At the fourth meeting of the Society, Lucy Carter again prevails upon Miss Paulson to assist her with her new contrivance: Mr Jepson, the clockmaker, has very obligingly produced a wooden pattern of the machine, and it is now a question of assembling the pieces to see whether the design is good, before remaking certain of them in brass.
Thus it falls to Carry Walmsley once more to supervise the other girls as they experience the reviving and stimulating wonders of the electrical force upon their delicate anatomies. This time it is Benson's turn; Shipman willingly dons the gloves and takes the contact wires.
"Up a bit, Shipman," urges Walmsley, "that's where it felt... ah... most effective."
"Are you sure about this?" cries Benson in alarm. "Is it really necessary to go... oh!" — and her doubts are swiftly extinguished as the unique sensation of the electrical current assails her for the first time.
"I think it is necessary to go 'Oh,' don't you, Walmsley?" asks Shipman, with an arch little smile. Walmsley blushes. "I'm next, after Benson."
"That's not fair! I should go next!" protests Clark. "I've been doing all the boring jobs!"
"But you've already had a go!" objects Shipman. "Don't be so greedy!"
"One hundred," pronounces Kershaw.
"How does it feel, Benson?" asks Walmsley.
"Oh, it's... Oh, my, I'm..." gasps Benson. She seems preoccupied, as if the strange sensation is depriving her of the power of coherent thought.
"She's very flushed," observes Shipman.
"She does seem rather short of breath, doesn't she?"
"Perhaps her corset is rather too tight."
"Try to breathe normally, Benson."
"I... O Lord..." murmurs Benson; her toes begin to move, and the bell, which Walmsley attached at the outset, begins to jingle. But her breathing becomes shorter still, and noisier, as if she were entering a state of panic.
"One hundred and eight."
"I think you'd better give her a rest, Shipman," says Walmsley.
"Oh no! No!" Benson cries in alarm. "I'm perfectly... Ooh..."
Walmsley and the others watch intently as Benson struggles to control her breathing.
"One hundred and sixteen."
"Is it good, Benson?" asks Walmsley, her cheeks colouring in sympathetic excitement.
"Oh... Oh! There's a strange... aching, right inside me!"
"An ache? Well, perhaps we'd better take them off, then."
"Oh no! It's only a little ache... Aah..." Benson begins to pant once more.
"What do you think, Shipman? Can she take it?"
"Oh, I expect so," replies Shipman, a curious glee in her eyes as she reaches with her other hand under Benson's dress. "Ah now this is interesting!"
"What?"
Benson parts her legs a little wider.
"She seems to be perspiring rather a lot!"
"Perspiring?"
"One hundred and twenty."
Benson's hips are beginning to move.
"Yes, I suppose so. Unless it's..." Shipman removes her hand and sniffs the exploring finger delicately. "Well! I don't know what it is. It's not the other thing."
"Kershaw, feel her forehead."
"Just a little damp."
"O my Lord, Walmsley, I don't know what's happening... that ache, it's..." There is a note of near panic in Benson's voice. The bell is ringing constantly.
"Shipman! Clark! She's had enough!" cries Walmsley authoritatively. They watch Benson's strange movements as she tries to recover herself. She seems to be raising her hips and thudding down upon the table-top.
"I think... I want... more!" gasps Benson.
"No, that's quite enough. You were beginning to scare us. Do you feel all right?" asks Walmsley, bending solicitously. She looks at the other girls, who are likewise fascinated by Benson's strange predicament — save for Shipman and Clark, who seem slightly amused, even starry-eyed.
"One hundred and sixteen."
"Me next, remember!" says Shipman to Clark, wagging her finger. "That's what we agreed!"
"Just a moment, Shipman, Clark! Whose do you think it is to say who goes next, eh?" Walmsley sounds annoyed, and the two girls blush and hang their heads. But the next moment, Shipman looks up with a curious mixture of defiance and deference.
"Oh, I just thought that if this was science, then we should be finding out what longer periods of exposure might do. That's why I should go next. I'm not like Benson or Clark. I'm strong. I won't make a silly fuss. I can put up with a little bit of electricity."
"Oh can you, Shipman? And how can you be so sure?"
"Oh, I just try to believe in myself, Walmsley. We women can do much more than people think, if only we are allowed to believe in ourselves. Isn't that what Miss Paulson says?" Her stare is a challenge. Walmsley's eyes fall.
"Very well, Shipman. You next."
There is a little giggle. Walmsley looks up sharply. She cannot be sure if it is Clark or Shipman. They are looking at one another, their fingers to their lips. Something is going on between those two. As she watches, Shipman reaches across and puts her finger under Clark's nose. Clark jerks back, giggling and blushing. Benson is still writhing, no doubt still tingling from the after-effects of the electrical current.
"Help her up, girls," commands Walmsley. "Do you want a rest, Benson?"
"Oh, no, I feel so... so full of energy, so..." Benson is still searching for words.
"Are you still feeling something?"
"Yes, it's still tingling. It's so..."
"Go on..."
"It's so wonderful, this electricity! I wondered what you meant, Walmsley, when you said you felt you could run ten times round the school. But do you know: that's exactly how I feel!"
"She looks exhausted to me," says Kershaw, sceptically.
"Oh no, I'm not! It's just... Ooh! I don't know... these strange feelings!" Benson hunches her shoulders and shudders, gives her head a sudden, rapid little shake.
