A Shed, Summer, and Scarborough

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OK, here’s my offering for the Summer Loving contest. It’s a love story primarily but, because the principal character’s mother is involved in an incestuous liaison with her son, it’s an incest piece too.

Some of the terms I use are colloquial, but where I’ve included local expressions I’ve also put in a brief explanation for those unfamiliar with the terms.

I intended some of the dialogue to come over with a regional inflection — Yorkshire, England — but I have, however, kept it to a minimum; not only would it make the piece less attractive to read, it’s bloody tiring to write too!

As ever, feedback is appreciated.

Any errors that remain I apologise for.

I hope you enjoy mu efforts. GA — Ely, Cambridgeshire — 18th August 2012.


The picture, a black and white photograph, faded almost sepia after over four decades, shows three figures on the sands at Scarborough. We’re smiling broadly in a busy seafront scene, with the Lord Nelson hotel behind us. I’m in the middle, trousers belted around a shirt that billows behind me in the brisk breeze like a spinnaker. Despite the wind it’s a warm day, and the sleeves of the shirt are rolled up around my forearms, while my mother and Carolyn both wear light summer dresses. My mother, Marjorie is grinning at my profile while I stare out of the picture, looking right into the camera lens. On the other side of me is Carolyn, dressed in blue I recall, while my mother wore a summery canary yellow.

The photo brings back memories of that summer, memories that I haven’t let slip away, but which, like the picture, are faded by years.

That summer saw huge occurrences in my life. I lost my virginity, and had a number of sexual adventures that I sometimes can’t quite believe happened. But they did come about, and that photo whisks me right back in time, to the Lord Nelson Hotel in Scarborough, and the weeks leading up to the visit.


Carolyn sunbathed in the garden oblivious to my presence while I watched, my face pressed against the rough, untreated wood, with an eye to the hole I’d enlarged with a penknife. The woman, voluptuous and ripe, lay on the deckchair, her body covered by a daring bikini while I sweated within the confines of the shed. I wanted to touch myself but had been too afraid of discovery. It would be bad enough to be caught there as it was, my lecherous transgression obvious, but to be found there with my trousers around my ankles, erect cock in my hand … Well, it wouldn’t be too good.

I watched for a full hour as Carolyn first basted the front of her body, my eyes fixed on her big tits — which I wished weren’t covered, I’d love to see her jugs all bare — before she rolled over and did the same to her back. Finally she hefted herself up on extended arms, her breasts hanging beneath her as she swivelled her body and sat on the edge of the striped, canvas seat.

Facing me she reached for her cigarettes which lay on the grass next to the deckchair. She lit up and smoked for a few seconds, giving me one last, lingering look at her body before she rose to her feet, picked up the towel and her cigarettes, and walked back up the garden path towards the house.

It wasn’t a big garden, but a tall hedge masked the shed from view from the house. The path to the shed led alongside the brickwork of a neighbouring fence, past a postage stamp of lawn, and down another five yards or so to where my father, before he’d buggered off, had laid a flagstone patio. In the tightly packed and densely populated terraced street. The garden, due to the high hedge and shed, afforded valuable privacy in an area where people lived, almost literally, packed in on top of one another. Although our house was different since there were only three of us living there — my mother, her friend Carolyn, the object of my lecherous eye at that present moment, and of course, me.

With Carolyn out of sight I yanked down my trousers and tugged at my stiff penis. I masturbated and fantasised over my mother’s best friend, imagining the woman in all manner of lewd poses, her lovely tits exposed as she breathlessly exhorted me to fuck her.

The spunk squirted from me as I gasped and moaned, eyes closed while those images streamed past me in my mind’s eye. I wished so fervently that I could wank my cock over Carolyn’s breasts while she knelt and offered their creamy-skinned substance as a target. Finally, spent, which I knew would be only a temporary condition such was my ardour and yearning for Carolyn’s voluptuous curves, I’d be ready to fire again soon, I watched my jizm slide heavy and thick down the wall before hiking up my trousers and stuffing my leaking cock back inside.


The following day dawned early, as it does in late June in this part of the world. The sky, bright blue with not a puff of cloud anywhere to be seen, promised another glorious day of sunshine; perfect for watching Carolyn down in the garden.

I ate breakfast and pretended to go to work, leaving the house by the front door but immediately turning back to scuttle along the ginnel, a illegal bahis dark arch of a tunnel that ran the length of the houses, front to back. Every house had a ginnel, shared with the neighbouring terrace, to give access to the back without the need to trail dirty work boots over clean floors and carpets, especially necessary during coal deliveries. After a brief pause I sucked in a deep breath and, chancing it, if Mum or Carolyn chanced to look out of one of the back windows I’d be caught, I hurried along the path down to the shed.

