The Fountains of Youth

Claire carefully adjusted her top so that it would reveal as much of her cleavage as possible, and then bent down to help little Hannah take her dress off. As she did so, she peered over the rim of her sunglasses at the handsome young man on the opposite side of the courtyard. He’d noticed her, she was sure of that: but what was it he wanted to see? That was the question. Tits or legs? Well, she thought, as she gathered the girls’ dresses together, I can always make sure he gets a good eyeful of both, just to make sure.
“Right, monsters,” she said, giving Jane a friendly pat on the bottom as she did so. The girls all giggled. They liked it when Claire called them monsters. “You can go and play in the fountains if you want to. But just remember I’ve not brought anything for you to change into, so if you get your knickers wet you’re just going to have to wear them like that for the rest of the day. Got that?”
“Yes Auntie Claire,” they chirruped in unison.
“Off you all go, then.”
They didn’t need telling twice. All three girls turned and ran straight into the middle of the fountains, and in next to no time they were screaming and splashing with the other children. Claire also noticed, with an indulgent smile, that hardly had they entered the fountains when all three girls were completely drenched, knickers and all. Well, she thought, that’s children for you. There’d just better not be any grizzling later in the day when they were cold and damp and uncomfortable.
The three girls – Rebecca, Jane and Hannah – weren’t actually Claire’s nieces. For the past two summers she had managed to earn enough to make considerable inroads into her student debts by working as a live–in mother’s help, looking after the girls while their high–powered parents were off at work doing whatever it is that high–powered parents do. It was Ian and Margot, her employers, who had introduced her to their daughters as “Auntie Claire,” and that was what the girls had always called her. She didn’t mind. They were smashing kids: she doted on them, and they adored her. So much so that there had been no end of tears when she explained that as she was on a four year course and would be looking to find a permanent job after she graduated, this was going to be the last summer that she looked after them. The girls had put their heads together and announced that they would sulk all summer unless she changed her plans and agreed to look after them every summer for ever and ever; but with skilful diplomacy and more than a little hard bargaining, Claire had managed to buy of their sulks with the promise of lots and lots and lots of outings this summer to make up. Which was fine by her, because taking the girls on outings was the part of her job she liked the best.
She’d taken them on this year’s outing the day before. They had gone for a ride on the London Eye: an enormous Ferris wheel on the south bank of the river Thames. You ride in glass capsules, and from the top of the wheel you can see the whole of London, or so it appeared.
Outings this year were easier, too, because there was so much less to carry. Rebecca had seen to that. As they were getting ready to go to the Eye, Claire had gone upstairs to the girls’ bedrooms to collect some “emergency things” – spare knickers, socks, shorts and T–shirts, which she always took on outings just in case any of the girls had an accident. She went to Hannah’s room first, but when she had found what she needed in Hannah’s chest of drawers and turned to leave the room, Rebecca was standing in the doorway.
“What are you doing, Auntie Claire?” she asked, looking suspiciously at the clothes in Claire’s hands.
“I’m just getting the emergency things together.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t take them with us if I don’t fetch them first, can I?”
“Yes,” Rebecca persisted, “but why do you want to take them?”
“You know why I take them, Rebecca love. It’s just in case of accidents.”
“Don’t you think we’re getting a bit old for that now, Auntie Claire?”
Claire thought about it. Rebecca was nine; and Hannah, the youngest, was now seven. Last year she’d dutifully carried the “emergency things” with her on every outing they’d been on, and not needed them once. The year before she’d only needed them twice – once for Jane, who had just turned six, and once for Hannah, who was five at the time. But even little Hannah was seven now, and maybe Rebecca had a point. So she’d gone back downstairs and called the girls together, and asked them whether they all thought it would be unnecessary for her to carry “emergency things” with her on outings this year. They had all agreed with Rebecca, so that was decided.
“If you don’t have to carry the emergency things with you everywhere,” said Rebecca, “you’ll have a free hand. Which will make it much easier for you to eat ice cream with us, won’t it?”
“Yes,” Claire laughed, “I suppose it will.”
“Oh goody!” cried Jane, just a little too enthusiastically. “Does that mean you’re going to buy us all lots and lots of ice cream?”
“I should think I’ll be buying you some,” said Claire, who had realised just that little bit too late how comprehensively the girls had stitched her up. “But not lots and lots, because it’ll fill you up and make you want to keep running off for a wee all the time.”
“We’ll manage,” said Rebecca.
