by Paul Charles
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ I offered supportively. I assumed she was telling me this because she was letting me know that I shouldn’t spend too much time dreaming up the details of our next encounter, since she’d be out of town for a while. Mind you, if Mary Skeffington returned from Bath having made her decision to give it a try (and I have to admit, as the week progressed and there was no contact from her, I was now having severe doubts that there would ever be a Mary & Me), surely there would be no further encounters with Miss Jean Simpson.
‘Good. Will you come then?’
Now that one I hadn’t expected. ‘Hasn’t she got any other friends?’ I asked, ignoring my roots. ‘I mean, it might be sending out a mixed signal if I go up.’
‘David,’ Jean said in a schoolmistress voice, ‘she needs us.’
The thing about the Irish is that they can never say no to people in need.
‘Yes, you’re right. When do you want to go?’
‘There’s a train leaving Euston in about two hours – we’ll make it easy. Oh and by the way, David, Jean’s mum is insisting that she looks after the train fares and will put some of us up.’
‘Which of us are going?’ I asked, breathing a sigh of relief. My trip to Bath and my recent frequent visits to the off licence were starting to tell on my pocket.
‘Well, for now there’s me, you and John,’ she replied, matter of fact.
‘Jean!’ I said stretching her name into three syllables as my relief disappeared. I had this vision of Jean lying on my bed after our last encounter, rubbing my juices onto her stomach. I wasn’t so sure that now was a particularly good time to be spending a three-hour train journey with John Harrison.
But Jean Simpson, reduced to two travelling companions to support her sick friend, was not about to drop her numbers by one.
And that is how we came to be on Jean Kerr’s doorstep five and one quarter hours later. The Kerr’s didn’t actually live in Derby, rather they lived in Matlock, a village on the other side of Derby (if you were on your way to Manchester) so Mrs Kerr picked us up at the train station. She insisted on giving Jean our train fares there and then.
Jean Kerr was neither surprised to see us nor did she look crazy. But then again, how would I have known the difference? Something must have been wrong with her for the doctor to be acting as serious as he was.
First thing we did was to listen to Jean’s new record on her new record player. She’d bought a Donovan album, A Gift From A Flower To A Garden. I’d always considered Donovan to be a poor man’s Dylan but with the hippy, flower power direction he’d taken on this new work, he was making his own mark at last. A Gift From A Flower To A Garden was a double album and the first I’d ever seen released in a box. It had a very distinctive mauve-coloured sleeve with a psychedelic photo of the man himself on the cover. Overall, it was a very enjoyable album. To be honest, I was glad to be able to have a musical distraction. After the opening track, the gentle whispery, ‘Wear Your Love Like Heaven’, Jean Kerr ignored me and instead started talking to Jean and John about me, as if I wasn’t there.
‘That’s him gone for the next two hours. He just loves his music doesn’t he? It was awfully good of him to come up and see me,’ she said.
At this point in the conversation I tuned out completely and joined Donovan on his astral travels.
After the first disc finished we had tea and then Jean Kerr said we should go for a walk out the back of her house. She said I’d enjoy it, which I did. We climbed this steep, grass-covered field and when we reached the top, we’d a clear view for 270 degrees. There before us was the most amazing countryside I’d seen outside of Donegal. Jean Kerr was so proud that I loved it so much. We all sat down crossed-legged, just like the hippies do, and absorbed the wonderful views.
I don’t really remember much about the rest of the day; it was getting dark by then. I remember John Harrison being a little put out by the sleeping arrangements, as Jean Simpson had quite clearly stated that John would stay in Jean Kerr’s house and I would sleep in her house. John’s response was to make long and plaintive faces.
‘John, we’re to wed. Around these parts it wouldn’t be considered decent for both of us to sleep under the one roof.’
‘Oh!’ John replied, obviously downhearted.
‘Oh!’ said Jean’s mum, ‘I thought it was the other one you were getting hitched to anyway. Sorry, I must have picked it up wrong!’
