Loading...It was at the village fete that I saw her. I had just emerged from the main tent, after judging the sponge cake competition — a solemn duty for the parish vicar’s wife — and there she was, 20 yards away from me, paying for a go at the coconut shie. She looked even slimmer than I remembered her as a teenager. I thought at first that her short, spiky hair had turned prematurely grey;
then I realised, with little surprise, that she’d actually dyed it silver, with the odd darker streak for contrast. She was wearing a black T-shirt with the ugly motif of some heavy metal group on the front, a denim waistcoat which flapped as she threw, and skin-tight black leather trousers tucked into biker boots, silver buckles at the side. A silver skull and crossbones glinted in her ear lobe. Every inch the diesel dyke. Feeling faint with shock, I nearly turned away, ducked into the crowd, joined the audience milling around the country dancing stage. In some ways I wish I had — I could have just gone on with my nice simple life, and perhaps everything would have stayed the same. No, of course it wouldn’t: it’s a small village, we’d have met up sooner or later.
Instead, I stumbled towards her, hardly believing my eyes. I paused a foot from her as her arm pitched forward and a coconut fell to the grass with a soft thud. Almost whispering, I said, “Jack? Is it you?”
She turned and gave me her old familiar, self-confident grin, pinning me with those mesmerising grey eyes of hers. I realised they matched her hair. A jewelled stud glinted on one side of her nose. If she was surprised at seeing me, she didn’t show it. “Hi Suze, I wondered if you were still around. God, you’ve hardly changed.” Of course I’ve bloody changed. Christ, it’s been 25 years, more than half our lives. She must have seen the irritation pass across my face. She lowered her eyes, and murmured, “Well, I still recognised you straight off, anyway.” Unintentionally, my gaze drifted down her body. She still had perky breasts. I felt my face flush at the unbidden thought. In the middle of the village green, among all the noise and hubbub of the fete, we stood in a small bubble of silence, our eyes meeting, both awkward, unable to think of a thing to say to each other all this time. Ernie Rossan, who was running the coconut shie, approached oblivious of the atmosphere between us, brandishing Jack’s coconut. She took it from him, her eyes not leaving my face. She shrugged her bony shoulders, self-consciously. “So, how are you?” Her voice was huskier than I remembered — sexier.
At that moment my daughter same running up, my beautiful 20-year old daughter, home from university for the summer. She grabbed me by the arm, laughing. “Mum, come on, they’re waiting for you to draw the tombola.”
Then she sensed there was something odd here and quietened, staring curiously at this strange woman standing so close to me. Giving myself a mental shake, I forced a smile. “Hannah, this is an old friend of mine, Jackie Frankham. It is still Frankham, isn’t it? Jack, this is my daughter Hannah. Anyway, you’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got this raffle thing to draw. Unless you want to come and watch?”
I felt my heart sink slightly as Jack brandished two pink cloakroom tickets, the ones we’d been selling for weeks for the tombola. “I’ve bought these, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Her fingers were tipped with long nails, painted midnight blue.
I made my way across the grass, feeling Jack’s eyes boring into my back. Hannah walked beside me, her arm still linked through mine, still stealing intrigued glances over her shoulder at our smiling pursuer. I entered the marquee and made my way through the throng, to mock cheers and a smattering of applause. When I climbed onto the small stage I searched for Jack. She hung back by the entrance, half hidden behind a big ruddy-faced farmer. Trying to concentrate on the task in hand, I manufactured a plastic smile and began to roll the big drum containing the tickets. “Okay, first out, yellow 62.” When I finished I looked for Jack again. There was no sign of her; she must have slipped out at some point during my ‘performance’.
That evening, Hannah pumped me for information about Jack: who she was, where she’d come from. Clearly she’d picked up that there was some story there. Trying to conceal my annoyance, I pretended to be concentrating on NCIS on TV and said, “I told you darling, she’s an old friend. We were at school together. She moved away years ago. I haven’t seen her since, and I don’t know a thing about her.”
Hannah persisted. “She looked pretty butch to me. Do you know her Dad?”
Roger looked up from his Guardian newspaper, taking his unlit pipe from his mouth. “No, I don’t think so. Must have left before my time. Point her out to me if she turns up at church tomorrow.”
Profoundly wishing I could shut them both up with just a hard stare, the way Mark Harmon does to his team, I sighed. “I doubt that. She’s not really the churchgoing type.” I went to bed trying not to think about Jack. She didn’t figure in my dreams — at least, if she did I didn’t remember. But the next morning, sitting in the pew at St Mark’s, as Mrs Driver played the organ while the congregation slowly ambled in, I stared blankly at the list of hymn numbers hanging on the wall and allowed my mind to drift back a quarter of a century…
Millgate Crossing is one of those quaint Olde English villages which overseas tourists visit by the bus load to snap pictures, have refreshments in the pretty little tea rooms, maybe a ploughman’s lunch in the traditional village inn, then move on and leave us in peace until the next lot show up. Awarded a Royal Charter in 1392, voted the prettiest village in the country numerous times, featured in calendars, once the setting for a BBC historical drama series. We have picturesque streets of old thatched cottages, a large village green, a river with an old stone bridge and swans, a duck pond complete with Aylesbury ducks, a celebrated romantic poet buried in the churchyard, the whole works. God, it was a dull, stifling place for a young girl to grow up in the early 1980s. Especially the daughter of the local Church of England priest.
