The Cruelty of Morning

by Hilary Bonner

  ‘They’ve found Marjorie Benson dead,’ came the reply.

  Johnny cycled on to the slipway, peddling like a lunatic. He propped his bike against the deckchair stand and set off along the three miles of beach. He took off his battered desert boots and red nylon socks and walked barefoot, kicking the sand with his toes. As he walked his chin sank lower and lower into his chest, and he began to sob great heaving sobs which racked his body. The tears came freely, burning hot and pouring down his cheeks, soaking the front of his tee shirt.

  A couple taking a late stroll along the water’s edge looked at him curiously as he passed. Johnny didn’t even notice them. His grief was the grief of a very young man, too young to know that time can heal and despair does lift. His world had ended and Johnny made no attempt to wipe away the tears. It was the first time Johnny had wept since the death of his grandfather, and once again he felt that overwhelming sense of guilt. This time he was to blame.

  He stooped to pick up a handful of pebbles and threw them angrily into the sea, tears still pouring down his face. He squatted in the sand, sobbing for what seemed like hours. But in the end the tears did stop. Dusk had turned to pitch blackness and within its comforting cloak he relived the six months of his life since he had first met Marjorie Benson.

  It had been the day of his eighteenth birthday. His uncle had invited him to play a round of golf with him in the morning. Johnny was a natural athlete, he had been given golf lessons at school, and although he played very little he wasn’t bad. He had the makings of a good golfer. At lunchtime Uncle Len had made a great show of buying him a pint in the clubhouse – it was his eighteenth birthday after all. Marjorie was behind the bar. He had been aware of her from the moment he walked into the place. He found her extraordinarily attractive, and to his delight she seemed to take every opportunity to chat to him. She didn’t talk down to him, either, the way he suspected most women of her age would – he guessed she was in her early thirties. She looked stunning in a simple short black skirt and soft clingy white sweater which emphasised her sleek boyish figure. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her body as she moved. She caught him looking, raised her eyebrows inquiringly and smiled. He blushed crimson and was glad to be asked to join his uncle for lunch in the dining room.

  It was while Uncle Len was visiting the gents’ that Marjorie strode through the room, barely pausing as she dropped a piece of paper into Johnny’s lap. It was a scribbled note inviting him to her room in the clubhouse and telling him how to get there.

  ‘Make sure nobody sees you,’ he was instructed.

  Johnny couldn’t believe it. Could this possibly mean what he thought it meant? As his uncle returned to the table, Johnny was afraid that he was still blushing and would give himself away. After lunch he turned down the offered lift back to Durraton with a vague excuse. As soon as the coast was clear he nipped up the stairs behind the bar and found Marjorie’s room as directed. Surreptitiously he tapped on the door. When she opened it he saw that she had changed into a shirt which reached almost to her knees. She was wearing nothing else. Several buttons were undone at the front and he could just glimpse the slight swell of her breasts. Her legs were bare and brown and so were her feet.

  He even found her toes attractive. She leaned forward and lightly touched his shoulder, drawing him into the room. He was overwhelmed by the nearness of her. He thought that she smelt of spring flowers and cool clear water drawn straight from a well. She closed the door behind him and he stood quite still, his arms hanging limply by his sides. He was terribly nervous. He did not know what to do. She stepped towards him, placed her hands loosely behind his neck and kissed him very gently on the lips. Her touch was feather light. He thought he had not felt anything so lovely in the whole of his life. She tasted of honey. He thought he had never tasted anything so delicious.

  He did not move. He realised he was frightened. He had been ever since the court case.

  Now here was a complete stranger who was making all the going. Whatever happened he supposed he would get the blame.

  She was caressing the back of his neck, long fingers reaching inside his shirt.

  ‘Your skin is like satin bathed in sunshine,’ she whispered. ‘Warm, smooth, soft.’

  She spoke beautiful English, with a slight accent Johnny could not place.

  She placed her lips against his ear, barely touching, her tongue flicked against him, wet, tantalising.

  ‘Would you like to stay here with me a while?’

  He felt himself nod.

  She smiled. ‘Do you like me?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘Would you like us to lie down together?’

  This time he could not even nod. He felt the deep blush spread over his face again and realised sharply just how afraid he was. Crazily he imagined some kind of trap. He pulled himself abruptly away from her, and took several steps backwards in the direction of the door, until he was able to reach behind him for the handle.

  ‘I can’t,’ he stumbled. ‘You don’t know about me … I just can’t…’

  She moved towards him again and touched his cheek. ‘It’s all right. Everything is all right. Just stand where you are, perfectly still.’

  Her eyes were locked onto his. There was something eerie about her. It was as if she was hypnotising him, willing him to put his trust in her. She spoke to him softly, reassuringly, resting her arms lightly on his shoulders, before eventually she kissed him again, and gradually he realised that this was going to be different from anything he had previously experienced. And he became quite certain that he could indeed trust her.

