The Lord of Always

by David Brian

  “Mrs. Carmichael is it?” I asked, turning my attention to the woman who admitted us.

  She wore a cook’s waistcoat, and matching bun hat, yet even beyond this choice of attire she presented a unique looking figure. Standing only an inch or two smaller than me, she was carrying an excess of weight, and her large waist and sturdy hips were supported by chunky thighs which threatened to burst free from the constraint of her dark slacks. But it was her colossal breasts, straining the fabric of the buttoned coat, which acted as the magnet for my unwilling eyes: wriggling like two bears in a sack.

  “That’s right, son, I’m Mrs. Carmichael.” She answered pleasantly enough, although I couldn’t help wondering if she’d spied me ogling her sizeable assets. “But please, call me Beth. And I’m assuming you must be Mr. and Mrs. Tanner?”

  “Yes, that’d be us,” said Roz. “But, please do call us Frank and Roz.”

  “Uhm? For some reason I expected you to be older.

  “Really?” we replied in unison.

  “Yes, but don’t ask me why. I just assumed you were an elderly couple.”

  “No,” Roz smiled as she answered. “We’ve only been married a few months. This is actually our honeymoon. Well, technically it’s a late honeymoon. But this is our first chance to get away, since the wedding.”

  Beth Carmichael paused, and then her eyes widened as a bolt of inspiration struck her. “I’ll need to sort you a different room then, my dears,” she said. “We have a honeymoon suite. You can have that, and for the same price as you’ve already been quoted.”

  “Oh, that sounds wonderful!” Roz beamed.

  “The two of you must be tired. It takes it out of you traveling down on the overnight. And you’ve had a bit of a walk too, by all accounts. I’ll bet you’re hungry as well, yes?”

  “I sure could eat something,” I agreed.

  “And yes, I think we are both flagged out, as well,” added Roz.

  “Excellent. Let’s get you sorted then,” said Beth, turning on her heels with a fluidity belying her bulk and, as she gestured for us to follow her, heading across the reception area and down a wide, brightly lit corridor. We hurried to catch up as she moved with a surprising pace into the depths of the hotel.

  After what seemed a lengthy walk, we pushed through a set of swing-doors and found ourselves in a sizeable and pleasantly comfortable farmhouse-style kitchen. Cream curtains, depicting various colored birds, were drawn back, allowing a view of impressive gardens that sloped gently away to the rear of Penhale House; manicured lawns were lined by flower beds, each bed displaying a multitude of spectacular colors. Odd shaped plants lined cut stone walkways, and beyond the garden itself the countryside fell away at a steeper incline, revealing a panorama of falling dales and rising hills. My father was a keen gardener, and so from early childhood I had grown to appreciate well kept gardens and appealing views. This was the most beautiful garden I ever saw.

  The woman waved theatrically, gesturing us to take a seat at the oak breakfast table. We complied, and she turned her attention to a bucket sized pan simmering atop the range. As she stirred the contents, the aroma of home cooked food filled the kitchen, firing my appetite as I realized just how hungry I really was.

  “This is where Joe and I like to eat,” said Beth, gesturing toward the table. “We have a couple of rooms that we keep to ourselves, and this is one of those, usually. But you young ‘uns need feeding and breakfast is all done and cleared now. Still, we’ll rustle up something to fill yer bellies.”

  “Thank you. It’s really lovely in here,” said Roz. “And your gardens are absolutely stunning.”

  “Yes, we like it. We find this is a good place to sit and unwind after a busy day.”

  Beth Carmichael dipped a ladle into the pan, and spooned two bowls of thick vegetable soup. She set the bowls down on the table before us, and instructed us to get started before it cooled. The aroma was heavenly, and as I dipped my spoon into the deep bowl, Beth cut doorstep slices of crusty bread for us to dunk in our dish.

  It was scrumptious.

