Making Her Wait - 1950's Style

We’d moved from the shared house where Mrs X had danced so desperately outside the shared lavatory, (see Making her Wait – 1940’s style) and therefore I never had another opportunity of making her wait to use it. Although many things were still rationed, such as meat, bread, butter and sweets, things slowly started to improve in the fifties (although not much) and we even spent the occasional day out, which meant using the generally rather primitive public conveniences at some time during the course of the day.
As a small boy, I quite often accompanied my mother into the ladies’ lavatories, waiting in line with her as she queued for a cubicle to become vacant. She always made sure she had an old penny in her purse to insert into the coin slot in the door, without which it wouldn’t unlock (and of course the origin of the expression “going to spend a penny”).
I have often watched fascinated as my mother struggled to hold up overcoat, skirt and petticoats whilst endeavouring to lower her knickers and nearly wetting herself in the process. This however, was the least of the problems. In those days, women all wore a girdle or corset equipped with four or more suspenders to hold up their stockings. Girdles commonly came down to cover the tops of the thighs, thus giving a smooth dress line over the hips. This very tight garment had to be got out of the way before sitting upon the lavatory, and meant a further (often desperate) struggle to undo the suspenders and roll up the bottom of the girdle. Afterwards of course the whole process had to be repeated in reverse, although without the usual ‘pee dance’ as it would now be called.
Although a small boy, I looked forward to these forays into the (later to be forbidden world) of the ladies’ lavatories. I quickly became aware of the fact that as the women got inside and became close to the opportunity for relief, so they became increasingly desperate. I particularly recall one such occasion when visiting the zoo and as usual accompanied my mother to the ladies. She was, in her own words, “bursting to spend a penny” and with folded arms and crossed legs, kept muttering, “Oh, come on!” as the queue inched its way forward. We were only one or two places from the front when a middle–aged woman was propelled to the front of the queue and bundled into the cubicle, on the grounds that she was “going to have an accident.” My mother was furious, and shouted at her, “We’re all waiting, you know!” a fact that I would have thought was self –evident. When it did become our turn, my mother became quite agitated as she tried to close and lock the door behind the two of us in a cubicle only made for one. Not long afterwards, I was deemed too grown up to accompany her into the ladies’ and this pleasure was denied me again until my courting days, but that’s another story.
In my early teens, my mothers’ cousins moved from Belfast to Kingston upon Thames and were therefore able to visit us in London from time to time. Uncle Phil and Aunt Emmy had a boy around the same age as myself named Winston, presumably in honour of Winston Churchill (although he never fulfilled that promise and became a dustman when he grew up). Aunt Emmy had a delightfully weak bladder, which cried out to be exploited and one Sunday afternoon that opportunity presented itself.
Uncle Phil and Aunt Emmy had come to visit that Sunday afternoon, and the plan was that they would take Winston and myself to the pictures (as we called the cinema then) after tea. Tea was of course a meal, with sandwiches and cakes, washed down with copious quantities of the national drink. As the afternoon wore on, and teapot followed teapot, I noted that Aunt Emmy hadn’t visited the lavatory – she was always a little embarrassed at any mention of such things, and would only sneak away when she thought no one would notice. Unfortunately, seated round the dining table as we were, such an opportunity never readily presented itself.
When tea was finished, I excused myself on some pretext and made for my bedroom, which was just around a turn in the hall next to the only lavatory. I knew it would not be long before Aunt Emmy’s bladder could no longer be ignored and I was right as I soon heard her voice approaching and Uncle Phil replying. This was my cue to slip quickly into the lavatory and lock the door, which I achieved before they turned the corner of the hall. I heard Uncle Phil saying, “It’s just there,” and Auntie Emmy trying the door. Then, “Oh dear, there’s someone in there,” (although she must have known it was me – everyone else was presumably still in the sitting room) “never mind – I’ll come back later” I heard her say, and her footsteps made off back down the hall.
A minute or two later, I vacated the lavatory, removing the key from the keyhole as I went, and positioned myself where I could overhear the conversation. The women in the family were chattering happily and five or ten minutes went by before there was a short lull in the conversation. I heard Aunt Emmy say, “You’ll have to excuse me – I’ll only be a moment” (how embarrassed she must have been to let everyone know where she had to go!). My heart pounded – I knew from long observation that large quantities of tea multiplied by lack of toilet visits equalled a proportional degree of desperation. I peeped through the crack of my bedroom door and very soon my machinations were well rewarded. Aunt Emmy appeared at what could only be described as a fast hobble, handbag suspended over left arm and right hand firmly inserted between her thighs. She made it into the lavatory and banged the door shut behind her.
It took about a fifth of a second for my eye to get to the keyhole – the view now unencumbered by the presence of a key. Only inches from my face, Aunt Emmy had her long pleated skirt and black lace–edged slip scrunched up round her waist and was busy undoing the black suspenders of her open–bottomed girdle, whilst delightfully jigging up and down on the spot. She was wearing a pair of silky French knickers and instead of pulling them down, she squatted over the lavatory and pulled the gusset to the side with one hand, while holding up her clothes with the other. Hardly had she achieved these manoeuvres when she began to pee like a racehorse – a high–pressure stream that hissed out of her and seemed to go forever. I found difficulty in breathing, even through my wide–open mouth! When she eventually finished, I could hear her sigh through the thickness of the closed door.
Later, on the way to the pictures in Uncle Phil’s small car, I sat next to Aunt Emmy in the back seat. Her stockings rustled under her slip as she crossed her legs and set my heart pounding again as I recalled the vision of her, desperately holding herself on the way to the lavatory. She’s been dead many a long year now, but I can still see her grappling frantically with her girdle as clearly as if it were yesterday.
By: Geoff