My university days had ended my magical sexual education with the wonderful Laura, who is, another story. As my university courses developed, I had set my mind on becoming a journalist. For two years I slaved at those courses that took me towards my goal. Then, out of nowhere, came the idea of switching to teaching.
Funny how impulsive decisions, even if wrong, can have long distance positive effects on a life. So why the change? I never knew and would consider it as fate, but something urged me, at the end of my second year, to take a parallel course of teaching theory. In those far off days, a university graduate only required minimal extra training to become a teacher. So, I made the switch.
Big mistake! Or so it seemed.
Just being at university was no mistake. I enjoyed that time and the freedom to extend, as my mentor Laura had encouraged, my sexual experience. Gradually, I learned how to weigh up the female students. How and when to make my approach. What pace to take in the seduction plan. Sometimes, but rarely, a girl would practically throw herself upon me. Most times I needed to apply all the techniques Laura had, so sweetly, outlined.
It was a good time. I learned a lot, on all fronts.
Was it a coincidence then, or some divine hand, that, when I successfully graduated, the only teaching job I could find was at the Coldbeck Academy, a fairly high-class upper school? As the head teacher, Mrs Milligan, warned me, "You look older than your twenty-one years. Don't ever let them know you are only three or four years older than them."
Her warning heeded, I started off all right. I had been allocated to older groups who were in their examination year. Because of that, I was only permitted to guide them through subsidiary subjects.
Although literature was a major subject, I was asked to cover was contemporary fiction, not an exam subject. This was ideal for me, and I set out to discuss recent volumes like Pasternak's 'Dr Zhivago', and Steinbeck's 'East of Eden', which, as some of the group were keen to point out, had already been filmed.
Most of the boys were good listeners, with active minds. The same was true for the majority of the girls. One, a rather shy girl with hair pulled back in a severe style and with rather disfiguring braces on her teeth, told me that her uncle owned a bookshop. She, along with other extra keen students, would sometimes stay back to talk about specific books. That was always pleasing.
But an obvious few, into, or bordering on, their eighteenth year, were highly nubile and demonstrated a very provocative manner. As I walked down the corridor, I caught accented greetings of, "Good morning, Mr Baines," with eyelashes fluttering. But it was in the classroom where the school regulation skirts suddenly began to look short, riding up thighs, while blouses strangely became unbuttoned, flaunting their burgeoning femininity.
Thelma Tewart, was one girl, in particular, who wore her sexuality like a badge. Not an unattractive girl, and no dullard when it came to academics, but of all the girls, she was the one who would lean in too close; make bodily contact, with hand or thigh. A couple of times I’d advised her about her inappropriate proximity.
By the time I was into the third term of my time there, I had decided that my real job satisfaction would not be found in teaching. Consequently, I had written a couple of sample articles to two or three newspapers, and been offered an interview with one of them, based in London. That interview proved successful, and I was given a year's probation.
So, into my final weeks, with examinations over, the girls became a shade more brazen. Maybe I should have been more aware that day. when had noticed Thelma Tewart constantly turning to her seemingly excited group, a wide smirk on her face.
Not wanting to be too heavy at that late stage of my school experience, I reprimanded her by saying, "I would appreciate your closer attention, Thelma."
Her lips pursed and her eyes blinking exaggeratedly, she said, "Oh, yes, Mr Baines. I'll give you that."
Other girls giggled, their hands to their mouths, but the rest of the lesson went off without anything untoward. I dismissed the class.
I should have suspected something, shouldn’t I? But while in the stockroom clearing up books, the door slammed shut. Surprised, I turned to find Thelma, leaning against the door, her fingers undoing her blouse, as she leered at me.
"Is this the kind of closer attention you meant, Mr Baines?" she droned, in what she believed was a sexy voice. At the same time, she flicked her blouse open to reveal well-formed pink tipped breasts.
"Thelma!" I gasped. My initial instinct was to pull her out of the way, but that would mean laying hands on her.
"Like to touch them, Mr Baines? Rub your thing between them?"
I was almost speechless with the shock of it. I could hardly believe she would be this blatant. "Stop it now, Thelma."
She swayed her body in a lewd gesture, and her hand stroked around her pubic area. "Or are you more interested in something more." And she took half a step forward. "Oh, come on - I'm turned eighteen - you can rub -"
But, at that moment her words were cut off as the door burst open, striking Thelma off balance, and there stood Mrs Milligan.
Oh, hell, I thought, I was in deep trouble. But Mrs Milligan, her face red with obvious anger, grabbed Thelma by the shoulders, "You wicked girl. How dare you act in this manner. Button yourself and get away to my room."
