Meeting the Parents
A 'To See or Not to See' Story
Part two of Two
The Collingwood Arms turns out to be a rather posh looking affair, housed in what appears to be an old stately home. It sits in its own grounds and is made of ivy covered stone with turrets in the roof and grand, pillared windows. Tallula is not happy that she is still wearing a daytime outfit and wishes she had been able to change into eveningwear. Apparently she has an amazing black and red Dolce & Gabbana number in her case but our delay en-route has denied her any opportunity to change. My suggestion that she just quickly put the dress on in the back of the car when arrive demonstrates my complete lack of comprehension of the complexity of Tallula’s dressing to go out ritual, and it does not go down well.
As I understand the mind-bogglingly complicated Restraint laws, entering the premises of our destination counts as arriving, and as The Collingwood Arms has its own patrons’ car park, as soon as we’re in it Tallula can legally take off her blindfold. However in addition to the law there seems to be a layer of etiquette evolving around ladies’ blindfolds. A lady does not remove her own blindfold if she is in the company of a gentleman and should wait for him to remove it for her. And when departing she should offer her blindfold to her gentleman for him to put it on her. That’s fairly simple but the question of exactly when all this happens is much more complicated. The convention as I understand it is that people who are already present should see a newly arrived lady before she sees them. It is therefore rude for a lady to walk through the front door with her eyes already uncovered. In addition, it is the responsibility of the gentleman to check that the location they have arrived at is suitable for his lady to see before she sees it, so this would also imply that she remain blindfolded until well inside the premises. And so for a restaurant I believe I should keep my lady blindfolded until we’re inside the building, perhaps waiting to be seated or maybe even actually at our table. This restaurant looks like it might be the sort of place where etiquette is important. I hope I don’t screw up.
Tallula makes no attempt to remove her blindfold as I park the car, nor when I help her step out of it. She offers me her arm to guide her and so I conclude she wants to keep to the correct etiquette. I guide her to the grandiose front door where there are three steps, and as this is an old building there is no disabled ramp. Fortunately the steps are not high and Tallula’s skirt does not prevent her climbing them without incident. Inside we catch the attention of the maître d' who immediately excuses herself from the conversation she is having with a guest and moves towards us. I wonder if now is the right time to remove Tallula’s blindfold or if it’s too soon. The maître d' is upon us while I’m still pondering the etiquette and I tell her we have a reservation. She checks her book and begins to show us to our table. It seems like Tallula’s parents have not arrived yet. At the table I guide Tallula onto the chair offered by the maître d' and order a couple of glasses of house wine while we wait.
Tallula makes no attempt to free her eyes from their restraint, and nor does she give me any indication that she thinks I should be doing it. She just sits quietly, but I can tell she is enjoying the etiquette and the feeling of being a revered lady in the company and protection of her gentleman. Well now has to be the correct moment. I stand behind Tallula and carefully reach into her considerable mane to locate the clasps concealed within. I find and release them and the elasticated portion of the blindfold’s strap draws the needle-like links gently through the glossy, black hair. I lift the blindfold from her face and eyes which have seen no light for over eight hours and two hundred miles squint and blink, dazzled by the dim lighting in the restaurant.
“Mmm. Thank you,” she says in a satisfied tone, as if I’d just done her some enormous good turn.
Almost immediately a little flip-open mirror appears from Tallula’s handbag. She tuts disapprovingly at the reflection she sees, but a little delicate dabbing of something powdery on her cheeks and above her eyebrows seems to achieve an apparently just about acceptable result.
“How can a lady look her best after eight hours in a car?” she mutters rhetorically.
“You look fabulous to me,” I say as I sit down opposite her at the table.
“I look a mess. An inappropriately dressed mess. But it’ll have to do. At least it’s dimly lit in here.”
She looks around for the first time and takes in the scene around her. She seems to approve. The restaurant looks classy enough to make me wonder how my junior doctor’s bank account will cope if etiquette demands that I, rather than my well paid, hot-shot lawyer girlfriend will have to pay the bill. Our wine arrives, brought by a pretty young waitress wearing a long, black skirt with a white apron that makes her look like a maid from a Sherlock Holmes movie. Tallula immediately goes for a very unladylike sized swig of the wine.
Over at the main door a couple enters the restaurant. I wonder for a moment if they are Tallula’s parents but they are obviously too young, mid to late thirties by the look of them. The maître d' swishes over to them in her elegant and slightly formal looking evening gown while the man lifts a substantial looking coat from his lady’s shoulders. The summer weather outside is warm, but the necessity of such a coat becomes clear as the lady’s dress is revealed. It is black and rises to halfway up her breasts and that’s it. Her shoulders and arms are completely bare save for a substantial necklace and some delicate looking lace gloves. The maître d' shows the couple to a table near ours and as they meander through the restaurant the skirt part of the lady’s dress is revealed. It is long and tight enough to make me wonder how she managed the steps outside the entrance. It hugs her legs down past her knees, revealing every curve as far as her calves where it explodes like a mermaid’s tail into a mass of layered lace which only partially obscures a pair of very high heeled shoes. The lady’s amazing outfit is completed by her blindfold. It is small and minimal, just two circles of black held in place over her eyes by a web of thin strings. It seems almost inadequate to completely remove her sight but by the way she moves as she is guided to her table it seems that it is effective in its intended purpose. Once she is seated I am surprised to see that her partner then sits himself down too, without removing his lady’s blindfold.
