All the Fun of the Fair Page 6

  Brandon sighed. ‘Look, I obviously like you and everything, but you’ve gotta admit that ten years is a lot, it’d be okay if we were old, ten years is fuck all then, but you’re at school, I’m practically a fuckin’ peedo. It’s best this way, our secret, just stop being so intense about it, let’s just have a laugh.’

  Sharada smiled, relieved but still doubtful. ‘Fair enough, if you’re sure it’s okay.’

  Late one evening, having rushed through her homework, Sharada was designing posters for the coming weekend when the group would man its regular stall in the town centre to raise awareness for their cause. She’d never actually been on the stall because she feared the consequences if word should get back to her father, but she liked to do her bit.

  Sharada was weary but determined and, finally finished, she sent a text message to Brandon informing him of the completion and wishing him good night. Then, noticing the battery was low on her mobile phone she plugged it in to charge overnight before flopping into bed.

  The following morning she awoke, grumpy, jaded and late for school. So late in fact that she literally fell out of bed, dragged on her uniform and was thrust by her mother into the car for a lift, attempting to do something with her unruly hair en route. When she returned home that afternoon, her father was waiting in the hallway.

  ‘Brandon has been calling. I assume you are the ‘babe’ he was referring to. He wonders if the poster looks good.’

  Sharada froze in perfect panic; unable even to think about lying so consummate was the surprise.

  ‘I could hear an incessant beeping coming from your room so naturally I began to search until I found this.’ Mr Bhumbra produced Sharada’s mobile phone from his pocket and held it aloft like a trophy. ‘I see the word Brandon flashing on the screen and when I answer he apparently expected it to be you, my daughter.’

  ‘My phone. Forgot my phone.’ Sharada stammered.

  ‘So it would seem. So, I asked myself, and this mysterious boy who is calling your mobile number, who is Brandon and why is my only daughter making posters for him.’

  ‘You weren’t rude?’

  ‘Rude? Goodness no child, I merely questioned the boy about his motives.’

  Sharada knew what was coming. ‘So I won’t be seeing him anymore then.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ announced Mr Bhumbra. ‘He is joining us for dinner at six o’ clock sharp.’

  Sharada blanched, horrified. She’d anticipated an argument, a big one, expected to be punished and forbidden from seeing Brandon, from attending any CHIMP meetings, but Brandon was coming here, to meet her father. She was unsure which was worse.

  ‘But, dad, he’s, I mean he’s…’

  ‘A boy. An English boy, but a boy with strong opinions it seems, on many things that are wrong with this bloody country.’

  So, at six, the whole family were lined up in the front room to meet their guest. Except Brandon didn’t materialize until almost ten past six which meant that Sharada, Kuldeep, Mr and Mrs Bhumbra were left sitting silently, awkwardly, until the doorbell released them.

  ‘Good evening, good evening.’ Mr Bhumbra’s voice boomed from the hallway, the same eloquent, overly welcoming tone he adopted with regular customers at the restaurant. ‘Welcome, welcome, so nice of you to come to my home. It’s a delight to meet you young man. Please, allow me to introduce my family.’

  The instant the introductions were over, Mrs Bhumbra scurried from the room muttering that she could smell burning.

  ‘So, Brandon.’ Mr Bhumbra began, directing the guest to a chair away from Sharada. ‘What attraction does a schoolgirl of sixteen hold for a man of…’

  ‘Twenty-six.’ Brandon replied without a trace of nerves.

  ‘…for a man of twenty-six?’

  Sharada opened her mouth, half expecting to vomit down herself at any moment. ‘Dad!’ She hissed.

  Mr Bhumbra ignored her. ‘I am merely curious why women of your own age hold no appeal for you, yet my daughter – a child – fascinates you so.’ Mr Bhumbra smiled and tilted his head as if waiting to take an order at the restaurant.

  ‘I wouldn’t say I was fascinated,’ Brandon replied casually. ‘Sharada was interested in my group, I invited her to a meeting, things went from there, no big deal.’

  ‘Ah yes, the political group, I trust my daughters poster designs are to your liking.’