"Are you still aching?"
"Yes, a little, but it's as if I were aching... to move! To jump and run!"
"Oh good! Me next!" cries Shipman, leaping on to the table.
"Have you got all of that, Miller?"
"Yes, Walmsley," says Miller, almost breathless herself from the speed at which she has been taking notes.
"So, now for the very strong and resilient Miss Shipman! Kershaw," Walmsley says with a surreptitious wink, "you shall keep her ankles still. You are quite good with feet, I believe? Denning, you take her right hand, please. And Clark, you take the watch this time, and monitor the pulse of our fearless volunteer."
"Oh, but..." Clark makes to protest.
"No, I know just where to place the contacts. Kershaw, will you kindly tie on the bell? Thank you. And now, Miss Shipman. Do you feel anything in your feet, at all?"
"Tell her to stop it!" breathes Shipman, through clenched teeth.
"Stop what, Shipman?" Walmsley's voice is honeyed with false innocence.
"This is supposed to be science, Miss Walmsley!" The bell begins to jingle insistently. Shipman's eyes are wide with outraged reproach. "Tell her to stop!"
There is a surreptitious signal from Walmsley, and Shipman relaxes her hunched shoulders, her tightly-locked jaw, as Kershaw stops her tickling.
"Shall I check for perspiration as well, Walmsley?" asks Clark, her hand moving to the buttons at Shipman's neck.
"I think the heart rate will be quite sufficient, thank you," replies Walmsley coolly, noting Clark's ill-concealed disappointment. "Very well, everybody: ready, Kershaw? Ready, Denning?" Walmsley takes the wires and plunges under Shipman's dress. As she moves up the long, smooth thighs, she sees Shipman's wide eyes, her mouth sweetly open to take in extra breath. "I think it was about here, wasn't it, Shipman?" she asks softly, noting that delectable split-second of panic in the victim's eyes, before she plunges her hands down.
"Aah!" Shipman's little squeal is exquisite, unforgettable; but the next minute, she is biting her lower lip, bringing herself under strict control, the breathing smooth, regular.
"Ninety," lies Clark coolly.
"Not feeling much, Shipman?" asks Walmsley, a slightly playful note in her voice.
"Mmm..." The electrical current seems to have lent a strange resonance to Shipman's groan. The bell on her toe jingles slowly. Shipman struggles to keep still.
"Do you think the contacts are too far apart?"
"They are very well as they are, just... astonishing... Ha ha!" Shipman's smile is beatific.
"Come on, Clark, what's the heart rate?"
"Oh, ninety-four."
"We don't seem to be making much impression on you, do we, Shipman?"
"I told you I was strong, Walmsley..." Shipman's eyes flash and glitter. She looks at the anxious faces of the girls around her. "It just tickles a little, that's all. I can feel the energy soaking into me. It's soaking into me in waves." The bell starts to jingle once more, and again Shipman strives to keep herself still.
"Come on, it must be half a minute, Clark: what are you doing, girl?"
"Um... ninety-eight."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Walmsley, I'm sure."
"Shipman, are you trembling?"
Shipman's eyes are closed, now. "Oh..." she says. The bell jingles louder.
"One hundred and two."
Shipman makes one last desperate effort to keep still. Her tongue is beginning to dart between her lips, and when she opens her eyes, they no longer focus. Denning is watching her.
"Her eyes seem to be glazed over, Walmsley."
The bell begins a rapid jingling now, impossibly fast.
"This is extraordinary. Her whole body is vibrating!"
"I feel it too!" says Denning.
"Oh... my God... ohh..." groans Shipman. She knows instinctively that something very nice is about to happen. The colour in her cheeks is high: even her throat seems flushed.
"Heart rate?" asks Walmsley, anxiously. "Come on, wake up, Clark!"
"Oh... sorry, I got distracted..." Clark counts thirty over the quarter minute. Shipman is still shivering and groaning, the bell jingling constantly. "A hundred and twelve."
"Right, that has to be enough! I'm taking them off!"
"You b... Walmsley! Oh Walmsley, put them back! Please! Oh! Oh!" Shipman is suddenly writhing as if in agony. She begins to sob hysterically.
"Let's just see about that mysterious perspiration, shall we?" says Walmsley, meaningfully, carefully removing the wires and handing them to Penrose.
The bell jingles incessantly as Walmsley's fingers grope their way up Shipman's leg.
"Oh Walmsley, oh yes! Just there!" Shipman is suddenly brighter, her eyes ablaze once more; but then her face falls. "Oh! You're so cruel!"
"Turn away, girls, please. Miller, I want you to take note of what I'm about to show you. For the sake of science, of course."
There is absolute silence. Clark is pink-cheeked, her eyes downcast. Denning, all obedience, still holds Shipman's other arm tightly. Shipman is weeping softly, the bell still jingling angrily, her ankles held fast by Kershaw.
"What do you think of that, Miller?" asks Walmsley softly as she draws up Shipman's skirts.
"Oh! What's happened to her?" Miller sounds horrified. The others are dying to look. "Is she usually like that?"
"I somehow don't think so, Miller. Just describe, in writing, what you see."
"Well, I..."
"In writing, Miller."
"Oh. Just a minute."
"Haven't you seen enough?"
"Um... well, yes."
"Very well, Miller, get writing. Up you get, Shipman."
