Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’, drove these disturbing thoughts out of his head. The Yank had her up against the bar. The Agent downed his half glass of whisky in a oner. Striding to the bar, he pushed between the couple, catching the Yank roughly by the elbow. The man staggered back. Letting his hands hang loose, The Agent snarled softly, “Hit me now, you poxy bastard.” Three steps backwards lost the man in the crowd. Crushing his secretary’s hand in a fierce grip, without looking at her face, he dragged her to the gangway. The steamer berthed alongside a jetty, “You and me’s going home honey.” He stopped a taxi. The Agent’s voice, quiet and insinuating, frightened the woman. No more words passed between them, nor did the Agent look at her.

  Though the chandeliered reception hall, the heavy carpets muffled their footsteps up the broad curving stairway. Since dragging her from the boat, his grip had not slackened. Now it tightened even more. They stood in the dimly lit corridor outside her bedroom door. “Just leave me, let me go, please just go, please,” she pleaded, half weeping. “Open that fucking door,” he rasped, screwing her arm up behind her back. She’d left the key hanging in the lock. She fumbled. “Make it snappy, darling,” he whispered and with a soft mocking sneer, “just in case your friendly Yank has followed us.”

  The panelled door swung open. She made a lunge to get in. He spun her round. Quick as lightening her knee shot at his crutch. Twenty years of training, The Agent took it on the thigh. “Baby, I like the way you’re feeling,” he hissed.

  In a jerking Half Nelson, he threw her on the bed. Petrified beyond screaming, she lay. He ripped at her clothes. “No pants eh? That’s nice, you filthy cow,” he snarled holding her down. Short sharp punches to her stomach. Winded, she gurgled for breath. A hand gripped her throat. He forced his way. Brute force.

  Flinging bed sheets over a naked, quaking body, The Agent panted softly, “One word of this little bit of fun gets out and believe me darling, you won’t be seeing your baby girl again.”

  The Agent left her sobbing….

  and believing him.

  The lithe, bronzed body of Company Chairman, Andrew Anderson relaxed on an inflatable li-lo. Another morning’s unbroken Caribbean sunshine required his dark diving goggles to cut out the glare as he turned over to view, not without a measure of pride and affection, the majestic, twin masted, auxiliary schooner. She lay motionless at anchor in a secluded cove of vivid turquoise. Her sweep of white curvaceous lines, from a slender bowsprit to a long counter stern, fully justified her name, ‘Sea Nymph’. Beguiling as the Sirens of old who lured sailors into the watery abyss of Charybdis, so his yacht drew Nuen’s Chairman towards the whirlpools of financial turbulence.

  His Caribbean crew, smart in their white tee-shirts and navy flannels, coiled and recoiled ropes, no splice without a whipping nor clove-hitch left un-tightened. Painting, holystoning of decks, her fresh white canvases lashed immaculately to varnished boom and spar, every touch of seamanlike attention matched the lustre of her extensive brass fittings. Much care and considerable company expense had been lavished upon this aristocrat of the ocean’s paths and byways. To emphasis the flowing lines of her femininity the golden hair of a gloriously full breasted mermaid entwined with the elaborate scrolling of her carved name plates. She epitomised the grace of an era when sail was paramount and the men who heard the winds throb, who knew the thrill of a canvas full and drawing, loved their ships above all else.

  The sun seemed slow to reach its zenith. That morning the Sea Nymph’s anchor chain hung without a ripple. The scent of coconut palms added heaviness to the languorous stillness of a cove upon which the tallness of his yacht’s varnished masts stretched with an unbroken image. Indeed the perfection of sunlight and tranquility mirrored the eons of an existence before the decadence of wealth and hurry brought screaming power boats and security men flaunting armpit holsters.

  The islands canopy, dense and green, fringed an idyllic beach whose pure mica sand would already burn any bare feet which might venture upon it. Not that this was likely; the small isle was strictly private. Detracting somewhat from the cove’s serenity, a large sign in bold red letters read, ‘Strictly No Landing. Unauthorised Visitors will be Prosecuted.’ On a bluff, above verdant plumes of natural forest, the wide veranda of a spacious wooden bungalow enjoyed whatever cooling breeze might be drawn from the breadth of a shimmering ocean.