  Brandon nodded and said nothing. Mrs Bhumbra returned and announced that dinner was ready. They followed her to the dining room for a meal of Shahi Murgh Pakoras followed by Methiwali Dal, Paneer Pasanda and Chutney Pilau rice which, judging by his red face and streaming eyes, Brandon found a little hot.

  ‘This is delicious,’ he spluttered, pouring his third glass of water. ‘You make it yourself? I normally only have the microwave jobs from Morrisons.’

  Sharada lowered her head; Mr Bhumbra stopped eating and looked at their guest.

  ‘Microwave jobs indeed! Young man, my family have a history of producing exquisite dishes, we run the premier Indian restaurant in the whole town, we most certainly did not buy this from a supermarket.’

  ‘Er, right then. Delicious, as I say.’

  After the meal, while Kuldeep helped his mother clear the table, Mr Bhumbra led Brandon into the sun lounge at the back of the house; Sharada slunk in behind them, praying for death.

  ‘Now young man, I am curious, tell me more about this organisation of which you are a member.’ Again he indicated a chair for Brandon.

  ‘The Coalition Hindering Immoral and Murderous Politics. We’re trying to make ourselves heard.’

  ‘I see. And what is it that you have to say?’

  ‘It depends on what the government’s done to offend people really. Anything that isn’t fair, anything that takes from the poor to make the rich richer, anything that hurts the Third World, war, racism, you name it.’

  ‘So,’ said Mr Bhumbra, leaning forward eagerly. ‘You are all for equality. The rights of everyone, regardless of race, colour, belief.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Brandon concurred felicitously.

  And that was it. Sharada watched mournfully as, over the next two hours, her father stole Brandon away from her as they discussed the culpable British government and the laws that made it so difficult for a decent man in a foreign land with a family to feed. This was one of Mr Bhumbra’s pet subjects and it had been a long time since he’d found anyone new upon whom he could vent his frustration, let alone someone who shared congruous views. He’d long since given up preaching to his family, preferring to assail customers in the restaurant.

  A little before ten o’clock Brandon stood, stretched and said he had to be going. Mr Bhumbra stood to show him to the door but was hauled back by his wife; Sharada seized the opportunity.

  ‘Sorry about my dad,’ she said when they were outside on the drive.

  ‘Sorry?’ Brandon looked surprised. ‘I liked him; we have a lot of similar views.’

  Sharada felt her heart sink a little further. ‘Oh right, that’s good I suppose.’

  ‘Anyway I’m off. Tell your Dad thanks for the invite.’

  Sharada nodded, waited for a kiss goodbye that didn’t materialise and watched until Brandon disappeared around the corner. She could feel the excitement, the magic, ebbing away from her, the secret spell being undone.

  ‘Well,’ said her father affably. ‘He seems like a very nice young man. Who would have thought such an intelligent, well mannered boy could be found here, in this little town in England. Strange though, that such a nice boy has to attach himself to school children. Sharada you are grounded for two weeks and shall only leave this house to attend school.’

  ‘What? Why? I thought you liked him?’

  ‘I do, my dear, I do. But this boy is older than you, ten long years older, he will expect things from you, adult things, things that you will not allow him to have.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘You lied to me about your whereabouts, fabricated who you were with; I cannot ha
ve deceit in my house. As for the young man, I intend to keep a very close eye on him.’

  ‘But if I’d told you the truth you wouldn’t have let me see him at all.’ Sharada argued.

  Mr Bhumbra dismissed her protestations with a wave of his hand and disappeared into the kitchen to forage through the leftovers.

  It was that night, as she lay in bed feeling dejected, dolorous and thoroughly confused by the evening’s events, that Sharada was struck for the first time by the thought that, perhaps, the age difference was more of a problem than she’d previously admitted.

  Sharada had been forced to watch as her father spoke effortlessly to Brandon as they shared opinions and views on things they’d experienced, subjects she knew little about. She’d never talked like that with either of them, she rarely got more than half a dozen words out of Brandon, especially around other people and it occurred to Sharada that she must be at fault. Clearly she should make more effort to be interested in Brandon, his life and views and then she could talk to him more, be on his wavelength. She could hardly expect him to revert to talking about teenage things; he’d probably had enough of that when he lived it the first time round.