"Walmsley, I could take it a little longer, honestly," protests the disappointed volunteer.
"I'm sure you could, Shipman, but if we are to be scientific we have to advance the experiment slowly. We mustn't rush things. We must see what effect such a prolonged exposure to the current has on you. Aren't you in the battledore match tomorrow, by the way?"
"Well, yes, I am, but..."
"Well, then, Shipman, we shall have to see if it improves your game."
"Oh! I am sure that it will..."
"Clark? Are you in the match?"
"Er... no, Walmsley."
"No. Denning?"
"Yes, Walmsley. I'm playing."
"Right. You're next for a dose. Hop up on the table, girl."
"Does this mean I don't get a go?" asks Clark anxiously.
"Precisely, Clark. In the interests of science, we are going to examine the effects of the electrical current upon our battledore players!"
Denning's eyes open wide as Walmsley's fair hands glide under her skirts.
"You're not frightened are you, Denning?"
"No, but... do you have to do it just there?"
"It is the most effective place, Denning." Walmsley lovingly applies the electrical contacts.
"How about there, Denning?"
"Ooh! That feels funny!"
"Or how about there?"
"Oh goodness... that's..."
"Or... hang on a moment... what about... there?"
"Eek! Hee hee! Oh gosh!" Denning's voice is a squeak. She tries to writhe, but she is held fast.
"Can you feel the energy entering your body?"
"Oh! Hee hee!" This seems to be all Denning can say, but her expression seems particularly lively and interested, so Walmsley judges that the position must be about right.
"One hundred and four," intones Clark sulkily.
Soon the bell is ringing merrily – so merrily, in fact, that Miss Paulson leaves Carter bent over her machine and comes to see what is happening.
"Benson! Shipman! Stand still! You girls seem to have Saint Vitus's Dance! Goodness, Walmsley! Where on earth are you placing those contacts?"
"I've found a place, miss, where the energy seems to flow right into the body. Right, Benson?"
"Oh, gosh, yes, miss, I..."
"Keep still, Benson!"
"I'm sorry, miss, I..."
"You too, Shipman! What is the matter with you?"
"Oh, it's the electrical force, Miss Paulson. It seems to have that effect."
"Yes, miss," Benson chimes in, "my whole body seems to be tingling and glowing with... with life! With energy!"
"Goodness... that's interesting, Walmsley."
"I ventured to think so, miss."
"How do you feel, Denning?"
"O miss, goodness, ha ha! I'm... It's... Ha! Ha!" Denning's eyes close involuntarily, and her brow contracts as if in pain. "Ooh!" she says, "I can feel... Ha ha!"
"One hundred and twenty."
"Right! That's enough!"
The jingling of the bell, which has become almost a trilling, gradually stills. Denning shakes herself like a puppy. "Oh gosh!" she says, her eyes clouded. "Oh my!"
"Please, miss," says Walmsley, handing the contacts to Kershaw, "we've noticed a most particular phenomenon. It seems a little like perspiration, but we don't think it can be. I wonder if you could give us your opinion. Turn away, girls."
"Oh! Can't we see?" asks Penrose.
"No! It's private – only for the scientific record. Now if I just lift Denning's skirts... do you see, miss?"
"But that's... You've given her too much, Walmsley. She's just lost control, that's all. Where did you put those contacts?"
"No, honestly, miss, it's not what you think it is. Look! I'm just dipping my finger into it..."
"Ooh!" cries Denning, and the bell jingles sharply.
"Now... just sniff."
"Sniff?"
"Yes. Does it smell like..."
Miss Paulson lets out a soft little cry of surprise. "No, Walmsley. It doesn't. What a strange smell! I don't believe it can be perspiration. Let me smell it again." Miss Paulson sniffs delicately. She gives a little shudder. "Let me take a little on my finger." Delicately, she reaches under the uplifted skirts and probes for a moment.
"Ooh! Hee hee!" cries Denning.
"All in the cause of science, Denning," says Walmsley sententiously.
"Goodness! It's..." Miss Paulson inhales again. "...remarkable. It's vaguely familiar." She rubs the fluid between her fingers. "And it's slippery. Do you notice that, Walmsley?"
Clark has been muttering to Shipman. The word "melting" is heard. Miss Paulson stiffens.
"What's that? Did I give permission to you ladies to speak? Shipman, what are you doing? Stand straight! Arms by your sides!"
"Sorry, miss..." says Shipman, eyes downcast in pink-cheeked docility.
"You do not think, Walmsley, that perhaps Denning may have received a little too much of the current? She does seem rather agitated."
"No, I feel very well, miss," protests Denning anxiously.
"We had already noticed that the effects were very enlivening, miss. I thought it would be interesting to see whether it would help the members of our battledore team, since we have a match tomorrow."
Miss Paulson looks thoughtfully at Shipman and Denning. They seem to glow: their eyes sparkle; they spring up on tiptoe. Perhaps, after all, the electrical current is firing their energy, rousing their animal spirits.
"Are there any other members of the team here, Walmsley?" asks Miss Paulson.
Carry Walmsley looks down, a charming blush on her cheek. "Well, miss... I am, of course..."
"Very well, Walmsley. It would be interesting to see the effect, I agree. Would you be prepared to volunteer?"
