Room 2D

The second part, from Uniform Girls 14 The well-oiled lock of the oak door of St Martha’s Retreat opening smoothly to Father James’s key. Opening and then closing again behind the monk and his young postulant companion. The equally well-oiled bolt sliding into place. No interruptions were wanted while this beauteous young woman was at her devotions. Not half-an-hour ago Father James had been in here with the girl’s visitor, one of the infrequent visits the nuns were allowed. And by some quirk of chance her knickers, removed in an earlier devotion, had been carelessly left lying on the sofa. For the Reverend Father to snatch up quick-wittedly before they caught the visitor’s eye. That was the reason, or the excuse, that she was here again: that error — though it had not been her doing but that of the other monk, Brother Oswald. Not that knickers being taken off was in any way rare or unusual at the Priory of St Ethelberga. A new ...

First part of two, from Uniform Girls 14 The sound of crisp, clear voices soaring above the more sombre tones of the organ. Female voices chanting in joyful unison as they had no doubt done in these ancient stone walls over hundreds of years. Father James smiled at his visitor. ‘They will be at practice for another 30 minutes. The human voice is a truly marvellous instrument, is it not, Mr Whitford? And I always think especially the female voice. Yes: the sound of angels. When trained, of course, to bring it into its full flowering. Brother Oswald does an outstanding job with them. But it is a labour of love; he is a wonderfully dedicated man.’ The visitor, Anthony Whitford, murmured assent. The soaring voices were marvellous. How many would there be? A dozen was it he had been told, nuns and novitiates, in this small daughter house of the Order. One of their number his own niece, Alison, whom he had come to visit today. ...

A new offering from Basil Thank you to everyone who has commented on my previous stories. They are much appreciated and provide an impetus for me to write more of the same. If anyone has any particular requests do let me know. The catalyst for this story was the last few sentences of The Village Hall and the accompanying drawing. Annabel climbed up the familiar loft ladder while the vicar stood patiently to one side. As she neared the hatch, the ladder creaked and juddered under the weighty bulk of the vicar as he began his own ascent, challenging the strength of the rickety wooden steps. Annabel instinctively gripped the handrails tightly and stopped, feeling that the whole thing was going to come crashing down at any moment. The vicar appeared not to have noticed any possible danger, his attention being entirely taken up by Annabel’s knicker-clad bum just a few feet above his head, the angle of his view lending it a decepti...