by JL Merrow
Blazing June
By JL Merrow
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2019 JL Merrow
ISBN 9781646560011
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Blazing June
By JL Merrow
It’s been a proper scorcher for this early in June, and the air’s thick with pollen as they break into Mrs MacReady’s. I feel like a spare part, hovering by the front door with its tell-tale pint of semi-skimmed sitting in a little puddle of dried-up spilled milk. If only I’d been here earlier to see it.
“Is Mrs Mac going to prison?” Billy asks.
“No, love!” I pick him up, though he’s getting too big for that really. “The police are just going in to make sure she’s all right, seeing as she wasn’t answering her door.”
“What if she’s out at the shops? Won’t she be cross they’ve broken her window?”
“Mrs Mac only goes out on Saturdays, when the taxi calls, remember?” He’s too heavy, so I put him down before I do myself a mischief. But I keep my arm around him. “Is she all right?” I ask the male constable when he comes out again.
He gives me a smile. “Don’t worry—we’ve called an ambulance, but I think she’s just a bit dehydrated, that’s all. Still, won’t hurt to get her checked out.”
“Did she have another fall?” I feel guilty for asking.
He nods, but he’s got my meaning. “Happened before, has it? How did she manage then?”
“She’s always been able to pass me a key through the letterbox, and I go in and get her back on her feet.” More and more often, these days.
“Let me guess—won’t trust anyone with a spare key?” The constable nods, like he understands what old people are like. It’s a bit of a relief. “We’ll have to contact social services, get her assessed. See if they think she’s up to looking after herself.”
I’ve got a fair idea how that’ll go, and I feel guilty again. But it’s for the best, isn’t it?
“She smells funny,” Billy puts in.
“Billy! What have I told you?” I turn back to the constable, and the female constable is there too now. “His dad’s a tactless old so-and-so too,” I say apologetically.
The female constable is about my age, probably, though I expect most people would say she looks younger. She’s got pale red hair, a sort of golden colour, cropped close so that when she turns her head you can see short feathery hair at the nape of her neck. It looks soft, like velvet. Her skin’s creamy-pale, and she’s got a sort of lean grace to her even under all the kit the police seem to wear these days. Makes most policewomen look dumpy, but not her.
She’s got a handkerchief or something wrapped round her hand, and I realise with a jolt she’s bleeding. “Are you all right?”
She shrugs, and smiles. It’s a nice smile. “Cut myself on the window. I’ll live.”
“Let me look at it for you. At least wash it out.” My eyes dart over to Mrs MacReady’s front door, with its peeling paint and grimy net curtains over the broken windowpane. She gets the point.
“Thanks. That’s very kind of you. Mark, you’re all right staying with Mrs MacReady, aren’t you?”
The constable wrinkles his nose, but he goes in anyway.
“I’m Ellen, by the way,” she tells me as we step across the landing and into mine and I realise what a godawful mess I left it in this morning.
“Carla,” I say back. “And this is Billy, my little monster.”
She grins. “I’m sure you’re not a monster really,” she says to Billy, but he goes all shy and hides behind my legs. “Must be a bit crowded for three of you, in a flat this size.”
“Oh, I’m not with his dad!” I don’t know why I blush. “Never was, to be honest, but VJ’s a good dad to Billy. He has him every Friday—that’s why I was out all day.”
“Making the most of it?”
I nod. “It’s my day at the gym—yeah, I know, could do with a few more of them.” I carry on quickly so she doesn’t feel she has to say something polite. “Then I do the shopping. No point dragging Billy round Tesco’s when I don’t have to. But it means I’m out all day, so that’s why I didn’t notice the milk. Here, you run your hand under the tap while I get the first aid kit.”
“Sounds like you’re a good neighbour to the old dear,” she says, loud so it’ll carry over the sound of running water.
I’m not, really. I mean, I look in on her, and I get stuff for her when she’s not up to shopping, but I always feel I ought to do more. “I try,” I say.
“Hasn’t she got any family?”
I’m back with the bandages. Billy’s happy enough watching TV and I don’t feel bad about it, knowing he’s spent the day playing footie with his dad. “She was married, but they never had any kids. I don’t think she’s got anyone, now.” I have to concentrate, as I dab her hand dry with a clean towel and then wipe the cut with antiseptic. She’s got lovely hands—long, slender fingers with short, blunt nails. Practical. Not like my bunches of sausages with nail varnish that always seems to chip as soon as I put it on.
“Sad, to be all alone like that,” she says. “Goes to show, though, doesn’t it? I mean, my mum’s always on at me to find a man and get married, but she did all that and still ended up alone.”
“Oh, not you too? That’s mums for you. S’pose I’ll be the same one day, pestering Billy to give me grandkids!” We both laugh, and I put the dressing on her cut. Slowly, so I don’t have to let go of her hand too soon. Daft, really.
“So which gym do you go to?” she asks, not pulling her hand away or anything.