"Oh, but..." cries Clark. Shipman's admonitory nudge is sharp enough to elicit a grunt. Miss Paulson looks up, her eyes fierce behind her glasses.
"Sorry, miss. Nothing, miss."
"Who shall apply the contacts?" asks Miss Paulson.
"Shipman," says Walmsley without hesitation. "Shipman knows where they go."
Carry Walmsley, like Shipman, is a strong and determined young woman. She is determined not to make an exhibition of herself. It is all the more humiliating, then, when despite her clenched teeth and tight-closed eyes, braced for the onslaught, the first sensations provoke a ridiculous, high-pitched whinny which seems to escape through her nose. "Get a grip on yourself, girl!" she thinks. She struggles to relax. Really, the sensation is overwhelming. It is the life force itself, flooding into her body.
Clark, still holding the watch, calls out as the heart-rate inexorably soars.
"Are the feelings very strong, Walmsley?" asks Miss Paulson sympathetically, as the bell begins its insistent jingling.
"No, not at all," is what Walmsley wants to say. But what she actually says, between heaves of her magnificent chest, is "Oh! O Lord! Oh my!"
Eventually, when the bell begins to trill and Walmsley appears to be trembling violently, Miss Paulson calls "Enough!"
As she removes the contacts, Shipman seems to be in a state of near collapse. So do Benson and Denning. And Kershaw.
"I will just check for the... perspiration," says Miss Paulson, insinuating her hand under Walmsley's skirts.
"Oh... Oh, Miss Paulson!" gasps Walmsley appreciatively, as her dear, dear teacher sensitively glides her fingers along the smooth, firm skin of her warm, tremulous thigh; and "Oh! Oh my!" as they reach the region of that distinctive, oily wetness. "Mmm!"
Quickly, Miss Paulson withdraws her hand, and again she sniffs. "Ooh!" she says appreciatively. It is a most beguiling fragrance. "I wonder what it can be." She sniffs again. "I think we must investigate this strange fluid. It may be something quite new."
"Please miss?" Denning interrupts. "I'm still feeling it, miss."
"Not now, Denning..."
"Excuse me, miss?" It is Miller, anxiously pointing with her pencil. "I must just note the appearance, if you please?"
"What, Miller? Oh, yes, yes of course. Shipman, would you oblige?"
"Look away, the rest of you," says Walmsley, crimson-cheeked upon the table as Shipman raises her skirts.
"You see, miss?" says Miller, primly, as she quickly makes her cryptic notes.
Shipman lowers the skirts once more.
"Oh yes..." breathes Miss Paulson, raptly. "Oh Carry..."
"But I'm still feeling it, miss!" says Denning piteously.
"Be quiet, Denning! And stop that ridiculous jigging up and down!"
Miss Paulson has never witnessed a school battledore match before, for she prefers, she says, to concentrate entirely upon the things of the mind. Is it not a vulgar thing, she is wont to ask, to clap and cheer from the sidelines, as at a prize fight? But now, she is here, clapping and cheering with the rest, for now there is a new dimension – that of scientific interest. And certainly the match has got off to an auspicious start, for Denning – never a strong player – seems transformed: she is leaping gracefully about the court, smoothly returning every shot with almost faultless accuracy and surprising stamina. By now her success seems assured, for having lost the second game at 12, she now holds the advantage, and her opponent is clearly flagging at 10-6.
"Ah, Miss Paulson, what a pleasure to see you supporting our girls!" cries Mrs Cunningham, coming up to her. "For the first time I believe we may have a chance of getting the better of Thomas More."
There has long been a fierce rivalry between the two schools, but alas Hepplewhite has yet to win a match.
"Let us hope so, Mrs Cunningham," says Miss Paulson, graciously curtseying.
"And do you not think, Miss Paulson, that the girls look very fetching in these more practical clothes?"
"Indeed I am of the belief that the tight and constricting clothing which custom obliges us to wear are one of the many means by which we are prevented from achieving our true potential, Ma'am. Women would be as able-bodied as men, were our clothing only to permit us free movement, and allow us to draw breath as nature intended."
Mrs Cunningham looks a little startled. "I take it you are not advocating any form of indecency, Miss Paulson – forgive me, you are not saying that women should dress as men do?"
"Oh no, Ma'am, only that the very close and confining nature of our bodices and skirts have the effect of curtailing the free and wholesome movement of the limbs. See how beautifully Denning leaps to return the shuttlecock! Can it not be good for the girls to spend their natural energies in such healthy and vigorous sports? Is this not better than to swoon in helpless subjection, deprived of air by the over-tight corsets men would have us wear?"
"Perhaps you are right, Miss Paulson, perhaps so. Indeed, there are those I fear who would count it a scandal to see a young maid dressed as scantily as our players today."
"Men, of course, Ma'am, or those who fear what men might think."
At this point the conversation is interrupted by a burst of applause.
"Oh, lovely shot, Denning!" cries Mrs Cunningham. The shuttlecock has sailed clear over her opponent's head, and Denning has her thirteenth point.
In the back row, Clark and Penrose clap lazily. Penrose is delighted to have the opportunity to talk to her best friend. Since Clark made her revelation, the uncomfortable sense of something unshared has somehow created an awkwardness between them. And truth to tell, Penrose has been feeling a little jealous of Shipman, who appears to have dropped Carter and now seems to be monopolizing her friend's attentions. Clark is sitting stiffly, as if on the defensive. She does not turn to look at Penrose.