I was a good girl. Naturally. I wasn’t like the rather common children growing up on the new housing estate the council had imposed on the edge of the village 30 years earlier, 50 or so ugly, nondescript houses which those of us in the ‘old village’ tried to pretend didn’t exist. The original families there had been resettled from the slums of London, and nothing much had changed. My father referred to the residents as “working class oiks” and “reject scum”. I didn’t like my father very much. I was also genuinely quite intimidated by him. He was a big man in a flowing black cassock, long after that look had become unfashionable among Anglican clerics. He was an old style Christian, with a great belief in hellfire and damnation, and freely shared his views on who among the local populace and the wider world merited that fate. (Socialists, feminists, trade unionists, ‘queers’, the usual suspects.) My mother was a small woman, very quiet and rather grey. She tended to go unnoticed alongside my father. I always told myself that the first chance I got I would flee his influence and never have anything to do with the bloody Church of England and its nasty phobic views ever again.
I was never a great beauty. I had a pretty enough face, with good bone structure and rosy cheeks, and light brown hair which dangled halfway down my back. In terms of build, though, I took after father. I was ‘big boned’, as they say: I reached my current height, five-feet-ten, by the age of 16, I had wide shoulders, wide hips, long sturdy legs and size 11 feet. I was quite embarrassed by my feet, but then I read Britt Ekland’s were 11s too, which made me feel a bit better. I wasn’t fat — that’s what big boned is taken to mean these days — but I had big boobs and a large bum. Lord knows where Hannah gets her beauty and her divine, slim figure from.
I wasn’t the type of girl boys chatted up at discos and that kind of thing; them knowing who my father was couldn’t have helped. I didn’t come into contact with the opposite sex at school, either. I attended the fee paying girls’ grammar school in the local town. Every morning I would get on the bus and quietly sit in a front seat reading a novel — Jane Eyre, Rebecca, I had quite a taste for dramatic heroines in my youth. A couple of stops later, the kids from the estate would start getting on. They all went to the scummy comprehensive school. The noise on the bus would rapidly increase, with screams of laughter, swearing, satchels being thrown around, and I would tuck my head into my book and hope they didn’t notice me. Then, one day, one of them did.
I had just turned 18 at the time. I was happily ensconced in the world of D H Lawrence, part of my A Level English Lit studies, when I felt the bus bench seat I was sitting on sag slightly as someone flopped heavily down beside me. I looked up, surprised — and saw a pair of dove grey eyes staring at me. I had never seen such unusual eyes before. They were surrounded by a mop of spiky yellow hair, mischievously arched blonde eyebrows, high cheekbones in a thin face, with a long, pointed nose, a small mouth with thin lips, and a rounded, dimpled chin. The mouth was extended in a lopsided, rather cocky grin. She wore a school uniform, not dissimilar to mine; but whereas mine was freshly pressed and gleaming, hers was rumpled, grubby, and somewhat askew. I hadn’t seen her before; but then, I tried not to look at the estate brats, for all I knew she could have been getting the same bus as me every day for five years. She nodded at my book. “‘Ello mate, watcha readin’?” The accent was what I thought of as Cockney.
Irritated by the interruption, I replied, “It’s called a book”, and returned my gaze to it, hoping she’d take the hint. She was completely unfazed by my sarcasm. A moment later I gasped as my novel was whipped out of my hand. I was convinced I’d never see it again, that it would get tossed into the scrum of yobbos at the back of the bus. I felt tears springing to my eyes as I wheedled, “Please, it’s not mine, give it back.”
She looked up at me, apparently astonished at the panic I was displaying. Seemingly trying to reassure me, she said gently, “‘S all right, I’m just lookin’ at it — Susannah. You’ll get it back.” She’d seen my personalised bookmark. “Don’t you hate being lumbered with a poncey name? I’m Jack by the way — short for Jacqueline.” She pronounced it with an exaggerated French accent, rolling her eyes as she did so. She glanced at the cover of my book. “Sons and Lovers — any good is it?” I shrugged, unsure what to say, and feeling timid at this intrusion on my privacy. She started flicking through the book, reading passages.
After a minute or so, during which I sat in tense silence, staring straight ahead of me, a couple of the other estate girls crashed onto the seat behind us. They had wicked grins, and a nasty gleam in their eyes. I jumped as one of them ran her fingers through my long ponytail. “Watcha doin’ with this stuck-up cow Jack? Oi darlin’, d’you fancy a snog?” The newcomers cackled.
My new companion whirled round to face them as if she was sitting on a turntable. She stabbed a finger at them, and hissed, “You! Shut it!” The viciousness in her voice was unmistakeable, and had an immediate effect. The other girls didn’t move away, but they slumped back in their seat, one of them staring sulkily into her lap, the other suddenly developing a fascination with the passing scenery. I felt even more nervous now. The girl sitting next to me was petite — probably six inches shorter than I was, and skinny — but the others were clearly scared of her. What the heck was she?
As if nothing had happened, Jack handed the book back to me with another smile. “Yeah, it looks interesting, I might give it a try. I like reading. Books, I mean.” She gave me a cheesecake grin. “Have you heard of Jane Rule, Rita Mae Brown? No? How about Radclyffe Hall? You ought to read some of them, broaden your horizons.” She gave me a wink. “Anyway, cheers Susannah, this is our stop.” Giving her sullen friends a brooding look she rose and swung off the bus. I glanced back at her as the vehicle pulled off. She gave me a little wave, and I quickly turned back in my seat, feeling my face flush.
Despite my initial irritation at the intrusion, I was intrigued by Jack. She was odd, not like anyone I’d ever met before. Common, but so pushy, so self-confident — so unlike me. I scribbled down the names of the authors she’d mentioned. I checked the school library at lunchtime but couldn’t find anything by any of them. After school I went to the municipal library. I found a battered Rita Mae Brown paperback, the cover half-obscured by a clouded plastic sleeve. It was called Rubyfruit Jungle. I had no idea what the term meant, but the cover called it ‘a novel about being different — and loving it’. Well, I thought, we’re all different, in our own way. I sat down and started flicking through the book. When I realised what it was about, and read a couple of particular passages, I shot to my feet and hurriedly tucked it back onto the shelf. I actually glanced nervously over my shoulder, to see if anyone had noticed me looking at it.
