DADDY'S GIRL Options

[Sekhmet]

DADDY'S GIRL

It is a soft September afternoon, when human creatures feel the downward draw of sleep; and everything conspires towards abandonment.
The soothing thyme scented breezes brush the skin, colluding with the drone of dozens of bees - busily gathering the last of the pollen from the zinnias.
The cushions on the garden chair, smelling sweetly of grass mowings and suntan oil, yield comfortingly to any change of position

It is here, in this pleasant cottage garden, that an elderly gentleman sleeps his dream-laden sleep.
Sheridan Outhwaite is everything an English gentleman should be.
His hair, shining silver in the aftemoon sun, is undiminished by the passing of time. Indeed, he has taken advantage of the licence granted to old age, and has grown it poetically long.
His dark tan cotton jacket, Tattersall check shirt, and sand-coloured linen trousers; so impeccably pressed, and all smelling faintly of Penhaligan's 'Eau de Provence', speak of a man who cares, even at his great age, about the impression he makes upon others.
A grimace flickers across his broad patrician features, and he whimpers in his sleep. His chin drops heavily to his chest, making his hands fly open to ward off some stray phantom passing through his dreams.

Sheridan's daughter Caroline, tip-toes, through the French windows. With her, is her best friend from her boarding school days, Sally Sinclair.
Between them they carry the paraphernalia for aftemoon tea; and are laughing together at some private joke.

For a woman in her mid fifties, Caroline Outhwaite is surprisingly girlish.
Her round, slightly shiny face is innocent of even a dab of powder, and her hairstyle has hardly changed from the way she wore it in the upper sixth at school.
This impression of girlishness is compounded by her plain blue cotton shirtwaist dress, and sensible low-heeled summer shoes.

The cadence of the women's laughter awakens Sheridan fully, and a bemused frown flickers across his forehead as he straightens his posture, and looks vaguely about him.
Caroline and Sally place their trays, laden with honeysuckle-patterned
china, tiny sandwiches and a truly spectacular jam sponge, onto the garden table.

' I hope we didn't wake you up, Mr Outhwaite? ' Sally calls, without a trace of contrition.
She looses her balance as her high heels sink into the lawn; and she has to
place her hand on Sheridan's chest to steady herself. She bends over to smile down into his sleep crumpled face, but in doing so, rather more of her cleavage than she realises is exposed.
His eyes brighten, and he regards Sally with a roguish smile.
'Not at all Sally, m'dear, I'm always delighted to see you. Y' know that, don't you?'
He reaches out, and pats her hand reassuringly, accidentally brushing the top of Sally's lacy bra as he does so.

Caroline, watching this exchange carefully, swats viciously at a bee that has been happily investigating the dusting of icing sugar on the jam sponge.
Mortally wounded, the bee tumbles onto the flowery tablecloth, where it remains buzzing angrily, its legs waving futilely in the air.
Absent-mindedly, Caroline picks up the heavy teapot, and places it firmly on top of the squirming insect. The buzzing ceases.

Now, the women arrange the tea things, pour the tea, pass the sandwiches and, finally - the sponge cake. After which, their conversation turns to local matters; The Harvest Festival; and rallying opposition against the proposed half-way house for newly released prisoners. Soon nothing is Ieft of the aftemoon tea, but a few cake crumbs, and one curling triangle of cucumber sandwich.
Sally looks at her watch. 'Goodness!' she laughs, ' Time I wasn't here! Bless you both for a wonderful tea!'
And with a kiss each for Sheridan and Caroline, and a lingering waft of 'Opium', she is off. They hear her little car splutter into life, and listen until the sound dies away.


As a cloud creeps across the sinking sun, a sudden chilly breeze ruffles the Laburnums. Caroline moves to her father's side.
' You like Sally, don't you Daddy?' She smiles into his happily reminiscent face. Sheridan also smiles at the memory of the sophisticated woman who has just left.
' I should jolly well think I do! A lovely girl, that Sally!'
'I thought so.' Says Caroline, quietly.

She raises the teapot again, higher this time; and brings it down, violently, upon his silver hair.
'You really must remember Daddy - that I am your only girl.' She says conversationally, as,
oblivious of the sticky stream of blood welling from his fractured cranium, she climbs into his lap, and sleepily, places her thumb in her mouth.

She then lifts his limp hand, and places it gently to rest on her breast.

[Guest_ohsteve_*]

Leo, hmmm quite risqué, eh. Very wonderfully descriptive, I could picture it very well. You need to go edit your input title from Dady to daddy. I think you missed a period in the first sentence. The only big nit I have is the color you used, very hard on these old eyes.
Steve

[Sekhmet]

Good morning Steve. and thank you for looking in to read this story. You are absolutely right about the input title - I have poked around in the works, but can find no way to change it - so, to my shame, it will have to remain for all to see. I have changed the colour/color to a darkish grey - hope that this change will help those who may, or may not, follow.
Risque'? Possibly - but I was raised without a father - and have noticed how many girls, (and even grown women) treat their fathers rather like boyfriends - or in some cases, like lovers.
One can't help but wonder - and so - I did.
Luv,
Leo

[Guest_ohsteve_*]

Leo, If you clcik on edit then click on full edit it will open the page with the title at the very top and you can change it there, i went ahead and changed it for you. The color change is definitly better for me anyways....lol. I can remember my girls sitting in my lap up until they turned about eight or nine then they proclaimed they were too old for that. But now I have a granddaughter that will sit there for a few more years anyway...lol.

Steve

[Sekhmet]

Bless you Steve! I am something of a Luddite about the byways of computer technology -
Our older granddaughter, now aged twenty, is away at University - but the eleven-year-old is still perfectly happy to have a cuddle - so Grandpa is still needed.
Thanks,
Leo

[vessq]

Hi Leo,

This is good work. I will come back and go over it more carefully when I have time.

Your descriptive work is wonderful. I have much to learn about that. Critics always want more description and background in my stories. I am afraid I fail to provide the wonderful description you are so good at. Perhaps my style is so different it would be ludicrous to attempt to write like you do. I am tempted to try anyway.

I would suggest moving this story to either Critique Circle or Scribophile. MM is great for poems but the short stories seem to draw few critiques.

I have stopped posting stories on MM for that reason but it is the best site for poems.

Google Critiique Circle or Scribophile and you will find them.

Vess

[Sekhmet]

Good Morning Vess - I did reply earlier, but my usual technical ineptitude has struck me down again; and I see that my reply has disappeared into a pot-hole on the Super-Highway. I thank you for taking the trouble to read, 'Daddy's Girl', and for your very generous crit! As you imply, posting short stories on MM is not unlike putting ones typescript into a bottle, and casting it into the Atlantic.
Thank you too, for pointing me in the direction of Critique Circle - I have taken your advice, and joined.
I am now standing in line in the, 'Newbies Queue' - awaiting my turn to be admitted for critique.
Leo

[vessq]

Hi Leo,

You will find the critics of your short stories helpful on cc. It is well designed to del with short stories and there are good critics there.

Vess