Buying a Globe-Wernicke

Intrigue Upon Intrigue

It was Augustus, the cat, who aroused Samantha's suspicions about Norman. On his return from Gadsby's Drove End, Norman stopped briefly at his house to change into a lightweight summer suit. He saw Augustus sitting on the doorstep, looking peeved. Augustus was large, mainly white, and rather fluffy. He was a suave, neutered tomcat; “the liberated woman's ideal male”, according to Jim, when Norman told him about Augustus.  

The cat gave a loud, interrogative “Miaouw?” - presumably meaning “Where the hell have you been?”

“Never you mind,” Norman told him. “Doing nothing that you wouldn't be doing, if you were still able and hadn't had the snip!”

Augustus gave Norman a dirty look. Norman put some (expensive) cat food in Augustus' food-bowl and refilled the cat's water-bowl. Then he set out for the office.

Norman had no particular concern for Augustus; he was a dog-person, not a cat-lover. Samantha, however, did not like dogs, so they had a cat. Augustus came and went as he pleased; he had a cat-flap. In summer he often stayed out all night, reappearing as early as 5.00 AM to shout “Miaouw?” until he received his breakfast. He would then disappear again. Thereafter he hunted, killed, but usually did not eat, inoffensive small wildlife, whose pathetic corpses he left lying around in the garden. Occasionally he brought them into the house. Wildlife murder apart, there were other issues between Norman and Augustus: for example, one summer Norman had constructed a lily pond in the back garden. It looked enchanting, especially when the fountain was playing. The final touch was to introduce some fancy goldfish; Augustus promptly caught and ate all the fish. Norman had not attempted to replace them; instead he put some sticklebacks in the pond. Augustus, after one or two mouthfuls of spines, had learned to leave them alone. Even so, the sticklebacks were much smaller, and far less-decorative, than the late goldfish. Often Augustus would return home for an afternoon siesta in Norman's house, liberally sprinkling chairs, sofas and even beds with his white fur, which was apt to cling to Norman's dark suits.  

When Norman got to the office, he found that nothing much was happening, business-wise, so he logged onto his personal email account. There was an email from Samantha in Frinton:

"Dear Norman,

"Mrs Stebbings has emailed me to say that she thinks that you are neglecting poor Augustus. He was maiouwing round her house yesterday evening and there was no sign of life at ours. Anyway, she gave him some tinned salmon and he went off reasonably content. But you must NOT forget to feed him. Moreover cats need human company. I suppose that you went off to your blasted golf club and stayed there drinking at the nineteenth hole until well past your bed-time, while Augustus was pining for us? Kindly remember that animals have emotional needs, as well as human beings. 

"Priscilla sends her love. The weather continues fine. 

XXXXX Sam"

To which Norman replied:  

"Dear Sam,

"You anthropomorphize that selfish, narcissistic feline to a ridiculous extent:

A) Augustus has his cat-flap; he can come in and go out whenever he likes. If he went and made a nuisance of himself to Mrs Stebbings, it was because she has fed him in the past. He is disgustingly overweight and I am pretty certain  that this is because he gets at least five square meals a day; 2-3 of them from silly, doting people like Mrs Stebbings, who are taken in by his 'starving, neglected cat' act. I do not neglect to feed him his healthy cat-food but I cannot be sure – although I have my well-founded suspicions - what else he eats.  

B) Mrs Stebbings is a silly old busybody who ought to mind her own business. I hope her hens get the staggers. 

C) Try to enjoy your holiday by the sea and not to worry about Augustus or me. We'll be fine. 

Love to Priscilla. 

XXXXXX Norman” 

Norman made a mental note to leave a few lights on if he should have occasion to spend any more evenings – or nights - with Jim, and to leave the TV on, so that the house wild seem inhabited and Augustus would have something with which to occupy himself. He seemed quite to enjoy Countryfile and other programmes in which animals appeared...  

"Darling Norman,

"Priscilla says that she thinks that you are developing into one of those tiresome old-fashioned 'man's men' who care more about their golf and their male chums than about their families. She has bet me that you'll start smoking a smelly pipe soon! I hope she is wrong! That is what happened with her marriage. For the record, her ex-husband, Humphrey, has never re-married, although he could afford to, but he plays golf even more often. Men! 

XXXXX Sam"

A man's man, eh! thought Norman. Yes, I seem to be becoming that all right, but not in the sense that silly Priscilla has in mind! If only she knew... 

Norman responded:  

“Dear Sam,

"Why am I not surprised? I seem to recall that our ex-brother-in-law, Humphrey, was a thoroughly nice man. If he found that he preferred golf to Priscilla's society, there may be good reasons for that! But, being a nice chap, he has never said.  

