trigger down in its corner, and stressed the importance of not knocking into or disabling any of them; he demonstrated the trap, and the all-important concealed opening down at the front that she’d be sliding through. Now, however, the preliminaries were over. He’d deliberately kept a blanket over the steps, and when he pulled it off to reveal them he did so quickly, to get it over with. Pam stared, then crouched down and inspected their insides, feeling for the two metal struts that would eventually stop her from falling out as she was wheeled away inside them by the stagehands.
‘Bloody hell. What are you going to do to me to get me tidied away into that then? Chop me up?’ she said. ‘All right . . . don’t bloody answer me, either of you.’
They didn’t. Pam unclasped her pearls, and passed them to Reggie.
‘Just show me. And gently.’
‘Certainly,’ said Mr Brookes. ‘Let’s start with the breathing, shall we?’
In a life class or photography session – both of whose demands Pamela knew all about – the trick is to keep breathing no matter how demanding the pose. For box work, the breath has to be punched out and held out ; being empty is the only way a girl can hope to get her knees pinned sufficiently high up onto her chest or her chin pushed far enough down on her sternum, at least for the kind of conceal Pam had to achieve.
Mr Brookes started by stepping right in close behind her. He reached round as if he was demonstrating one of those manoeuvres they used to have pictured on charts in doctors’ waiting rooms, and, without explaining what he was doing, pressed his fingers across her lower ribs. He told her to breathe out, and pushed her ribs in hard towards her spine as she did it; then he told her she had to hold her breath out until he got to the end of a slow count of six. When she’d got the hang of that, he stepped even closer in behind her to get a better purchase, and then he counted, and pushed, and counted, and pushed, raising the count for which she had to hold herself empty by one beat every time. In between the numbers he kept up a steady drip of information, explaining that as she pulled herself up on the hand grips in the ceiling for Reg to open the trap, and again before she dropped down through it to jackknife herself in under the steps, she would have to blast every ounce of breath out of herself, keeping herself hollow even when her lungs started screaming.
Reggie watched the proceeding closely, sitting on a chair and waiting to be called. Her pearls had felt slightly warm when he’d taken them, and he remembered reading somewhere that that meant they were real. He wasn’t surprised – you could see why people would want to buy this one proper presents. The fact that Mr Brookes had his chest pressed into her back seemed not to be bothering her in the slightest, which was a good sign, and only when the count for which she had to hold her breath out reached seventeen did she shift her position at all, lifting her hands up over her head and lacing her fingers through her hair to achieve the extra push she needed to get everything out. She was doing well, he reckoned.
Once Mr Brookes had got Pamela as far as being able to hold herself empty for a slow count of twenty-five, he removed his hands, and asked her to climb up into the cabinet.
‘I think we’ll mime the ripping off of your skirt for today,’ he said, passing his jacket to Reggie, and rolling up his sleeves. ‘Eventually of course you’ll be doing the drop in just your stockings, but the waistband on those slacks looks perfectly practical for rehearsal purposes to me. Better use the actual cap and shoes, though – you might as well get used to passing them out to our Reg through the back. And we’ll keep the apparatus doors open both at the back and the front for today, so that no one has to be working entirely in the dark.’ He paused here, and smiled. ‘Not at this early stage in the proceedings,
‘Bloody hell. What are you going to do to me to get me tidied away into that then? Chop me up?’ she said. ‘All right . . . don’t bloody answer me, either of you.’
They didn’t. Pam unclasped her pearls, and passed them to Reggie.
‘Just show me. And gently.’
‘Certainly,’ said Mr Brookes. ‘Let’s start with the breathing, shall we?’
In a life class or photography session – both of whose demands Pamela knew all about – the trick is to keep breathing no matter how demanding the pose. For box work, the breath has to be punched out and held out ; being empty is the only way a girl can hope to get her knees pinned sufficiently high up onto her chest or her chin pushed far enough down on her sternum, at least for the kind of conceal Pam had to achieve.
Mr Brookes started by stepping right in close behind her. He reached round as if he was demonstrating one of those manoeuvres they used to have pictured on charts in doctors’ waiting rooms, and, without explaining what he was doing, pressed his fingers across her lower ribs. He told her to breathe out, and pushed her ribs in hard towards her spine as she did it; then he told her she had to hold her breath out until he got to the end of a slow count of six. When she’d got the hang of that, he stepped even closer in behind her to get a better purchase, and then he counted, and pushed, and counted, and pushed, raising the count for which she had to hold herself empty by one beat every time. In between the numbers he kept up a steady drip of information, explaining that as she pulled herself up on the hand grips in the ceiling for Reg to open the trap, and again before she dropped down through it to jackknife herself in under the steps, she would have to blast every ounce of breath out of herself, keeping herself hollow even when her lungs started screaming.
Reggie watched the proceeding closely, sitting on a chair and waiting to be called. Her pearls had felt slightly warm when he’d taken them, and he remembered reading somewhere that that meant they were real. He wasn’t surprised – you could see why people would want to buy this one proper presents. The fact that Mr Brookes had his chest pressed into her back seemed not to be bothering her in the slightest, which was a good sign, and only when the count for which she had to hold her breath out reached seventeen did she shift her position at all, lifting her hands up over her head and lacing her fingers through her hair to achieve the extra push she needed to get everything out. She was doing well, he reckoned.
Once Mr Brookes had got Pamela as far as being able to hold herself empty for a slow count of twenty-five, he removed his hands, and asked her to climb up into the cabinet.
‘I think we’ll mime the ripping off of your skirt for today,’ he said, passing his jacket to Reggie, and rolling up his sleeves. ‘Eventually of course you’ll be doing the drop in just your stockings, but the waistband on those slacks looks perfectly practical for rehearsal purposes to me. Better use the actual cap and shoes, though – you might as well get used to passing them out to our Reg through the back. And we’ll keep the apparatus doors open both at the back and the front for today, so that no one has to be working entirely in the dark.’ He paused here, and smiled. ‘Not at this early stage in the proceedings,
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