by Jodi Taylor
‘He sleeps in here?’
‘Absolutely not. Never. At all.’
‘Well, if you catch some dreadful disease and your feet fall off, don’t come running to me.’
I promised I wouldn’t.
We sipped tea together, just like a normal married couple.
‘So what have you got for me?’
‘Oh. Yes. Andrew dug this out the other day. There’s something in here I think will interest you.’ He began to leaf through. ‘Yes, here we are.’
He passed over a very elderly photo album.
‘That’s our garden.’
‘Yes, these were taken in my grandfather’s time. I never knew him, but I thought you’d like to see what the garden used to look like. The photos are black and white, but you’ll get the idea.’
It had been beautiful. Roses, lavender, geraniums, stocks, foxgloves, lupins, and many more that I couldn’t name spilled untidily over gravel paths. Looking at it, you could hear the lazily droning bees and feel the summer sun beating down. In the centre of her fountain, the hussy clutched her clothes in vain.
‘And,’ he said, setting down his tea and taking the book off me. ‘Recognise anyone here?’
He passed it back. I saw a very old photo of four children sitting on the grass. Christopher glowered from the background. Francesca and Russell sat at the front, smiling at each other. She was making a daisy chain. I was off to one side, staring out of the picture, in my own world as usual.
‘I don’t remember this.’
‘Me neither, but that’s us. You’ve got short hair so you’re what ten, eleven?’
I nodded.
‘And there’s another.’
He turned the page. And there we were, just the two of us. Russell was holding a bucket and I was peering in.
‘Even then with the buckets,’ he said. ‘An omen.’
It was an effort to smile. I looked at my younger self, sighed, and gently closed the book. He put it on the floor. And his mug. And my mug.
‘Jenny. I’m just going to come right out and say this. I’d rather kick myself for being an insensitive idiot now than kick myself in years to come for not saying what I … The thing is, I don’t want you to go. I would be very pleased and proud and – honoured – if you would stay. I know the last months have been pretty bad for you, but I think we’re both agreed that’s finished now. I don’t care about the money. Leave it to the cat for all I care. You can do the garden, fix up the house, learn to cook, ride with me, do the accounts, scrape egg off the walls, bring home dodgy livestock – what woman could resist such a lifestyle?’
Well not this one, certainly. I really didn’t want to go. I thought of what I would leave behind. But if I stayed – and there was another accident – and they took Russell away – what then? I knew what people said about him. Had always said about him. He was his own worst enemy.
I sighed with the weight of it all. I really wanted to stay. The situation was not beyond recall. Take a chance. Take a chance and stay.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’d like to stay.’
He squeezed my hand, very tightly. ‘That’s my girl.’
To overcome the embarrassment of the moment, I leaned back against the pillows and found his arm there. He made no attempt to move it.
‘I’m going to push my luck, now.’
Of course he was. When wouldn’t he?
‘I’d like to stay, too.’
I didn’t get it to begin with. Then I did. Or I thought I did. Maybe I was wrong. My heart began to thump. Was he saying …?
‘If you want me to leave, then I will. But I warn you, I’ll be back tomorrow night and the night after, until one day, Jenny … We know each other a little better now and the last weeks have been … difficult for me. I rather hoped … but if you don’t want … I mean I’ll quite understand. Just say no and I’ll …’ he sighed heavily and continued in a voice that led me to believe he was labouring under some huge, dark, nameless sorrow. ‘… I’ll drag myself back to my own room, trying not to think of you, here, soft and warm, without me … Because I’ll be next door, all alone, cruelly abandoned to the dubious pleasures of night-time manipulation and potential blindness. So no pressure then, Jenny.’
Trying not to laugh, I buried my head in his shoulder.