“You’d better,” Claire had chuckled. “After all, we’re going out without emergency things this year, remember.”
And so they had set out for the London Eye, with Claire reflecting on the fact that whilst the girls might be able to stuff ice cream all day and not suffer for it, she probably couldn’t. For, unlike Rebecca, she had not been dry at seven, or even nine. She had continued having occasional daytime wetting accidents right up until she went to university; and once she was there she soon acquired a reputation as “the girl who wets herself when she gets drunk”. This was not without its advantages, of course. For one thing it meant that the boys were always falling over themselves to buy her drinks; and for another, it meant that she had never had a boy invite her back to his place after a party. They always suggested going to hers, instead. Which meant that the few times she had woken up the morning after in a wet bed with a stranger beside her, it was at least her own bed, and there was a selection of her own dry clothes close at hand to change into. She had never had to walk back through town in wet clothes, which was at least something.
While they rode the London eye, they discussed the various places that Claire could take them for outings this year, and tried to decide where they wanted to go. The final list was absurdly long, but Claire promised she’d discuss it with their parents and see how many of them she could get onto the agenda. They were happy with that, so she bought them all an ice cream when the ride was over.
Today had dawned bright and clear and stiflingly hot, and Claire had said that no way was she going to take them to Brighton as originally intended. An hour and a half cooped up in a stuffy train without any sort of air conditioning on a day such as today was not her idea of fun; and the girls probably wouldn’t care for it all that much, either. So she tore up the original plan for the day and took them to Somerset House instead. They arrived just as the fountains began one of their computer–controlled displays of “dancing” – the jets suddenly becoming more powerful and taller, then less so, in a bewildering and beautifully choreographed array of different geometric and rhythmic variations. The girls had loved it, but soon tired of just watching. There were other children actually playing in among the water jets – some fully clothed, some in swimming costumes, the very youngest totally naked – and the girls had pestered Claire to be allowed to go and join the fun. Claire had agreed on two conditions: that they stripped to their knickers so as not to get their other clothes wet, and that they didn’t grizzle if they got their knickers wet and had to continue wearing them because she had brought nothing for them to change into. The girls readily consented to her conditions, and as a result Claire was now free to see if she could work her charms on the handsome stranger on the other side of the quadrangle.
She ambled over to the corner of the courtyard, where there were tables and chairs were all laid out, and carefully folded the girls’ dresses. Then, having placed them neatly on the table furthest from the fountains, she sat in a chair facing the young man and carefully adjusted the hem of her skirt. She tried to make it look as though she was baring as much of her legs to the sun as she could without showing any onlookers anything more than a bit of thigh. In reality, however, she knew she had lifted her skirt too far for that, and that from where he stood the young man would now have a fair view of her crisp, white cotton knickers– and of the whole of her legs, of course. So that whether it was tits or legs that excited him, he’d seen them both now and would hopefully show an interest. She settled back into her chair and waited.
It didn’t take long. Within a couple of minutes the stranger had wandered across to her table. He was trying to look nonchalant; but Claire noticed that as he approached he always kept himself in a perfect position to see up her skirt. He also had to walk past several unoccupied seats and one completely clear table to reach her. She had her sunglasses on, so he couldn’t see that she was observing him closely; and she took care that the rest of her body, which he could see, appeared to be ignoring his approach.
“Hi,” he said, smiling down at her.
“Hi,” she said, carefully not smiling back, but turning towards him in such a way as to flash even more of her knickers. She noted with satisfaction the effect this had on the front of his jeans.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Whatever.”
He sat down.
“Are you planning to stay for long?”
“That depends upon the girls,” she said. “I’ll stay as long as they want to.”
“Ah yes,” he said, fingering the fabric of the neatly folded dress at the top of the neat little pile of clothes on the table. “The girls: your daughters?”
“How old do you think I am?” Claire spluttered indignantly, brushing her skirt down a bit so as to deny the cheeky pup the pleasure of seeing her knickers.
“It’s difficult to say,” the man replied evenly. “But if you were to remove those sunglasses, I might be able to make a more accurate assessment. It always helps to be able to see a person’s eyes, don’t you think?”
Claire grinned, and removed the shades.
“Ah,” said the man. “Obviously not your daughters. Your little sisters, perhaps?”
“Not even that,” said Claire. “I’m their nanny.”
“God’s teeth!” exclaimed the man, his face assuming a terribly over–acted expression of horror. “And there was me thinking you weren’t even old enough to be their mother. You must be a lot older than you look.”
