one-year old cousin of Sybil.

Becca had once tried to work out her shared filial relationship with Izzy and had decided there wasn't one other than an inter-marital link of some sort. Becca had been bestowed the title of honorary aunt as families do to convey aged respect.

Becca had always considered Isobel to be a pretty thing. Isobel had patently grown to appreciate the fact, having lost her long juvenile locks in favour of grooming her hair in a short style that bestowed upon her a charming air of Audrey Hepburn fragility.

Isobel and Sybil had indeed once looked like sisters. Following Sybil's Manchester confession, Becca now understood her granddaughter's lapse into anchoritic behaviour. Sybil's less than wonton sexual appetite towards men during the past six months seemed to have been transferred to her calorific intake, reflected in the girl's expanding waistline and boobs, diminishing her similarity to the svelte Isobel.

Sybil's insistence that she was on a diet in preparation for her end of term holiday in Spain, citing the expression "No carbs Marbs", did not seem applicable when sojourning at Mount Pleasant Cottage.

"Where's your boyfriend?" asked Becca.

"Josh is out in the car with Merlin."

"They can come in..."

"They'll be in a mo. Josh is girding his loins, he still remembers how you tore him off a strip for treading on your petunias the last time he came here."

"Did I?" Becca couldn't remember but knew it was a likely response to someone walking over her flowerbeds. She had forgotten about the visit when they had come to collect the then non-driving Sybil.

The passion Becca had once applied to her sexploits in bed had been conferred upon the plants in her flowerbeds. She guessed there was a correlation between the two interests somewhere, nature and nurture or some such baloney.

"Coffee? I believe Sybil is taking a shower. She had a lie in this morning."

"Nothing new there then," smiled Izzy. "Tell you what, I'll get the boys."

Whilst Isobel ran her errand, Becca basted the lamb, infusing the air with the pungent aroma of roasting meat. Izzy quickly returned and upon sniffing the air decided that recidivism was in order and her veganism could be put on hold for the day.

"Sorry, Aunt Becca," declared Izzy. "The boys are just nipping to the local supermarket. Merlin says he needs some beer."

"I have beer here..." Becca suddenly ascertained the hidden message in the statement. "They're that scared of me, are they? Am I really that frightening?" Becca generally enjoyed her intimidating reputation, yet she found the idea of scaring the young men in her limited family deflating. Her face betrayed her thoughts.

"'Course you aren't, Aunt Becca! Not to a girl. But your reputation does precede you."

"What reputation?"

Isobel paused when realising her faux pas. "For being fiery..."

"What reputation?" Becca was like a Jack Russell who had caught a rat and who refused to let go. "Have you been talking to Sybil?"

"Not recently..." That fact was certainly true.

Only when her soi-disant niece sat at the oak table with an assumed ease and grace did Becca recognise the self-assuredness that oozed from the raven-haired beauty. Yes, Isobel had always been bright and grounded, yet now she effervesced with a Gallic je ne sais quoi, which Becca attributed too her part-time modelling work.

"You can be candid with me, Isobel. We are alone. Sybil will be ages yet."

Isobel stared confidently back at Rebecca. She did not discern an elderly lady. She saw a woman dressed in figure hugging denims and a loose fitting hoody above a turtleneck sweater.

Aunt Becca wore what Isobel considered to be non-invasive but complimentary make-up, her shoulder-length hair coloured a honey blonde. She doubted that Rebecca had undertaken cosmetic surgery, for laughter-lines edged her eyes and the edges of her pink shaded lips.

Isobel knew Becca was old. In her book, anyone older than thirty was old and she guessed Aunt Becca to be at least double that age, given that she was Sybil's grandmother.

And yet... And yet why was she aware of the latent sexuality that surrounded Rebecca Seehofer in a tangible aura? Izzy had once hinted as much to Josh, yet he had simply laughed, effectively calling her some kind of deviant, a gerontophile, a term apparently coined in 1901 by Richard Kraft-Ebing, amongst other more notable paraphilias such as masochism and anilingus.

Izzy concluded that it was as well that Josh remained ignorant about her semi-professional modelling career.

Confirming Becca's observation, Isobel was well aware of her newfound inner confidence that annoyed so many of her friends. It had germinated from a shaky inception that summer's night in Manchester. From that germ had flowered an innate confidence and sexuality hitherto unknown to her.

Picking up a sexually transmitted disease had been shocking but quickly assimilated. She had found a less risky outlet for her nascent adventurous spirit by modelling solo and sometimes girl-on-girl, at the moment only in still-frame. Of course, Jemima had decided to go the whole hog by going to the States in pursuit of a full-time porno career.

Despite what Sybil might have thought and said, it had not been Isobel who had lured Jemima into modelling and porn. Quite the contrary, it had been Izzy who had tried to talk the pretty but naive youngster out of jumping in at the deep end.

