Thanks to LaRacasse for suggesting a story set in India, and homage to E. M. Forster, creator of a masterpiece. I have tried to capture the language and attitudes of the time (roughly 1925), even as I exaggerated them in this parody; that which is offensive today was common speech then, and vice versa. So if racism and other political incorrectnesses offend you, read no more here. Don’t raise your blood pressure.
This is a PARODY. Therefore, don’t expect a great deal of sex, as there was none in the original work I’m seeking to parody. And of course I’ve stolen a good bit of (public domain) Rudyard Kipling as well. Could hardly have British India without Kipling. He virtually patented it.
As the Kaisar-I-Hind, hustled and hectored by the tugs at her port side, came slowly up to the pier at Bombay, Mrs. Moore wondered, not for the first time nor for the last, “Que diable allais-je faire dans cette galère?”, the long voyage from Southampton not in the least having impaired either her knowledge of French nor yet her knowledge of Molière.
To the casual observer, and as far as her world, the world of Tunbridge Wells, knew, she had come to India’s sunny clime to serve as chaperone for her son’s betrothed, Adela Quested, who was to follow on the Baroda, until their marriage at Simla that summer.
He was a disgusting baby, she thought, who grew up into an intolerable, self-important young prig. And yet he is better than his father, that bloody swine!
The said bloody swine, her deceased husband Ethelred Moore, was a product of his age, of Winchester School, and of shabby gentility, until he came to the notice of his uncle, Sir Mountstewart Heaslop, Bart. The Baronet, a man whose girth was exceeded only by his vainglory, had been unable to produce a male heir, or indeed any heir. His wife, another of the shabby-genteel maidens a great number of whom were products of English society in the Eighties of the Nineteenth Century, who was first sterilized by, and then killed by, the syphilis he had bestowed upon her, could produce none, and no Irish maidservant, to say nothing of an English lady (Scotswomen he could not abide), would come within a kilometre of his disgusting person.
Sir Mountstewart bethought himself next of nephew Ethelred, his nearest male kin, then a subaltern in the King’s Own Worcestershire Light Infantry, unmarried, unencumbered by wealth but encumbered with a taste for the haut monde. If the young laddie would marry, beget a son, which said son would take the surname, not of his father, but of his uncle Mountie, why, the young laddie should find the Baronet not ungenerous, no no, not at all.
Lieutenant Moore, apprised that substantial wealth should be his if he would merely do what any right-thinking, clean-living, God-fearing young Englishman should do, applied himself to the task.
My God, thought Mrs Moore, what a life! Trapped between genteel starvation and marital prostitution, she chose the latter. The wrong choice.
When young Ethelred paid court to her in 1897, the world opened to her. The convent school, with its sexual excesses and immersion in Sapphism extrèmement et toutfois, had readied her to accept degradation in any form–after the dildoes, the fingerings, the weeks of performing cunnilingus on post-menstruating old women that merged into years of unending sexual serfdom–marriage to Ethelred would be a treat after that.
Oh, was I wrong!
Ethelred, though not over-endowed with length, nevertheless was thick of penis and determined of purpose. One hundred seventy thousands of Sir Mountstewart’s pounds was a bello spendere, as they said in Naples, even after the 1894 death duties.
He celebrated their marriage by raping her every night for a month. Her maidenhead yielded the first night, in a cascade of blood, as he tore into her. Her barely lubricated labia were rubbed raw, again and again, by his fierce thrusts, as he pinned her to the bed. Her screams and bleeding loins did not in the least dissuade this man, this beast, to whom she had entrusted her life, her fortune and her sacred honor. It was, after all, only business, nothing personal, doncherknow?
Nothing was more disgusting, nothing, not even Sister Perpetua’s urine in her face as she nibbled the Superior’s foul-smelling pussy. Or so she thought.
Until that morning when, springing out of bed under the direst of compulsions, she barely achieved the bathroom sink, and regurgitated her soul. And the next day. And the next. And before luncheon. And after luncheon.
Then she saw the letter. It changed her life indelibly, ineluctably, indescribably.
Ethelred had been summoned to Whitehall. The messenger had arrived as he was writing, but the imperative command would brook not the slightest delay. Saying nothing to her (but why should he? They had not spoken in days), he sprang to the proffered calèche and was off.
She looked. Stunned, she read. “Lieutenant Steuart Albert George Catterson, K.O.W.L.I., Redditch Barracks, Redditch. Darling Steuie, Thanks be to God, the deed is done, she is with pup! What a month, darling boy, what a month of horror, burying my Essential, which should belong only to you, in that wretched orifice nightly. Her jewel, forsooth! Yet nothing will keep me from my darling Steuie! I trust the little bugger will be a boy, God grant! Then my wretched uncle Mountstewart will down with the pecuniæ, and be the source of my mounting my own Steuart forever, as we should be, as we should live–haha! We shall both of us be quit of the Army, of the inelegance, the torpid ennui. O, I long for your elegant shaft, and the sweetest taste I wot of, that of your elixir of love, poured into my mouth. How I will taste each of your glorious pendula, lick your perineum, and at last bring my tongue and lips to the source of all my joy, your glorious Nether Entrance, truly as Wagner has said, the Venusberg, the hidden sanctuary of our love. How I will penetrate you and penetrate you, and spill my heart and soul in every drop of my spend in your—”
She ran to the bathroom and threw up, as if she could expel the fruit of this man’s degeneracy from her womb, the filth he had planted there. But why?
She kept away from him, and he was just as happy. She finally arrived at the truth, by dint of repeated importunings of the solicitor’s latest pupil, who was in love with her. She obtained, quite without the solicitor’s knowledge, enough of a glimpse of Sir Mountstewart’s will to find out the import of her pregnancy, now well advanced.
Lieutenant Moore was now gone to the Soudan, marching with Lord Kitchener to avenge the fallen hero Gordon of Khartoum. Sir Mountstewart died a raving lunatic, as Lieutenant Moore reached the city of Khartoum. Trying to evade a maniacal dervish, Lieutenant Moore was bayonetted by one of his own men, with whom, in derogation of his professed love for Steuie, he had tried to “interfere”, and was dead of the wound the next day.
The following day Ronald Augustus Heaslop was born. Mrs Moore inherited her husband’s money, suppressing the will made in favor of “Steuie”, who dared not speak his name.
Mrs Moore handed over the rearing of her son, whom she detested, to servants. Notwithstanding and nonetheless, she and Ronald maintained a public facade of mother-love and filial devotion.
Ronald missed the Great War by days, arriving in France, with a despondent draft of replacements for the slain and maimed in his father’s old regiment, on November 12, 1918.
