Give The Game Away 1965 Poem by Terry Collett

Tilly was making a pot of tea
in the kitchen,
her mother sat opposite me
in an armchair.

How is your work?
She said, gazing at me
with her stern eyes.

Fine mostly,
I said.

Her face showed no emotion;
Tilly has a good job,
and if she makes her way,
she could be shop manager,
Tilly's mother said.

That's good,
I said,
looking past her
towards the kitchen door,
hoping Tilly would soon return,
and save me
from this integration.

Girls these days
do not seem to value virginity
as they did when I was young,
the mother said,
they wear clothes too short,
and reveal too much.

(I wondered if she knew
about Tilly and me
or was she just fishing) .

I guess so,
I said,
looking back at her
sitting there,
knees tight together,
and face like granite.

A girl's virginity is her prize
to take to her wedding night,
and her husband,
not to be frittered away
at the first opportunity,
the mother said.

I looked at her features,
and wondered how
she managed to lose
hers at all.

Does your mother
trust you while you
are out with young girls?
She added,
looking at me sternly.

Of course she does;
she knows I would treat
a girl with respect.

(If the girl wanted it
however I would oblige.)

That is good to know,
the mother said,
raising an eyebrow,
knitting her fingers together
on her knees,
forming a finger church.

Tilly came into the lounge,
and set the tray of teapot,
cups, sugar bowl, milk jug,
and spoons on a small table,
and sat next to me.

Have I missed anything?
Tilly said.

I hope not,
her mother said,
I was talking to Benedict
about virginity,
and how girls
should treasure it,
and not squander it.

Tilly went red,
and looked at the tray.

I hoped that would not
give the game away.