THE GENTLE ART OF TUTELAGE - ch. 2 & 3  incomplete 
Noel Burch  nburch@wanadoo.fr 
Wales & London ca. 1905. Further adventures of jiujitsu expert Miss Gilham in a travelling side-show and a London brothel


Chapter 3

"Step right up, gentlemen, step right up - oh, and you, too, ladies if you
want a laugh! Which of you young lads wishes to test his manly strength
against our little lass from the land of the rising son, Miss Atemi ? As fair
to gaze upon as she is dangerous to court! Indeed, any man capable of stealing
a kiss from our jiujitsu-wise maiden will win two free tickets to this
evening's performance, worth one whole shilling apiece!" After long months of
repetition, the barker's patter was stale and mechanical, but no more so than
most to be heard along the row of fairground stalls.

None of the half-dozen men gathered in front of the crudely painted façade
came to the fore though some seem tempted.

Miss Atemi stood quietly facing her audience of bystanders, hands hidden by
the sleeves of her white silk kimono in the traditional Japanese manner.
Standing at the back of the sparse troop, John raised his hand with an
overdone show of timidity and the barker enthusiastically singled him out.
"Ah, here's a courageous young man!" As the boy made his way through the thin
crowd of potential patrons in front of the stall, he tried to swagger. He
heard a habitué whisper to a neighbour: "Here's the come-on man again !" "Man!
He can't be more than sixteen!" was the amused reply. John blushed. Of the
various roles he was compelled to play in this new life with his venerated
tutor and her lesbian lover, this was not his favourite, less because of the
thrashings than of the remarks he had perforce to endure ...

The barker reached down a powerful hand and hoisted him onto the stage, as he
had done so many times before. Once again, he was face to face with Miss
Atemi, alias Louise Gilham, whose Japanese costume came complete with an
authentic sash (or obi), wooden clogs and a high black wig with long wooden
needles planted in it. Anyone with half an eye could see that "Miss Atemi" was
not Japanese, but this preview had other attractions : the woman's more
spectacular moves were so calculated that the unorthodox slits which the
governess had cut in an otherwise authentic kimono afforded teasing glimpses
of graceful calves and thighs. And the lurid posters which had graced the
walls of the town for a week promised paying spectators a more ample display
of her charms within the tent.

"Now, young man, you are a head taller than Miss Atemi ... Do you think you
can steal a kiss?"

"Well, I should think so," said John in an unnatural voice which could hardly
be heard.

"Speak up young man, don't be afraid, Miss Atemi won't hurt you ... much! Ha,
ha, ha!"

A few spectators who had presumably witnessed Miss Atemi in action laughed
with him. Miss Atemi kicked off her clogs and in the white silk, single- toed
socks called tabi stood waiting.

"Well, go on then ... Kiss her ... "

Generally Miss Gilham simply twisted a would-be kisser's arm or tripped him
with some rapid foot-work. But she had been teaching John how to fall without
hurting himself and decided to see how well he'd learnt his lesson. Besides
which, it was in the interest of declining ticket sales to give the men out
there a glimpse of flesh - although John and Molly both knew that Miss Gilham
was thinking of moving on.

As John gingerly put his hand on her shoulder and bent towards her coveted
lips, she seized the lapels of his jacket, jammed her foot hard against his
solar plexus, momentarily winding him so that resistance was inconceivable -
John was grateful she'd removed her clogs - then fell back abruptly to the
canvas floor, her plummeting weight pulling him irresistibly forward and off
balance. He felt himself lifted effortlessly from the ground and felt a dizzy
fear that was almost exhilarating. He flipped head over heels onto his back,
slapping the canvas as she had taught him, but the fall hurt him more than it
was supposed to do, and his cry of pain was not simulated. "Miss Atemi"
performed a backward summersault, again exhibiting her legs to the prospective
"marks", and ended up sitting astride John's chest. There was some sparse
applause. She showed her hand to the audience, thumb curled into the palm,
stiffening her fingers, delicately touched the side of John's neck with the
edge of her palm, finally raising the hand high, poised to strike. As "Miss
Atemi" was purported to speak only Japanese, it was the barker who provided
the appropriate explications. "Miss Atemi has just completed what is known as
a circle throw and her right hand is about to strike a Jujitsu chop to the
neck artery, cutting off the blood-supply to the attacker's brain and
rendering him instantly unconscious!" And the frail Madame Butterfly struck
John on the neck with the edge of her hand. The blow seemed light enough,
hardly more than a tap, and yet he actually saw stars and felt faint! She
sprang triumphantly to her feet and bowed. More applause. "Well, young man,
I'm afraid you lose! Right now, you'd dead to the world! You might even be
dead! Ha ha ha! Now who's to be our next challenger ?"