“Darling Steuie” Catterson, now a Lieutenant-Colonel whose retirement was delayed by the outbreak of war, took one look at the new subaltern and decided he would never do. “Got to get rid of this sprig, Newton,” he told the Adjutant. “See to it, won’t you, there’s a good chappie.”
“Sir, haven’t anywhere to send him, we’re full up, complêt as these bloody Frenchies say, what?”
“Well, Christ’s bloody wounds, don’t make your problem into my problem! Solve the friggin’ thing, or I’ll have your bollocks for breakfast.”
Duly admonished, the Adjutant telephoned to the War Office. Subaltern Ronald Augustus Heaslop was demobbed and sent to India, to become Assistant Resident Magistrate of the town of Agashiwallah, miles from nowhere. Ronald, brash but withal the product of an English public school, soon found the way to discharge his duties was to thrash his bearer, babu, sais, khitmutgar, khamsaman, punkahwallah, dhobi and bhisti and everyone with a skin darker than his, not less often than thrice daily. And to require their female relatives to fellate him on demand. The district was quiet; he was promoted Resident Magistrate, and twice had leave for a year to return to England.
His tastes were not those of his father. He found release in some of the better London bordellos; and, at a garden party given by the great-nephew of Sir Mountstewart, he met young Adela Quested.
By Jove! he thought. She has titties, real big ones, not like those emaciated specimens one sees in Bond Street! And a real arse, that sticks out and all! Not like those beanpoles, dressed up to look like boys by the jew poofters who make women’s clothing! She’d do to keep me company back in Uttar Pradesh.
He proposed. She, sensing escape, accepted.
The voyage had been a barely sustainable horror. Sharing a stateroom was necessary, and Mrs Moore was billeted with Edna Shawangunk, an American heiress now Anglicized by marriage as Lady Bitsfugger. She was old, vulgar of speech, and the possessor of a rebellious digestion that rendered the stateroom frequently uninhabitable, even by the least fastidious.
“Jes’ call me Bits, ev’erbuddy does,” was her greeting to Mrs Moore.
Entering the stateroom and trying to find space for her reticule amidst the overflowing trunks and fitments of Lady Bitsfugger, she simultaneously gagged and fell forward as a lengthy, sonorous expulsion issued from her co-tenant, the Peeress.
“Good God, that wass a good ‘un, what?” said Her Ladyship.
“Yes,” whispered Mrs Moore, covering her face and praying for a swift and silent death.
The tired old Kaisar, frequently awash in the high seas, grimly chugged her way from Southampton to Biscay and through the Med, crept past Ismailia and Suez, and staggered through the last of the Monsoon toward Bombay. Lady Bitsfugger matched the ship shot for shot. Mrs Moore kept the porthole nearest her berth open, despite the rain and wind and spindrift. Her Ladyship, when not at the cardtable or on the convenience, was trying unendingly to inveigle the more callow of the young men aboard to meet her in various storage rooms for “a stand-up”.
Finally, Mrs Moore, disgusted past endurance by her enforced companion’s borborygmus and unending lubriciousness, sought refuge on deck. The worst storm of a terrible season bore down on the hapless Kaisar. The ship bucked, pitched, reared and wobbled like a copulating capybara. The waves came green over the bows. Soaking wet and blinded, Mrs Moore staggered down to the stateroom.
Her Ladyship was showing that the Peerage of Olde England was equal to any challenge. She was naked, her thin, flabby breasts swinging every way free with the lurches of the staggering vessel, as she was bent over the tiny desk. Behind her, a rather large young man, clearly a Rugby hooker, naked as she was, plowed his way into her anal cavity, grunting like an annoyed hippopotamus.
“My word!” cried Mrs Moore. At that, the young man yelped as if someone had trod on the most sensitive of his organs, quivered violently, and withdrew.
“My God, that wass a good’un, eh what?” said Her Ladyship, in the identical terms with which she dispatched the unspeakably foul-smelling issue of her back passage.
“I suppose I shall have to take your word for it,” replied Mrs Moore quietly, “as I have not the least intention, to say nothing of the means, of otherwise verifying the matter.”
“‘Scuse me and all that rot,” said the young man, rushing into the ensuite toilet and, without closing the door or lifting the seat, spurted forth a load of urine that would have done great credit to a rhinoceros at Oktoberfest. “My godmothers!” he exclaimed….Mrs Moore finished the sentence for him, “That wass a good’un, eh what? If I hear that phrase again I shall do murder. Now kindly wipe the frigging seat, as I have to pendre une petite pisse myself.”
“Oh, righty-friggin-ho, doncherknow,” said this young heir to the Empire upon which the sun never sets. And he gave the toilet seat a cursory wipe with their last clean towel.
Debating whether to laugh or commit double murder, and still dripping with seawater, Mrs Moore sat down to piss.
Mrs Moore stood in the passenger shed, ejected into Bombay like one of Her Ladyship’s rectal bombardments, awaiting the arrival of means of conveyance to Agashiwallah. There was no railway station nearer the place than fifty miles, and the map showed the roads thereto to be impassible otherwise than in fine weather. Her trunks, valises, and portmanteaux were heaped about her.
The heat was murderous. She felt perspiration trickling from her face and back. Her breasts were awash, and she felt she could not answer for the itch that was developing Down There; prickly heat, that scourge of the Saxon bringing civilization to the farthest meridional reaches of the planet, was beginning to intrude.
A grinning man, easily six feet tall, black as night with glittering white teeth and dressed in a dazzling white robe, approached her and bowed low. “Meeses Moore? I am Buddoo, butler to the Magistrate Heaslop Sahib. My men will take your belonkinks to the carriage, please.”
“Very good,” said Mrs Moore. The guidebook she had read said nothing about tipping the butler. She wisely did nothing, as some four or five ragged men, looking half-starved but grinning insanely, seized her possessions and carried them off.
Buddoo, waving a large walking-stick and howling unintelligible imprecations, cleared a path for her through the ill-smelling throng inside and outside the passenger shed, and handed her into a large four-wheeler. Springing to the guard’s seat, Buddoo punched the coachman awake, upsetting the coachman’s silk hat.
Curses and blows followed, until each had settled himself. They drove off slowly, as the streets were nearly impassible with the flow of humanity, howling, stinking, pushing, scrambling humanity.
Finally the lurching conveyance reached the railway station. The up-country for Marbar Junction had arrived; Buddoo gave the coachman a coin or two, the alleged inadequacy of which pourboire incited a further altercation. Finally, her trunks, valises and portmanteaux secured in the baggage waggon, and herself in a solitary first-class seat with a frosty glass of iced sweet tea to hand, Mrs Moore was able to observe India. While scratching her groin.