Once inside, with the door at my back, breathing heavily in response to the heady excitement at what might lie ahead and the risk I’d taken walking boldly along the garden path in broad daylight, I eased the satchel off my shoulder and settled down to wait. In the bag, an old canvas backpack, a remnant from the war, I’d packed the usual packet of cheese sandwiches, a bottle of pop and a book, which I started to read after making myself comfortable in the old, worn-out armchair that had been left forgotten in the shed after dad had left us.

The morning dragged by and, although cool at first, as the day wore on the shed began to warm. I waited, reading the book and lifting my watch on the end of its chain out of my pocket every few minutes. Every so often I pressed my eye to the hole in the shed wall to see if Carolyn had decided to make the trip along the path.

I waited, and then waited some more.

I waited even longer, until eventually the sandwich had been eaten and the fizzy drink was gone. By mid afternoon I’d even finished the book, and I cursed my idiocy, the insanity of what I’d done. Why had I come here? I questioned my judgement in skiving off work, with the subsequent loss of a day’s wage to hide in the shed for a brief look at a woman I could never possibly have.

What had I been thinking?

I peered out of the spyhole to see … nothing, just the patio and hedge, no sign of Carolyn, who, I decided, must be away out on some errand or other.

It was time to leave this fool’s task, and so I gathered up the rubbish, put it all in the satchel along with the book, and opened the shed door.

Of course, she was walking towards me. Sod’s Law.

Seeing me emerge from the shed, Carolyn gave a yelp. She clutched the towel to her chest and blinked several times as her mouth opened and closed. Then, when she realised who’d appeared so suddenly and unexpected from the shed, with puzzlement in her voice, she said, “Eric? What the hell …?”

I had no excuse, what possible reason could I concoct for my presence when I should have been at work in the railway yard. Being just as shocked as Carolyn I blinked, stuttering, “Oh! I … uh … I was …” I looked behind me at the shed door but no inspiration came from the dumb planks. Flustered and blushing I looked down at the toecaps of my outsized boots, saying no more.

Carolyn stared at me and her eyes slit with suspicion. “What are you doing here, Eric? It’s the middle of the afternoon, why aren’t you at work?”

“I just fancied an afternoon off,” I lied. “It’s a nice day and I didn’t want to be down at the yards.”

“So you thought you’d hide in a smelly old shed instead?”

It did sound stupid, skiving work because of the weather, but choosing to hide out in the shed when it was such a glorious summer day outdoors.

“Well,” I blustered. “I didn’t know if … if you were in and you’d tell mum and she’d …” I shrugged. “Well, you know what she’s like.” I hoped reference to my mother’s intractable nature and propensity towards stern lectures about my work ethic and the laziness of youth in general might work on Carolyn.

Carolyn sighed and smiled. “I know,” she said, rolling her eyes and giving me a lop-sided, wry grin. “You’d think she was seventy five, not forty five.” She looked at me kindly. “Go on then. I won’t say anything to her.”

Relief at getting away with it rushed over me like a cold wave. “Thanks, Carolyn,” I sighed.

“I’m just out to get some sun on my skin,” Carolyn continued. She gestured with the towel. “It was such a terrible winter … I hope you don’t mind me down here in nowt but me bikini. It’s a bit of a small one; I wouldn’t dare wear it at the seaside, but down here where there’s nobody to see …”

I blushed, feeling my face grow hot at the direct reference to Carolyn’s swimwear. “Oh, no,” I began, stammering on. “I don’t mind at all. You … uh … you look …”

“… Like a fat, old woman?” Carolyn finished for me.

Fat? God no. Voluptuous and fuckable, curved and rounded in all the right places. “Fat?” I said. “You’re not fat, Carolyn. I’d say … I’d … I mean you’re … I think you’re beautiful,” I croaked. Desire for Carolyn surged through me and, reckless with lust I stumbled on uncaring. “I’d give anything to have a girlfriend like you.”

Carolyn threw me an odd look, probably thinking I’d gone crazy. She dropped the towel and lit a cigarette. Drawing at it she eyed me, looking me up and down from my boots to my eyes. “But I’m so old, Eric. Could you be seen out illegal bahis siteleri with a forty-two year old? What would people say? I know it’s 1964 and not 1904, but …”

She was taking me seriously. I’d stammered out a clumsy admission to fancying her, and she hadn’t actually laughed in my face.

