I am pleased to say the exams I had been studying so hard for under Miss Mary’s supervision went well. I passed them all with flying colours. Both my parents were so pleased with my performance that they took the unprecedented and wholly unexpected step of announcing a change to my strict clothing restrictions. As a reward for all my hard work I was for the first time to be allowed to wear long trousers for visits and outings with my parents. Naturally I was thrilled at the prospect of no longer having to appear in public dressed in thigh-baring short trousers and I had high hopes that at long last I could look forward to being treated more as an adult than a boy. Already in my mind’s eye I saw myself being invited to attend the dinner parties given by my parents, perhaps even being asked to join them at some of their social events. It was a heady few days for me as I thrilled at how much this new dispensation would mean to me. To be allowed to wear long trousers was a privilege long desired and I could hardly believe my good fortune.
For two weeks I enjoyed undisputed possession of my long trousers. Mother even talked about purchasing for me a second pair! With my eighteenth birthday on the horizon I was on cloud nine. I had even convinced myself that once Miss Mary saw me wearing longs, her attitude towards me would change. She would see that I was no longer a boy dressed in short trousers short enough to embarrass even the most immodest boy, but a mature teenager blossoming into young manhood. There was no need either for the study sessions to continue as now that my exams were out of the way I could afford to unwind and enjoy the self-confidence that wearing long trousers gave me.
The Fletchers had been away on holiday when the results of my exams were announced, so I had not been able to share my good news with Miss Mary… or just plain ‘Mary’ as I felt I was now entitled to call her.
At home rules were relaxed sufficiently for me to continue wearing my long trousers around the house. Yet there was a nagging feeling my happiness couldn’t last, so I did everything I could to ensure that I would keep my long trouser privileges. I was only too well aware that if my behaviour fell short of my parents’ high standards, these privileges could so easily be withdrawn, or at the very least curtailed.
Yet it wasn’t a failing on my part in the eyes of my parents that saw me once again dressed in short trousers.
As I said, Mary and her family had been away for an extended holiday, visiting relatives as it happens. A week or so after their return mother invited them to visit us. She was no doubt eager to hear all about their trip away. Upon the arrival of the Fletchers I was delegated to open the front door to them and I immediately noticed Mrs Fletcher look at my long trousers as she entered the hallway. Although brief, her glance was sufficient in length for me to realise she had noted their presence. Nothing was said, but I felt myself blush as if I had upset her in some way by the change in my appearance. Mary, who followed her mother through the front door, took a little longer in her appraisal of my new apparel. As her parents walked ahead to join mine in the living room, Mary’s eyes scanned me from feet to waist, before continuing their gaze upwards until she was looking straight at my now crimson-suffused face. She smiled sweetly, but said nothing more than, “Hello, Georgie…” before following her parents and leaving me to close the front door.
I felt my stomach tighten. In those few brief moments my new found pride in wearing long trousers evaporated. It was almost as if I felt ashamed for letting Mary down. No words had been spoken other than that greeting, but it was easy to see from her manner that Mary disproved of how I was dressed and in the way she had called me ‘Georgie’.
I had been so confident in my belief that Mary’s attitude towards me would change. But it appeared that I had been badly mistaken. It was a bitter blow.
With a heavy heart I joined everyone in the living-room. The anticipated sense of at last belonging in the company of adults that I imagined I would feel wearing long trousers had all but vanished. Thankfully I wasn’t expected to contribute much to the conversation that took place during the Fletcher’s visit. Mother took the opportunity to whitter on at some length about how well I’d done in my exams, so it came as a relief when I was sent into the kitchen to replenish the bowls of nibbles. Mary followed me saying that she would help.
Once we were in the kitchen and out of earshot of our parents, Mary shook her head and tutted: “Long trousers, Georgie… I am surprised.”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s happened to your short trousers? They’re so much smarter than those dreadful, ill-fitting longs you’re wearing.”
Indignantly I blurted: “They’re my school longs,” I explained, stung by her criticism.
Mary was clearly unimpressed. “Did your parents give you permission to wear long trousers, Georgie?”
Sensing where this was leading, I began to panic: “Yes, but…”
I was perplexed. Was she joking? Did Mary really think I would be allowed to wear longs without the consent of my parents?
“Well, Georgie, did they?”
“Yes, of course they did. It’s my reward for doing well in my exams.”
“Your reward?" Mary sniffed, “What about my reward for all the time and effort I devoted to keeping your nose to the grindstone? Jolly hard work it was too. If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have done nearly so well in your exams.” It was Mary’s turn to be indignant, “I have just had to sit and listen to your mother praising you, telling us about all the hard work you put into your studies with hardly a word said about my help. How do you think that made me feel, Georgie?”