My attention returns to Tallula and we chat about nothing much as we wait. She says her father is never late for anything, but I point out that on our revised schedule we are actually a little early. I sneak another look at the newly arrived couple. The waitress has brought them a bottle of wine and the man is pouring it. The lady is still blindfolded but she looks relaxed and happy. She sits with the fingers of one lace-covered hand resting on the base of her wineglass, presumably so she can tell where it is. A few moments later my next sneaky peek reveals her sipping away at her wine while her partner reads the menu aloud to her. He has his back to me and I obviously don’t have to worry about the lady seeing me staring at her, but I should of course be worrying about Tallula noticing my wandering attention.
“Got a roving eye have we?” she asks tersely.
“Oh, sorry. But it’s just the lady over there is sat at her table still wearing a blindfold. I’m just wondering when her man-friend there is going to take it off for her.”
Tallula looks round at the couple who are seated slightly behind her.
“Mmm, sexy,” she says quietly after observing them for a moment.
“Sexy? You wouldn’t want me to treat you like that, would you?”
She doesn’t answer but her slight, devious smile and the momentary raising of her eyebrows are enough convey her feelings on the subject.
Another couple enters the restaurant and they do look to be of an age where they could be the parents of a thirty year old daughter. Tallula sees them too and waves to the newcomers but it goes unnoticed. The man has his attention focussed on the maître d' as she glides to greet her new customers, floating through the maze of tables as if her long skirt concealed wheels rather than feet. I don’t know what the newly arrived lady’s attention is focussed on but whatever it is, it is certainly nothing that she can see because she is of course correctly blindfolded. A few words are exchanged and the maître d' gestures to our table. She escorts the couple towards us as we stand up to greet them. Hugs and kisses are exchanged between Tallula and her parents and there’s a firm handshake from her father for me. He introduces me to his wife and mother of my new girlfriend and suddenly my knowledge of polite etiquette runs out. Am I supposed to kiss her or embrace her while she still has her blindfold on? It seems highly unfair to touch a lady like that when she can’t see you coming. What if I turn out to be not the sort of person she would like to receive a kiss from? How can she consent to my physical greeting if she can’t see me? Fortunately Tallula’s dad rescues me from my dilemma. He tugs at a large ribbon bow behind his wife’s head and the black and slightly sparkly blindfold slips away, drawing the ribbon out from under her hair and revealing an elderly, yet still very attractive face, tastefully made up and perfectly framed by long, elaborately styled grey hair. She has her daughter’s eyes and her smile too. She blinks for a moment, then takes my hand and draws herself close to greet me intimately.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she whispers as we embrace. “I see that you truly are as handsome as Tallula says.”
“Err thank you Mrs Crenshaw,” I reply nervously. “I see now where Tallula gets her amazing looks from.”
“Oh, flatterer,” she replies with a smile and then she turns to her husband. “You could learn a thing or two from this one Harold,” she says mockingly to him.
Mrs Crenshaw might call me a flatterer but my words are not false. She might be a lady of a certain age but she is extremely glamorous. Her dress, like her hair is long and silver-grey. It covers her modestly as is appropriate for her advancing years but yet it also clings to her snugly, revealing a shape that still has its mounds and indentations in all the right places. Her shoes have high heels and her skirt is fashionably long and tight, although nowhere near as tight as Tallula’s nor indeed that of the lady seated nearby who still has her blindfold on and is now being fed her stuffed olives starter by her partner. One by one he pierces them with a fork and holds them up in front of her. At his whispered command she opens her mouth and the fork’s cargo is delicately placed inside. It is an extremely intimate and erotic looking scene, but one on which I cannot let my gaze linger as I have polite conversation and a good impression to make.
The polite conversation reveals Mr Crenshaw to be a man of relatively few words but those he does use show him to possess a great intellect with a wicked sense of humour. His wife on the other hand seems to have an infinite supply of words and she is not shy about using them. She has opinions on everything and she apparently wants me to know them all. And to show that I am interested and engaged in her conversation I decide to ask her view on something highly controversial. Something that is never far from any conversation in this country. I ask her what she thinks of what is happening to women’s rights and Restraint. Mr Crenshaw chuckles and rolls his eyes in a way that seems to say ‘now you’ve gone and done it lad’.