‘Is that a yes? I know I’m a Checkland, and we like a challenge, but I need more to work with than just the top of your head. Look at me. That’s better. Now there’s no cause for alarm. In the last ten seconds, I’ve thought all this over very carefully indeed, and for the purposes of this exercise, I propose we divide into two groups: the kisser and the kissee. You, Jenny, are the kissee and all you have to do is stare up at me with your disturbingly trustful eyes. Yes, that’s very good. The kisser, that’s me, by the way, takes a deep breath, tries to remember who he is, lifts the kissee’s chin gently, like so, and has at it.’
‘Has at it?’
‘Yes. The kisser, having set the scene to his satisfaction, now makes his move.’
He bent his head and kissed me, very gently. For a long time. His lips were warm and soft. My head swam. I put it down to concussion.
I wondered, briefly, whether he felt the same. It seemed unlikely. For all I knew, he did this every day of the week.
After a while, I opened my eyes. He watched me carefully, a small smile on his face, but the fingers pushing back my hair were trembling slightly.
‘Mastering his relief that the kissee has not leaped screaming from the bed or walloped him over the head with the bedside lamp, the kisser, slightly unsure which planet he’s on, makes his next move.’
He kissed me again. It was even better the second time around. I assumed I was getting the hang of it.
‘At this point, the sensitive and considerate kisser enquires, not without misgivings, whether the kissee is all right.’
Being speechless, the kissee nodded.
He pulled me closer and I could feel the heat of his body through the bedclothes.
‘So now, the kisser …’
The kissee pulled up his T-shirt and ran her hands down his long back.
That shut the kisser up for a bit, although he seemed pleased.
‘What was that?’
I grinned at him. ‘Feedback.’
He laughed and nuzzled my neck, and large numbers of neurons shut down, the better to concentrate on other, more important things.
‘The kisser is enormously grateful for said feedback. Now, brace yourself. That’s called foreplay, by the way. Very important. Apparently, women set great store by it.’
While he was talking, he unbuttoned my pyjamas and gently, very gently, slipped in his warm hand.
I shivered.
‘Cold?’
‘No.’
‘Scared?’
‘No.’
‘Appreciative?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Hmmm. The kisser, slightly disappointed at the response to one of his best moves now tries this – and this – and especially – this.’
I shuddered.
‘The kisser would like to say that sudden loss of speech in the kissee is perfectly normal at this stage, Should the kissee wish to express her appreciation, she can fill out a customer comments card later.’
He had wonderful hands. Those long, thin, bony fingers were moving all over me, gentle, assured and quite magical.
I shuddered again.
He laughed, softly.
‘Having reduced the kissee to incoherence, the kisser now moves in again, reminding the kissee that she can stop any time she likes. Even if that does mean the kisser’s head will probably fall off.’
‘No big loss, then.’
‘For that remark, the kissee can expect no mercy.’
He tugged gently at my pyjama bottoms.
‘Is that – are those – There are pink cows on your pyjamas. What is it with you, pyjamas, and farmyard animals?’
‘If you don’t like them, you can remove …’
My bottoms flew across the room.
‘So, do you like this?’
My whole body jolted and for a moment …
‘The kisser takes a moment for a complacent smirk.’
He did it again and I slowly began to melt. I clutched at him, feeling control of my own body slowly sliding away. Unaccustomed heat swept through me. I could hear my own heart pulsing in time with his hands. And what they were doing. Things began to slide away from me. I made a tiny sound. Whether of apprehension or appreciation, even I didn’t know.
‘It’s all right,’ he said into my hair. ‘It’s all right, Jenny, I promise you. Close your eyes.’
His hands swept over me again, touching, stroking. I was just melting away. He laughed again and I suddenly thought – I have hands, too.
I fumbled inexpertly with his zip and he had to do it for me.
I reached down.
‘Oh!’
His eyes flew open in alarm. ‘What? What’s wrong? What’s the matter?’
‘I’m going to need a bigger hand.’
‘Jenny, you … wretched girl. Just for that …’
The kissee became incapable of coherent thought for a few moments.
‘Russell.’
‘Yes, love?’
‘I don’t know … show me what to do.’