On the bus home, my head was spinning. We didn’t have exotic things like lesbians in Millgate Crossing — the last ones were probably burned at the stake in the 16th Century. Yet, that was what this girl Jack was reading about. She called herself a boy’s name too. Did that mean she was, well, one of them? And she’d come and sat next to me on the bus, and chatted to me. Chatted me up? If she was attracted to other girls, did that mean she…that I…the bus doors sighed as they opened at the final stop, my stop. I rushed home and buried myself in homework, trying to think about the climatology of South East Asia, the post-war rise of West Germany as an economic force, anything but Jack, and what…those sort of women…might do to each other…
“Mum…mum!” I felt a sharp tug at my arm. Blearily I glanced up — to see Hannah pulling at me. She was standing — then I realised everybody in the church was standing, except me. From the pulpit, Roger was staring at me, a look of pained irritation on his face. I leapt to my feet and back into the present day, and launched into song with everybody else. “Oh God our help in ages past, our hope for years to come…” That afternoon, while Roger was sleeping off the Sunday roast and Hannah was visiting her friend Alison, I relaxed on a sun lounger in our conservatory. I had intended to read a magazine, but I felt too drowsy for that. Instead, I just let my mind wander where it wanted to. I hadn’t meant to think about any particular subject, but I suppose it was inevitable that one came springing back into my consciousness…
The morning after Jack introduced herself to me for the first time, I sat nervously on the bus, staring out of the window as it approached her stop. There she was, standing slightly apart from the other kids boisterously pushing each other and passing a cigarette between them. Jack was gazing intently at the bus, and I saw a smile break out on her face when she spotted me. This time she immediately came and sat next to me. The two girls she’s snapped at the previous day stalked past her, pointedly ignoring her. As the bus moved off, Jack said, “Mornin’ Suze, how are you? How’s Paul Morel getting on?”
Her reference to Sons and Lovers threw me for a second; so did her use of my name. Nobody, at home, at school, anywhere, called me anything but ‘Susannah’. It seemed strange to be called Suze. I said I was fine and, being the politely brought-up girl I was, asked in return how she was. She gabbled away for a few minutes. I didn’t really listen, I was still trying to work out where this strange, exotic creature had suddenly sprung from into my existence. I realised she was holding something out to me. “Here, you should read this if you like proper literature. It’s a truly beautiful book.” Dreading seeing Rubyfruit Jungle in her hand, my eyes dropped. It was a volume called The Well Of Loneliness. The cover featured an illustration of two women, I thought in Edwardian costume, one apparently passing the other a bouquet of flowers. The author was Radclyffe Hall. Then I noticed other words on the cover: ‘The classic story of Lesbian love’. I looked up at Jack — she was watching me intently, as if gauging my reaction. Feeling slightly faint, I thanked her and tucked it hurriedly into my bag.
I had no intention of reading the silly book. While my father’s poisonous homophobia sickened me, I could imagine what these women did together, I didn’t need to read about it. But that evening, in bed, I thought I’d better at least have a glance at it, out of politeness, in case in case my new self-imposed friend asked me about it. I finally switched my bedroom light off at about 2.30am, tears streaming down my face. It wasn’t a great work of literature; there were no embarrassing sex scenes in it at all; but the story was heartrending, and I ached with the pain of the central character. I don’t think I’d ever read a book that so moved me. When I went downstairs for breakfast the next morning my head still swirled with the characters and the twisting plot. I felt faint and distracted, and my mother actually asked if I was unwell and wanted a day off school.
I returned the book to Jack on the bus that morning. She gave me an odd look, and said, “Oh, don’t you even want to give it a try?” I assured her I had read the whole thing from cover to cover, and tried to convey the effect it had had on me. Jack was silent for a moment when I finished speaking. Then she placed her hand on mine — the first actual physical contact we had ever had — and said, in almost a whisper, “Yeah, it affects me like that every time I read it.”
After that, Jack and I sat together on the bus every day. She started hanging around in town after school so she could get the same bus home as me too. In all those weeks, we never once met anywhere but on the bus. I didn’t think of her as a friend, just a travelling companion. But as the days went by I began to learn about her life: the fact that she was three days older than me; how much she’d hated it when the family had moved from their home in South London to “nowheresville” a year or so earlier; her drug dealing pig of a skinhead brother; her slutty mother, who’d moved for a man, had quickly lost him, and who I thought worked as a prostitute, although I was never entirely clear on that point. It sounded like the family from hell, and I began to understand why Jack was a bit ‘different’. Like me she was in the sixth form, studying for A Levels, but unlike me she had no intention of going to university. “Nah, once I’ve done my exams I’m out of here. I wanna travel, see the world, live a real life.” She told me one day that she’d lost her virginity at the age of 14, to a truck driver of about 30 with whom she’d hitched a lift. She laughed at the memory, but I was too shocked to say anything. She glanced coyly at me and asked, “What about you? Have you ever done it?”
I blushed furiously. “Yes, of course”, I lied. She asked me for details, but I umm’d and ahh’d and said I was a bit embarrassed to discuss it. The truth was, the nearest I’d come had been more than a year earlier, after a Christmas party for the kids who made up the choir at St Mark’s. Fuelled by an illicit glass of sherry, I’d had a rather sloppy snog with a short, chubby boy a year younger than me, in a corridor of the church vestry, but lost my nerve when he slipped his hand up my skirt and started groping me outside my pants. God, I’d hardly ever even touched myself ‘down there’ at that time!