  From a swivel chair on the bridge, the skipper ordered his crew to holystone the teak -laid foredeck, “Don’t go aft,” he warned them, aware that the Chairman’s wife would be sunbathing topless, or more likely nude. He’d gone astern on one occasion to find the lady stretching on a sun lounger. She’d looked up and smiled. The crew was certainly not to be indulged. His gold braided peak cap lay on the navigating table as he watched the li-lo for any signs of the returning owner.

  Splashing a little water over himself, the Chairman turned onto his back and glanced at his Rolex; important visitors due in half an hour. Blast, I’ve stayed out here too long. Coffee, working lunch, bungalow for dinner, maybe a powerboat zoom to a night club on the main island. On reflection, maybe not. Anyway, business, business--- this nuclear programme is beginning to drag. Action on cash flow, must get action out of this meeting. Pressure built, he knew the problems of febrile thinking. It mustn’t show; cool, confident and casual does the trick. Turning over abruptly he sculled rapidly towards the yacht.

  One of the crew stood waited on the boarding platform with a towel and robe. Scrambling off the li-lo, Anderson grabbed the towel and took the steps two at a time, calling over his shoulder, “Stay here until a launch arrives, then bring the guests to my Stateroom.” At the stern of the yacht, as he hurried to the Master cabin, his wife lay naked, tummy up, tanned and glistening.

  “Darling, I need oil,” she reached over, pulling at his trunks as he knelt beside her, “and darling,” her voice dropped, “and a big bit of you.” He bent and nuzzled her, before jumping to his feet, “Muffty darling, these chaps will be here any minute.” With equal alacrity, she sprang to her feet, “You bastard, you horrible bastard,” and covering herself with a towel flounced along the deck. “Oh God,” he groaned, hurrying to dress, “three days of sulks and silence.”

  Twin outboards at full throttle and a huge curve of thirty knot foam screamed into the cove. A powerboat roared alongside the yacht’s boarding stage, stopping dead. The stage rocked violently, a following wake raked up the beach. A crewman steadying the craft helped onboard the green faced Sir Joshua Goldberg. His companion, affecting boldness with a fixed grin, ignored the crewman’s proffered hand and stumbling at the foot of the ladder, clung to the rope.

  “Welcome aboard, Josh,” Andrew Anderson at the Sea Nymph’s rail raised a smart salute. Goldberg, ignoring the welcome, nodded, “Do you mind if I use your toilet?” “Of course, of course not.” A steadying hand on the polished brass banister guided the ungainly bulk of Sir Joshua down the vessels wide companionway into the yacht’s luxurious teak panelled Stateroom. Its cream coloured carpet rose and fell alarmingly. Goldberg groaned. “Here you are, Joshua.” Opening a side door, the Chairman helped the company’s scientific advisor inside, not a moment too soon.

  Sun tanned and boyish in spite of thinning hair, the ex-incumbent of Westminster’s highest office, whistling a Bill Hailey number, wandered round to the aft deck, inadvertently disturbing its sun worshiper. “Oh, oh no, goodness me, I’m so, I, I do, didn’t mean…” Removing his sunglasses he loitered over a fawning apology. Apart from strategically placing her reading material, she ignored him. Recovering his composure he sauntered down the companionway, entering the State Saloon in casual style.

  A black Caribbean cabin attendant, smart in white ducks, shirt and blue Company tie, stood awaiting an order. “Grind fresh coffee, Marley.” A curt nod from Anderson sent the man away. Goldberg emerged at that point, his sagging face restored to its normal pallor. “Andy, so glad to see you.” They clasped shoulders in a light embrace before Sir Joshua turned, “An
dy, this is my friend, Anthony,” and looking hard at his Chairman, “I may have mentioned him to you before? Anyway,” he risked a smirk, “as luck would have it, he happens to be staying down the islands with a pop star friend and I persuaded him to fly up here for the day.” Pleasant a visual experience as his deck encounter may have been, Anthony could but assume her to be the Chairman’s wife. This conclusion, a shade disconcerting, tempered his manner to a degree. He said nothing.

  “Anthony, it’s good to meet yah. Your sterling reputation goes before you,” the Chairman’s reference to currency as an indicator of merit, bordered on a faux pas. The hand grip lingered, a show of bonhomie covered two men attempting to assess each other from behind dark glasses. Choosing to ignore the gaff, Anthony responded with a wide smile, “You too. I know, Chairman you operate a highly progressive energy consortium, I’m sure we’ll have common ground.”

