There Is a Time and Place

Looking back now it seems bizarre that it could ever have happened. How could my parents have used me so? How could I have been so pliant, so yielding to their appeal? It seems like something out of another age, a time when girls were bargaining objects for family enhancement and useful connections.

But I get ahead of things, so let me introduce myself.

At the beginning of my story, I was Dallas Reeves-Eyre. My early life was lived in what was generally referred to as “The Family Home.” On the big gates at the entrance to our drive, there was a sign that read, “The Oaks,” but none of the family or our servants used that name. It was always, “The Family Home.”

The land was bought and the house built, by my great grandfather, Septimus Reeves. The “Eyre” came later when my grandfather, Bryan Reeves, married Emily Eyre, a formidable lady of independent spirit who was not going to see her name lost.

Septimus Reeves made a fortune in mining, but when my grandfather took up the family reins, the mining became less important, and other investments became prominent. Both Septimus and Bryan Reeves must have been very shrewd men of business, because by the time my father, Clive, took over affairs, our assets must have been very substantial.

I can recall that when I was very young we had a cook, two housemaids and a general handyman working for us. My life was lived in a very loving environment and childhood was a happy time.

The big problem was my father. He was a very kind and gentle man, but had no head for business. Although it was not revealed to me for a long time, our fortunes must have been in steady decline for some years.

It was when I was about fifteen years old that I began to notice things. Paintings that had always hung on the walls began to disappear. The silver candelabra that had been used at dinner parties were no longer in evidence. I noticed my mother no longer wore her jewelry, and when I asked about these things, I was fobbed off with answers like, “Oh, we just thought we’d make a change.”

Then one of the house maids left – I suppose dismissed is the correct term – to be replaced by a “Daily,” who in fact only came three times a week for a couple of hours. Then the cook and handyman went and mother took over the cooking.

By then, it was obvious that we were in what my father called, “Queer Street.” The poor man had run the family fortune down to the point where soon we would have to sell up.

Another of what my mother called, “our economies,” was one that touched on me directly. At the age of sixteen, I was moved from a very expensive girl’s school, or “Ladies College,” as they called it, to the local high school. Here I mingled with boys for the first time, and had my first sexual experience was with a lad called Gordon, who managed to split my hymen very painfully, so that I was deterred from further sexual experimenting for some time after.

The situation had now become obvious to me; we were broke. Mother was grey faced and father obviously losing weight. The last housemaid had gone and mother was now trying to cope with the huge house with the help of two daily women.

One afternoon, just after I got in from school, my mother said, “Daddy’s got a visitor with him in the office. Take these things into them, will you?” It was some refreshments on a tray. I entered the office to find my father with a slightly pudgy looking man about forty years of age.

I put the tray down on the desk and was about to leave when my father said, “Dallas, this is Mr.Goldwood. My daughter, Dallas, Samuel.”

Mr.Goldwood looked up from some papers he was studying and fixed a probing stare on me. “Hello, Dallas,” he said in the rumbling sort of voice.

“Hello, Mr.Goldwood,” I said, returning his stare.

I turned and began to leave the room, and as I reached the door, I heard Mr.Goldwood say to my father, “Fine, healthy looking girl you’ve got there, Clive.” I shut the door and heard no more.

I thought no more about Mr.Goldwood until a week later he turned up again, this time staying for dinner. From then on, he would appear in our house two or three times a week. He began to engage me in conversation, asking me a lot of questions, some of them rather personal, about my health, my education, what sort of things I liked to do.

I had long before learned that adults can ask some pretty silly questions, but I had never been interrogated in this fashion. He seemed forever seeking my company and at first, I thought he was just a dirty old man who had a fancy for young girls. I was soon to find out that there was more to it than that.

One Sunday afternoon my mother asked me to go with her to the office. Sitting down, she began, “Darling, you know we are in a bad way financially?”

“Yes.”

“Daddy has had a lot of bad luck with his investments (a lot of bad judgement I thought). He owes a lot of money, most of it to Mr.Goldwood. If we can’t pay him soon we shall have to sell the house, and you know how that would break daddy’s heart.”

“Yes.” I couldn’t see where this was going.

