Taught to Serve (2 page)

“These books have been gifted to me by a friend,” he began to explain. He rested his hand on the top of the pile. “As you can see about you, I have an extensive collection covering many subjects. These books need to be added to my catalogue and found a suitable location on the shelves.”

Casey nodded. The task seemed relatively simple. The card catalogue was in a long wooden drawer, and each book was indexed onto a small, rectangular-shaped card.

“You write the title and author on the card, and then the subject under which it is to be classified and shelved. If you familiarise yourself with my existing books, you will understand how things are classified.”

“Yes, sir,” she said sweetly. She did not think the task would take her very long to do. She approached the table and peered at the title of the first book. It was in French.

“I don’t speak French,” she uttered under her breath. The next book was in German. She knew only a smattering of German.

“The dictionaries are over on these shelves.”

Casey could see the line of language dictionaries and sighed with relief.

“Now listen carefully to me, Casey,” he said in a clear tone. “You must not open the book until you have translated the title. Then and only then, when you have written the title down on the card, can you open the book and look inside.”

Casey thought it was the strangest request she had ever heard. Surely opening the book would allow her to understand the contents and catalogue the book correctly. Nevertheless, she had learnt one important thing about Mr Tolchard; she did not disobey him.

“Very good, sir,” she said dutifully.

Mr Tolchard left the room.

The first book had a shabby, plain blue cover with words in French embossed on the cover. Casey wrote the author's name in block letters at the top of the first index card, and then, tempted as she was to open the book and look inside, she remembered to be obedient.

‘Mordre le bas dur’ was the title, and after much thumbing through the French dictionary, she translated it into ‘Bite down hard’.

She could not fathom what it meant. Bite down on what? An image flashed before her mind, and she giggled to herself. Opening the book, she found it was a lengthy treatise with numerous photographic plates of dentures. She decided the book was about casting dental moulds. She did not think Mr Tolchard had an interest in dentistry and filed it under Medical as a subject.

The next book was older looking, and again there were no pictures. The dust cover had been removed like all the books she had been given to sort.

The title was intriguing: ‘Bottnar Upp’. It took a while to work out the language, and when she did, she was surprised to find there was a Swedish dictionary.

‘Bottoms Up’. With a silly smirk, she wrote the title down on the card next to the author. Inside were lists of wines and vineyards. It was a guide to wine tasting. She filed the book under Food and Drink.

The next book was thin and did not appear to contain many pages, almost a pamphlet. The title was enigmatically laid out in black writing: ‘Piquer le Feu’. French again, and she translated it to ‘Poking the fire’.

“Oh, come on,” she said with mock annoyance. What could it possibly be about? Another image flashed across her wayward mind. It was so easy to do, like the games she use to play with her fellow students when they were bored with their studies. Innuendo hunting had become a pastime she frequently enjoyed. After a moment of grinning, she opened the book to find numerous photographs of fireplace pokers—antique and ornate brass implements. The book was simply a record of somebody’s personal collection. She filed it under Antiques.

With mounting trepidation, she picked up the next book.

‘Sucer Doucement’. Flicking through the pages of the dictionary, she found the words and laughed out loud.

“Sucking sweetly!” she exclaimed. It was too late, the words were far too tempting to ignore. She squirmed as she remembered the last time she sucked him sweetly. For several minutes she drifted in daydreams and then opened the book. It was a guide to making boiled sweets, bon-bons, and other confectionary. Some authors had a quirky sense of humour, she decided. That one was filed under Food and Drink also.

It was becoming hard to contain herself, especially as she translated the next book from ‘Verbreiten sie Weit’ to ‘Spread them wide’.

The very words had only been spoken to her the previous evening. She quivered at the memory and stayed there for some considerable time, perched on the desk, reminiscing. The book turned out to be about law enforcement techniques.

Trying hard to write down the details with trembling hands, she heard the door behind her open. Mr Tolchard had returned to check on her progress. Straightening up, she stood by the table.