“I don’t mean that sort of nanny,” Claire said, smiling despite herself. “I look after them every summer while their parents are at work.”
“What fun,” said the man.
“It is,” said Claire. “It pays well, too. And I get to do all the things I’d have loved to do when I was a kid but never did because my parents couldn’t afford it. We went on the Eye yesterday. We’re going to the zoo tomorrow. And we’ve got plans to go bowling and pony riding, and on a river boat, and to the London dungeon, not to mention day trips to just about every seaside resort within day trip range of London.”
“Sounds exhausting,” said the man. “Thirsty work, I’ll bet.”
“It can be,” said Claire. “But it beats stacking shelves in Asda.”
“I guess,” he said. “Look, I’m awfully thirsty myself and I’m just about to go for a drink. Can I get you something?”
“Thanks,” said Claire. “Anything long and cold will do.”
“Okay,” said the man. “By the way, I’m Phil.”
“Claire,” said Claire.
Phil went to fetch the drinks, and while he was away Claire adjusted her skirt again so he’d get just the slightest glimpse of her knickers when he returned. After all, he had really only been joking when he pretended to interpret the word “nanny” as meaning that she was the girls’ grandmother; and it had been quite funny, after all. A minute or two later he returned with the drinks, and they sat and chatted for what seemed like ages. She told him all about herself – well, not quite all – and about life at university.
“I wish I’d been able to go to university,” he said a little wistfully.
“So why didn’t you?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you when I get back,” he replied, and took their empty glasses for refills.
It turned out that Phil was dyslexic, but wasn’t diagnosed until he was fifteen. By that time it was too late for him to have any hope of passing any exams, even with specialist help.
“But it wasn’t all bad,” he grinned.
“Why’s that?”
“Well,” he explained, “we dyslexics can’t picture things in our heads. We can’t hold a mental image.”
“What, not at all?”
“No,” he said. “My dreams are like radio plays: all dialogue and no pictures. Whereas yours, I understand, are more like television.”
“Yeah,” said Claire. “Second rate low budget B–movies for the most part in my case.”
“There you are then,” said Phil. “I don’t get any of that, and I can’t picture anything except what I can actually see in front of me at the time. Which turns out to be a tremendous boon in my line of work.”
“Which is?”
“I’m a photographer,” said Phil.
“So where are your cameras?”
“At home,” he shrugged. “I’m just on a reconnaissance mission today. Casing the joint, as it were; looking for angles, and lighting effects. The fountains are really wonderful and I can do all sorts of things with them. Or could, if only it wasn’t for all the children.”
“Don’t you like children then?”
“Oh it’s not that,” said Phil. “I’d love to be able to do some stuff with children. I mean, look at them all, enjoying themselves in the fountains– pure joy on their faces– simple, innocent fun; consisting of nothing more than shrieking and running about and getting wet. Like that little girl over there standing so the fountain squirts up her skirt. Or that one, in just her knickers, sitting underneath another of the fountains.”
“That’s one of mine,” said Claire. “And I’ve not got any dry things for her to change into, so she’d better not grizzle about having to wear wet underwear.”
“She won’t,” said Phil. “That’s an adult concern, having wet clothes. Kids aren’t bothered at all, especially not in the summer. And that’s why I’d love to be able to do some stuff with children. Capture the innocence of youth. The complete absence of adult cares and concerns.”
“So what’s stopping you?” asked Claire.
“Perceptions,” said Phil. “I look out there and I see happy, joyful kids having a whale of a time. But other people don’t always think in those terms, you know. They see naked kiddies, or kids in just their knickers, and if they saw me taking photographs of that they’d lynch me. Or smash my cameras, at the very least. Either way, it wouldn’t be a very good career move.”
“I suppose not,” agreed Claire.
“Anyway,” said Phil, eyeing her empty glass. “Are you ready for another?”
Claire thought about it. If it was one of the girls asking for a third glass of something to drink, she’d almost certainly have vetoed the idea for fear of toilet emergencies later in the day. But she was still feeling thirsty, so the thought of toilet emergencies didn’t really enter her head; or if it did, it was soon dismissed as a nonsensical fear. Which was silly, really, because with her track record, she was probably just as much at risk as any of the girls. And whereas, in previous years, she had always quietly slipped a pair of her own knickers in with the emergency things “just in case”, the girls’ decision that they should go out without emergency things this year had deprived her of that reassuring safety net. But she didn’t really worry too much about that, as she guessed that there must be some public toilets available somewhere in Somerset House, and in any event the bus ride home wasn’t all that long. So she accepted Phil’s offer; and when he arrived back with another drink for her she gulped about half of it down straight away.
