Free Smut: Stories by Alan Bennett

it?’
    ‘We can do it now, if you want…Jane.’
    So she sat down at the kitchen table while he did a very creditable drawing of her plus some smaller sketches, sitting like a small boy with the tip of his tongue between his teeth.
    ‘There’s a tradition of artists drawing their landladies or painting them. Did you know that?’
    ‘No,’ said Mrs Donaldson who was still not fond of the landlady category.
    ‘Mrs Mounter,’ said Ollie, all the time sketching. ‘She was the landlady of a painter called Harold Gilman. Mind you she was an old lady.’
    At which point Geraldine came into the kitchen and went straight out again.
    ‘Enough already,’ said Ollie. ‘Only can I ask you again?’
     
     
    ‘HOW DO YOU WANT TO DO THIS?’ said Ollie. He and Geraldine were sitting side by side at the foot of the bed, his hand holding hers. She looked unhappy.
    ‘Shall I give you a shout when we’re ready?’
    As Mrs Donaldson turned to go Ollie said, ‘Do you keep your clothes on?’
    ‘Oh, I think so,’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘I think it’s probably easier, don’t you?’
    ‘That’s what I thought.’
    There had obviously been some discussion on the point.
    ‘Gerry was bothered you might just dive in.’
    ‘Me?’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘Oh no. I’m just…’ and she was going to say a fly on the wall but that was a bit close to the truth.
    ‘I’m just an observer.’
    The long-awaited call had come about an hour before. They had spent most of the evening in their room and hearing Geraldine’s voice she took them to be arguing. But Ollie had come down to the kitchen as she was making some scrambled eggs on toast. She had given him some and offered to do some more for Geraldine only eggs weren’t her thing, apparently.
    As she washed up and Ollie was drying he suddenly said, ‘What about tonight? I know we’ve paid the rent but we could bank it. Andy and Laura used to do that, didn’t they?’ Mrs Donaldson agreed that they had, though without saying it was only the once. So while Ollie made Geraldine a cup of camomile tea she went back upstairs.
    Ollie gave her a shout when the two of them were safely in bed and Mrs Donaldson went in and sat on the dressing-table stool.
    Neither of them seemed in any hurry to get started, the boy sitting up against the bedhead with the sheet stretched across his flat belly just below his navel. Geraldine on the other hand had snuggled right down in the bed, peeping shyly at Mrs Donaldson over the top of the sheet.
    ‘How are things in the café?’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘Is it all organic?’
    ‘Things in the café are fine,’ said Ollie. ‘It is all organic, isn’t it, love?’
    Geraldine nodded.
    ‘Not bread,’ said Geraldine.
    ‘Not bread,’ said the boy. ‘It’s wholemeal but it’s not organic. What was Mr Donaldson like, your husband?’
    ‘Ex-husband,’ whispered the girl.
    ‘Why?’ said the boy. ‘They weren’t divorced.’
    ‘He’s dead,’ whispered the girl as if this were a shameful fact.
    ‘I know he’s dead,’ said Ollie, ‘but that doesn’t mean he’s an ex-husband.’ He smiled at Mrs Donaldson and mouthed, ‘Sorry.’
    ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘you don’t like to talk about him.’
    Mrs Donaldson didn’t, particularly in these circumstances, but she just smiled as if it was of no consequence.
    ‘How long were you married?’
    ‘Twenty-five years.’ It had actually been thirty.
    ‘Nice.’
    He eased down the sheet a little and the girl used the slack to cover her face completely.
    ‘Gerry is a bit shy.’
    ‘That’s all right,’ said Mrs Donaldson. ‘So am I.’
    ‘Hear that, Gerry? Mrs Donaldson’s shy too.’
    He stretched out his leg and rubbed Mrs Donaldson’s knee with his foot. It was a nice foot, she thought, and more adult-seeming than his face. The toes were strong and sensible and the little toe not just an afterthought like hers. She was about to stroke his foot when Geraldine suddenly turned over and put her