by Paul Jackson
"Shall we feed the ducks?" said the youthful looking mother as she threw the last of the breadcrumbs to the sparrows gathered on the damp grass.
The excited tot in the pushchair shrilled aloud, "Ducks mummy! Ducks!"
"Come on then, let's feed the ducks," smiled the pretty blonde, pushing the pushchair towards the vast pond. It was a cold, crisp morning as the sun danced blissfully upon the green hills that rose above the huge oaks and birches at the bottom of the long winding path. It was simply ideal for a day at Westminster Park. There were lakes to see, rides to take, treats to eat, a beautiful cathedral and even a medieval castle to visit.
Sitting prominently in the distance across the boating lake stood Westminster Lodge, as erect and strong as a mountain lion that ruled its Kingdom. The young mother with the tot, Cheryl Walker, put her hand to her brow to get a clearer look, her concentration broken only by her tiny son's cry of, "Doggy mummy!" Cheryl smiled warmly from her cute oval mouth and cuddled the infant that was so dear to her.
Cheryl reflected on the gloriously happy six years she had spent at the Lodge, a co-ed private school for the offspring of wealthy parents. Twelve years had passed since her schooldays had ended when she left the upper sixth with four 'A' level passes. Exam pressures were far outweighed by the enjoyment she had experienced during what she termed as the best days of her life. Being chosen as head girl whilst in the sixth, and being made captain of the sixth form hockey and lacrosse teams were accolades that she warmly cherished. She sighed. Life then had such a simplicity and innocence about it. Being a vivacious teenager seemed far happier than being a thirty-year-old housewife. Her marriage to Roger had come too soon and now it was stale. She wouldn't leave for the sake of the children, but during the last four years there had been other men.
Hardly surprising, because Cheryl was indeed a most attractive woman, looking and feeling about eight years younger than she was. Good dieting, yoga classes and regular workouts helped her maintain her youthful looks, and men of all ages were attracted to her. Her skin was like silk and her medium length blonde hair was as honey-kissed as when she was the envy of the upper sixth. At the private gym, available to those who were prepared to pay excessive fees, she looked seductively ravishing in her leotards, seductive enough to attract the attention of a young bodybuilder, seven years her junior.
The glow had momentarily disappeared from her face. She was at the crossroads of her life, a life that was undoubtedly endowed with the best: a luxurious home, a wealthy entrepreneur of a husband, and two wonderful children. But she was here at Westminster Park to take stock and quite honestly, life with Roger was such a bore. Oh, to be a reckless teenager once again. Love making with Roger was stale, whilst sleeping with her new young boyfriend was a sensation: fresh, vibrant and above all, risky but fun. Then her thoughts were disturbed by a shrill voice calling her name.
"Cheryl! Cheryl! Is that you?! Yes it is!"
Cheryl swung round to see a tall slim female hurrying towards her. In total disbelief, Cheryl recognised her as Tracey Jenkins, an old school friend she hadn't seen since leaving school. Her mouth quacked open.
"I can't believe it! Tracey Jenkins, my God!"
"Crickey! You haven't changed a bit, you ol' devil, how do you manage it?" said Tracey, as the two old school pals embraced.
"Your little boy?" asked Tracey. "Hello beautiful little fellah. He's like you."
"Yes, I have two. This is Martin, he's two, and I have another boy, Daniel, who is five. And you? Oh, Tracey, I cannot believe seeing you!"
Tracey gave a sigh. "Yes, I have two children as well. Two daughters. But, unfortunately, my marriage to Chris ended. I'm divorced now. I had an affair, got caught, all hell broke... well, I'm sure you can guess the rest."
"Oh, Tracey, I am sorry," she said, her own heart sinking with her guilt.
"Yes, we separated three years ago," she said sadly, her eyes looking at the ground. She took in some air then continued. "I live with another man now. We have the girls during the week and my ex-hubby has them at weekends. Problem is, I'm growing tired of my current relationship. Bob is good, but, oh, I don't know, there is something lacking."
"Perhaps you want to go back with your ex?" suggested Cheryl.
Tracey nodded firmly against that idea. She gave a frown and continued, giving Cheryl an envious look.
"I went up to Bristol to study for three years after school, and that is where I met my husband, at the medical school. We married at twenty-one. It lasted six years."
She paused, and a curious smile played on her lips.
"Anyway, enough of me, how about you? What's been happening over these last, err, let me see, twelve years?" she grinned.
"Well, I left the Lodge when you did. Got a little job with the press. Met Roger the same year. Didn't take up the chance to go to university because we fell madly in love, and instead I got married at twenty."
"Gosh!"
"Oh, it was great in the early years. All fun and dare, and great love making. Roger is a great guy. He's made a fantastic career for himself, but he is such a bore. Perhaps I take too much for granted. We have a wonderful home, but at times, I hate my home life."
"Do you work?"
"No, not now. Not with the little one about, although I could get him into a nursery. But, hell, why should I work? We have enough money for me to be able to enjoy my freedom. Maybe that's the problem. Perhaps there is not enough to occupy my active mind." Or was there, she wondered to herself.
