“I remember that you once, in one of the encounters, described the digestion process of the stomach acids, so that I need not fear being hurt by it. Was that scientifically accurate?” asked Timothy.

“I’m sure of it,” said Mrs Long, “Which leads to my next point. If a boy were to be truly unconcerned of being eaten permanently, then his escape urge would not kick in. He’d be digested in the lady’s tummy, without ever returning to full size and the outside of her body. Your friends in G.O.O.D. would be surprised to learn THAT also.”

“It could change the dynamic of those relationships quite dramatically,” said Timothy.

“To say the least,” said Mrs Long.

“Are you going to tell them?”

“I’ll think about it,” said Mrs Long, “I certainly plan to join the group after the wedding’s out of the way.”

“Would you like to dance with me?” asked Timothy.

“Alright,” said Mrs Long.

He led her to a quiet part of the veranda and put his arm around her and held her hand. They drew closer to each other and were soon cheek to cheek.

After fifteen minutes or so, he attempted to kiss Mrs Long on her lips. She turned her head slightly, and avoided it, and then spoke gently into his ear.

“Are you in love with me, Timothy?”

“Yes. I always have been.”

“Then there is a lot that I’d better tell you,” said Mrs Long, “It will fill in the years that we haven’t seen each other, except for the brief shrinking and giantess encounters, and I can show you what was going on in my life at the time they slotted in.”

Mrs Long began her tale, while continuing to slow dance with Timothy. In a sense, it had all started five years before she had first met and taught Timothy:

Hart Dale was a fifth class student at Gray Thwaites school at North Sydney when Mrs Long was teaching there at the age of 25. He was nearly ten years old, and would often find himself in trouble with the teachers, because of his various misdemeanours.

One day, Hart was about to head out into the school playground for lunch, when he noticed that one of the boys had left his wallet on the desk in the classroom. There was nobody else there. The wallet belonged to Bill Stephens, who had been picking on him recently.

Hart shamelessly slipped the wallet into his pocket, and went down to the lower playground, ate his lunch, and then decided to look in the wallet. He found some money, and decided to steal it. He transferred the money to his own wallet, and then looked up. On the other side of the playground, he saw Mrs Long looking straight at him. To him, the playground was a large place, and he was not aware that the adult Mrs Long perceived it as being much smaller, and had clearly identified what he was doing.

Mrs Long began walking towards Hart, who panicked, and came up with a feeble attempt to tell a lie that he hoped would enable him to keep the stolen money without being punished.

"Mrs Long, I found this wallet. Would you like to give it back to Bill?" he said, and gave it to her.

"I see," said Mrs Long, and took the wallet from Hart. She was unlikely to be deceived by a prep school student.

During the afternoon classes, Mrs Long interrupted Hart's lesson, in front of Hart, the class, and its teacher for that period. She explained that she knew what Hart had done, and asked him to return the money, and to see her after school in the assembly hall.

When Hart reached the assembly hall, Mrs Long was waiting for him, with Mr King, a regular teacher at the school.

*          *          *          *

The previous year, Hart had drawn a satirical comic strip about Mr King during a lesson. Later, he had been caught talking to the boy beside him, and sent out of the classroom. He had waited outside the classroom, expecting that it was the full extent of his punishment. About ten minutes later, Mr King had come out to him, holding the comic strip that he had written and drawn.

"Did you write that?" Mr King had asked angrily.

"Yes," Hart had nervously replied.

"Come with me!"

Mr King had led Hart down to the headmaster's office, and showed the comic strip to the headmaster.

"What are we going to do?" Mr King had asked.

"Well we can give him a good caning for a start," the headmaster had responded.

"And why don't we send a letter home to his parents with that comic strip in it?" Mr King had asked.

The headmaster had agreed, and Mr King had then taken Hart into the teachers' common room, and lifted a cane stick down from the top of the cupboard.

"Would you write things like that at home?" Mr King had asked Hart.

"No," Hart had stammered.

"Then don't do it here!" Mr King had erupted, and he had then struck Hart's legs twice with the cane.

*          *          *          *

Now Mr King was holding the cane stick again.

Hart decided it would be best to get the beating over with and face his punishment, since he had been thinking all afternoon, and come to the conclusion that being bullied by Bill did not give him the right to steal Bill's money after all. It was a valuable lesson to learn, but there would be physical consequences, before the incident was concluded.

"I'm ready," he said, and bent over with his back to them.

"We want to talk to you first," said Mrs Long.

He began crying, knowing that he would have to wait for an end to the conversation, dreading the caning that lay ahead, when he had already understood that he was a thief, and just wanted it all out of the way.

"Now you shouldn't do that. You're just messing up your face," said Mr King in dead ernest.

Some five minutes later, Mr King said, "It's stealing. You'll have to have the cane for that."

"Well I knew that in the first place," thought Hart, "Why couldn't he have caned me, and then had the talk?"

"Bend over and touch your toes," said Mr King, and then hit him twice, with Mrs Long watching the proceedings.

"Alright, go and hide," said Mr King.

Hart never stole money from another boy again, but he did find himself in other problematic situations involving Mrs Long.

In the middle of second term, it was his tenth birthday. He arrived at school about fifteen minutes before school started, and went into his classroom.  He took a piece of chalk, and began to write in large letters that took up most of the space on the blackboard:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

TO HART DALE.

TEN YEARS OLD TODAY.

MANY HAPPY RETURNS!

When he had finished, he continued holding the chalk, and began wondering what else to write. He was no longer involved in underhanded behaviour, such as the time he had stolen the money.  He expected that his efforts with the chalk would just be treated as birthday fun by his teacher.

"What do you think you're doing?" came the voice of Mrs Long behind him.

He turned around and faced her.

"Are you going to pay for all the chalk you wasted?" she asked.