'Indeed, yes,' he answered. 'And I quickly realised that the reason her previous employers had retained her services long past the time when most nannies have to pass on to another charge, must be connected with her very special abilities in the training of British manhood in the arts of the Orient.' 'And British womanhood, I gather,' said Gwendolen. 'I have to explain,' said George, 'that after the unfortunate public exposure of her affair with the adjutant, my mother took to her bedroom in shame for several days. Nanny, being of a kind and thoughtful disposition, spent many hours comforting her as she lay in her darkened room. She personally made sure that light meals were delivered to her. She shoo'd all the other servants away-and also my father who had been so upset when word reached him of the scandal that he fell off his polo pony and was accidentally struck on the head by the mallet of an over-enthusiastic brother officer.
Mother, in the meantime, aided by the skilled ministrations of Nanny, quickly discovered a new interest in life. So enthusiastic did she become in the erotic arts of the East that she quite soon set off in disguise, with only Nanny to accompany her, on a tour of some of the more explicit Indian temple sculptures. 'You may have seen,' said Gwendolen, 'a privately printed monograph of restricted circulation entitled An Introduction to the Eastern Art of Fucking, by a Lady Much Experienced in Those Parts. There was a somewhat dog-eared copy in circulation in the Senior Dorm in your last year.' 'That was George's mother!' I exclaimed. 'I have long wished to meet the author, if only to encourage her to publish a sequel.' 'So there are two members of George's family who have much to thank his nanny for,' said Gwendolen. 'And may I enquire if her services extended as far as your father?' I asked. 'Alas, No,' said George. 'Remaining true to what he considered the finest traditions of the British Empire, he continued to be what is vulgarly called a 'two-minute man' and was quite soon afterwards invalided out of the army with a nasty dose of something he picked up in an Officers Only establishment in Calcutta.
He retired to Ireland to breed horses and was sadly trampled to death by a mount of a nervous disposition while thrashing about in the straw of a horse box with a young girl from the village.' 'How terrible,' I said. 'Was the girl all right?' 'Bruised only,' said George. 'The family of course took pity on her-she could hardly remain in the village-and brought her over to London where she is still in service in my aunt's establishment. She recovered fully from her injuries and quickly resumed a most energetic life of fucking. I have in fact been honoured in turn to introduce her to those Eastern practices that I had learned at the hands of my nanny.' 'What a complicated family history you have,' I said. 'I am sure I should never be able to remember quite who did what and with whom.' 'Do not worry,' said Gwendolen. 'You are not about to be examined on the subject.' She must have seen the quick look of disappointment that passed across my face. 'At least not in the schoolroom sense of the word,' she went on hurriedly. 'I am sure a physical examination in the subject could be arranged.' 'An oral one too?' I asked, with a little shiver of daring. 'It would be my pleasure,' said George.
'It would be all our pleasures,' said Gwendolen firmly. 'George,' she went on, 'One thing I must tell you-I hope I do not embarrass you, Cecily dear-is that Cecily has a pair of the biggest, most delicious titties of anyone I know. I am almost beside myself in my desire to see them once more, and to feel them responding to my touch.'
'Oh, and your tongue too, Gwendolen dear,' I burstout. 'To feel myself being stroked and sucked into ecstasy. And then to rub them all over your own lovely titties while our fingers begin to explore each other's most secret parts. But I must not continue with these imaginings. I am becoming all wet with the thought of such an encounter.' 'We must indeed all sit quietly,' said George.
'Already I feel a bulging reminder that this is a public place and proper public behaviour is called for.' With this he sat down in the seat in front of us and began to adjust his tie and cuffs. 'But later we will all fuck,' said Gwendolen, quietly. We began to make small talk as the top deck filled up. George asked where we were going. I explained about the Private Viewing of my cousin Algernon's paintings. George, who had been going to visit his tailor somewhere off St James', decided that instead he would accompany us if that was acceptable to the two of us. We of course quickly agreed and apart from the promising warmth of Gwendolen's body as we sat squeezed together in our seat, the rest of the journey passed without incident.
The gallery was but a short walk from the omnibus route, in one of that maze of little streets behind Bond Street. En route I referred glancingly to the fact that George was dressed as though on the way to a funeral. In fact it turned out that he was on the way back from a short memorial service. 'Someone close to you?' I asked. 'A family friend,' he answered. 'She had been my great aunt's companion for some years. A paragon of Good Works, always prattling on about the Deserving Poor and Visiting the Sick. Most days she went out with a servant and a bowl of nourishing soup-a rather thin and watery brew.
Personally I can think of nothing worse when ill than being forcibly visited by Miss Windermere and having a quantity of undrinkable soup thrust upon me. I believe that many in the parish felt that way. But whenever anyone who came within her definition of Deserving took to their bed, you can be sure that within hours there would be a loud knock on the door and in would traipse Miss Windermere, a bunch of religious tracts in her hand and the servant struggling behind with the gruel. There was no avoiding your fate. Miss Windermere had the most remarkable Intelligence system. The first whisper of sickness and she would swing into action. She was without doubt the most feared woman for miles around.' 'How did she die?' I asked. 'Blown up,'
George answered. 'Blown up?' I exclaimed. 'Surely an unusual fate for a spinster of advanced years.' 'The outrage was quite accidental. It seems that the latest of her bed-bound victims was an elderly lady who had worked as a governess in St Petersburg many years ago and still had friends in Russia. It was the nephew of one of these friends who was inadvertently responsible for Miss Windermere's demise. An anarchist student from Minsk, he had entered this country in order to effect the assassination of some visiting Russian General who was also a relative of the Tsar. Whilst staying with the former governess, he had been engaged in the construction of two bombs which he intended to lob at the General while he was riding in the Park. The explosives were cunningly hidden in the chamber pot that was under the governess's bed. When Miss Windermere was standing over her, asking after her spiritual welfare, she knocked over a candle that was beside the bed-the room being darkened in order to sooth the governess's headache. The candle, in falling, set fire to a rug by the bed. In a trice this had in turn ignited the fuse and the chamber pot exploded. Miss Windermere was cut down by a hail of china splinters. The governess however was luckier. Her bed took the main force of the explosion and collapsed on the burning remnants, largely extinguishing them. The governess, a woman of initiative and good in an emergency, quickly put out the still smoldering rug by peeing on it. She was unscathed and the servant only slightly hurt, chiefly by the scalding hot soup which was flung all over her, but Miss Windermere was already beyond the help of all but the clergy.'