One day, Jack wasn’t on the bus. I assumed she was ill or something, but she wasn’t there again the next day. I told myself it didn’t matter, after all, she wasn’t even a friend; but I felt a slight emptiness, and I missed her constant rabbiting away. When she failed to show up for a third day, I took my courage in my hands, walked back into the lion’s den of the estate kids, and asked one of her former friends if she knew where Jack was. The girl looked at me as if she’d just wiped me off the sole of her shoe, rolled her eyes then turned away from me again without a word.
That evening I found out why Jack hadn’t been around. I was walking out of the school gates, nattering with friends, when I heard a sound like a cross between an extended fart and a lawnmower engine. I looked round for the source, and Jack rolled to the kerb in front of me astride a Lambretta motor cycle, looking very pleased with herself. She called, “Hi Suze, d’ya wanna lift home?”
I gaped in astonishment, and walked slowly over to her. She had a graze on her face, and one of her wrists was bandaged. I asked her what had happened to her. She grinned. “Oh, just a few teething troubles getting used to this thing. So do you want a ride home?” I was aware of my friends standing bemusedly a few feet away, wondering who this weird creature was that I was speaking to. I began to explain I had my bus pass, but Jack interrupted me. “Well, it’s up to you. You can either sit on the bus, toiling through every village on the county for over an hour, or I can have you at your front door in half an hour. Your choice.”
She had a good point and, reluctantly, I agreed. As my friends watched in open amusement, I swung my leg over the bike. Then a thought occurred to me. “Don’t I need a helmet? And anyway, should you even be riding this thing if your wrist’s still bandaged?”
Jack laughed. “It’s fine. And no, you don’t need a helmet as long as you hold on tight. You need to put your arms round my waist. Tighter than that Suze, if you don’t want to fall off and break your neck. That’s better.” My friends were in hysterics now, and cheered as Jack revved the engine and pulled away. That ride was the most exhilarating experience of my entire life up to that point. Once we got out of the town centre Jack opened up the throttle, and we whipped along the road, my hair streaming behind me in the wind. My adrenalin was pumping, and when Jack took a hill too quickly and we flew into the air for a moment I actually whooped! I had never known excitement like it. I got Jack to drop me some distance from home, so my parents wouldn’t see me. As I walked home I rapidly dragged a brush through my tangled hair. After that, I pretended every morning that I was leaving home to catch the bus, but instead I rendezvoused with Jack and she drove me into town, then took me back again each evening. Each day I clung tightly to her waist as the powerful little machine throbbed between my legs. I insisted on wearing a helmet, which Jack kept for me.
One afternoon, as I got off the bike, Jack placed her hand on mine, stopping me. “Suze, I’m taking the bike on a run down to Brighton at the weekend. I wondered if you fancied coming along?” Brighton was quite a distance from Millgate Crossing, especially on a little motorbike. But there was a look of appeal on Jack’s face. She was giving me these lifts every day, we never met up apart from that, and she wouldn’t even let me give her petrol money. I smiled and nodded. She grinned delightedly and, as she accelerated away, called out, “Bring yer cozzie!”
On the Friday night I told my mother a friend and I were taking a train down to Brighton for the day. She was interested to know who this friend was, but I bluffed my way through that. In my bedroom I debated with myself which swimming costume I should take: the standard one piece I wore for school; or the more daring blue halter-neck two-piece I had bought in a moment of madness, but never had the courage to wear outside my room. After fully ten minutes of indecision, I thought, “Oh to heck with it, I bought the ruddy thing, I might as well get some use out of it.” After all, it was quite modest, as bikinis went.
Jack and I met early on Saturday morning and had a fun ride down to Brighton. On the way we stopped at a transport café where we had a disgusting, greasy, wonderful fried breakfast, and we giggled to each other pretending not to notice truckers from halfway across Europe ogling us. When we arrived in the South Coast resort Jack parked her bike alongside a hundred others, and I slipped off the jeans and sweatshirt I’d travelled in to reveal shorts and a vest top, beneath which I had on the bikini. Jack’s eyes roved up and down my body, and she murmured, “Cor, you’ve got great legs Suze. I’m envious.” Chattering happily, we made our way towards the beach.
As we approached the seafront I vaguely noticed one or two middle-aged men with binoculars pointed towards the sea, but it didn’t really register until I got onto the shingle itself. Then I glanced around me — and did a double-take. I turned to my friend and squeaked, “Jack, you have got to be joking!” I’d heard of Brighton’s infamous nude beach, of course — but never in my life had I thought I would ever actually stand on it. Jack gurgled with laughter at my reaction and started whipping off her T-shirt, beneath which she was nude. Moving her hands to her tracksuit trousers, she said, “Come on Suze, Reverend Daddy’s not here now. Live a bit.” I glanced away in embarrassment as she stood before me entirely naked, stretching out the blanket she’d brought for us to lie on on the rough, pebbly beach. I was torn by indecision. Finally, seeing Jack settle herself, I blurted, “Oh…fizz!” and, angrily ripped off my outer clothing, as Jacks snorted with laughter and started to sing David Bowie’s Rebel Rebel.
I threw myself down on the blanket beside her, determined to be angry with her. The beach wasn’t very comfortable, even through the thick wool. Jack, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses, leaned up on her elbows and said, “Is that it?” I whirled to face her. She inclined her head toward a public notice, and said, “This is a nudist beach, as in not having clothes on. They don’t allow you on here unless you are nude, otherwise every perv in Brighton’d be down here.” I allowed myself a suppressed scream of rage. Next thing I knew, Jack was sitting up and fiddling with the catch of my bikini bra. “At least take your top off. I’m sure they won’t mind if you keep your knicks on.” Before I could stop her my bra swung loose and, seeing little choice, I reluctantly shrugged it off. Jack stared openly at my big swinging boobs and chuckled, “Bugger me, I’m jealous again!”