A hugely fat man, with beefy arms made his way through the crowd: "I'll take
the wench on, I will, she won't do not'in' like that to me, she won't!" He
climbed onto the little stage with remarkable agility for a man so large,
stood smirking at Miss Atemi for a second and then, without warning, without
being invited to do so by the barker, he virtually lunged at the diminutive
form in the white kimono. Miss Gilham stepped lithely to one side, hooked one
dainty foot around his ankle with a sweeping movement and then, even before he
hit the ground, drove the tip of her elbow into a precise spot between the
shoulder-blades. The fat man gave a shriek of pain and flopped helplessly down
on his belly, arms and legs flailing, cursing under his breath. "The
jiujitsuan always uses the weight and strength of her adversary to defeat him!
Notice how Miss Atemi has momentarily paralysed her attacker with by striking
a vital nerve centre on his spinal column." John could tell that the fat man's
arrogance had irritated Miss Gilham, who was determined to inflict a more
decisive defeat than usual. She curled her wiry fingers around a beefy wrist
as with the other hand she bent his thumb back in a certain way. The man let
out a blood-curdling scream which visibly made the onlookers uncomfortable ;
now she kneeled on his back with the captive arm cleverly wrapped around her
naked leg, the wrist trapped between thigh and calf and the fat man suddenly
stop struggling, his body stiff with pain ; cupping her hands, she lifted her
arms and clapped the man sharply on both ears. He let out a most unmanly
scream of pain and there were disapproving murmurs in the audience. "No, no
ladies and gentleman, she has done him no injury! In her public performances,
Miss Atemi always pulls her punches! However", and his voice grew unctuous,
suggestive, insinuating, "I cannot speak for her off-stage habits! Ha ha ha!
If our fair jiujitsuan had wished to do so, she could have made this
presumptuous challenger permanently deaf, perhaps even with some brain
damage!" Miss Atemi had released her victim and stood up to acknowledge rather
diffident applause, but the fat man was having a hard time standing up. ...
"As it is, he should only be ... stunned," the barker continued less
confidently. He even went over to the fat man and asked him sotto voce "You
all right, there?" The man grunted, but was holding his head pitifully ... "
"I think we should give our courageous volunteer a hand ... " - a few people
applauded - "and compensate him for his discomfiture : two tickets for
tonight's show." He held them out but the humiliated Goliath declined the
offer and lumbered down the stairs at the side of the stage. The barker
shrugged and turned back to his audience : "And there you have a mere sampling
of the talents of our lovely jiujitsu expert. In just one quarter of an hour
you will be able to applaud her exploits as a lawless sneak-thief and in other
exciting roles. Step right up, only two shillings for over thirty minutes of
exciting entertainment. You will be amazed by Miss Atemi's skills in the ring
- and let me remind you gentlemen that any of you who, in the course of the
evening, would face her in single-handed combat, will be rewarded, win or
lose, with a free pass for the remainder of our stay in your glorious city!"

The barker ducked behind the makeshift box-office counter while a half- dozen
lone men and three or four couples formed a modest queue, soon joined by a
couple of mannish-looking women. John was no where to be seen, for he was
scurrying back to "Miss Atemi's" dressing-room for his wardrobe duties, the
ones he liked best of all. Soon he was busy laying out on the jiujitsuan's
bed, as gently as if it were his beloved in person, the form- fitting leotard
and tights of jet-black silk, designed by Miss Gilham herself to reveal every
contour of her finely muscled body. She knew that her physique and her
accomplishments were an attraction more titillating than athletic in this dour
Welsh mining-town where the Council had almost closed the show on obscenity
grounds, where they had contracted to remain for three days more, and where
John sensed that the prospect of actually doing over some pretentious bugger
smiled on Miss Gilham more than usual. There might be some exciting moments
ahead, John thought as he picked up one of the soft, lace-up ballet pumps
which had prudently replaced the lethal street boots, and began loosening the
laces.

How, the reader will rightly wonder, did all of this come about? As naturally
as night turns to day, John would no doubt have answered, if asked.

It was while speeding over the downs on that unforgettable night in Molly's
Bugatti, which she piloted as well as any man, that both she and the boy
learned for the first time of Miss Gilham's "shadow life": indeed, whenever
the amazing woman tired of the intellectual and emotional strains attached to
the profession of governess, she became for a spell a 'tumbler" as she put, in
a carnival side-show ...

And under the fair assumption they were sought by the police, this was where
the resourceful woman took her little party to hide. It was never clear to
John whether they were evading the police because he had run away with Miss
Gilham (from his point of view, it was more an elopement than a kidnapping,
although he had never stopped to wonder what might have happened had he
refused to leave with her that night ... ), or whether it was because of
Harold Prendergast's death. He didn't like to think too much about that
episode and when he did, he always tried hard to remember what a cad the man
had been. But neither could he forget how aroused he had been to see Her do
... that thing ...

The owner of the show, a dapper, pleasant Irishman named Grouse, was delighted
to hire back a star attraction. But with two extra mouths to feed? He had
frowned suspiciously at Molly and John. The boy had nothing to offer a
carnival, indeed, but Molly saved the day when it turned out that her hobby
was hypnotism, and that she had often given demonstrations at parties and the
like. To add to their luck, a mediocre fortune-teller had just abandoned the
troop.