“So,” said Phil. “Which are your three girls?”
“The oldest is Rebecca,” said Claire. “She’s the one running in and out of the fountains over on the far side. Then there’s Jane. She’s the one you noticed earlier, sitting under the fountain getting thoroughly soaked. And the youngest is Hannah.”
“Which one’s she?”
“She’s, um,” Claire scanned the children playing in the fountains, but she couldn’t immediately see Hannah. “She was in the fountains a moment ago.”
Claire searched the fountains more closely. No Hannah. Ah well, she told herself. She can’t have gone far. She’s probably playing with some newfound friends somewhere else in the courtyard. So she turned and looked round the rest of the large quadrangle. Still no Hannah, she realised. And now she was starting to worry. She felt an unwelcome sensation of panic rising inside her, and fought desperately to keep it under control. Her insides began to quiver, and a sudden chill passed through her stomach and bladder, making her aware of a pressing need to go to the toilet, which she had been ignoring for the last quarter of an hour because she had been enjoying Phil’s company so much. She fought desperately to keep that under control, too. But it was difficult, because her mind was already full of horrible images of which might have become of little Hannah, wandering off on her own wearing nothing but her knickers. And what if any harm had come to her, when Claire was supposed to be looking after her and keeping an eye on her? It was just too awful to contemplate.
“Rebecca! Jane!” she called, trying to keep the panic from registering in her voice, but without much success. “Can you come here a moment.”
The two older girls ran, dripping, to her table.
“What is it, Auntie Claire?”
“Please don’t say it’s time to go home, Auntie Claire. We’re having so much fun.”
“Do either of you know where Hannah is?”
Rebecca looked thoughtful, but said nothing.
“She said she needed a wee,” said Jane. “And she was afraid she might have an accident if she tried to hold on much longer, so she went to find a toilet.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, ages ago,” said Jane.
“And have you seen her since?”
“No.”
Great! So Hannah had wandered off in search of a toilet and got herself lost. She could be almost anywhere. Or she could have been abducted. Or hurt herself. Or fallen down a hole somewhere. Who knew what might have happened? And of course the silly thing about it all was that sitting there in the fountains; it wouldn’t have mattered if she had had an accident. Who would have known, except her? But when you’re seven you don’t think like that, do you? Claire herself remembered her guide mistress taking them all to an adventure playground assault course type thing. She must have been eleven or twelve. They’d had a wonderful time, really enjoyed it, but by the time they got to the last obstacle she was absolutely desperate for the toilet, shamelessly holding herself between her legs. That last obstacle was a fallen tree trunk bridging a small river, and she needed to put her arms out to help her balance as she crossed. Only she didn’t think she’d be able to let go between her legs without wetting herself. She’d ended up losing her balance and falling into the river, and the shock of entering the cold water very nearly caused her to lose control of her bladder and start peeing in her knickers. But by a massive effort she managed to stop that happening (well, she may have leaked a little; but nothing major) even though nobody could possibly have known whether she had wet herself while she was in the river or not. They’d all had to take spare clothes with them in case of just such a mishap, so the guide mistress took her to the warden’s office where she was given a towel to dry herself off and get changed into her spare clothes. And it was only then that she suddenly realised that she couldn’t hold on a moment longer, and had promptly pissed herself. Now, of course, she had no dry clothes to change into after her accident, and everyone had found out about it.
So yes, if she’d been Hannah she’d probably have done exactly the same thing too. But that wasn’t much consolation just at the moment. She had a problem: Hannah was missing. She had another problem, too, which was that all this talk of finding toilets, and recalling her own childhood accidents, combined with the gurgling hiss and splash of the fountains (of which she was suddenly much more keenly aware than she had been) was making her uncomfortable aware of just how much she, too, was in need of a wee. She’d been putting it to the back of her mind while she relaxed and enjoyed Phil’s company: just as when she was little she had so often ignored the mounting pressure in her bladder if she was particularly absorbed in what she was doing – frequently with embarrassing consequences. Indeed, if there was one thing her frequent childhood accidents ought to have taught her, it was that when she got to this stage she really ought to drop everything she was doing and go find a toilet at once. Today, however, her priorities were different. Today she needed to drop everything she was doing, and go find Hannah.