I hung my head. I could see how upset she was. It was true that mother had been particularly forthright and effusive, telling the Fletchers how well I had done in my exams. “I - I don’t know, um, Miss Mary…”
My hands were shaking as I tried to concentrate on replenishing the bowls of nibbles. I really couldn’t think what to say that might placate Mary and prevent matters getting out of hand. As usual I failed.
“Georgie… Georgie, look at me when I’m talking to you!” she snapped. I looked up. I was easy to see how annoyed Mary had become. “Do you not think I deserve a reward for supervising your studies?”
“I, er…”
“Well? Come on, Georgie, it’s a simple question…”
“Yes, Miss Mary.”
“Yes… what, Georgie?”
“Yes, you do deserve a reward… er, for supervising and helping me.”
“I am pleased you think so… and what do you think that reward should be, Georgie?”
“I - I don’t know…”
“Well I do. I want you to thank me for all my hard work in getting you through your exams. You are to do this in front of our parents when we go back into the living-room. I want you to make sure your mother and father understand how grateful you are for all the help I have given you.”
I felt relieved. If this recognition was to be Mary’s ‘reward’, then I would gladly do as she had said. However, what she said next made my blood run cold. Mary simply told me how I was to tell my mother and father that I no longer wanted to wear longs. I was to to say that I preferred to wear short trousers. How this was to be achieved was up to me, but it had to be done. My only consolation was that my request to wear to short trousers was to be carried out after the Fletchers had left the house. Clearly Mary did not want there to be any hint of her involvement in my ‘decision’. I knew the price for failure… the secret of my spying on my parents’ dinner party would be made known.
As you can imagine I was now left fearful of what the reaction of my parents would be. Should they refuse my request, I was sure to be exposed as a nosey snooper and more than likely put back into short trousers as a punishment in any case. If they agreed I would be back in short trousers and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future, but the secret of my misdeed would at least be safe. Either way, I knew I was destined to be a bare-kneed boy once more.
Miss Mary and I returned to rejoin our parents. I was more nervous than ever knowing that not only would I have to make an announcement stating how grateful I was for Mary’s help, but that later I would have to tell my parents how I no longer wished to wear long trousers.
Due to my lack of experience in adult company, I had great difficulty in finding an opportunity to speak. As the minutes passed I became anxious before finally resolving to say what Miss Mary had told me to say. In order to get noticed I put my hand up. I felt like, and must have looked like, a nervous schoolboy in class raising his arm in an effort to attract his teacher’s attention.
Mother succeeded in misinterpreting my gesture and caused me more embarrassment: “What is it, George? Do you need to go to the toilet? You needn’t put your hand up… just say ‘excuse me’ before leaving the room.”
I begged mother’s pardon and explained that I wished to make an announcement. I stood up. Everyone in the room looked at me. Inside my long trousers my legs trembled, but I managed to say how grateful I was that Mary had given her time so freely to help me study for my exams. I glanced in Mary’s direction in the hope that was sufficient and that my ordeal was over, but it was not to be. Mary made it clear by her expression she expected me to say more. I looked round at the faces of both my parents and those of the Fletchers before adding that it was entirely due to Mary’s help that I achieved such good grades and that without her to guide me I doubted that I would have passed any of my exams.
It was a shameful experience having to give all the credit to Mary. There could be no doubt that I felt cheated, but what choice did I have? I knew the effect that my declaration would have, that all the hard work that I did put in would count for little in the eyes of both sets of parents. I sat down and as I suspected the talk became all about what a marvellous girl Mary was and how much she had done to help me. I could have cried. In the space of a few minutes what praise and recognition I had earlier received for all my efforts meant nothing. I looked across to Mary as she absorbed the praise being heaped upon her. She glanced in my direction, presumably to gauge my reaction, and by a subtle tilt of her head made me understand that I still had another part of her ‘reward’ to fulfil later with my parents. It seemed hardly possible for me to feel any more miserable.
After the Fletchers had departed I pondered on how best to approach my parents. I wondered what their reaction would be when I told them of my wish to forego my new clothing privileges and my desire to remain in short trousers. Whatever their reaction might turn out to be, I knew I had to make this request, since it would have been the height of folly should I choose not to say anything and risk my parents being told by Mary of how I had got out of my bed to spy on their dinner party guests.
