It was a modest wedding. Just a few friends from the youth group, Robert’s father, Briony’s aunt and cousins, and a couple of her dear departed mother’s friends from the amateur dramatics society. Mrs Mac hosted the wedding breakfast, serving her famous tuna vol-au-vents – “the secret’s in the pinch of curry powder,” she told Briony, with a wink – and a cake with exquisite sugar roses made by Old-Mrs-Brown-who-lives-on-the-corner. Their wedding night was spent at a B and B on the waterfront at Dover, with the alarm set for 4am so that they wouldn’t miss the ferry. Their honeymoon was meant to be a five day driving tour of Brittany, but the white Sunbeam Alpine which Rob had borrowed from his brother developed a nasty knocking noise within a few hours of leaving Calais. Briony ended up sitting in a cafe for four hours while Rob and a short, hairy Frenchman in overalls fussed over the car.

“Sorry, my darling. Not going quite to plan.”

Briony smiled and lowered her eyes. She still wasn’t used to this ‘darling’ business.

“I think our best bet is to let Pierre here patch things up and then limp home. Then at least we can find a garage where I can understand what they’re talking about.”

He looked anxiously at his new bride. She was sitting on the grubby cafe chair with her handbag on her lap, knees and lips pressed together tightly.

“Do you mind dreadfully, my dear?”

“Of course not.” She put her hand to his arm, to comfort him, to relieve him of some of the anxiety and shame criss-crossing his face. “I don’t mind. And you know how keen I am to get back to our new home.”

#

And so it was that Mr and Mrs R. Bromley began their life together. A few nights of marital bliss – whatever that was – and then the excitement of new beginnings.

The settlement from Briony’s mother’s estate had allowed them to buy a dear little starter home on the outskirts of Dorking, and Rob had spent the rest of his time off from their abortive honeymoon painting the upstairs and making space in the kitchen for their wedding gift to themselves – a brand new automatic washing machine. Briony, meanwhile, had set herself to scrubbing everything that could be scrubbed, wiping everything that could be wiped and mopping the rest. The furniture was all from Briony’s family home, of course, including her parents’ bed and lounge suite, plus the dining chairs. As for the dining table, it was too big to fit into the rather poky corner allocated for eating, so Briony re-purposed an old card table she’d found in her mother’s garage. A bright table cloth, some orange blossom in the vase Mrs Mac had given them as a wedding present, and it all looked cosy and modern.

The bedroom was a little more challenging. In spite of Rob’s painting and a brightly coloured counterpane with matching cushions, hastily stitched by Briony, the matriarchal bed was still the dominant feature of the room.

“Good solid piece of furniture, this,” said Rob, on their first night in their new home. He gave the headboard an approving little nudge. “Build to last.”

“Yes,” said Briony, shyly drawing back the covers.

“Comfy, too,” said Rob as he sat down on the edge to take off his socks.

“Yes.”

#

Briony wasn’t sure what to expect of... that side of marriage. She knew the theory, of course. Her mother’s evasive explanation hadn’t helped much, apart from the tip on how to get blood out of underclothes, but there were books in the school library. She read them surreptitiously, uncomfortably, keeping an eye out for anyone who might overlook. The vague talk of ‘it’ amongst her church group friends was more frequently upstaged by discussion of love, romance, and how to find the perfect husband. And Mrs Mac’s conversational gambit on her wedding day – “Anything you’d like me to explain, Briony dear? Just ask away...” – was all too, well, upfront for a shy girl like Briony.

As it turned out, Robert was in much the same situation. Briony was his first proper girlfriend. They’d kissed, of course, but he’d always been an absolute gentleman. He had held her hand as he walked her home; he had held her stiffly, his hand brushing the small of her back, his breath warm across her shoulder, at the Friday night dances. And there was that hot summer’s day coming back from the youth group trip to the seaside, when she had felt a strange flutter in her stomach as they sat squashed in the back seat of Mr T’s car together, bare legs touching. The involuntary goosepimples that had nothing to do with being cold.

But when it came to their wedding night, it was obvious to her that he was as confused and scared as she was. The hollow bravado in his, “Well, Mrs Bromley, here we are...” as he sat down on the chintzy double of the B&B. Their mutual agonies at the loud creaking and wheezing of the old metal bed frame as they climbed in from opposite sides. The tentative meeting in the middle.

“I’m sorry, my darling. I... Well. Er...” Briony felt an arm reach across and cup one of her breasts, still modestly shrouded in her broderie anglaise nightie. “Do you mind most dreadfully?