Penrose sidles closer. She takes a deep breath.
"Sarah... I found out."
"Found out?" Clark half-turns, but does not look her in the eye.
"Yes. I found out why people... you know... do it."
Clark looks down. She smiles. She takes Penrose's hand gently in hers. She turns now.
"You don't need to feel any woman pains, do you?"
"No," breathes Penrose. A little anxiety comes into her face. "You don't think it's harmful, do you?"
"Of course not! What about Walmsley?"
"Walmsley?" To Penrose, and to everyone else for that matter, Walmsley is a paragon of youthful health and vivacity.
Clark turns to watch the game, but moves her mouth close to her friend's ear, speaking low. "Benson told Shipman that Milady Walmsley's been doing it for years and years."
"O Sarah!" breathes Penrose, dazzled. "Even Walmsley!"
"Yes, dear. Especially Walmsley."
Clark squeezes Penrose's hand gently, and feels an answering pressure. They turn to watch the game.
"You know, Sarah," says Penrose confidentially after a while, "Shipman did it twice last night. One right after the other."
"Twice? Hee! Hee!"
"But she's such an idiot, Sarah! She made such a noise. She's going to get caught one of these days, and then she'll be for it!"
"Oh look, here she comes now. I do hope she wins."
"It looks like Denning's won."
"Pooh! Who cares about Denning?" They applaud anyway. Denning is jubilant, wreathed in happiness.
"Look, she's jumping up and down! She seems so full of energy today. It must be the electricity."
Despite losing the toss, Shipman is soon serving. If Denning was swift and elegant, Shipman is formidable: her forehand strong, her backhand assured, her returns frequently unanswerable. Before long, she is leading 10-2. It appears that this will be a short match.
"Isn't she magnificent, Vicky!" cries Clark, bouncing on the bench in her enthusiasm. She does not notice that when Shipman looks up, it is to Lucy Carter, alone as always at the end of the bench, nervously wringing her handkerchief to and fro in her lap, biting her lip with those funny, crooked teeth of hers. And then Shipman's eyes glitter, and she delivers another smooth, devastating service.
"Well, whatever she was doing, it obviously didn't tire her out," says Penrose.
"Of course not, silly! Oh! Lovely shot!" Clark bounces and claps.
"But don't you think perhaps she's doing it rather too much? Even her marks are suffering. Hadn't you noticed?"
"Her marks? Pooh! They're good enough. Anyway, it's done no harm to my marks!"
"But it's distracting her, Sarah. She must be thinking about it all the time."
"About what? Oh! Bravo! Fifteen-four!"
"Well, don't you find it... rather distracting? I'm worried that it's going to affect my marks."
"Oh honestly, Penrose, what rubbish! Why should it?"
"Well... I don't know. Perhaps it's true what they say. Maybe it saps one's energy."
"Nonsense! Look how much energy Shipman has! Oh! What a return! Did you see that?"
"Perhaps it's the effect of the electricity."
"Well, perhaps... But look here, you'll have your turn soon enough."
"Oh no I won't, Sarah. Milady Walmsley will see to it that her blessed battledore team always gets the lion's share."
"Don't be so despondent! Miss Paulson will make sure it's all done fairly – in the name of science."
"Well... perhaps," Penrose admits grudgingly.
"Oh what is it now? Oh Vicky, she's at fourteen! If she wins this point, it's the match! Just look! Look how assured she is! O Lord, those eyes! Go to it, Shipman!"
It is a rather sad end to Shipman's triumph, for her adversary seems to have abandoned hope; and with an ill-aimed swipe, she loses the match. At the sidelines, Carry Walmsley is leaping up and down in exhilaration.
"Wonderful! Wonderful!" Clark is on her feet, applauding. Gradually the applause dies down.
"Sarah?"
"Yes, Vicky?"
"You haven't got... feelings for Shipman, have you?"
"What if I had? She's very pretty, don't you think? Why, you're not jealous, are you?"
For a moment Penrose stares in open-mouthed horror. Then Clark explodes in laughter.
"Oh Sarah Clark, you complete idiot!" Penrose turns away angrily. Carter has gone, but she does not notice. No one notices. Clark tugs Penrose's sleeve.
"Oh look, Vicky! It's Smythe on next!"
Smythe is one of the better players. Tall and agile, she has even beaten Walmsley a few times; but today she seems apprehensive, as if the unexpected success of the juniors has used up the team's supply of luck. And in one respect at least she is unlucky, for her adversary is Thomas More's star player.
"Oh dear!" remarks the Head a little later, "It seems that Smythe doesn't have her usual sparkle today."
Walmsley overhears the remark. "If we could get her into the Scientific Society," she thinks, "we could give her a little sparkle." And aloud, "Come on Smythe! You can do it!"
Alas, by the third game it is clear that Smythe will not; and despite a creditable rally towards the end of the fifth, creeping into the advantage twice, in the end her opponent's skill prevails.
