Miss Gurney, who is in charge of sporting activities at Hepplewhite, looks with satisfaction at her charges. Despite the excitement of travelling by the railway, the members of the battledore team have been models of propriety. Now they are seated primly in their first-class carriage, hands in their muffs, swaying gently as it rocks upon the clattering rails. In just two hours, they will be arriving at Thomas More for the first away match in Hepplewhite's history.
Big-built and handsome rather than beautiful, Miss Gurney is a kind, cheerful and well-liked teacher: she has no objection to the girls whispering to one another on these occasions, provided that they maintain modesty and decorum.
Shipman, lulled by the motion of the carriage, places her hands, still in their muff, prayer-like against the cushion, rests her cheek upon them and falls into a doze. It is well, thinks Miss Gurney. Let them conserve their strength for the match. Their game has much improved over the last few weeks, and she is quietly confident of another victory. She voices her thoughts to Walmsley, who is seated opposite.
Walmsley would like to mention Shipman's plan, but she has been sworn to secrecy. There are reasons to fear that Miss Gurney might regard such a thing as "unsporting"; so in reply she merely offers a polite "I venture to hope so, miss."
On Miss Gurney's left, Smythe too seems to have been lulled into a doze by the movement of the carriage. Her weight is beginning to press upon the teacher. Her body is warm. She is a fine, strong girl, and so willing: her technique and agility have improved astonishingly in recent weeks. She is quite transformed. Smythe moans quietly in her sleep and snuggles against Miss Gurney. Her firm young breast presses into the teacher's arm. Miss Gurney smiles indulgently: after all, the dear girl is asleep. Let her rest.
Lessons are over, and Carter is already hard at work on her mathematical paper when Miss Paulson returns to the cottage from the staff lunch. At the sound of her approach, Carter blushes and uncrosses her aching legs. Really, this leg-crossing is becoming something of an unconscious habit. As Miss Paulson enters, Carter murmurs a polite greeting.
"My, my, Carter – hard at work again? It's quite a fine afternoon. Ought you not to take advantage of the weather, and have some exercise?"
"Perhaps you are right, Miss Paulson. But speaking of exercise: I wondered if you would be so good as to tell me about your exercises. They sound most formidably relaxing."
"My exercises? Why, whatever do you mean?"
"The exercises you perform after retiring. Do they assist you in falling asleep? Sometimes I have great difficulty falling asleep, although I confess that my new bed is wonderfully comfortable..."
Fortunately, Lucy is too distracted to notice Miss Paulson's scarlet embarrassment. And while Miss Paulson is at a loss for words, salvation arrives in the form of a knock at the door. Miss Paulson turns to open it.
"Why hello, Penrose. What may I do for you?"
"If you please, Miss Paulson, I came to enquire whether Carter would like to accompany me for a stroll."
"An excellent suggestion, since it is such a fine afternoon. — Carter! A friend has come to see you."
And once Carter has taken her shawl and departed with her friend, Miss Paulson closes the door with a grateful sigh. Alone at last! And what reply can she make to Carter? Exercises, indeed! — But O, fie! She had been so careful not to make a noise. What can Carter have heard?
Miss Paulson grips the back of the armchair and tries to collect her thoughts. Evidently Carter has no inkling of the truth. — And why should she? After all, Miss Paulson herself has spent twenty-five years in ignorance. Should she not, then, as a teacher committed to her pupils' welfare, explain what she has so recently discovered? For it cannot be gainsaid: Miss Georgina Paulson has found the tender manipulation of her Number Eighteen to be most wonderfully refreshing and invigorating. Indeed, she cannot remember ever before feeling so fit, so healthy, so relaxed.
She walks over to the table. There is Carter's exercise book, covered with indecipherable jottings in her childish pencil scrawl; there the pencil hurriedly set down; and there Carter's ruler – rather a fine ruler, with ivory end-pieces. She picks up the ebony rod. It has a pleasant weight in the hand. She sets it down again and rolls it pensively to and fro.
How to explain such delicate matters without indelicacy? Poor Carter is so thin, so frail! Of course, she would have to be warned: at present, her constitution could not possibly withstand the awesome force of the paroxysm.
And O, the paroxysm! – So fearsome, so momentous, and yet what blissful calm in its wake! Why, even to think of it is to desire it. And now that she does, Miss Paulson recognizes an insistent summons from Number Eighteen. A few minutes all to herself – a few minutes should be enough! She hurries upstairs, tears off her clothes: no sense in wasting time. "Yes," she gasps as she leaps naked on to the bed. Where is it, that spot? Here? Here! O, the relief! The blessed relief! "O yes!" It is a whispered scream. "O yes! O yes!"
"No, Vicky, I don't think that would be wise." Carter and Penrose are making their thoughtful way to the rose garden. "It doesn't seem right. If we kept it secret, then what good would come of it? I don't like the idea of arousing her jealousy — whoever she may be. And anyway, if it became public, then just imagine what those chatterbox scandal-mongers would make of it!"
