Steel World Inc. Chapter Four

 

“Do you ever wonder what it might have been like to actually live in the ancient past?” 

 

I gazed at the lovely Miss Whitlock as she asked that question. We had met at One o’ Clock on Saturday afternoon to look around the British Museum, situated on Great Russell Street, with the intention of having coffee together afterwards. The primary exhibition this month was entitled ‘Byzantium Endures’ and featured treasures form the various periods of the Byzantine Empire.

 

Miss Whitlock wore a comfortable sweater in light grey wool, and a long ankle length skirt of mid blue cotton, that swished about her ankles as she walked. Her small blue handbag was draped over her right shoulder, and she held it in place by the strap as she walked between the exhibits in my company.

 

“I suppose it would be a bit like Game of Thrones?” I said, as I continued to gaze at her rather more than I did the exhibits.

 

“Oh, you watch that, too?” She turned round with a smile. She wore flat pumps today, and so was a good three to four inches shorter than she had been on Friday lunchtime. In contrast I towered above her. Again, it made me feel improperly protective towards her. It was such an outdated way to feel in the presence of a woman. I had to remind myself that Miss Whitlock was a person, and she most certainly did not need a man to look after her.

 

“Yes, and I’ve read the books, too, so I know what’s coming.”

 

“Oh? There are books?” She smiled softly. “I didn’t know.”

 

“The books are even better, Miss Whitlock. There’s so much more that they can’t fit in the TV show.”

 

“So you know how it’s going to end?”

 

“No, the series isn’t finished yet. It takes the author a long time to write each one.”

 

“I confess I get confused watching it. There are so many characters!” A little bit of rose blush appeared on her cheeks. “So many things happening. How do you follow it all?”

 

“Well, if you have any questions, I’m something of an expert on the history of Westeros.”

 

“Oh, that’s just so IT Support.” She laughed softly. “I bet you know who everyone in the programme is, and what they’re doing!”

 

“Well, it’s very immersive.”

 

“That’s so geeky.” She laughed. “My lovely geeky Super Star IT boy. Do you have some action figures?”

 

I did. But I wasn’t sure I should admit to that. 

 

“Oh, I bet you do.” She laughed softly again and touched my arm with the fingertips of her left hand. “Who is your favourite character?”

 

“I suppose it’s Jon Snow, the brooding, noble warrior figure.”

 

“Is he the handsome one?”

 

Now it was my turn to laugh. “I suppose girls might think that.”

 

“Is that who you would like to be, if you were in Game of Thrones?”

 

“Like to be. I don’t suppose I would be.” I sighed. “I’m not really the warrior type. But I identify with him because he’s honourable and always tries to do the right thing.”

 

“Who do you think I’d be?” asked Miss Whitlock, as we passed by some display cases full of ancient Byzantine pottery. “In the show, I mean. And don’t you dare say a scullery maid!”

 

“Oh, that’s easy. One of the beautiful ladies of noble birth. No question about it.”

 

“The Dragon Lady?”

 

“Daenerys? Well, you’re about the same height. And I think you could inspire men, the way she does. But you’re far prettier, Miss Whitlock.”

 

We both laughed, feeling a little uncomfortable by the off-hand compliment. I decided to change the subject. “There are a lot of pots.” The display continued on round the corner. “I think I’ve had enough of pots.” 

 

“I think there are some weapons in the next room. Perhaps we can find you a sword to claim as your own?”

 

I gallantly led the way.

 

She moved differently this afternoon, and this was obviously due to her not wearing the office prescribed support garments of middle management. There was a light skip to her walk that suggested more freedom of movement. She seemed gay and in high spirits.

 

“No girdle, today, Miss Whitlock?”

 

“No girdle.” She smiled and turned slightly on the ball of her left foot. “Miss Whitlock is girdle free! I love the weekend! It’s such a relief. So liberating.”

 

I nodded. “You look different. Move differently.”

 

“I should hope so.” She held the strap of her small shoulder bag and gazed at one of the exhibits dating from the Komnenos dynasty. “They have such a strict dress code for us during the week. It’s more relaxed at weekends, thankfully.”

 

This surprised me. Not that it was relaxed, but that there was a dress code at all for Junior Managers at the weekend. “Your dress code covers Saturdays and Sundays?”

 

“Oh yes.” She sucked back her lower lip in thought. “I’m afraid so. The Senior Partners say our conduct and presentation should always reflect company standards 24/7 in case we suddenly have to work unusual hours at short notice. I’m not permitted to wear a skirt above the knee, for example.”