Without looking back at me, Thelma disappeared out through the doorway. Mrs Milligan turned towards me.
"Mrs Milligan, I had no idea that -"
She held up a hand, "Please, Mr Baines, I'm afraid you'll leave with a low opinion of the school."
I reassured her but added," I-I just wasn't expecting..."
"I'm sure you weren't. I'm so grateful that one of the girls came and tell me what Thelma intended. Other girls knew and I'll be having words with them."
So the incident passed in a sense of real relief, and my school experience finished, with me a little wiser, but without any regrets. I was going to be a journalist, never realising that there was to be one extra outcome from my school experience.
My probation year went well, and I was delighted to be offered a full-term contract. I wanted to be a sports journalist, but for over a year, I covered general events; court cases, accident sites, new buildings. In other words, practically anything. The editor knew of my desire to cover the sports scene and in early January 1959, he called me into his office.
"You've done well in your time here, Harry, but you say you want to do the sports page?"
I thought I was going to be promoted especially when the Brian London/Henry Cooper’ boxing match at Earl’s Court was mentioned. But my hopes were lowered when the editor told me my brief was to write an article about the crowd and their reactions.
As though to add insult to injury, he mentioned the Spurs v Arsenal football match the following week, and again, asked for an article comparing the nature of the two crowds.
“It's a start," the editor said, consolingly, "Don't worry, young man. I've got you in mind."
So, as it was, I got to see the London/Cooper battle, which Henry Cooper won on points, his face a mask of blood from a cut eye.
Fight over, Jack Randene, who had covered the actual bout, took me to an up-market bar not far from the Earls Court centre, where he talked in desultory fashion about the fight, and went rambling on about what a great reporter he was.
At the same time, he was giving vast attention to the curves of any passing female, regaling me with lascivious details of the successes he'd had. Into our second half of brew, I was desperately seeking a means of escape from what I was sure were his fictions. Then I saw his eyes widen appreciatively, and his lips pursed as he spotted something behind me. "Grrr, this is what I call -"
He stopped, and a look of surprise crossed his face, as a female voice at my shoulder said, "Mr Baines? It is Mr Baines, isn't it?"
I turned in my seat and instantly leapt to my feet. In front of me was a stunningly beautiful young woman, in a wool dress that highlighted a full bosom and slender curvaceous figure.
"That's him, my dear," Jack cut in before I could say anything. "But I'm Jack and a much better prospect."
The girl briefly turned her eyes onto Jack, "I've heard of age before beauty, but I've never seen it personified." I liked her instantly.
Jack's face tightened, but he forced a smile, "Oh, a feisty one. I'm off for a slash. Watch yourself there, Harry."
I stood there for a moment, just awestruck by her finely drawn features.
"You don't know who I am, do you?" she said, a charming smile on her full lips.
Something told me I should know. The more I looked at her the more I found something familiar in the way her head tilted, in the gentle quality of her voice and the green of the eyes.
"Clue," she said, with a smile. "Coldbeck School."
One of those girls? Hell, it was barely two years ago, yet recognition was still not immediate.
"One thing I do know," I said, giving a tentative smile, "you're not Thelma Tewart."
She threw her head back, her wavy, long black hair fanning out fetchingly, as she laughed delightedly, a disarming sound. “I suppose you have more reason to remember her name."
"I'm sorry," I said, feeling awkward, and annoyed that I had that name, but couldn't recall that of this beauty.
"I was always on the fringe of that group," she told me. Her lips parted and she ran a finger over her upper teeth in a slow, deliberate gesture, her eyebrows raised as she looked at me.
Those eyes. God, she was gorgeous. And her mime jogged my memory instantly. "You wore a brace. You're Hazel -Hazel..."
As my mind searched desperately to deliver her surname, I could only come up with a girl who had always responded eagerly in my literature classes.
"It's Purdom," she offered, with a friendly smile.
"You were good at literature," I said quickly, needing her to know that I could remember. I also needed to work something out to maintain contact with her. Could a girl develop into such a beauty in less than two years? Well, clearly, she had.
Glancing across the room I saw Jack talking to a group at the bar. Time to be positive.
"Are you with somebody?" I asked her.
"I was with a group of friends - a birthday for one of them." She looked back towards a table where two or three young ladies were seated. "Most of them have gone." Her eyes turned back to me. With expectation? Or was I dreaming?
"Care to move on? We've much to talk about." That was positive enough.
She didn't hesitate, "I'll just say my goodnights, and get my coat."
"See you outside the main door," I told her and glanced across at Jack, who was looking in my direction. I waved him a less than fond farewell, and he made a lewd gesture.