“I think that when you start a war and then lose it you have to accept whatever terms the victor imposes upon you,” replies Mrs Crenshaw with a hint of distain in her voice but also with a slight, enigmatic smile. “My sex declared war on men, and we lost. To be honest I think we’re lucky to have got off so lightly.”
“I’ve heard a lot of very different views on the subject, but never that one before. You feel women have got off lightly? That implies you think it’s a punishment.”
“Well it is isn’t it? I know everyone says it’s about building a new society of respect and chivalry, but really it’s about punishing women for trying to piss all over the men and subjugating us to make sure we never try it again. And I’d have to say I think we deserve it.”
“You deserve it? Now this is really something I haven’t heard before. Why do you deserve it?”
“I am a child of the Eighties. We were perhaps the first generation of girls who were brought up with the idea of true equality between the sexes. Unlike our mothers and grandmothers, we were destined to be more than just secretaries or housewives. We believed we would be able to do anything we wanted. And so one day while I was out sailing with my father on his little boat, I announced that when I grew up I was going to be a ship’s captain and ply the Seven Seas with my mighty ship and its crew of male underlings. I think I was nine years old at the time, but the notion took hold and remained with me. I horrified my mother by leaving school at sixteen and getting myself an apprenticeship with a maritime service company. I ended up working on a tugboat just across The Channel from here in Milford Haven. It was hardly exploring the Seven Seas in a mighty ship but I loved it. Those massive tankers that used to bring oil and gas here, we used to pull and push them about to get them in and out of the haven. It was great fun.
And I was a young and, dare I say, beautiful woman working in a man’s world, and I got a fair amount of attention, some of it welcome, some of it not, and I learned to deal with it. There was this bloke on one of the tugs who used to call me Sugar Tits, and so I started calling him Sweaty Bollocks and he soon got the message. I didn’t object to their titty calendars on the walls and sometimes supplemented them with hunk calendars of my own which the men found rather amusing. Although it never happened on the boats, I did get groped and pinched now and again on the dockside and once I kneed a man in the groin in retaliation. I gave as good as I got and it was all fine. It was what being equal was all about, and I really did feel equal. I didn’t get any special treatment, I worked hard and I mucked in and got dirty along with the men. I was ambitious too. I didn’t want to just be the one out on the deck hauling lines, I wanted to be up on the bridge, driving the boat and giving the orders.
I took a break from work when Tallula here and her sister came along but my ambition remained strong. I did a degree in oceanography with the Open University while I was ‘just’ being a mum. I went sailing too and became a qualified yachtmaster. I never let go of that ambition to be a captain and I went for it after I returned to work. I applied for every training course, every vacancy, every promotion and eventually I got there. I ended up as the captain of a scientific survey ship and I did it through hard work, ambition, a little luck, and by being equal in a world still dominated by men.
And it pissed me off so much to hear women winging that they couldn’t get ahead because society was still so sexist. To me they were just using sexism as an excuse to cover their own shortcomings. And every time they shouted about things like women-only shortlists, gender pay gaps and positive discrimination, they undermined and diminished the achievements of women like me who had made it on our own merits. Oh how it enraged me to see that glint of disrespect that said ‘Yeah, you’re only the captain because you’ve got tits and they look good for the company’s image and its equality statistics’.”
“You think I swear a lot,” interrupts Tallula, “well I learned it from listening to my mum talking about feminists.”
“Justified expression of not unreasonable disgust,” replies her mum. “They were so stupid. They were always banging on about being equal, but then they would be demanding discrimination for themselves, women-only vacancies, quotas in management and board rooms, and the like. Being equal was surely about being promoted because of your skills and hard work rather than because your company was being shamed about its gender pay gap.
And all the time we were poking a sleeping dragon. Every time a man was passed over in favour of a woman, was it because she was better, or was it discrimination? It is much easier to blame an injustice than it is to accept our own shortcomings. Resentment began to grow and it was denied any sort of outlet. No one could speak out against feminism or equality, they were sacred and untouchable. A perfect pressure cooker and we women kept piling the heat under it. Not content with enforcing equality on them, we then began to demonise men. We turned them all into rapists and abusers. You remember things like MeToo? All women it seemed were victims, but how can you be equal if you’re always playing the victim? If a man gropes your tit then you just do what I did, knee him in the balls. That’s the equal way to deal with it. Running off to personnel to file a complaint and then crying about how your entire life was ruined by it never looked very equal to me. Should we really have been so surprised when the dragon got fed up with being poked and squeezed into an ever smaller pot and he decided to retaliate and breathe fire on us?
Women wanted to be equal and I think we achieved it. But it was never equal enough for some. They had to keep pushing, keep needling away until it blew up in all our faces. Women declared war on the men, and the men rose up and put us down. Now we have to accept their judgement and punishment and I think we have gotten off pretty lightly so far.”
“Mum thinks we’re lucky that we can’t be bought and sold down the market on a Saturday morning,” says Tallula with a giggle.