And thus it was that in a London suburb, every night that winter, whilst
Molly, just a few steps away, was hypnotising middle-aged shop-keepers by the
dozen, his tutor, Miss Gilham, in those black silk tights and soft leather
pumps, had exhibited her jiujitsu skills before strangely enthusiastic crowds.
It was a sight about which John, however much he idealised his mistress, could
not help being in two minds : was his goddess not degrading herself, letting
all those vulgar men possess her with their eyes?

The most nerve-racking part of his duties came during the invariably feverish
moments that preceded her gala appearance. Miss Gilham displayed no modesty
whatsoever in John's presence: after he had helped her unwind the long sash
about her waist, she would drop the kimono into his waiting hands, step stark
naked into the tights he held out for her. Sometimes, as she bent forward to
pull the tights over legs he dared not look upon, her taut breasts actually
brushed against his nose. He always averted his gaze as best he could, but
could not help seeing more than he had ever seen of any woman. Finally, it was
his task to fasten one by one the long row of tiny, almost invisible clasps
running from the cleft in her buttocks to the nape of her neck, until the
lithe, muscular limbs and torso were encased in the tight black silk.

A few minutes later John was standing in the exiguous wings of the tiny arena
next to Jim, one of the two circus acrobats who were "Miss Atemi's" official
partners for her show: they could endure her most spectacular throws thanks to
their tumbling skills - although of course in actual combat, neither could
have withstood her jiujitsu: the subtle twists and vice-like grips, the nerve
pinches and vicious jabs.

Now, alone in the limelight, her body draped for the moment in a long black
velvet cape, Miss Atemi delivered her ritual challenge - in Japanese, of
course, translated on a big white card.

Usually - and especially, John knew, in these out-of-the-way places - a long
silence would follow after which one of the acrobats would come on, pretending
to be a nasty, and she would throw him around. This was exactly what happened
that evening : with a cloth cap and a scarf over the lower part of his face,
Jim obligingly attacked "Miss Atemi", who for the moment wore a knee-length
gym-skirt over her tights, and threw him repeatedly, pinned him irresistibly,
etc. John loved to see his tutor exercise her skills when she put some feeling
into it - anger, mockery, revenge. But tonight he could see clearly that she
herself was bored, almost listless ... Perhaps she really was thinking to
return to her other life..

Another challenge, another long silence and the second part of the pantomime
involved Luigi, recently arrived from Naples, in the role of a constable with
a stick while Miss Atemi was a sneak-thief making off with a sack of jewels.
John liked this part of the show better, because now Miss Gilham was clad only
in the gleaming black tights and her moves seemed almost serpentine.

Just then Gustave, the barker burst unceremoniously into the tent, pushed his
way to the stage and commanding Miss Gilham's attention, whispered in her ear.

"Don't any of you dare go away now or you'll have to answer to me," she
announced as light-heartedly as possible, " I'll be right back!" And then,
astonishingly, she followed Gustave straight out of the tent.

John was nonplussed for several seconds, but his curiosity was immense and he
slipped out the back of the tent just in time to see the barker and Miss
Gilham heading for the trailer wherein Mr. Grouse, who owned and operated the
carnival, had his office. They disappeared inside and John, hurrying across
the open space between the trailers clambered on top of a crate and could peer
through a small glass porthole. Miss Gilham, Gustave, Mr. Grouse and his
demure wife stood facing three rather burly men, one of whom, John noticed,
seemed to have a cosh up his sleeve. What was it all about?

Serena, the pretty little French bareback rider, sidled up to him : " Ze
Américain, 'e is back ... 'e want money ... how do you say it, ze protéction,
ze raquette ... we must pay zem or ... " she drew the edge of her hand across
her throat suggestively. Despite the rapid education he was being treated to
under Miss Gilham's wing, young John had led a sheltered life and hadn't the
foggiest idea what the diminutive thespian was on about ... "Protection from
whom?" he asked the petite woman. She laughed harshly, " Mais ... from zem,
parbleu !"

As they watched side by side, one of the strangers was raising his voice in a
threatening way: he stepped towards Mr. Grouse with what looked to John like a
straight razor in his hand, naturally paying no attention to the diminutive
Miss Gilham in her black body-tights, standing quietly next to Gustave to the
rear. The man's words were inaudible but he was clearly threatening poor Mr.
Grouse who was not looking very brave and who kept glancing at Miss Gilham,
hoping perhaps she could intervene. John was worried: these men looked really
dangerous. And however confident he felt about his ex-governess' amazing
abilities ... well, these men were hardened criminals, and Americans to boot!
Then suddenly Miss Gilham took one firm step forward, drew her hand back and
gave the bully a strange, quick punch in the small of the back with what
appeared to be her thumb. He let out a blood-curdling scream and the
threatening razor clattered to the floor whilst he dropped to his knees,
clasping at his outraged kidney ... Miss Gilham immediately reached down,
clamped her fingers around the base of his skull and seizing him by the seat
of his trousers brought him to his feet again all the while contriving to keep
him bent over forward, uncannily off balance, unable to stand, unable to fall.
She held him thus helpless for a moment, and said a few words into his ear.
When she had obtained a satisfactory answer, she marched the hobbling hoodlum
to the door. At this point, one of the henchmen made a lunge to deliver his
boss. Did Miss Gilham have eyes in the back of her head? She drew up her leg
and drove the sole of her dainty foot straight at the man's knee-cap with the
force and precision of a piston: he too screamed and collapsed in pain. Now
Miss Gilham had set the cowed American free and he obediently opened the
trailer door with the air of one who obeys an imperative command. The third
man, who up to there had been rooted to the spot, transfixed by what he saw,
quickly lifted the jiujitsuan's second victim into a fireman's carry and the
trio left the office, thoroughly humiliated by "a chit of a woman", John
chuckled to himself.