 

“Really?”

 

She blushed. “The Senior partners feel it’s not appropriate for a Junior Manager.”

 

“Hence the ankle length skirt today?”

 

She smiled and nodded again. “No bare arms either. Full sleeves. But I’m permitted to wear my hair down and loose. Though…” she looked slightly concerned. “The other managers who have been there longer than me, well, they tend to still wear their hair up in public at weekends. Apparently it’s preferred, and they seem keen to keep the Senior partners happy, even though they don’t explicitly say they prefer it that way. The Senior Partners like their managers to have upswept hair in the office, of course. Only clerical workers should cover the nape of their necks.”

 

Miss Whitlock wore her hair down today. In doing so it sounded like she wasn’t contradicting the dress code policy, but she wasn’t winning the favour of the Senior Partners, either. Though, how could they possibly know? They couldn’t. Not unless they happened to be browsing the British Museum this afternoon, as we were. 

 

“That sounds very strict. Can they demand these things? This is your own free time, after all.”

 

“Is it?” She laughed softly. “I’m not sure any of my time is personal or free any more. There is a price to be paid for my salary and benefits. And, well, I’m afraid to rock the boat so early on in the job. I’m on a probation period, you know?”

 

“Me too. Three months.”

 

Miss Whitlock nodded. “They could dismiss either of us at any time in the first three months for any reason at all. They wouldn’t even have to give a reason. Two girls were dismissed from the Second Floor, only last week before I arrived. I don’t want to lose this job. So…”

 

“You put up with the girdle?”

 

She nodded. “The corset is insufferable. It’s a full corset, and shapes me from where my thighs meet my hips, all the way to my breasts. And the old fashioned bra support shapes them too. And then there are the seamed stockings. I’m not permitted to wear tights in the office. Oh, how I miss the ease and simplicity of tights.”

 

“No tights?”

 

“No.” She shook her head. “Tights are permitted for clerical girls, of course, though many wear trousers. They can pretty much wear whatever they like as long as it’s smart.”

 

“I’ve seen.”

 

“But the Senior Partners insist that the Junior Managers set a corporate standard. We’re different. We’re not even allowed pierced ears. That’s a sacking offence. Can you believe it?”

 

“So they could dismiss you if you wore an above the knee skirt today?”

 

“I’m afraid so, though I probably wouldn’t wear one anyway. I’d wear pants, but they aren’t allowed.”

 

“You’re not allowed to wear pants?”

 

“Skirts only. Even at weekends. Oh, I can wear what I like at home, of course. I’m talking about outside my flat. There’s talk of being allowed to wear Capri pants, but that hasn’t been approved yet. I’m so hoping Capri pants become allowed out of the office.”

 

“I find this all incredible. The other managers put up with this?”

 

“I suppose. No one complains. Well, perhaps quietly, in the powder room, but never openly in the office. To be honest, my current job is something of a hot seat. The previous manager left after four months, and the one before that only lasted three months.”

 

“They were dismissed?”

 

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. I think one was moved sideways to a very different role in another country. Something like that. From what I heard, it was definitely a demotion, and she had little choice but to accept. And the previous one – Sally Turner – I think she resigned, after earning the disapproval of one of the Senior Partners.”

 

“I’d heard there was a high turnover on the second floor, but I thought that was simply the clerical girls.”

 

“Oh, they move on often, too, but that’s expected - they get assigned to different roles. It happens very quickly. One day they’re at their desks, and the next we’re told they’re no longer working in London. They ship out very quickly. Often in the evening, if they’re needed somewhere else. The second floor is a hot seat to career promotions and opportunities, apparently. For the office girls, anyway.” She paused. “The pretty ones. You know the type.”

 

I had seen them. There were very many pretty young girls with good educations working on the second floor. I was pleased that so many of them soon moved on to more rewarding and challenging roles, elsewhere. 

 

This was lovely. This was more than lovely. I was spending the afternoon with Miss Whitlock, away from work, away from the eyes and ears of our work colleagues. For this afternoon there were no distractions. I desperately wanted to hold her hand, but that would be far too forward. We were supposed to be friends. Close friends. She was so lovely. I saw the way her cotton skirt stretched slightly around the curves of her bottom, before it trailed down to cover her ankles. I so wanted to touch that bottom, but of course that would be very wrong. A woman does not invite such a thing, no matter how she may dress. But I didn’t think Miss Whitlock quite realised how to what degree her skirt hugged her bottom like that. I mean, how could she know? She couldn’t see it, herself. It was my little secret. If I told her she might only feel distressed and abort the afternoon to hurry home and change. 

