by David Carter
Back in the cottage they went straight for the bedroom, lay on the bed fully clothed, and promptly fell asleep.
It had gone five o’ clock when he woke, Sarah to his left, still snoozing. The zip on the front of her dress had fallen slightly. He could see her sky blue bra. He slipped his hand inside and cupped her breast. A moment later her eyes fell open and a smirk came over her face.
‘I didn’t put you down as the kind of man who’d take advantage of a sleeping women,’ she said, mockingly.
‘I’m not. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.’
‘What are we going to do between now and dinner?’
It was a stupid question and they both knew it. He withdrew his hand and grasped the zipper and tugged it all the way down.
‘I know exactly what we’re going to do.’
‘What, Mister Greene?’
‘I’m going to take your clothes off.’
‘And then?’
‘I’m going to take my clothes off.’
‘And then?’
‘You’ll see.’
It was almost seven by the time they stirred. Sarah threw on some old jeans and began cleaning out the fireplace.
‘The key for the shed is on the hooks,’ she said, pointing to the wall just inside the door. ‘It’s the smallest key if you fancy mowing the grass.’
‘Okay,’ he said, ambling toward the key and heading outside while there was still sufficient daylight. In the next moment she heard the old petrol mower spluttering into life. She grinned and began setting the fire.
When he came back she was missing, fixing herself up in the bathroom for the evening. Gringo admired her handiwork in the grate. Twisted and rolled up newspaper cigars, small and neat kindling, twigs and trimmed branches, topped off with chunky logs. He had no doubt it would catch light with a single match. Someone had been well trained in the Brownies or Girl Guides or whatever. The whole thing looked like a work of art.
‘Boil the kettle!’ she shouted through, ‘for your wash!’
‘You got it!’
He made himself ready; brushed his teeth, combed his hair and moustache, applied deodorant, and an aftershave that Glen had given him a year before, then went and sat and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. She came into the room, her perfume preceding her, and stood in the open space and said: ‘Well, what do you think?’
Gringo stood up and duly inspected. She’d changed into a figure hugging royal blue dress. It was made of an expensive material like silk, a fact Sarah later confirmed, telling him that she had treated herself two years before when Rosefield Antiques was far more profitable than today.
She’d changed her lipstick too, a darker shade that more suited the evening, and she’d touched up her spiky haircut that had miraculously survived his onslaught pretty much intact.
‘You look great!’
And she did, for her age she looked fantastic. He didn’t have to resort to flattery with this woman. It was the truth.
‘Really?’
‘Fabulous,’ and he offered his arm which she willingly took. She grabbed her cream leather handbag that matched her shoes, and they went outside. If she noticed he was wearing the same check shirt and black jeans she never mentioned it, but she did notice the huge improvement outside where he’d cut the grass.
He started the car and headed across the field. The gate was locked as she fished out the key. He grabbed it for he couldn’t contemplate her mucking about in a muddy field in cream shoes. She was happy to let him, most men didn’t.
‘So where are we going?’
‘Would you mind awfully if we went to the carvery again?’
‘Course not, fine by me.’
The same chef was there, bleating his message to all comers. This time they opted for the turkey with a lighter selection of vegetables, though the roast potatoes still took a hammering. Gringo paid and was happy to do so, and they found the same table vacant.
‘Wine?’ he asked.
‘What do you think? she answered, smirking.
‘Chardonnay?’
‘No, not this time. Sometimes I prefer a red in the evening. You choose.’
Gringo went to the bar and bought a decent Chilean Merlot and returned.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever eaten two meals in the same hostelry on the same day,’ said Gringo.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been on two dinner dates on the same day with the same man,’ she added, though Gringo didn’t believe that.
The conversation never dragged, as they chatted away like young lovers. It was as if they had known each other for years. They spoke of intimate things without any hint of embarrassment or reserve. Nothing seemed taboo.
The evening flew by, more so than before; and in seemingly no time at all, it was time to leave. They visited the cloakrooms, making the most of the hot running water. Living in the shack you never knew when you might see running water again, other than by gawping through the window. Long ago Sarah had learned to carry a travelling toothbrush, and a small tube of paste, and she set about brushing her good forty-six year old teeth.
Minutes later they were back in the car, embracing, Gringo keener than ever to muck up her lipstick, noticing the minty mouth, thinking nothing of it. The moment they came apart he whispered: ‘Let’s get you back to the bungalow.’
‘You can’t want me again?’
‘We’ll see about that. Do up your belt!’
He drove her home quicker than he should and was in for a fright. They both were. On the twisty country lanes as he exited a sharp bend, a police car appeared out of nowhere.
‘Trouble,’ said Gringo.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Cops… behind… don’t look round… do you think I’d fail a breath test?’
She didn’t like to say because she knew he would.
‘You should be all right,’ she said, hopefully, when inside her head she was worrying about how she might get home if he was slung in the cells.
The police hadn’t yet stopped them and that encouraged Gringo to think they might get away with it. As they came out of a section of closely packed bends and hit a short straight, the cop car pulled out in a hurry and swept by as if Gringo was standing still, and disappeared up on ahead.
‘That was lucky,’ said Gringo.