"But Lucy: there's no harm in kissing." Vicky laughs. "Why, what harm could there be? We should be just like sisters, that's all. Sisters are always kissing, don't you know. Do you not have sisters?"
Carter looks down. They are just passing the gate into the rose garden. "I had one, once," she murmurs.
Penrose is all sweet concern. "Why Lucy – what happened to her? – Come, sit with me. Tell me."
Once more, Lucy recounts the sad tale of her clever, beautiful elder sister. "My parents miss her terribly," she concludes wistfully.
Vicky, who has been holding her hand, turns toward her now. "And you? Do you not miss her?" Vicky is pretty. Her lips tremble. Her eyes are full of compassion. Her eyes scan Lucy's brow, her beautifully neat hair, her nose, her mouth. She parts her lips, and looks into Lucy's eye.
Lucy takes a sudden, gasping breath. Vicky's eyes are beautiful. Slowly she shakes her head. Their lips are not far apart. "No," she breathes. "No, I don't."
"Very well, Shipman, what do we do?" Shipman has just slipped into Walmsley's changing cubicle with a roll of bandage.
"Strip to your waist!"
Walmsley is round-eyed with horror. "What? You cannot be serious!"
"Quick! I haven't much time!"
With a shrug, Walmsley complies, turning away modestly. Shipman unrolls some of the bandage.
"Very well. What next?"
"Put your hands on your head."
Obediently, Walmsley does so. Shipman reaches round and weighs Carry's magnificent breasts.
"Does Georgie like them, h'm?"
"What are you doing, Shipman?"
"Just finding out what we have to reckon with. Mmm." Shipman closes her eyes for a moment, relishing the delightful warm softness of Walmsley's skin. "Now turn round, pray."
Blushing prettily, Carry does so. Aware of Shipman's intense scrutiny, she begins to breathe a little faster. Shipman stoops a little, examining closely, critically. Carry can feel her breath. Her nipples react. With a shiver, she whispers: "Well, Shipman? What do you think?"
Shipman stands up once more, looking Walmsley in the eye. "Perfect. Now pray turn round once more. Yes, I see how to do this."
She begins to wind the bandage around Carry's neck, under the breasts, across the back, under the arms, binding tight.
"Stop it, Shipman! Stop it! Ow!"
"Sorry. How's that?"
"That's... bearable. Very well..."
Soon Carry is satisfactorily trussed, and Shipman ties off the bandage.
"Comfortable?"
"Not bad," murmurs Carry, working her shoulders.
"Good. Now jump up and down." Carry does so. "Flap your arms. Still comfortable?"
"Why... yes..." Carry is amazed. Like this, she will be able to leap about as never before. "Why, thank you, Shipman."
"Good. I think that will hold. Now get dressed. I'm going to do Smythe."
Furtively, Shipman peeps round the cubicle partition. The coast is clear. For a moment she turns back. "Walmsley: this will be a massacre, I promise you." Then, in an instant, she is gone.
Amazed and delighted, Carry jumps some more. It is so comfortable. Really, that Shipman is an irresistible force. She tidies her hair, collects her battledore and emerges into the changing room. A soft, rather musical squeal from Smythe's cubicle indicates that Shipman's second fitting is progressing satisfactorily.
Miss Paulson feels a little chilly. She pulls the bedding over herself. What a dilemma! She is sure that Carter is too frail, much too frail. And yet — what right has Miss Paulson to keep her in ignorance? For despite the agony – O yes, it is agony – is there not something... really quite marvellously pleasant about it, also? And is not all pleasure a good? Why should Carter – or indeed anyone – be deprived of such pleasure? What good is served by this ridiculous secrecy? Ah, yes, the pleasure...
Despite her state of blissful satiation, Miss Paulson remembers what Carry said: "It gets easier and easier, and nicer and nicer!" Yes, Carry had brought her to climax after climax, and yet she had felt no ill-effects. And in truth, the later ones were almost unbearably delightful. The mere recollection re-ignites the tingle in her Number Eighteen, and without thinking Miss Paulson's finger returns to the spot. "But it's not so very bad now," she thinks, "I don't really need to do this again." She does not wish to exhaust herself. But then she remembers, with some mortification, that she had intended to do it silently — and yet Carter heard her. Undoubtedly, it requires practice to be able to do this in a discreet and lady-like manner. Assuredly Carry would never be so coarse as to cry out like an animal. Yes: it would be good to practise doing it silently.
She lies rigid, determined not to make the bed squeak. She clamps her teeth together. Good. Now: just gently there on Number Eighteen. Oh yes, easier and easier, and nicer and nicer – how astonishingly quickly it seems to happen – "Ooh!" Miss Paulson gasps aloud. — Damnation!
She jerks her hand away. "Really, Georgina Paulson, take a grip on yourself!" Once more she tenses herself, hunches her shoulders, clamps her mouth tightly shut. Now... finger... oh... amazing... lips tight... screw eyes shut... it is so... so... too much... too, too much... "Bah!" she cries, lurching in frenzy, her finger moving sweetly, so sweetly, while her eyes roll and the room spins — "Haugh!" as the pleasure buffets the breath from her body. At length, she trembles to a halt, the sound of her gasps ringing in her ears. After a moment, she laughs at her failure, laughs and quietly laughs, her whole body shaking with the force of it. She feels wonderful. Oh well, she has the resolve, and practice will make perfect...