 

There were swords and other weapons in the next exhibition hall. Thousands of them, in fact. Well, maybe hundreds. 

 

“Can you imagine men fighting with these?” whispered Miss Whitlock as she stood very close to me. “How brutal and savage such fighting must have been.”

 

“It would have been very brutal,” I said, relishing the close proximity of her lovely body. 

 

“The armour looks very heavy. Not to mention the shields. I don’t think I could wear it for long.”

 

“You wouldn’t wear it at all, Miss Whitlock. Women didn’t fight in those days. Well, not in wars.”

 

“I suppose not.” She sucked at her lower lip as she gazed closely at some decorative reliefs depicting strong warriors in the Byzantine scale mail, fighting in close ranks. “The women would stay behind?”

 

“They would. They would see their men folk off to battle, and would then wait anxiously in their walled city for news of victory or defeat. If it was victory, they would laud and cheer their men on their return.”

 

“And if it was defeat? What fate could I expect, as a woman of the city?”

 

“You, they, would be taken as prizes in war.”

 

“Oh.” She blushed again. “You mean…”

 

“It was brutal in those days, Miss Whitlock.” I nodded. “You would be taken away in chains and enslaved. I mean, they would be taken.”

 

Miss Whitlock didn’t say anything for a while as we continued to pace slowly through the hall of weapons. I cursed myself for drawing attention to the way a woman might have been treated in the age of antiquity. Miss Whitlock would obviously feel distressed by such a thing. 

 

We were glad to move on, and I suggested we might stop briefly to sit on some of the long padded seats that had been placed back to back in the centre of the next hall, which, to my relief, featured statues and sculptures that seemed innocent enough. 

 

“I shouldn’t have said what I said, Miss Whitlock. I can see my words distressed you.”

 

“It is all right, Simon. They were different times: primitive, savage, barbaric. I am glad I did not live in that age.”

 

“Men would have protected you.”

 

“I don’t need to be protected!” she snapped. “I don’t want to be protected!”

 

“Of course not. But it was different then.”

 

“How horrible it would have been. I would have been helpless.”

 

We sat quietly for a few minutes as I tried to think of something inconsequential to say, for I sensed the mood had changed, and that the carefree afternoon was now threatened to be cut short. Would she make her excuses? Would she claim she was tired? Would she ask to go home? 

 

“A real man wouldn’t have led you away in chains, Miss Whitlock. A real man would never do something like that.”

 

“Thank you.” She smiled a little, offering me a chance to redeem myself. I watched as she opened her bag and reached inside for a powder compact. She opened the hinged lid, which was a mirror in itself, and I sat there quietly as she dabbed a little pressed powder to her forehead and nose with a soft cosmetic pad. Then, satisfied that her skin looked radiant, she clicked the compact shut again. “I’m sorry, Simon. I have a very vivid imagination. Too vivid. I don’t like to think such things. They distress me. Do you understand?”

 

“Of course.” 

 

“You’re not upset with me?”

 

“How could I be? You have every right to be upset.”

 

“You see, when you say something like that, well, my imagination will act whether I wish it to or not. I can imagine how it might be to be…” she squirmed a little in her seat, “taken as a prize.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “In chains.”

 

“It would never happen.”

 

“Not any more, no. As you say, it was a different age; a different time; a cruel and barbaric society.” 

 

I felt ashamed that while Miss Whitlock had raised her hands to hold the slim compact and powder her nose, I had imagined those slender wrists linked together in decorative chains.

 

I mean, decorative, yes, but also quite functional chains. Miss Whitlock would find herself helplessly held by steel chains, no matter how decorative. I banished the thought from my mind, for it was wrong on so many levels. 

 

“Shall we?” I motioned for us to rise.

 

Sometime later we passed along the glass displays of statues and busts. These were mostly of classical figures and as we made light of the poses and dignified features of past emperors, I felt the mood lighten again. 

 

“This is fun,” said Miss Whitlock. “I’m happy that I’m spending the afternoon with you.”

 

I sucked in my breath as I suddenly felt the tips of Miss Whitlock’s fingers casually brush the back of my hand as it hung at my side. It was a casual touch, but did it mean what I hoped it might mean? I dared to brush the tips of my own fingers against the back of her hand, and I sensed her smile a little, gazing down at the floor. 

