The Bikini Directive
When Susie Pembroke and her mischievous friend Linda sneak home from an unsanctioned pool party, they find themselves in rather hot water. With stern morals, a trusty hairbrush, and a zero-tolerance policy for scandalous swimwear, Mrs Pembroke is ready to deal with immodesty in her own unforgettable fashion — while Linda tries, desperately, to stay hidden... and to suppress her giggles.
Act I: A Suspiciously Sunny Afternoon
The Ford Escort that crunched up the gravel drive of 13 Garden Terrace, left a trail of golden dust and ABBA in its wake. Two girls tumbled out in a flurry of giggles and tangled beach towels. Susie Pembroke, dripping chlorinated water onto her mother’s prized rhododendrons, and Linda Marchant, who was balancing precariously on a pair of cork-soled platform sandals.
Both wore bikinis of a design that would have made any self-respecting WI committee clutch their pearls in horror. Daisy chains twined around their wrists and completed the look of reckless summer abandon. Home for the University summer break, they were determined to make the most of this lovely weather.
Susie peered towards the house. The lace curtains remained still; the front step empty.
“She’s not back yet!” she whispered, sounding far more relieved than the situation probably warranted.
“Race you,” Linda grinned, hitching her towel higher around her shoulders.
They sprinted for the front door, fumbling with the Yale key that was swinging from her car keys, and burst inside, slamming it with the breathless panic of schoolgirls dodging a hall monitor.
Susie threw her towel onto the bannister. Linda flopped onto the bottom step, breathless and laughing.
“That,” Linda said, “was quite a party.”
Susie pulled a face, half in delight, half in dread. “I can't believe you persuaded me to go topless by the pool! Mum thinks we were just going to sit around sipping orange squash and playing board games.”
Linda snorted. “Well, she's always saying that fresh air is good for you.”
They scrambled upstairs, dripping onto the carpet, and collapsed onto the twin beds in Susie's room. A David Cassidy poster smiled benevolently down from the wall. The whir of a battered ceiling fan, installed during the heatwave of '76, stirred the heavy air.
“Alright, think,” Susie said. “If she comes back and asks, we say it was just a quiet gathering. Soft drinks, biscuits, wholesome conversation.”
“No mention at all,” Linda added solemnly, “of inflatable crocodiles, sunbathing, or teasing the boys.”
Their laughter was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a car pulling into the drive. Both girls froze.
“She's back! Don't let her see you here in a bikini,” hissed Susie, scrambling to her feet in a tangle of limbs.
Thinking fast, Linda darted for the built-in wardrobe. It was one of those slatted-louvre door affairs that seemed to be all the rage. From the narrow gaps between the slats, Linda had a clear view across the room.
Meanwhile, Susie slipped into a modest terry-towelling bathrobe, cinching it around her waist, and grabbed the nearest book from the nightstand. The Secret Garden. That one seemed like safe, wholesome, mother-approved fare. Sitting on the bed, she assumed an innocent pose, although she doubted it would fool her mother.
“Susie?” came the clipped voice of Edna Pembroke, dripping with suspicion.
Susie, feeling the rapid approach of her mother's judgement, braced herself. There was the rattle of keys being deposited onto the hall table, and the sound of sensible shoes on the stairs.
Then, the doorknob turned.
And Susie, clutching her battered paperback like a shield, looked up with an expression of wide-eyed innocence just as her mother entered — pursed lips, clipboard handbag, and an aura of impending doom.
Act II: The Bikini Directive
Susie, sat up demurely in her bed, not realising that The Secret Garden was upside-down in her lap. She gave her mother a wide, innocent smile.
Mrs Pembroke entered with all the force of a severe weather warning, trench coat flapping, handbag swinging. Her spectacles, perched halfway down her nose, gave her a deeply sceptical look.
“Good afternoon, Susanna.”
“Afternoon, Mother,” Susie said brightly, clutching her robe a little tighter.
There was a long, dangerous pause. From her hiding place behind the louvred wardrobe door, Linda hardly dared breathe. Through the narrow slats, she watched Mrs Pembroke’s shoes plant themselves squarely on the rug.
“I have,” Mrs Pembroke said, in the chilly tones that usually preceded her moral lectures, “just had the most illuminating conversation with Mrs Hargreaves.”
Susie gave a nervous giggle and attempted a look of mild curiosity. “Really?”
“About the party,” Mrs Pembroke continued grimly. “The pool party. The one you assured me you had no plans to attend.”
“Oh. That pool party? It was just a little gathering.” Susie chirped. “Really very quiet, Mother.”
“Quiet?” Mrs Pembroke's eyebrows climbed dangerously. “Mrs Hargreaves informs me there were cocktails, topless sunbathing, and music of an unspeakably modern variety.”
“Well...” Susie fiddled with the edge of her robe. “It wasn’t all topless... and the cocktails were mostly fruit juice...”