When I finally summoned up courage later that day to raise the matter with them, the interview with my parents was the worse I could remember. While father was initially puzzled at my request, he nevertheless conceded that with Miss Mary’s help I had still managed to do exceptionally well in my exams. He concluded that I should be allowed to satisfy what he termed my ‘whim’.
Mother, on the other hand was positively apoplectic. She told me how she’d had to put up with me nagging her to be allowed to wear long trousers out of school. “And now you tell me you don’t want to wear them after all!” She went on to say what an ungrateful boy I was being. She simply couldn’t understand what had got into me. I was told in no uncertain terms that I could forget all about her buying a second pair of longs. I was told how I had upset her with my fickle behaviour and how she would now have explain to everyone how mistaken she had been in thinking I was ready for long trousers.
If I had been wearing short trousers at the moment she spoke her final words, “Are you intent on showing me up?!” they would, I felt sure, have been accompanied by a few sharp smacks on my bare legs.
It was rare indeed that my parents disagreed on anything, particularly with regard to my upbringing. It was simply unheard of and seeing how deeply divided they were about my request, it made me feel not only ashamed, but guilty that I was the cause of their disagreement.
But despite her protests, mother was overruled and I was allowed by father to fulfil my ‘whim’. I went to my bedroom and sat down with a heavy heart. The prospect of wearing short trousers full-time once more was upsetting and the imminent loss of the rewards I had so long thought that wearing long trousers would bring were gone. Thoughts of how different my life would have been wearing long trousers tormented me in much the same way as did the realisation that I would continue to be excluded from adult company… oh, why had I been so stupid?
But there was nothing for it, so I stood up and took off my longs, folding them neatly before opening my wardrobe to select a pair of short trousers. I had just put them on and pulled up the zip fly when mother came into my room to collect my long trousers.
I handed them to her and as mother took the trousers from me, she spoke: “I hope you’re satisfied,” and left me to wonder if I’d ever see my longs again.
Mother had her revenge the following weekend when an aunt and uncle of mine came to visit with their fourteen year old son, my cousin Nicolas. Nicholas had been given long trousers for his thirteenth birthday and had worn longs for over a year (as I pointed out in the first part of my memoir, different families have different rules… gosh, and how I wished my family’s rules were those of a different family). Despite me still being in short trousers and Nicholas in longs, we got on really well and were good friends. Like the friends of my parents, it didn’t bother Nicholas that I was kept in short trousers even though he would sometimes tease me if he saw me wearing a pair of my particularly brief short trousers. He knew of my parents uncompromising attitude toward my clothing and simply excepted I had no say in what I wore. I’m sure he was also grateful that his own parents did not share the same views as did mine.
It was Sunday afternoon and we were all gathered in the living room. My aunt, uncle, cousin Nicholas and my parents were all sat on the sofa and chairs, while I was sat on the pouffe. This was one of my parents rules; that while wearing short trousers I was not allowed to sit on the sofa or chairs in the living room. I therefore had to either sit on the pouffe, stand, or sit on the floor. Sitting on the pouffe I found rather awkward. Since it was lower than the chairs it meant that I was always looking up at everyone in the room. But that wasn’t the most embarrassing feature of being made to sit on the pouffe. Being sat so low down meant that my knees were almost up to my shoulders which rucked up my short trousers and left my bare thighs, and indeed the lower curves of my bottom, so exposed to make it impossible for anyone in the room to miss the display of bare flesh. Humiliating as it was, sitting on the pouffe was nevertheless marginally less embarrassing than being sat on the floor, where I was expected to sit with legs crossed. I will leave it to your imagination as to the sight I presented in such a position when wearing my uncomfortably brief short trousers.
Naturally it wasn’t long before the conversation turned to the question of why I was back in short trousers. Mother explained what had happened while I sat on the pouffe red-faced. I think Nicholas found my insistence on wearing short trousers difficult to understand, but his parents appeared to accept as plausible the explanation that it was my ‘whim’.
Mother was still clearly very annoyed with me, but what happened next took me by surprise. After she had told Nicholas she’d noticed how he’d had a recent growth spurt which had left his long trousers a little too short, meaning his ankle socks were showing, mother said she’d had an idea.
“Stand up, Nicholas… you too, George,” she said, “Now turn and stand back-to-back and keep still while I measure you… Yes, George, you’re still a few inches taller than Nicholas… never mind, if they’re a bit too long, Nicholas will soon grow into them…”
I was as puzzled as I think Nicholas was when mother used her tape-rule to measure our legs from waist to ankle. I felt Nicholas’s fingers brush the side of my left thigh. It tickled, as he knew it would, and I suddenly jerked my leg, unable to control the reflex action.