 

Within moments my fingers were interlaced with hers, and we were both beaming embarrassed smiles, afraid to gaze at one another as we continued down the hall.

 

“I was hoping you might do something like that,” she whispered after a while. “You’re very daring today.”

 

I felt daring. I was holding Miss Whitlock’s right hand with my left! 

 

“I’m only daring while I’m with you.”

 

I felt her squeeze my fingers a little as she said, “this really is a perfect afternoon.”

 

We had coffee and cake an hour later in a courtyard cafe, a few streets away from the British Museum. “I thought the dresses were lovely,” said Miss Whitlock.

 

She referred of course to the recreations of Byzantine dress for women in one of the halls near the end. The recreations were modelled on surviving artwork and followed a similar pattern of ankle length gowns, with high rounded collars and tight sleeves to the extent of the wrist. Byzantine women covered their heads modestly with a variety of head cloths and veils, and the garments were designed to conceal as much skin as possible. Not revealing the arm above the wrist was apparently a symbol of Byzantine modesty for women. The robes that women wore at home (for they rarely ventured out without male escort) were constructed of fine fabrics and were richly jewelled and embroidered. A palla (sleeveless outer gown, wrapped with a lavishly embroidered wide belt) was usually worn over the full length and sleeved gowns, and this palla was usually of a very dark colour that contrasted with the brighter, more jewel-like tones of the undergowns. 

 

“They were,” I agreed. “Incredibly colourful and decorative fabrics, and highly modest for a Lady of the empire.”

 

“I think that’s how I would look in ancient times,” she said, reaching out over the coffee table and touching the fingers of my own outstretched hand. I felt welcome tingles of excitement as she did that. “Can you imagine me in such fine robes and gowns?”

 

“I can,” I said. “You would be the most modest, most beautiful, Lady in all of Byzantium.”

 

“Hardly,” she laughed softly. “There are many beautiful women. Many more beautiful than me. I know my limits.”

 

She was so modest! My heart swelled with admiration for her. I knew then that I desperately wanted to see more of the amazing Miss Whitlock. I wanted to share my life with this precious woman. Nothing else would do. 

 

“So many young women flaunt themselves these days,” I said. “Your modesty and dignity is truly special.”

 

She smiled again and squeezed my fingertips. “I’m not like Kissy, or girls like Kissy,” she said.

 

“No, you are so much better than her. You don’t need to do what she does to attract a man. Men would fall over themselves to simply spend a few minutes in your presence.”

 

“Oh, Simon.” She looked so happy. “Where have you been all my life?”

 

“The question is, where will I be for the rest of your life? I… I really like you, Miss Whitlock. This has been the best afternoon of my entire life.”

 

“Me too,” she gasped, holding a hand, palm down, to her breast in delighted surprise. “You’re not just playing with my feelings now? You’re not just making fun of me?”

 

“I mean every word. I must see you again, Miss Whitlock. I think… I think we have connected.”

 

“I think so too!” She was really excited now. I could see it in her eyes and her breathing. “I would like to see you again, too. But… I’m not one of those girls… you know that, yes?”

 

“Of course! I knew that from the moment I met you.”

 

“There will be limits.” She wagged an admonitory ginger towards me, but smiled as she did so. “I know what men are after.”

 

“I would never cross your boundaries, Miss Whitlock. I respect you far too much.”

 

“We shall see,” she said, hoping beyond hope. Then an idea seemed to occur to her. “I think I have a test for you. It is possible, is it not, that perhaps, maybe, we may kiss at the end of this afternoon?”

 

“I do not want to think that this afternoon will end.”

 

“Nor me, but end it will, and I will be thinking of you all night.”

 

“Then yes, I hope it will end with a kiss. A soft kiss.”

 

“Of course. That is what I mean,” She seemed pleased by what I said, and squeezed the fingertips of my hand again. “That will be our test. When you kiss me. The softest most respectful of kisses. Delicate, fragile – not taking any liberties, of course!” she wagged her finger again in warning, but smiled along with it. 

 

“Of course not. My lips will only tenderly touch yours.”

 

“And your hands?” She seemed suspicious, still.

 

“Will be respectful at all times.”

 

“Oh, Simon…”

 

“Miss Whitlock…” We both gazed happily into one another’s eyes, leaving our coffee to grow cold. 

 

“You are a real man, Simon. A sensitive, lovely, caring man. Not like…”

 

“Like?” Who was she about to refer to?

 

“Him.” She shivered sightly. 

 

“Who?” 