I lay back on the blanket self-consciously. Gradually, though, I allowed myself to relax. The feel of the warm sun on my skin was nice, and everyone else on the beach was at least as bare as I was. As for those horrible dirty old men with their binoculars, well, it wasn’t as if any of them knew me. After a while, I glanced over at Jack, who appeared to be asleep, one knee raised. Her skin seemed almost deathly pale. Feeling slightly like a voyeur myself, I took in the sight of her. She really was skinny — her ribs stood out under her skin, as did her hip bones, and there wasn’t that much of her arms and legs either. Her boobs, although small, stood up perkily, even though she was lying on her back. Her nipples were round, like berries, and they and her small areola were very pale pink, not much darker than her skin. The little tuft of hair in her groin area was more ginger than the yellow of her head. I turned my head away from her, feeling myself blush. It was really nice of her taking me to Brighton, I thought. She could be a good friend to me, I really should start seeing more of her than just twice a day on that bike, when we couldn’t even talk properly. Suddenly feeling very warm towards Jack, I stroked my hand lightly down her arm. Her lips curled in a smile and her hand scrabbled, intertwining her fingers with mine.
I’m not sure how long after that I feel asleep, lulled by the rhythmic sound of the sea, and the heat of the sun, but I was probably out of it for a couple of hours. I awoke to a shadow falling across my eyelids. I opened them slowly to find jack leaning over me, smiling down at me, no longer wearing her shades. The tip of one of her conical breasts pressed lightly into the flesh of one of my boobs. She half-whispered, “Welcome back to the land of the living, beautiful dreamer.” I smiled back at her and yawned. Then, feeling the need to stretch, I splayed out my arms. That was the moment she chose to kiss me.
She crushed her lips hard onto mine, sliding her body so that she lay half on top of me, her boobs, slick with sun tan lotion, pushing into mine. Instinctively my arms jerked back in, and settled around her, as if I were pulling her to me. She lifted her face from mine, gazed at me for a moment, then kissed me again, more tenderly, her teeth gently plucking at my lower lip. I wasn’t particularly alarmed at what was happening, or pleased, or anything really. Still slightly dopey from my sleep, I was more confused than anything. I mumbled, “Jack, what are you doing? Should we be doing this?””
Barely breaking the kiss, her lips still brushing mine as she spoke, she whispered, “Ssh, it’s all right, all we’re doing is snogging, there’s nothing wrong in that. It’s just friendly, snogging is. I only want to show you how much I like you.” At the time (this is how naïve I was in those days!) I thought what she said seemed reasonable. Kissing was innocent enough, and it was very nice, and we were friends. My brain chose to ignore the fact that my nipples were stiffening as her breasts slid against them. When she started snogging me again, I returned the kiss, and I left my arms around her warm, bare back. Within a couple of minutes I’d allowed her tongue to slip between my lips. Another minute or so, and I felt a small, warm hand stroke my breast, the palm pressing against my straining nipple. My body was beginning to heat up with much more than solar power. As she squeezed my boob my shoulder lifted, pushing my tit hard against her hand. I felt her knee slip between my legs, her thigh rubbing at the V at the top of my legs. Acting entirely on their own, my hips began moving back and forth, sliding my heated pussy against her thigh muscle.
If we had been in a private place, she might have tried to have me right there — and I might very well have let her. As it was, I suddenly remembered we were on a busy beach, among dozens of other people. I pulled my head away from hers and started to slide from underneath her, muttering, “Time’s getting on, I think we need to start getting back.” I glanced around me. A few people were staring at us, one or two smirking at the free show they’d been enjoying. Jack looked a little crestfallen at first, but as I stood, reached down and helped her up a slow smile spread across her face. I think she knew right then she hadn’t been rejected; that the inevitable had just been postponed.
I walked on shaky legs back to the Lambretta, feeling the gusset of my bikini pants sticking to my pussy. We drove directly back to the village, and all the way I thought about what had happened, and what on earth I had been doing on that beach. When we arrived I leapt off the bike with a mumbled farewell and hurtled home like a scared rabbit, before Jack had a chance to say a word to me. In bed that night, though, and all day Sunday, I continued to think about it. I knew my father regarded homosexuality as a heinous sin. But did just letting Jack kiss me — all right, kissing her back too — did that make me a homosexual? Even if it did, her kisses felt so good, not to mention her hand on my boob and her thigh between my legs. And anyway, now I was beginning to get to know her I liked her; I liked her a lot. At least a girl couldn’t get me pregnant!
On the Monday she didn’t refer to what had happened between us, other than asking how I’d enjoyed the day out. In the evening, as I swung my leg over the bike and removed my helmet, she caught me by the wrist and gave me a kiss on the cheek. The next day she went further. She got off the bike as well, pulled my face down to hers, and kissed me on the lips, slipping her tongue between my teeth as I gasped in surprise. I panicked slightly, in case anyone saw us and word got back to my parents. As she released me I turned to rush away but she clung onto my hand. “Hang on Suze, I wanted to ask you something. My mum’s going to be away tomorrow night, and my brother’s moved back to London. I wondered if you fancied coming round for the evening. We could have a burger, a few drinks, watch a bit of TV, listen to music, whatever. We’ve never really had much of a chance to get to know each other properly. What do you think?”