He kissed me and guided my hand. ‘Like this. Oh God, yes. Just like that.’ He buried his head in my hair and groaned.
The kissee smirked complacently.
His hands found places I didn’t even know I had. That someone who moved so quickly and so noisily should have such quiet, slow hands was amazing. And what he did with them was even more amazing. I felt a rhythm build in time with my own frantic heartbeats. My body began to move of its own accord. I couldn’t bear the pleasure.
‘Russell, what’s happening?’
His voice was ragged. ‘I don’t know. Don’t stop.’
For a moment, everything in the universe was very still and then I toppled straight over the edge.
A minute later, so did he.
With a thump, the cat fell off the bed.
Russell curled himself around me and I smiled happily to myself.
‘I won’t be here when you wake up tomorrow,’ he whispered. ‘But I’ll be back. That was just the nursery slopes, Jenny. Tomorrow – tomorrow, we go off piste.’
I didn’t bounce out of bed the next morning, because with that amount of bruising, bouncing doesn’t happen, but I hobbled exuberantly downstairs to discover it was nearly lunchtime.
I struggled into a smelly old coat, shoved my feet into wellies, and stumped through the rain to see Thomas.
I had to greet Marilyn first or she would have had the partition down. I gave her a carrot to keep her quiet and turned to Thomas, who looked better. He dropped his head to mine. I said, ‘Thomas,’ very softly and stroked his nose. He made that small noise again and blew gently in my hair. I laid my head against his and breathed in his warm horse smell. We stood together a long time.
We were still standing together when Russell came back from wherever he’d been and dragged me in for lunch. We all ate together around the kitchen table. Occasionally, he caught my eye. I tried not to blush. Once, I saw Mrs Crisp looking at us, and then I did blush.
Eventually, when he’d eaten everything in sight, he announced he was off to his studio.
‘Are you coming, Jenny?’
‘Yes,’ I said, surprised and pleased he wanted me in there when he was working.
I followed him in with his coffee and was again staggered at the difference in the place.
A number of canvases, in varying stages of completion, were scattered all over. I saw colour and movement and light. I saw more pizza boxes and more beer bottles as well. The place was chaos, but creative chaos.
I cleared a space on his battered old sofa and pulled the ancient throw across my legs. Rain hammered hard on the windows, but inside was warm and peaceful. He’d changed into paint-encrusted T-shirt and jeans and was squeezing tubes and muttering to himself, lost in his own world.
I made myself comfortable and prepared to watch a genius at work. I don’t know about other geniuses, but this one worked with enormous energy, scrubbing the paint into the canvas, stepping back, muttering, lunging forward again, stabbing with his brush, rubbing the paint with his fingers, singing odd bits of song – he was never still. I felt tired just watching him. He had obviously completely forgotten about me, so I curled up under the throw, nursed my coffee, and remembered some things from last night. His hand, my hands – what I’d done with them, where they’d been … I’d just finished an action replay of one of my favourite bits when I became aware that silence had fallen. I looked up to find him watching me.
‘What are you thinking about?’
I blushed. ‘I … um … I…’
‘No, you’re not starting that again. Spit it out, wife.’
I tried to marshal some words, but none seemed willing to put themselves forward.
‘Well, while you’re unable to criticise, come and have a look at this.’
This was an honour. He was obviously making a huge effort today. And if he could, then so could I.
I walked around behind his easel. Whatever he’d been painting had been abandoned and left propped against the wall. Facing me was a vivid, charcoal sketch. I was looking at myself. But not as I’d ever seen myself before.
The sketch looked back at me, quietly enigmatic around the mouth, then you looked at the eyes, heavy lidded, and far away, looking backwards, and what they were seeing was very, very obvious. My hair curled around my face in a way it rarely did in real life and my bare shoulders were indicated with just a few swift strokes. It was an intimate, personal portrait from someone who saw me very differently from the way I saw myself.
