The Mistress of the rollicking and retro femdom yarn is back with another tale of the female authority figure of days yon.
This time it’s the fifties that takes Ms Paso’s ever humorous yet severe eye as she takes us back to a period when parents were very serious when it came to keeping their teenaged sons on the straight and narrow.
And had no shortage of places of education to choose from.
Strict and controlling female educators goes without saying.
And it’s not just lads in their late-teens who find themselves over a stocking-clad knee!
THE MID NINETEEN FIFTIES
The cool, clear, fresh moorland waters chase and chatter as they course their way over rocky granite, sand and pebbles, bad tempered currents argue with eddies, contesting territorial channels, unfolding their knots of aquatic energy and depositing them in the mirror like pools that laze beside the soft, inviting grassy banks, where residing daisies dance with daffodils and dock leaves dote on dandelions; nature’s children, alive with innocence, their perfect posy reflections more picturesque than poetry.
With an urgency of purpose the stream’s unrelenting meander, though, appearing meaningless, is driven by its principle of projection; its mindless industry providing one of mother nature’s enduring enigmas, that, why a busy, bustling, babbling brook with its headstrong soliloquy, its random candour that can procure a peaceful providence and restful recreation from within the state of a troubled mind.
As if in contemplation of this unlikely equation, a solitary Wordsworth daffodil stands proudly surveying the scene, a rural referee overseeing Mother Nature at play.
The warm summer breeze, its gentle convection the essence of peace and tranquillity itself, with energy as tender as the warmest love, kisses the skin as only nature can.
Such is life on a Sunday morning, somewhere in a North Devonshire meadow.
Standing on the steadfast Dartmoor granite bridge that straddles the stream, the rear aspect of Drycombe End can be clearly seen, once past the single railway track that, twice a day, conveys a conscientious Great Western pannier tank locomotive and its single carriage to and from its sleepy village stations.
Past the rusty, rustic barbed wire fence that clings perilously to the dry rotted posts that stand at incongruous intervals along the winding river bank, the lush green grass, typically moorland short, tidy and trim, stretches ahead to the very edge of Drycombe End and its vast expanse of gardens.
A church bell is ringing in the distance, accompanied by a barking dog from a nearby farm; after a while the dog gives up, the persistent church bell continues its calling.
Following the cultivated line of pines that stand like Roman Centurions along the east and west boundaries of the garden, the eye is lead to the imposing back terrace. Ahead of this terrace, tending the vegetable plot is the black negro giant Bruno, a mountain of a man, a product of the West Indian immigration programme, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, exposing his powerful forearms, meaty and muscular with huge hands and fingers like trees of bananas.
The wide, paved, terrace is raised above the garden level by some three feet and accessed by a central tier of steps, the garden rises at each end to meet the terrace level and access to the front of the house is from both the east and west sides of the building.
The French doors from the drawing room are opened to the terrace; although it is early morning, it is from this room that a drama is already unfolding.
Around the side of the house is a greenhouse populated with tomato plants and tropical fruits, beside the door that leads to the front of the house is a tap, Stanley skilfully fills his watering can, he is very careful not to make a mess.
The front aspect of the house supports a large turning area for vehicle access, although in the year 1956, when motor cars are a rare and expensive luxury the surface area therefore, is an easy upkeep.
The front gateway is opened at eight every morning and closed by Bruno at six o’clock every night.
The lane that serves Drycombe End is quiet and generally only used by visitors to the establishment, there is little or no passing traffic.
The first thing visitors see when approaching the house from the lane is the name, which is proudly displayed on the large boarded sign:
A PRIVATE COUNTRY RETREAT
FOR THE REHABILITATION OF