“Darling, Mr.Goldwood has expressed an interest in you.”

“He certainly hangs around me enough.”

“You see, sweetheart, he wants to marry you.”

“He what?”

“Wants to marry you.”

“Mother, he’s an old man, at least forty, and I can’t get married, I’m only sixteen.”

“Well, yes you can, darling, if mummy and daddy sign a paper to say we agree.”

“But you wouldn’t do that, would you?”

“It depends, darling.”

“Depends on what?”

“Whether you think you could marry Mr.Goldwood.”

“I certainly could not. I’m not marrying an old man. I don’t even like him much any way.”

“He’s very rich, Dallas.”

“I don’t care if he is rich, I’m not marrying him.”

“Darling, he’s told us that if you marry him, daddy can forget about the money he owes, and even more, he will attend to our investments in the future.”

So, that was it. I was to be payment for the debt. That was the “bride price”, family freedom from debt.

My mother went on, “We have just two weeks to repay Mr.Goldwood. If we can’t, everything goes. We shall literally have nothing.”

It was hard to believe this was happening. It was like something out of the Middle Ages.

“Couldn’t we find some way to get the money?” I asked.

“Darling, daddy’s tried everything. It isn’t a few thousand, you know, it’s nearer three million.”

“Three million!” I exploded. How did we get three million in debt?”

“Interest, darling. Daddy borrowed most of the money from Mr.Goldwood, and the interest has just mounted up. Please, sweetheart, do think about the situation seriously. Mr.Goldwood is not really old, and you would be set up for life married to him. You’d want for nothing, he’s promised us that.”

So, it had got that far. They had actually reached the bargaining stage over my young carcass.

“Would you let Mr.Goldwood speak to you about it, Dallas?”

“He can speak to me if he likes, but my answer will still be ‘no’.”

“Just listen to what he has to say, Dallas.”

Two days later I found myself alone with Mr.Goldwood. He came straight to the point.

“Dallas, I know your mother has spoken to you about my wish to marry you.”

“Yes, she has, Mr.Goldwood.”

“Let’s make it Samuel, shall we?”

“If you wish.”

“I won’t prevaricate with you, Dallas. I want a woman, a young healthy woman. One who can give me a son. I have a lot of wealth and I want a son who can inherit it.”

On the first count of his wanting a woman, I had no difficulty understanding. On the second count of his wanting a son, I was shocked. I saw myself at seventeen giving birth and did not care for the idea. On the third count of his wanting a son to inherit, I thought that sounded like something from the Dark Ages.” Why not a daughter inheriting?” I thought, but said nothing.

He went on, “I can give you this promise, Dallas, as soon as you provide me with a son, I shall not bother you again, if you know what I mean?”

“You mean, if I give you a son you won’t be sexually interested in me any more?”

“Certainly. There is only one purpose in the male-female sexual act, to produce offspring. So in that respect, you will be virtually free of me once you have given me what I want. You will, of course, continue to live in my house and, when a little older, take over its management. In addition, you shall be well provided for on my death. I am prepared to sign a contract to these effects, if it is your wish.”

To a sixteen year old girl, having got her ideas of love, romance and marriage from books and television, it all sound a bit weird, and somewhat cold.

Looking at Samuel, I tried to imagine him lying on top of me pumping in his baby making fluid. It was not a pleasing picture. On the other hand, his offer had its temptations. The thought that I should be a member of a thoroughly impoverished family did not appeal in the slightest. The idea that I should have a baby at seventeen years of age was not welcome, but I did not object to having a baby per se. It was just that I had thought of that taking place somewhere in my middle to late twenties, if I had thought of it at all.

Still an immature girl, the one feature that stood out in his offer was his wealth. The thought that I would be able to tap into that was a big plus for Samuel. I saw myself in expensive clothes and driving an exotic sports car. For special occasions, I would, of course, resort to the chauffeur driven Rolls Royce. And so my thoughts ran on, through dinner parties, boxes at the theatre and concerts, and all those things money can buy.

Yes, Samuel’s money was a very big plus.