At Marbar Junction, nearly prostrated with the heat, Mrs Moore was handed into a barouche, wedged in place with her trunks, valises and portmanteaux so that escape or indeed liberation was but a remote possibility. Buddoo and his far-from-merry men hung from every bolt or screw that gave them the least purchase, and somehow contrived, with the skill of the primates they resembled, to cling to the lurching vehicle as it groaned its way toward its dubious goal.
At last, past exhaustion, longing for the wretched stateroom of the Kaisar, and willing, nay begging, to endure the odiferous emanations and sexual athleticisms of dear Lady Bitsfugger, Mrs Moore was disgorged from the dust-covered barouche at the dâk-bungalow, the principal residence of the Resident Magistrate, Heaslop Sahib.
Buddoo leapt from his perch in the guard’s seat, and screamed directions to his now filthy but still ragged acolytes. In a trice Mrs Moore’s trunks, valises and portmanteaux were from the carriage untimely ripp’d, bestowed and emplaced within the guestroom. There issued from her new dwelling a grinning, bowing, obsequious crew, each chattering out his or her name and function.
“I want a bath, a comfortable chair, and a large whiskey-soda.”
The bathwoman, brown of skin and fat of rump, bowed and escorted Mrs Moore to the bath, which she filled with tepid water of doubtful provenance, and speedily divested Mrs Moore of clothing. Handing her into the tub, she proceeded to wash Mrs. Moore thoroughly.
“Memsahib want treatments?”
Treatments? What the devil are ‘treatments’? Well, when in Rome and all that….
“Very well, set about it.”
This the bathwoman did with a will, massaging Mrs Moore’s breasts (not in bad shape for an elderly feringhee, thought the bathwoman) until her nipples stood proud and then pinching and twisting them. Reaching into a cabinet close by, the bathwoman extracted an india-rubber dildo, penetrated Mrs. Moore with remarkable delicacy, and stimulated her to three rather noisy orgasms.
“Memsahib likes treatments? So. Very satisfactor-ee,” said the now-grinning bathwoman. “More tomorrow?”
“Indeed,” replied the other.
Now dressed, provided with an iced stengah, Mrs Moore awaited the return from his official duties of the Resident Magistrate.
The Resident Magistrate was the while hearing the usual perjury from the natives in a case of breaking and entering.
Mr Ram Dass, a local pettyfogging stuffgownsman, was attempting to cross-examine Abdullah Solyman, carpenter, who complained that a Hindu or two had broken into his shop to defile the tazias he had been building for the next Mohurram.
“And you testify, do you, that you saw Rookie Patel relieve himself in your shop?”
“Bloody well sure I do!”
“Your Worship, I must, with regret and submission, again most respectfully request Your Worship to caution the witness once more to refrain from obscene and profane language, Your Worship.”
“Oh put a sock in it, the both of you! I’m bloody sick of your unending wrangling! Now look here, Soly, are you sure it was ol’ Rookie over there who pissed on your floor and jacked off on your jackplane?”
“With all due respect and submission, Your Worship, I friggin’ well do! That cow-bugger fucker and his crony Dush Tattoo the both of them!”
“Proceed, Mr Ram Dass.”
The trial, if one could call it that and not denominate it as the travesty of English law and justice it so obviously was, ground on.
“Decision reserved,” said Ronnie Heaslop. “Prisoners remanded in custody.” He struck the gavel twice, harder than necessary. I’ll give those niggers a half-dozen each of the best rattan in the shop, and let ‘em go. Soly is a lying sod, but so are they all, all lying sods.
He rose, and the usher bellowed “All rise!” Ronnie stalked from the stifling courtroom to his chamber, letting the door hit him in the arse. He picked the wedgie, which had tortured him throughout the afternoon sitting, from his soaking wet anus, tore off his judicial robe and threw it on the ground, and bawled for his clerk.
“Gooshie, get your black arse in here!”
“Yes, Your Worship.”
“Tidy up in here, get those letters over to the postwallah before he leaves, lock up and go home.”
“Yes, Your Worship.” Bloody bastard, thought the clerk. Wish it was 1857; your pale pink arse would be hangin’ off that shelf!
The clerk summoned the sais, who brought round the Resident Magistrate’s Waler. Painfully hauling his dripping carcass into the saddle, Heaslop extracted the whip from its sheath, gave the animal a smart tap to the hindquarter, and cantered off to meet his mother, the sais running behind him, gasping.
They sat that evening in the “parlour” of Professor Godbowel, A.B. Delhi ’19. There were gathered Mr Ram Dass, Mahumid Ramitin the merchant, Dr Odwallah M.D., and the Professor, who taught at the local boys’ academy.
“It is a pollution, this system whereby justice is blinded and perjury rewarded,” said Mr Ram Dass.
“My dear fellah, when was it ever otherwise, as long as these English grasp India by the t’roat,” said Ramitin, taking a long pull at his hookah and carefully adjusting the front of his trowsers.
“This line of conversation, my deah Ramitin, might well have taken place fifty years ago, and might well take place fifty years hence even, with the same result, or ought I to say the same want of result,” replied Mr Ram Dass.
“Be it Heaslop or some other,” said Professor Godbowel, “the tragedy of India will be
that of a great and fertile mother enslaved by puny and immoral, but cunning, savages completely foreign to her ways.”
Dr Odwallah M.D. here interjected, “Whilst all this is truly a tragedy, deplorable in extremis, my dear friends, the hour grows late and I must move adjournment. May I say tomorrow evening at the same hour, at Lalun’s?”
“My dear Dr Odwallah, M.D., a capital thought,” said Ramitin heartily, scrambling to his feet and extending his hand.
I’d spit on his hand, bloody cow-eater, thought Dr Odwallah, M.D., but we can exclude none who would fight for our freedom…and after we obtain the which, we can kill them all. He rose and shook Mr Ramitin’s hand.
Lalun was…well, as a poet has said, “Lalun has not yet been described. She would need a thousand pens of gold and ink scented with musk. She has been variously compared to the Moon, the Dil Sagar Lake, a spotted quail, a gazelle, the Sun on the Desert of Kutch, the Dawn, the Stars, and the young bamboo. These comparisons imply that she is beautiful exceedingly according to the native standards, which are practically the same as those of the West. Her eyes are black and her hair is black; her mouth is tiny and says witty things; her hands are tiny and have saved much money; her feet are tiny and have trodden on the naked hearts of many men.”
Alas, as none of the four could have begun to afford the cost of even one hour with Lalun, except to sit and talk in her tiny whitewashed salon, we must forgo a description of her erotic skills. Suffice it to say she could extract an orgasm from any brick you care to designate in the Red Fort of Agra at a distance of ten metres.
“By the Jesu Krist of the missionaries, no more political discussions,” Lalun pouted. “These weary me. I had sooner hear a daw crowing.”