  He could sense the poetry in her. This was how it had always been meant to be. She began to undress him. She unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off him. Johnny knew he had a fine, well-muscled body. She stepped back and admired him and then she started to stroke his shoulders, his chest, his back, his stomach. Oh, and she was so gentle, so loving, all the time looking deep into his eyes. He reached out for her, ready now to take her in his arms.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No. Don’t move, my love.’ She crouched before him and unlaced his shoe, and lifting each foot in turn she took off his shoes and socks. Incredibly, extraordinarily she brushed her lips over his feet, flicked her tongue between his toes. She reached up and undid his belt, unzipped his flies and then slid his trousers down over his long lean thighs. Again he reached for her. Again she told him no.

  She pulled his trousers off him, first one leg, and then the other. He stood before her in white Marks & Spencer Y-fronts. This was unreal, he thought. It must be a dream.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ she told him. ‘So beautiful. You have the body of an angel. My own angel.’

  She reached up and felt him through the smooth cotton. Then her fingers tucked inside the waistband and she pulled his pants down. First off one leg and then the other. Now he was naked. He glanced down at himself with interest. He wasn’t even erect. She was in charge of everything this first time they were to be together. Even that.

  She took him in her hands and stroked him and he started to swell. Then she knelt up and took him in her mouth. He had not known what she was doing to him was even possible. He really hadn’t. Her lips were so warm, her tongue was so gentle, he thought he was going to die of pleasure.

  Eventually she coaxed him to the bed, sitting him on the edge. She stood in front of him and he saw that she was naked. He had not noticed her slip off the loose shirt. He gazed at her, loving every inch of her with his eyes. This time she stood still, enjoying the feel of his gaze, understanding him and his desires. Her breasts were perfect, standing up, pointing towards him. Her flat tummy led to the warm mound of her womanhood and crazily he noticed that her pubic hair was a different colour to the distinctly red hair of her head. She sat on the bed beside him, took his hand and kissed it.

  ‘Do you want everything I have in me to give? Do you want to give me everything?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Yes please.’

&nb
sp; Her lips were everywhere, all over him, driving him mad. Then she showed him what to do to send her crazy. He stroked her, he sucked her nipples, and his fingers played endlessly in the soft wetness between her legs. By the time she opened her legs wide and guided him into her he was so excited it was over almost at once.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘You are so beautiful. You are going to give me so much pleasure.’

  She began to stroke his body again, starting behind the ears, rubbing, teasing, gently prodding, using her hands and her lips. With her fingertips she traced a path from the pit of his throat to the base of his belly, and by the time she got there he was erect again and dying to be inside her once more.

  For the second time she took him in her mouth and ran her tongue around him, up and down, around and around his stiffness. Then she mounted him and rode him, rocking backwards and forwards until she reached a wonderful, extravagant climax. As it burst from her, so she tightened around him, almost hurting him, urging even more sensation from her body. He watched her face. Her eyes were closed tight and her lips were apart. Her tongue was moving inside her mouth and her glorious body was opening and closing even more deliciously around him and she made him climax again, squeezing every last drop out of him and into her. He really was in heaven.

  But afterwards she sent him away.

  ‘I was alone and I needed it,’ was all she would tell him. That and: ‘You looked so handsome, so nice.’

  Her eyes were full of longing and despair. She clenched her fists tightly, almost as though she were in pain.

  He had asked if he could see her again and she had said no. Only when, in desperation, he refused to leave until she agreed, did she give in.

  ‘Can you get out at night?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he had said recklessly.

  ‘Next week then, after midnight. I’ll meet you at the back door.’

  And so for four wonderful months he had sneaked out of his house at midnight and ridden his bicycle to the golf club where he hid it in bushes before meeting her at the back door. At first they met once a week, then twice, then three, sometimes four times.

  No wonder Johnny was so sure he had flunked his A-levels. They just could not get enough of each other.

  She always made him leave before it was light. But he began to live only for those stolen few hours. She taught him so much. He learned to enjoy licking and kissing her sexy wetness as much as she seemed to like to take him in her mouth. He learned where to push with his tongue, where to squeeze with his lips, where to nibble, oh so delicately, with his strong white teeth. He would never forget the first time he brought her to orgasm with his mouth. She bucked beneath him like an unbroken pony. It was so exciting, he had come himself all over the bedclothes.

  And he would never forget the first time he climaxed in her mouth. He was sitting naked on the edge of the bed and she was kneeling before him. She was so good at it and her tongue was so clever. She had begun to play with his scrotum with her hands when suddenly it happened. He hadn’t meant to do that to her. He had tried to pull himself away. But she had her hands on his bottom and was dragging him further into her. And as he pumped himself into her sweet mouth he realised that her throat was moving. She was swallowing his come. He found the idea so exciting he thought his orgasm was never going to stop.

  Afterwards, when they lay in each other’s arms, warm and snug and satisfied, he had apologised. She had told him never to apologise for an act of love. And anyway, it made her feel that she was drinking his heart.

  Drinking his heart! Oh, the glory of her.

  He was so happy he wanted to tell the world about their love. But she insisted their meetings be the most carefully guarded secret. And so he had to creep in and out of the clubhouse in the dark to reach the joyous haven of her bedroom.