‘Oh,’ was all John Harrison could find to say, for a second time, and his shoulders visibly dropped another two inches.
Jean Simpson’s mum was a very jolly lady and she made me feel very welcome. If I’d any thoughts, though, of enjoying any encounters under her roof with her precious daughter then I’d certainly another thing coming. Or, in Jean Simpson speak, I certainly didn’t have another thing coming.
Her mother eventually left the two of us alone at about 11.00 p.m.
‘I’ve got to be heard to be going upstairs pretty shortly, David. I don’t want my mother for one second imagining what we might be up to down here.’
I had forgotten to mention to you that she was wearing her famous tartan miniskirt, although at a much more respectable length this time. I was still sitting at the table and Jean stood up beside me. She took my hand from the table and placed it on her knee. Then she pulled it slowly up the stocking until it vanished under her mini. And I could feel the cold skin above her stocking, the cold, smooth skin. (I love the feel of cold skin; it sends a shiver down my spine. Is that morbid or sick or anything like that?) Next, I touched her pants. She cupped my palm into her axis. She removed her own hand and started to stroke my neck.
My fingers quickly found their way into her pants and amongst her silky hair. Jean bent slightly at her knees to give me more room to manoeuvre, and I rubbed her gently with the tips of my fingers. She bent her head towards the ceiling and moved her hips sensually around my hand. It seemed like a dream as two of my fingers slipped into her.
‘Oh,’ she whispered, ‘naughty.’ She winked at me and added, ‘Naughty but scrumptious.’
We stayed in that position for a time then she pulled her hand away from my hair, dropped it down to her knees, and then up and under her skirt, where she gently removed my hand.
First she kissed my fingers then she placed them up to my nose and said, ‘Naughty boy, that’ll have to do you for tonight. Perhaps this little taster will keep you awake long enough to help you dream up something very naughty to do to me next time we meet.’
She did a quick twirl for me at the door, flashing her beautiful bottom. She made a bit more noise than she needed to as she went up to her room.
Then she was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Four.
If the trip to Derby seemed a bit blurred to you that’s perfectly understandable, because that’s the way I remember it. I still can’t really fit it altogether in my mind. I remember enjoying listening to Donovan. I remember sitting in the field, loving the view, and I remember going to bed, Miss Simpson’s fragrance still lingering on my fingers. And that’s it. I kind of remember the two Jean’s mums but not anywhere near as clearly as I remember Mary’s mum. I do remember how John Harrison looked at me as I left with Jean to sleep at her house. Thank goodness looks couldn’t kill.
Meanwhile my thoughts were with Mary Skeffington who was due back in town. In fact, I was dining at her house that evening.
Jean and John and I caught the dawn train back to London and we didn’t speak much because we slept for most of the journey. We bid our goodbyes at Euston and departed for our respective offices. I was only thirty minutes late, and I told my boss what had happened and he was thankfully sympathetic about Jean Kerr and unconcerned about my lateness.
The first thing I did after I walked through Mary’s front door was to tell her about the Derby trip. Well, actually it was the second thing; the real first thing was a lingering kiss. She particularly enjoyed Jean Simpson’s plans for the sleeping arrangements, claiming she prob
ably was protecting me against an attack from Jean Kerr late in the night.
‘I loved your mum,’ I said, as she started the cooking. As on the previous evening in her flat, I retuned her radio to 199 and Radio Caroline and turned it up a bit.
‘She loved you,’ Mary replied, ‘she really did.’
‘Did you have fun the rest of the week?’
‘We had a great ride above Bath in an air balloon,’ Mary said, as she peeled the potatoes. ‘I’ve noticed something about you, you’re not really good at taking compliments are you?’
‘Augh, you know,’ I said. The worst possible answer I could have given was one of agreement.
‘Well, if you want to know the full truth, what my mother really said was that I should make sure I didn’t let you slip through my fingers.’