It all sounded perfectly innocent. But I knew it wasn’t. Not meeting her eyes, I told her I’d think about it and let her know. Yet less than an hour later, over our evening meal, I told my parents I wouldn’t be home for dinner the next night. I’d agreed to meet up with a friend from school to work together for our exams. My father looked annoyed — the family sitting down together was a big thing to him. But my mother just nodded and carried on with her meal. When I met up with Jack the next day, the first thing she asked me was whether I was on for the evening. Concentrating on buckling on my helmet, I murmured, “Er, yeah, okay.” I tried to sound casual; I failed miserably.
I had butterflies in my tummy all day, and I couldn’t wait for school to end. As I clung to Jack’s waist on the ride to Millgate Crossing I could feel my heart thumping against her back. She swung the bike up the hill into the estate, and pulled into the driveway of a rather dingy looking semi-detached house, the lower half pebble dashed, the upper half painted a sickly light green. Jack swung open a cheap looking grey front door and led me along a threadbare hall carpet to a comfy looking sitting room with a plump two-seater sofa and armchairs, all covered in a cream material patterned with big red flowers, matching the wallpaper. She switched on a couple of table lamps and drew the curtains, leaving the room subtly lit. Shooting me a nervous smile, she said, “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll cook us up some burgers.” She took my coat and school blazer and draped them over one of the chairs. I lowered myself onto the sofa, removing my tie and undoing a couple of buttons on my blouse, trying hard to relax.
We kind of chatted, me perching uneasily on the edge of the sofa, Jack calling comments through the open kitchen door as she worked, over the sizzle of frying onions. In about 10 minutes she re-appeared, carrying a tray containing two plates with burgers in buns, complete with the onions and lettuce, accompanied by plastic bottles of ketchup and mustard, and two cheap wine glasses containing a pink liquid. I was quite impressed — it all looked very professional. Jack giggled happily when I told her that, and placed the tray on a low coffee table in front of me. Then she squatted in front of a stereo unit in the corner, selected a CD called ’70s Love Ballads, and slid it into the machine.
As Could It Be I’m Falling In Love by the Detroit Spinners began to play she flopped down on the sofa beside me and nodded at the tray. “Well, tuck in.” The burger was a little more well done than I’d have liked, but she’d inserted a Kraft cheese slice in the bun as well, and it was delicious — I suddenly realised I was starving. We munched away in silence, letting the music drift over us and sipping our wine. It was a rosé, quite sweet and slightly fizzy. I hardly ever drank alcohol, and I quickly felt it warming my cheeks and forehead.
The combination of the burger, the wine and the heat emanating from the three-bar electric heater Jack had switched on made me feel much more relaxed, and I leaned back into the sofa. Jack tucked her legs under her and angled her body towards me. Smiling, she said, “This is nice, isn’t it.” Not very subtly, she slipped an arm around my shoulders. I turned my head to look at her — then we were kissing again. Quite softly at first, but gradually she upped the pace, nibbling at my lower lip, licking her tongue along my teeth. As we melded to each other a hand closed over one of my boobs, and she started to gently squeeze. Not sure what to do with my hands, I sort of put my arms around her and placed them lightly on her back.
We snogged for several minutes before we finally came up for air. Jack smiled at me, and with a finger she stroked a strand of my hair off my face. She whispered, “I fancied you from the first moment I saw you on that bus. I kept trying to catch your eye, but you always had your nose buried in a book. It took me months to pluck up the courage to come and talk to you.” I wasn’t used to such talk, and with that and the wine I felt my face blushing furiously. I lowered my eyes shyly. Jack caught my chin in a hand and raised it, then we were kissing again.
Even though she was smaller and lighter than me, she bore down on me and I gradually slid down the sofa, beneath her, my skirt slipping up my backside to reveal my big grey school pants. I bent my knees to accommodate my height on the short sofa. Between kisses Jack started whispering again. “And when I did come and sit next to you that day, and talk to you, you were so scared of me!” Kiss. “Last week, in Brighton, I couldn’t believe it when you agreed to stay on the nude beach, you know!” Kiss. “I thought you’d stalk off in a strop.” Kiss. “When I saw your tits,” kiss, “I wasn’t sure how long I could keep my hands off you.” As she said that, she used one hand to undo my blouse, one button at a time. I just watched, slightly dazed. Then I shuddered as I felt her fingers stroke the skin of my stomach, just below my bra.
We kissed some more, then Jack said, “Sit up a minute.” I was so under her spell I didn’t think twice, simply obeyed. She reached her arms around me, inside my blouse, and I felt my bra snap open. Then she bore me back down, and as her tongue entered my mouth again I felt her hands close over my bare boobs, her palms rubbing my nipples. I had never felt so scared in my life, yet at the same time so excited. Uncertainly, I pressed my hand to one of her little boobs, outside her blouse. She moaned encouragement into my mouth, and pushed hard against my hand. Then she released one of my tits, and grabbed my hand, thrust it between the buttons of her blouse and straight into her bra. Her boob felt warm against my hand, the nipple a hard nub against my skin. Unsure of what to do, I moved my hand in small circular motions. I felt a tremor of shock as Jack ducked her head and took one of my nipples between her teeth. She bit gently into it and I moaned involuntarily, and my hips bucked against her weight on top of me. As she ran her tongue across the skin of my breast, I heard her murmur, “We can go upstairs if you like, to my bedroom.”
I froze. I don’t know what the hell difference I thought it made — after all, we were all alone in the house wherever she was seducing me — but to my confused 18-year old mind there was something different about going into another person’s room with them: it felt like crossing an invisible line. What we were doing at the moment was just ‘necking’, as they said in American teen movies. I think I really believed that. Lifting my hand from her boob I said clearly, “No, I don’t think we better had.”