  It didn’t take me long to empty my bowl, and as I used a crust to mop at the remnants, Beth removed a deep crust pie from the range and placed it on the window sill to cool. The smell of beef and fresh baked pastry wafted through the room, and I wished desperately for Beth to offer us a slice of that pie.

  “I’ll stick the kettle on. Make you a nice cuppa,” she said. “Pie should be cooled a bit by then, so I’ll cut you a decent slice.”

  “Thank you,” I said, a glow of deep satisfaction sweeping through me as the soup warmed my belly. I offered a silent prayer to whichever unknown deity had granted my wish, and then licked my lips at the prospect of the food to come.

  Chapter 11

  Joseph Carmichael walked ahead of us along the corridor, his lopsided gait revealing the strain of carrying our case up to the third floor. There was no elevator at Penhale House. Curtains at the far end of the landing were drawn and tied back, and the sliding-sash window dropped to allow for a bright and airy feel through the corridor.

  The big man paused to tell us there was an overspill bathroom farther down on the left, and then slipped a key in the door to our right. He gestured for us to enter and then trailed in behind, dipping his shoulders to clear the frame.

  “I’ll pop this down here,” he said, placing our luggage on the bed. “It’ll make it easier for you to unpack.”

  “Thank you,” we replied in unison.

  “Things are a bit quiet at the minute so we don’t have many staff on, but if you need anything just give me or the missus a shout – our living quarters are on the floor below. First door on the left as you step off the stairs.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  “Breakfast is between nine and ten. And we serve dinner at seven, so you’ve got plenty of time to take a look around, once you’ve rested up for a bit.”

  “Are we allowed in the garden?” asked Roz. “It looks beautiful out there.”

  “Of course you are, my dear. Our home is your home. At least for the next few days,” he replied with a smile. And then, with a nod and a sweep of his hand he backed out of the room, quietly closing the door as he left.

  I turned to my wife – the expression on her face spoke volumes. “Love it!” she enthused, throwing her arms around my neck and planting a kiss on my mouth.

  The room was large: it was decorated in pastel shades, and brightened by a south facing window. The bed was king-size, with sturdy oak end-boards; Roz lay on the mattress and declared it to be even more comfortable than it appeared, and then gave a girlish squeal of delight when she noticed the ornate crystal chandelier hanging overhead.

  “This is so posh!” she gushed.

  Bedside tables with attractive lamps rested on either side of where she was lying. An antique dressing table and chair stood along one wall, directly opposite the bay-window which looked out over the front of the property – and from where there was a splendid view of the courtyard and tree-lined lane beyond the main gates. A high chest of drawers and matching oak wardrobe stood against the wall facing the bed, and beside these units was a door leading to a white bathroom suite; the corner unit was molded and shaped to look like one-half of a clam shell, and was fitted with an overhead shower unit which also resembled a seashell. We had both been raised in large families where getting any quality time in the bathroom usually involved a race to be first – and quite often a squabble. Getting married had already allowed us to appreciate the value of a long hot soak, but this bathroom, much like the rest of the bridal suite, was something else altogether. It gave us a degree of pristine luxury neither of us had known before.

  “This’ll do nicely,” I said.

  Roz squeezed my hand, her eyes set on the shell bath. “You know, we might just have some fun this week, right?”

  “Oh yes,” I replied.

  If we had known then what lie ahead, I doubt either of us would have been smiling.

  Chapt
er 12

  It was the middle of the afternoon before we left Penhale House. For residents of a two-up-two-down terrace in Northampton, the splendor of the hotel’s bridal suite seemed palatial. It had far exceeded our expectations. The lodgings shared a floor space comparable to the ground floor of our home, but it was the luxury and the setting which so enamored. With the added bonus of that sumptuous corner bath, which comfortably accommodated the pair of us, we found distractions aplenty to occupy those first hours of our arrival.

  As we stepped out, hand in hand from the hotel, I remember feeling a level of happiness in that moment I would never have believed possible. It was another of those Kodak moments.

