Sylvia had joined the WI when she first heard of their glamorous calendar some years before. She hadn’t much interest in jam-making but she had hopes that her branch, Nether Botley, might sometime create a calendar of its own. Having been a member now for a number of years, she felt she was almost ready to make the tentative suggestion…
This was the night of the regular meeting with a guest speaker: the leaflet stated that Mr Cheather would be in that role tonight. He was a meteorologist and his subject was Predicting the Weather
Everyone made an effort for the meetings so Sylvia slipped into her best tweed skirt (it was quite tight; she had to squeeze, and execute a rather fabulous wiggle)and,as it was a cold, miserable night, a cardigan which buttoned snugly up to the neck. She was just wrestling with the buttons whose responsibility was the restraint of her tremblingly splendid bosomage when the telephone rang. Sylvia rushed to answer it – but it was a nuisance call…had she been involved in an accident?. She laid the receiver gently down onto the table and walked away, smiling to herself and forgetting the rest of the buttons.
Although it was cold outside the hall was lovely and warm. Chairs were set out in front of a table covered down to the floor with an embroidered cloth bearing the legend “Nether Botley WI” and laid with tea and biscuits. Sylvia sat through the business part of the meeting in a half doze: she came for the talks.
All of a sudden they had reached that part of the meeting: A Mr William Cheather was introduced to a patter of elegant applause. Sylvia’s clap was louder than most as she had woken from her doze to find herself looking directly at the most musculatory example of manlyhood she had ever seen
He introduced himself saying “Call me Willy” (to which a voice from the back replied in a stage whisper “What’s it called then?” and a short awkward silence followed) He glanced towards the windows at the driving sleet outside, and expressed how grateful he was that so many women had turned out on “what promised to turn out to be a really filthy night”
Sylvia smiled to herself at that.
He began to explain about high and low pressure, cyclones and anticyclones. “What is an isobar?” he asked the ladies. Sylvia was disappointed by that an isobar was not in fact a themed pub which sold very cold drinks
He was an experienced communicator: the ladies watched as well as listening. The grand sweep of his strong arm, like knotted rope, as he explained the movements of the Jetstream caused the beginnings of an anticyclone in the hall, centred on Sylvia.
During the break she inveigled her way to his vicinity on the pretext of having been nominated to maintain biscuit levels on the various plates around the room. After some cunning contrivances she ended up right next to him, and suddenly was lost for words.
“Mr Cheather!” she finally exclaimed. He nodded in acknowledgment, and then repeated, “Willy. Willy to you”
This caused such a flutter within Sylvia’s breast (well to be honest, both breasts) that she felt a flush rise in her cheeks.
“Enjoying it?” he asked politely. Sylvia thought about his previous comment and thought that Yes, she would enjoy that.
“Yes! Absolutely! She exclaimed “its fascinating! And you make it all so interesting and, well, understandable. I mean we’re not experts here…” she trailed off, her attention taken completely by the inviting curls of hair just visible where the top button of his shirt was undone. He reached for a custard cream, and she instinctively put her hand to her throat with a little gasp as she watched the fabric of his shirt slither over his biceps. This gesture revealed to her that the top three buttons of her cardi were undone – forgotten in her moment of telephonic triumph. For a moment she panicked, then other considerations thrust in: had he noticed? Perhaps he hadn’t? She looked up at him, her breath coming in gasps, as indeed she liked to.
Willy Cheather had indeed noticed. Not only had he noticed the buttonage situation but also engaged in some idle consideration of the pros and cons of knitted fabrics vis a vis generously-sized airbags. He smiled broadly, partly at Sylvia, and partly at these thoughts.
The chairman rang a teeny brass bell and called everyone back to their seats for the second part of the talk. Willy leaned towards Sylvia and murmured “No time for a chat now. If there’s anything, ANYTHING you’d like to ask me, come and see me later”
She was almost sure he winked
Sylvia sat through the second half of his talk in a daze, which is a very different experience form the earlier doze. It involved a lot more active daydreaming interwoven with admiring of Willy’s proportions and performance. He waxed lyrical on the subject of warm fronts (Sylvia was certain he glanced at hers)and precipitation. He talked of cloud formations with such exactitude that Sylvia was sure she would find a nimbostratus quite erotic the next time she saw one.
He asked for questions at the end, and Sylvia, along with others, had been glancing outside at the weather: sleet had given way to snow, and she wanted to pick his brains about it
“Have you any advice on predicting snowfall?” she asked, adding “Like tonight. Is there any way to tell how many inches you’re going to get?”
Willy looked a little discombobulated, so she continued, warming in every sense to her theme
“I like to know how long it’s going to last and how deep it’s going to go. I mean get”
Willy collected himself (he’d been all over the place) and said with a slight smile “Not really, you just have to prepare yourself and see what happens”
As the ladies of Nether Botley WI stacked chairs and washed teacups, Sylvia seemed to find herself again close to Willy. In fact, as she could attest when a lady carrying a stack of chairs knocked her off balance and she fell against Mr Cheather, Willy was in fact making some effort at getting close to her. This experience set off a warm front which engulfed both of them, causing an increase in humidity in a number of areas.
Sylvia helpfully offered to lock up, and managed to string out the slightly stilted conversation with Mr Cheather until everyone else had left.
“Would you like some help with your things?” She asked him, her eyelashes seeming to flutter absurdly of their own accord.
There was a pause, as Willy Cheather confirmed that everyone else had left, and then he replied, undoing a few more buttons of his shirt “Oh no, I can manage, I assure you”
“But I like to help” she said, unbuttoning a few more of her own, prompting a mass release of mammariness, scarcely contained by slivers of lace, into the open air of the hall
In a moment there seemed to be a tornado engulfing them: a whirlwind which defied normal systems by being associated with high pressure. They were making their own weather… gusts of passion and heat tore at their clothing, managing amazingly to rip it all off. Eventually the storm subsided but not until there had been some considerable precipitation, a lot of thunder and possibly even a little earth tremor.
It truly did turn out to be a filthy night at the WI…