“I do. I am genuinely amazed that men still seem to want to treat us with any sort of respect or kindness. I guess it must be some sort of caveman instinct, to want to provide for their women and protect us from the Sabre Tooth. And perhaps we are still cavewomen at heart and our instinct is to accept that protection and the domination that comes with it, and pay for it with love, affection and a stylish and tidy cave. Perhaps civilised society should not stray too far ahead of the basic nature of its inhabitants.
So where do we go now? A return to the old ways of thinking, that women are inferior to men? Subjugation of women below the male boot? Or even the other way round, subjugation of the male below our stiletto heels? No one seriously thinks any of those is the way forward. And so we are trying a new thing, Restraint. And what is that exactly? A way of punishing us a little, but also a way of putting equality to bed by artificially making us inferior to men so that we can enjoy the politeness and chivalry of the past without any woman having to feel that she is actually inferior. And is it working? Well take that couple over there whom you seem to have a particular interest in…”
I feel myself flush with embarrassment that Mrs Crenshaw has apparently noticed my fascination with the blindfolded lady and her partner sitting nearby. My attempts to watch them covertly have obviously been a failure. Currently they are tucking in to their main course. The lady has ordered the lobster and her partner is having to break it up and extract the meat for her. He feeds it to her with his fingers which are frequently gripped and held prisoner between her teeth until she decides to let them go. They are clearly enjoying something very special and I hope they have a room booked here so they can sate their inflamed passions while they are still hot and spiky, un-dulled by the drive home and paying the babysitter. Or perhaps the babysitter will join in. Or perhaps I need to focus on the company I am with.
“Do not be embarrassed young man,” says Mrs Crenshaw with a chuckle. “You are not the only one who has been taking a keen interest in them, is he Tallula?”
“What? Me? Come on Mum. You’ve been peeking too when you think no-one’s looking.”
“Of course I have. And so has everyone else in the room. Many people say Restraint is just about subjugating women, about enslaving us to some sort of male fantasy and punishing us for daring to believe we were equal. But does the lady over there look like she is being subjugated or punished? And if there is any enslaving going on then who is being enslaved to who? Did she order the lobster just because she likes the taste, or did she order it because it’s the most awkward bloody thing to get apart and he will have to do it for her? And at the end of it, who do think will be paying the bill? It’s not looking good for his bank account if they’re relying on an iris or fingerprint scanner at the till. But could this joyous, exhibitionist display of natural human desires be possible without Restraint? If they had done this ten, or even five years ago it would have been shocking and outrageous. They would probably have been told to leave by a management worried about other customers taking offence, and this lovely little scene would never have taken place.
And this scene is just one of millions of wonderful interactions between men and women that happen every day now. Most are not quite as erotic and sexually charged as this one, but they all enrich our lives, both as women and as men, and none of them would happen without Restraint. A few years ago I could have been having a heart attack, dying in the street and people would have just stepped over me and continued on their way, not wanting to get involved. Now I only have to drop my keys and someone is there to pick them up for me. And I feel a need to reward today’s new gentlemen and earn their freely given chivalry, so I doll myself up more, make myself as beautiful as I can for them, and that makes me feel good about myself too.
So you asked my view on Restraint. I say of course it is inconvenient and difficult and maybe even unfair to have to wear a blindfold whenever I go out, but even at my advanced years it does make me feel sexy, and if it is the price that must be paid for the respect and almost goddess-like status that it seems to bring me, then it might be worth paying as long as you men keep your end of the bargain and keep the chivalry and respect coming. And if it keeps little scenes like our exhibitionist duo over there going then that’s a bonus. I wonder if there’s a banana split on the desert menu. That might be interesting to see.”
“Oh Mum really. You promised you’d behave.” protests Tallula, although I’m not convinced her apparent disapproval is genuine.
Conversation is interrupted by the arrival of our own main course. One roasted halibut, one seared venison loin, one marinated duck and one ribeye steak. The steak is for me. As we eat I keep a discreet watch on our exhibitionist neighbours, and also on the other customers around the restaurant. And I see that Mrs Crenshaw was correct, the blindfolded lady and her partner are indeed the centre of covert attention and they must surely know it. Along with everyone else in the room I find myself rather disappointed when they skip the desert course and get up to leave, but I am cheered when I hear the man ask the maître d’ to send drinks up to their room. Apparently they do have one booked and it’s not hard to imagine what is going to be happening in it just very shortly. I wonder if the lady will get to see any of it, or indeed if she might stay the night and leave in the morning without having seen anything of the place. I find I’m getting myself quite worked up and I keep reminding myself that it is due to the presence of my extremely sexy girlfriend and perhaps also the exhibitionist couple, and definitely, absolutely not because my girlfriend’s mum is turning out to be rather sexy too.