Outside, the air was crisply chill, and I buttoned up my overcoat while I waited. She didn't keep me waiting long. Even in the thick blue coat she was wearing, it was possible to imagine a superb figure beneath the cover.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't realise it was so late. I'm not very good company this time of night. "
"Live far away?" I asked, trying to hide my disappointment.
"Camden," she said. The coincidence immediately dispelled my worries.
"I've got a place in Kentish Town," I told her, and as her eyebrows rose in surprise, I added, "Share a cab?"
In a surprisingly quick time, we were sitting together in the back of a cab. Very quickly, we were telling each other about the intervening years since we left the school.
"You were going into journalism," Hazel said, her green eyes were wide and interested.
I told her of the progress I had made, of my dream of becoming a sports reporter. And how that very night had been a step closer to that.
"Who won?"
"Won?"
"The fight. They were talking about it in the shop this morning."
"Oh, Cooper won it." I looked at her with some surprise. "Shop? What happened to university?"
Her eyes were wistful, and I'd have been happy just to gaze into them. "I started a course at Oxford." A slight smile crossed her face," Literature - was always keen."
I could honestly say, "I do remember that."
"But do you remember me telling you about how I helped my uncle in his book shop?"
Very faintly it came back. A brace-toothed girl, dark hair tight to her head, talking avidly about being surrounded by ranks of books. "I believe I do."
She nodded with satisfaction at my brilliant memory, and said, "Well, I had done six months at Oxford - enjoyed it and helped out at my uncle's bookshop during vacations. But I'd been doing that for years, anyway."
She stopped, and, even in the gloom of the cab, I could see the moistening in her eyes. "My uncle died. He left the shop to me in his will."
"I'm sorry -about your uncle - but what happened with the shop?"
"I packed in university - couldn't resist taking it on. That's how I'm in Camden - flat above the shop. I love it so much."
I asked the question that had been bugging me from the moment she had appeared. "Is there a man in your life?"
Her look at me was fixed, the eyes almost teasing, "Not at the moment. And you?"
"No man in my life," I joked and wallowed in her genuine laughter. "No women either." In fact, there had been no women for at least two months. I'd had my fair share of casual affairs, none of which had even looked serious.
And now I was faced with a strange moment for me. With those other women, when I asked for a date, I couldn't care less if they turned me down. Now, with a suggestion on my lips, I felt a strange inhibition, a fear that Hazel might refuse. I saw that we were on the edge of Camden and I needed to make the move.
"May I see you again?" God, my voice was breathless.
I saw her take a deep breath, before she answered, "I thought you'd never ask, but --"
But? Why was that 'but' so threatening to me?
And I saw that she had a worried look, "I'm going away for a week. My gran's rather ill and I'm helping out at her place in Norwich." She leaned forward and spoke to the cab driver, "Just by the next lamp," she said.
The cab had stopped in front of a shop where books showed in the unlit windows.
Hazel held out a card. "My number. Please call. I'll be back late on Saturday."
"I hope your Gran's all right," I said. She briefly touched my knee before getting out of the cab, and her smile stayed with me all the way home.
It stayed with me for a full week. A week that dragged intolerably. A week when her green eyes, the smile on her face, or even the so brief touch of her fingers on my knee, insinuated themselves into my subconscious at unexpected moments.
All this after just one meeting? What was wrong with me? I had been lucky. I seemed to be one of those men that women came on to without any bother. Okay, more often than not, the initial feminine enthusiasm stopped at physical surrender. But at least I had been able to keep, I told myself, a level-headed approach to my encounters. So what about my response to Miss Purdom?
That following Saturday I felt as excited as a teenager on a first date as I phoned her, longing to see her, and equally keen to hear her reaction when I told about the theatre tickets I had for the Monday night.
Her voice seemed slightly breathless as she said, "I thought you mightn't call."
"That bother you?"
There was a moment's pause, "Yes, it would."
Elated, I told her I had theatre tickets. They were courtesy of our drama critic who was always worth keeping in with.
"Theatre? Where?"
"Theatre Royal, Drury Lane."
She gasped, and her voice was almost disbelieving, " But that's - that's—"
“My Fair Lady. It only opened a few months ago. A taxi for seven o'clock?"
"I can't wait."
That theatre night was all I could have hoped for. Hazel, when she removed her coat in the busy foyer, revealed her delectable figure in a green wool dress. "I wasn't sure what to wear for a night like this," she said apologetically, as she viewed, the over-elaborate gowns on the women around us.
