‘I got what I wanted. But not in Butler.'

‘Eh?'

‘I did it, Father. I am no longer virgin.'

His eyebrows shot up. ‘You have managed to surprise me.'

‘Truly, Father?' (I didn't want him to be angry with me... and I thought that he had implied long back that he would not be.)

‘Truly. Because I thought that you had managed it last Christmas vacation. I have been waiting the past six months, hoping that you would decide to trust me with it.'

‘Sir, I didn't even consider keeping it from you. I depend on you.'

‘Thank you. Hmm, Maureen, freshly deflowered, you should be examined. Shall I call your mother?'

‘Oh! Does Mother have to know?'

‘Eventually, yes. But you need not have her examining you, if it frets you -‘

‘It does!'

‘In that case, I'll take you over to see Dr Chadwick.'

‘Father, why must I see Dr Chadwick? It is a natural event, I was not hurt, and I feel no need.'

We had a polite argument. Father pointed out that an ethical doctor did not treat members of his own family, especially his women folk. I answered that I was aware of that... but that I needed no treatment. And back and forth.

After a bit, having made sure that Mother was upstairs for her nap, Father took me into the surgery, locked the door, and helped me up on to the table, and I found myself in much the position for examination that I had been in earlier for Charles, except that this time I had removed only my bloomers.

I suddenly realised that I had become excited.

I tried to suppress it and hoped that Father would not notice it. Even at fifteen I was not naive about my unusual and possibly unhealthy relations with my father. As early as twelve I had had the desert-isle daydream with my father as the other castaway.

But I also knew how strong the taboo was from the Bible, from classic literature, and from myth. And I remembered all too well how Father quit letting me sit on his lap, had stopped it completely and utterly, once I reached menarche.

Father put on a pair of rubber gloves. This was something he had started as a result of the Chicago trip... which had not been to allow Maureen to enjoy the Columbian Exposition but to permit Father to attend school at Northwestern University in Evanston in order to get up to date on Professeur Pasteur's germ theories.

Father had always been strong for soap and water, but he bad had no science to back up his attitudes. His preceptor, Dr Phillips, had started to practise in. 1850, and (so said Father) regarded the rumours from France as ‘just what you could expect from a bunch of Frogs.'

After Father returned from Evanston, nothing ever again could be clean enough to suit him. He started using rubber gloves, and iodine, and boiling and sometimes burning used instruments, especially anything used with lockjaw.

Those impersonal clammy rubber gloves cooled me down... but I was embarrassed to realise that I was quite wet.

I ignored it, Father ignored it. Shortly he helped me down and turned away to strip off his gloves while I got back into my bloomers. Once I was ‘decent' he unlocked and opened the door.

‘Healthy, normal woman,' he said gruffly. ‘You should have no trouble bearing offspring. I recommend that you refrain from intercourse for a few days. I conclude that you used a French purse. Correct?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good. If you will continue to use them... every time!... and are discreet about your public conduct, you should have no serious problems. Hmm... do you feel up to another buggy ride?'

‘Why, certainly, sir. Is there any reason why I should not?'

‘No. Word came in that Jonnie Mae Igo's latest baby is ailing; I promised to try to get out there today. Will you ask Frank to hitch up Daisy?'

Ir was a long drive. Father took me along to tell me about Ira Howard and the Foundation. I listened, unable to believe my ears... save that Father, the only utterably dependable source of information, was telling me.

After a long stretch I at last spoke up. ‘Father, I think I see. How does this differ from prostitution? Or does it?'

Chapter 4 - The Worm in the Apple

Father let Daisy amble on quite a piece before he answered.' I suppose it is prostitution, if you want to stretch the definition to cover it. It does involve payment, not for intercourse per se, but for the result of that intercourse, a baby. The Howard Foundation will not pay you to marry a man on their list, nor is he paid for marrying you. In fact you are never paid; he is paid... for every baby you bear, sired by him!

I listened and found myself humiliated by these arrangements. I was never one of those women demanding the vote... but fair is fair! Somebody was going to inseminate me... then, when I groaned and moaned the way Mother does and gave birth to a baby, he gets paid. I fumed to myself.

‘It still sounds like whoring, Father, from where I sit. What's the going rate? How much does my hypocritical, hypothetical husband get paid for each set of my labour pains and one smelly baby?'

‘No set price.'

‘What? Mon papa, that is a hell of a way to run a business. I lie down and spread my legs, by contract. Nine months later my husband is paid... five dollars? Fifty cents? This is not a good bet. I think I would be better off to move to Kansas City and walk the streets.'

‘Maureen. Behave yourself.'

I took a deep breath, and held it. Then I lowered my voice an octave, the way I had been practising lately. (I had promised myself never to let my voice get shrill.) I'm sorry, sir. I guess I'm just another vapourish ex-virgin - I had thought I was more grown up.' I sighed. ‘But it does seem crass.'

‘Yes, perhaps "crass" is le mot juste. But let me tell you how it works. No one will ask you to marry anyone. If you consent, your mother and I will submit your name to the Foundation, along with a questionnaire that I will help you fill out. In return they will send you a list of young men. Each man on that list will be what is called an "eligible bachelor" - eligible quite aside from the Foundation and its money.

‘He will be young, not more than ten years older than you are, but more likely about your age -‘

‘Fifteen?' I was amazed. Shocked.

‘Simmer down, flame top. Your name is not yet on the list. I'm telling you this now because it is not fair not to let you know about the Howard Foundation option once you have graduated to functioning woman. But you're still too young to marry:

‘In this state I can marry at twelve. With your permission.'

‘You have my permission to marry at twelve. If you can manage it.'

‘Father, you're impossible.'

‘No, merely improbable. He'll be young but older than fifteen. He will be of good health and of good reputation. He wilt be of adequate education -‘

‘He had better be able to speak French, or he won't fit into this family.'

The Thebes school system offered French and German; Edward had picked French, then Audrey also, because both Father and Mother had studied French, and made a habit of shifting to French when they wanted to talk privately in front of us. Audrey and Edward established a precedent; we all followed. I started on French before I could take it in school; I did not like having words talked in front of me that I did not understand.

This precedent affected my whole life - but, again, that's another story.

‘You can teach him French - including that French kissing you asked me about. Now this faceless stranger who ruined our Nell - Can he kiss?'

‘Gorgeously!'

‘Good. Was he sweet to you, Maureen?'

‘Quite sweet. A bit timid but he'll get over that, I think. Uh, Father, it wasn't as much fun as I think it could be. And will be, next time.'

‘Or maybe the time after that. What you're saying is that today's trial run was not as satisfying as masturbation. Correct?'