I thought for a moment Jack would overrule me — in the state I was in she could have done, easily. But she just mumbled, “Okay, not this time”, and sucked my boob back into her mouth. She pressed her own boob back against my hand, and I began gently squeezing it.
I got a little scared when I felt her fingers slip beneath the waistband of my pants. I scrabbled at her wrist and grabbed it. She paused her hand for maybe 30 seconds, just holding it there. She increased the pressure of her mouth on mine, then subtly started slipping her hand down again. That time I let her. I felt her fingers trail through my bushy pubes, then it felt as if a tongue of fire shot through my body as she touched my pussy. Whether by luck or design, her finger had landed straight on my clitoris. She slid several fingers into my tight slit and began to stroke me. I heard a sort of whining noise, and realised it was coming from me.
I’m afraid I completely forgot about stroking Jack’s boob, or doing anything else for her, at that point. I felt guilty about that later. I clung to her shoulders with my hands, pulling her down on me, my whole body pushing up at her, desperate for her to continue to give me the unbelievable feelings of ecstasy that she was creating in my pussy. I felt as if I was burning up. I was aware of a building sensation, almost like a kettle boiling. Then suddenly my whole body spasmed, nearly throwing Jack off me, and my thighs locked together, trapping her hand inside me, as the most incredible waves of electricity flared up me, over and over. My hips jerked at her time after time, and I buried my face in her shoulder and screamed.
Afterwards I started to feel very tired, and I suddenly wanted very much to be at home, in my bed. Jack seemed to understand that instinctively. She kissed me gently, stroking my hair and wiping tears from my cheeks, then stood and, rearranging her blouse, said, “Come on I’ll walk you back down the hill.” I was glad of that — I had never walked around in the council estate during daylight hours, let alone at night. When we got close to the vicarage, Jack pulled me into the shade of a tree and gave me a full-blooded French kiss. Then, looking slightly worried, she whispered, “We will do that again, won’t we Suze?” Biting my lip I nodded, not sure if I meant it, then I ran into my home. I tucked my head around the sitting room door to say hello to my parents, then dashed up to bed. Later that night I slipped my hand between my legs, and tried to re-create the feelings Jack had given me. I managed only a pale imitation.
We did do it again, of course — two days later. On that occasion Jack didn’t give me the slightest choice where we went. A tension crackled between us the day after that first time, and as I got off Jack’s bike in the evening, she simply said, “Tell your folks you’re studying with your mate again tomorrow night.” After that she took total control. She met me out of school the next evening as usual, and I meekly followed her to a greasy spoon café where we both had sausage, egg and chips. Then Jack rode back to her house, took my hand and led me straight up the stairs to her bedroom. She briskly stripped me down to my pants, then took all her clothes off. My head was in a whirl, and I just stood and raised my arms and legs when instructed to allow her to do it.
Finally, she knelt in front of me and slipped my drawers down my legs. I jumped as she reached around me and clutched my buttocks in her hands, and buried her nose in the top of my pussy and inhaled deeply. Then she stood and, giving me an encouraging smile, eased me under the covers of her narrow bed and got in with me. We went through much the same stages as before — the increasingly passionate kisses, Jack sucking my boobs while I stroked hers, her fingers tickling around my pussy lips, although she didn’t actually enter me at first. I had seen her naked before, but never really held her. It felt strange at first, then increasingly enjoyable, her cool flesh pressing against mine, her little boobs rubbing mine, her pubes tickling against me.
After she had given both my boobs an extensive suck, I felt her squirming further down my body. I suddenly felt scared and a little confused. I asked, “Jack, what are you doing? What…oh heck!” Jesus, that’s what I actually said the first time someone started to eat me out — heck! It took me totally by surprise. I suppose I had sort of worked out that girls kissed each other there, but I had never thought about it happening to me. If I had thought Jack’s fingers swirling about in my pussy was lovely, I was totally unprepared for the combination of her tongue licking at my raw flesh while her fingers stroked my clit and labia. The skin of my entire body tingled, and I felt levels of joy I hadn’t dreamed it was possible to experience. I writhed and squirmed under her, Jack holding me down as I bucked to my second screaming, sobbing orgasm.
I lay temporarily exhausted as she tickled my boobs with her fingers and planted butterfly kisses on my face. Then she whispered, “Suze, it’d be nice if you did something for me.” I knew that was coming. I rolled on top of her and tried to give her the same pleasure she’d given me, twice. I kissed her deeply, and sucked her boobs. They felt harder than I would have expected, her nipples like peanuts. I enjoyed the sensation though. She murmured, “Bleeding hell” when I slipped my hand between her legs. I pushed two fingers inside her and began to pump them in and out, kissing her and squeezing her boob with my other hand. As she started to heat up her pale face turned red and her knees rose, her legs doubled up. She grabbed my wrist and started pushing my hand into her deeper, faster. Then she yelped, and I felt her pussy lips tighten around my fingers and an increased intensity in the warm wetness inside her.
She smiled at me, her eyes shining, and gave me an almost sisterly kiss on the lips and a hug. Rolling me onto my side, she lay facing me and said, “Thanks Suze, I…really like you. I think you’re so lovely.” Feeling a mixture of pleasure for the joy I’d given her, and my usual embarrassment at receiving any personal compliment, I told her I thought she was lovely too. We kissed and cuddled for a while longer, and I ended up rubbing myself to another small orgasm on Jack’s thigh. Then we dressed and returned downstairs. I was shocked to see a woman, several years younger than my mother, sitting at the kitchen table smoking. She had blonde hair with dark roots, and glanced at me with dead eyes. Jack flushed and said, “Oh, mum, I didn’t think you were coming back tonight. This is my friend, Susannah. We were just, er…” The woman stared at me without speaking. I knew with terrible certainty that she had no illusions about her daughter; that she knew exactly what we ‘were just’.