‘Girl driving,’ said Sarah. ‘They must have had bigger fish to fry.’
‘Maybe she was on lessons,’ said Gringo, a comment she thought sexist, as if there wasn’t a qualified female driver in the force, though she let it pass.
After that he drove ultra carefully the short way back, glad to be inside the gate, on the private field, away from any brush with the boys in blue.
Once inside, Sarah lit candles and put on the rickety kettle for coffee. She struck a match and offered it to the fire, the paper blazing instantly, the kindling spitting and crackling as it caught, the twigs giving in, the logs already catching light. In minutes flames lit up the whole room, reflections dancing hypnotically from the timber walls and ceiling, the smell of wood smoke everywhere.
‘Take a seat,’ she said, ‘coffee won’t be long,’ and when his back was turned she slipped a good slug of whisky into each.
Gringo sat down before the rug. He heard the kettle boiling and her splashing water into the mugs. He pulled a small table ready as she set the coffees down and made to sit in the matching chair. He was having none of that.
He grabbed her arm and tugged her toward him, pulling her down into his lap.
‘Do you think you can bear me?’
‘You’re not so heavy.’
His cupped his left hand around her shoulder, and began stroking her thigh with his right.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Have you enjoyed your weekend?’
‘I certainly have, and it isn’t over yet.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. You enjoyed yours?’
‘Best weekend I’ve had in years,’ she said, and they both knew she meant it.<
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He kissed her gently and held her away and looked into her eyes. Then kissed her again, still softly, and looked back into her face.
‘What is it? Stop teasing me, Gringo.’
He kissed her a third time, harder, with passion, an ardour returned in kind. He caught her glancing into the fire. A big log caught light and was sending tall flames dancing up the chimney.
In the past he’d been alone with a woman in front of an open fire on three occasions, and each time he’d ended up making love to her, basking in the glow of the flames. There is something uniquely special about naked flames warming naked skin. He would do the same again, he didn’t need signals, he knew what the fire was for, and why the sumptuous rug was laid out temptingly at their feet. He imagined she’d planned it all along, and was determined not to disappoint her. This would be the highlight of the weekend, the pièce de résistance, something that would live in the memory forever. A few more kisses and he’d make his move.
He stood her up and she went to grab the coffee. He stood too and took the coffee from her hand and set it back on the table.
‘You can have that later.’
‘It’ll be cold.’
‘I’ll make you some more.’
He eased the chairs back with his feet and laid her on the rug. His fingers went to the belt of her dress and unfastened it. He rolled her over, unclipped the tiny hook, and drew down the zipper, slipped the dress off and tossed it on the chair, before turning her on her back. She was wearing red underwear, garments he hadn’t seen before. Expensive and erotic clothing he set about stripping, and only when she was naked, bathed in the firelight, ready for him, did he begin unbuttoning his shirt.
‘Do me a favour,’ she whispered. ‘Get me a pillow. Take the two from Ronnie’s room.’
He went through to the second bedroom, Ronnie’s room, apparently, though why they should have separate bedrooms, he couldn’t think. Gringo would never have allowed her a separate room, and whether the news about Ronnie’s sleeping arrangements was good or bad he didn’t care, though one thing he didn’t like was any mention of his name.
He wondered how long it had been since Ronnie had set foot in the place, had slept in the place, had slept with her. Somehow it didn’t seem right, Ronnie ever being there at all, and if truth be told, it was a mistake on her part to have mentioned his name. Why remind them of the absent prick who was piddling around the Middle East doing God knows what?
She’d clasped her hands together behind her neck. She reminded him of some buxom woman from a classical oil painting, holding her head clear of the rug, inviting the pillows to be placed there, something that Gringo was happy to do.
‘Thanks, darling,’ she said.
Darling. Well, well.
He stood above her, unable to take his eyes from the curves and patterns of her glowing body, light and shade, black and white. His earlier words came back to him: Bit of a shag palace really, isn’t it. He hadn’t been far wrong in that. She held his gaze, never once looking away. He didn’t blink. She adored him looking at her in that way, and then finally he removed his shirt and tossed it on top of the dress.
One of the logs cracked with a fearsome bang, sending red hot cinders flying out, one crashing into Gringo’s right loafer. She jumped, in truth so did he, but now he was kicking it to one side and stamping it out, the tiny pall of smoke drifting across the room.
‘Lucky you hadn’t taken your shoes off,’ she grinned.
‘Lucky I hadn’t taken my pants off,’ he said, easing off his shoes and socks and downing his trousers and briefs.
‘Come along,’ she said. ‘Don’t be such a drama queen.’
What a cheek!
He went down to her, holding her head steady, showering her with kisses, caressing every part of her curvaceous body. Drama queen, indeed. What could she be thinking?
When she was able she whispered: ‘Gringo, I want you to make it last as long as you possibly can,’ which was, allowing for breaks and rests, exactly what he did.