“Come along girls,” she said to Rebecca and Jane. “Put your dresses back on, and hurry.”
“Can I help in any way?” asked Phil.
“I don’t think so,” said Claire. “I don’t think you’ll be any more welcome searching the ladies’ toilets for a lost seven year old wearing nothing but her knickers than you would have been photographing her when she was sitting in the fountains.”
“No,” Phil mused. “I guess not.”
“I don’t suppose you actually happen to know where the ladies toilets are, though, do you?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Phil. “I’ve never actually needed to find that one out.”
“Looking for the lavs are you, dear?” asked a kindly looking old lady who happened to be passing and had obviously overheard that last exchange. “They’re just round the end of that building there, loo’.”
Rebecca and Jane had got their dresses and flip–flops back on now, so Claire took one of their hands in each of hers, thanked the lady, and headed off in the direction she had pointed. The toilets took some finding: round the end of the building, through a door, along a corridor and down a flight of stairs. But eventually she found them and went in.
“Hannah?” she called.
Silence.
There were four cubicles, and she tried them all, one by one. All were empty. Moreover, there was no sign at all that Hannah had been there. No little wet footprints on the floor. No running tap that Hannah had been able to turn on with dry hands, but not off again with wet hands (she never thought to dry her hands and then return to the tap). There was nothing at all to suggest that the little girl had succeeded in her quest to find a toilet. In which case, where could she have gone? Claire absolutely had to find her. She absolutely had to have a wee, too, and she thought about stopping to use a toilet while she was here. It made sense. But it would also take time; and she might not have much time. Before she could make up her mind, however, the decision was taken for her. Somebody else came into the room, and Jane promptly asked her “Have you seen our sister?”
“I beg your pardon?” said the lady.
“We’ve lost our little sister.”
“Lost her?”
“Let me explain,” said Claire, hurriedly. “I’m these girls’ nanny; and they were playing in the fountains with their seven year old sister. Hannah came looking for a toilet, and hasn’t been seen since. We thought she might still be here, but she isn’t. And it doesn’t look as though she has a ever been here, either.”
“Perhaps she went to the other toilets, then,” suggested the lady.
“The other toilets?”
“Yes, on the south terrace. You’ve got to go through the building opposite the Strand entrance to get to it.”
“Thank you,” said Jane, seizing the girls’ hands once more and dashing back out into the courtyard. Through the building opposite the Strand entrance, the lady had said. That involved passing the fountains again; and as she did so Claire began to think it had been a big mistake not to use the toilets while she had the chance. She was more desperate now than she could ever remember being during her adult life (at least while sober) and it felt as though she wouldn’t be able to hold on for very much longer. So she stopped for a moment and squeezed her thighs tightly together, which helped a bit, and then carried on a little more awkwardly than before. Rebecca looked at her thoughtfully, but said nothing.
The south terrace was long, very long. And they came out onto it somewhere near the middle. There was no clear indication which way they should turn for the toilets, so Claire guessed which way they ought to go; and she guessed wrong. She gasped in dismay when they came to the end of the terrace and there was no sign of the toilets. Her pee was threatening to come rushing out at any moment, and she had just walked a hundred metres or so in the wrong direction. Now she needed to retrace her steps, and then continue goodness only knew how far in the opposite direction in order to find some toilets. She didn’t know if she’d be able to make it. But she had to try. She had to find Hannah.
“Are you alright, Auntie Claire?” Rebecca sounded concerned.
“Yes dear, I’m fine,” she tried to reassure her. “I just think we should have turned the other way for the toilets, that’s all.”
They hurried back along the terrace; but as they finally neared the toilets Claire felt a terrible wave of desperation pass through her bladder and had to stop dead and squeeze her thighs together for all she was worth to stay in control of her bladder and avoid a horribly embarrassing accident in front of all the people on the terrace. While she was distracted by this, Rebecca and Jane ran ahead of her and went into the toilets, re–emerging a moment or two later.
“She’s not there, Auntie Claire,” announced Jane.
“Oh no!” wailed Claire. “What am I going to do?” The question might just as well have related to her need to relieve her bladder as to the fact that Hannah was still missing. Now that these toilets had been thoroughly searched, there was no reason why she should go in and search them herself; and so she couldn’t quietly interrupt her search for a surreptitious wee while she was there. She had to get on with the search for Hannah But where next? She had no idea. It was all just too much for her, and she felt herself on the verge of tears. But she couldn’t give in to them. Mustn’t give in to them. Not in front of the girls.