At the sound of a quiet cough from nearby, Carter and Penrose abruptly jerk apart.
Penrose turns in the direction of the cough. "Oh, hullo Miller."
"May I join you? I'm not interrupting, am I?" asks Miller anxiously.
Penrose thinks quickly. "I was just consoling poor Carter. Her sister has died."
"Oh! I am so sorry, Carter," murmurs Miller, taking a seat on the bench next to Penrose.
Carter is scarlet with embarrassment, but is able to dodge behind Penrose to rebutton the front of her dress. Really, Vicky's gentle touches and kisses were extremely consoling, but now she is uncomfortably aware of a violent throbbing and tingling in her nether regions. Sighing in abject despair – really, this is becoming a constant habit! – she crosses her legs and squeezes. Oh! She almost cries out at the sweet relief.
"I'm worried," says Miller. She looks preoccupied. "It's that electricity business."
"And what of it?"
"Well... I know that before long, everybody will expect me to... to have it, don't you know, and... well..."
"Pooh! Miller, it is really nothing to be afraid of."
"I know, I know, but still I'm afraid. I... Oh! It's so difficult to speak of!"
"Why? It's just a slight tingling sensation, that is all."
"Well you say that, but... What did you think, Carter?"
"Well!" Lucy casts her mind back, and finds it necessary to have another squeeze. "As a matter of fact I thought it felt rather lovely at first, but then..."
"Yes?" Miller is intent with interest, leaning in order to hear every word.
"Well, it all became very strange... strong feelings inside me... they seemed to fill me up..."
"And... was it unpleasant?"
"Not exactly... it was frightening, certainly. I felt perfectly well afterwards, though. I don't think I would be so frightened if I had to go a second time."
"Would you say that you felt relaxed, after?" — this from Penrose.
"Why yes, Vicky; relaxed... and totally calm. Quite, quite calm."
"There you are, Miller. Nothing to be afraid of, you see."
Carter rises to her feet. She is trembling a little. "Vicky... would you mind if we continued our stroll? I'm feeling... as if a walk would do me good."
Penrose looks at her friend. "Why of course. — Miller, won't you join us?"
Miss Gurney is almost shouting with delight. Walmsley, Kershaw, Denning and Smythe have all won outright, and by a far greater margin than at the home match. Having verified that Shipman, too, is playing like a demon, she hastens into the changing room to congratulate Smythe.
"Smythe?"
"O Miss Gurney... I wonder... could you help me?"
It is Smythe, calling softly from within her cubicle.
"Is it all right for me to come in, dear?"
"O yes... I can't seem to..."
Miss Gurney draws aside the curtain. She gasps. "Why Smythe! What is this?"
"It was Shipman's idea. To make it easier to leap around, don't you know. But I can't seem to..."
"Why Smythe... I'll do it. Just place your hands upon the wall, dear, just relax. That's it." Carefully, Miss Gurney undoes the bandaging. "Oh, it was very tight."
"Yes."
"Are you a little sore?"
"A little."
"I think it has cut into you. It has left red marks. Poor thing. But you played magnificently, Smythe."
"O Miss Gurney... thank you."
"Is that better?"
"O yes... O yes..."
"You played so well..."
"O Miss Gurney..."
"You moved so beautifully on the court..."
"O Miss..."
"Would you like to come to tea on Thursday?"
"O Miss... That would be... a very great pleasure, and I'm sure I'm most honoured."
"It would be lovely to have you, my dear. Well, I had better go and see how Shipman is faring... hadn't I?"
"Oh dear... yes, I suppose so, miss."
"That was a good idea of Shipman's."
"She's wonderfully clever, miss."
"I'm surprised I never thought of it before. Best not to say anything, of course."
"Certainly not, miss."
"Until Thursday, then."
"Yes, miss. Until Thursday."
The day after the battledore team's victorious return from Thomas More, the team members bask in universal adulation. Everywhere the talk is of Smythe's devastating backhand, or Denning's historic rally. But while nothing is explicit, somehow nobody is in any doubt that the highest honour is Shipman's. Whenever an anecdote is told, whenever praise is voiced, the players turn aside modestly, saying, "O no, I merely did my best. The real credit goes to Shipman." But Shipman, unusually, is quite inscrutable.
The team's recognition is crowned at the evening Assembly, when the Head gives a glowing eulogy of the team's prowess, extolling the excellence of everyone at Hepplewhite and especially its team's magnificent esprit de corps.
So it is that at lights-out, all the Hepplewhite girls glow with pride as they snuggle into their beds. And Felicity Shipman glows with much else besides: she is decidedly frisky, and full of a quite different sort of esprit de corps. After half an hour of delicious self-torment, she judges it safe to sally forth.
"Pssst! Penrose!"
Victoria Penrose manages to suppress her scream of surprise. She had been so sure that everyone was asleep. She had had to wait so long!