 

“Never mind.” She squeezed my fingers again. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“You’re talking about the senior partner that you met a few days ago?”

 

She nodded and looked away, to the side of the café, not wishing to meet my eyes. 

 

“If he upset you in any way, I will not stand for it.”

 

I felt her squeeze my fingers again in appreciation.

 

“I would have words with him, Miss Whitlock. You should tell him that, if he dares to upset you again.”

 

“Simon…” she looked at me now. “I will have to tell the Senior Partners that we are…” she smiled softly. “I mean, are we dating, now?”

 

“Yes we are!” I said, excitedly. “And yes, tell them. I want them to know you are mine. And that they cannot take liberties with your feelings.”

 

“Tell them? Tell them of our courtship?”

 

That was such a charming way of putting it. Our courtship. I nodded.

 

“I will look foolish if you grow bored of me in a week or so. The other managers would mock me.” 

 

“It will never happen. I can’t believe I’ve found you. This is meant to be. We are meant to be.”

 

“Oh, Simon.” She looked so happy. 

 

We stood up, and there was electricity in the air as I paid, and we left the café, knowing that very soon we would part ways and there would be the first kiss! The anticipation was incredible. I know we both felt it. 

 

Our pace was slow as if we feared the inevitable parting. We made idle conversation as we tried to delay the point at which we might have to say goodbye to one another.

 

“It was lovely to walk around the museum today and learn so much about ancient Byzantium. I think…” she looked unsure whether she should say what she was about to say.

 

“You think?” I prompted. We paused by a shop window to prolong the conversation.

 

“Just a silly thought. You’ll think I’m such a foolish girl.” She brushed a lock of hair from her face, for it was windy today.

 

“Not at all. Please say what you have in mind, Miss Whitlock.”

 

“I think that if I were a gentle high born Lady of a Byzantine city that had fallen to the swords and lances of men, and you were a dashing enemy officer, riding through the gates on your fine horse, I would seek you out to surrender myself to. I would be dressed in my finest gowns when I presented myself! And veiled!”

 

“I would treat you well, Miss Whitlock. You would have fine clothes, eat fine food, and be protected by my most loyal men.”

 

“I know.” She gazed up at me with admiration. 

 

“You would be an honoured prisoner. I would of course have to chain these fair wrists when I took your surrender though.” I winked as I held her wrists slightly.

 

Why did it feel good to hold her wrists in my hands?

 

“Oh?! But why?” She stood there, not objecting at all, as we gazed again at one another’s eyes.

 

“It is the done thing with prisoners, especially high born ones. You might try and escape, after all.”

 

“It would be my duty!” she declared. 

 

“So, you see. Chains, it is.”

 

We laughed in a slightly awkward fashion, and carried on down the road.

 

“I don’t think you would really chain me,” she said after a while.

 

“Probably not, no.” 

 

“It’s a silly thing to say.” She swept a lock of hair from her face in a graceful gesture.

 

“I suppose it is, yes.”

 

Miss Whitlock looked charmingly flustered as we reached the end of the road where she would turn left, and I would turn right. 

 

“Oh God, I feel so nervous, like a little school girl! She exclaimed, as she tilted her face away from me. “Perhaps this is too soon? Perhaps we should kiss next time, or…”

 

I placed my left hand on her skirted hip. It was a gentle touch and I felt her grow even more nervous. And then I drew her slight body, lightly towards mine, but gently.

 

Her hands fluttered between us, but I could see she desperately wanted to pass the first test. 

 

“I think we are going to kiss, Miss Whitlock. It will be gentle and respectful.”

 

She nodded, unable to speak. And then I kissed her softly, tasting her lips for the first time. It was a brief kiss, for I could sense going too far, too soon, would be taking liberties. We separated from the kiss and there were moist tears welling in Miss Whitlock’s eyes. 

 

“I must be terrible at kissing,” she said. “The worst, ever.”

 

“It was wonderful. I have never felt more at peace.”

 

“It felt wonderful!” exclaimed Miss Whitlock, anxiously. “I mean, I’m so glad we kissed. But I’m so scared you might be disappointed?”

 

“It was the most wonderful kiss any man has ever received. I am sure of that.”

 

“I should go.” She looked very happy. “I don’t want to go, but I should go.”

 

“I will call you tonight.”

 

“Please.” She touched my chest and then quickly drew her hand away and, turning round, hurried down the street, glancing back once or twice to offer me the most lovely smile. 

 

Miss Whitlock… I sighed to myself, feeling a sense of complete contentment and anticipation for the future.