After we’ve eaten and drank our fill, Tallula’s dad says that it’s his treat and he is picking up the tab. I of course argue that it should be me who pays, or least contributes, but my heart is not really in the argument and I roll over perhaps a little too easily. With everything settled we stand up to leave and I notice Mrs Crenshaw take out her blindfold and pass it to her husband. It seems now is the correct time for the ladies to have their eyes covered. I watch as Mr Crenshaw delicately places the blindfold over his wife’s eyes and passes the ribbon under her hair before tying it in a large bow behind her head. Mrs Crenshaw moves her head as if she were looking around herself, presumably checking that she can’t see anything, and she appears to be satisfied with the result. I look across to Tallula who is standing with her arm outstretched towards me, offering her own blindfold. She has that slightly wicked looking sparkle in her eyes that she gets when she’s feeling spiky, and as I stand behind her to fasten her blindfold in place I make sure I nudge her bum with my erection. I wonder if anyone is watching us and I feel rather cool at the thought they might be.
We guide our ladies out to the car park, negotiating the steps at the front door without incident. Tallula’s dad asks if we want to follow them but Tallula immediately says we’ve got it all sorted and the car knows where it needs to go. She clearly wants to free to take the slow road to her parents’ house and that suits me just fine. With my two door coupé it is something of a challenge to guide Tallula into the back seat with her tight skirt, but we manage and I climb in beside her. The law is quite relaxed about intoxicated travel in an auto-drive car as long as the car is left to drive itself and the police prefer it if you sit in the back to show you have no intention of interfering. The back seat is also more convenient for undertaking activities along the way. I think about Tallula’s reaction when she first saw the exhibitionist couple in the restaurant. She thought it was sexy to be treated like that did she? Well I think I can oblige her. Let’s see how obedient she can be. Tallula instructs the car to take a detour via Lynmouth. I think perhaps it should be the last thing she says on this journey. Her mouth should be otherwise engaged from now on.
oOo
It’s the morning after and I’m sitting on the bed in Mrs Crenshaw’s guest bedroom. The house is big enough that it surely has several guest bedrooms but Tallula’s mum has shown her relaxed attitude to all things sexual and only offered us one room. The Crenshaw household also seems to have a relaxed attitude to breakfast time. It’s half past ten and no one seems to be up and about yet. Tallula is in the shower and has been for twenty minutes now. The washing of hair is a science that takes much time and many bottles, which I can poke fun at, but I can’t deny the beauty of the result.
Last night I think a little door opened in our sexual relationship. I was dominant and a little mean to her and it seems it hit some sort of spot inside her. I commanded her to keep her head in my lap and her mouth busy while the car trundled round the twisty country lanes of North Devon and she obeyed without question or complaint. By the time we arrived at this house she had satisfied my lust with skill and enthusiasm and without her own needs having received any attention. In my mellow, post-ejaculatory state I was able to stay cool and infuriate her by falling asleep when we came to bed without giving her any of what she was obviously craving. I don’t know if she masturbated in the night but she was still hot and spicy this morning, and with my mellow satisfaction fading I was not able to resist her. She’s had three this morning and I doubt her parents could have not heard the noise.
Tallula emerges from the en-suite bathroom with towels wrapped around her torso and hair. A long session with the hairdryer now follows. I never really understand if she actually enjoys all the self-grooming, or if it is just a daily chore that has to be endured because not looking her best is unthinkable to her. When I was a boy women seldom seemed to take much pride in their looks. My mother used to go around with hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing scruffy jeans and flat shoes, as did my sister and seemingly most other women. Nowadays I hardly ever see a woman dressed like that. They seem to have discovered a pride and passion in their appearance and no effort is spared to maximise it. Perhaps it is actually a rediscovery, given the extreme fashions of the distant past.
The hair drying is finished and Tallula slips on a sheer negligee over the towel that is still wrapped around her torso.
“Coming for breakfast?” she asks cheerily.
“Aren’t you getting dressed first?”
“Well how am I supposed to get dressed when I don’t know what we’re doing today yet? Are we slouching around here, are we going out walking, or in the car, somewhere nice for lunch, or a bag of chips down the harbour?”
“Ah. You’d want a different outfit for each of those.”
“Of course I would. Just ‘coz you think a shirt, trousers and comfy shoes are appropriate for everything doesn’t mean we all do. Come on, I’m hungry and Mum does a mean breakfast.”
Down in the conservatory I soon discover that Tallula’s mum does indeed do a mean breakfast, and while we fill ourselves with bacon, eggs, sausage, beans, tomato, orange juice and toast, a plan for the day is thrashed out. Tallula wants her mum to bake some of her blueberry muffins because apparently I haven’t lived until I’ve tasted them, and Mr Crenshaw seems keen to introduce me to the delights of sea fishing on his boat, so it’s decided that the ladies will stay and do baking while the men walk down to the harbour and spend an hour out on the sea. Then we’ll all meet up at a harbourside café for lunch. Mr Crenshaw says it’s a half mile walk into the town of Ilfracombe which has a pretty harbour area and some unique beaches. After lunch we can wander around and do a little sightseeing. We’ll be back at the house by three to allow plenty of time for the long drive back to London.