“Can I help you at all, madam?”
Claire looked up, and this time she could have cried with relief. There was a uniformed security guard with a walkie–talkie radio in his hand. She wanted to kiss him!
“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Claire, hopping desperately from foot to foot as she did so. “I’ve lost a little girl. Seven years old. Wandered off from the fountains in just her knickers. You’ve not seen her, have you?”
“I haven’t,” said the guard. “But someone else might have done. I’ll radio in and see what I can find out.”
He lifted the radio to his cheek and pressed a button. “Hello, control room?”
Claire stood anxiously rubbing her foot against the back of her calf, the curtsied a little to help her stay in control of her tortured bladder, while the radio crackled and hissed. The guard tried again.
“Hello, control room. This is Jeff.”
The radio fell silent– then a voice. “Control room here. Go ahead, Jeff.”
“Yes, I’m on the south terrace and I have a lady here who’s lost her daughter. Seven years old. Has anyone seen a little girl wandering about anywhere?”
“I’ll ask around and get back to you.”
The radio fell silent again. Claire, too, was silent. She was standing there nervously, waiting for a reply, within sight of the toilets yet she dared not go and use them until she heard back and knew Hannah was safe. Her bladder was screaming for relief; but it would just have to wait, she told herself, until Hannah was found.
After what seemed like an eternity but was probably no more than a minute or two, the radio crackled into life again. “Jeff? Can you bring the lady round to control?”
“Will do.” Then, to Claire, “Would you and your other two daughters like to come with me?”
He led them back into the courtyard and past the gurgling fountains, Claire throwing a wistful glance over her shoulder in the direction of the toilets as they went. The sound of splashing water was everywhere, and Claire gasped as she realised that she was finally beginning to lose control. She felt herself beginning to wee, and there was nothing she could do about it. She was clenching her muscles as tightly as she could, as tightly as she ever had. She managed to stop the wee from flowing, but only after she had already leaked a little. Not much, maybe. Her knickers felt no more than a little damp between the legs– for now. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to hang on for much longer now. She needed to get to a toilet!
The security guard led them to a little side room, where another, female security guard was sitting with Hannah on her knee. Hannah had a steaming mug of tea in her hands, a plate of chocolate biscuits on the table in front of her, and a huge grin on her face. Claire was so relieved to see her! She felt all the built–up anxiety and panic flowing out of her as she began to relax once again; and then felt her cheeks turning bright red as she realised with a start that, as she relaxed, something else was flowing out of her too! She tensed her muscles again and squeezed her thighs together, and managed to stop it once more, but not before she felt a gentle trickle of warm pee running down the inside of her thigh. Her knickers felt decidedly wet now; but looking around the small room, it didn’t seem that anyone else had noticed. She breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness for that!
“She came wandering in looking for a toilet,” the female security guard explained. “I told her where the public toilets were, but she was hopping from foot to foot and said she couldn’t wait any longer, so I took pity on her and took her to the staff toilets.”
“And I did manage to hold on, Auntie Claire,” said Hannah triumphantly through a mouthful of chocolate biscuit. “My knickers were wet from the fountains but I didn’t have an accident.”
The security guard smiled indulgently. “I didn’t realise she’d been in the fountains, though, and when she said she didn’t like pulling her knickers back up because they were all wet I just assumed she’d had an accident and told her not to worry, if she passed them out under the door I’d use the hot air hand dryer to dry them off for her.”
Claire was trembling now with the effort of keeping her muscles clenched tight enough to keep from wetting herself again, and she was beginning to think that she might be needing that hand dryer herself in a moment; but there was no stopping the security guard, who clearly wanted to tell the whole of her story.
“It took much longer than I thought it would to dry her knickers completely like that, and by the time I took her back out into the courtyard she was worrying that you might have gone home without her. When we looked for you and her sisters in the courtyard, you weren’t there, and she burst into tears. I guessed that you were probably looking for her rather than going home without her, so I brought her to the security control room reckoning that you’d be bound to ask a security guard if they’d seen her sooner or later.”
“And she gave me lots and lots of biscuits and tea to cheer me up,” beamed Hannah. “This is my third cup.”
Oh great, thought Claire. That’s really helpful. A little girl full of tea on the bus journey home is an accident just waiting to happen. And with that thought, her mind was brought back to her own predicament once again.