  We were young and in love, and enjoying – at least for those next few days – a level of luxury fitting of the gentry, and all set amid a beautiful panorama of green rising hills and sloping tree lined dales.

  We crossed the gravel courtyard and passed through the ornate gates fronting Penhale House, only then stopping to fully appreciate the tranquility of the surroundings.

  “What do you reckon,” remarked Roz, pointing over the road and farther down the hill toward the neat terrace of cottages in the distance. “Should we go hunt down the doppelganger?”

  “No,” I said, smoothing a hand through my slicked-back black hair. “There’ll be plenty of time to track down George Smoke’s mysterious twin. Besides, there must be a logical explanation.”

  “Really? How? The bloke who lives here in Boscastle, he doesn’t just look like George Smoke; he has the same bloody name. Explain that, Hub?”

  “I can’t. But I’m sure there must be a reasonable explanation. And we will find out what it is. But, first and foremost, this week is about us –” the words stifled in my throat and I found myself gesturing toward the wooden field gate resting open on the other side of the lane, directly opposite the gates to Penhale House. “I don’t remember seeing that, earlier.”

  Roz frowned. “Weird. I didn’t notice it either, not even when I was looking out of the bedroom window. Actually, I could have sworn the whole of the road leading up toward Penhale House was lined with trees, and little else.”

  “How about we investigate then?” I said, taking Roz by the hand and gently nudging her across the lane.

  “But we were going to take a look around Boscastle,” groaned Roz.

  “We’ve got all week for that, Tub.”

  She offered no further protestation. Although we had only been together a few short years, Roz already understood me. She knew that, at heart, I was and always would remain a big kid. I had never been able to resist any opportunity for adventure.

  We crossed the road and passed through the field gate. A clearing opened out before us, and beyond this a tree lined avenue which may, or may not, have been wide enough to allow passage to a small truck. The path sloped away beneath a canopy of golden leaves, and the unbroken grasses and fallen fruit lining the steep slope of the lane suggested no vehicle had traversed this route – certainly not in recent times. At the bottom of the lane we came upon a wooden post, skewed to forty-five degrees, and declaring in bold lettering:

  You are now entering

  The Valency Valley

  I felt a pang of excitement as I urged Roz on, the need to explore this barely trodden track inexplicably gripping my soul. As we walked the excitement grew. I loved the outdoors. I always had. I found myself trying to identify the names of various trees and bushes we passed. I thought I knew a lot about trees, and flora in general, but I was repeatedly at a loss to identify the offerings of strange oddities abundant in this woodland.

  Roz wouldn’t have recognized them as oddities, at least if I hadn’t continuously pointed out their misplacement: Stems of ripened maize lined the route; a crop which, according to everything I knew, was incapable of succeeding in the British climate, and whose always poor yield was only ever reserved for forage. Yet here, even beneath a canopy of maple, ash, oak, and other great spruces of which I knew nothing. The maize grew to massive proportions: row upon row of stems, topped by drooping dog ears, which in turn fell open to reveal golden kernels.

  “This is incredible!”

  Roz smiled – it was the smile of an adult observing a small child, still stunned and enchanted by the wonders of the big new world – and she feigned interest at my delight in discovering these giant stems of corn. The unlikely sight of flourishing olive trees, and vines of ripened grapes, clinging, leech like to the surrounding perennials, it astounded me. Amazing sights, and yet it remained a spectacle which I knew would – at least for the most part – fail to impress my lover.

  “Don’t you see, Tub? None of this stuff should be capable of growing here. The climate just isn’t temperate enough. Even if it was, they still shouldn’t be able to grow so successfully, not under the canopy of these other trees. And the size of these things,” I pulled loose a handful of kernels. “They’re just too big. It makes no sense.”

  Roz grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me closer, placing her forefinger to my lips. “Hush, darling, and just enjoy the fact we’ve discovered a little piece of heaven.” Then, rising onto tippy-toes, she kissed me passionately.