"Humphrey did however once tell me that the two best refuges and consolations of  grass-widowers, other unappreciated and neglected husbands were the golf club and the Territorial Army. You know that I always take your opinion seriously; so, if you really disapprove of the golf club – although you did seem to like the club's restaurant – I'll inquire about the Army Reserve.  

"Of course, it will be a serious commitment: shooting practice on Saturdays; Wednesday night training at the drill hall; occasional weekend exercises and two weeks' annual camp... and even less time for soul-massaging Augustus. I'll let you know more after my initial visit to the recruiting office! 

XXXXXX Norman”   

The reply was:

“Dear Norman,

"Don't you bloody-well dare!!!

XXXXX Sam” 

And so on. Sam was so annoyed by this threat that she decided to punish Norman, as she thought, by extending her stay at Frinton. “You can damn' well go on cooking your own meals!” Jim was vastly amused by this correspondence when Norman told him about it. He did so while they were resting – naked as usual – beside the Mirror Carp quarry pool. Minutes earlier Jim had dared Norman to dive in from an even greater height than on the previous occasion and, while he nearly shat himself with fright, he had not chickened out.  

“Wow, that was quite a sensation!”

“You feel more alive, don't you, now that it's over?”

“Something like that!”

“Next time, let's try sky-diving! Have you ever done that?”

“Nope! Not my scene.”

“Right! Well, we'll change all that. I've got a chum who can arrange it!”

A few days later Norman, accompanied by several members of the Parachute Regiment Reserve and wearing borrowed kit, sky-dived. He did not appreciate their singing in the back of the truck:

They scraped him off the tarmac like a pound of strawberry jam,
They scraped him off the tarmac like a pound of strawberry jam,
They scraped him off the tarmac like a pound of strawberry jam,
And he ain't gonna jump no more!

That seemed all too probable, although in the event Norman survived. To the Paras' huge amusement, he missed the DZ (dropping zone), which was not tarmac, but landed and rolled about in a nearby ploughed field, which the farmer had recently spread with pig manure. The smell was pungent and clung to him for the rest of the day. Norman knew better than to gossip about his adventure at either the golf club or the office. Nevertheless some people began to notice a change in Norman, which had nthing to do with pig-manure: a day or two later, he gave a lift to a friend from the office, Jacob, whose car was being serviced. As they were driving along the bypass, Jacob suddenly said:

“If you don't mind my saying so, you've started to look and act a lot younger, Norman! What's your secret? Monkey glands? Or have you acquired a gorgeous popsy in Sam's absence? I'm told that can have the same rejuvenating effect! Come on, you can tell your Uncle Jacob!”

Like hell I would, thought Norman. If I ever had a 'popsy', or if Jacob ever learned about Jim, it'd be all over the office within 48 hours; all over Sam's coffee-morning group within a week; and, within a fortnight at most, all over the local newspaper as well. Then I'd be in a divorce court.  

“Nonsense, Jacob; naturally I miss Sam, and I miss her cooking. But we email each other almost every day. If I look younger, it's because I'm now a lot fitter I have been for a long time; I'm working on it seriously. You should try it too; there are plenty of good gyms to choose from, these days.”    

“It's not just that,” persisted Jacob irritatingly: “You seem a lot more alert and confident; I'm starting to think that you might after all have what it takes to make it to Senior Management.”

“Thanks, Jacob. Flattery will get you everywhere!”

Jim's reprogramming of Norman continued; it consisted of equal doses of mansex and adventure. On another evening Jim dared Norman to trespass with him on a ducal estate to see a really spooky ruined abbey. It was not open to the public and, indeed, its existence was not widely known. Jim teased Norman that there would be man-traps and armed gamekeepers, as well as ghosts, although in the event they saw none of these. The ruins, however, lived up to expectation; the horrid legends that clung to them seemed quite believable by night. Norman was relieved to escape from the estate. Jim seemed to think that it was a great way to spend an evening; it was undeniably different from watching 'Keeping up Appearances', or 'The Last of the Summer Wine' on television.  

Jim then disappeared for a few days to Prague, for an antiques fair. The first indication that he was back was when Norman received a parcel through the post. This contained seven pairs of coloured bikini briefs; one for every day of the week, with instructions to “ditch your bloody y-fronts and wear these instead, at any rate when you're spending time with me!” Norman destroyed Jim's note, hid the briefs at the back of his sock-drawer and wondered what Samantha would have made of that present. Before hiding them, he tried on a black pair and flexed his muscles in front of the long mirror in his wardrobe door. They covered very little and looked undeniably sexy; he definitely wanted to wear them. Prior to meeting Jim, Norman had tended to view his body mainly as a vehicle for health and fitness, to be maintained, improved and fine-tuned, but now eroticism was becoming part of the equation.    