“I’ve come to inspect you, Casey,” he said walking towards her.

“Inspect me? Now, sir?” she said surprised.

“Yes, Casey, now.”

He stood very close to her, and for some reason the proximity reminded her of their first meeting. She had to confess that at the time he was not what she expected. In his mid-thirties and still possessing a fine head of dark hair, he was younger than she had envisaged for a professor turned eminent writer. He had been dressed smartly—as she now knew he always was—with a tie underneath his pullover and polished black shoes. She had felt quite uncouth sitting next to him in fact.

* * *

Meeting Rob Tolchard for the first time was the strangest day in Casey’s life. If anyone had told her she would meet the man of her dreams on the day in question, she would have bitten their head off in disbelief.

She was crying when they met. Sitting on a park bench in faded jeans, on a rather dreary day, with leaves floating about in the air, she had quietly let the tears drip down her cheeks. He was walking by, as many had done while ignoring her, except as he came by, he slowed up and then stopped to backtrack to where she was seated.

“Why are you crying?” he asked.

Now to Casey, it was an odd question. Not ‘are you crying’, or ‘are you all right’. It was straight to the point. Why was she crying? She hiccupped and look back at her inquisitor. Tall, dark, and yes, he was a handsome. Dressed in a suit with a camel overcoat, he exuded style while remaining distinctly in a different era. Did men still dress that smart and elegantly? Even his shoes shone brightly in the dull light.

“Um,” she stuttered before attempting to wipe her nose on her sleeve.

A handkerchief appeared from his coat pocket and was thrust into her hand. “Please do not wipe your nose like that. It’s pretty disgusting, and you’re clearly not a child.”

The reprimand should have made her indignant, but somehow she felt ashamed at her lack of manners.

“Thank you.” She blew hard into the soft white fabric. He did not ask for it back. “I feel like a child.”

“Because you’re crying?” he said, hovering above her. “It’s alright to cry. It doesn’t make you immature.”

“I suppose so. I don’t normally cry,” she said, brushing hair out of her eyes as he seated himself at the other end of the bench.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m crying because I was fired today.”

“Oh,” he said. “You’re clearly upset. Was it fair… to dismiss you?”

“Yes. I’m not upset at that. I’m angry because I can’t seem to find a decent job which I enjoy doing.”

“What did you do?”

“Shop assistant.”

“I see,” said the man, grimacing. “What happened?”

Casey rocked her head from side to side, contemplating if she should tell the stranger about her failings in life. He had a kind face, charming too, but the edges of him seemed hard and stern.

“I’m not a great one with people,” she confessed to the stranger. “Love reading about them, but don’t really interact. The shop was a fancy, expensive clothes shop. All the latest fashions, and the clientele were of the kind who knew they were the only ones who could afford to shop there. I mean, some were lovely and liked clothing. Others, well, let’s just say they wanted to dress up. Like kids do to show off.”

“So you were a little curt with them?” he guessed.

Casey blushed at his rapidly accurate appraisal. “Basically, I lost my patience too easily. They mucked about with sizes, wanting this, that colour, this length. Dumping things on me as if I was their personal carrier. Honestly, they were so unaware of how lucky they are.”

“That got you fired?” said the man, bemused. “Tough boss?”

“Well. I lost my motivation to work there. The years dragged on, and I’d given up on being anything useful. So, maybe being late a few times, swearing under my breath at customers, and reading books under the counter…” Her voice drifted into a mumble.

“Books? You like to read then,” he noted.

“Yes, all sorts. I studied history, but I didn’t really think through what to do next.” Casey loved history, especially the romantic notions of chivalry, the renaissance period, and grand houses filled with paintings. With it she had learnt mankind was quick to war and slow to peace. That part of history saddened her lively nature—too lively, according to her parents, who had been glad to see her off to college and away from their house. They had seen only the mess she made of her room, the constant stream of boyfriends, and the homework she had struggled to finish on time. Once at college, she had been fortunate to have a studious bunch of friends, without whom she would have failed to graduate.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked, pulling up his collar. The wind was changing direction, and the air was cooling rapidly.