“Just the sports centre one. They do a special rate if you’re on benefits.” I flush. “I mean, VJ gives me what he can, but it’s not enough to live on, and by the time you’ve paid for child care…”
She’s still smiling. “I know, believe me. And anyway, what’s the point of working just to pay someone else to look after your kid? He’d rather have you, wouldn’t he? And who could blame him?” I’m sure she just means because I’m his mum, though her voice is soft as she says it, and she gazes into my eyes like it could mean something more.
There’s a knock on the door, even though we left it open. “Ellen? The ambulance is here,” the male constable calls.
“I’d better go,” she says, as our hands slide apart. I’d like to think there’s regret in her eyes. They’re pale grey, and beautiful like the rest of her. “Thanks for patching me up.”
* * * *
Next Friday Mrs MacReady still hasn’t come back to her flat, and I wonder if she ever will. I hope she
doesn’t hate me for calling the police. I’ve been in that flat, with its bare floorboards and crumpled newspapers; I know all she had left was her independence.
I go to the gym as usual, and it does the trick, like it always does. I don’t know if it’s the exercise or the music videos on the TV screens, but when I’m in there it’s like another world: no worries, just thoughts. I think about Ellen, but it’s not a sad kind of longing like it has been all week, just a gentle happiness that I got to meet her.
And then I see her. She walks in like a dancer, all cool and sporty in her Nike pants and vest top, so slender they drape as much as they cling. She smiles when she sees me on the exercise bike, and comes over to say hello. I’m horribly conscious of my faded breast cancer T-shirt and the saggy jogging bottoms I got for two quid down the market. “Hi, Carla! I thought I’d give this place a try—my gym costs a fortune, and it’s not all that great. Maybe we could have a coffee, afterwards?”
I pant out a yes, and she smiles again and goes off to the elliptical. It’s dead ahead of me, and as she moves I can see her hips outlined, see that lovely heart shape of her bum. Her arms are pale, like the rest of her, lean and muscled, but still soft-looking.
I do an extra ten minutes on the bike without even noticing.
I’m just wondering how much longer I can string out my usual routine without making it obvious when she comes over. She still looks as cool as a spring morning, even with her face a little pink from the exercise and beads of sweat on her chest. I try not to stare at those. I must look a right state, all red-faced and panting.
“I’m ready for my shower, now—are you nearly done?” she asks, like she doesn’t know.
“Yeah, I think I’ll call it a day too,” I say, and we walk down to the changing rooms together.
My breathing isn’t getting any slower, and it’s nothing to do with how fit I’m not.
I wonder how she managed to get a locker so close to mine. Maybe it’s luck. Maybe someone up there does give a fart about me after all. We park our bags on the same bench, hers all smart and with a label, mine a battered old knock-off that’s falling to pieces but still just about doing the job. “You know, I like it here,” Ellen says, pulling off her T-shirt. “Think I might get a membership.”
She’s got lovely breasts, I see as she struggles out of her sports bra. Small and perfect, with the prettiest pink nipples you ever saw. Me, I have to stand well back when I take my bra off so I don’t take her eye out with one of my big bazoombas. Stretch marks on them too, not that anyone’s got close enough to notice in a good long while.
“You know, when I was at school I’d have killed for a bust like yours,” she says.
“We should’ve traded bodies,” I tell her. “I always hated everyone looking at my chest.”
“Can’t blame them, though, can you?” She pulls off her Nike pants and the thong beneath, and I can’t think of anything to say. She’s so beautiful. So pale and willowy, like a dryad or a naiad from the stories my mum used to tell me when I was little. The neatly trimmed hair at her crotch is darker, like ginger snaps. I wonder if she tastes as sweet. She smiles. “I’m just dying for a shower, aren’t you?”
And she grabs her towel and a couple of bottles, and pads off to the showers in her bare feet, and I just stand there with my tits out, open-mouthed.
Then I finally get my arse in gear and follow her.
* * * *
She orders a latte in the cafe afterwards, and I have a cappuccino. “Have you heard anything about Mrs MacReady?” I ask her, because it’s been preying on my mind.
Ellen nods. “Fraid so. She won’t be going back to the flat. They’ll find her a home. I’ll let you know where.”
“Thanks. I’d like to visit her.” If it’s not on the bus routes, maybe VJ would give me a lift, instead of to the gym on a Friday. “She’s not really got anyone else.” I’d like to spoon up the chocolatey froth from my cappuccino, but I don’t want Ellen to think I’ve got no manners. Then I catch her watching me playing with my spoon with a wicked look in her eye, and I do it anyway. Her smile makes my stomach flutter.
“I think she’s like us,” I say. “Mrs MacReady. I mean, she’s never said so, but she told me once she only got married because she wanted kids. And then she never had any. How bloody awful is that?”
“Things are better now,” Ellen says, picking up her spoon and a packet of sugar. “We’ve got choices she never had.”
“What’s it like, being a policewoman?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Good, when you can help people. Not so great when there’s nothing you can do. What’s it like being a mum?”