I reached out slowly, stopping just short of touching the paper, as if by following his outlines with my fingers in the air I could somehow capture what he had put on paper and absorb it into myself.
I looked at this other me and this other me looked back.
It took me several efforts, but he stood patiently, wiping his hands clean.
‘Is this …? How …? Do you …?’
It really is a good idea to decide what you want to say before you start. Or, as Thomas would have said, ‘Engage brain before opening mouth. ’
‘Do you like it?’
I caught a faint note of anxiety. This was Russell Checkland, the returning artist, still slightly unsure of himself.
‘Yes, very much. I didn’t know … I just …’
‘Just a quick word of advice, Jenny. If you’re going to sit thinking sexy thoughts – and feel free to at any time – then please make sure it’s only me in the room.’
‘You don’t know that …’
‘Idiot. You might as well put up a neon sign.’
‘No, you’re wrong. I was thinking about – the cat.’
We both turned to look at the cat who had somehow materialised belly up on the sofa. I’ve no idea how he got through the door. Osmosis, presumably.
He folded his arms and gave me that complacent Checkland grin.
‘The cat?’
‘Yes.’
I stared at him, defiantly. He stared back. And kept on staring. And on. The moment when I should have looked away passed away unnoticed. I couldn’t seem to get enough air in my lungs. The silence thickened and twisted into something else. I could hear my own heart pounding. Suddenly, I knew why Thomas had left me. Clever Thomas, who always saw more than I did.
I thought of last night. This was different. Last night had been white chocolate. Mild. Sweet. For beginners. This was the real deal. Dark chocolate. Thick and strong. For adults only. Addictive and dangerous.
I don’t know why he had laughed at me. He might as well have had a neon sign over his head too. In a flash, everything changed. Suddenly, I was in new and dangerous territory and I didn’t give a damn. I flew at him. He grabbed me. We crashe
d together. Our first kiss was in no way related to the gentle fun of last night. He went for me like a drowning man gasping for air.
I pulled his T-shirt over his head and he kicked off his jeans. He was hot and hard all over. His hands were everywhere. Not gentle and slow and patient like last night, but heavy and demanding. Clothes flew across the room. He knelt before me, unzipped my jeans, and gently pulled them down. I braced one hand on his shoulder and the other against the wall. Last night, I’d learned what hands could do, but this … My knees sagged. He caught me and we fell to the floor together. From somewhere – heaven knows where – he found a condom and ripped open the packet. Against the patter of rain and the soft hiss of the gas fire, I could hear only my own heartbeat and his jagged breathing.
He pushed my legs apart with his knee, whispered, ‘If you’re not sure then you have to say now, because in a moment, I’m going to be unstoppable. Like a runaway train.’
‘That’s my Russell – the little engine that could.’
I could see laughter in his eyes. ‘One day we must talk about inappropriate humour.’
‘We could do it now, if you like.’
‘Believe me, wife, in ten seconds, you won’t be able to talk at all, and this time, for all the right reasons.’
He knew what this moment meant. And not just for me. I could feel him, wound as tight as a drum.
‘Ready?’
‘Yes, yes.’
His mouth came down on mine. All my senses slid sideways in anticipation. I could feel him nudging against me. I stood on the brink …
Kevin knocked at the door.
‘Mr Checkland?’
Everything stopped dead.
Russell uttered a milk-curdling curse and then said, in a commendably normal voice. ‘What is it, Kevin. I’m quite busy in here.’
‘Mrs Kingdom is here.’
‘What? Don’t just stand there. You know the drill. Lock the doors. Turn out the lights. Everyone on the floor under the kitchen table and pretend we’re out.’
A pause.
‘Good afternoon, Russell,’ said Aunt Julia on the other side of the door.
I try to be a good wife. Sadly …
I convulsed, curling into a tight ball, hands over my face, shaking with stifled laughter.
Having ascertained that no help whatsoever could be expected from the wife of his bosom, Russell sighed and let his head hang for a moment.