John and Serena rushed into the trailer where everyone was crowding around
Miss Gilham to congratulate her. But she thrust them gently aside: she must
hurry back to her audience. John said to himself that the best show of the
evening had certainly not taken place on stage.

For the remaining days of their stay in that little town with the
unpronounceable name, John worried about reprisals, but Miss Gilham seemed
unconcerned. On the afternoon that preceded the last evening before the show
was meant to take to the road again, he finally plucked up courage to broach
the matter with her. She had just returned from the horse-back ride that
helped her to relax before each show, and was starting to strip off her riding
gloves. All she said was: "That's the sort of humiliation a man generally
prefers to forget."

And then, by a quite uncanny coincidence, there came a knock at the door and
when his unofficial guardian opened it, John knew she was as surprised as he
was himself : for who should be standing there but the redoubtable American
bandit chieftain.

And he was alone. And he was carrying his hat humbly in his hand! What could
this mean, John wondered as he tried to decipher the expression on Miss
Gilham's face from slightly behind and to one side of her. "I just wanted to
come and tell you there's no hard feelings! And to introduce myself in a
manner befitting a lady, you might say : I'm Jack Teagarden, of Jersey City."
Though clearly American, the man was trying to affect an English accent and
used bizarrely archaic parlance. Did a shadow of a smile cross Miss Gilham's
face? At the angle from which John was watching, it was difficult to tell. "So
can I ... may I cross your threshold ? I have a proposition which I hope you
will be friendly to." Miss Gilham said still not a word but stepped aside with
her accustomed easy grace and motioned him in. She still wore her riding
clothes - boots, jodhpurs and a close- fitting suede jacket of which she was
very fond - and John noticed with an odd sensation at the nape of his neck
that she was again putting on the glove she had removed only seconds before
Mr. Teagarden had appeared at the door.

Miss Gilham finally deigned to speak : "Do be seated, Mr Teagarden and tell us
all about it." The American shot a disapproving glower at John, and she added
: "I have no secrets from my ward, sir. John will stay."

"All right then, here it is : I liked the way you handled yourself the other
day. It was mighty impressive. A lass like yourself taking out two strong men
that way ... this is no ordinary lass, I says to myself. Where did you learn
to fight like that Miss ... uh, Miss ... " Miss Gilham ignored the invitation
to introduce herself but answered his question in a single word : "Japan."

"Oh yeah, this here jiujitsu ... Never much believed in it, I will say that
... But now, well, I guess I've got to. So! I don't know how much you earn in
this here travelling show, but I'll pay you ten times as much if you'll come
and work for me ... "

The proposition was so unexpected and the sum on offer - which John mentally
calculated at £200 a week! - so fabulous that John was not at all surprised
that his erstwhile governess remained speechless. Teagarden rattled on, his
tone as confident as it was confidential : "Having a chit of a woman on my
team who can do something like that to a man without his ever dreaming she
could ... well, I reckon that's worth whatever it costs! So name your price,
young woman, name your price !"

Miss Gilham appeared actually to be thinking the matter over and John's mind
was in utter confusion. To think that his idol actually contemplated going to
work for this American outlaw! Was it John's moral sense or his ingrained
snobbishness that was most outraged by this impression?

Miss Gilham kept her inscrutable aplomb. "Well, this is a great deal of money
which you are talking about, Mr. Teagarden, sir. May I ask how it is that you
come to possess such sums?" The man only smiled up at her fatuously, but she
appeared to take this reply as satisfactory. "And what services exactly do you
expect from me in return for such handsome wages?"

"Let's say, you'd be my personal bodyguard. In the first place, you're a lot
easier on the eyes than those gorillas I tote around with me now, and the way
I figure it, in a scrap you're worth three or four o' the likes o' them!"

Miss Gilham had taken a step towards the American, pulling her glove down
tight over her fingers in a way which John found inexpressibly thrilling,
strapping it tight around the wrist : he knew something was going to happen to
this obnoxious man, something that was going to give him, John, great pleasure
...

"Did you really think, my dear sir, that I would agree to accept a salary,
however enormous, from a person of your ilk? To second you in your revolting
activities?"