“Dearest lady, we are but poor men, dust beneath thine elegant feet. We can but feebly lament our unworthiness and the sorrowful, yea, lamentable, state of our poor country.”
“Lament indeed, Professor Godbowel. But what do you do?”
“We meet, instruct the younger generation, sow the seeds that will result….”
“In more blather, more keening and whining, like a pariah funeral where the dogs are the chief mourners and gather round the ghât in hope of some unspeakable morsel. Fie, fie on this! I shall withdraw.” And she did, in a flurry and susuration of the finest silk.
“D’ye see, my dear Professor Godbowel? We weary the most beautiful jewel, the ne plus ultra of the Eternal Feminine, and accomplish nothing.” Dr Odwallah, M.D., was crushed at Lalun’s displeasure.
“Think ye this Ghandi wallah, this bankrupt barrishter-at-lahr, will save us?” asked Mahumid Ramitin, “for I do not.”
“Bah, running around in an old dhoti I wouldn’t give to a bhisti, talking like some missionary, as if that would dissuade the Sahibs! Much less drive them out! Passive resistance? Passive fiddlesticks!” scoffed Dr Odwallah, M.D.
“Yes, we talk, we denounce, we scoff, and the English bleed India white!” said Mahumid Ramitin.
“Haven’t done that to you,” murmured Mr Ram Dass, “you’re still as jet black as the rest of us darkies.”
“I beg pardon!” exclaimed Mahumid Ramitin. “I perceive you insult me! But what else would I expect from a kafir idolater!”
“My friends! Gentlemen! Remember in whose house we are! Remember in what cause we all serve, black or white or half-caste, Hindu, Jain, Moslem, Sikh, yea, even Yehoodi….” Mr Ram Dass was working himself up into a summation to a non-existent jury.
“Oh, pray draw the line somewhere,” said Mahumid Ramitin. “There must be some limit. Yehoodi–Jew–never!”
“No line! India for all! Except the English!”
Dr Odwallah, M.D., here objected. “Not the damned Scotchies, those devils who talk through their noses and are forever on the scrounge.”
Professor Godbowel laughed drily. “It is true what the English say. We would kill one another but for their army and poliss, and when we conspire our people have so many languages that to be understood, each by his fellows, we must perforce conspire in English!”
The evening being well sped into night, they withdrew, leaving each one a few coins in thanks for Lalun’s gracious entertainment.
Lalun was, the while, devoting her attentions to squeezing and biting the ponderous testicles of the Lieutenant Governor, prior to buggering him with a silver-plated elephant ivory dildo, lubricated with pig fat, in exchange for an extraordinary line item in the special supplemental Indian Civil Service budget entitled “Necessities.”
India was revenged.
“Mother dear, here’s a wire from Bombay. Baroda‘s wired from Gardafui. Expect her in a week’s time, Deo volente.” Ronnie Heaslop was just about to leave the dâk bungalow for the ride to his chambers and courtroom when Buddoo bore in the telegraph office flimsy on a tarnished silver tray.
Breakfast was nearly finished, and Mrs Moore in consequence was contemplating her first bowel movement of the day; several would follow, no doubt, as she was still becoming accustomed to the food and water, both being rank.
“Very well, Ronald. Shall I make ready to go down to meet Miss Quested?”
“Better had, Mama. Well begun is half done, and all that rot. Now ’tis time for me to toddle. Labor me vocat, doncherknow?”
“Good day, my son.”
“Toodle-oo, pip pip and all that, my good mother.” He kissed her forehead, as she flinched and he winced.
The act was for the servants, of course. They detested one another.
Mrs Moore hastily fled to the privy, and noisily emptied her bowels. This was followed hard by with a sonorous colonic expulsion. There sprang from her lips, utterly independent of her will, “My God, that wass a good’un, eh what?”
Adela Quested, nauseated by the heat and the smell of several millions of bodies unwashed since their last immersion in the filthy Ganges, stood, or rather was barely able to stand, in the passenger shed at Bombay.
The passage had been mild, for the storms had by now abated, and the port side of the Baroda was remarkably cool, even in the Red Sea. Her fellow-passenger, Mrs. Quickly, was a delightful if somewhat old-fashioned person, the wife of a Methody missionary, going out to rejoin her husband after visiting their children in Monmouthshire. Her sweet voice sang endless hymns. Her manners were exquisite, her tastes fastidious.
Miss Quested was entranced: oh, if only dear Mrs. Quickly were to be her belle-mère, and not that sour old Mrs Moore! But here was the woman herself, escorted by as foul-looking and worse-smelling a band of ruffians as ever Miss Quested had seen.
“My dear, here we are to take you to Agashiwallah and dear Ronald,” Mrs Moore said, with carefully concealed insincerity and a fulsome smile.
“Oh, Mrs Moore, how nice.” Mein Gott, thought Miss Quested, the Cheshire Cat and the familiars of the Devil. Can I possibly get back on that boat and get to bloody Hell out of here?
But in a trice, her trunks, valises and portmanteaux were seized by these jabbering ragamuffins, a path through the thronging dockwallopers hewn by this tall blackamoor, and her profusely perspiring person installed in a four-wheeler that must have come from a rubbish tip.
The imprecations, epithets and ungodly howlings that attended their departure from the passenger shed and their funereal progress to the railway station deafened her, and caused her nearly to vomit, could she find a way of reaching the edge of the conveyance, but the sheer mass of impedimenta surrounding her forestalled her slightest movement.
Mrs Moore seemed utterly impervious to the entire process. “Fret not, dear daughter, if I may so denominate you. You will soon grow used to the manners, or lack of manners, endemic to India. And its distinctive sights and aromatics.
“Ah,” she quoted, “‘the dust upon the highways, the stenches in the byways, the clammy fog that hovers over earth’…soon, soon my dear child, they will be unnoticed, taken as matters of course, even as they are by me.”
By God, I should bloody well hope not! This country smells like a shithouse and sounds like an insane asylum! It was a typical Englishwoman’s response to “the grim stepmother of our kind”. Why in God’s name did I ever come to this horror?
The journey by rail and barouche need not detain the reader; it varied little from that which was previously indited.
Miss Quested, however, being at least presumptively, a virgin, was spared the “treatments” at Mrs Moore’s direction. The bathwoman was disappointed, but Mrs Moore gave her tuppence and promised that, post-nuptially, Miss Quested would be a favored patron of the bathwoman’s delightful ministrations. Mrs Moore had little confidence in her son’s ability to keep his spouse satiated.
The winter was nearly past, and the spring was drawing on. Soon it would be time to ascend to Simla, for the summer was not to be borne. No Englishwoman would survive, when at midnight the thermometer stood at 100 degrees and the simoom threw dust in eyes, noses and other parts. Sexual congress then became an admixture of burning at the stake and having one’s privy members sandpapered smooth.