And so the two captains face one another at last. Last term, Walmsley got the better of her opponent; indeed, she was the only Hepplewhite girl to win. Now, Hepplewhite are relying on her for victory, victory at last. She wins the toss, and with her first unanswered service she sets the tone for a game which will be talked about for years to come. Her opponent has every bit as much skill and determination; but it is the sheer force of delivery, the smooth power with which Walmsley can send the shuttlecock so far to the back of the court, and then, when her opponent is rushing to and fro, trickle it just over the net with an effortlessly insolent back-hand. Her opponent rallies often, however, seemingly indefatigable; and in the second game (the first Walmsley won for 13) eventually prevails at 17-15. However, from then on it is clear that Walmsley has the greater stamina; and she goes on to win the third for 11. It is the fourth game, however, in which for the first time it appears that Thomas More may yet force Hepplewhite to a draw; for at 11-12 to the More girl, Walmsley slips and falls, bruising her elbow painfully. The More girl pulls ahead two more points before Walmsley seems to recover, and from then on wins point after point, to end victorious at 16-14.
Having shaken hands graciously with her opponent, she flies off the court to acknowledge the Head's congratulations, and Miss Paulson's rapturous embrace.
"We did it! We did it!" she cries ecstatically, and,
"You were superb! And my! How hot you are in all those clothes!" Miss Paulson responds. She would love to take Walmsley's pulse, for she feels sure that it is at least a hundred and twenty, but the etiquette of the situation prevents this: Walmsley and the team must now escort their guests to a special high tea.
And in the back row, Penrose and Clark get to their feet.
"You didn't mean that about Shipman, did you?" asks Penrose, eyes downcast.
"Of course not, you fool."
"Would you... would you like to walk with me tomorrow?"
"Oh Vicky, I'm sorry. It's just that I promised... So much is happening just now. I'd love to do it sooner, honestly I would. Could we go out, perhaps, next Monday?"
"Only if you want to."
"Of course! Don't be silly, Vicky! I'd go with you tomorrow if I could! I'll meet you in the study-room before recreation on Monday. Honestly."
They look into one another's eyes. Penrose is wrestling with hope.
"I'll look forward to it," she says, then hurries away, her face burning.
The next day, Carter enters the study-room, hoping that she can persuade Shipman to accompany her on a walk during the afternoon recreation period. Of late Shipman has been neglecting her in favour of Sarah Clark; but perhaps today she will be friendly again. She goes first to her desk. Shipman, French, Denning and several others are working at theirs. Denning turns.
"Ah, Carter. Perhaps you'd like to take part in a little game with us."
Instinctively, Carter is on her guard. She is not used to being invited to participate in the girls' amusements. She cannot help blushing her gratitude, even though she suspects a trap.
"And... what game might that be?" she asks nervously.
"Oh, what do you think we could play with Carter?" Denning asks airily, of nobody in particular.
Nobody reacts. Everyone seems unnaturally still.
Carter is increasingly uneasy. She goes to her desk, trying to appear busy with her books.
"Ah, yes," Denning continues, as if struck with a happy thought. "How about a game of 'I spy?'"
There is a snort of merriment from Clark, and a snigger from several others. Shipman is bowed at her desk, her face in her hands. Her shoulders are shuddering.
"I have work to do." Carter puts her nose in the air and sweeps out to the accompaniment of renewed sniggering. Her mouth twitching with a mixture of anger and mortification, she decides to take refuge in the library, where she is able to work undisturbed — and to weep unobserved, if weep she must.
At the fifth meeting of the Scientific Society, Miss Paulson begins by reviewing the notes that Prudence Miller has taken over the past three sessions.
"I find this rather difficult to interpret, Miller. For example, what does this mean: 'damp and flowering at Q' – what on earth is Q?"
"Um... it's a place, miss."
"Well, what place? Quebec?"
The girls laugh. Everyone knows that Miller is mad, and suspects that her notes are worthless.
"No, miss; Queensland."
"Queensland? Whatever do you mean? What has this to do with Queensland?"
"Um... it's a metaphor, miss. I couldn't really say it directly. It wouldn't be decent."
"Decent? Metaphor? My dear Miller, this is science. We describe things directly, we don't use metaphor. Explain!"
"Um... can I whisper, miss?"
"Oh, very well..." Miss Paulson rolls her eyes, and again the girls laugh.
Miller stands on tip-toe, puts her mouth to Miss Paulson's ear and cups her hands. With innocent, girlish lips, she softly mouths a tiny, explosive word.
"Oh!" Miss Paulson straightens, her cheeks aflame. "In that case, damp means... Oh! But flowering?" Again she stoops, and again Miller whispers, at greater length. "Oh, I see! Oh, that makes sense after all."
"But what does it mean, miss?" asks Walmsley, intrigued.
"Just what it says, Walmsley. Damp and flowering... burgeoning..." Miss Paulson makes gestures of a flower opening with her fingers – "in Queensland."
"Queensland, miss?"
"Yes, Queensland. A tract of country that kings don't have. Now then: let us see what reports we have of the effects on our noble volunteers. Hmmm... Tingling... Tickling... Throbbing... Energy." She snaps the notebook shut. "It seems to me, Miller, that we need a volunteer with your descriptive power, to record what it is really like. These words seem to tell us nothing."
"Oh no, miss, please no! I'm not brave, really I'm not!" stammers Miller, her voice a squeak of terror.
After a moment's pause, Walmsley speaks up, her eyes aglow with adoration. "Why not show us, miss? We are young: we just don't have your experience, nor your rich vocabulary. We could learn."
"Oh! Well..." Miss Paulson colours slightly at Walmsley's praise. But then she remembers how educational this will be for the young ladies. "Very well. In the name of science..." Miss Paulson hops on to the table and lies down obediently.