“Well, thank you,” said Claire, feeling another little trickle running down her thigh and grimacing as she struggles to bring her bladder back under control but realising that she was fighting a losing battle. “Can I beg another big favour, though?”
“What’s that?”
“Can I use your staff loo too, please?”
The female security guard took in Claire’s awkward, desperate stance at a glance and realised at once that she was not going to be able to make it to either of the public toilets. She smiled. “Of course. Along the corridor, second on the left.”
Claire thanked her profusely and hobbled along the corridor as best she could; but by now she was too far gone to hold everything back, and she was peeing little spurts into her knickers at virtually every step. By the time she reached the toilet there were steady little rivulets coursing down both her thighs. Her face was flushed with the humiliation of it all, and she was crying tears of frustration that she had been unable to hang on just that little bit longer. But the worst was still to come. As she stepped into the little cubicle the sight of the toilet bowl in front of her proved just too much, and her bladder simply relaxed completely there and then. With an embarrassingly loud hissing sound, the pee started gushing out between her legs big time. Straight through the sodden fabric of her knickers and down to the floor where it splashed and splattered and puddled at her feet. Frantically gathering up the hem of her little mini skirt she resignedly sat down on the toilet and just let it all flood out through her knickers.
When she was done she stood up and took stock of the situation. Her knickers, naturally, were sodden, and she couldn’t afford the time it would take to dry them with the hot air dryer; but her skirt was unmarked and if she was careful she could keep it that way as long as she didn’t have to sit down again before she had a chance to change. There was a puddle on the floor, though, about a foot across and she was going to have to tell the security guard about that. And then there was the bus journey home. How was she going to explain to the girls that she wanted to stand the whole way even though there was bound to be a seat available? It wasn’t going to be easy; that was for sure. But first things first: the puddle.
As Claire made her soggy and miserable way back to the security guards’ room, she had an idea. She felt a bit of a heel about actually carrying it out; but it would spare her blushes and hurt nobody, so she managed to convince herself that she was justified in doing so.
“It’s time we were going, girls,” she said on entering the room. “Rebecca, Jane, can you help Hannah put her dress back on? I must just have a quick word with the security guard.” She motioned to the female security guard, and they stepped out of the room together.
“I’m terribly sorry about this,” she said in a hushed voice, which the girls wouldn’t be able to hear, “but I don’t think that was just fountain water you were drying out of Hannah’s knickers.”
“Oh?” said the guard.
“No,” said Jane. “I’m afraid there’s a little puddle on the floor of your toilet, so it looks as though Hannah might not have made it in time after all. But don’t mention it in front of the others, will you? Hannah would be mortified if her sisters found out she’d had a little accident.”
“Don’t worry,” beamed the guard. “She’s a lovely kid and I wouldn’t want to embarrass her. When you’ve had an accident you don’t want other people to know if you can possible help it, do you? So we’ll say no more about it, and I’ll get someone to clean up after you’ve gone.”
“Thanks,” said Claire, relieved that phase one of the plan had worked at any rate. But she still had her own wet knickers to worry about.
She led the girls back out into the courtyard. The fountains were all subdued now: little jets no more than a foot or so high. But Claire knew that they started to dance every half hour, and the courtyard clock told her that the next show was only a minute or two away. So it was time to put phase two of her plan into operation.
“Okay girls,” she clapped her hands. “Let’s see who can run down the entire length of the fountains, over the top of each one, without getting wet. There’s an ice cream in it for anyone who can.”
“Do you want us to take our dresses off again?” asked Jane.
“No, no,” said Claire. “That’s the challenge. Keep your dresses on, but keep them dry.”
The three girls whooped with delight, and ran the entire length of the fountain display. The promise of ice cream made them all careful, and all three arrived safe and dry at the other end. Claire waited behind, watching the clock.
“Aren’t you coming, Auntie Claire?” called Rebecca.
“Of course I am,” Claire called back to her. “Did you all manage to keep dry?”
“Yes Auntie Claire” they sang in unison.
“Right then,” said Claire. “Let’s see if I can do as well as you little monsters.”
The clock began to strike, and Claire ran out into the middle of the fountains just as the computer–controlled show began. As she passed over the first row of jets that suddenly sprang up into six–foot columns of water, one of which shot straight up her skirt. It was what she’d been hoping for, but it still took her by surprise and she screamed in shock. The girls, too, screamed: but with laughter.