Twenty-Three
On Sunday morning at 10.50 the sun forced its rays through the clouds and blinds and curtains, and shone directly onto Gringo’s face. He woke up and glanced about. They were still lying together, naked on the rug. The embers in the fire were still smoking and radiating heat. The log basket was empty and looked miserable. He sat up, stiff as a board, but not as stiff as she would be. He yawned softly and awarded himself a Sunday morning smile, then bent forward and blew on her nipples. A feline smile crept over her face, though her eyes remained closed, as she said: ‘What are you up to now?’
‘You’re awake, then.’
‘I am now,’ and she opened her eyes. ‘God, I feel stiff.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No, it wasn’t you,’ she said, punching him playfully on the shoulder. ‘It was sleeping on this bloody rug. I need the loo,’ and she stood up and headed that way. Gringo watched her go, eyeing the carpet burns on her back and buttocks. She came back ten minutes later wearing her white robe. Gringo had slipped on his jeans but was still bare-topped.
‘Have you seen my back?’ she said.
‘No, why?’
‘It looks as if I’ve been thrashed with a bamboo!’
‘How did that happen?’
‘How do you think!’
‘I didn’t exactly get away Scot free. Look at this,’ said Gringo, lowering his jeans and pointing to bite marks that were all over his stomach and groin like a rash.
‘Serves you right,’ she said, smirking, and heading for the kettle to make coffee.
He wondered if those marks and grazes would clear away by the time he next saw Maria, but knew they wouldn’t.
‘So what’s the plan for today?’ he asked.
‘I don’t suppose you fancy going out for a meal?’
‘Sure. Sex always makes me ravenous, but not carvery, eh?’
‘No, I wasn’t thinking of that. I know a pretty pub along the valley, quiet and off the beaten track. They do a decent Sunday lunch and a great pint of local beer.’
‘Sounds good to me. Are we coming back afterwards?’
‘Do you want to come back afterwards?’
Gringo smirked again. ‘Sure.’
‘You can’t want me again… not after last night.’
‘We’ll see about that later.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘It’s a maybe. If we’re coming back we won’t pack the car.’
She took the kettle and hurried to the bathroom and afterwards Gringo shaved and freshened up as she dressed. It was almost noon when she came back to the sitting room.
She’d slipped on a red dress, well fitted like the last one, expensive looking, red for passion, thought Gringo, as she stood in the centre of the room and did a twirl.
‘Does sir approve?’
She could see in his eyes that he did. She’d even changed her shoes, no wonder she had so much baggage; she never seemed to wear the same thing for more than half a day.
Gringo had thrown on the same check shirt and black jeans again, and if she noticed, she didn’t say. He was beginning to think he’d let the side down in the dressing department. Next time, if there was ever to be a next time, he would bring a hell of a lot more kit.
The clouds had blown away and it turned into a bright autumn day. The gate was unlocked and they turned the same way at the road, sweeping past the carvery and on into open countryside.
Twenty minutes later she said: ‘It’s a narrow lane, easy to miss on the right hand side, coming up in a sec, slow down a bit,’ which he did, and there was a turning marked The Duke of Clarence.
The pub was busy with Sunday lunchtime regulars, but Gringo and Sarah’s good fortune in finding vacant tables continued, and they were soon settled beside the rear window that looked out over mixed multi-coloured dahlias. A moment later a pretty girl came to take their order. She couldn’t help but wonder if the woman was the bloke’s aunt, she was so much older than him, though that
thought was soon dispelled by the way she looked at him, and the sight of their knees locked together beneath the table.
‘Eh up,’ she said to her manageress back in the kitchen, ‘That woman’s in again, you know the one I mean, mutton dressed as pilchard, complete with new toyboy. He’s quite cute too. I wonder what on earth he sees in her.’
The manageress had a good idea who Tracey was referring to, but couldn’t resist coming out for a good nose, using a spurious excuse of changing the perfectly good small pot of flowers on their table. Rumour had it the woman owned a country cottage somewhere close by where she took her lovers, and for once the rumours were not so far off the mark. The boss forced a smile at the peculiar couple, removed the old flowers, and headed back to the kitchen where the girl was waiting to collect their salads.
‘He’s quite nice, I’ll give you that, but I think she’s a hard woman, though painted up like that I can just about see what he sees in her, though I’m sure he could do a heck of a lot better.’
‘She’s a lot older than him and I mean a lot! He could have me if he really wanted,’ muttered the girl to herself, as she collected the meals and headed back to the table to set them carefully down, allowing her arm to brush against Gringo’s shoulder.
When she’d gone Sarah said: ‘That little madam likes you.’
Gringo had noticed there had been a certain frisson between them, but denied it, saying to Sarah: ‘She’s probably just after a big tip.’
‘Precisely,’ said Sarah smirking, and shovelling smoked salmon into her pink lipsticked mouth.
Gringo laughed and sipped the half of local bitter she’d insisted he try. It was okay, but it would give him wind.
‘What’s the plan for later?’ he asked.
‘Sadly, I suppose we’d better head home.’
‘Do we have to? I mean go back tonight?’
‘You mean, you want to stay over?’
‘Why not? I’m game, if you are.’
‘It’ll mean getting up awfully early; I mean really early, we’d have to be away no later than 6.30 to be home on time.’
‘I can do that,’ said Gringo.
‘You’re incorrigible, you know that?’