It was such a big plus, I agreed to marry Samuel, and to his credit, he began to keep his word right from the beginning. My father’s debt was wiped out and further money added but under Samuel’s control. As well as this, on the day of our wedding he presented me with an investment portfolio from which I could draw the interest. Even more, he said he would make a regular allowance payable into any bank I nominated.

Whatever other complaints I might have about Samuel, I must in all fairness say he was extremely generous and kept to his word.

Then came the moment for me to keep my side of the bargain, the baby making operation.

I neither loved nor loathed Samuel, and I looked upon sexual activity with him as a duty. Whatever I had expected on the first night, it was certainly not what I got. I suppose that I had the idea that the first night with an attractive young woman would inspire a frenzy of lust. It was not so.

Samuel did not kiss me, touch my breasts, which glands had been much admired by the boys at school, and of which I felt justly proud. To put is shortly, there was no foreplay of the sort I had read about. He could barely get an erection, and when he tried to insert his not overly large and marshmallow like organ into me, I was too dry for him to penetrate.

As if he had anticipated this eventuality, he reached to the cabinet beside the bed, and took a small bottle from it. Taking off the top he said, “This might fix it,” and commenced rubbing some sort of oil into my vagina. That done, he made another attempt on me and at least partially succeeded.

I was not sure how long men took to ejaculate, but Samuel seemed to go on trying for hours (it was probably only half an hour). He kept losing his erection, and gave the distinct impression he had no taste for what he was doing. At last, he managed to dribble into me (I discovered later, that most men could do a lot better than dribble). He rolled back off me with a sigh, not of satisfied sexual desire, but of relief that it was over.

I think I was more bewildered than disappointed. I thought to myself, “My God, is it going to be like that every time?” The answer was, “Yes.” Samuel never improved on his first night performance. I began to think, “We’ll never make a baby at this rate.”

Amazingly, we did make a baby, and quickly. I think his first night drip into me might well have produced the little spermatozoa that won the race to my egg. Within two months I was able to announce, with medical confirmation, I was pregnant.

Samuel promptly removed himself not only from my bed, but my bedroom. He took up nocturnal residence in a room the other side of our vast house. I wondered if he thought that the distance between our bedrooms might deter me from journeying to his bed in order to rape him. As it was, I had no such intention. I was as relieved as he was that our connubial bliss was over.

There was only one cloud on the horizon. From the start, the child in my womb was “He” as far as Samuel was concerned. I thought, “Suppose it is a ‘She’, does that mean we start all over again?”

At that time, of course, the means to determine the gender of an unborn child was not available, so the mystery would not be solved until it made its entrance into the world.

It was at this time that I discovered the reason why Samuel was such a lethargic and unhappy lover. What I came to call, “Pretty young men,” began to appear in the house. Sometimes I was introduced, sometimes not. Occasionally they stayed for dinner and beyond the time I went to bed, and were even seen breakfasting in the morning.

At first, these arrivals puzzled me, and then I noticed something that upset my female ego. I was in the habit of expecting young men to take a special interest in me. After all, I had been told enough times that I was “pretty,” “attractive” and even “fantastic looking.” So, why were these youths unmoved by my charms?

I finally realised; they were Samuel’s gay lovers. So, that was why Samuel had shown signs of aversion to my body. I must admit that it was with a sense of contentment that I saw now that if I did produce a son, I would have no more dribbles from Samuel.

Strangely, when I knew I was pregnant, all my thoughts of sports cars and fine clothing seemed to fall into the background. I began at first to be interested in the “It”, that I carried, then later I began to love it. At night I would lay on back with my hands over my swelling stomach, hoping to feel the child move. I would talk to it, telling it I loved and wanted it.

Samuel, for all his pleasures with his pretty young men, was very careful of my welfare. A month before the baby was due a nursemaid, Anne, was hired. He even asked me did I want a wet nurse for the baby. I thought they had gone out with Queen Victoria, but I protested most strongly that I, and no one else, would suckle my infant. Samuel gave up that idea.

The best medical advisors were retained; a bed in an obscenely expensive hospital was on standby. Anything that would smooth the way to a successful outcome was acquired, bought or demanded by Samuel.

Looking back now, I am amazed at the aplomb with which a seventeen-year old girl coped with all this. I must have been a very precocious young woman.