“One last excursion before the Great Exodus, eh what?” Ronald suggested. “We’ve not taken dear Adela out to the Malabar Caves, neglectful us. We’ll make a picnic of it, bring iced claret and a hamper of cold tucker…just the ticket, that! Buddoo!”
Ronald in full cry was enough to make Adela shrink back into her chair at the dinner table. He’d been walloping the port decanter after a particularly trying day in court. An elderly native was suing for the return of the dowry he had paid and the dastur for which he had contracted, as the groom was either impotent, or the maledictory possessor of a tool of such infinitesimal length and laughable circumference, that the plaintiff’s daughter was likely to die a virgin before their marriage was consummated.
Both plaintiff and defendant, by their respective counsel, moved for in camera inspection and called for measurements. Ronald adjourned the trial, as he was damned if he was going to sit in eighty-five degree heat looking at some darky’s wilting banger pasted on a foot-rule, while a brace of over-educated rascals dinned mutual calumny into his ear.
“So we may take it as settled, then?” inquired Mrs Moore, with an attitude of quiet gentility that masked her underlying distaste for her son and his petulant, ill-tempered betrothed.
The Malabar Caves, limestone grottoes that extended nearly a kilometre long beneath the sandy soil and a hundred feet below it, were a local gathering-place. It was customary for picnickers and wanderers to venture thence in the early winter and the late spring (the rains making them unattractive in winter and early spring).
Miss Quested had heard much about the Malabar Caves. Compared to the life she had led since arriving; each day a wretched breakfast followed by a thunderous cleansing of the bowels and bladder in an outdoor convenience followed by letter-writing followed by a carriage ride around the dusty maidan followed by a miserable luncheon followed by drinking oneself into a near-stupor at the Club (Ladies’ Entrance and Sitting Room only), succeeded by a lengthy siesta to sleep off the rotten whisky and warm soda, and dining with Dear Ronnie and Mama; and attendance at worship was mandatory, of course; the Church was dim, grim and as inviting as a badly-managed gaol, neither the liturgy nor the
homiletics being up to the standard of the premises; all these were enough to make holiday even of an excursion into the Valley of Death with the Noble Six Hundred, an overnight trip to the Black Hole of Calcutta being included at no extra charge.
“Let us make our excursus on Saturday, then,” suggested Mrs Moore.
“As Karl Marx said, dat’s capital!” quipped Ronald. “I’ll stir up the niggers and set it all in train.”
Miss Quested had asked Mrs Moore, early in her stay, whether there was any “amusement” for ladies. When Mrs Moore handed her a seven-month-old copy of Punch, damp with humidity and with anything that might be considered in the slightest “offensive” carefully scissored out of its pages, she lost her temper.
Jesus Christ fuck a duck, does the old bitch need me to draw her a fuckin’ picture? “No, dear madam, I meant any activity or pastime?”
“Why, my dear, I’m sure I don’t know to what you might possibly be referring.”
“Dear Mrs Moore, something soul-satisfying, earth-shattering, trembling….”
“Oh, you mean a good fuck? Best of British luck to ye, me ol’ darlin’, you’ll get none from the darkies and the whities are a dead loss.”
“Well, what happens to you at your bath every morning that gets you grinning like a buggered baboon?”
“Oh, you mean the treatments?”
“Is that what they’re called, when that fat nigger bitch twists your titties and jams that thing in your Down There?”
“Well, if you know all about it, why need you ask me?”
“Because she never asked me if I wanted any.”
“My dear Miss Quested, you have to have your maidenhead intact for Dear Ronnie, and the treatments would at least dent, and possibly puncture irretrievably, your Precious Jewel. Failure to provide a bloody good show, or rather, a good bloody show, on your wedding night will lead to unpleasant consequences, like being flayed with a horsewhip by your husband before the Wedding Breakfast.”
“When one doesn’t work, try the other.”
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
“If you can’t go forr’ard, go aft.”
“Oh, do you mean per anus peradventure?”
“Got it in one.”
“My dear, I’ll see you get it in one.”
The next morning Mrs Moore thoroughly coached the bathwoman, who gave Miss Quested a comprehensive treatment, pinching Miss Quested’s clitoris as she used the dildo with abandon on the virgin lady’s upthrust arsehole. Miss Quested’s grunts and screams testified to the efficacy of the bathwoman’s treatments.
Mrs. Moore then treated Miss Quested’s stern quarters to a quarter-hour’s brisk impalement on Mrs Moore’s seven-inch strap-on, carefully unwrapped from the parchment in which it had been brought all the way from the most exclusive shop in Jermyn Street, W1.
“Things are looking distinctly up,” said a breathless Miss Quested.
“This thing can look distinctly up wherever you like,” replied Mrs Moore.
“Let me lick your cunny?” asked Miss Quested.
“No, with my tongue.”
Miss Quested having grown quite fond of Mrs Moore’s post-treatment treatment, it was decided that they would use the visit to the Malabar Caves as an opportunity for Mrs Moore to probe the other’s dark passage au naturel.
It is with the consequences of their otherwise light-hearted (but heavy breathing) connexion that we shall be hereafter concerned.
Reaching the caves, Buddoo and Ronnie ceremoniously handed the ladies down from the barouche. Ronnie demanded the disembarkation of the hamper, with its jellied calves’-feet, cold roast mutton, Protestant pudding and grilled beetroot. The flagon of iced claret (Château Malescasse ’82, a villainous year) was decanted.
They ate with delicacy, chatting lightly. As the servants were packing up the remains (and filching what little was remaining, to feed their legions of hangers-on), a troop of young boys, led by Professor Godbowel, came marching along the road.
Professor Godbowel called the step, as the boys sang lustily “Glory glory hallelujah, hish tooth is hanging on”. Spying the picnickers, he instantly silenced his followers, and, dressing the line and admonishing his little squadron to “look sharp, now!”, paraded them past, ceremoniously saluting the Resident Magistrate, and brought them sharply to halt.
“Mr Resident Magistrate, sah!” he shouted. “Pray permit me to present the Boys’ Brigade of the Agashiwallah Primmery Skule!”
“Very good, Professor Godbowel. Hoyoop, boys! Put a good face on it, that’s the style! March ‘em on, Professor, don’t want ‘em fallin’ out, y’know!” Ronnie gave the merest hint of a salute, and Professor Godbowel, suppressing his fury at being treated like the merest low-caste privywallah by this pink-skinned oaf, stamped his foot (raising a mini-dust storm) and shouted “Patrowel, to the froont, forwaaaard…march!”
The boys all stamped their feet, showering the picnickers with dust and various creeping things, and marched off, singing “John Brown’s booby had a nipple on his chest, huzza huzza huzza!”