"Now look here, sister, I came here in all due respect, but if you think you
can talk to me this way, I've got some of the boys waiting out there, and
they'd be only to happy to ... "

He rose to his feet, trying to appear indignant but obviously terrified. Miss
Gilham stood there, hands on hips, smiling. Neither spoke, but it was clear
that the gangster wanted to flee but did not dare move a muscle, he was like a
man suddenly confronted with a poisonous snake and who hoped it wouldn't
strike if he didn't move. But strike it did... Miss Gilham lowered her eyes
and seemed to inspect the man's boots. Then without the slightest warning she
kicked him, the tip of her riding boot catching him just inside the shin, an
inch above the ankle: the man gave a kind of sigh, unaccountably clapped his
hands to his face and fell in a heap on the floor. "Is he dead?" John asked
impulsively. "Oh no, merely unconscious... there is a very useful nerve centre
on that part of the leg, the pain cuts off the blood-supply to the brain...
He'll be out for half an hour or so... Now John, we must move quickly... He
may have his hoodlums out there, and then again he may not... I want you to go
out and look around, if there are any they won't bother you, I expect, if so
tell them you're getting biscuits for tea... And then you must find Molly and
bring her here, her talents will serve us well in this instance... For there
is little doubt but that we must flee again, as I have no intention of leaving
this creature to continue his career in crime.

............................................................................
...........................................................................

Chapter 3

There is a house in Maida Vale, not far from the Old Grand Union Canal, a
nondescript, three story, early Victorian affair with a butcher's shop and a
tobacconist on either side of the front door. The butcher's shop has been
closed these many years, and whomsoever might venture to ring at the middle
door shall invariably do so in vain. Only the older inhabitants of that
transient district can remember when last a caller was admitted from the
street. Yet the house is certainly not derelict, with lace curtains at the
windows and soft lights to be seen at night. There have always been rumours
about, especially as the Mrs. Simpson who sells sweets to the children of the
neighbourhood and tobacco and newspapers to male strangers from all over
London and beyond, t'would seem, is undoubtedly the most close-mouthed
tobacconist in the borough of Westminster. Word would have it that this
nondescript yet somehow forbidding woman of indeterminate age is in fact the
owner of the house, that it was she, immediately the "For Sale" signs had come
down, who had purchased his leasehold from the last butcher for a handsome
figure.

Enter the shop in ignorance and find all the usual magazines, brands of
cigarette and motley assortments of sweets. But enter in the knowledge of a
certain password and be ushered by Mrs. Simpson herself through an
inconspicuous, not to say concealed door, climb a creaking corkscrew staircase
- but one of many improvements wrought by Mrs. Simpson's carpenters - and find
yourself in the anteroom of what is probably London's most exclusive brothel.

Mrs. Simpson's house, which Edwardian debauchees refer to obscenely as The
Crown and Scepter, is organised along the lines of a Parisian maison close.
The women spend their working hours in and around a comfortable saloon-bar
(eight hours a day, five days a week - Mrs. Simpson is something of a
socialist). There, well-heeled gentleman may drink expensive spirits, smoke
expensive cigars and ogle expensive women, but they are not allowed to touch
the wares before certain arrangements have been made. The women all dress in
the provocative manner of their calling - low-cut bustier, fish- net
stockings, high-heeled calf-length buttoned boots... All, that is, save one,
older than the others but still subtly attractive in an unusual outfit which,
certainly not designed to titillate the opposite sex, invariably intrigues,
occasionally arouses. However, as interested patrons are hastily informed, she
is not for hire at any price.

A newcomer will generally manage to drop an offhanded inquiry about the quiet,
handsome woman who keeps aloof from the merrymaking and seems both perfectly
at ease in these surroundings and yet as out of place as a Salvation Army
Sister. The answer to his question invariably flabbergasts the newcomer : "Oh,
that's Miss Gilham... She handles the drunks..." "Beg pardon!" "Well, yes, you
know old boy, the trouble-makers... You get them here, too, don't worry...
Especially the casuals, they'll get rough with a girl often enough... And
so... well, Gilham sees they leave... When she gets her hands on them, they
haven't a prayer... No fuss, no mess, very neat indeed... Takes them
outside... makes sure they don't come back..." "What are you talking about?
You mean she throws them out bodily?" "Sometimes she does just that... with
the big ones! And do they hit the floor! Takes the stuffing out of them, all
right! She's an expert, don't ya know... This new Jap stuff, what's it
called... Jiu-jitsu... Amazing what she can do to a man twice her size, seen
her in action, I have... Two, three times... There was this drunk touching up
a girl he hadn't paid for, you get the picture... Well, this girl just called
out something... and the next thing we knew... The chap didn't know what hit
him, did he? Gilham just seemed to appear behind him out of nowhere, reached
round and caught him by the hand with some sort of special twist... and this
chappy screamed... just like a girl. God knows what she was doing to him,
hardly seemed to be restraining him at all but whatever it was, it evidently
hurt like the dickens... Next thing you knew, he was tiptoeing out the door,
walking on his toes, he was, just from the way she was holding his wrist,
gently like, not really twisting it hard, but she had him up on tiptoes, and
he was actually whimpering... Never heard a man scream like that before, most
unnerving... They say she roughs them up a bit more outside, tells them what
she'll do to them if they ever show their faces here again... never seen her
do that, but they never do... come back, I mean." "Well, she sounds
terrifying" the newcomer will invariably say, staring at the woman who sits at
a table alone, her bland gaze haphazardly roaming the room.