‘Oh,’ I replied, simply because I couldn’t believe that I was so lucky. But that thought was still worrying me. So I came right out with it. ‘What did you decide in your week’s thinking time?’
‘I decided that I cared for you very much. I decided that I was totally over John. I decided that there was no part of me still longing for any part of a relationship with him. I decided that if we’re both careful we could make this work, and I decided I’d be a fool not to try to make it work with you if you’re still interested.’
God, I couldn’t believe I was here with this woman in her flat and she was saying all these things, all the things I’d been dreaming about, and there she was, twice as pretty and saying them to me. I walked across to her and pulled her towards me. Then I kissed her and we clung on to each other as if our lives depended on it.
‘Nothing’s guaranteed, David,’ she said, ‘we’re going to have to work at it. You know, not take each other for granted or anything like that and–’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll be fine,’ I said as I patted her on her back. I admit I was being a tad naïve – I knew that this was what I wanted more than I’d ever wanted for anything in my life. It meant that I was going to have to completely re-plan my unplanned life from scratch. This wasn’t meant to happen for, say, at least another ten years or so; but now that it had, I would fight tooth and nail for her, I would sweat guts to make sure this happened. I also knew that I had to resolve one massive issue before I started anything as serious as this.
We’d a great evening. The food was great, Radio Caroline was, as usual, excellent, and we kissed a few times. She asked me if I minded if she turfed me out early; she’d been away for so long she was way behind on her work and she wanted to spend the rest of the week getting back up to speed with it and seeing her friends (who seemed interested in her again, now that she seemed to be over John). She did say, however, that we should do something special on Friday, spend the weekend together.
I was glad of the early night, to be honest; I’d still some sleep to catch up on. Plus it gave me the time I so desperately needed to resolve, or more appropriately dissolve, this thing with Jean Simpson before I moved to the next stage with Mary Skeffington. Maybe in hindsight I’m making it sound a wee bit too neat and tidy. But I don’t think so. I don’t believe it’s selective memory on my part. I remember thinking that Mary’s time in Bath and the decisions she’d made about us during that time were vitally important. I figured up until then I might have been a bit casual about it, maybe preparing myself for Mary shooting me down. Now that she’d come to the decision that I wasn’t a rebound, from that point on it mattered to me how I behaved. You could say, ‘Augh, come on David, you were just playing out this fantasy kick with Jean and you wanted to see how far it would go while at the same time building up the budding relationship with Mary!’
And you might even be correct, but I would have said if that was the case.
Chapter Twenty-Five.
The Jean Simpson Problem was really a much bigger problem than I’d first imagined. I came home from work on Tuesday to find John Harrison sitting on my doorstep.
‘How’s Jean?’ I asked, thinking that Jean Kerr might have taken a turn for the worst.
‘There’s something going on, David,’ he said. The way he said it implied that he was referring to the other Jean.
‘Come on in,’ I said,
As you do.
I made him a cup of tea – he didn’t want anything stronger. I felt like something stronger, I felt I was going to need it.
‘Okay, now give it to me from the top,’ I said.
‘Look, it’s not fair. I mean, when you’re going with someone and you’re in for the long haul, well of course a little bit of the excitement goes out of it, doesn’t it? Stands to reason, doesn’t it? We’d all look like bleedin’ fools if we followed our girlfriends round all the time with our tongues dragging on the floor.’
‘Yes, I suppose so, John. But at the same time you’ve got to feel it’s special,’ I said, trying to play devil’s advocate.
‘What am I supposed to do? I mean I gave up Mary for her. Maybe I shouldn’t have given up Mary. You see, with Mary the situation was reversed. I was the one who thought, God is this it for the rest of my life? And I felt bad about thinking that. And then Jean came along and she was exciting and she was interested in me. I mean, I didn’t even know if girls were attracted to me in the first place – Mary and I just grew up together and kind of drifted into our relationship. It felt right, you know? I knew her and I supposed because I’d deflowered her I had a responsibility towards her and her family. But then I thought there’s got to be more. There’s got to be more than moral obligation. Mary has strong opinions about certain things, you know.