It takes about ten minutes to walk through a tree-lined lane and a couple of streets to reach the harbour. Another fifteen or so minutes and Mr Crenshaw has his boat ready to cast off, and I would guess we’re slipping out onto the calm, blue sea well before the muffins have made it into the oven. Outside the harbour on a patch of sea apparently called the Buggy Pit, I am taught the technique for catching mackerel. There’s not much to it; just wave the rod up and down until it feels heavy and then reel it in to reveal the fish stuck to the multiple hooks on the end of the line. For a junior doctor and trainee surgeon I find I am surprisingly squeamish about handling wriggling fish but it’s not long before we have a bucket filled with enough mackerel for a quick barbeque at the house before we leave for London. I get to drive the boat back while Mr Crenshaw guts our catch and we’re tied up in the harbour again probably just as the muffins emerge from the oven. We wander up to a café on the quayside and take a table outside in the sun. A phone call confirms that the ladies are leaving the house and coming to join us.
We order a couple of coffees and Mr Crenshaw goes off to find the toilet, leaving me to sit and watch the goings on in the street and around the harbour. It’s all very different to a street scene in London. There people are only in the street if they are going somewhere, hurrying along, avoiding interaction with others but feeling the need to be fashionably dressed, and you hardly see a lady without a blindfold. Here it all seems much more relaxed. There seems to be little rush to be anywhere and everyone is moving at a slower pace. Passers-by stop to chat with each other, families are playing on the sandy beach that lies along one side of the harbour, people are sitting on the quay eating ice creams, couples wander slowly about looking at the sights, and the pavement is covered with busy café tables, forcing people to walk on the road which is fine because it is almost devoid of cars. Some of the ladies are dressed fashionably and blindfolded but many are just wearing skimpy casuals and wandering around with their eyes uncovered, risqué and rather risky behaviour in London but seemingly quite acceptable here.
It took us only about ten minutes to walk here but it’s more than twice that time since the phone call that said Tallula and her mum were leaving the house. Eventually I spot a pair of wide brimmed and very Tallula-like hats moving towards me along the crowded lane that skirts around the edge of the harbour. As they get closer I can see that it is indeed Tallula and her mum, and the reason for the lengthy duration of their walk becomes apparent. Perhaps unsurprisingly they have chosen not to join with the casual half of the local population and are dressed up in the finest looking of daytime fashion. Mrs Crenshaw is sporting a white dress with flowers printed on it, a belted waist, short puffy sleeves and a long and skinny skirt. She has well-heeled, dark red shoes, matching gloves and a large ribbon tied around her enormously wide hat is also the same colour of red. Tallula is wearing an incredibly tight looking black and white striped skirt that reaches almost to her ankles. Above this she has a clingy, white, low-necked top and a tiny bolero jacket in the same black and white stripes as the skirt. She has black shoes and gloves, a white hat of similarly wide proportions to her mother’s with a large black ribbon and lots of lacy netting which hangs down over the top half of her face to form a veil. The tightness of her skirt and the height of her shoes’ heels are an obvious explanation as to the slow pace of their walk from the house.
Another possible explanation is that both ladies are of course wearing blindfolds, and not just any old blindfolds. Both coordinate perfectly with the ladies’ outfits. Mrs Crenshaw’s has the same flowery pattern as her dress and Tallula’s is white with black edging. It looks particularly alluring under her hat’s net veil. Given the obvious restrictions placed upon them by their outfits, the ladies walk at a gentle pace but with a smooth, confident-looking elegance that could only come from much practise. They hold hands to stay together and scan the pavement in front of them, feeling for obstacles with long white sticks. Their regal-looking presence is enhanced by the way people who are unhampered by blindfolds move to avoid them, parting like the water ahead of a large ship. I guess it’s really rude to get in the way of a blindfolded lady if you can see to avoid her. I watch as a young couple approaches them walking in the opposite direction, he in shorts and a tee shirt, she in a stylish dress and blindfold. He guides his lady around Tallula and they pass without incident less than a meter apart. I wonder if either lady had any inkling as to the other’s presence. Perhaps they heard each other’s heels on the pavement, or the tugging sound of their tight skirts around their legs, or maybe they caught the brief passing aroma of each other’s perfume. Or perhaps they just passed without either knowing the other was there. The young man certainly notices Tallula, and it is probably fortunate for him that his lady cannot see where his gaze is fixed as they walk on.
It seems to me so utterly ludicrous that both ladies have a perfectly good pair of eyes but yet the law of the land forbids their use, commands them to be covered and forces ladies to manage by other means, or rely upon a man’s assistance. But as ludicrous, ridiculous, stupid, unfair, immoral as it might actually be, it sometimes, somehow seems to make perfect sense in the most wonderfully bizarre and intoxicating way. Where else in the world do women look so beautiful and stylish? Where else are they treated with such respect and kindness? Where else can they feel so special and appreciated?