"But Cheryl, you look so youthful! How, you darn cheat," laughed Tracey.
"Oh, I take good care of myself. Anyhow, you're looking pretty good, too!" grinned Cheryl, noticing how shapely Tracey looked in her tight jeans.
"In fairness, Chris has been good in his financial support," said Tracey. He provides for the two girls and me very well. But I don't know, as a husband he was such a wet tea leaf. And my current relationship with Bob is heading the same way. It seems to be me that takes the leading role. I need a dominant man, somebody that is commanding, who I can respect! And somebody that makes me feel feminine and subservient. It all makes me feel so insecure, and it encourages me to well, err, look at other men," reflected Tracey.
Cheryl gave a deep sigh. "Yes, I can sympathise."
"But what about those old schooldays, eh?" said Tracey, to which both girls exploded into a fit of rapturous laughter. "St. Trinians had nothing on us!"
"Fabulous! Breaking the rules, wild parties, school trips, watching the boys play rugger," said Cheryl with relish and zest.
"Do you remember Mr Brahms? What a nut!" said Tracey. "His stupid voice. When he said text book, it sounded like 'sex book'."
"Yes, and then there was dotty old Miss McIver, the old spinster, and let us not forget the head of maths, Mr O'Brien, with that ghastly moustache," giggled Cheryl affectionately.
"What about Mr Williams, the history master? He took those horrid garlic tablets that would smell awful!"
"Yes, especially when he came round to mark your prep and got too close to you. Errr!"
"And Mr Baker. Well, was it?" asked Tracey.
"Was it what?" wondered Cheryl.
"A wig, you clot!"
"Oh yes, I remember. I think it was, although we never found out for sure. The boys used to tease the poor old thing to hell about his hair. I mean it was always so neat and never, ever moved, even in the wind." Cheryl paused. "Do you remember when we were in the third and some boys put drawing pins in Mr Watts' tea? He went barmy!"
"He slowly counted them out on his desk."
"Yes! And because the culprits were too scared to own up we all had to do a wretched detention," laughed Tracey.
The girls continued recounting their schooldays with great affection, recalling some of the girls they once knew.
"Do you remember Mr Smart?" asked Tracey with a wide grin. "Fond of his slipper!"
"Yes, he was!" laughed Cheryl: "I suppose 'Smart' was an apt name for him really. He was always slippering the boys, and, it was rumoured that he offered two sixth form girls the choice of lost privileges or a slippering. I thought the strict rule was that male staff did not have authority to whack the girls, except of course for the headmaster as a very last resort."
"Well," paused Tracey, "I'm not too sure. I think that was the official line of school policy, but, it went on unofficially, and I think the slippering rumour was meant to be off the record. It wouldn't have surprised me with 'Smart'. He was on old lecher, anyway. Always hovering around when girls did P.E. or hockey. Hey! What about Mr Tomlinson, the headmaster? He would be over seventy now, I guess."
"Yes, good old 'Tommo!'" enthused Cheryl with a grin. "A great head, except when, well, when we crossed his path and..."
"...got caned!" cut in Tracey.
"Yes!'' Trust us two to be the only girls ever to be caned by the head. I think old Miss. Josephs was away at the time. Old Tommo must have been rubbing his hands with glee at the thought of dishing out a caning to two sixth form girls," said Cheryl.
"Mmm," said Tracey as if in a trance. "Bet he thoroughly enjoyed it. Didn't think it would hurt as much as that, mind!"
"No, neither did I! It flipping hurt like hell!"
"He really meant business!" said Tracey.
They didn't elaborate on the incident but talked more about their adolescent youth, although what exactly happened flashed through Tracey's mind...
A weekend trip to Hastings had been arranged by the school for the sixth formers in the St. David's House. Ten boys and six girls made the trip to the historic Sussex town. The days were largely spent studying, but the evenings were theirs to do as they wished, providing they were back at camp by 11.30pm. All the pupils were eighteen so a trip to the pub was not overly discouraged.
Unfortunately, things got rather out of hand. Tracey and Cheryl met two local lads and went off to a night club, from which they did not return until 3.30am, highly intoxicated and very noisy, to the point where the pair of idiots managed to set off a fire alarm. In addition, they messed with a fire hydrant, causing the flooding of the lower corridor which resulted in pure bedlam, not to mention the damage caused.
The following morning they were severely dressed down by Mrs McCarthy, who was particularly angered by the behaviour of Cheryl, as she was in the position of being the head girl. Mrs McCarthy added that they would be severely reprimanded on their return to school.
"Do not be surprised if you are suspended, or at worse, expelled for this," she had said, her words ruefully echoing around the room.
The following Monday, both girls found themselves waiting outside Mr Tomlinson's study, humbling enough for two sixth formers, whilst Mrs McCarthy presented the head with a full written and verbal report. Both stood erect and silent as they waited to be called. There was little more to say to each other. They had spent virtually the entire journey back from Hastings apportioning the blame on each other.
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.