“Keep still, George! How can I measure you if you keep jumping about like a grasshopper?” mother snapped.
This was accompanied by a warning smack to my right leg. I kept resolutely still and took a deep breath when I felt Nicholas’s fingers tickle me again. I knew Nicholas wasn’t being mean, just having a bit of fun at my expense. He also knew that mother wouldn’t take kindly to his teasing me if she caught him in the act, so Nicholas was very careful to avoid overdoing it.
I was then in for an even bigger shock when mother disappeared only to return a few minutes later carrying my school longs, the only pair of long trousers I possessed.
“Nicholas can have these trousers as George doesn’t have a use for them any more,” she said to my aunt, “They’re a little bit too long for Nicholas at the moment, but at the rate he’s growing it won’t be long before they fit him perfectly.”
I was thunderstruck. This meant I would have to start the new term at school in short trousers after having spent the past school year in longs. As mother had said I wouldn’t be getting any more longs after her disagreement with father over my ‘whim’ I now no longer had any long trousers at all. It was as if I was being cast adrift once more, condemned to remain a short trouser wearing teenager… for how long was anyone’s guess.
Aunty Vi, Nicholas’s mother was pleased to accept the trousers which mother assured her had had little wear. It wasn’t my place to confirm this, but of course I knew she was correct.
Mother giving away my only pair of long trousers was a traumatic experience, but what happened later in the week was even worse. Every morning as I pulled up a pair of my short trousers I cursed myself for being so stupid as to get out of bed the evening I tried to eavesdrop on one of my parents’ parties. I might have known I’d be found out, but the fact it had been Miss Mary who caught me made it a hundred times worse. I had lost count of the number of times I’d told myself that I should stand up to her, after all I was seventeen, two years older than Mary. But I realised that was impossible. Not now. That boat had weighed anchor and sailed off over the horizon the minute Mary saw me in my pyjamas lying on the floor at the top of the stairs.
Ever since that evening I had been on tenterhooks each time Mary and my parents met, anxious that one slip of the tongue might see my naughty behaviour made public. I cleaved to my belief that if I did everything Mary demanded of me, my secret would remain safe. No matter how high the price, I was willing to pay it in order to keep it that way. Such was my mood when Mary and her mother visited us one afternoon.
As usual when we had guests we were in the living room and as usual, as I have explained, I was sat on the pouffe, uncomfortably displaying my bare legs and smooth thighs.
“You’re wearing short trousers, George,” Miss Mary observed (she only called me Georgie when we were alone together… not wishing to embarrass me in front of our elders, I suppose). “Why aren’t you wearing those long trousers I saw you in the other day?” She asked innocently.
Before I had time to say anything, mother worked up a full head of steam as she launched into a speech about how, after rewarding me for my exam results and allowing me to wear long trousers more often, I had for some unknown reason decided to reject my reward. Mother was most upset at what she called my selfish, inconsiderate, thoughtless conduct. She simply couldn’t understand what had got into me, she explained. It made me even more ashamed of my behaviour as I thought of how cowardly I was being in not being able to face up to the consequences of admitting to my parents that I had been out of bed when I shouldn’t have been. I could have kicked myself for being such a wimp that I would rather let myself be humiliated by Miss Mary than see my parents find out what I’d done.
As their conversation continued mother and Mrs Fletcher discussed the disrespectful behaviour of teenage boys. Then mother explained how father had decided, “... though what possessed him, I’ve no idea…” to accede to my ‘whim’, as he had called it. Mrs Fletcher shook her head in disbelief, sympathising with the awkward position into which this turn of events had placed mother.
There was a lull in the conversation during which Mary rose and came over to where I was sat. Politely I got to my feet. Mary looked down at my bare legs.
“What happened to your long trousers?” Mary asked as if she didn’t know perfectly well what had happened.
Nervously I ran my fingertips along the hem of my short trousers as if to check that I was really wearing them: “I, er… asked father if I could continue to wear short trousers, er… as I,er… liked them better…”
“Oh, I see,” Mary said sounding surprised, “I thought you looked jolly smart in long trousers… it’s a pity you don’t like wearing them…”
Then Mary reached out and touched the hem of my shorts.
“Your legs are very bare, George.” She observed, as if she thought I wasn’t already painfully aware of the fact. “These trousers you’re wearing are very short… are you sure you don’t want to wear long trousers? They’d cover up your bare legs.”
I gulped and was about to say something about preferring to wear short trousers when I heard mother tell Mary how these were not my shortest short trousers.