  We continued on, coming to another path which in turn led to a leafy tunnel. Even here, under this ceiling of foliage, the sun’s rays found places to stab through the canopy, carrying blades of warmth that stroked our shoulders. I was glad I had opted for my white polo shirt and cotton pants, with canvas shoes which allowed my feet to breathe. Roz was wearing a lime blouse, with white slacks and matching footwear. We were dressed for summer, and it certainly felt as though we had discovered a path leading to paradise.

  We came to a stone bridge which looked as though it had been built several lifetimes earlier. Much of the mortar was crumbling and covered with moss, and lower near the water line, the stone, though washed, had been left tainted with a green hue by the bubbling waters.

  “This is beautiful,” declared Roz.

  “It really is.”

  We crossed the bridge, though not before stopping to lean over the parapet and drop a selection of twigs into the whirling froth. We watched these various fragile craft as they were churned and tossed, often disappearing beneath the overbearing waters, and then bobbing to the surface again several feet downstream. I laughed at Roz’s grimace of mock indignation as the last of the little vessels disappeared round the bend of the river, our designated finishing line, giving my fleet victory by a mark of four to one.

  We continued along the course of the river and observed the waters growing darker, and with this added depth came a faster flow which carried the channel until it reached a point of convergence with a second stretch of the river, forming a singular white rapid, frothing and agitating the surface currents.

  At times we lingered in awe of this expanse of water, the greenest of green grasses lining the banks, and the dense fringe of the woods beyond. But for the most part we pressed on, never sure of our destination, though convinced it would be a place of wonder.

  There came a point when we reached journey’s end. Without any exchange of words, we knew; this was our place.

  The trees on either side of the river had begun to thin out revealing the trueness of the valley setting. The Valency Valley was far steeper than either of us expected. The sides of the lower sections were wooded, the denseness of the trees concealing the magnitude of the incline beyond their borders. In front of us further small tributaries fed into the River Valency, shallow streams, snaking through orchards of wild peach trees, with waters bobbling and bubbling through riverbeds of Cornish slate.

  “This is glorious,” said Roz, kicking off her pumps and rolling up her slacks before paddling into the shallow waters.

  I removed my shoes, socks and polo shirt, and then followed my wife into the stream. Taking Roz in my arms, I kissed her tenderly. When, finally, our lips parted, we looked deep into each others’ eyes.

  “I want to please you… every day, for the whole of this life w
e have before us. All I want is to make you happy.”

  “You do please me, Hub.” She smiled, cupping my face in her hands. “Every single morning when I wake with you beside me, holding me, loving me… I’m the luckiest girl alive. I know this with all my heart.”

  With this shared declaration, our lips came together. Slowly at first, but the hunger within us grew, demanding in the raised tempo of our lust. Rosalind moaned as my kisses found her neck, my fingers fumbling for the buttons on her blouse as desire consumed the both of us. Her body arched as my hands moved lightly to loosen the blouse from her shoulders, exposing soft flesh to be caressed tenderly, tracing kisses over her breasts and across her belly. I forced myself to withdraw, and she looked at me with a momentary puzzlement. It was a look which quickly turned to a smile as I swept her up in my arms, carrying her toward the bank of the stream, and then gently laying her down on a bed of flattened grass. I followed her to the ground and my mouth tracked kisses along her ribcage, over her tummy, my tongue tracing a circular pattern around her belly button. She, in turn, ran fingers through my tousled hair, and with each kiss, each caress, each shared embrace, the hunger grew with the promise of what was still to come, until, finally, we surrendered ourselves, engulfed amid a sensual mist of passion.

  Chapter 13

  At that one moment my sense of elation was indescribable. Never had I been happier than this. The sun on my back, the solitude and tranquility of a barely discovered Eden, and, laying naked in my arms, the woman I cherished more than anything in this world.

  We had discovered a little piece of Heaven.

  Or so I believed, then.