"Who is it? Where are you?"
"Sh!"
A face, pale in the moonlight, appears above the edge of Penrose's bed.
"Oh! Shipman! How you startled me!"
Shipman lets out a low, breathy chuckle. "I know... Now let me in, or I'll get cold."
"No, Shipman, go away!"
"I just wanted to ask about your little walk with Carter yesterday."
"Go away and leave me alone!"
"Why? Was I... interrupting something?" Shipman chuckles again.
"It's none of your business! ...Oof! You're cold!"
"Aha! ...Why, Penrose! Your night-gown is all bunched up..."
"Stop it! Your hands are cold!"
"Aaah!"
"Shipman! No, Shipman! Uh..."
After a brief struggle, Shipman succeeds in capturing Penrose's wrists. "Now!"
"Let go!"
"Sh! Just let me... aaah!" She draws Penrose's hands to her nose.
"Shipman, damn you..."
"Mmmm... I know where these have been!"
Penrose wrestles her hands from Shipman and turns her back on her.
"Go away!"
"Penrose... Penrose..."
"Stop it! Don't touch me there!"
Shipman chuckles, but continues to touch, gently and persistently.
"Oh Shipman... Oh my God... It tingles so much..."
"Mmm..."
"I just can't help..."
"I know... Do you think you're the only one?"
Shipman knows exactly how to do it, and with a little sigh of despair, Penrose rolls on to her front and parts her legs.
"Oh Penrose... You're so wet..."
"My God, My God..."
"Haha! You were close, weren't you? So... close..."
"Mph!"
"So... close..."
"Oh Shipman... Shipman... Please don't stop... not now..."
"Well then, tell me... what happened with Carter?"
"Oh please, Shipman!"
"I just want to find out what happened. Then I'll give you one of my Spider Specials, if you like."
Penrose, giddy with lust and maddened by Shipman's gentle caresses, sqeals softly and grinds her hips ineffectually into the mattress.
"Hush! Now tell me!"
Penrose takes a few moments to compose herself.
"Well, she seemed reluctant at first, don't you know."
"Good..."
"But then we sat down together, and... well, she let me kiss her..."
"Go on..."
"And so I started to touch her... Like this..."
"Ahhh... O Vicky!"
"That's what she said!" Penrose giggles. "And then of course she let me undo her dress..."
"What?"
"She let me. I was kissing her all the time. And oh, Shipman, she was so... excited! Her... you know, these..."
"Oh yes..."
"They were huge, Shipman! All goosey! Why, so are yours, I think..."
"Mhhh..."
"And so I tickled and tickled her there, and she kissed me harder and harder..."
"That's brilliant, Vicky! That's all I need!"
"And then Miller came along."
"What? Miller? She didn't see anything, did she?"
"I don't think so. But listen, Shipman, I think you need to speak to her. She's in a terrible state about the electricity. Really I don't know what's the matter with her. She wants to leave the society, you know."
"What?"
"Yes, truly! She's so frightened. I couldn't really get much out of her."
"Well... I'd better find out whether she saw anything. I can't be too careful, you know."
"Yes... Yes, I understand."
"Anyway... You did well, Vicky. But listen: I don't want you to touch her any more."
"But why?"
"You've done very well, but I don't want you to touch Lucy any more, do you understand?"
"Why not?"
"I... I just don't, that's all. No kissing, either. Promise, and I'll give you a Spider Special. Like this." Shipman gives a brief example.
"Uhhh..." Penrose is speechless with pleasure.
Shipman stops and waits patiently for her to recover. "Come on, promise."
"Oh... very well. I promise."
"Good girl!" Shipman breathes the words lovingly, confidently, and her fingers begin their skilful work.
"O Shipman! Oh, that's... that's so lovely..."
"Yes... Try not to squeal..."
"I'm not... oh! ...squealing."
"You were..."
"Shipman! Ah! I think... Ach! I'm going to..."
Shipman does not need to be told. With her free hand she forces Penrose's head down into the pillow — very necessary and scarcely sufficient to muffle Penrose's helpless, ecstatic gasps. When at last the tumult is over, and having verified that everyone else is still asleep, Shipman kindly eases Penrose's night-gown back down as far as her knees, remakes the bed and slips noiselessly away into the night.
"Psst... Miller?" Shipman rises silently beside Miller's bed. There is a dark shape on the pillow, but an exploratory hand reveals that it is only a bundle of clothing. So Miller, too, is out on the prowl... Clearly, she has hidden depths.
Within five minutes, Shipman is dressed and padding quietly through the deserted corridors, shoes in hand. At the laboratory door, she stops and listens. For a while, it is quiet; but then, she hears from inside the unmistakable sound of whimpering. At first it seems suggestive of distress, but soon escalates into the noisy breathing of a young lady about to give herself wholeheartedly to the sweetest bodily passion. Always considerate of the needs of others, and aware of how rude it is for latecomers to enter a theatre before the entr'acte, Shipman decides to delay her entrance until a happy moan signals that matters have reached at least a temporarily satisfying conclusion. Then, quietly, she opens the door and slips noiselessly inside. At once she sees a figure lying upon the cold, hard floor beside one of the equipment cupboards. It is difficult to see much, but the figure appears to be wearing a white night-gown, gathered up to the waist, and long dark woollen stockings, from which emerge pale, slender thighs, widely parted.
