She had made friends with Margaret during a previous visit and had maintained a regular correspondence. Margaret worked part-time in the village post office, her husband, James, ran a Dales courier service. In the mid 1940s it was very rare to see a woman unaccompanied in a public house but Evelyn was not at all disconcerted as she was eyed-over by the occasional glances from the soldiers. Two older men and a very rugged-looking younger man sat at the bar talking to George who was leaning on the bar smoking a cigarette frequently tapping ash into the ashtray. A young couple sat in the far corner looking into each others eyes rather dreamily and two middle-aged couples sat at a table a few feet away from them chatting and generally enjoying each others company. One of the men sucked on a rather large pipe that didn’t appear to be lit but it gave him an air of superiority and quiet confidence. Evelyn became more and more aware of the flirtatious attention she was receiving from one of. Mixing, stewing, and brewing the flowers took the night. Coating the sweet balls of tar-like paste in the finest chocolate was of course a work of a Master Chocolatier not myself. Luckily the King had access to just such a person. A delightfully senile old man who thought me his great-grandson and that he was coating the Queen’s favorite star-anise toffees. A Valentines day gift to her Majesty If he had only known that these were soon to be the King’s favorite candies he might have been ecstatic. I know that I was. You see the Queen would not touch a single gift from the hand of the King. She thought him tainted by his sins. Me? Oh, she totally trusted me, her delightfully amusing foreign friend Reynold. Which, even more so than her surreptitious religious convictions, show just how much inbreeding there has been in her family. A twat from a long line of twits. But oh…it was a twat I intended to see the fucking of! If perhaps not to sample the delights of its tight, wet depths.
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