As smoothly as she can, Walmsley takes charge. "Kershaw, you tie on the bell."
"Can we do the contacts, Walmsley?" urges Shipman.
"Can we?" echoes Clark.
"I shall do the contacts, Shipman. You shall monitor the pulse rate. You, Clark, shall take the other hand."
"Is this really necessary, Walmsley? I don't need everyone tugging on my limbs."
"I think you will find that it is, miss. The girls pulled pretty hard after a little while, didn't they, Shipman?"
"Er, yes, Walmsley."
"Benson, the other ankle, if you please. Ready, miss?"
"Ready, Walmsley."
"Here I go..." And slowly, slowly, Walmsley advances the wires up under Miss Paulson's skirts. "I'm going for the usual place, Miller."
"Right."
"O Walmsley! Oh!" gasps the astounded teacher.
"I haven't quite got there yet, miss..."
"One hundred," says Shipman in a cool, scientific voice. Miller is taking rapid notes.
"Oh goodness! Walmsley, that tickles most dreadfully. Ah! Aha!"
"Not quite there yet, miss."
Clark and Shipman grunt with the effort of holding Miss Paulson still.
"Here we go!" cries Walmsley, and
"Oooh! Ahaha! Eee!" cries Miss Paulson. "Oh Lord oh Lord!"
"All right, miss?"
"Just a moment, Walmsley! Off a moment, please!"
"One hundred and twelve."
"They're off, miss."
"Are they? Goodness. I just wasn't ready. I'm sorry, ladies. Just let me compose myself..." Miss Paulson wiggles her hips, shakes her head, concentrates her expression into one of fierce determination. "Very well! On again!" She shuts her eyes tightly and waits for the onslaught. But as it recommences, she cannot help voicing her body's shock and surprise at the amazing sensation. "Mmmh! Oh! Oh..."
"You are not in any pain, miss?"
"Oh, I've never... Oh, my!"
"Can you describe it for us?"
"Ohh..."
"Does it tingle?"
"Yes!"
"Anything else?"
"It feels... oh!"
"Invigorating?"
"Oh... yes!"
"Do you feel an ache at all?"
"I can... oh! Oh my!"
"Any ache?"
"It's just that... oh! My..."
"Queensland, miss?" interjects Miller, helpfully.
"Oh yes yes yes yes..."
"One hundred and sixteen."
Miss Paulson lapses into silence; her eyes are closed, her breathing rapid. She seems intoxicated by the force of life and motion as it takes its scintillating course through her most sensitive areas. The bell begins to jingle.
"Oh my... Oh my oh my..." she gasps. "This is so... invigorating!"
"Got that, Miller?"
"Yes, Walmsley."
"I feel as if..."
"Yes, miss?"
"I could crush rocks in my... Oh!" Miss Paulson is becoming tense.
"Crush rocks, miss?"
"Yes, naked... rocks in my — ah! — naked... hands..."
"One hundred and twenty-four."
Miss Paulson seems to be becoming a little agitated. The bell is jingling continuously. "Enough!" cries Walmsley, and lifts off the contacts.
Miss Paulson is shuddering; "Oh! Oh!" she gasps in a little, high-pitched voice. They watch in silence as she struggles to recover herself.
"Ahem!" Miller coughs sententiously.
"Yes, Miller?"
"Um... Queensland."
"Oh... yes... yes, of course. Turn away, everyone." She raises the skirts. Miller looks carefully. "Very well, Miller. Seen enough?"
"Umm... not quite."
Walmsley continues to hold up the skirts.
"Enough now?"
"Um... yes, probably."
"Let me look... Oh, Miss Paulson..." Walmsley drops the skirts. "Oh, Miss Paulson..."
Too much aware of her own predicament to notice Walmsley's, Miss Paulson heaves herself upright and tries to step down off the table. All she can say is, "Oh, my! Oh my goodness!"
Miller is still scribbling in her notebook. "Q inundated," she writes, "magnificent bloom."
"You seem very out of breath. Are you all right, miss?" asks Clark anxiously.
"Oh, ha ha! Yes, never better!" Miss Paulson smiles vacantly into the middle distance.
Miller looks up from her notebook. "And what do you now feel, miss, please?"
"What, Miller?"
"It's for the notes, miss." Miller does not conceal her irritation. "What effects do you now feel?"
"Oh, let me try to describe it... I can still feel it, you know. It just goes on... and on... Oh my... Yes, it's a tingling, yes... an ache, yes, of sorts, that seems to come and go... Oh!" The last interjection is a sudden little moan. "That was one of them."
"Is that like a little pain, miss?"
"Well, not pain exactly, Miller. Actually it's — Oh! There it goes again. It's actually quite an agreeable sensation. Rather sharp. It's somehow... refreshing."
"Refreshing, miss?"
"Yes. It makes me feel young. It makes me want to laugh and run."
"Thank you, miss." Miller sounds disappointed. Indeed, she had secretly hoped for a torrent of illuminating metaphor and florid vocabulary from Miss Paulson. It is as if this electrical force deprives the volunteers of the powers of coherent speech. She notes Miss Paulson's remarks, and then, after a blank line, writes "Confused platitudes!"
"Well, miss, we have time for at least one more. What about Clark?"