"Don't be afraid, Miller. 'Tis only I – Shipman."
The thighs snap closed, and the figure struggles into a position of greater modestly.
"Shipman! My God! I... I was just ah... checking..."
"I know perfectly well what you were doing, Miller. But how long has this been going on?"
"What do you mean? I was just..."
"Please, Miller, I'm not stupid. I heard you, dear. You're obviously not new to it, or you wouldn't be enjoying it so much. Come, tell me, how long?"
"Only... only... well, about five days..."
"Five days! – But why? Why take such a risk of getting caught?"
"Well... I couldn't help noticing that people seemed quite to like the electricity..."
"Go on..."
"But – I don't know – I just couldn't face doing something like that in front of everybody, and not knowing what to expect. So I thought that maybe if I were just to see what it was like... on my own..."
"And what did you think of it?"
"Well... the first time, I quite liked it to begin with, but then it was... well... terrifying, you know, Shipman. I didn't know what was happening."
"Yes, I understand."
"But then, the next day, I kept thinking about it, and... well, you know..."
"Yes. And so you did it again. And you discovered that you liked it."
"It's lovely, Shipman. I can't stop wanting it."
"Hush!" Shipman is suddenly tense. "Quick, Miller, get up! Get up! I'll put the wires back — there! Now where can we go? — Quick, in here!" Shipman opens the door into Miss Paulson's study and darts inside, hauling Miller by the hand. In the dark, the two terrified young ladies hug one another, their ears straining to catch a sound.
Their breaths catch in their throats as they hear the creak of the laboratory door being cautiously opened; then, a long silence. Miller quakes in terror. Then they hear a low whisper.
"All clear, Benson. You stay by the door."
Miller's shudders become even more pronounced.
Shipman puts her mouth close to Miller's ear. "Kershaw," she breathes.
It is essential to keep absolutely still and quiet: whatever these two senior prefects are doing, things would not be pleasant for Shipman or Miller if their presence were detected.
They hear the sound of an equipment cupboard door quietly sliding open.
And then Miller is astonished to find that Shipman is gently tugging her nightgown up, up... She inhales sharply as Shipman's hands rove expertly over her shivering nakedness... O exquisite! Nicer, by far, than the electricity! And Shipman's lips brush her ear again:
"You're wet too! It's fear..."
Quietly, as Shipman's fingers continue their exploration, Miller struggles to breathe inaudibly.
From the laboratory, Kershaw's whisper, louder now: "Oof! This is heavy!"
And from Benson: "Hush! Be quick!"
After a few moments of quiet shuffling, the laboratory door closes, and Miller and Shipman are alone.
"Oh! Shipman... Shipman... what are you doing?"
"Do you like it?"
"Ohh yes..."
"It's called 'blissing', dear... You don't need electricity for this... Here, give me your hand."
"Oh I couldn't..."
"Yes, yes, come on... There now... feel?"
Miller does indeed feel, as the tightness of her arm around Shipman's back soon attests. It is not long before Shipman is tottering under Miller's shuddering weight.
"Ha! Ha!" Shipman chuckles, "There, there... better now, Miller?"
"Oh, heavens! Oh my!"
"See? No need for silly old electricity!"
"O Shipman, you shouldn't have made me do that..."
"Why not? Everyone does it, silly."
"Surely not!"
"Why yes... Almost everyone, anyway."
"But... but... Shipman... Oh, I'm so afraid..." Miller is still clinging to Shipman, both for support and for warmth.
"Why, what are you afraid about?"
"I need to tell someone..."
"Well?"
"Shipman... Sooner or later, they're going to ask me to have the electricity. I know they will."
"At a Society meeting?"
Shipman feels Miller's nod against her shoulder.
"Well, what's wrong with that? You've tried it, and so you know there's nothing to worry about."
"Oh but there is... Don't you see? If they see that my, ah... Queensland is already... ah..."
"...Drenched?" suggests Shipman sweetly.
"Aaah!" Miller writhes a little, as if her body is anticipating the event. "Yes... Won't they suspect something?"
"Hmmm... You could be right, Miller. Of course you could pretend to be ill..."
"That might work once, but not every time. I'll have to resign, won't I?"
"No, I don't think so. I'm sure I'll think of something, Miller. I generally do. Anyhow, you must thank your lucky stars you didn't get caught in here."
"It is you I must thank, Shipman. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been here."
"No, but I can guess," replies Shipman grimly. "Now we'd best get back to bed. Why didn't you put on your frock, silly? You must be getting cold."
At the eighth meeting of the Scientific Society, everyone is agog to see the machine that Shipman and Carter have designed. They crowd round the table while Carter connects the terminals, one by one, to the battery wires.
The first signs are not dramatic: a scarcely audible hum, and a feeble motion of the core.