As she sits thus at rest, in her new professional capacity, the most unusual
thing about the severe Miss Gilham is indeed the dark red accoutrement she
wears : a long, loose-sleeved canvas jacket strapped tight to her torso,
flared out over the hips and what at first glance appears to be a long skirt
but will in fact be seen, when she moves her legs, to be a jupe-culotte of the
kind women mountain-climbers are starting to wear. But most startling in the
heated room are the gloves she wears, tawny, short leather ones, tight around
the palms and with the finger-tips cut off, like greengrocers'. "Does she
always wear those?" "Never seen her without them... something to do with this
jiu-jitsu stuff, gives her a better grip, I should think... Possibly to
protect her hands... I saw her hit a bloke once, a big bloke, he was giving
her a hard time, just didn't want to leave, don't ya know, so she hit him,
just once, quick and sharp, didn't haul back like a boxer, didn't even use her
fist, just the edge of her hand, a kind of chop under the ear, looked to me,
didn't seem to hit him very hard but that fellow went out like a light, sheer
magic, it was, people had to catch him before he smashed a table, really a
giant of a fellow, 20 stone, I'd have thought... Oh, she really knows where to
hit a man! So perhaps the gloves protect her hands, has delicate skin, you
know..." "How old would you say she is?" "Hard to say, some say she's pushing
fifty... But still a very attractive creature... Pity..." "What is? ? "Oh,
well, you know, she prefers women...A lot of them do, can't say I blame
'em..." But the newcomer would pursue his purpose. "She must be incredibly
strong..." "Oh, she's strong all right, got the legs of a ballet- dancer...But
when you ask her about it she always says there's no strength involved, that
it's all balance and leverage, action and reaction and... what else? Oh yes,
pressure points, that's the word... Well, old boy, I've a rendezvous with
Salomé over here, pleased to have met you..." And the habitué moves off.

At this point in my tale, the reader may be wondering what our Miss Gilham is
doing in a dissolute environment offering such a stark contrast with the
comfortable domesticity of Dunsany manor. The short answer is that she and
Mrs. Simpson were in grammar school together. Despite their diverging paths
through life, they had remained good friends and ever since the time la
Simpson had had an awkward incident with a circus strong-man hired to keep
order in her prosperous establishment, she'd been pestering the jiu-jitsu-
wise governess to come and work for her. In vain, however... until the night
of their precipitous flight from the Manor, when Miss Gilham had made a
bee-line for Maida Vale, the recently widowed Molly Prendergast and master
John in tow. So happy was Mrs. Simpson to see her offer accepted at long last,
she immediately agreed with no questions asked to her friend's conditions,
which included board and keep for the boy and the paramour. No problem : there
was plenty of room in the prosperous madam's three-storey bawdy-house.

And it was true enough, as Miss Gilham soon discovered, that unpleasant
incidents in the brothel were already growing more frequent by the month. No
chance of the jiu-jitsu getting rusty. However, they are still rare enough for
John to have waited many sleepless evenings in vain, hovering about the
recklessly large spy-hole he'd cut through the floor of his bedroom over the
bar. The view afforded by this opening is actually rather constricted, and it
is really more useful for eavesdropping than for spying : whenever a row is
brewing, he can hear the signs, and dropping his French novel scurry
downstairs to peek through a half-open door at the thrillingly cruel exploits
of Miss Gilham, his beloved governess.

This evening, belly down on his cushions, leafing through an illustrated
edition of Nerciat from Mrs. Simpson's private collection, he is as always
more attentive to the temper of the voices wafted up to him with a nasal
cakewalk, than to the foreshortened figures bobbing past below. He is
beginning to nod : he'll soon take himself off to bed, frustrated again...

And then suddenly it actually does occur, the long-awaited "uncalled for
gesture" : when John hears Begonia call out one word : "Snowflake", he knows a
man has "taken liberties". To call upon Miss Gilham's services, the women use
the name of that notorious female warrior of old Japan. There is no time for
John to gain a better vantage point and he presses his face to the floor in
time to see his erstwhile governess glide into view beneath him, even as the
man reluctantly removes his hand from what might have been Begonia's ample
bosom. Miss Gilham lays her glove on the customer's shoulder in a deceptively
friendly manner and whispers a few words into the hollow of his ear, so softly
that John cannot make them out. Perhaps the man is a first time visitor,
whence his foolhardy reaction. Or perhaps he is too drunk to care. Be that as
it may, he does not take kindly to whatever advice Miss Gilham has given him,
and his slurred reply rings out across the room: "I've god damned well paid my
way in here and I've a right to feel the merchandise before I lay out another
hundred quid, haven't I?" The question is purely rhetorical, but the answer is
quick in coming and John observes it wonderfully close, just a few feet below
his eager eyes : Miss Gilham's half-gloved fingers, so slender and yet he well
knew how powerful, clamp about a muscle at the base of the man's skull with
surgical precision ; even as he gasps and unaccountably chokes, her other hand
snakes around his near arm, rendered numb and unresisting by the punishment
inflicted on a pressure-point (his governess' explications had long since made
the boy an educated spectator of her Jiu-jitsu feats), whips the limb up
behind her already helpless victim's back and deftly twisting it into a
complicated grip, hustles him quickly out of John's sight and out of the bar.
There is a round of enthusiastic applause.