I blurted, “I wouldn’t care. I’d be happy to take you out. Anywhere, I’ll take you anywhere. Where would you like to go? When? Tomorrow night? Friday night?”

“Oh, Eric … darling, I’m only teasing, I ‘m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t wear this in front of you if it’s going to get you all … frisky. I’m old enough to be your mother. I’m your mother’s best friend!”

I stared at Carolyn for a moment before, feeling like a prize idiot, fleeing up the path towards the house.

How could I face Carolyn again after that ignominious cock-up?


“Scarborough,” my mother had announced four days later on the Friday evening. “I reckon we should take a run down to Scarborough tomorrow.”

“What a good idea,” Carolyn had chirruped, “a day out at the seaside!”

“You too, Eric,” my mother had said, probably because as an employee of the railway I’d get us there for no fare.

I avoided both of their expectant faces, especially Carolyn’s after my humiliation down at the shed. I’d avoided the woman all week, leaving for work early and contriving to be in her presence only when my mother was around.

I rose and carried my dinner plate to the sink. “Oh, uh … I dunno …”

“Oh, come on, Eric,” Carolyn had responded. “Treat your mum and me to a day at the seaside. It’ll be fun. We could have an ice-cream, ride on a donkey, take a refreshing paddle in the water …”

My mother, warming now that her friend had concurred, caught Carolyn’s infectious enthusiasm, adding, “Ooh, that sounds lovely. We could take a picnic … Oh, come on, Eric, don’t be so mardy.” She turned to Carolyn and muttered, sotto voce, “Just like his bloody father. Miserable awld bugger never did want to have any fun. Not until he decided to bugger off with—”

And to avoid an evening of discourse on my errant father’s faults — of which there were myriad according to mum — I interjected with, “All right. Let’s go to Scarborough. I’ll get my almanac and check the times, but I’m sure there’s a special out of York just after eight.”

People were forever asking me the times of trains, and even though I had nothing to do with that side of the operation, since I laboured down at the sidings, the insignia on the breast of my donkey-jacket identified me as a railway employee, and that was enough cause for me to be asked all manner of obscure questions. The book I carried in the inside pocket of my jacket confirmed a summer special, an addition to the timetable in anticipation of increased demand in the warmer months, was indeed due out of York early the following day.

In the morning I sat on the train opposite my mother and Carolyn as the wheels’ slowed, their clickety-clack winding down when the train eased into the curves in the track and followed the route dictated by the River Derwent a few miles before the North Yorkshire market town of Malton.

“I’ll not be a moment,” my mother said, rising.

A crater of awkwardness yawed before me in my mother’s absence, and I ignored Carolyn, preferring to watch the river running alongside the train like a faithful dog.

Nevertheless I could feel the heat of her stare burning into me. “What’s up, Eric?” the woman asked. “You’ve been off with me since the other day.”

Embarrassed, I just stared out of the window as the cottages at Crambeck slid past, kids hanging off the gate, waving.

“I’m sorry,” Carolyn persisted. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” She sighed and fidgeted with the brim of the sunhat she held in her lap.

I shrugged, blushing, and said, “No, it’s all right. I’m sorry. I got carried away the other day.” With a shy grin, I added, “It must have been the sun.”

Carolyn smiled and then pouted. “Oh, so you don’t think I’m beautiful after all? It was just the bloody sun?” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, smiling at me through the soft frame of her blonde hair to show me, clearly, she’d been joking. She leaned forward, her breasts rolling in the bodice of her light summer dress. Clasping the hat to her thighs, Carolyn continued. “I really am sorry, Eric. It was a bad thing to do. You’re so young and I forget you’re only twenty; what, with your dad gone and you working, somehow you seem older to me that you really are.” She looked out towards the fields as the train pulled into Malton station. Quietly, as the diesels rumbled and passengers left the train while more got on, Carolyn mumbled something I only half caught, something about her bikini and it being inappropriate wearing it in front of a young man such as myself.

Doors slammed shut along the length of the carriages before the engines growled hugely, roaring and belching black smoke that billowed down from the station roof . I leaned towards Carolyn and, in an urgent mutter, told her I thought she canlı bahis siteleri looked beautiful in the bikini, about how her age meant nothing to me and that I meant what I’d said. With heat reddening my face I finished with, “I’d love it if you’d come out with me, Carolyn.”

Carolyn blushed, a soft, sweeping suffusion of pink from her deep décolletage, which crept along her throat and bloomed in her cheeks.

