Coincidences which would be too'far-fetched' in fiction often occur in real life. These are two true autobiographical episodes strangely linked. QUEEN OF THE MAY MAY 1st 1952 “Don’t you dare get no bloody blood on them streamers!” Angelina shot out, bringing mingled gasps and giggles from the three little maids – two of his sisters, one of hers – placed kneeling in near military precision on the tatted hearth-rug in front of the unlit fire. A quick but pungent glance from Angel quelled the outburst and she concentrated on the boy sitting cross-legged by the kitchen door, sucking his left index finger ferociously. “It’s OK,” he said, examining the injured digit closely, “It’s stopped. The wire was just so stiff to turn in such an acute angle.” Angel laughed shortly, then retorted mockingly, but not without a bare trace of admiration, “Ooh! La-di-dah, big words for a little boy. Any road, how’s it going’? Have you got the top fixed on yet?” She completed her laying out the last of the five crepe and tissue paper costumes. “Well,” she demanded, “Have you?” “Nearly,” replied the boy, head bent, winding the rest of the wire securing the finial, made from a small rubber ball covered with chicken wire, to the broom handle maypole. The neck of the pole-top, which was closely studded with hand-made tissue-paper blossoms, fitted snugly onto the end of the spirally wrapped pole, and also helped to secure the three streamers, one for each of the maids - who by now were beginning to shuffle and fidget. They wouldn’t be able to stay still for much longer, Angel realised. She crossed the room to the sideboard, opened a drawer and withdrew a grubby, frayed skipping rope. “Right, you three,” she ordered, handing the rope to the biggest one “Out into the backyard with you, and don’t come in ‘till I call you. We’ll dress you lot up last … you’d only rip something. And don’t make too much noise out there!” she finished as the maids tumbled through the back door. She then hesitated and returned to the skipping rope drawer. “Aha!” she cried triumphantly holding a small triangular red bottle aloft. “Look … she’s left a bit of nail varnish here! It’ll just finish off nicely my Queen’s outfit!” She abruptly sat cross legged and with intense concentration applied the varnish. She finished one hand and examined it minutely, splay-fingered. “Lubbly Jubbly!” she crowed delightedly and then, “Oh damn … They won’t dry in time!” She grinned a little wickedly and said to the boy, “This means you’ll have to help me to get dressed … I hope you won’t mind?” The boy smiled back somewhat uncertainly, “Now?” he asked while she finished painting the other nails. “Mmm .. yes, now will be fine,” she murmured peering at her hands. “That’s smashing,” she concluded, and then to the boy, “Here, help me get my jumper off first, but careful at the hands part … I don’t want the varnish smudged”. The boy nervously gripped the waistband in two hands and drew the garment up her up stretched arms and off. She was wearing only a vest. That was very clear to the boy who could not stop himself from staring at the sweet swelling breasts topped by the faintest outline of penny-sized brown nipples. “Put your eyes back in!” she laughed, “We’ve got stuff to do today … no time for peep-ho! You’ll have to undo my skirt now,” she continued, “and take it off. It’ll only show up under the tissue.” The boy fumbled with the three buttons near Angel’s hip and eventually succeeded. The skirt slid to the floor … and the boy was entranced by the little mound at the fork of her legs, enticingly lighted shaded beneath. “Didn’t your mam tell you it’s rude to stare,” Angel said, but he could tell by the trace of giggle that she wasn’t really cross. “Come on now … help me on with my costume. First the skirt…” The boy fetched the long crepe paper – suitably opaque – skirt from the queen’s pile and placed it flat at her feet. Angel stepped into the circle and the boy knelt and drew it up her legs to her waist. “Now tuck it in properly, I don’t want to trip over the edge,” she ordered. The boy stood and pushed a little of the paper skirt into the front of her knickers. “You’ll have to push it in more than that,” she exclaimed, “it’ll be out in no time, else”. The boy pushed a little more paper. “More,” she ordered. So he did and then shivered with surprise as he felt the back of his fingertips brush something which felt a little like his kitten. Angel cleared her throat and continued rather hoarsely, “Right, now the same in the back.” A little more boldly the boy slid the paper skirt over her soft rounded buttocks, and, without any idea why, gave a little squeeze as he withdrew his