with his left arm because
the right was in a sling -- it was curious and also somehow a little
disappointing that this king was not majestically tall as children would
have wished, but only of average height, and that his queen should be
of such a comfortable housewifely plumpness . . . But it was a moment
to be treasured forever when those thin, uncertain fingers lifted the
George Medal -- named after a saint, and himself -- from the red velvet
cushion on which it was proffered by an equerry and pinned it below the
wings which he himself did not display, even though he wore the uniform
of a Marshal of the Royal Air Force.
"Congratulations, Squadron Leader," he said. The promotion had been
gazetted while Godwin lay in the hospital. "By the way, yours is an
unusual name. Irish, one presumes?"
"Yes, Your Majesty." A little dryly, a little deprecatingly. "I've always
been told -- excuse me -- we were descended from the High Kings of Erin."
That provoked a wan smile. "An older house than mine! Whose members had
the good sense to go out of business before they invented modern warfare."
It was known that there was a miniature factory in the palace, where
bombs and shells were made by royal hands.
"I understand you lost your parents in a recent raid," the king continued
after a brief hesitation.
"Yes, sir."
"I'm very sorry."
Pause. There were others waiting. Time to take a pace backward and again
give the wrong-handed salute. It was returned, but distractedly. Another
medal was on the red velvet pad; another name was being announced.
It was over.
But of course he had to make it seem much more dramatic for Mrs. Gallon
and her children and all the strangers who came swarming around him as
he regained the street. The little girls were dressed in their best,
and it was pitiful, but they had at least been thoroughly scrubbed and
their well-washed hair shone in the sunlight and they shared a waiflike
prettiness which, if one looked hard, might be discerned also behind
the tired mask of their mother's features. He told them all about the
ceremony, with a garnish of invented detail because truly he had not
paid much attention to the furnishings or decorations of the room he
had been in; he had looked only at the king and queen.
Finally he said he had to go, and saluted Mrs. Gallon, who giggled and
blushed, and rumpled the hair of each of the girls, leaving Greer to
last. But she was not content to be patted on the head. She seized his
hand as it approached and pulled him down and put her other arm behind his
neck and astonished him with her precocity by kissing him open-mouthed,
thrusting her tiny tongue between his teeth.
"Greer!" her mother said in horror. "You mustn't do that to the gentleman!
I'm sorry, sir -- she's a real terror, that one, a proper caution! I'm sure
I don't know where she gets it from!"
But the last thing Godwin wanted was for her to stop. The contact was
incredibly erotic; sensation lanced down his spine like electric current,
triggering every reflex on its way.
Must, though. Must! He visualized headlines about indecent assault in
broad daylight. Never mind that she committed it.
Contenting himself with one answering passage of his tongue against hers,
which conveniently trapped a trace of saliva that might otherwise have
glistened on his chin -- and irrelevantly remembering that he had expected
to have a mustache -- he hoisted Greer off her feet for a one-armed hug
and grinned as he lowered her again.
Thinking of infection, and countless thousands of girls of this generation
who would be given complete sets of false teeth for a twenty-first birthday
present.
"Not to worry, Mrs. Gallon!" he said in the heartiest tone he could conjure
up. "I'm sure it's kindly meant. You take care of yourself, young Greer,
and one day you'll make some man extremely happy, I'm convinced of it.
And now" -- he glanced around -- "I really must go. There's my bus!"
Everybody knew
the right was in a sling -- it was curious and also somehow a little
disappointing that this king was not majestically tall as children would
have wished, but only of average height, and that his queen should be
of such a comfortable housewifely plumpness . . . But it was a moment
to be treasured forever when those thin, uncertain fingers lifted the
George Medal -- named after a saint, and himself -- from the red velvet
cushion on which it was proffered by an equerry and pinned it below the
wings which he himself did not display, even though he wore the uniform
of a Marshal of the Royal Air Force.
"Congratulations, Squadron Leader," he said. The promotion had been
gazetted while Godwin lay in the hospital. "By the way, yours is an
unusual name. Irish, one presumes?"
"Yes, Your Majesty." A little dryly, a little deprecatingly. "I've always
been told -- excuse me -- we were descended from the High Kings of Erin."
That provoked a wan smile. "An older house than mine! Whose members had
the good sense to go out of business before they invented modern warfare."
It was known that there was a miniature factory in the palace, where
bombs and shells were made by royal hands.
"I understand you lost your parents in a recent raid," the king continued
after a brief hesitation.
"Yes, sir."
"I'm very sorry."
Pause. There were others waiting. Time to take a pace backward and again
give the wrong-handed salute. It was returned, but distractedly. Another
medal was on the red velvet pad; another name was being announced.
It was over.
But of course he had to make it seem much more dramatic for Mrs. Gallon
and her children and all the strangers who came swarming around him as
he regained the street. The little girls were dressed in their best,
and it was pitiful, but they had at least been thoroughly scrubbed and
their well-washed hair shone in the sunlight and they shared a waiflike
prettiness which, if one looked hard, might be discerned also behind
the tired mask of their mother's features. He told them all about the
ceremony, with a garnish of invented detail because truly he had not
paid much attention to the furnishings or decorations of the room he
had been in; he had looked only at the king and queen.
Finally he said he had to go, and saluted Mrs. Gallon, who giggled and
blushed, and rumpled the hair of each of the girls, leaving Greer to
last. But she was not content to be patted on the head. She seized his
hand as it approached and pulled him down and put her other arm behind his
neck and astonished him with her precocity by kissing him open-mouthed,
thrusting her tiny tongue between his teeth.
"Greer!" her mother said in horror. "You mustn't do that to the gentleman!
I'm sorry, sir -- she's a real terror, that one, a proper caution! I'm sure
I don't know where she gets it from!"
But the last thing Godwin wanted was for her to stop. The contact was
incredibly erotic; sensation lanced down his spine like electric current,
triggering every reflex on its way.
Must, though. Must! He visualized headlines about indecent assault in
broad daylight. Never mind that she committed it.
Contenting himself with one answering passage of his tongue against hers,
which conveniently trapped a trace of saliva that might otherwise have
glistened on his chin -- and irrelevantly remembering that he had expected
to have a mustache -- he hoisted Greer off her feet for a one-armed hug
and grinned as he lowered her again.
Thinking of infection, and countless thousands of girls of this generation
who would be given complete sets of false teeth for a twenty-first birthday
present.
"Not to worry, Mrs. Gallon!" he said in the heartiest tone he could conjure
up. "I'm sure it's kindly meant. You take care of yourself, young Greer,
and one day you'll make some man extremely happy, I'm convinced of it.
And now" -- he glanced around -- "I really must go. There's my bus!"
Everybody knew