Mrs Pembroke folded her arms. “You know perfectly well the Pembroke Rules for Respectable Conduct forbid any such behaviour. Rule Four: ‘A lady preserves her modesty at all times.’ Rule Eight: ‘Social engagements must be chaperoned, and approved in advance.’ Rule Ten: ‘Exposure of the navel is wholly inappropriate.’”
Behind the wardrobe door, Linda bit her knuckles to suppress a snort. Her eyes widened as she peeked through the slats, trying to keep her laughter in check.
Mrs Pembroke narrowed her eyes. “And speaking of modesty—” Her gaze fixed upon the towelling robe.
“Mother,” Susie said hastily, “I was just about to take a shower—”
“Stand up.”
“But—”
“Now!”
There was no escape. Susie rose slowly to her feet, clutching the robe tight. Mrs Pembroke stepped forward and, with a precision developed through years of unbuttoning school uniforms and inspecting hem lengths, whisked the robe away.
There was a horrified silence as Mrs Pembroke surveyed a vista consisting of much skin, and very little fabric.
Susie stood frozen, her undersized yellow string bikini making a spirited, but doomed, attempt at decency. The top, revealing almost as much as it concealed, was decorated with silvery sequins which Mrs Pembroke felt certain were intended to attract entirely the wrong sort of attention. The bottoms were tied at the side with a single insubstantial bow. In her eyes, bikini bottoms would be better secured with a heavy-duty padlock, or preferably never worn at all.
Mrs Pembroke made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a suppressed shriek. Words failed her. She gestured wildly at Susie’s midriff, as if hoping the power of pantomime might clothe her daughter.
“I—I can see your... your midsection! Your... your... bathing region!” she spluttered at last.
Susie bit her lip to avoid laughing. “It's just a bikini, Mother.”
“Just a bikini?” Mrs Pembroke’s voice rose to an incredulous pitch. “It's positively... positively... abbreviated! I have seen handkerchiefs with more coverage!”
In the wardrobe, Linda could barely contain her laughter. She covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes watering from the effort. Through the slats, she caught the quivering of Susie’s shoulders as she too fought to keep a straight face.
“And what, precisely,” Mrs Pembroke hissed, “do you find so amusing, young lady?”
“Nothing, Mother,” Susie said, cheeks glowing. The tightness and unmissable sparkle from her bikini only seemed to mock the situation even further. She pinched her lips tightly, trying to reign in the giggles.
“Very well,” Mrs Pembroke said grimly, producing a heavy wooden hairbrush from the depths of her handbag. “If you find this all so entertaining, perhaps you will find the punchline even more memorable.”
Before Susie could flee, Mrs Pembroke caught her firmly by the wrist, sat herself down on the bed, and drew the young woman across her lap. The movement caused Susie's bikini bottoms to shift, revealing even more. For a brief moment she almost regretted her fashion choices, but a second later, she had bigger worries on her mind.
The first crack of the hairbrush against its scantily clad target reverberated around the room like a pistol shot.
“Ow!” Susie yelped.
Crack!
Linda gazed out from behind the wardrobe door, heart hammering. She was in the middle front-row seat, and there was nothing she could do but watch. The sound of the hairbrush and Susie's yelps were almost too much to bear.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Mrs Pembroke, it turned out, wielded a hairbrush with the brisk efficiency of someone dusting a rug. Each swat was precise and firm, the sound crisp and sharp. Susie's bikini top, already precariously small, seemed to defy gravity as she squirmed, the sequins catching the light with every wriggle.
From Susie’s perspective, the lesson was already being absorbed with admirable speed. From Linda’s vantage point, it was rather educational too. She was grateful, at least, not to be the main exhibit.
Her heart pounded as she peered through the wardrobe door slats, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and fascination. She had been on the receiving end of more spankings than she could count, but this was entirely different. It was a perspective she never imagined she'd witness.
I can't believe I'm seeing this, Linda thought, feeling truly sorry for her best friend. Yet, somehow the contrast between Mrs Pembroke's modest, conservative attire and the sight of Susie in her daring bikini, wriggling in discomfort, seemed starkly comical
Then, Linda felt a sudden tickle in her nose, and her eyes began to water. She tried to hold it back, squeezing her eyes shut and pinching her nostrils, but the sensation only grew stronger. Her heart pounded in her chest as she desperately tried to suppress the impending sneeze. Not now, not here, she pleaded silently, her mind racing with panic.
But then — it came.
It was a tiny sound, a kittenish squeak, but in the tension-charged room, it sounded like a gunshot. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she froze, her eyes wide with panic. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Her mind raced. I'm so busted.
Mrs Pembroke paused mid-swat, her head tilting sharply in an attempt to pinpoint the sound. Susie, thinking remarkably fast for someone who was kicking their legs in protest, faked a colossal sneeze.
“Ah-choo!” Susie gasped, wriggling. “Sorry, Mother! Dust in the... uh... duvet!”