In no time at all, Clark is up on the table, offering her long, slender toe to Kershaw, who attaches the bell. Once more, the familiar pattern is observed, Clark's initial extreme agitation gradually subsiding into a kind of trance, and then increasingly agitated gasping and panting, until the heart rate becomes dangerously high. Miss Paulson, though, notices an extraordinary sympathetic reaction, both in herself and in certain of the other girls. There is Walmsley, also apparently gasping for breath and rotating her hips in a strange, rather enticing rhythm. Shipman's eyes are heavy-lidded, her knees bent as if in a half-swoon, her breast rising and falling almost as much as Clark's. There is a strange flush on Kershaw's cheek, Benson is breathless, and Denning seems as limp as a rag doll. And yes, in herself also, that strange tingling, which never had quite stopped, seems to have intensified. Turning modestly aside for a moment, Miss Paulson hitches up her skirts and, feeling cautiously, confirms her suspicions: the strange wetness has returned.
"Who next, miss?"
"Who hasn't had a turn yet?"
"I think it's only Penrose and me, miss," says French.
"You should say, 'Penrose and I.'" Miss Paulson corrects her while she searches her memory. Penrose and French, both rather timorous souls, have always been rather aloof from the activity, silently observing. Had she observed those strange symptoms of excitement in either? No: they had been stock-still, just like Miller.
"Shall we do French, then, miss?"
"No, Walmsley, I think instead we should have them helping a little more first, instead of just standing at the side-lines. I am inclined not to have anyone new just at the moment. Perhaps you would oblige us this time, Walmsley?"
"Willingly, miss."
"French, you monitor heart rate. Penrose, you take the other hand. And I will manage the contacts. I should like to see how they are positioned. Will you be able to give guidance, Walmsley?"
"I shall try, miss."
"Very well. Bell in place?" Walmsley gives her toe a little waggle, and it rings. Clark lets out a little gasp. "Heart rate?"
"Seventy, miss."
"Very good. So, Walmsley, it's up here somewhere, is it?"
"Ooh! Oh yes, miss. Up a bit, miss."
"Here?" Miss Paulson makes an effort to sound detached, dispassionate; but truly, just feeling the contours of Carry Walmsley's smooth, warm body under her gloved fingertips is having an unexpected effect upon her feelings. She feels the urge to take off the gloves, and feel more carefully, more delicately.
"About there, miss. Mmff!"
"Is that right?"
"Up... just a... oh! Just a tiny bit, miss. Aaah! Aah! Yes! Mmmm..." Walmsley's eyes close and she begins chewing on her lower lip.
"Hold tight, French, Penrose..."
Already, Walmsley's body seems to be writhing in the strangely hypnotic, sinuous rhythm that the electrical current always seems to provoke.
"Oh, this is lovely, miss..."
"Lovely?" Miss Paulson looks searchingly, but the girl's eyes are closed in the intensity of sensation; indeed, it seems as if, quite on the contrary, the electric current is a source of anguish.
"Oh, when you get used to it, miss, it's... Oh! Mmmm..." Walmsley bites her lower lip with her perfect teeth.
"Ninety-two."
As the heart rate rises, and Walmsley's tremors cause the bell to jingle once more, Miss Paulson forces herself to look carefully at French and Penrose. They are quite unaffected. But Clark, Benson, Kershaw, Shipman – all seem to be reacting in different ways, ranging from Shipman's high colour and rapid breathing to Clark's apparent state of near-collapse.
But now she needs to concentrate, for Walmsley's gyrations are making it difficult to keep the contacts in position. Miss Paulson notes with something more than interest the instinctive movements, the constant rise and fall of the pubic area, the delicious flush upon the pretty face and neck, the sinuous flexing of the smooth, warm skin. As she watches, Walmsley's brow concentrates into a frown, causing her to wonder if perhaps she has applied the electrical current too long. When, shortly, Walmsley's mounting excitement manifests itself in a sudden, rapid tremor, she withdraws the contacts in horror. But at once Walmsley wails, as if in reproach:
"Oh please, miss: I can take more, miss, honestly I can!"
Miss Paulson chides herself for her helpless folly, for it is clear that Walmsley has received too much of the electrical current: as she is helped to her feet, still moaning and shuddering, her hands flapping, her shoes chattering upon the hard oak floor, the anxious teacher fears that she has permanently harmed this beautiful, perfect specimen of aristocratic womanhood. As she watches Walmsley clasping and unclasping her hands in nervous over-excitation, still supported by Clark and Penrose, she is accosted by nightmare visions of a distraught Duke and Duchess, terrible with righteous indignation, calling down disgrace upon her head, the end of her career, the blighting of her aspirations, the ruin of the school.
But then Walmsley totters into her arms, clinging to her shoulders, and looking up with those beautiful, imploring eyes, she murmurs,
"O miss... You don't understand: I could have had more, just a little more..."
"Are you... all right, Carry?"
"Oh, yes, miss, but why... why are you..."
Miss Paulson turns away to dab under her spectacles with her handkerchief; and with an effort, she calls out:
"Time to tidy up, ladies."
To herself, she cannot deny it: at some point during that intimate physical contact, Miss Paulson felt for the first time a kind of oneness, some deep and almost spiritual bond with another, a bond so wonderful that the prospect of never renewing it seems an inconsolable loss; and Carry's last, imploring glance has left her in the troublesome certitude that her heart is no longer her own.