"I'll just relax the spring a little," murmurs Carter apologetically. She takes a small screwdriver and pokes the machine with it. There is a spark, and she jumps back with a squeal.
"Let me, Carter: you're so clumsy," says Shipman, taking the dropped screwdriver and poking the machine in her turn, lower lip trapped under her top teeth.
All at once the machine begins to rattle: it is clear that something is happening.
"It works! It works!" Shipman and Carter cry delightedly.
"Do you see, ladies? Watch the motion of the core, to and fro inside the coil," urges Miss Paulson.
After much delighted cooing and pointing, the machine clattering and shivering about awkwardly on the table-top, the motion begins to slow.
"Oh dear, I do believe it is tiring the battery," says Clark in disappointment.
Hastily, Miss Paulson disconnects the battery wire.
"What are you going to call it?" asks Kershaw, eyeing the machine in breathless wonder.
"I shall call it an Oscillator — that is, if Shipman agrees," says Carter.
"Yes, indeed."
"Very good, Carter, very good, Shipman. Now, ladies, for those of you who have not understood the principles of the design and motion of this oscillator, I shall now put up on the board a diagram..."
And while Miss Paulson explains to the rest of the Society, Shipman and Carter take the oscillator back to their work-table.
"A pity that it tires the battery so, is it not?" sighs Carter.
"Yes..." Shipman narrows her eyes. "But wait a minute: what of your generator, Carter? Would that not perhaps produce enough of the electricity?"
"We could try it, could we not?"
"We shall need some more wire. I'll fetch it..." Soon Shipman is back with two suitable lengths. "Now, we shall need to warm them..."
"Ow! Why must I always do this part?" grumbles Carter as Shipman insinuates the pieces of straight wire into the collar of Carter's dress and down Carter's back. "Oh! They're cold! Stop it! Oh!"
Shipman does not answer, but stands back, smiling. Carter is flushed and angry; but her frock cannot hide the fact that her breast has risen charmingly.
Shipman's smile is so delighted that Carter has to look away. "Beast!" she mutters. After a few moments she plucks out the wires, now pliable. She looks up to see Shipman still gazing at her breast. Carter crosses her legs and squeezes them angrily. "Don't stare at me like that! Come on, help!"
Soon the generator is connected to the oscillator.
"Careful, Carter: it might make a noise," warns Shipman, gesturing towards Miss Paulson, still busily explaining to the others. "We don't want to disturb them, do we?"
"But how..."
"Tuck it in here," says Shipman, "come, part your legs a moment." Soon the oscillator is clamped between Carter's clenched thighs, swathed in the folds of her frock. "Ready?"
Carter nods dumbly. Shipman begins to turn the handle of the generator. From deep in her lap, there is a strangulated buzzing – "Good," thinks Shipman – but then Carter lets out a crystal-shattering squeal, which causes everyone else to leap in shock.
"I'm very sorry, Miss Paulson," says Shipman at once. "We were just doing some further tests. It won't happen again, I assure you."
"Very well, Shipman," gasps Miss Paulson after a moment, "It had better not." After a few moments to recollect herself, she resumes her patient explanation.
Shipman turns eyes of thunder to her abashed collaboratrix. "Give it to me," she says in a disgusted tone.
"Shipman... I'm sorry... I'll try..."
"No, no, give it to me."
"Honestly, Ship..." Carter looks up imploringly. "Honestly, I'll try..."
Shipman looks away angrily; but she cannot resist Carter's entreaty. "Very well," she growls through clenched teeth, "but you'd better be quiet, that's all." She purses her lips once or twice, and then turns back to the generator. Slowly now, she begins to turn the handle. After a few revolutions, the soft buzzing is heard from Carter's lap once more. At once Carter's mouth flies open, and her eyes are round. But this time, there is no sound other than a quiet gargling, until Carter's eyes take on a sudden brilliance and she begins to pant.
Shipman stops turning the handle of the generator. Carter looks around in aimless dismay. "You stopped!" she squeaks. "What are you doing? Why?"
"You've had enough." Shipman is curt, and firm.
Carter's brows descend. "What do you mean? Turn the handle."
"No, Carter, you've had enough. It's my turn."
They glare at one another.
Suddenly, without warning, Shipman turns the handle rapidly. Carter's mouth flies open once more — thankfully, without another shriek. She doubles up in consternation at the suddenly renewed, greatly intensified oscillation. Equally suddenly, Shipman stops. Carter, now deeply flushed, is too surprised, too weak to protest as Shipman pushes her roughly backwards, forces her legs apart and snatches the oscillator.
"My turn," Shipman pronounces. With a little shiver of her hips, she seats herself upon the bench next to Carter, and decorously positions the oscillator in her own lap. She places her hands, one over the other, upon her knee and hunches her shoulders, eyes closed, mouth in a moue. She rocks her hips and shoulders as if to make herself comfortable.