“Of course. D d d darling...” Briony tried out the new word for her boyfriend, turned husband. It felt so silly. Like a couple of children playing at being grown-ups.

She felt his jaw nuzzling into her collar bone, his lips brushing across her earlobe. Curiouser and curiouser, she thought.

Then, when Robert, with unprecedented boldness, placed a hand on her buttocks and pulled her towards his own body, the ancient springs gave such a rusty groan that she immediately stiffened.

“What is it, darling?”

“Do you think someone will hear us?”

“Shush, darling.” Robert’s voice was throaty and muffled as his lips travelled across her face.

There was a loud metallic rasp as he shifted his weight onto his new wife.

“Wait, Robert,” said Briony. “I hear something. There’s someone outside.”

Robert sighed. The bed sighed. And somewhere at the edge of the range of audability, there was another sigh, outside their room, in the corridor. A shuffling, and the faintest growl of two floorboards, grinding together under the pressure of a foot.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” said Briony. “I just... I’m sure I can hear something... I’m a little scared.”

Robert rolled away from her onto his back.

“It’s alright. Don’t worry. You’ll be safe with me.”

His hand reached for hers and gave it a gallant little squeeze.

“I’m not going to let anyone harm you, my darling,” said Robert, with another sigh.

And then they lay there, side by side, listening, until the excitement of the day and the gentle rhythm of their breaths lulled them both into a faintly relieved slumber.

#

The subject came up again the next night, in a little pension in Calais. Briony tried her best not to think about how thin the walls were, and how much that bathroom down the corridor smelled. She tried to think grand, romantic thoughts, tried to hear soaring violins as Robert pushed and shoved and wriggled and eventually stopped his busy rummaging with a, “Oh my darling, I don’t want to rush you...”

And with that, intimacy was put to one side. For the time being. There was too much to think about, really. The early start. The car. The French. Arriving home to their as yet unpacked boxes of belongings. The delivery of her dear departed mother’s furniture. The mad rush to get the house sorted before Robert returned to work. When she finally climbed wearily into mother’s bed that first night in their new home, after carefully turning out the lights, drawing the curtains, and locking the doors, Briony turned to Robert with an apologetic look.

“Darling, do you mind? I’m just so exhausted.”

She needn’t have worried. Her husband was lying there, in his freshly-laundered striped pajamas, eyes tightly shut, snuffling gently, looking more like a schoolboy than a trainee bank clerk.

Briony smiled. How she loved her darling Robert!

#

“Don’t forget, the man from Hoover is coming this morning. I’ll be expecting a full demonstration when I get home!”

Robert was sitting on the edge of the bed, bent over, snugging up the laces on his best black brogues. He stood up, straightened his trousers and took a last look in the dressing table mirror.

“Come here, my love,” said Briony. Her voice was still a little husky from lack of use this early, but the sun was angling in through the gap in the curtains like a knife. No going back to sleep now.

Robert brightened, and came round to her side of the bed, to meet her embrace as she sat up. First things first: she reached for his neck and straightened his tie. Then, perfection achieved, she tilted her face up and lowered her eyelids as their lips met for a kiss.

“Have a lovely day at work, dear.”

“And you have a lovely day at home, my darling.”

*

The delivery man had been very helpful. Almost too helpful, in fact. Briony had stood by as he wrestled the magnificent machine into the little alcove which would serve as ‘the laundry’, and averted her eyes when he tucked his shirt back into his trousers as he stood up. She caught herself returning his grin as he’d said, “There you go, darling.” A very different kind of darling, for some reason. And when he’d said, “Just call me if there’s any problem – any problem at all...” she’d felt herself blush. Had he winked at her as he said it? She rather thought he had.

Once the man was on his way she went back to take a proper look. There it was. Their very own washing machine. Plumbed in and ready to go, with a complimentary packet of the manufacturer’s preferred washing powder sitting on the shelf beside it, just begging to be used. Should she wait for Robert to get home? Or should she try it now? Surely Robert wouldn’t mind?

-- Come on, Mrs Bromley, she said to herself. There’s a first time for everything.

She fetched the wicker basket full of dirty linen. She opened the round porthole and popped it all in, piece by piece, carefully checking pockets and weeding out the delicates. She took a spoon and, following the instructions to the letter, measured out the right amount of washing powder. Then, as the delivery man had shown her, she set the dials and pressed ‘start’. A second’s delay, a click, then a satisfying whoosh as the tub began to fill all on its own. Automatically.