“Bloody woggeroos, wrecking our outing with their feeble imitation of Lord Baden-Powell’s magnificent Boy Scouts,” sneered Ronnie. “If I had my way, they’d crawl past Englishwomen on their bellies, licking the bloody dust, so they would! That rascal Godbowel. ‘Professor’, my arse and whiskers! He’s a bolsheviki, inciting rebellion. I’d flog his black arse white, if it weren’t that it’d be in all the papers back Home. Damn Congress Potty!”
“Don’t fret yourself, Ronald,” said Mrs. Moore. “You can always resign your post here and return to me and England. I’m sure you’ll find a position to suit you there.”
“Oh yes, Mama, I can find a position. On a streetcorner with a begging bowl. But there are a lot of applicants for that situation, doncherknow.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Miss Quested, “what can’t be cured must be endured, and I’m sure it will all come right in the end.”
Ronald poured the last of the wine down his throat and coughed. “Quite right, m’dear. Well, who’s for a peek at the celebrated Malabar Caves?”
The servants searched the hamper, and produced torches for the party. Leading the way, the Resident Magistrate made straight for the cave entrance.
“Now these caves branch in various directions, so mark your paths well,” he said, handing each of his followers pieces of coloured chalk. “There’s never any water here during the dry season, and the snakes come here to breed only during the wet. The floor is quite smooth in most places, but look sharp as you tread.”
Miss Quested stayed close to Mrs Moore. She had wisely put on tennis shoes, but Mrs Moore wore her old buttoned boots. Mrs Moore was carrying her reticule, and Miss Quested trembled slightly at the thought of its contents, the seven-inch india-rubber bestower of unending delight.
Mrs Moore, who had once before descended the caves, directed her away from the main path Ronnie was following. Skirting into an enclosure off the path, she quickly wrapped her muslin skirt round her waist, and delved into her reticule. She had left off underdrawers and similar obstacles to fulfillment, so that she could more swiftly and deftly encompass her loins with the delectable device.
Miss Quested likewise had abandoned the underpinnings of respectable womanhood, leaving her unrespectable womanhood every ways free. Bending at the waist and grasping the rocky pillar in front of her, she whispered, “have you got the bloody thing ready yet?”
“Patience, my dear, patience. Here it is,” and she carefully rubbed the shaft with the petrolatum they used to combat the chafing of undergarments that led to prickly heat. If ever it came to anyone’s attention that their buttocks were stained with petrolatum, there was an innocent explanation ready to hand (or anything else).
“Now think pretty thoughts,” whispered Mrs Moore, and thrust home.
Miss Quested’s gasp raised an echo, but Mrs Moore was so bent on achieving their mutual ecstasy that she barely heard the muffled “boom” from another turning of the caves.
Together they climaxed, but Mrs Moore, eager to prove her surname and desiring more, continued rodding away at Miss Quested, who now was rubbing her vagina and clitoris frantically and murmuring obscenities.
Mrs Moore reached around, drove the dildo with redoubled force into Miss Quested’s colonial premises, and, slapping the younger woman’s hand away from her privities, pinched, squeezed and abused her clitoris, until Miss Quested convulsed and collapsed, unconscious from an overwhelming orgasm.
Mrs Moore, herself satiated, heard a drumroll, or perhaps a burst of musketry, from the same source beyond the embrasure wherein she and Miss Quested had sheltered. Bloody can’t be, Mrs Moore thought. No, friggin’ impossible.
Miss Quested had collapsed onto a ledge, quite insensible. Must get help, can’t shift her myself, thought Mrs Moore. She’ll be safe enough where she lays, methinks.
As Mrs Moore hastened back whence she and the now-unconscious Miss Quested had come, Professor Godbowel, his young troop encamped well beyond at another entrance to the caves, went exploring with torch.
“Goodness gracious me!” he exclaimed, as he came upon the recumbent form of Miss Quested, her naked buttocks and engorged cleft illuminated obscenely by his torch.
Unbuttoning his flies, he took advantage of the moment, masturbating rapidly to a fiery expulsion.
As he was buttoning himself back to civilisation, Ronnie Heaslop, Mrs Moore and their servants came upon him.
“Godbowel? What the devil does this mean? Lay hold of him, you men! I’ll have this wretched darky laid by the heels and his filthy donger and bollocks hanging in the maidan by sunrise! Raping a white woman, you soor!” Heaslop was near collapse with rage.
His fury increased in fervor and violence as his torch shown on the column next Miss Quested’s half-naked form. “The bloody nigger bastard’s filthy ejaculate is all over the frigging wall!” he screamed. “If any has touched her sacred body, I’ll geld this nigger myself with my bare hands!” Only Mrs Moore could restrain him, large as she was.
“Now Ronald, Professor Godbowel can explain, I’m sure.”
“Yes, he can explain after I’ve cut out his tongue and burnt him alive!”
They dragged the Professor to their barouche. Mrs Moore sent one of the servants to tell his troop to return at once to town, and to march with them.
Miss Quested, now conscious, tried to explain that Professor Godbowel had nothing to do with her, but was howled into silence by her fiancé.
A medical examination was in order, but who was to do it? Dr Odwallah, M.D., was qualified, but the Resident Magistrate said no filthy nigger would touch a hair on dear Miss Quested’s head, let alone on…on her…on her…well, you know.
Doctor MacArthur, summoned by wire, came down next day from Tubludibad, some twenty miles farther upcountry. After some tea, well spiked with Glenfarclas, and accompanied by Mrs Moore to see fair play, he examined Miss Quested, who blushed prettily and shot sultry glances at Mrs Moore.
He reported to the Resident Magistrate. “The lassie’s virgo intacta, if ye get mah meanin’. Nae bruisin’, save what mought be explained be whar she fell tae the groond. Some petrolatum in ano, but they all dae theyselfs thar fer the prickly heat, sae they do. None of that snivel aboot the lassie of the kind that man releases when he…ye knaw a’ aboot that reet weel, Ah rickon. She says nae yin used her improperly, d’ye ken, but she cannae tell hoo long she was unco, what? Ah cannae testeefy that she was interfered wid, based upon all th’evidence.”
“Indeed,” said the Resident Magistrate. A fuck of a lot of good you are, y’old Scotch fart, he thought. Your ‘testeemony’ wouldn’t convince me to piss if I had a full bladder.
“Must have a trial,” he said, thoughtfully. “You can go.”
But that night word had gotten to Calcutta, as one of Professor Godbowel’s young stalwarts had told his parents, who had told the telegraphist (a Portugee in the pay of the Congress Party, who got out of bed and sent the wire by torchlight), and so Congress Party headquarters was sending down their premier batsman to defend the hapless Professor.