“You’ve some special short trousers, haven’t you, George?” mother asked me, referring to the pull-up grey shorts with the fully elasticated waistband and no fly or pockets that I mentioned in the first part of my memoir.
My mind was in a whirl. Mary had never seen this pair of particularly humiliating boy’s short trousers and I instinctively knew she would be eager to see them. Inwardly I cursed mother for mentioning these horrible shorts.
Mother spoke again: “Perhaps you’d like show them to Mary?” which wasn’t so much a question, or even a suggestion, but an order confirmed when she added, “You know where they are kept. Go and change into them so that Mary and Mrs Fletcher can see what you wear when you’ve shown me up with your selfish behaviour.” Mother paused before adding words that I dreaded to hear, “...and remember to wear them properly.”
Although these words might have puzzled Mary and her mother, I knew perfectly well what they meant. My heart beat a little faster as I thought of the added humiliation this final sentence conveyed.
I went straight upstairs to my room, thankful Miss Mary had at least stayed in the living room. I opened the drawer in which the little pull-up shorts were kept and took them out. I put them on my bed as I unzipped and tugged down the short trousers I was wearing. I then pushed my fingers into my underpants. Down they went and off. This was what mother meant; no underpants were to be worn underneath the little boy shorts. I was also expected at all times to keep my shirt tucked properly into the short trousers. It was a Sisyphean task, since the school shirt I was wearing had hardly any tails and only just stayed in the shorts I had taken off. This, coupled with the lower waist of the little shorts meant that I was forever trying to keep myself looking respectable. I little realised where this battle to remain decent in the eyes of mother would lead.
Downstairs again and Mary’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw the tiny grey shorts I was wearing, for not only were my thighs fully bare, but she could see exposed the cheeks of my bottom peeking out from under the hem of the shorts.
I hung my head in shame, knowing full well the sight I presented, a boy of seventeen dressed in shorts that would disgrace a ten year old.
“Stand up straight, George!” mother snapped, “You’re slouching again… what have I told you about slouching? Why do I have to keep reminding you to stand up straight?”
I was slouching for a reason, but I apologised and of course the inevitable happened. As I did as I was told, my shirt parted company with my pull-up shorts.
Mother sighed: “... and for heavens sake, George, tuck your shirt in… and don’t start blaming your clothes. If you had a little more pride in your appearance this wouldn’t happen.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Miss Mary and her mother whispering to each other before Mary nodded her head in agreement to whatever it was they were talking about. It wasn’t more than a few seconds later that I found out what it was.
Mrs Fletcher spoke: “Mary attends dance classes and part of the curriculum is devoted to posture exercises… it looks to me as if they’re something George would benefit from.”
“I’m sure he would.” Mother thought for a moment before asking, “Do you think Mary could help him?”
Mrs Fletcher turned to her daughter: “What do you think, Mary? It would mean having to look after George again… showing him the exercises.”
The thought of being ‘looked after’ by Miss Mary again was awful and my heart sank, but I could see by the glint in her eye that Mary didn’t need to be asked twice. However that didn’t stop her from making a big song and dance about whether she had the time and so on.
I couldn’t believe it when mother actually begged Miss Mary to take me in hand, “It would do him so much good… I’m always telling him to sit up straight and I’m forever having to nag him about his table manners… boys simply don’t seem able to grasp even the basics of etiquette…”
It made it appear as if I’d not long been brought in untamed from the wild woods. It was just so unfair. I did try my best. I admit that mother often had to remind me not to sit with my elbows on the table, or to hold my knife and fork properly. Even now mother is liable to embarrass me in public, admonishing with the words, “Elbows, George!”, reducing me to the status of a little boy should I be rash enough to forget my table manners.
Mary agreed to teach me and used the opportunity to obtain an agreement from mother that I should be dressed as I was, in the awful grey pull-up shorts whenever I met Miss Mary for my lessons in deportment.
“That’s settled then,” mother said with satisfaction, “I’m so pleased you’ve agreed, Mary… I’m sure if you use the same methods you used to get George through his exams, you’ll have no difficulty with teaching him not to slouch.”
There was that feeling in the pit of my stomach again. The feeling I had always got whenever I was due to be dropped off at the Fletchers for my study sessions, only now I was to be dressed in the flimsiest, briefest of short trousers. I brushed my finger tips on the sides of my thighs and couldn’t help but wonder how they would be left stinging after one of Miss Mary’s lessons.
I had an agonising few days to wait before arrangements were made for my first lesson. As you might imagine my waking hours were spent wondering just what these new lessons would entail. One thing I was sure of though was that any failing on my part would be dealt with the utmost promptitude by Miss Mary.
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