Still angry, but nevertheless interested to see what Shipman's reaction will be, Carter reaches for the generator handle. Grim-faced, and watching Shipman intently, she begins to turn it. Almost at once, as the buzzing makes itself heard, Shipman's mouth tightens. Again she rocks her hips. And again. And then, as Carter continues to turn the handle, Shipman's eyes fly open. They are blazing. Her mouth, too, opens in an expression of delighted surprise. Smiling angrily, Carter abruptly stops, and is immediately rewarded by Shipman's look of appalled disappointment:
"Oh Carter!" she wails.
"My turn."
"Oh, but Carter, I was just about to..."
"Well, well, what is happening here?" comes a stern voice from overhead.
Sheepishly, Shipman and Carter look up to see an inquisitorial Miss Paulson standing over them. Shipman would like to say something brilliant, but the emergence of two gleaming wires from the region of her most sensitive organs seems somehow bound to detract from its effect. Nevertheless, she summons all her courage.
"We have just discovered a new and very interesting effect, Miss Paulson," she says in a creditably level voice.
"It looks to be... most interesting, Shipman," says Miss Paulson in a tone of glacial calm. "And since clearly Carter has been doing the less... interesting work in investigating this... interesting effect, I think your talents lend themselves admirably to the writing of some comprehensive notes, describing your discovery in detail — don't you, Shipman? On my desk, if you please, at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."
Shipman looks down, vanquished. She can just imagine Carter's look of gloating triumph. But when, angrily, she looks up in defiance, she sees in her friend's face nothing but defeat and resignation.
"Don't worry, Carter," Shipman says reassuringly. "I'll think of something."
Carter heaves a sigh and turns away.
After the young ladies have been dismissed – even a forlorn Carry Walmsley – Miss Paulson carefully takes Carter's oscillating machine into her study and closes the door. There, her hypothesis that Shipman and Carter have stumbled upon something truly interesting is swiftly verified, by a series of increasingly delightful experiments.
And when, late that evening, Miss Paulson finally returns to her cottage, Carter notes how tired she is – too tired even to perform her customary exercises.
At two minutes to nine the next morning, Miss Paulson stands before her junior French class.
"Good morning, ladies."
"Good morning, miss," they respond with the usual dutiful wistfulness, as if letting her know that they would far rather be out in the fields, running and jumping and laughing. Miss Paulson is quite used to this: within ten minutes, they will be vying with one another to conjugate their verbs and stammer out French sentences. It is her job to warm them to the task, and she is good at it.
There is a knock at the door. Unwillingly, Miss Paulson takes her eyes off her class and looks to see who it might be. "Come in," she calls.
It is Shipman, bearing a sheaf of paper, and wearing an expression of fierce triumph. Miss Paulson shivers with irritation, aware that her junior girls are, as one, eyeing this senior scholar with something akin to adulation.
"I'm extremely sorry to interrupt, Miss Paulson," says Shipman, dropping a faultless curtsey. Her hair is immaculately neat, her dress spotless. "I have had some very interesting ideas on the subject of scientific experimentation and I would consider it an honour if you would give me the benefit of your opinion on them." Smoothly, ingratiatingly, she approaches the desk, and lays the essay neatly in one corner. For a moment she stands immobile, as if in humble submission. But then she stands upright, and looks at Miss Paulson: she is polite, beautiful, irreproachable, serene — and wearing the slightest, the very merest trace of a most infuriating smirk.
Miss Paulson looks down at the essay. As usual, it is immaculately neat and painstaking. Slowly, searching for words, Miss Paulson looks up again to meet Shipman's eyes. They are brilliant. It is a struggle, but she manages a cool, courteous response:
"Thank you, Miss Shipman. I shall read your ideas with great curiosity."
Again, Shipman curtseys. "I am most grateful, miss, and beg your pardon for interrupting." Her eyes are laughing as she turns and leaves the room.
Miss Paulson presses her knuckles hard against the desk. It does not help. She presses harder. She must say something to the class. She breathes deeply and relaxes, then looks up. All the girls are still looking at the door whence Shipman made her graceful exit.
"Very well, ladies," she says at last with practised smoothness, "let us open our comprehension books at page twenty-three."
"Ah, Miss Paulson! Please do sit down! Now to what, pray, do I owe the honour of this visit, h'm?"
Mrs Cunningham leans forward, elbows on her tidy desk-top, fingertips lightly pressed together. Her eyes are bright.
"Mrs Cunningham: As you are no doubt aware, the electrical force has already been associated with a quite remarkable transformation in the health and vivacity of our girls."
"Quite. The decisive victory over Thomas More will greatly encourage our parents."
"Indeed. But now it appears that, thanks to the work we have been doing with the electrical force, there may be another means to deliver its benefits which is... still more efficacious."
"I see."
"I cannot stress too strongly the scientific importance of this new avenue of enquiry. However, science demands that all results be tested by experiment and evaluated with the greatest care. It will therefore be necessary to acquire certain new equipment and build several devices."
"And this new equipment will be expensive."
"Somewhat costly, Head Mistress, yes. However, our initial findings do suggest that there might be benefits to health, which would have the potential to diminish our expenditure upon medicines."
"I see." Mrs Cunningham looks reflective. "That would be no bad thing."