Ramjamit Viswanathan, Q.C., a barrel-chested, black-visaged individual who looked more like a Pathan budmash than the adroit pleader he was, arrived two days later, after Mr Ram Dass, likewise tipped off by electricity, was able to convince the Resident Magistrate that he should not hear the case, lest questions be raised in Parliament by Labour MPs. Whilst a successor was being selected and dispatched to Agashiwallah, the trial was put over.
“Allo allo allo, don’t get yer Mother Hubbards in a twist, gi’e us a wee glass of somethin’, and vote Congress!” shouted Ramjamit Viswanathan, Q.C., as he alighted from the Rockaway that had borne him from the Marbar Junction railhead.
Seizing his carpetbag and silk hat, he bowed theatrically in all directions, and was led away by Mr Ram Dass. They drank heavily and spoke softly, late into the night. The next day, after more liquor, Ramjamit Viswanathan, Q.C., visited Mrs Moore and spoke briefly to Professor Godbowel, now in close tack at the gaol. The Resident Magistrate had denied the eleven hundred pounds sterling in bail proffered by the merchant Mahumid Ramitin.
“It went near to bankrupt me to raise that much quid pro quo supernaculum,” the merchant Mahumid Ramitin complained, after bail was denied.
“My deah Mahumid Ramitin,” said Dr Odwallah, M.D., “surely your generosity towards our deah friend Professor Godbowel shall not fail of reward.”
“When will that be, when the friggin’ pink-skinned, pig-eating devils hang the poor bastard?”
“I trust and pray devoutly that such a horrid fate will not befall deah Professor Godbowel, especially as Congress has sent Ramjamit Viswanathan, Q.C., to defend him.”
“And who, savin’ yer reverence, might this Ramjam fellahin be?”
“My deah Mahumid Ramitin, prithee do not be frivolous. Ramjamit Viswanathan, Q.C., is the possessor of the premier legal mind in India.”
“Well, he’d better have. The pinks have their knives out for poor Professor Godbowel.”
There arrived from New Delhi, in sweat-soaked white duck, Mr. St. John Schraederling, Q.C., to serve as prosecuting counsel. Schraederling (“Schrady” to his friends, both of them) was a tall, florid man who hated India and Indians, and whose sole desire was to extract as much loot from the place and people as his means would allow, before pissing off to partibus incognitus. No other lawyer standing in well with the Governor-General (as Schrady took great pains to do) would travel to so remote a venue save under direst compulsion. Schraederling needed none thereof.
“Give me the brief, old fellah, and hie thyself off, like a good lad,” he told the Resident Magistrate. “Have no fear, they’ll be hanging your dark Danny Deever in the morning.”
He took a stout bumper of Heaslop’s prized Glenlivet in one hand and the brief in the other, and proceeded to consume both, with loud gurgling swallows.
The courtroom was giving Dante’s ninth circle a good run for its rupees, at least as to thermometricity. Sir Delafell Austinn, Chief Magistrate of Bazoukiland, who happened to be in New Delhi visiting his sister Lady Scaffold whilst on leave from his African labours, was drafted abruptly by the Gov-Gen’l as a wholly neutral party with vast judicial experience. He was used to heat, native grumblings, and the use of force to quell ill-considered local attempts at independence, freedom of speech and similar bolshevistic tendencies.
Jury selection consumed the day. Schrady challenged any native who could read and write, Viswanathan objecting sharply thereto, causing numerous delays whilst counsel wrangled in chambers. Viswanathan challenged any anyone, native, English or otherwise, who knew the first verse of “God Save the King”, to an extreme reaction from Schrady, counsel nearly coming to blows.
Finally, the last dozen resident persons who could be considered by the least possible chance as veniremen, dripping with sweat and frightened that whatever verdict they might render would subject them to flogging either from pink or black, were seated in the foul-smelling jurybox, accompanied by as many fleas as might fight their way in.
Sir Delafell, wearied nearly to exhaustion and cursing in terms he had not used since the Mons Retreat in ’14, declared that trial would begin the next morning at 6 sharp, “before the sun bakes us all to death, Christ be merciful unto us.” He made the Sign of the Cross, and staggered to his Brougham, to be driven to the dâk-bungalow reserved for guests of the Government and to be given the last glass of iced Château Kirwan ’67 (“a most diabolical vintage, rained like bloody Noah was about to set sail. Thank God we’re finally rid of it”, said the captain of the local militia) in the place.
Despite the careful preparation, the diligence of learned counsel and the stern, nay imperious, hand of Sir Delafell Austinn, the trial was a nightmare, a travesty—well, well, you shall see for yourself.
Called to the witness stand, the Resident Magistrate waxed discursive about the picnic to the Malabar Caves, his desire that his intended should experience this famous local attraction in his company, and of course that of his mother, lest tongues should be set wagging by this excursion.
All was well, until Miss Quested and Mrs Moore wandered off to explore the famous Echoing Chamber, where the merest whisper could be heard at the farthest reaches thereof, due to some acoustical anomaly that confounded the pundits.
Then stumbled back Mrs Moore, gasping for assistance. Racing with his accompanying domestics and placemen to the place whence she had come, he discovered Miss Quested lying half-naked upon the floor, and the accused, the black villain, standing over her, grinning like a Fiend from the Pit, having done who knew what atrocity on the alabaster form that lay, like a martyr on the altar of the very Devil, before him.
Even worse, the damned criminal had shot his filthy dirty ejaculate all over the wall, adjacent to the spot. There was even a wet spot on his black schoolmaster’s gown
He laid the dastard by the heels, and frog-marched him nihil obstat to the gaol. Bail, though proffered, was of course denied; one might as well take up a collection for Judas Iscariot.
Schraederling turned to Viswanathan. With a look upon which one might slice year-old cheese, he asked, “Does my learned friend wish to cross-examine?”
“Just two questions, Your Worship, if it please you.”
“Mr Resident Magistrate Heaslop, did you actually see, with your own eyes, any physical contact between Miss Quested and the accused?”
“No, but that black bugger was too quick, like the ape he is…”
“May I respectfully request that the record reflect only that the answer given was in the negative, and that Your Worship caution the jury to disregard the balance of Mr. Resident Magistrate Heaslop’s reply?”
“Under advisement. You have leave to renew at time of my charge to the jury.”
“With deepest thanks, Your Worship.”
“Mr Resident Magistrate Heaslop, was any medical examination of Miss Quested carried out at your direction or behest?”
“If you can call it that. Poor Miss Quested was pawed by that Scotchie quack MacArthur from Tubludibad. But he couldn’t diagnose his own diarrhea if he shit himself to death.”