‘So Jean came along, and she’s buzzing all the time and she seemed happier to go with my flow. She wasn’t as sexually inquisitive as Mary was – she had this thing about wanting to be pure on her wedding day. I liked that and I thought, okay, that’s a way of dealing with this.’
It’s just amazing how you can be with two girls and get them both so wrong. I mean, according to John Harrison, Jean Simpson was supposedly sexually un-inquisitive? If that wasn’t hard enough to take, he then topped it off by implying that Mary Skeffington was physically boring? Where was John’s head at anyway? Maybe his ears were just too big a target for the wind. Mary Skeffington took my breath away every time I looked at her! She was so stunning I could hardly keep my hands off her! Not that I didn’t feel it wise to keep my hands off her, at least for the time being. But I’d always a great time with her; she was always graceful, intelligent, entertaining. Recently I found myself reaching the stage where I felt I wasn’t out of my depth with her, that she might not be out of my league. I could actually talk to her and be around her for hours on end without getting bored, but more importantly without her getting bored.
And then of course there was the impish Jean Simpson, I mean to say, I’d great fun with her. Yes, perhaps the encounters were the big part of my attraction to her and, let’s put our cards on the table, it was too large a part of the attraction to ignore. We’ve discussed this before, but I’ll never work out why John wasn’t knocking on her door every single night, with his tongue dragging on the floor.
And what’s the main difference between the two girls? Well, I suppose the easiest way to describe it would be that I loved to look at and lust after Jean Simpson in her various stages of undress. I’ll admit it here and now, even though I’m getting uncomfortable sitting here talking about it. But with Mary it was different, there was just so much more. I’m saying that, having little to no knowledge of Mary and that’s not to say it’s easy for me to keep my hands off her because it’s not, it’s just that there are other priorities and the other priority is the importance of doing everything right with her, getting it all properly in place. And I felt if I did... well, all of the other stuff would also fall into place.
‘David, I think Jean is seeing someone else,’ John said.
‘What gives you that impression?’ I asked, trying to come across like I was dismissing his fear.
‘Well, Jean Kerr says she been staying out la
te at night. One of the girls in the top flat told Jean that my Jean got home in the early hours of the morning. Apparently one morning she got home after eight!’
‘They must be mistaken,’ I said, ‘she’s always talking about getting married to you.’
‘When you take her out to see these groups and bands, what time do you get back by?’ he asked, ignoring my encouragement.
‘I’d say around midnight? Yeah, maybe just before midnight.’
‘Yeah, that what my Jean says, but that’s not what Jean Kerr says, David.’
‘Jean Kerr must have picked it up wrong, John – she’s a bit, you know… she’s not beyond winding any of us up. You know, she’s got her own wee agenda going on as well.’
‘Aye, maybe,’ John offered, ‘but then again the girl upstairs also swears my Jean has come home one morning at 2.00 a.m. and another morning at breakfast time.’
‘Really?’ I offered in lieu of nothing else worthwhile.
There was deafening silence.
‘One of our Jeans is telling lies, David,’ he eventually said.
‘Why? Have you asked your Jean about this?’ I inquired, going out to make him another cup of tea.
‘I’ll take something stronger now, David,’ he shouted after me as he lit up a Player. ‘I mentioned it vaguely, you know – she’s spending all of our money buying clothes and all of that. You know, you can dress yourself just as well with words. And then there’s all this wearing new make-up and things. I kind of thought that–’
‘You know, John,’ I said, ‘our Jean is a beautiful young lady. She’s spent the last five or six years in Jean Kerr’s shadow and now, for the first time, thanks to you, she’s gaining a bit of independence and starting to stand up as her own person. But you can’t expect her to be hiding herself away under a bushel for the next few years while you save up to get married. It’s not meant to be a prison sentence, you know; it’s meant to be the start of a great adventure together. It’s not meant to be about denial, it’s meant to be about enjoyment, fulfilment.’