Mrs Pembroke, though suspicious, harrumphed and resumed the hairbrushing with renewed vigour.
Linda exhaled silently, daring to hope she might survive her end of this ordeal.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
The sound of the hairbrush passed unhindered into the wardrobe, each fresh smack sending a jolt of adrenaline through Linda's body. She could almost feel the impacts herself, the memory of her own experiences all too fresh in her mind.
As the swats increased in tempo, so did Susie's squirming. The bikini bottoms, already fighting a losing battle, were unlikely to pass any modesty inspections by this point.
And again — disaster threatened.
There was a loud, unmistakable creak from the wardrobe door and Mrs Pembroke’s head snapped around.
Susie, desperate to divert her mother's attention, made a grab for the hairbrush. In the scuffle, a pile of fashion magazines tumbled off the nightstand with a crash. Their pages, filled with images of bikinis and beachwear, fluttered to the floor like a visual indictment of Susie's moral decline.
Mrs. Pembroke gave the magazines a disapproving glance, and her eyes turned back to the task in hand.
“That's another mark against your record, young lady,” she said, delivering a fresh flurry of swats to the tops of Susie's thighs. “Rowdiness! Disrespect! Immodesty!”
Susie yelped with each swat, her eyes watering from the combination of a smarting bottom and injured pride. From her hiding place, Linda winced in sympathy. She saw with dismay that one of the bikini side-ties had now become completely unfastened.
Mrs Pembroke, unperturbed by the immodest triangle of loosely flapping fabric, gave the hairbrush a final flurry of emphatic swats and stood up, smoothing her skirt with immense dignity.
“I trust you have learned a valuable lesson today, Susanna,” she said, her voice steely.
“Yes, Mother,” Susie mumbled. She was making a desperate attempt to re-fasten her bikini bottoms while any shred of her dignity still remained. She blinked back the tears as the leg elastic rubbed against her thoroughly warmed behind.
“I expect you to write a full letter of apology to Mrs Hargreaves. And, you will not attend another unsupervised gathering this summer. I hope I have impressed upon you that modesty is a paramount virtue.”
“Yes, Mother,” Susie repeated. With her bikini bottoms now reinstated, she rubbed her backside, wincing at the sting.
“Now,” Mrs Pembroke announced, gathering her bag, “I have some phone-calls to make and I do not wish to be disturbed.”
She swept from the room, leaving behind a long, aching silence.
With almost infinite caution, the wardrobe door opened and Linda tumbled out in a heap of limbs and stifled giggles.
“That,” she whispered, collapsing on the bed beside Susie, “was the most terrifying five-minutes of my life.”
Susie shot her a look of mock betrayal. “I can't believe you sneezed!”
“But, you saved me,” Linda whispered, eyes wide. “You're officially my hero. Like a painful, heroic martyr.”
They dissolved into helpless giggles, muffling the sound in pillows, terrified Mrs Pembroke might reappear brandishing her hairbrush.
Act III: An Escape (of Sorts)
The house was silent.
Susie, still tender in her swimsuit, pulled on her terry-towelling robe once again, while Linda peered nervously around the bedroom doorframe.
“Coast looks clear,” Linda whispered.
“Quick,” Susie hissed back. “We'll sneak you out the back door.”
Barefoot, they crept across the landing like two burglars escaping the scene of a botched heist. Every floorboard seemed determined to squeak in protest. Linda gripped her beach bag, still damp from the party, and tried to tread only on the rug runners.
As they reached the staircase, a faint, familiar sound floated up from the front parlour. It was the clipped, decisive tone of a woman deploying moral artillery over a landline.
Both girls froze, clinging to the bannister. Leaning closer, they were able to catch snippets of the conversation:
“—utterly shameless behaviour... completely against all established decency—”
Susie grimaced. Linda’s cheeks flushed a furious pink.
“And I must say, Mrs Marchant, I think it's high time you and Linda had a very serious discussion at home,” Mrs Pembroke was saying. “I can recommend a certain disciplinary method... very direct, very... motivational.”
Susie clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a snort. Linda’s eyes were as wide as saucers.
“And Vera, I would strongly suggest,” Mrs Pembroke continued crisply, “that you keep a sturdy hairbrush to hand. A good, old-fashioned reminder of what happens when young ladies forget themselves.”
In a whirl of breathless panic, Susie managed to slip her friend out through the kitchen door and watched as she made a dash for the garden gate.
Back in her bedroom, her bottom throbbing despite sitting on her pillow, she thought of Linda. Might she soon be experiencing this precise sensation too? It had been a fabulous party, but had it been worth it?
Susie began to consider adding one additional rule to her mother's list:
Never attend a pool party unless you have an extra soft cushion on standby.
And maybe, she thought with a wicked grin, she ought to warn Linda to start sewing one into her swimsuit too.
A student who wore a bikini, Discovered it verged on the teeny. Her mother opined, With her hairbrush aligned, “Such standards are simply obsceney!”