hand. “Cheeky!” said Angel, this time with undisguised pleasure. He then helped to put the tunic over her head and was a little disappointed that she didn’t need anything further tucking in. “Now your turn …” the boy blanched a little, “… But don’t worry; you can keep your trousers on. These black leggings were cover them up, no bother.” The boy slipped the leggings on while Angel regarded him pensively. “Hmm,” she mused, “You’ll have to take your shirt off ‘cos your dirty collar will stick up over the tunic. You won’t look much like a king then!” The boy did as requested and was amazed when Angel gave a sharp gasp. “God,” she exclaimed in a rush, without much pause for breath, “You’ve got brown nipples. Are you Italian? My mam says my dad had brown nipples. She says that’s how you can tell he’s Italian. Are you?” she finally demanded. “No, sorry, I’m Welsh. Some people from South Wales are darker, the Old Welsh,” Angel looked so disappointed he really wished he was Italian, just for her. He knew the story, of course. Angel’s dad was an Italian prisoner-of-war who had met her mum and, well, Angel and her sister were the result of the love affair. Angel’s dad had been re-settled in Italy and was setting up home for them and would send for them when it was ready … To change the subject, which he knew instinctively would kill the day’s good mood, the boy reminded her that the maids needed dressing. The maids were summoned from the flagged back yard and lined up for dressing. “Turn your back,” Angel told the boy: he knew why … it was rumoured that Rosie, who was a year younger than him, never wore knickers. Mind you, the same was said about Angel, and he knew that certainly was false. Eventually all three maids were dressed, the boy being allowed to help with his sisters. During the process they all practised the Maying Song: “We come to greet you here today And we hope you will not turn us away While we dance and sing our merry song On a maypole day” Angel then outlined the route they would take: three side streets to avoid the patches of Queens Janice and Elizabeth, the whole of Peel Street up and including the Hippodrome, and Broad Street when the pubs chucked out. After a brief rehearsal, with the little maids trying out their interlacing dance around the maypole, they set off in fine spirits. It was a beautiful sunny day, and most householders were civil to them when they knocked and gave their little performance. Oh Mrs Costello was as mean and brusque as usual: “Bugger off!” she yelled, “Bloody beggars .. you’re nowt else!” but almost all the others were very complimentary to a blushing Angel as they praised her costume design and said how pretty she looked. The boy had to agree – she looked magical, like a storybook princess. They collected quite a lot of money from the house calls, and even more when they caught the matinee audience from the Hippodrome as they left the theatre. It was a little early for the afternoon time-call at the pubs, so they made their way to the steps of the town hall to rest and count the money collected up to now. Angel tipped the money from the collection tin beside her on the step and began to count, the boy looking on and stacking the coins in readiness. The little ones were climbing the outside edge of the steps holding on to the rails, and an alert Angel noticed the boy’s eyes slide to the side and up as Rosie made her way up. The boy grunted in pain as Angel’s sharp elbow dug into his ribs – very hard. “Don’t bother looking,” she said icily, “No, she’s not wearing any … but she won’t look any different from your sisters on bath night. She’s too young!” The boy said nothing and looked fixedly at his fidgeting feet. Angel’s voice softened as she added, “But perhaps you can help me get dressed when we get back …. Because that might be much more interesting, for both of us” The boy looked up and she was smiling. The rest of the afternoon passed without much incident, although they once spotted Rob coming out of the Rose and Crown and they hid in a side alley. Rob would have been delighted to tell his mam, and his mam didn’t approve of something she thought was beggary. They divided the money evenly on the Town Hall steps and made their way back to Angel’s house. The boy could tell that Angel was as excited as he because she very quickly arranged for the maids to change and go into the yard with the skipping rope. He didn’t even have to turn round. “Now it’s our turn to get changed,” said Angel meaningfully, “Are you ready for it?” The boy swallowed and nodded. “Help me off with my things then,” she invited with an encouraging smile, and the nervous boy felt instantly at ease. His excitement mounting, he moved towards her happily …. And they heard the grate of a key in a lock. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph … it’s my mam. Quick … take these,” she flung his clothes at him, “and get changed in the kitchen. I’ll change here. And close the bloody door!” she hissed urgently. Through the closed door the boy could hear Angel and her mum talking cheerfully about a letter from Italy. Phew! He was so relieved, no problems evidently. Mrs Mancini shouted at the closed door, “Are you decent, young man?” “Yes,” he replied. “Well come on in then.” He did, and she added “Have you had your tea?” The boy shook his head and before he could say anything further Angel said, “No, He said he’d better go home because he might want too much if he stays here much longer …” Mrs Mancini said, uncertainly “Ah, OK” and angel winked and blew a kiss behind her back. The boy called his sisters and off they went home. There was no answer when he knocked on Angel’s door a few days afterwards, and he was just about to give up and try later, when the next-door neighbour, Mrs Greenhough, poked her head from her doorway and informed him that they’d gone to Italy that morning. Mr Mancini had, at long last, set up a home for his family. 31st OCTOBER 1984 The desultory applause scattered throughout the conference hall was little consolation to him, though the gentle squeeze on his inner thigh by the classy blonde sitting next to him held some promise. Maybe later, after dinner and a few vodkatinis he could find out just how sympathetic she really was … Still, she’d definitely been the one to lead the applause after he’d harangued that ridiculous ministry harridan on the platform. Business Excellence Model indeed! …. just what exactly is excellent in business management? And more particularly how in hell could you apply these practices to schools? By increased evaluation she said, by setting more targets and by measuring, weighing and quantifying every blessed aspect of school life. Bollocks! How can you quantify happiness, how do you measure the achievement of a child who used to wet his trousers deliberately in order to avoid school … and now wants to attend on Saturdays too! At the end, he realised, he lost it completely … he’d called the platform speakers ‘a paltry collection of brain-dead ministry puppets’ He was not too proud of that. He shuffled along to the end of his row of seats, carefully avoiding feet and muttering “’Scuse please” At the end he turned to the platform and said loudly and clearly, “I do apologise for the juvenile name-calling. It was inexcusable. But I don’t apologise for reminding you all that the establishment of ‘business excellence’ in schools will mean the end of schools as communities. You’ve not just thrown the baby out with the bathwater, you’ve managed to sterilise the parents too!” With that he made his way through the shocked silence and out of the double doors at the end of the hall. Once through he leaned against the shut doors, vaguely aware that inside the hall the talk had resumed, and he wondered what the blue blazes had got into him? He’d heard rubbish at dozens of conferences before, and normally he was Mr Cool personified … he adopted what was good, and simply ignored what didn’t apply. No histrionics, no big deal …. but this time, he mused, the nonsense didn’t just involve extra unnecessary work for him but got right to the heart of his life’s work. This balderdash would hurt children, and he couldn’t allow that without a fight. He had thought that he would go to his room before dinner, maybe lie down, take a nap and clear this distressing interlude from his mind. It usually worked after a hard day. No, damn it, he thought, I’ll have a drink … a bit early, but what the hell! He had been impressed with the bar when he first visited on arrival at the hotel, mostly because the hotel hadn’t yet succumbed to the awful trend towards modernisation … it was good dark wood upholstered with tasteful burgundy and ivory regency design satin. Cosy and welcoming it was, made all the more homely because he’d already made friends with the barman - an unusually taciturn Irishman, with a wicked turn of wit – and his drink was now known. He caught Sean’s eye as he entered the room, and Sean held up a highball class and raised an eyebrow enquiringly. Thumbs up, yes thanks. The only other occupant was a shapely woman seated on of the bar stools, half-turned away from him, digging in her handbag. “Will you have one with me?” he asked her as she finished her search, “I hate drinking alone.” Sean, hearing this, gave Mike a little warning frown which was spotted very quickly