John is flushed with excitement and instinctively starts to rub his crotch. He
is undoing his flies when the door bursts open - deplorably, the key has been
lost - and Molly stands there, jubilant : "I knew it! I knew you'd be here at
your little hole watching her go for that one! Well, I hope you got an eyeful,
little boy, but I saw what she did to him in the alley and what you saw in
here was nothing!" But then her tone changes : "Actually, I didn't see what
she did, it was like she didn't do anything, just a little poke, like a jab,
with the tips of her fingers, somewhere down here... Oh, but I saw what it did
to him all right, he was on his knees chucking up his booze and yesterday's
breakfast, and he's probably still out there retching! God, what a mess!"

Molly had lost some of her posh veneer since her effort to escape from her
class origins had ended with the violent death of the man she'd married for
his money and come to loathe. It had not cost Mrs. Simpson much effort to
convince Molly to take up a trade she'd occasionally been known to ply growing
up poor in Devonshire. She kicked the door shut behind her and came closer.
"Makes you feel excited, doesn't it?" She stood just above where he sat on the
bed, grinning down at him mockingly. "It makes you go all stiff down there,
doesn't it? Everybody knows about it, they've seen you wanking off. Well you
needn't be ashamed of it, ya know... I just love it when she ridicules those
stupid men the way she does. I've always hated men... most men... I only like
the ones who aren't really men, you know, fairies sometimes... Or young
boys..." and she looked straight at John who was growing apprehensive. There
was something about the way her voice dropped on the last words...

Then suddenly Molly did something really terrifying: she clamped one hand over
his genitals and gave them a firm squeeze. John almost jumped out of his skin
and thrusting her away convulsively, leapt to his feet and took refuge behind
the bed. Laughing hysterically, Molly turned and left the room.

The next morning, master John failed to come down to the late breakfast which
was the personnel's main meal. He was not missed. Some of the more prudish
women felt awkward in the "backstage" presence of this person of the opposite
sex who was, moreover, under age.

Evening had come and the saloon bar was quiet, with only a few habitués
present... plus one stranger. Actually, this was not his first visit to the
The Crown and Scepter nor even his second, but as he always kept to himself,
he was thought of as a stranger. Once he paid for an hour with Begonia, but
apparently "did" nothing, just talked. Begonia wouldn't say what about.

Some of the women obtained permission "from the tobacco shop" to go to bed.
Miss Gilham, of course, remained at her post on a bar-stool, nursing a
minuscule glass of the bitter-sweet Italian liqueur she favoured. At length,
the stranger sidled up to the bar, ordered a virile pint of bitters and sipped
it nervously for several minutes.

"Good evening," he finally succeeded in saying to the redoubtable keeper of
law and order at the Cock and Sceptre. "I saw what you did the other night to
that bloke... I admired you ever so much..." "Did you indeed? Which night was
that... and which bloke?" "It was about a week ago, you got him by the thumb
and just walked him out! Very neat... So efficient... elegant..." his voice
trailed off. Miss Gilham smiled thinly but said nothing... "I was
wondering..." he went on, and then stopped again. "I mean, I fully understand
you've nothing to do with the goings-on here, not really, I mean... but, well,
perhaps for a fee... I mean, I'm quite a wealthy man, you know..." "Sir, be
kind enough to come to the point." "The point... Yes, well, the long and the
short of it is... would you do some of that sort of thing... to... well,
to..." "To you..." Miss Gilham interjected with a faint, cool smile. "In
private, of course... private... With only the most honourable intentions,
naturally..." "Naturally... But don't you know I'll hurt you?" The man lost
some of his timidity and tried a laugh. "Well, that's the idea, isn't it... I
mean, you needn't cripple me, I suppose, but I can bear pain, bear it quite
well, in fact, actually... I've already..." "You refer to flagellation, I take
it..." Silence.. "All right... that will be £500 sterling for five minutes...
or as long as you can bear... And yes, I might just cripple you at that,
'accidentally on purpose' as our American cousins have it. Are you sure this
is what you want? Really sure?" The man's "yes" tried hard to sound resolute,
but John, cocking an eager ear at his spy-hole, is not convinced. "It would
have to be out of hours, of course..." Miss Gilham resumed matter- of-factly.
"And where would you like to receive this little treat?" "Well, what about...
right here... you see, Lady El... I mean, my wife is always at home, she's an
invalid and..." "I'll speak to Mrs. Simpson. But there are likely to be
spectators, you know..." "Oh, well, that's perfectly all right, the women will
be fine... But no men, please... no men." There is suddenly an hysterical edge
to his voice.