  Gradually, as autumn, after only a brief reign, began to show signs of being deposed by winter, this new resolution seemed to be paying dividends. Since Sharada had started asking lots of questions about CHIMP, its origins and direction Brandon was more than happy to share with her his political vision and had even spoken to her in front of other group members, albeit to borrow change for the jukebox in the pub.

  On the Tuesday night following the fourth meeting Sharada had attended, and her third visit to Brandon’s dingy bedsit, Sharada lost her virginity. While, perhaps, some people have an idea of how they want their first time to be, a scene they hope will be played out, Sharada hadn’t ever considered such an event taking place because it hadn’t, until very recently, ever seemed likely.

  In the event she failed to notice the moment approaching and was caught largely unawares. After the meeting Brandon had driven them back to his place where everything progressed as Sharada expected. There was a spoof documentary on BBC2 about life twenty years from now which Brandon apparently found terribly interesting and, although Sharada didn’t share his enthusiasm, she tried to make insightful comments and nodded vigorously whenever he made an observation. This was interspersed with kissing and fondling and then Brandon sat up and leaned over to the small wooden bedside cabinet with one of its three drawers missing and rummaged inside.

  ‘What you doin’?’ Sharada asked.

  Brandon didn’t reply immediately, his attention focused on whatever was in his hands, his head tipped forward in concentration. Then, he rolled back to her and they continued kissing only, when Sharada moved her hand down and touched him, it felt different.

  ‘What’s that?’ She asked, prodding with her fingers.

  ‘Condom of course, don’t want any accidents.’ Brandon revealed in a matter of fact way and continued to work his way inside her jumper.

  Sharada was shocked but also a little excited, mostly she was nervous. Brandon had obviously decided he wanted to have sex with her tonight and had assumed she felt the same way. Suddenly her mouth was dry and Brandon’s tongue felt rough against hers. His hands moved around the smooth skin of her sides and squeezed a little so Sharada followed suit and moved her hands onto his hips. She could feel the latex rubbing against her thigh as Brandon moved on top of her.

  This continued for several moments, Sharada mirroring Brandon’s movements like a badly choreographed horizontal dance, until he slipped his hand inside her pants, gradually working them down her legs as he rubbed her up and down. Again she followed suit, although she was unsure how hard she should squeeze, how far to move her hand in case she damaged the condom.

  Brandon’s breathing had grown faster, shallower and Sharada felt hot underneath him as, the build-up seemingly over, Brandon pushed her hand away and used his own to position himself and then pushed himself into her.

  Agony pulsed through Sharada’s body and she let out a barely stifled cry. Fearful that something was wrong she held her breath and wondered if she were hurting Brandon in the same way. Judging from his pounding heart and the more frenetic thrusting, she concluded that he was enjoying himself and, doing her best to block out the burning, stinging sensation between her legs, she thought about the girls at school discussing their sex lives in toilet cubicles or in the bus queue. She thought about her jealousy of girls like Tania Streatham. Her fear, almost her acceptance, that she would perhaps never experience what they talked about with such gusto and a part of her was grateful to Brandon for desiring her enough to do this to her, with her. Now she could be like everyone else.

  After he’d finished Brandon rolled off of Sharada and lay, panting, sweating, eyes closed.

  ‘Was that…okay?’ She asked after a few minutes silence.

  ‘What? Yeah, not bad at all,’ Brandon replied. ‘Get your kit on, I’ll get you home.’

  7 Tv Dinner

  Gerald smiled as he looked at the calendar which hung next to the microwave in his kitchen. Today was the first day of the annual Harrogate weekend, the premier event on the social calendar for the Hoover Society, the transvestite group of which Gerald was a member.

  The ticket, which included a Gala Dinner and a cabaret plus dancing, cost £145 with a single supplement of £15, an extra cost Gerald had grown accustomed to over the years.