by the woman. “Sean’s trying to tell you I’m on the game,” she said with a broad grin, “only he’s not very subtle, are you Sean?” Sean just muttered and turned away. “Doesn’t matter,” laughed the man, “I’d still like to buy you a drink … if you’re game!” They both guffawed loudly, and Sean placed a scotch and ice beside Mike’s vodkatini. They introduced themselves – she called herself Chantelle - and chatted a little … and Mike was both puzzled and intrigued by a growing sense of familiarity. He asked where she was from, and she seemed to stiffen. For the first time she looked him full in the face and with an immense shock he recognised her. God … it was Angel, he was absolutely sure … Angel and utterly gorgeous. Black expressive eyes and lush, wavy black shoulder-length hair. He was just about to ask her when her next comment stopped him short. “I’ll talk about anything, but not my past … no offence, I hope” He shook his head, “No problem,” was all he said …. but he simply couldn’t stop staring. He could see that his stare was beginning to disconcert her, when the street door suddenly slammed open and three young kids dressed for ‘trick or treat’ tumbled in holding a cocoa tin for a collection-box. They were a sorry bunch, costumes all printed plastic and ready made to boot. Dracula, a skeleton and a witch capered clumsily round one of the bar tables, dully chanting, “Trick or treat, trick or treat, trick or treat” much more, you could tell, in hope than in expectation. Mike looked on in admiration as Chantelle-Angel swivelled her bar-stool to face the visitation - simultaneously flashing him a glimpse of stocking-top and tender flesh, and pulling her skirt lower for modesty in front of the children. ‘Neat,’ thought Mike, ‘a touch of elegance. That’s my Angel!’ His Angel clapped in time to the children’s repetition, and then she opened her purse and drew out three pound coins. “Here you are kids” she laughed, “ that was great . One each …” She jabbed Mike in the ribs “He’s just finding his money,” she informed the now considerably more animated children. All eyes on Mike, who shrugged, sighed and popped a fiver in the cocoa tin. “’Bye,” they chorused, and left precipitately before anybody changed their mind. Chantelle tilted her head slightly, pursed her lips and very quietly said to Mike, “You were going to ignore them, weren’t you? Give them nowt? What’s up … do you think it’s begging or summat? I didn’t take you for a miser,” she finished. Mike laughed, “No, it’s nothing like that. I just don’t like this takeover by American customs, just because they’ve seen it on the telly. I’m quite happy with British collections like ‘penny for the guy’ or things like,” he hesitated very slightly, “May Queens. Happy days!” he sighed. Chantelle-Angel didn’t take the hint, though she didn’t continue the conversation either and seemed deep in thought for a moment or two. Mike made up his mind what he would do. “Another drink?” She nodded. “You don’t look English,” he said when their drinks arrived. “What is it … Spanish? Greek? Italian?” She looked up, surprise in her glance, “Well … I’m half Italian and half English.” She fiddled with her glass, spilled a little scotch onto her hand and licked it off slowly. “It’s a long story…” she finished lamely. Mike reached across and touched her arm lightly, “I’d like to hear … and, yes,” he interrupted as she was about to speak, “I do know your time’s money. So how much would a couple of hours of your time cost?” Sean moved to the other bar to allow a little privacy. “Depends what you want to do with your time,” she said briskly. “Just listen, and maybe chat a little. I’m temporarily lonely, that’s all” he stated. She looked doubtful. “Don’t worry,” he assured her, “I’m no perv. You won’t have to watch while I satisfy myself, I don’t want beating and I’m no more a voyeur than any other man. Just work out the top rate so you won’t lose out.” She dipped her head, took some sips of her scotch. She held the empty glass and examined it in the light. “Tell you what,” she smiled, “Maybe I’ll never learn but I trust you. Let’s have another of these and we’ll take it up to your room.” She halted her slide halfway off the bar stool. “You do have a room, don’t you?” He nodded, and she continued, “Well give me your arm, then. I do like some illusion of friendliness at least. People may even think you like me a little” ‘Oh but I do!’ he mused as they took the elevator to his floor. He wanted, surprisingly urgently, to kiss her, but he’d heard that might not be welcomed by someone in her line of work. When they entered his room she surprised him by giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek. “That’s