Topless Doll

She was about eight inches tall, with well-formed breasts, hair down to her waist, a grass skirt with no top, and a cheeky look in her eye. How many months had she gazed down at him from her place on the shelf above his desk? How much joy had her bright smile given him? How often had she cheered him whenever he felt down-hearted? Visitors had expressed curiosity, but he had never revealed her secret. When asked questions about her origin, he had merely smiled and changed the subject. Now, as he packed his belongings prior to moving out of his office, he was faced with the hard necessity of jettisoning everything that was not essential for his future employment.

His mind went back to that day after the Christmas party in the Research Department, now so long ago, when she had come into his possession. He smiled at the recollection. Sister Turnbull was such a proper person. She had behaved so correctly in all circumstances. What had possessed him to act as he had at her Christmas party?

They had been sitting around on benches in a circle in the laboratory amidst microscopes, bottles loaded with lethal chemicals, and the squeaks of mice from the animal house next door, all sipping their drinks in the polite manner that was appropriate to Sister Turnbull’s establishment. And then, suddenly, this gorgeous woman had appeared in the doorway. Sister Turnbull greeted the newcomer warmly.

“How nice of you to come, Catriona. We’re so glad to see you.”

“I can’t stay long, I’m afraid, Sister Turnbull. I just wanted to wish you the season’s greetings.”

“Well, at least have one drink with us.”

She was young, about twenty-five, accompanied by a consort. They must have been married to each other, for they parted company the moment they arrived.

What struck him first about her appearance was that, unlike everyone else, she wore a hat: a huge, wide-brimmed picture hat that commanded the attention of everyone in the room. Beneath it long hair flowed over her shoulders, and below that a well-supported bust with form-fitting light-green jacket and pleated skirt revealing a tantalising glimpse of bare flesh between. All this Kingston’s eyes took in as they travelled over her body from top to toe. She was a peach.

He rose and moved across the room, smiling as he took her arm and escorted her to a chair he had managed to squeeze in next to his own.

“What would you like to drink?”

In no time at all he had a gin-and-tonic in her hand and a plate of finger food before her. Then he set his mind to the task of chatting her up.

To his surprise, and slightly to his discomfort, she ignored him completely. Instead of sitting back and allowing herself to be chatted up, she dominated the conversation in the room. Soon she had them in stitches with her anecdotes of what life was like as a nurse on night duty.

“The other night I answered the phone in the pan room. Who do you think was on the line?”

Nobody knew. They all shook their heads. Catriona played it for all it was worth.

“Heavy breathing! Why would anyone choose the pan room!”

Her shoulders rocked with mirth at the absurdity of the situation.

Kingston sighed, shaking his head ruefully. Ah, well!

That bare midriff fascinated him. It screamed out for intervention. He leaned backwards to study the contours of her spine and the movements of her ribs as she laughed. In a moment of daring he placed a hand ever so lightly on her bare flesh. He knew he was taking a huge risk, but, after all, what was life without risks?

To his chagrin she gave no sign of being aware of his existence.

He ran his hand lightly over her back, barely touching her, yet pressing enough to make her conscious of his caress.

There was no response. Catriona went on regaling her audience with comic tales of the doings of the leading surgeons in the operating theatre. Recently the chief surgeon had appeared minus his moustache. On inquiry for the reason he had informed Catriona that Pathology had detected a bug in the moustache and ordered him to shave.

“Only your moustache?”

The company dissolved into gales of laughter.

Kingston glanced at his watch. The party would soon end. There was not much time left. Emboldened, he located the waistband of her knickers and insinuated a finger inside. Meeting no resistance he did a quick tour from right to left, exploring the glorious contours of her body and the loveliness of her flesh. Still no response!

Sister Turnbull was looking directly at him. The party was about to break up.

“Are you on duty over Christmas, Dr Kingston?”

“I’m afraid so, Sister Turnbull. Someone has to do it.”

It was then that the demon spoke to him. See if you can get her bra undone.

Was it feasible? Would she create a scene? Would he be charged with sexual harassment? That bare midriff commanded his attention.

His fingers rested lightly on her spine. With exquisite care and extreme caution they moved upwards until they had made contact with the bra. Driven by a power beyond his will his fingers grappled with the hooks. He could use only one hand, but once positioned, a single flick and the first hook sprang apart. He paused, glancing about him to see if anyone had noticed. Nobody had. Least of all the owner of the bra! It seemed strange. Was there something wrong with her nervous system? Was she cold? Undeterred, he went for the second hook, felt the bra spring apart, then, to his consternation, felt her lean back heavily, the pressure of her body imprisoning his hand against the chair back as she murmured low in his ear.

“Dr Kingston! In front of all these people!”

Her words simulated shock, yet her tone expressed something quite different. Far from reproof, her manner revealed wonder at his achievement, making no move to push his hand away, the flicker of a smile creasing her lips.

It was time to go. Catriona rose, kissed her hostess lightly on the cheek, cast a swift sidelong glance at the disappointed philanderer, and then she was gone. Kingston sighed. It was all so disheartening.

Two days later the parcel arrived on his desk, bearing the stamp of the Research Department. Kingston called on Sister Turnbull to thank her.

“It was so nice of you to think of me. I don’t always get a lot of mail at Christmas.”

Her face was blank.

“The doll … quite a perky little charmer.”

Sister Turnbull gazed at him in silence, eyebrows raised. She had no idea what he was talking about. He realised suddenly that he had made a ghastly mistake. He became incoherent.

“The gift …”

He bolted.

Such a stupid blunder! It was now blindingly obvious who had sent him the doll. This was the signal, the come on, the green light! But how could he locate her? He didn’t even know her name. It was more than he dared do than front up to Sister Turnbull again. She looked as if she knew too much already.

Catriona had said she worked in the hospital at night. She must be a relieving nurse on contract from the agency. He had to find her. But how? He could hardly ring up the agency and inquire about an anonymous nurse with a picture hat and a bare midriff. In the days that followed he was driven almost crazy with frustration. In the end he decided he would have to return to confront Sister Turnbull.

“Have you heard from Catriona lately, Sister Turnbull?”

He tried to sound casual. In no way must his raging anxiety be revealed.

“Catriona?”

“The relieving nurse who came to your Christmas party.”

“Oh, you mean Catriona Lewis! No, I don’t know where she is. She was a temporary relief from the agency.”

Damn! His last chance had gone. He searched high and low, he inquired everywhere he went, in the wards, the operating theatres, administration, amongst the social workers, but to no avail. Gradually he reconciled himself to the fact that he would never see her again. All he had to remind him of what might have been was the little topless doll.

He sighed as he picked her up and gazed into her eyes briefly before wrapping her in cloth and packing her gently into the shoebox.

“Come on,” he murmured in the solitude of his office. “You’re coming with me. I wouldn’t part with you for worlds.”