  The usual form was to arrive dressed and ready for an informal pre-dinner get together and a couple of drinks. Gerald was already packed for the weekend – his new floor length Venetian gown being the focal point of his wardrobe. He’d been looking forward to wearing it since the moment he’d spotted it on the rack.

  Gerald tended to drive to these events, although many came by train, as it allowed the flexibility to set off when one pleased and also Gerald lacked the confidence, despite his years, to board public transport while dressed.

  Following a simple lunch of a sandwich and a banana, Gerald ran a bath and immersed himself into the water. He carefully shaved his body and washed his hair before patting himself dry and liberally applying moisturiser to his legs and arms. He then moved to the bedroom where he carefully made-up his face, adding the various items to a small cosmetic purse after use and then slipping it into his luggage.

  He dressed casually in a knee length cream suit – laid out on the bed earlier in the day – before carefully placing a light brown wig on his head. There followed a quick inspection in the full length mirror. Geraldine was ready for her weekend.

  Pulling her case behind her, Geraldine paused to pick up a parcel from the dining room table – a bottle of Vera Wang perfume for the raffle – and then packed her things into the car and drove away with a smile of anticipation on her freshly glossed lips.

  A horrendous tailback on the motorway meant that Geraldine arrived at the hotel half an hour later than she would’ve liked. Grabbing her luggage she dashed inside and made her way to reception. The Hoover Society had booked one of the function suites but the hotel was, of course, still open to the general, non transvestite, public, some of whom stared openly at Geraldine as she checked in.

  ‘Yes,’ she remarked to an onlooker. ‘It is a nice suit, thank you for noticing.’

  The duty manager was an old hand and escorted Geraldine to the lift, mentioning that a number of the society members were enjoying drinks in one of the hotel bars.

  Ten minutes later Geraldine was downstairs in the bar greeting old friends and being introduced to a few new faces. It was rare, but a handful of members brought partners with them. Geraldine always thought these women must be very accepting or very loving to embrace their partners’ interests so freely, and she wished, not for the first time, that she might one day find someone.

  The main event of the weekend took place on Saturday night. A champagne reception, then dinner, followed by dancing and cabaret in the form of a singer and a magic act (t
here was much excitement when one of the members was invited on stage and had their hand cut off) which then led into the raffle and prize giving.

  Geraldine’s new dress was the subject of many compliments and she felt beautiful as she swished around the dance floor after dinner. Later, at the bar, she was talking to one of the partners about the evening.

  ‘Going well,’ Geraldine commented.

  ‘Seems to be,’ the woman replied. ‘I like your dress by the way. Looks better on you that it would on me.’

  ‘Compliment indeed,’ Geraldine said. ‘Care for a refill?’

  ‘Why not, I seem to have been abandoned…for a change. Vodka and lime, thanks.’

  Geraldine ordered two drinks and studied her new acquaintance. The woman was short, about the same height as Geraldine, but thinner. Her dark hair was coloured blonde, the roots only just beginning to show, and the cut looked expensive. Her nails were short but filed and polished; this was obviously a woman with pride in her appearance. She wasn’t beautiful, but clearly made the most of what attributes she did have, something Geraldine was familiar with and which she found appealing. After all, just because one does not possess the figure of a model and the face of a Hollywood star, does not mean one should not make the same effort.

  ‘Who are you with?’ Geraldine asked.

  ‘Debbie.’ The woman pointed to a tall figure on the far side of the function suite, dancing wildly with a crowd of five or six. Geraldine knew Debbie a little, she could be quite raucous, but was usually pleasant.

  ‘I see. If you don’t mind me asking…’ Geraldine paused to swallow a mouthful of gin. ‘But do you ever find it strange, awkward, you know, being with a transvestite?’

  ‘Awkward? Of course it’s bloody awkward.’ The woman laughed bitterly. ‘You’re not attached are you? You wouldn’t need to ask otherwise. We’ve been together a long time and I admit I had no idea about what he was into back then. By the time I found out, we’d bought a house, I was in love; I decided to go along with it.’