Jack and I both finished school shortly after that. I had four good A Levels and my secure place at the University of East Surrey, Jack had one A Level and no intention of ever studying again. That summer the weather was glorious, and we spent as much time in each other’s company as possible. We went down to Brighton again — I still refused to take my bikini bottoms off on the naturist beach — and we went on other trips. We made love at every opportunity. It was usually in the open air, so the most we could do was, kiss, suck each other’s boobs and frig each other, without removing our clothes. But a few times we slipped into Jack’s house when it was empty and went to bed together. I loved those times. She sucked my pussy until it ached, and I became quite skilled at making her come with my hands.
The one thing I never did was lick her out, the way she so lovingly did for me. I did try once — my face was within inches of her slit, the pale pink lips peering out between her ginger hairs — but I just couldn’t bring myself to press my face to her. I rose back up the bed with tears running down my cheeks, and whined, “I’m sorry Jack, I just can’t, I really can’t.”
She gave me a brave smile, and kissed me. “That’s okay Suze. I love you letting me do it to you, and I love what you do for me.”
We never talked about what would happen when the summer was over. Neither of us wanted to think about it. Three weeks before I was due to leave for uni, we did finally discuss it, in a café on the way back from a lovely day out. I tentatively suggested that Jack could get a job near the university, and we could get a flat together. She snorted in derision. “I told you once before Suze, I want to travel — see the world. I don’t want to be tied down for years while you ponce around with your student friends.” She gripped both of my hands over the table, and stared intently at me. “Don’t go to university — come with me.” I stared at her as if she was mad. I had known for years I was going to get a degree, and really make something of my life. I had no idea what, though.
We dropped the conversation at that point, but we both knew the discussion wasn’t over, and things started to get tense between us. Finally, after we’d made love one day in Jack’s bed — for the last time as it turned out — we sat at her kitchen table, and she said, “I’ve decided. I’m going up to London on Saturday. A mate’s agreed to put me up, and she’ll let you stay if you want to as well.”
I shook my head, not understanding. “I couldn’t commute from there to uni, it’s too far.”
Jack sighed in exasperation. “Suze, I’m asking you not to go to university. Come with me instead. We can get away from this stuck-up little community, and live together without anyone calling us names and shunning us, like they would here, or in East bloody Surrey.”
I was stunned by the very idea. “But what would I do if I didn’t go to uni? How would we live — toss burgers in McDonalds?”
Jack looked at me bleakly. “We’d get jobs to tide us over at first, but…it’d only be temporary Suze. I want to travel, and I want you with me. We’ll have fun. God, you’re so conventional — go to uni like mummy and daddy want you to, become a fucking lawyer or something, or maybe marry a nice young vicar just like Daddy…”
I shook my head vehemently, “I won’t be marrying any bloody vicar.”
Jack waved her hand, irritated at the interruption. “Whatever! Suze, I…I love you. I mean really love you. And I want us to be together. Please. I know you love me too.”
I had never felt more confused. I had always wanted to get a degree; suddenly I didn’t know what I wanted any more. And I didn’t understand why Jack was being so selfish, why she wouldn’t be happy to live with me while I studied. Without really thinking what I was saying, I blurted, “Jack I love…what we do together, and I really like you, but I don’t love you. Girls can’t love each other, not in that way, not really.”
She looked as if she was about to cry. I’d never seen Jack like that before. She gazed at me as if I was the biggest idiot on earth (which I was!), and slowly stood and walked to the kitchen door. Then she turned, and said, “Well, that’s it then,” and walked out. I let myself out of the kitchen feeling as if someone had torn a huge hole in my stomach. As I walked down the garden path I heard her call me. She said, in a voice trembling with emotion, “I’ll be leaving here on the bike at nine a.m. on Saturday. I’ll have your helmet ready. Please come with me. I meant it Suze, I’m in love with you.” Then she closed the door. On the Saturday morning I lay in bed, tears streaming down my face. Shortly after nine I heard a motor bike of some kind revving its engine in the street outside my bedroom window. Then it roared off.
I never did get my degree. Three months into my first year, I got word during a lecture that my father had had a stroke. I was surprised how devastated I felt. I really didn’t like him, but — well, he was my father, and I suppose deep down I did love him. Mum didn’t cope very well, she just withdrew into herself. I ended up pretty much looking after both of them, in the tiny cottage we moved into. I helped the new vicar too. He was a nice chap, quite a bit older than me. We increasingly spent a lot of time in each other’s company, and we laughed a lot together, and…I cursed myself on my wedding day. After years of promising myself I would have nothing more to do with the Church, I was only ending up marrying a sodding vicar — just like Jack predicted, damn her.
I was deeply, hopelessly in love with Jack, of course I was. I was just too much of a stupid little prig to admit it, even to myself; too scared, when push came to shove, of breaking out of the conventional strait-jacket I’d been brought up in, and actually starting to make my own decisions. I cried for weeks after she rode out of my life. Over the years I’ve worked hard at forgetting her, but I never really did. Especially in recent years, not a month has gone by when I haven’t thought about Jack, even shed a few tears, recalled the feel of her hands — and her mouth — on my body, wondered where she was, how she was doing, how it would have been if I’d just got up and gone with her that sunny Saturday morning. What might have happened if I’d told her I loved her too, instead of denying it, even to myself. And now, suddenly, I know exactly where she is: back in my old village, living five minutes walk from my home. I don’t know how she feels about me, after so long, and the way I abandoned her. But I know now that I’m still in love with her, at least, with the Jack I knew 25 years ago — and it scares the shit out of me.