I leaned close to her and whispered, “I'll bet they're all eyeing you and thinking, 'I wish I looked like that.”
She smiled and squeezed my arm. A simple touch, but it was like a bolt of electricity to me.
The show was terrific. The night glowed with her animated excitement as we came out into the crisp air, and she enthused about what we had just experienced. That first date ended with a chaste kiss on respective cheeks, a brief and tentative hand clasp and an agreement to meet on Thursday night.
The second date was a film night and I took her to the Odeon, Leicester Square, to see 'Cat On a Hot Tin Roof'. Whether it was the emotions aroused by that terrific film, or something else, I wasn't sure, but she clutched my arm, in the cab, all the way back to her shop. And when the cab stopped, she leaned into me and the kiss was warm, moist and, for me, utterly bewildering. How could this girl have such an effect on 'Mr Know-it-all-with-the-ladies.' She was invading my confidence zone.
She drew back, a worried look on her face, "God, am I being too forward?" she said.
I tried to ease my own emotions by joking, "Not as much as Thelma Tewart."
She laughed, "Maybe I could be. And there's something I'll tell you about that incident sometime."
We met again on Saturday evening. This time it was for a meal at a cosy little fish restaurant I knew locally, where we dined sumptuously on a prawn salad followed by a fish pie that was just delicious.
"I didn't know this place existed," she remarked taking a sip of the Chardonnay.
"Oh, I know all the back alleys of London."
We talked and talked. She told me all about the thrill of having her own bookshop, about her uncle's secret cupboard where he kept what he termed, 'rare volumes and some books banned in this country.'
"Of course, since taking over I've looked in that cupboard. Some superb volumes - I've intended to have them valued."
"You said some were banned?"
She nodded, "Political reasons, I imagine. And some moral."
"Dubious content?" I asked, knowing that I could have said more specifically 'sexual'.
"I suppose you could say that," And her eyes sparkled. "’Sexual’ would be more accurate. I haven't read them." She added with a quick smile, "But with all the hundreds of books around me, do you know which one I keep by my bedside
"'How to Stop Snoring?'"
I just said it because I loved to hear her laugh.
"Not necessary. No, it's 'East of Eden.'"
"You like that? Good choice."
"I always remember how enthusiastic you were about it."
"I'm flattered that you remember."
"I remember quite a lot." And her eyes were wide and searching as they met mine.
"Should I order coffee?" I asked uncertainly.
She shook her head and her jet black hair wafted over her face, "No, you must see my flat. I'll do the coffee."
I was an adolescent again. Invited back for coffee. Any other time I would see it as an open door, an open invitation for me to pursue some sensuous pleasures. So why, with her, was I - yes, nervous? Scared that I would make some immature comment or show unwarranted expectation.
Her flat above the shop was smartly furnished in a clever mix of old and contemporary. Gentle colours, blues and fawns. The main room had an annexe of a kitchen where Hazel went to prepare the coffee. I could have just stood watching her movement as she reached for cups, a movement that emphasised the curvaceous line from breast to waist.
"Put some music on," she said.
"Ah, yes. Music. That reminds me I've got a choice of two concerts tomorrow night if you're free."
"If you're asking, I'm free. The choices."
"There's that Cliff Richard at the Hammersmith. Or Chris Barber Jazz."
"Oh, the jazz. I'm not into all these young rock merchants. Apart from Buddy Holly - he's special. I've got all his records there, as you'll see."
I went to the black box record player and saw the Buddy Holly image. I picked up an LP and put it on. The strains of 'That'll Be the Day' filled the room.
Hazel came through holding two mugs and placed them on mats on a coffee table. "His music just gets better and better. He's developing the whole idea of the modern stuff. You'll see, in ten years time..." She stopped, her face reddening.
"You're really a fan. So, it's not just books."
We sat side by side and talked about books and film. Then, putting her cup down she turned towards me. I could smell the delicate lavender odour that came off her. I was lost. "I have that confession to tell you."
"Confession?" Her face was very close, close enough to kiss. In my normal situations with any of my previous women, I'd already have had her in my arms. But pleasant as this was, I was fearing making a false move.
"About Thelma."
"Oh, that. But I do recall you weren't one of the teasing ones."
"But didn't Mrs Milligan say how she knew what Thelma was intending?
"Well, she said something," And even as I spoke I guessed where this was going,"- about - a - girl - telling..."
"That was me. I couldn't stand seeing her get you into trouble. Not when I -" She stopped her face going a deep red.
I wasn't too sure what she was about to say, but now feeling real gratitude I was able to place a hand on her delicate cheek, "Well, thank you," I said and kissed her gently.