uncontrollable penis would swell to overwhelming size, bursting out and taking over the garden. He imagined them all talking, laughing, then the rising feeling, and all of them gradually stopping to stare, horrified. It would writhe out towards Jessica, a pinky-purple serpent and everyone would see.
In truth Andrew had few illusions that Jessica would be overcome with passion for him, and the offending item had yet to be measured at larger than five inches, but it rose with shameful ease, encouraged by Andrew’s habit of idly fingering it from inside the pocket of his shorts. Milo never gave any indication that he had the same problem, in fact Milo never seemed to be interested in anybody in that way, just water skiing and wind surfing. A wetsuit, Andrew thought, now surely that would keep the beast in place.
Andrew wandered aimlessly round his parents’ bedroom, picking things up, putting them down.He looked through the pile of books beside the bed, nothing rude enough for him among the collection of detective stories and classic novels. He opened and closed drawers at random, not prying, but looking for clues to his parents. The contents of the drawers were ordinary clean sensible clothes, with which to deal with the weather, with walking, sailing and the sun. His parents had no secrets. Did they still do it? Andrew wondered. He thought probably not, not at their age.
As Celia and Archie drove towards Penzance, changes were taking place in the village. It was Friday, which the residents liked for this was changeover day. By 6.30 a.m. sleepy children were being fastened into backs of cars, dogs were being walked to their last tree this side of the Tamar. Overflowing rubbish sacks were already splitting open next to overloaded dustbins. The children of the second-homers had done their goodbye crying the night before, bereft of their new friends, sure they would never, at least till the next afternoon when the new lot came, meet anyone like Alex or Emily ever again.
Clare tended her garden, watching the renters struggle to be out of the cottages and flats by 10 a.m. Some were gone much earlier – there was the Tamar bridge to be queued for, or roadworks at Okehampton and a lot of motorway to be covered before the midday heat set in. Or there was simply the urge to get home in time towatch
Neighbours
or catch the supermarket before it shut. New clients weren’t allowed in till after 3 p.m. and those who arrived too early hung around the village trying to get a restorative drink at the Mariners, or shopping for toilet rolls (there were never any in the cottages, Jeannie and her friends had any spares stuffed into their shopping trolleys). Cars were still full of luggage and babies, bikes and surfboards on the roofracks.
But between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. the residents mostly had the place to themselves. This was the tranquillity for which they had bought their cottages. There was a suburban Sunday atmosphere as they strolled smugly round the village, congratulating each other on how quiet it was, doing things to their boats. Some even washed their cars, mowed the lawns. Their children ran round the village collecting up abandoned buckets and spades and fishing nets. Later they hung round throwing stones into the creek, slyly appraising the children of the new arrivals, who stared back at them, pale and shy. By 4 p.m. the shop would be full of customers, for the brigade of cleaning ladies would have done their fruitful tour of larder and kitchen cupboard, to make up for having their busiest day of the week while everyone else seemed to be resting. Jeannie would have cleaned out at least three of the properties, somehow finding time in each to have a quiet smoke, (someone always left a cigarette or two in packets under the beds), while watching a bit of daytime TV.
That evening Clare and Jack did their duty by having Andrew round to supper.
‘You’ll stay in for it, won’t you Miranda?’ Clare had hardly dared ask,
In truth Andrew had few illusions that Jessica would be overcome with passion for him, and the offending item had yet to be measured at larger than five inches, but it rose with shameful ease, encouraged by Andrew’s habit of idly fingering it from inside the pocket of his shorts. Milo never gave any indication that he had the same problem, in fact Milo never seemed to be interested in anybody in that way, just water skiing and wind surfing. A wetsuit, Andrew thought, now surely that would keep the beast in place.
Andrew wandered aimlessly round his parents’ bedroom, picking things up, putting them down.He looked through the pile of books beside the bed, nothing rude enough for him among the collection of detective stories and classic novels. He opened and closed drawers at random, not prying, but looking for clues to his parents. The contents of the drawers were ordinary clean sensible clothes, with which to deal with the weather, with walking, sailing and the sun. His parents had no secrets. Did they still do it? Andrew wondered. He thought probably not, not at their age.
As Celia and Archie drove towards Penzance, changes were taking place in the village. It was Friday, which the residents liked for this was changeover day. By 6.30 a.m. sleepy children were being fastened into backs of cars, dogs were being walked to their last tree this side of the Tamar. Overflowing rubbish sacks were already splitting open next to overloaded dustbins. The children of the second-homers had done their goodbye crying the night before, bereft of their new friends, sure they would never, at least till the next afternoon when the new lot came, meet anyone like Alex or Emily ever again.
Clare tended her garden, watching the renters struggle to be out of the cottages and flats by 10 a.m. Some were gone much earlier – there was the Tamar bridge to be queued for, or roadworks at Okehampton and a lot of motorway to be covered before the midday heat set in. Or there was simply the urge to get home in time towatch
Neighbours
or catch the supermarket before it shut. New clients weren’t allowed in till after 3 p.m. and those who arrived too early hung around the village trying to get a restorative drink at the Mariners, or shopping for toilet rolls (there were never any in the cottages, Jeannie and her friends had any spares stuffed into their shopping trolleys). Cars were still full of luggage and babies, bikes and surfboards on the roofracks.
But between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. the residents mostly had the place to themselves. This was the tranquillity for which they had bought their cottages. There was a suburban Sunday atmosphere as they strolled smugly round the village, congratulating each other on how quiet it was, doing things to their boats. Some even washed their cars, mowed the lawns. Their children ran round the village collecting up abandoned buckets and spades and fishing nets. Later they hung round throwing stones into the creek, slyly appraising the children of the new arrivals, who stared back at them, pale and shy. By 4 p.m. the shop would be full of customers, for the brigade of cleaning ladies would have done their fruitful tour of larder and kitchen cupboard, to make up for having their busiest day of the week while everyone else seemed to be resting. Jeannie would have cleaned out at least three of the properties, somehow finding time in each to have a quiet smoke, (someone always left a cigarette or two in packets under the beds), while watching a bit of daytime TV.
That evening Clare and Jack did their duty by having Andrew round to supper.
‘You’ll stay in for it, won’t you Miranda?’ Clare had hardly dared ask,
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