Johnny slides a hand to the bulge in his trousers and presses for the
comforting thrill : at last there was going to be the pantomime he's been
waiting for ever since that fateful day when he'd watched his governess stop
Molly's husband's heart with some ju-jitsu. Down in the bar, it was being
agreed the event would take place the following afternoon at four, just before
tea-time : "Work up an appetite", Miss Gilham quipped ambiguously, and
forthwith turned her back upon the blushing lord.

The chairs and tables had already been moved back and eiderdowns lay on the
carpet in a circle when Lord X. arrived at four PM sharp, a wad of fifty-
pound notes in his hand. Miss Gilham counted the money carefully and slipped
it into a concealed pocket at her trouser waist : she wore the jacket, culotte
and gloves she always wore in the bar, the client had not dared ask for a more
daring costume, and there was undeniably something suggestive about the way
the severe jacket hugged the graceful bosom and waist...

The man removed his jacket and stood waiting. Miss Gilham walked up to him
briskly as if to shake his hand perhaps, but instead took one stride too many,
as it were, and pinned his forward foot to the floor with the sole of her
button-boot at the same time as she gave him a sharp poke in the solar plexus
with crossed finger-tips. The man said "oof" and took a spectacular pratfall
on his back, spared a broken ankle at the last second, when the jiu-jitsuan
removed her snug boot foot from his foot. Peering down at the scene, John
recognized one of his idol's favourite tricks, and wondered if it was by
accident that all this was taking place just beneath his nose! She had used
that trick on her very first day at the manor, she used it often enough on
obnoxious patrons of the brothel. Lord X, forall his willingness, was sobbing
with pain, for he had landed on his coccyx - as the ju-jitsuan intended. Miss
Gilham had once explained the principle : an "atemi" under the sternum breaks
the victim's balance and causes him to clutch his stomach instinctively
instead of using his hands to break his fall. A shock to the tail-bone is most
debilitating" A point that was proven by the Lord's piteous squirming on the
carpet. "On your feet young man, I haven't earned my fee..." The hush hanging
over the scene was broken by a titter from one of the watching girls, but Miss
Gilham silenced her with a withering glance : she is taking the matter
seriously, John said to himself. Surprisingly much so.

Still in considerable pain, it seemed, the man lay rubbing his coccyx ansd
still made no effort to rise. Miss Gilham reached down and took hold the short
hairs over his temple between thumb and forefinger and gave them a little
twist... The man screamed like a woman and scrambled to his feet, helpless to
resist and thoroughly humiliated... and, thought John, already regretting the
whole arrangement. Miss Gilham released the man's hair only to swing round
behind him in that practised manner of hers, slithering under and trapping
over her right shoulder, and wrapping her arm over his she dug her fingers
into his lips, twisting his nose cruelly between thumb and forefinger... The
man's howls were muffled : "Stop, this isn't fair, you really are hurting
me..." He breaks off with a shriek and John can see that with her free hand
Miss Gilham's is pinching the front the man's exposed armpit! The scream dies
in panting suffocation... "You foolish man, I could kill you with this nerve
pinch... patalyse your lungs... feel it?" The man choked, his knees were
sagging... Had he passed out? Had he passed away? John would put nothing past
his governess.

Miss Gilham released her hold and the aristocrat toppled onto a quilts.
Somewhat the worse for wear but still able to move. This time his tormentress
gave him time to recover his senses and sit up. He did so at length, looking
bemused but no longer indignant: there seemed to be a kind of dazed wonder in
his face. Miss Gilham approached with a suitably suspenseful step: she was
visibly beginning to enjoy her role!. The man flinched and threw up his arms
to protect himself. A hand darted forth and seized just one thumb in a gloved
fist, twisting it in a certain way. Effortlessly, she levered him to his feet,
pivoted sharply grabbing his wrist tossing him like a sack of flour head over
heels across her back- retaining a grip on her victim's arm that prevented him
cracking his skull on the floor but to land on his rump, as Johnny is relieved
to observe. After all, this man was no doubt harmless enough.

Finally Miss Gilham bent the hand she still held in a certain way and jamming
against the carpet, she placed her fine leather sole upon the back of the
locked wrist, and stood with hands on hips, pinning the man's whole body to
the floor merely by the weight of her foot on his hand. "Helpless as a
new-born babe are you not, sir? Well such is the power of ju-jitsu..." and
before releasing his hand, she drove the hard tip of her boot into his exposed
armpit. He screams and curled up in a foetal position, sobbing with pain.
"That kick could have killed you, if I'd wanted to... sleep on it!" Miss
Gilham concluded playfully.

Miss Gilham looks at the watch on her wrist and and turned to the on- looking
women: "He'll be able to leave under his own steam in about two hours : you'd
better take him up to a room." Three of the women half-walked half-carried the
helpless, shivering lord towards one of the ground-floor bedrooms... "Lots of
blankets, now... mustn't have him going into shock, must we..." Then she
looked at the ceiling and said with friendly aplomb : "Well master John, did
you have a good time?" All the girls within earshot giggled - John's
voyeuristic fascination with the ju-jitsu exploits of his erstwhile governess
was a standing joke at Mrs. Simpson's establishment. But John heard none of
this as lay upon his bed, caressing the memory of all he had just seen.

It was later that same week that the trouble began.