Tallula stops abruptly as she draws level with our café on the opposite side of the road. Presumably her phone has just announced in her ear that she has arrived at her destination. She tugs at her mum’s hand to stop her and the beautiful pair pause for a moment. I’m so transfixed by watching them that I quite forget to get up and greet them and guide them to our table.
“Well, are you here?” Tallula calls out impatiently.
Her words break me from my trance. I jump up from the table and rush over to her, apologising for my tardiness. Following the etiquette I learned in the restaurant last night I take both Tallula and her mum arm in arm and escort them to our table. I get them both seated and begin to attend to Tallula’s blindfold which is fastened by a large bow at the back of her head under the floppy brim of her hat. As it comes free she reaches up and removes the padded cover from her eyes which she has to shade from the sun with her hand until her pupils adjust. It was obviously very dark inside the blindfold.
“Thank you kind Sir. Better late than never,” she says with a mischievous, mocking tone in her voice.
“Sorry. I err, didn’t see you coming.”
“Pah. What do you think of that Mum? All our efforts to doll ourselves up and he doesn’t see us coming.”
“Maybe we didn’t try hard enough,” replies Mrs Crenshaw with a good hint of cheerful sarcasm.
“No, no. You both look totally amazing. Beautiful… I mean, there are no words worthy…”
“Okay, okay. Mum has got these things called mirrors in her house. We don’t need to ask how amazing we look,” says Tallula smugly.
Suddenly I realise I have an etiquette dilemma. Mrs Crenshaw is still wearing her blindfold and I’m not sure if I should remove it. I know that a lady does not normally remove her own blindfold if she is with a gentleman and she might be waiting for me to do it, but it seems a rather intimate thing, especially as she can’t see it coming. Is it presumptuous for me to do it or is it rude to not to? Not knowing what to do I catch Tallula’s eye which now seems to have adjusted to the bright sunshine and gesture to mother’s blindfold with a quizzical look on my face.
Tallula shakes her head and silently mouths “No, leave it for Dad,” to me. “Where is Dad anyway?” she then asks as she pulls the earpieces for her phone from her ears.
“He just went to the loo, but in fact here he comes now.”
Mr Crenshaw returns and promptly defuses my discomfort by removing his wife’s blindfold. He compliments both ladies on their appearance and resumes his seat at the table. Two more coffees are ordered for the ladies but with the prospect of freshly caught and barbequed mackerel sandwiches along with freshly baked blueberry muffins still to come this afternoon, we resist the temptation to order lunch. We sit and chat for a while, watching the people go by and then it is decided that Mr Crenshaw will go to collect our morning’s catch from the boat and head home to get the barbeque lit, while the ladies will show me some of the sights of Illfracombe. I volunteer to go to pay for the coffees and when I return Mr Crenshaw has already gone and the ladies are getting up to leave.
“Err, can you go like that?” I ask. “Don’t you have to wear your blindfolds?”
“Blindfolds? Ooh, what do you think Mum, shopping precedent?”
“Oh I would think so Tallula,” replies Mrs Crenshaw.
“Shopping precedent. We’re fine without.”
“Okay. And what exactly is the shopping precedent?” I ask.
“Shopping precedent. Crown versus Petersen 2031. Miss Veronica Petersen is accused of walking around the centre of Southampton without a blindfold. Her defence, and I wish it had been me, superbly argues that she was engaged in shopping. Not visiting a specific shop, just doing the woman thing of cruising from shop to shop to see what she fancied. As such the shopping area of town rather than any specific shop was her ‘reasonable destination’ and once she arrived there she was free to remove her blindfold and wander from shop to shop. Justice Cynthia Burmen agrees, saying that the law must not prevent a lady from shopping. She finds Miss Petersen ‘not guilty’, setting a precedent that a reasonable destination can be an area rather than just a specific location. So we can call this harbour area our reasonable destination when we walked from the house and we can wander around here without our blindfolds because we’ll still be at our destination.”
“I see. That’s handy for you.”
“My daughter really knows her shit, don’t you think?” says Mrs Crenshaw giving me a nudge.
“She certainly does.”
The lack of a blindfold does not stop Tallula taking a good hold of my right arm. Her mum takes my left and for the first time it is me who is led along the road by my lady companions. The road soon transitions into a pier at the end of which is an enormous piece of sculpture. Mrs Crenshaw tells me it is called Verity and is by the famous artist Damien Hirst. Rising over twenty meters high, Verity is a huge bronze pregnant woman holding a sword aloft in one hand and the scales of justice in the other, while standing on a pile of law books. I hope my lawyer girlfriend never gets to look like this because one half of the statue has seemingly been skinned to reveal her innards, including those of her foetus. It is quite possibly the most grotesque statue I have ever seen. Mrs Crenshaw says nobody feels neutral about it, they either love it or they hate it. Well I can’t say I love it.