"Indeed not. And of course the improved well-being of our young ladies would as a matter of course lead to higher achievement, thus enhancing the standing of Hepplewhite in the eyes of our parents, and the public at large."
"Of course. Miss Paulson: are you finding it difficult to breathe?"
"Why no, Mrs Cunningham."
"Then I am led to ask just how much money this new equipment will cost."
"I have prepared this schedule, Mrs Cunningham."
Miss Paulson hands a sheet of impeccably-written foolscap to the Head Mistress.
"Coils. Wire. Labour." Mrs Cunningham makes a pretence of careful examination, but it is the figure at the bottom that is uppermost in her mind. "Sixty pounds is a very great deal of money, Miss Paulson."
"However, I think you will see from the calculations shown on the reverse that we may expect savings of some forty pounds in medicines; and it may be that other economies can be made. And as before, I am most willing to devote twenty pounds from my salary towards this worthy end."
"You are most persuasive, Miss Paulson. But surely these savings – forty pounds, you say – are the merest speculation."
"But just consider, Mrs Cunningham, the honour that would accrue to Hepplewhite if it were associated with such an effective demonstration of women's ability in the field of science, and with such dramatic results!"
"Again, you are most persuasive; yet I am curious to know what precisely you would intend to do with this equipment. If we are to find such a considerable sum of money, would it be too much trouble just to explain the use you envisage for it?"
"Not at all, Head Mistress. I should be delighted to explain. As you know, the effects of the electrical current have had a marked and salutary effect upon the girls who have submitted themselves to it. All, without exception, report themselves to feel delightfully relaxed after the treatment, yet at the same time to experience a prodigious increase in energy."
Mrs Cunningham places her fingertips together, watching the young teacher intently. Miss Paulson is wonderfully earnest as she continues her explanation.
"According to a most exemplary essay written by a member of the battledore team, our players have often experienced nervous tension, frequently expressed as a physical tension of the muscles – particularly those of the inside leg – and these have rendered their movements stiff and awkward. It is thought that the application of the electrical current leads to nervous discharges which in turn relax these muscles, enabling freer movement and greater muscular power – and thus, of course, to greater sporting ability."
"That is most interesting, Miss Paulson. Do continue."
"One of our very talented young ladies – Miss Lucy Carter – has now designed an electrical machine which produces a rapid oscillating motion. We call this machine an oscillator."
Mrs Cunningham nods sagely.
"It has been found that the oscillating motions produce a similar effect to the application of electrical current, namely, to relax the tense muscles and provoke beneficial nervous discharge."
"Nervous discharge, you say? – Where exactly is the oscillating machine placed in order to achieve this singular result?"
"Why, Head Mistress," Miss Paulson blushes faintly, "in the region of the... of the lap."
"Dear me, this is most interesting. But why, if these beneficial effects can be produced by the direct application of electrical current, must we bother ourselves with expensive oscillating machines?"
"It is important in science to be sure of exactly what is producing the effect which we observe. For example, if we find that the oscillator produces a similar effect to an electric current, then we may conclude that the beneficial effects result not from special powers of electricity, but rather from a kind of nervous excitation which may be done equally well by electricity or by a certain kind of... tactile stimulation."
"Very well, Miss Paulson, once more I will see what we can do. I and several parents have been most impressed by the effects of the electricity upon our girls – notably in the field of sport. Fathers set much store by these things, you know. I am not entirely persuaded by your arguments, but I will see what we can do. You may order your equipment. I hope it will be ready for us at the start of next term, when your science classes will become part of the official syllabus at Hepplewhite."
"O Mrs Cunningham!" Miss Paulson rises from her chair, clasping her hands in gratitude.
"As it happens, one of our parents won a thousand pounds as a result of a wager in connexion with the recent match against Thomas More. He has most generously donated to the school a sum which would assist me in satisfying your request. Of course I may rely upon your discretion."
"Oh – of course."
"And I may – I repeat, Miss Paulson, I may – be able to persuade the governors to authorize a regular allowance for these scientific activities."
"But... this is wonderful!"
"No doubt I may call upon your assistance if a case needs to be made to the governors?"
"Naturally."
"Oh — and Miss Paulson?"
"Head Mistress?"
"You may not be aware that various members of the medical establishment, including our own Doctor Straker, are of the opinion that certain kinds of nervous discharge, procured by certain kinds of tactile stimulation, produce insubordinate conduct, extreme lassitude, sterility, emotional volatility, nervous exhaustion, moral laxity, physical degeneration and insanity — in short, any distemper you care to name."
Miss Paulson clasps her hands in an instinctive gesture of dismay. She is visibly pale.
"It would give me considerable personal satisfaction, Miss Paulson, if by means of careful scientific investigation you were to expose such absurd beliefs as the nonsense they are."
As Miss Paulson digests the import of the Head Mistress's words, she becomes aware of the conspiratorial glint in Mrs Cunningham's eye.
"That would be my greatest pleasure, Mrs Cunningham."
Slowly, Mrs Cunningham's mouth compresses and widens into a pugnacious little smile.
"I wish you good morning then, Miss Paulson."
"Good morning, Mrs Cunningham."