Lady Crawleigh’s Driver

I had just about had enough of Lady Sonia, the Dowager Lady that is, Lord Crawleigh’s Step mother, his late fathers second wife, and considerably younger than the old dodderer barely older that the present lord.

Basically she had grown up abroad and treated all her staff as she had the natives in those god forsaken lands of the empire.

Manners and consideration for her employees were completely alien to her though she still strode around as if she owned the estate and lavished her son’s money in the fashion departments of Harrods and Gamages and many horrifically expensive boutiques in the metropolis.

I fear the final straw came with my being coerced into driving the Bentley when Juggins the Chauffeur had a day off and then having a punctured tyre near Byfleet where the road passes Romily wood. I had to stop.

“Robson, why are you slowing down?” she demanded,

“A puncture, Madam,” I replied.

“Tosh drive on,” she exclaimed.

“I fear we have no choice Madam,” I explained, “If I continue we may need more than to change the wheel, we may damage the brakes or some such.”

“Drive damn you!” she snarled her face contorting in an expression of hate. The same face that once had beamed from the pages of Country Life when she had come out as a Debutant in 1926 some 25 years ago.

“Robson you insolent cur, Drive on!” she snapped.

I parked in a lay by adjacent to the woodland, I leaped out and finding the front right tyre completely flat I ***********ed the right hand spare tyre, the 1938 Bentley having not one but two spare wheels.

Life had not been good to me since I left the army in 1946, it was hard to return to life on a building site after managing to rise to the dizzy rank of RSM in the REME.

I set to to release the centre nut securing the wheel.

“Don’t hit it with a hammer use a tool!” she snapped as I quite correctly hit the winged centre nut with a mallet, “Are you a complete idiot? I dare say you won the award for Village Idiot every year in your village, or were you surrounded by idiots so no one noticed.”

“Madam, sit in the car, shut the door and shut your stupid mouth!” I snapped.

“You are sacked, as soon as we get home you can collect your cards!” she replied, your insolence is quite intolerable.”

“As is your arrogance Madam,” I said politely.

“It is called breeding,” she replied.

“That’s your problem,” I observed, “Breeding, that’s how you killed his lordship, breeding, fornicating, you need a good seeing to madam.

“Enough!” she snapped.

“You’re not getting enough are you madam,” I opined,”You’re not getting any are you, except your ivory handled hair brush.”

“You insolent cur,” she replied.

“Cur am I,” I retorted, “I’m no Cur Madam I am a man, and if you are not very careful I shall put you over my knee and give you a damned good thrashing.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said.

She was much mistaken, I wrenched oped the left rear door and dragged her out by her left ear. She let out a loud squeal I propelled her towards the trees and pushed her down onto a patch of grass

I grabbed the hem of her knee length skirt and yanked it upwards over her buttocks exposing her bare flesh and white lacy thong.

“What, are you doing, surely you’re not going rape me?” She squealed, trying to pull her skirt down with one hand, pushing me with the other, struggling and trying to turn.

“Shut up,” I said, using my body to force her back down, grabbing her wrists and pinning them at her lower back with one of my much bigger hands.

With my free hand, I ripped her thong, the thin garment breaking with a painful snap.