“I don’t know. I have this little pokey flat, and I can’t afford the rent without work.”

“I need a personal assistant,” announced the man. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Robert Tolchard, and I am a professor of law. I write books.”

“Really,” said Casey with a broad grin.

“Law books.”

Casey deflated slightly. She held out her hand and introduced herself, and they shook.

“A personal assistant?”

“Yes. To help me with my work. Organising, correspondence, and I travel too. I would need somebody to be in my house assisting me. Are you interested?”

Casey could not believe what she was hearing. A job interview on a park bench, and she had just confessed to being useless at her last job. She asked him why. Why after telling him she had been rude and unhelpful to her customers.

Mr Tolchard smiled. “You’re sitting here crying. I think you feel bad that you didn’t do a good job. Sometimes, when we’re disappointed with ourselves, it is the best time to start afresh and try really hard to be a better person.”

Casey thought very hard about what he had told her and asked if they could meet again somewhere more appropriate, when she was not covered in drying tears and holding a snotty handkerchief. He smiled again and agreed. The next meeting took place at his house a week later.

At their second encounter, she was dressed in her finest clothes, the ones she had bought discounted from her previous job. She smoothed down her skirt as she sat down. She wore a light sheen of make-up and had grown a few inches with her high heels. Mr Tolchard had greeted her at the door of his large house, and she was impressed with the architecture and furnishings. It was like stepping back in time, and she liked the ambiguity he portrayed in his home. The interview went well, better than she envisaged. Yes, she could type, she could communicate well on the telephone, and she could read quickly and summarise documents. No, legal jargon was a mystery to her, but she was a quick learner.

She agreed to start work with him and to arrive at his house at nine o’clock each day and stay until five in the evening. He showed her the little room where she would check his emails, open his mail, and type up his dictations. Mr Tolchard arranged for her to take home some books on basic legal texts and terminology. Casey was delighted with her new job.

* * *

A few weeks later, she was in tears again. The string of mistakes and foolish errors she had made had mounted up. She was told he would no longer tolerate her silly remarks, the small stamps of her feet when he sent back an error-strewn document, nor the tardiness in her arrival in the mornings.

“Casey, do you have it in you to work hard? To be valuable and appreciated?” he asked as she sulked in front of his desk, clutching another one of his tear-sodden handkerchiefs.

“I do. I just can’t get my head into gear. It’s like I’m split into two. I desperately want to do a good job, and then I find I lose my way. I’m distracted easily, and my focus drifts.” She looked at him with pitiful eyes. “Please help me, sir.”

It was the beginning. A new contract was arranged between them. When Mr Tolchard told Casey what he wanted to do, she gaped at him and then found everything she wished for was slotting into place. Rob Tolchard was transforming into her chivalrous knight come to rescue her, and though his methods sounded unorthodox and slightly scary, she welcomed them.

He gave her rules. He told her how he would punish her if she broke his rules.

“Spank me!” she gasped. “I’m not a child!”

“No, and I would never spank a child. That is the point. You are a mature adult with her own mind. Use it. Take what I have to offer you and let me shape you into someone you will love to be, and I will be pleased to call you my assistant.”

Her first spanking was a nervous affair. When she was late to work, a mere ten minutes, he summoned her to his study. After a reminder about his rules and consequences, she asked to be spanked, saying the words with her eyes clearly fixed on his dark ones. He let her bend over the desk rather than have the indignity of being over his lap. Later she would find she preferred his lap.

As an event in Casey’s life, it was imprinted indelibly in her memory. Her hands had been pressed flat on the surface of the desk. Her breath misted up the whorls of polished walnut. There was the shiver of anticipation when he lifted up her skirt and raised her bottom up. The plain white knickers remained in place, and he did not ask her to lower them. His hand was firm, and it swung back in a perfect arc before landing with a wallop. She jolted with surprise at the sting. His palm was steel-like and had morphed into an implement.