By the time Claire reached the other end of the courtyard, three fountains had caught her. Her knickers, already wet with pee, had been thoroughly soaked with clean, cold fountain water and her skirt and blouse, too, were dripping wet. She looked down at herself and laughed. “No ice cream for me, then.” The girls giggled.
“Are your knickers wet, Auntie Claire?” asked Rebecca.
“Yes,” said Claire. “They’re completely soaked.”
Rebecca wagged her finger sternly at Claire. “You’re not to grizzle about it on the bus going home.”
Claire laughed, and bought the girls their ice creams. When they had all finished, she sent them to the toilet again before they headed home, and looked around the courtyard for Phil. He was still there, looking at angles and lighting effects. She caught his eye and he came ambling across.
“Hi again.”
“Hi,” she said. “We’re heading off home now. Thanks for all the drinks.”
“Here,” he said, drawing something out of his pocket and pressing it into her hand. “My card. If you’d ever like to do a bit of modelling, give me a ring.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I will.”
And then the girls were back, and they headed for the bus stop. They had the bus practically to themselves, and had no difficulty finding four seats all together. Claire insisted that Jane and Rebecca, whose knickers were still wet from the fountains, lift up their dresses at the back so as not to get them wet when they sat down, and then did the same herself. She was aware that the girls were watching her closely, and as they giggled and whispered among themselves Claire distinctly heard Jane saying, “she’s wearing white ones.”
When they got home, the girls asked if they could go out in the garden and have a water fight. It was still very hot, and Claire readily agreed.
“Take your dresses off again first, though,” she said as she filled their Super Squirters for them, refusing to issue the weapons until all three girls had once again stripped down to their knickers.
“Are you going to come and join in, Auntie Claire?” asked Rebecca.
“There are only the three water guns,” said Claire.
“That’s alright,” said Jane. “We’ll let you use the garden hose. And you can keep your bra on too, if you like. We won’t mind.”
Claire smiled. The back garden wasn’t overlooked, and she didn’t mind the girls seeing her in her underwear, so she took off her wet skirt and blouse. The girls whooped with joy, and all four of them ran out into the garden where they were soon dripping from head to toe. After half an hour, Claire said “I’d better go and make your tea now. I’ll call you all when it’s time to come in and dry off.” Then she went into the house and changed into dry clothes. When she came back down into the kitchen, the three girls were standing there waiting for her.
“Don’t you want to keep on playing?” she asked them.
“We’ve just been thinking,” said Rebecca.
“And talking,” chipped in Hannah.
“Yes,” said Rebecca. “And talking. And we all felt very sorry for you and hoped you wouldn’t be too upset about your accident.”
“My accident?”
“Wetting your knickers,” explained Hannah.
“Whatever makes you think I wet my knickers?” said Claire.
“It showed,” said Jane. “Running into the fountains to cover it up was a good idea, but it didn’t wash out the yellow wee–stain altogether. I saw it when you sat down on the bus, and we all saw it when you came out into the garden for the water fight. You might have got away with it if you’d been wearing dark blue, but white isn’t nearly so forgiving of accidents you know.”
“Oh,” said Claire. She did know this, of course; and remembered from her own childhood the rite of passage which choosing to wear white knickers rather than dark blue represented. It was a statement. A proclamation to the whole world – or at least to all those who might see your knickers – that you weren’t apprehensive of having an accident. It was a statement that she, personally, had never made; although nowadays she bought her knickers in multipacks, which usually included at least one white pair, so she wore white knickers from time to time.
“So we decided,” continued Rebecca, “that if you want to carry your own emergency things when we go on outings, we’ll let you take emergency things for us, too, so people don’t realise that you’re the one who sometimes wets her knickers.”
“Thank you,” said Claire. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“But that doesn’t mean that just because you’ve not got a free hand any more you can get away without buying us ice cream,” said Jane.
“No,” said Hannah. “And if you don’t want us to tell anybody else about your little accident, you’d better make sure you buy us lots and lots and lots of ice cream.”
Claire began to sense another stitch–up. “It looks like you’ve got me over a barrel on that one,” she said. “Unless of course all that ice cream should cause one of you to have an accident. Then we’d be even.”
“Oh no,” said Jane. “We might have decided to let you carry emergency things for us all, but we’re never going to actually need them.”
“After all,” said Hannah, “we’re all big girls now.”
“And big girls don’t wet their knickers, I suppose?” said Claire.
“You’ve got it,” said all three girls in unison.
By: Indigo