  One night she had asked him what he would most like in all the world to do with her. He had replied that he would like to take her into deep woodland in the sunshine and lie with her among golden daffodils and gently tickle her entire body with a soft fern until she begged him to touch her with his hands and to enter her and give her all of his love. Other women might have mocked him. She was delighted with his answer. The use of language they shared was a great part of their pleasure.

  Three days later, Marjorie told him to meet her at a remote crossroads early in the afternoon. She arrived in a borrowed car and they drove deep into the countryside. It was the only time they ever really went anywhere together, and the only time they met in daylight. She parked in an old disused quarry and they ran hand in hand like children deep into dense woodland. It was early May and the spring flowers were still blooming. With lovers’ luck they found a small clearing surrounded by big old oak trees. It was carpeted with daffodils and bluebells.

  He had cried out: ‘It’s my daffodil glen.’

  And she had replied with pleasure: ‘Blue and yellow, like a painting by Monet, only nature is an even greater artist. You are also an artist, my love, and I am your canvas.’

  He undressed her the way she had undressed him that first time, gently, tenderly, deliberately. The sun dappled her lovely body as he laid her down, found a piece of fern and began to stroke her with it just the way he had told her he wanted to. She opened her legs and he brushed her there with it, just a tease of a touch. When she could endure it no longer she reached for his hands and placed them firmly on her body and he could feel the strength of her desire through his fingertips. When he rolled on top of her she was smiling at him, her lips parted in anticipation of shared joy. When they climaxed together under the big oak trees, she took him truly to heaven again. Only after they had finished and dressed each other did he think of the madness of what they had done. Other people did walk through woods on sunny days. But that day their dream had held.

  Then one night he dared to tell her that he loved her. And he felt her whole being tense beside him. ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Nonsense.’

  But he meant it, from the depths of his soul he meant it.

  ‘It’s my fault, I should not have let it go this far, we’ve got to stop,’ she said.

  At first he thought she must be joking. Then he started to beg her to tell him she did not mean it. Then he was just begging. There were tears in his eyes and he was trembling. She felt her heart melt. He had invaded her soul and she could not turn him away. But she told him they must be more careful. She was sure the bar steward was suspicious, and it was imperative for his safety that nobody knew about them. He neither knew nor cared what on earth she was talking about. All that mattered was that she had agreed that she would go on seeing him, although from now on they would meet less often and in the sand dunes. It was summer, she told him, it was warm enough.

  Anywhere would have been warm enough for Johnny as long as Marjorie Benson was there. In the beginning he had thought that she was embarrassed because he was so young, and that was the reason for her demands for total secrecy. But gradually he realised there was much more to it than that. Marjorie Benson was a mystery. He told her everything about himself, his grandfather, how he had lost his virginity along with a string of other boys with a young school matron, even the court case he tried so hard to forget. She told him next to nothing. He knew that she was thirty-one years old, and that she wrote poetry. Her past was never discussed, any questions he might ask were ignored or skilfully fielded. She was intelligent bordering on intellectual and he sensed that she had been highly educated. She was certainly not Johnny’s idea of your average barmaid.

  He saw her as the loveliest thing that had ever happened to him. He accepted that their relationship had begun simply because she needed sex. He also knew that, however much she protested, it was far more than that now for both of them. That was all he knew. But it was sufficient.

  And so they began to meet on the sand dunes. Not as often as before – he had to accept her terms – but at least they were still lovers. Several times more she tried to
end it. He couldn’t understand why, and she would not explain. She merely told him there was a part of her life she could not share with him, that she should not really have started a relationship with anyone. But she could never quite manage to dismiss him forever.

  ‘Don’t you know that I would die for you,’ he told her once. His eyes blazed his passion. He really did love her.

  ‘You do not know what you are saying,’ she replied.

  And there was a deep weariness in her voice.

  The very first time they met in the dunes, cloaked in the safety of the night’s pitch blackness, they had gathered handfuls of scrub grass for a makeshift bed, stripped naked, and spread their clothes on top of it. She had told him to lie on his back and look at the stars, and then she had started to work on his body with her lovely warm wet tongue and her soft fingers.

  She was from a different planet. He had found a kindred spirit, another total romantic, and he loved her so much for that. All other girls that he had known would have laughed if he had tried to use the language he and Marjorie shared. Her poetry was so much better than anything he had ever managed, and she wrote for him. He thought it was the most beautiful poetry in the world. Eventually he stopped trying to find out more about her because he realised he must accept Marjorie Benson merely for what she was to him, the complete package, mystery and all.

  His favourite poem had been the one in which she came as near she ever did to telling him that she loved him.

  Tomorrow the floods may come

  or the snow

  Tomorrow may not be the same

  our fire may lose its glow.

  Tomorrow the world may end

  or the heavens part

  Tomorrow I may drive you round the bend

  and then the pain will start.

  Tomorrow is another century

  and I am not sure if this is meant to be

  What we have is only make believe