She looked at me while the pedestrian overbridge and crossing lights clanged past, and the train, with the Derwent on our left, clattered and swayed towards Seamer and the coast beyond.

“Eric,” Carolyn began. She paused and I could see the conflict in her face. “Eric, I … I don’t know what to say. There’s so much about me you don’t know. Things aren’t like they seem.” I asked her what she meant. She paused for a moment and then grimaced, saying, “It’s complicated, Eric …”

And then my mother’s return cut off any further explanation as to what made the situation so difficult. “That toilet’s a disgrace,” my mother said, sniffing.

I spent the rest of the journey contemplating the complexity Carolyn had alluded to. It would be a minor scandal certainly — a mature woman, whose reputation was already sullied from a string of unsuitable men being seen in the company of a man half her age would stir up a cold wind of gossip up and down the ginnels. Pursed lips and sideways glances, sudden silences and scandalised, gleeful outrage would rustle through our compressed neighbourhood of terraced houses and closed minds.

The floozy and that lad of Marjorie’s. He’s only twenty …

Tthe mucky cow, she’s never kept a fella in her life, but now she’s gettin’ on she’s set her cap at ‘im, a young lad who can make her feel better about herself now she en’t got long left of her looks.

Aye, dirty scrubber … It’s Marjorie I feel sorry for, though, poor love. She took that woman in and gave ‘er a roof … How long ago now? Two, three years? Aye, it’s a bloody disgrace … runnin’ after that lad …

Yes, I could see it all, but that didn’t stop me wanting her, and I couldn’t help but think that there was more to it. What had she said just before Mum came back? Complicated? Difficult, yes I’d agree with difficult, but I didn’t see the complicated bit.

We left the train and walked down to the seafront, with me lugging the picnic hamper as I dodged and weaved through the crowded esplanade. There were people everywhere, all drawn to the coast by the promise of warm days. I saw men in shirtsleeves and ladies in bright summer frocks, happy and chattering, faces tilted skyward like pale sunflowers. A woman, a nanny judging by her smart two-piece suit that hinted at a uniform, strolled by, smiling at me while her charge, in a wheeled buggy the size of a basket under a hot-air balloon, scowled with Churchillian disapproval from under a huge awning.

We ate the picnic on the sands next to the little harbour and its fishing boats. Gulls wheeled and squabbled overhead, or stood with beady-eyed purpose, waiting for an opportunity to snatch a sandwich from the unwary. I watched surreptitiously while Carolyn, with the hem of her dress tucked up under her legs and the sun hat on her head, ate a sandwich, which she held with dainty elegance between a forefinger and thumb while her eyes regarded the lighthouse and the sun-speckled pewter of the North Sea beyond.

At the end of the picnic, replete, Carolyn lit a cigarette and suggested a drink in the bar of Lord Nelson hotel behind us.

“I don’t think I’ll bother,” my mother replied. She pulled a face and looked at the tall facade of the pub. “But you two go, don’t let me spoil it.” She pointed along Foreshore Road. “I’ll pop along and get a stick of rock to take back.”

Mum went off to buy her sugary treat while I led Carolyn into the bar. We were in luck and grabbed a table just vacated. Carolyn sat at the table to stake our claim while I went up to the bar.

At last, time alone so I could put my questions to Carolyn as she sipped port and lemon.

“Oh, Eric,” the woman sighed after lighting up a cigarette. “It’s complicated, I told you.” She looked away, picking a stray flake of tobacco from the corner of her mouth with a little finger. She smoked and then looked me in the eye. “And why do you keep going on, anyway? You know what it’d be like … The gossip, the snide comments …”

Blushing I sipped at the pint and thought about what I wanted to say. “I like you, Carolyn. I like you a lot. I don’t care about people saying stuff about us. I just want to take you out, have a good time …” I gestured around the pub with a sweep of an arm. “Like this. Talking to you while we have a drink. Nobody minds us in here.”

The woman drew on the cigarette and contemplated in silence for a few long seconds. She nodded, slowly. “Yeah, it’s nice. This is lovely. I appreciate that you … find me attractive, Eric; I do, I really do. And I’m flattered.” Carolyn grinned and rolled her eyes. “A young fella like you — good-looking, working, steady …” She nodded again. “If it were just us, Eric …” Carolyn’s voice dropped and she slid closer to me along the bench seat. I could feel the heat of her body and smell her scent she was so close. ‘If there was nobody else to think about … well … I reckon I’d give you a go.”

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