for escorting me so nicely,” she smiled and made her way to the bed. He took the armchair under the window, and turned it to face her. She stared for a moment. “I do believe you’re serious …. So I get to keep my clothes on?” He replied with an amused shrug, “On, off … it’s up to you … you know how best you like to tell a story …” Chantelle raised one of her feet onto the bed and slightly parted her legs affording him a delectable view of her long legs. Ivory lace underwear and sheer black hold-ups, he noted approvingly. “Are you sure you don’t want one of my usual services,” she grinned, “I do believe it could be fun with you …” He shook his head. “Come on,” he added helpfully, “you said you were half Italian ….” She lifted her legs onto the bed, half tucked them under her and leaned on the piled pillows. And began her story. She told him that she had lived in Salford with a mother and sister until her early teens, but he knew that, and also that the three of them had moved to southern Italy to live her father and his family. The move was a disaster for her: she was plunged into a life of drudgery and humiliation and was made to feel extremely unwelcome by her father’s many relatives. If there was a dirty job to do in the primitive latrines or with the many animals she was given it, or her sister. Her mother was confined to the house slaving in the kitchen and the washroom with absolutely no modern appliances. It was all work and long hours with nothing but insults and contempt from her new family. Chantelle stopped at this point in the story, shook her head as if to clear it and murmured tearfully, “I never talked about this before. Perhaps I should have done. But that’s not the worst of it, not by a long way.” She coughed, cleared her throat appealed to Mike, “Can I sit with you for the rest of it? I need to be held, just a little.” Confident of his answer she left the bed and knelt down between his feet, resting her head on his thigh, one hand beneath her cheek, the other lightly laid on his knee. She closed her eyes. And told him that as she grew up, and developed into a very attractive young girl, their demands changed. At first it was just surreptitious handling beneath her skirts, barging in when she was taking a bath before the open fire and rough groping of her tender breasts. For the sake of peace, and so as not to upset her already hard-pressed mother, she said nothing. Until she found Rosie crying … they’d started on her. Angel stopped and looked up at him, her eyes glazed with unspilled tears. “I don’t think I want to say much more,” she sniffed, “just take it that mam got us home away from those animals…” She snuggled her head down on his thigh again, the warmth and the tiny movements having a predictable effect. ‘If she can just keep still a moment, maybe I’ll calm down,’ thought Mike reaching to draw her hair away from her cheek and stroking her tenderly from temple to chin. Chantelle remained quiet for what seemed an age, but not quite still, just little movements. Mike closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on anything but this lovely woman at his feet. He felt her slight weight lift from his lap, and opened his eyes. She was smiling up at him. “Do you know, you are sooo gentle,” she breathed, “is it possible I could, perhaps, stir your interest …” She slid her free hand upwards … “Oh ho! I can see I already have…” She stopped abruptly, looked up sharply and pleaded, “Please, please tell me that it wasn’t hearing what happened to me that turned you on…..” She saw by the shock in his eyes that nothing like that had occurred to him. “My God, Angel,” he spluttered, “how the hell could you think that of me!” She was staring intently at him now, her hand still slowly stroking his arousal. “What . did. you. just. call. me? Hm? …. Wait a minute …” She loosened his tie and slipped it out of the shirt collar. The shirt front buttons were opened one by one until she could draw the shirt apart to expose his chest. “Brown nipples! Bloody beautiful brown nipples. Are you Italian or … maybe … just common-or-garden Old Welsh?” She leaned forward and sucked a nipple delicately between her lips, giving him intense electric pleasure. She reached down and gave him a little squeeze. “There has been a slight delay …” she intoned like a station announcer, “but the train approaching the station…” She gripped the loose ends of his tie and began to lead him towards the bed. “But won’t you miss out on business … lose a few … erm …tricks?” he asked. “Oh,” she smiled very sweetly, “for both of us tonight, my long-delayed sweet love, there’ll be no more tricks … just treats.”