Dr James Kirkham smiled as the young widow was escorted from his Harley Street consulting rooms. He accepted her thanks humbly. A lot of his clients were widows. He himself had been trained in many of his most successful techniques by his young, widowed landlady when he was a medical student. He smiled when he thought of dear Maude and her silky, soft skin. He hoped she was doing well. Not all his widowed clients were young, however, but they were still in need of him.
He suddenly thought of Mrs Anderson back in Yorkshire. She was a widow in her early forties. He was still assisting Dr Helliwell directly at that point. Her eldest son had called them in; he was a fine young man of twenty-one who had stepped up as a man of the house for his mother and younger siblings after his father's death.
As he took them into the parlour of the Anderson cottage, he shook the hand of both of the doctors and thanked them for their attendance.
“My mother has taken my father's death very hard. I understand that she is grieving, but we all are. We all miss him, but it has been twelve months, and she barely leaves her room. It is not fair to the younger ones. She is so listless and wan like she is no longer present in the world. I miss my father’s advice, but now I find I am missing my mother’s support, too; most of all, I miss her laughter,” he smiled, seemingly embarrassed to admit that to us.
“Never you fear, young Charles, we will get to the bottom of what ails her, don't you worry. Now you get off to work, and young Dr Kirkham and I will examine your mother in peace.”
Dr Helliwell knocked before entering her bedroom. James ducked his head as he entered to avoid the low beams.
Mrs Anderson sat in a small chair looking out of the window, still dressed in her widow's weeds. Although about fifteen years older than Dr Kirkham, he was struck at what an attractive lady she was, with a pretty heart-shaped face and full lips.
“There is nothing you can do for me; you cannot bring my Thomas back to me, can you? You cannot make the feelings go away, either.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Dr Helliwell, “No one wants you to forget your feelings towards your husband. You must treasure them and let the memories of your life together soothe you in your loss. What would he say if he saw you like this? Not being the wonderful mother you have always been as you are so entrenched in your loss?”
Mrs Anderson paused for a minute before stating simply,
“He would put me over his knee and spank me; he’d say his Fanny had been a naughty girl. He liked me being a naughty girl. I liked being his naughty girl,” she said quietly before turning her face to the window, he shoulders shaking as she quietly sobbed.
“Enough of this, Fanny,” Dr Helliwell roared, shocking me with his sudden change of attitude and tone. “This cannot go on.”
Lifting Mrs Anderson from her chair, he took her place and laid her over his knee.
“Your Thomas is not here to sort out his naughty girl, but I am. Lifting her skirts until he found her bloomers, he pulled them down, revealing her full round bottom. I was surprised that Mrs Anderson did not struggle; she complied with the request almost with relief. This submission had obviously been a big part of her marriage.