As we stand on the pier a small and very old looking ship bearing the name Oldenburg comes into the harbour and ties up right beside us. Its decks are crowded with touristy-looking people.
“It’s the supply ship for Lundy Island,” says Mrs Crenshaw. “You can go on day cruises on it. Perhaps we should do that next time you come to visit.”
A gangway is lowered to allow the passengers to disembark. The echoy voice of a tannoy on the ship thanks the passengers for travelling and then reminds everyone that Restraint law applies ashore and that travelling ladies should be blindfolded after leaving the ship. All around the ship’s decks dozens of intimate little rituals begin as ladies offer their blindfolds to their husbands and boyfriends, who fasten them in place over their ladies’ eyes. The gangway is too narrow to allow the passengers to disembark side by side, arm in arm and so the ladies have to rely on just an outstretched arm for guidance, a much more precarious situation if they were to trip and fall. There are some intrepid looking ladies travelling on their own on the ship too. I watch one of them walk to the head of the gangway and speak to one of the crew. She then blindfolds herself and the crewman escorts her down the gangway. On the pier he waits while she puts on some earphones. She extends her telescopic white stick and speaks to her phone. After a short pause she thanks the crewman and walks off towards the town, sweeping the ground ahead with her stick. Once again I think that it is all completely wrong and completely beautiful.
“So how can the ladies take off their blindfolds on the ship?” I ask Tallula. “Surely they’re travelling on it.”
“Erm, I’m not sure,” she replies.
“Here’s your answer,” says Mrs Crenshaw. “The ship’s flying a Portuguese flag and it has MS Oldenburg, Lisbon written on the stern. The ship’s registered in Portugal so Portuguese law applies on the ship, and they don’t have Restraint in Portugal.”
“There you go,” says Tallula. “My mum the ships’ captain knows all. They must be very sensible in Portugal. I’m glad we’re not sensible in this country. Sensible is so boring.”
“Come and let us show you something else that isn’t very sensible,” says Mrs Crenshaw, tugging at my arm. “Let’s go see the tunnels.”
We leave the pier and head back towards the town. On the way I receive a short history lesson from Mrs Crenshaw. The natural harbour here is formed and protected from the sea by a high and cliffy spine of rock. When the town started to develop as a seaside resort in Victorian times it was noted that there were fine bathing beaches on the seaward side of this spine, but they were unfortunately inaccessible from the town because of the cliffs. Nothing kept the Victorians down though and to overcome this they simply tunnelled through the rocky spine to link the town and the beaches. The tunnels are still here today and we walk through one of them to a secluded beach at the base of some high cliffs with large bathing pools left by the tide. Fitted into the base of the cliffs is a display area featuring posters and photographs of the beaches and tunnels in their Victorian heyday. They show another time when women were ladies and were encumbered by bizarre and restrictive fashions. One poster describes the etiquette involved in taking ladies boating. It advises gentlemen to wear flannel blazers because the exertions of rowing can be considerable. It expressly forbids splashing the ladies or otherwise spoiling their dresses, rocking the boat to alarm them, or engaging in racing while ladies are on board. Another display tells me that we are currently on the ladies’ beach. The gentlemen’s beach is around the rocky headland and is accessed by its own separate tunnel. Apparently a bugler was stationed on the headland between the beaches to warn of any ungentlemanly person who tried to swim round the headland to sneak a peek at the bathing ladies. Different times indeed.
My ladies’ shoes are not the really suitable for walking on soft sand but we wander along paths at the edge of the beach, paths built for Victorian ladies who wore expensive long dresses to which sand and uneven rocky ground posed a serious threat. Soon we are back at the entrance to the tunnel and Mrs Crenshaw says the barbeque should be hot by now and it’s time to go. Mackerel sandwiches and blueberry muffins await, and then the long drive back to London. And now it’s my turn to engage in the intimate ritual of blindfolding the ladies in my care. Mrs Crenshaw offers me hers first and I fasten it into place over her eyes, feeling that something special passes between us as I do so. Then it’s my lovely girlfriend’s turn. I have to slide her blindfold up under her veil and she insists that the strap is fed under her hair before emerging at the back of her head where my bow had better be neat. I tell her it’s perfect even though I’ve got one loop bigger than the other.
I take each of my ladies arm in arm and start towards the tunnel. They have no white sticks in front of them and no satnav earbuds to listen to. Their only guidance is me. They have placed their complete trust in me and I must now prove myself worthy of it. As we walk through the tunnel I glance at some of the old Victorian photographs displayed on the walls and it occurs to me that the ladies in the photographs look rather like the ladies holding my arms. Their hats too are wide, their dresses snugly fitted and their skirts are long and slim. But perhaps that’s where the similarity ends. Tallula and her mum are not ladies of a dead and distant past. They are ladies of the future, a future that has its dark and controversial side for sure, a future that is being forced upon them whether they want it or not, but a future they seem determined to make their own. And who am I to stand in their way?