Late the following evening, Norman was working unenthusiastically on his tax return in his study. Because of the temperature, he was wearing only elegant, loose black silk pajamas from Thailand. The heat was still oppressive; most of the top-floor windows were open, to catch whatever breeze was blowing. There was a new moon, so it was dark outside. An owl hooted. Norman's study had two doors: one that gave access to the landing and a second one, behind him, that led into his dressing-room and the bedroom beyond.

Norman suddenly noticed a slight draught on the back of his neck; then a gruff voice said “Gotcha!” and a black felt bag was thrown over this head. Norman struggled wildly, but was wrestled to the floor.  

Unexpectedly, the burglar, terrorist or whatever he was, started to chuckle sadistically. The  the chuckle sounded oddly familiar.

“Jim, you bastard, I almost died of fright! You must be out of your mind coming here. Samantha's still on holiday, but someone else might easily have spotted you!”

Still laughing, Jim whipped the bag off Norman's head and kissed him. “No worries; my vehicle is parked in the next street, and – in answer to your next question - it is not the sports-car but my inconspicuous backup conveyance; a plain van. I got here by cutting through two of your neighbours' gardens.”

Oh crikey. 

Jim's appearance was dramatic enough for most people's taste: he was wearing a black, skin-tight outfit normally worn by skiers, but with no helmet or goggles. Instead, he wore a small black silk mask of the kind affected by bandits in historical dramas. His eyes gleamed wickedly through the eye-holes of the mask. His face was further obscured by dark smudges of camouflage cream. He had shinned up a drainpipe, entered the house through Norman's bedroom window and surprised him by entering the study via the dressing-room.  

“If you ever have anyone coming after you, Rule Number One is: never leave a window open in a room that you are not using!” Jim explained, adding that “I'm pretty sure that both of the families whose gardens I crossed are away on holiday. Their houses were in total darkness. No-one saw me.”      

Norman was not reassured: “One of our neighbours is not away. That's Mrs Stebbings at number twenty-eight. She suffers from insomnia. She is the most inquisitive, sticky-beaked person I've ever met; I even suspect her of owning  a Starlight-scope and a directional microphone!”  

Jim laughed: “Is that the old bat who reported you to Boss-lady for neglecting the cat?”

“That's her. She's made herself quite unpopular by reporting people for alleged misdemeanours, to the RSPCA; the Cats' Protection League; to the Council; to their partners; once or twice to the police...”  

On cue, the telephone rang; Norman jumped nervously.  

“Sir, this is the police. We're outside your house now. A neighbour has reported seeing a man in black enter your premises through an upstairs window. We suspect that he may still be there. Can you please let us in to investigate?”  

Norman hastily pushed Jim into the nearest bathroom. He then donned a dressing gown, also of black silk, and went down to meet the police, who turned out to be a man and a woman.

“I'm sorry, Officers, but it is a false alarm. The 'burglar' was me. I got into my house through an upstairs window by climbing up the drainpipe less than half an hour ago. And, as you can see, I am wearing black pajamas”

Both Officers looked suspicious, and then concerned, as though they feared that Norman might be mildly insane. “Might I ask why, Sir?”

“Yes, you may ask. I went outside in my pajamas to put some rubbish in the grey bin. I accidentally let the back door close behind me. It has an automatic lock; I had locked myself out. I felt such a fool! I had three choices: firstly, to disturb a neighbour, admitting my stupidity, and call a locksmith, which at this hour is very expensive; secondly, to break a window; or, thirdly, to climb the drainpipe. At the risk of breaking my neck, I chose Option Three.”

“But, Sir, your neighbour said that she did not recognise the man.”

“It's a new moon; a dark night. And Mrs Stebbings – for I assume that it was her – has never to my knowledge seen me in my night-clothes before tonight!”

The police looked at one another. The policeman grunted but did not confirm that it was Mrs Stebbings who had raised the alarm. Equally, he did not deny it; it had to be her. The woman officer made some notes. Norman continued:

“I am grateful that you appeared when you did. It is very reassuring that you reacted so quickly. But no-one is here apart from me; I've been working in my study all evening. My wife is away on holiday. And Mrs Stebbings does read rather a lot of detective novels. Her house is full of P. D. James, Ruth Rendell and Agatha Christie books. I think that she fancies herself as an amateur detective, like Miss Marple.”  

The woman officer sighed and spoke for the first time: “There's a surprising number of people like that living around here.” (Norman lived in an affluent suburb, which contained many bored housewives.)

Finally the male officer said: “Well, if you're sure, Sir, that no crime has been committed, we'll leave you in peace. Please be more careful, though. We'll contact your neighbour to reassure her. Good night.”

They took themselves off. Norman waited until they had driven away before going to find Jim. He found Jim in his marital bedroom. Jim, unembarrassed as usual, had stripped and washed his face. When Norman entered he was reading a volume of Byron's poetry; an old school prize of Norman's. He quickly put the book aside. He was stretched out, completely relaxed, on Norman and Samantha's bed, wearing only his black bandit mask. For some reason this looked incredibly sexy.