  “Call me, Andy, please. Anyhow, how’d yah like this lil’ol’ sailing packet, man?” Anderson’s arm swept round the cabin as he mocked the native twang. Waving his visitors towards the push-button leather easy chairs, Nuen’s Chairman and principle shareholder tapped one side of his nose, “Handy office for keeping an eye on the offshore perks.” The trio laughed and any slight tension passed as they bandied pleasantries. Balancing an array of elaborate silver utensils on one hand, the crewman set down and poured the gentlemen’s morning coffee. A “thank you, Marley,” abruptly dismissed him.

  Carefully steering the conversation, Andrew turned to the ex-politician, “You see a good deal of the Middle East these days, Anthony, the Gaza problem, I don’t suppose it’ll be solved until Hamas is neutralised and even then what do you do with these people?”

  “Please, spare me the Anthony, friends call me, Tone, don’t know why.” Too wily to be drawn easily, he picked up his cup, “Yes, I’m out there quite a bit, on a peace mission. It’s my strong suit,” and draining the last of his coffee, “Naturally your country’s continued support for Israel is a vital factor in that issue and for the wider area too, given Israel’s present nuclear capability and the potential development of weapons elsewhere in the region. Don’t forget, the Pakistan/India situation is an equal worry but that’s not my remit,” adding, “for the moment.”.

  “Tone, I’m glad you mention the nuclear situations we all face,” the Chairman didn’t miss his opening. “Josh may have told you, Nuen is a major player on this front, worldwide in fact--- Turkey, the Saudi’s, and the rest, apart from Iran, that is.“ Tone nodded. Andrew concentrated his remarks, “Unfortunately we aren’t making development progress in the U.K. as fast as we would like to do. Your renewable energy lobby is gaining ground and I’m told especially so in Scotland. Damn Scottish Nationalists are saying no to nuclear power, they even want to close our joint nuclear submarine base. Think of the jobs that would lose.”

  “That won’t happen, Andrew,” the politician was adamant. “The Scots have just lost their two biggest banks in taxpayer bailouts. Don’t forget the Westminster treasury holds the Scottish purse,” and with a schoolboy grin, “or should I say, their sporran. No seriously, their independence is holed below the waterline. This nuclear game is safe with London and I’m sure your good ship Nuen won’t go down either.” The trio laughed heartily as the ex-politician leant forward confidentially. “More importantly gentlemen, there are well advanced plans for the next generation of nuclear facilities in Britain. Sure planning impediments have to be eased back a little, but tendering isn’t too far away,” and looking intently at the pair, “you may well be interested?”

  Anderson and Goldberg exchanged a swift glance, “Well, Tone, as you’re well aware the capital market is a mite difficult at the moment.” Sir Joshua entered the conversation, “I fly into Saudi next week. The pile of petro-dollars isn’t as deep as it was at $150 a barrel and believe me there’s quite a queue but swapping oil for uranium has its appeal, make no mistake, gentlemen we’ve got to move smartly before these solar farm projects begin to corner too much cash. Spain, Australia, central Africa, they’re waking up to its potential. Climate change and an about turn in policy at the White House are both on their side.”

  Goldberg glanced again at his Chairman, “Let’s not forget, on the plus side, printing money is taking off. Governments have no option; they’re just bankers with a heavy millstone they don’t know how to manage and with half the national workforce in the bureaucracy, they’re running out of tricks. There’s never been a sounder time to gather up as much borrowing as possible, interest’s down at a saver’s suicide rate. Printing money, supply and demand, too many readies sloshing around,” Sir Joshua’s eyes gleamed. “Just wait for inflation to take off and it will. That cuts through your debts like a knife through cheese. If Nuen were to hold some useful energy and nuclear weapon contracts,” he looked from one to another, the inference of his unfinished sentence more potent than words and better suited to a political mindset.

  His listeners sat in reflective silence, until broken by ‘Tone’. “I fly into Jerusalem next week, Josh, but I can easily come home via Bahrain, or Ryadh, if it’s any help.” Goldberg looked pleased, “I’m sure we have mutual friends out there.” His voice took on a slightly aggressive edge, “By the way, Tone, I’ve warned you before, this U.K. problem with radioactive waste disposal, remember meeting the Swiss scientist, that report we saw? If we’re not careful and its details blow to the Greens it could stymie the whole job. I take it the man and his report are still out there somewhere?”