“Again I must ask Your Worship, with the deepest respect, to order and adjudge that the record reflect only that Mr Resident Magistrate Heaslop answered in the affirmative, that Doctor MacArthur, M.D., of Tubludibad, did so examine Miss Quested; and that there be stricken from the record, and the jury cautioned to disregard, any and all references to Mr Resident Magistrate Heaslop’s opinion of said examination or of the qualifications of said Doctor MacArthur, M.D.”
“Again, Mr Viswanathan, under advisement with leave to renew as aforesaid.”
“I thank Your Worship. No further questions of this witness. Would my learned friend care to redirect?”
“I think not.”
Miss Quested turned white as she was called to the witness stand. Fucking hell, she thought, Heaslop’s the dumbest white man for fifty kilometres, and he has thrown me into this fanfarronade. If I tell the truth it’s back to blighty to starve or play whore to a worse arsehole than he, and it’s perjury if I lie.
She babbled out “so help me God,” without having heard what the clerk had said.
Schraederling was playing his “let me be your father” role. He wasn’t bad.
“Miss Quested, tell us in your own words, and be in no haste to do so, your account of the day in question.”
“Well, I arose early, as we wished to reach the Malabar Caves, a place I cannot recall without a shudder (I’ll say, she thought, I came like Victoria fucking Falls when the old lady grabbed my clit). I breakfasted lightly, the climate not agreeing with me and a hamper having been prepared by my dear Heaslop, whom I did not wish to disappoint by my lack of appetite.
“We walked about the exterior and examined the nearer passage. It was quite thrilling, the narrow chambers, the dank earth illumined by our torches. We emerged, and Professor Godbowel…”
“You mean the accused?”
“Yes, he. He led a troop of boys past us, shouting some military jargon I could not well understand.”
“Insults and threats, no doubt?”
“I could not say, as I did not well understand them. At any rate, my dear Heaslop responded in a cheerful manner, so I cannot say he was insulted.”
“And then what happened?”
“My dear Heaslop told them to leave. They stamped their feet in what I take it was a military manner, but it left us covered with the dust they kicked up in doing so…”
“Aha, dumb insolence and mutinous behavior, wasn’t it?”
“Well, it was unpleasant, and rather spoilt the Protestant pudding I had intended for my dessert…”
“Aha, an attack on the Christian religion! Did you not see it so?”
Ramjamit Viswanathan rose, and in an obsequious but nevertheless offensive drawl, objected. “I really think that my learned friend prefers making speeches and prompting his witness, to asking relevant and material questions of her.”
“Mr Schraederling, the Court admires zealous advocacy and proper prosecutorial spirit, but you go a little far, not that that is a fault, mind you. Prithee bowl straight, as we cricketers say.”
“Thank you, Your Worship,” with a venomous slantendicular glance at Viswanathan, as if measuring him for a coffin.
“Then what happened, Miss Quested?” he asked, quietly.
“We, Mrs Moore and I, decided to go to the Echoing Chamber, to observe and perhaps discover its mysterious qualities. Would I had never seen the place!”
“Yes, pray continue.”
“We went to that ghastly place. We spoke (and then we poked, she thought. Got to get to it soon. Hope to Christ it works!) and I walked to the farthest end, to try the echo. I was overcome by something, I know not what, and fell senseless. I had not recovered my senses for some little time, but how long I know not.”
“And while you were thus helpless, incapable of word or act, what did the accused do to you, to slake his filthy lust and gratify his hatred for the English?”
Now, she thought, the bastard’s given me an empty net. Before the defense nigger can speak.
“Oh, I cannot!” she shrieked. “It is too dreadful, this badgering, this unending bludgeoning of a poor, helpless, defenseless woman, a stranger to this country, alone, without friend or companion, with no mother to guide her or sister to assist her. Must I needs be defiled in front of these people, when my innocence and my sex should be my shield and my buckler? It is too bad! Is there no gentleman, no man, who can protect a helpless woman from this infamous inquisition?”
She buried her head in her arms and sank into the witness’ chair. Her shoulders quivered, her whole body shook. Fucking Hell, Hull, and Halifax, she thought, what price Sarah Bernhardt now? If I don’t stop laughing I’ll fucking piss myself.
Heaslop sprang to her side. “That’s enough, confound it! Can’t you see she’s at the end of her tether, you chaps?”
“I think a brief recess is now in order,” said Sir Delafell, striking his gavel on the block.
“All rise,” bawled the clerk.
Heaslop, holding her by the shoulder, conveyed her to Mrs Moore.
“I’ll watch the dear child,” said Mrs Moore. Swate Jayzus, thought Mrs Moore, what a great daughter-in-law! She fucks like a demented stoat and acts like Ellen Terry! This’ll be more fun than a gangbang with Radclyffe Hall and the Glyndebourne Ladies’ Choir!
Cradled on Mrs. Moore’s shoulder and covered by a light veil, Miss Quested pinched Mrs Moore’s nipple and whispered “Wasn’t that splendid, belle-mère? You should lick my pussy for an hour after that performance.”
“I never thought you’d ask, dear girl. For that you get the eight-inch Napoleon tonight.”
“Send it down, David,” she replied.
The recess ended, Doctor MacArthur was called.
“Your name, sir.”
“Dundee MacArthur, Doctor of Medicine.”
“Those are both your name and title. I asked for your name.”
“Weel, ye cannae have me name, as Ah need it mesel’, doncherknow?”
“With deepest respect, would Your Worship be pleased to caution the witness against giving frivolous answers?”
“Doctor MacArthur, this is a Court of Law, not a public house. Kindly save your jests for the latter forum.”
“Verra weel, Yer Worship.”
“By whom are you employed?”
“Be the Burra o’ Tubludibad, as general surgeon and sanitary officer.”
“How long had you held that post?”
“Too long. Eight year this September comin’.”
“And how came you to Agashiwallah?”
“They sent a barouche fer me, whan the Resident Magistrate Cuchullain O’Shanahan, blast his bog Irish heart, ordered me to examine the alleged victim Miss Quested.”
“And did you?”
“Weel, if Ah hadnae, ye wouldnae want me fer a witness noo, would ye?”
As Schraederling’s scowl grew deeper, Sir Delafell interrupted.
“Doctor MacArthur, I shall not further caution you. The penalty for contempt of this Court is a fine of not less than one pound sterling, and not more than ten pounds sterling, for the first offense, and ten blows of the rattan for the second. As you value your wallet and as you value the place where you keep it, have a care sir, have a care!”
“What did you observe when you examined Miss Quested?”
“Ah was informed of the natur’ of the offense for which th’accused was tae stand trial, so naturally I gave most attention to those members where t’offense would be located. Ah observed a young woman, perhaps twenty years of age, weel-nourished, generally weel-formed. A digital examination revealed she was virgo intacta. I dae hoope ye weel let me keep tae the Latin and no’ require me tae translate.”