It's like a wicked lady wearing a black garter or suspender-belt and nothing else. Or Moshe Dayan's eye-patch; they say that women used to find that was a turn-on. 

Jim grinned up at Norman: “All okay, then?”

“Yes, but no thanks to you. Mrs Stebbings did see you and she called the police. I said that I'd locked myself out by accident and what she saw must have been me, climbing back into the house in my black pajamas.”  

Jim approved: “That was an inspired story; romance at short notice is evidently one of your specialties. It's very useful if you're being unfaithful! But, really, something needs to be done about Mrs Stebbings; she's a menace! Let me think about it...”

This train of thought had to be stopped. “No!” shouted Norman. “For God's sake, no!  You've caused enough trouble here, as it is!” Then he changed the subject. “Oh, and thanks for the unexpected present. I'm not sure how I'll explain that to Samantha!”

Jim laughed. “You shouldn't need to. Just tell her you've changed your mind about what you wear under your suit; those kecks are more stylish than y-fronts and that's what you'll be wearing in future. Humour me: let's see what you look like in them.”  

Norman took off his pajamas and dressing-gown. While he was deciding which pair of briefs to wear, Jim reached over, to touch and handle Norman with a lover's assurance. Norman selected a burgundy-red pair and slipped them on.     

“Yeah! That looks great. No; don't try to pull them up. Your ass-cheeks should not be totally covered. And they can at a push pass for swimming trunks, in places where you have to wear trunks. Now take them off.”

Norman did so. Without taking his eyes of him, Jim smiled and stretched on the bed. In The Old Dower House, Jim in his blazer and flannels had seemed the epitome of dashing smartness; now he looked feral. His hazel eyes gleamed through the mask with predatory mischief. Appropriately, Jim was sprawled on a leopard-print throw, which Samantha had put there to protect the bedspread from Augustus. One of his favourite dozing places was the marital bed; he was as apt to shed fur there, as anywhere else. Being naked, Jim's physical strength was obvious. His muscles stood out because he had recently shaved most of his body, although he had left the black cloud at his crotch and a narrow line of dark hair running from crotch to navel. He had been sunbathing; his skin was now nut-brown, with no tan-line and a healthy glow. When he stretched luxuriously, he reminded Jim of a big cat – a puma, for instance – doing the same thing in the zoo. But here there were no bars.

“C'mon lover-boy. Let's make music!”  

He jumped up, pulled Norman onto the bed and within seconds, they were locked in a complicated soixante-neuf.

There were no cries of horror or disgust from Norman. (Great! He's loving it!)

Once Norman was really aroused, Jim again mounted his cock and rode it for several minutes.  Norman loved Jim's 'pain face', his groans, and occasional cries of “Fuck!!!” His muscles were polished with sweat and his cock rigid.

“Now it's your turn, lover-boy”.

This time Jim was brutal. He flipped Norman onto his side; having entered him, he wrapped his arms and legs round him, immobilising him, as he was far stronger. He thrust repeatedly, deep into Norman's ass, until he was yelling for mercy; he received none. Jim reached over and grabbed Norman's cock, then hammered him again. He came in Norman's ass, at exactly the same time as a screaming, gasping Norman came in Jim's tight grasp, shooting rainbows across the leopard-print throw. After they had showered, it was back to bed; tender young love, and then drowsing until dawn, when Jim disappeared over the back garden wall to find his van. It was so quiet that Norman heard him driving off towards the main road for minutes after his departure.  

Norman's first act on waking-up was to throw the leopard-print throw, and then all the bed-linen, into the washing-machine. Two days later there was a further email from Frinton:

"Darling Norman,

"Something frightful has happened to poor Mrs Stebbings; she was really upset about it, so she rang me on my Mobile. She is in shock! She received a parcel through the Post. When she unwrapped it, it proved to contain a beautifully-wrapped box. Well, she loves chocolates so she thought that one of her friends had sent her some. Then she pulled it open. As she did so, a monumental stink-bomb went off. She said, although I don't know how she would know, that it was like a CS-gas attack!

"When she had sufficiently recovered, opened all the windows, etc, she saw inside the box a pile of – well – human shit, or a very good imitation, and a  neat printed card saying “Someone, somewhere, thinks you're a shit!” She became, in her own words, 'hysterical'!

"I am afraid that the police, when they finally arrived, seemed to think it funny, and asked whether Mrs Stebbings had ever offended anyone locally. She denied it, but they said that they had received information that suggested otherwise. Just imagine!  

"Seriously, who on earth would do that to a harmless old woman?

XXXXX, Sam."

Someone clearly would, thought Norman, and I know who: Bloody Jim! 

Even so, he was chuckling as he drove off to work. From behind her net curtains, Mrs Stebbings watched him go.