Backstreet Child by Harry Bowling

which she wore over a matching pleated skirt. Her blond hair hung loose, apart from a marcasite hair slide which she wore on the left side of her forehead; her eyes were bright with good health and her complexion was clear, with two small flushes of colour on her cheeks. She carried a small suitcase, shoulder bag and white cotton gloves and she stood upright with her shoulders thrown back. Her figure was shapely beneath her loose-fitting clothes, and the high heels she was wearing accentuated the firm, round muscles of her calves.
     
    Rachel’s heart beat faster as the tram approached and then he was there beside her, looking smart in his blue serge, single-breasted suit and white shirt with a grey striped tie. His shoes were brightly polished and his dark hair was brushed back from his forehead. He looked very tall in his well-cut suit and as he leaned down to give Rachel a quick peck of a kiss he smiled widely, showing his white even teeth.
     
    It had been difficult for Rachel to arrange this night together without arousing her mother’s suspicions. She hated to be deceitful, but she had had no choice. Derek was leaving for the Chatham Naval Depot on Thursday morning, which gave them only two more days together.
     
    ‘Yer don’t fink yer mum suspects, do yer?’ Derek asked as he fell into step beside her.
     
    ‘I don’t fink so,’ she replied smiling, ‘but she gave me a funny look as I left.’
     
    The two young lovers climbed the long flight of steps that led up onto London Bridge Station and made their way to the platform. Rachel remembered how she had crossed her fingers behind her back when she casually mentioned that Derek was going down to Brighton for a couple of days to see his favourite aunt before he joined up and he wanted to take her with him to meet the old lady. She smiled to herself as she recalled her mother’s raised eyebrows and her sharp enquiry about sleeping arrangements. The fictitious aunt was promptly described as a regular church-goer, who would not condone any impropriety. That, and a feigned look of horror at what her mother might be thinking, was good enough to get the permission needed.
     
    ‘Yer still only nineteen, remember,’ Carrie had told her. ‘I don’t want yer gettin’ in trouble an’ ruinin’ yer life.’
     
    The train was standing ready and the two lovers found a compartment to themselves. Derek stowed the luggage on the rack above their heads and then slipped down beside Rachel and slid his arm round her waist.
     
    ‘Derek, somebody might see us,’ she protested as he pulled her to him.
     
    ‘I don’t care, I love you,’ he said in his Charles Boyer voice.
     
    Rachel giggled and snuggled against him, feeling his strong arm round her. What would her mother say, she wondered, if she knew that they were lovers, and had been since that delicious night at Derek’s home. She had needed him, desired him so much, and he had been almost overwhelmed by her passionate demonstration of love for him. Derek had tried hard to control his natural urge but she had not let him. She had climbed on top of him and borne her weight down upon him, her long fair hair brushing his face, her small firm breasts jutting forward as she arched herself and threw her head back, her hair flying round her. She had surprised herself by her lack of maidenly reserve and her determination to reach fulfilment at the first attempt. The pain and discomfort had quickly disappeared as she felt the torrent rising and Derek was sweating, his eyes wide and his mouth set firm as he desperately sought time. It was soon over, but every tiny moment was etched in Rachel’s mind as she nestled her head on his shoulder.
     
     
    Joe Maitland walked into the scullery and peeled off his sweaty shirt, cupping his hands under the running tap. He had been hard at it all day in the stables. He reached for the towel and rubbed his stubbled face, feeling fit and content. The urge for a drink was very rarely