  The ex-politician moved uneasily, “Truth is I’m not too sure on that point, but don’t worry. I’ll follow that up the moment I’m back in London.”

  With an appraising glance at his Chairman, Goldberg pressed on in a surprisingly sharp manner, “Look here, Tone, Nuen’s going for underground waste storage with potential for handling international shipments. The development site we require demands three main criteria, a stable rock formation, minimum population density, suitably remote and thirdly,” his normally evasive eyes fastened on the politician, “an area already under government ownership, so if needs be we can move fast with the least involvement of meddling planners or public enquires and such like delaying tactics which these bloody environmentalist trot out. National security is always a useful screen, wards off this blasted Freedom of Information nonsense.”

  Seldom was the scientist so outspoken; it created a moment’s void. Andrew responded, hoping to cover any embarrassment, “Gentlemen, fresh coffee? Marley!” he shouted. The crewman materialised in seconds. He’s too damn close, could be eavesdropping. Showing his displeasure the Chairman snapped, “Tell the chef we’ll take lunch under the awning in twenty minutes and get about your duties.” The Caribbean face remained impassive, “Yes sir.”

  Enough business for the moment, guessed Anderson. As the trio responded to the crewman’s quiet words, “Lunch is served, sir,” and moved to the companionway, he put an arm on the ex-politician’s shoulder, “How would a seat on Nuen’s board appeal to you, Tone?”

  “That’s a most interesting thought, “replied the ex-politician, smiling.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Crossing the Divide

  The woman stood up and lifting a pail of frothing milk, she put an arm across the cow’s back. Dancing eyes smiled, deep set penetrating eyes, full of the rays of an evening sun that bounced off the sea. Her mass of golden hair caught its light and fell glowing on her shoulders in natural waves. Wild as the passions I’d known these months, her steady gaze was the contact of those fleeting seconds, that first charged meeting when our eyes saw into each other came cascading, overflowing with the emotions of that moment. How often she’d been with me, had remained a fantasy helping me through the shadows, those depressing weeks when emptiness devoured my thoughts like the wasting corpse I saw myself to be. I’d longed to glimpse her eyes again, know the woman who lay behind that secret moment.

  I remained motionless, staring into the eyes which had been my source of strength. I
n daydreams I’d stroked her hair, held this woman to me, told all, confessed her eyes had kept me living. Fulfilling wish or inexplicable turn of fate, I cared nothing of that; the beauty of her eyes had brought me to this meeting. They were the heart of my dreams.

  Smiling eyes, her cheeks pink and bright, she patted the cow, “This is Morag.” No expansive hello, no mighty expression of surprise or astonishment, simple. We stood staring at each other, savouring the meeting, the immediate joining of a presence between us, tangible and lovely. After a long pause she held out her hand and very quietly, “and I’m Eilidh.”

  Without leaving her eyes, I stepped forward, searching for the words which had so often come to me in fantasy embraces. Instead I took her hand in silence and held it, shy and nervous.

  “May I carry the pail?” How pathetic, childish. Rich yellow milk frothed over its rim. The woman’s arms bare to her elbow, smooth and brown, just a plain blouse, open at the neck, a turquoise shade, it set off her golden hair truly as the green sea enhances the beaches of sunshine.

  We walked towards the house. “How did you enjoy your visit to Sandray?” her voice, soft and musical, matching those I’d met in Castleton as I come off the ferry.

  “One of life’s more unusual days; as revealing as it’s been rewarding,” I hated what I’d said the second it left my lips. I didn’t mean to sound formal, or evasive, I only wanted to pour out the whole inconceivable happenings. Framing adequate words became impossible. What had been for all these months an imaginary, unreachable woman on a tube train, was walking with me, on an island, on an evening slowly, so slowly, melting the Atlantic into purple.

  Only little by little did I overcome shyness and glance openly at her face. A high forehead, neat aquiline nose, a slim jaw line, firm lips and shining skin, tanned and fresh. The strength of character shining through the arresting impact of her eyes failed to hide a girlish femininity. She carried her finely shaped head with the upward tilt I remembered so clearly. The attraction of the woman was riveting, instant and alluring, an arousal beyond any undemanding fascination.