The child was born, thanks be to the gods, a boy. Samuel was delighted with “his son.” Actually, I decided that as I had done most of the work, he was “my son”. Samuel was but a rather unsatisfactory auxiliary.

Samuel wanted to name the boy Samuel Zebediah, but I created such a fuss he relented and we ended up with Robert Clive.

After the first flush of joy over Robert’s birth, Samuel seemed to lose interest. I saw less and less of him. Sometimes we had dinner together, and very occasionally, I met him at breakfast with one of his pretty young men. Sexually he never approached me again. It was left to Anne and I to raise Robert.

From the first time I suckled him at my breast, I knew I had made the right choice in refusing the wet nurse. I found feeding him both pleasurable and bonding. He was a bright light in my life, and I have never loved anything or anyone, before or since, as I love Robert.

When he was weaned, I began to feel I needed to be doing something more with my life. My decision was to take up my interrupted education. With the nursemaid Anne taking over in my absence, I attended a local Adult College that catered for older students. So as not to keep me away from Robert too long, I took a couple of subjects at a time, eventually completing my high school qualifications.

At the age of five, Robert started school, being sent to an extremely expensive establishment nearby. I proceeded on to university taking a general Arts Course, again limiting my subjects in order to be around for Robert.

My really close times with Robert were early in the morning and when he went to bed. When breast feeding him it was my habit to give him his first feed of the day while I was still in bed. Once weaned I continued to take him into bed with me when he woke up. Once he began to talk, we used the time to chat about what he was going to do that day. As he became more vocal, it became a time for more serious talk about friends, school and life in general. We called it “Morning talk time”. The other close time was bedtime, when I would read him a story and we would talk over the day.

Once Robert was of school age Samuel began to take an interest. Clearly, Robert was to be groomed to take over Goldwood Finance. As far as education was concerned, nothing but the best would do. So when Robert reached the age of ten Samuel announced he would be sent as a boarder to the most prestigious school in the country, I was shocked and horrified.

“I put his name down for a place the day he was born,” Samuel announced. This he had done without any consultation with me. He had not even told me he had done this.

Samuel and I had very few quarrels, probably because we saw so little of each other, each of us leading our lives in our own way. Now we did have a quarrel, or more accurately, a blazing row. No one was going to take my beloved Robert away from me. The thought of not seeing him for weeks and weeks was more than I was prepared to accept.

The detail of the rows need not bother us now. Sufficient to say, Robert went to the school, but as what they called, “A Day Boy.” Anne and I moved into a house in the vicinity of the school, and Robert came and went to school much as he had been doing up to that point.

Perhaps a note on Anne is in order. Robert was, of course, long past the time when he needed a “Nanny”, but Anne, being close to my own age, stayed on with me as a sort of companion and general help. She had been around for Robert when I was at university and did not get home at the same time as Robert. I think her love for Robert was nearly as great as mine, and she was very devoted to me.

I went on from my university Arts course to study Business Management. I had in mind that Samuel was many years older than I, and might well die before Robert was of an age to take over, if he ever did.

Robert entered those years when all the hormones are racing and roaring around. He no longer came into my bed, but sat alongside for our talk. I couldn’t help noticing that he often had erections in the early morning.

I think Robert was about fourteen when during one of our morning talks he asked outright, “Why do you and dad sleep in separate rooms?”

I was a bit flustered by his question, but as we had always spoken the truth to each other, I explained, without going into too much detail, that we had no sexual interest in each other.

“Does that mean that you don’t have sexual feelings?” Robert went on, pursuing his first question.

“No, darling.”

“You mean you do have sexual feelings but don’t do…you don’t fu…you know?”

“I think what you are trying to ask me is, do I have sexual intercourse?”

“Yes.”

“The answer is, ‘yes I do’.”

“Who with?”

“I can’t tell you that, darling.”

He was quiet for a moment, than asked, “Doesn’t dad mind?”

“I don’t go out of my way to tell him, but if he did know I don’t think he’d care.”

I suppose it was inevitable that Robert would have these questions, and embarrassing though they had been, I was glad he felt able to ask them of me outright, instead of letting them fester inside him. I hoped that the subject would now be closed, but I hoped in vain.