“It’s brilliant,” I tell her. “Best thing I ever did. Don’t know what I’d do without my Billy, even if he can be a bit of a so-and-so sometimes. It’s just—you know how relationships, sometimes they don’t last? But your kid, he’s yours for keeps.” I go a bit red, I think. “I don’t usually go on about it like this, though.”
Her eyes seem to sparkle. “You should do it more often, then.” She stirs her coffee, then takes out the spoon and holds my gaze as she gives it a lick before putting it on the saucer. “I always knew it’d be either the police or the army for me. Decided in the end I wasn’t sure if I could actually kill anyone, if it came down to it, so the police it was.”
“I bet your family are proud of you.” I don’t mean it to come out a bit wistful.
She just smiles again. “Oh, you know families. Never satisfied. So, you and Billy’s dad, how did that happen?”
It usually hurts, when anyone asks that. And it’s not that it doesn’t now, but somehow, this time it’s more like I’m feeling the memory of it, rather than the pain itself. “I never meant to be a single mum. I was in a relationship, had been for a couple of years, when I started trying for a baby. But when I miscarried, she couldn’t deal with it. It was like she thought it was a judgement on us, or something.” Or maybe she just wanted an excuse. “But when she left, I still wanted a baby. And that’s when VJ said look, there’s not much chance he’d be having a kid any other way, why didn’t we have one together?”
“So you did. It must have been hard.” Her hand brushes mine.
“Worth it, though,” I say, and then I have to take a sip of my coffee because my throat’s gone dry.
* * * *
Ellen tells me she’s got the day off, so we spend it together. Daft stuff, like walking through the park and getting ice creams. She likes vanilla, I’ve always gone for chocolate. They’re a good mix, together. When we get back to mine she asks if she can come in. I wish I’d tidied up but it’s not like she hasn’t seen the mess before. There’s an old film on one of the Freeview channels so we sit down to watch it, but halfway through she slides her arm around my shoulders. I don’t mean to make so much of it, but when I turn in surprise it just seems natural to kiss her.
She tastes sweet, and her lips are cool and soft as ice cream. I kiss her again, worried she’s going to melt away from me. Her hand comes up to cup my boob, and it’s like there’s a direct line sending the tingles straight down to my crotch. I’m wet for her already. I shuffle closer on the sofa, and she throws a leg over mine so she’s sitting on my lap, the film forgotten and her hand still kneading my boob. I push up her T-shirt. Her skin’s like velvet, with steel underneath. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone this badly.
Ellen breaks the kiss to lean back and tear off her T-shirt. I wish I had the courage to do the same but I’m not like her. I’m not beautiful, me.
Ellen does it for me, and then she undoes my bra and kisses my boobs like they’re something special. “You’re lovely,” she says, so sweetly, so breathily I almost believe her. I can’t speak, so I unhook her bra and set those perfect breasts free. Her nipples pucker and harden, so I tongue them gently to encourage them. She gasps and arches her back. Then she climbs right off me to undo her jeans and slide them down those slender hips.
I never knew what a turn-on it could be to h
ave a beautiful, naked woman on my lap while I’m still half-dressed. From the waist down I’m perfectly respectable, at least to the naked eye, although from the waist up I’m a wanton slut. I grab her bottom, kneading the cheeks and pulling them apart.
“How long have we got?” she asks, her voice rough.
I look at the clock and work it out. Takes a bit longer than usual. “Couple of hours yet, before VJ brings Billy back.”
“Then take me to bed.”
“You go first,” I say. I want to look at her as she walks, all fluid motion wrapped up in smooth, creamy skin. There’s a tattoo of a rose on her left cheek, where only a lover would see it. I brush it lightly with my fingertips as she walks, and she shivers.
“I want to see all of you,” she says when we get there, her hands on my hips and sliding up to my boobs. I undo my jeans and push them off awkwardly. At least I’ve got decent undies on. I never wear my worst ones when I go to the gym.
“Take those off too,” she says. “I’m busy.”
She is, too, kneading my boobs and brushing her thumbs over my nipples, making them stand out proud. I step out of my damp knickers and she drops to her knees, kissing her way all down my belly. My legs shiver as she nuzzles into my crotch. “Lie down,” I tell her.
“Only if you do too.” She smiles, and stands up, putting her arms around my waist. We kiss again, all tongues and hands, then climb onto the bed, still kissing.
I slither down, about to go down on her. “No,” she says. “Come back, I want to see your breasts.” So I use my hand on her, and she plays with my boobs, licking and sucking and biting them as she gets close. She feels like molten gold around my fingers, and when she comes she arches her back and cries like a cat. I stroke her as she comes down from it. I still can’t believe she’s here with me.
“Your turn,” she says, and kisses her way all down me, her face still flushed and her eyes bright as diamonds. She’s got a wicked tongue on her, Ellen has. It teases as much as it pleasures, keeping me on the edge so long I think I’m going to die. When I fall, I shatter, but she’s there to pick me up again and hold me.