-- Fancy, thought Briony. My very own automatic washing machine.

The initial whooshing sounds stopped, another click, and then the machine settled into a rhythmic rumble.

-- There it goes, thought Briony, hugging herself with innocent delight at the sheer ingenuity of this wonder of modern living. She could see through the little window the socks, underpants and shirts flopping and slopping around, tumbling over and over in their jolly whirling dance.

Better than TV, thought Briony. Now what? I don’t have to do anything. I just wait.

She turned around and looked out of the kitchen window. The clouds were clearing and she could see from the way the big oak tree was twisting and shivering that there was a brisk breeze.

-- Yes. A perfect drying day, she thought.

While the machine did the work she busied herself giving the kitchen surfaces another quick wipe, and filled the kettle. Did one deserve a cup of tea after using a machine to do the washing, she wondered?

Then, as the kettle began to cluck and hiss on the stove, she heard the washing machine change its song. The gentle roll stopped, paused, a click, and then a more agitated sound, a loud knocking followed by the panicky sound of an accelerating whirr. Was everything alright? Is it broken? Have I done something terribly wrong? What will Robert say?

Briony hurried over and peered anxiously through the window, then at the dial on the control panel. The arrow on the dial had moved.

-- Ah, she thought. Spin cycle. The man told me about that.

She turned back towards the kitchen and sat back on the vibrating machine with a sigh of relief. She allowed the busy motion to ripple through the base of her spine for a moment, to massage her buttocks with its insistent throb. She leant forward to pick up the empty washing basket, pushing back against the machine as she did so.

-- Ah, she thought. She didn’t stand up straight away. It was an interesting sensation. Quite nice, in fact. Relaxing.

The machine slowed for a moment, clunked, then shifted up a gear. The juddering grew faster, more urgent.

-- Oh, thought Briony. She nestled back into the new motion, feeling the tremors travelling through her body, sending strange – strangely pleasureable, in fact – tingling sensations radiating out through her body. She heard herself moaning, a little. Not pain. Just a strange, involuntary moan. Then, just because, well, she thought she would, she turned to face the machine and leant in, her knees bent and slightly splayed, seeking out that feeling, pushing hungrily against the pulsating metal box. Her hands reached for the sides of the machine, her buttocks clenched, and she became aware, vaguely, though the barrage of unfamiliar sensation, her lips opening, her mouth filling with saliva, her swollen tongue running its exquisitely sensitive tip along the sharp edge of her incisors.

Oh, thought Briony. Oh my. Oh yes. Yes. Yes.

The machine moaned and wailed in a grand, swelling chorus and the kettle, still on the stove, reached its breathy boiling point, erupting into a shrill peal of energy unleashed.

#

When Robert got home that night Briony was sitting at the make-shift dining table, leafing through a women’s magazine. She jumped up as he came into the room.

“Gracious,” he said, looking around their cosy living space. “You’ve been busy.”

Briony lowered her eyes shyly.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve had a bit of clear out. Washed all my mother’s old sheets.”

He put his briefcase down and came across the room to kiss his wife, sidestepping around the two washing baskets piled high with freshly laundered sheets, and looking approvingly at the neatly folded shirts sitting on the sofa, waiting to be put away.

He put his arm around her waist and drew her slender body gently towards his own.

“So, you’ve been putting the new machine to good use, I see. Looks like it’s going to help you get heaps more done.”

“Yes.” Briony giggled.

He kissed her. Her lips felt plumper than usual, he thought. A bit puffy? A bit, well, luscious.

“Good,” he said, looking admiringly into her eyes. “Like I always said, they look ugly, but these fearsome engines are the way of the future. I think they’re going to change our lives. Your life. A modern convenience for a modern women.”

-- I’d forgotten how dark blue her irises are, he thought. And those big, black, deep pupils. You could drown in those eyes.

“So,” he said, his hand still in the small of her back, “I gather you approve. I gather you like your new washing machine.” Almost without realising it, he felt his hand edging down her back, his thumb and forefinger making a tentative feint at the gentle swell of her hips.

“Mm,” said Briony, “I love my new washing machine.”

She planted a second kiss on her husband’s mouth. A deliberate kiss this time, not a casual, welcome home kiss. A kiss with intent.

“In fact,” she said, her tongue poised jauntily between her teeth, “I don’t just think it’s going to change our lives. I know.”