"I once heard Dad and Aunt Josie talking," began Isobel. "I don't know where Mum was... I must have been about fourteen. I was going to the loo and heard them talking in the bedroom and making noises, you know, the sort a couple make when... Like at it. At the time I didn't know what they were doing other than it was somehow illicit."

Izzy paused for Becca to react to the disclosure about her daughter's affair with her brother-in-law but couldn't trace a flicker of emotion on her pretty features.

"Anyway, I like listened as you would, until they both fell quiet after completing the job. I was breaking my neck by then, desperately needing a pee. I was about to go when I heard Aunty Josie speak up. She was talking about some old slag, whore, slut... Words I knew but didn't, if you get my drift. Only after a while did I cotton on to the fact they were talking about you. I thought Aunt Josie was joking, but several times she called you a whore and said how ashamed she was of you."

Isobel paused for effect. "Were you a prostitute, Aunt Becca?"

As she had throughout the monologue, Becca stared at the pretty and self-possessed twenty-one-year-old. Or rather it felt to Izzy as if she were being looked into, as though Becca possessed x-ray vision that could probe her mind.

Only a year ago, Izzy might have diverted her eyes. Having been filmed looking into a camera whilst performing the already mentioned anilingus on an attractive and buxom redhead, Izzy could now look anyone in the eye.

"Do you know my name, Isobel?" asked Rebecca Seehofer quietly.

For a second, Izzy believed she had brought about a senior moment, probably stress induced. "Of course I do."

"I'm actually Mrs Ryan Winters, only Sybil, my daughter, and a few other noteworthy individuals knows that fact. My daughter never forgave Ryan for dying before she had chance to know him."

"How long were you married?"

"Not long enough... He died in the Vietnam War."

Isobel nodded. She was vaguely aware about the Vietnam conflict. "I'm sorry... I didn't think us Brits were involved out there."

"We Brits weren't. Keeping us out was Harold Wilson greatest success. He was under incredible pressure from the States to contribute. The Aussies and Kiwis were involved. Ryan was in the CIA."

"Aren't they spies?"

"They did, do get involved in many dangerous situations."

"How did you meet?" Izzy's enquiring mind was getting the better of her and she walked into Becca's trap, admittedly not as deadly as the one Ryan Winters had fallen into when speared by punji sticks.

"I was a prostitute..."

"Oh..." Isobel betrayed her surprise only by the raising of her in vogue thick eyebrows.

"To be precise I was working as a courtesan, as we were politely called, on behalf of the Government. Admittedly, the night I met Ryan was part work, part pleasure. I'm sure Sybil will be only too delighted to fill you in on my whoring past on behalf of Queen and Country."

Becca's cell phone shrilled and demanded attention. It was the vicar again thanking her for her flower arranging contribution and whether she might play the organ at evening song as Mr Doolittle's gout was playing up. Becca was a lady of many talents.

Further conversation was put on hold when Sybil finally made an appearance. It was Becca who defused the potential stand off when the cousins made eye contact.

"If you are going to smoke, Sybil, kindly take your cousin with you. It's a beautiful day. You can talk about Gemma, or whatever her name is, and once you have cleared the air, perhaps you could explain to Isobel that I'm not the common whore she's taken me to be. Cut along, girl, I have to remember how to play 'The Old Rugged Cross' before I put the veg on. Spit spot!"

With the girls departed, Becca belied her years by dashing for Isobel's voluminous shoulder bag that lay upon the table. Donning her reading glasses, she rummaged within the bag and found the purse where she nimbly flicked through the assortment of bank and loyalty cards. There she discovered a National Insurance card detailing Isobel's personal ID number. After jotting down the number on the sheet of paper she had torn from a note block, she retired to the privacy of the lounge.

Alone in the quaint living room, Becca closed the door behind her and made for the window. Whilst looking out over her garden, she lifted the telephone receiver and dialled the number from memory. There remained something soothing and reassuring about having to wait for the rotating dial to reset. That the line remained secure and scrambled was neither here nor there.

"Rebecca! Lovely to hear from you! I hear you are feeling so much better after your hip replacement."

"I am thank you, Mary..." Becca still consciously had to repress the urge to call her old "pimp" Mrs Weaver.

"I haven't seen you since poor Sally's funeral."

"She died a bitter old sot."

"We all drank to excess, Rebecca. And other things in immoderation... Keeping busy?"

"I arrange the flowers at the local church. I'm playing the organ this evening."

"How lovely! You were always such an artist and knew how to blow a good tune on a mighty organ... How may I help you, dear?"

"I have a candidate for you."

"Candidate...? You are recommending a candidate? My, you've never recommended anyone before. She must have promise."

"Her name is Isobel Torricelli..." Becca peered down at the piece of paper she clutched in her hand via the corrective lens of her glasses. "Her National Insurance number is as follows..."