by Clay, Josie
“Are you serious? I'd love it”.
“I could bring it to you tomorrow if you're around. Where are you?”
“Stamford Hill”
“No, me too”.
“Where?”
“Belfry Road”.
I laughed at the serendipity.
“I'm on Grange Park, The Limes”.
“No way, I could walk round in five minutes ...freaky”.
“Why don't you?”
“What, walk round in five minutes?'”
“Yeah”.
“Well, it’s too heavy to carry that far and I'm over the limit to drive”.
“Oh, OK let's leave it then” (making sure she got my disappointment).
“But I could come without the practice piece ...just me'.
“Yes you could, why don't you?”
“OK, I'm leaving now. Which flat?”
“Flat 6, be careful”.
“See you in a bit, flat 6, bye”.
Dale was coming here! I sat stupefied, blinking blindly. Shit! Springing to my feet and banging my head on the bed, fuck! Scurrying about, hooking up clothes from the floor and draping them over the cast before stuffing them in the cupboard under the sink, slidey piles of bills and papers went there too. Emptying the ashtray, I lit a joss stick, sloshing mouthwash all the while, checking my hair. I needlessly flushed the toilet and felt my chin - luckily I'd de-whiskered earlier. Turning off the telly, I climbed the wobbly ladder to smooth down the duvet and snatch up the crusty tissues; she might go up there to take a look, guests normally did. Squirting cinnamon spice room spray at the bed, I plumped the cushions. I guessed she wouldn't mind the dust.
I was considering cleaning the bathroom sink when my buzzer sounded. Spitting out the mouthwash and adopting a tired but friendly expression, I peered in the mirror ...old and ugly, natch, so I turned on my smile. “Come on Minnie Bracewell”.
The door release hadn't worked for years, so I had to fetch guests. She was there, in profile through the half glazed door, studying the key pad, wondering if she'd pressed the right one. Sensing the movement, she looked up and waved, beaming. Something very specific and anarchic germinated in my belly and blossomed in my chest. I opened the door, we bumped a hug, her hair brushing my face; it did indeed possess that woolly washing smell.
“My flat is tiny” I said apologetically.
She moved about it, noticing my things, her eyes dwelling on paintings, photos and the heavy, black, iron screw down press I'd bought with the intention of making lino-prints. The black shiny floorboards, the lofty bed land, the white-washed, cladded walls and the stripped wood skirting.
“It's really cool” she said. “And clever”.
“What can I get you, red wine, whisky, coffee, tea and stuff?”
“I'd love a whisky” she said, sitting down in my plastic 60s red and white cone chair.
In the kitchen, I poured us two hefty measures. Fuck! Dale was in my bed/living room ...like a tiger. I took a slug from the bottle.
“How do you like your whisky?” I shouted.
“With just a splash of water” she said from the kitchen doorway. She'd followed me.
“Same as me” I laughed.
Once settled on the sofa, she watched with amusement as I rolled a cigarette, combining the use of fingers, thigh and chin in its construction.
“Dextrous” she said . “I'll roll you the next one”.
“Your name is unusual for a girl”.
“Yeah, my parents wanted a boy”. She rubbed her arm ruefully. “And as it turned out, they as good as got one”.
This was her confirmation code ...definitely a lesbian. “No, really I was named after my mother, Dalia”.
Her mother was Jordanian, her father Swedish, hence the Knudsson. A more handsome outcome I couldn't have imagined. Her eyes moved to the cast. “Do you mind if I read it?”, already scanning. Tilting her head back she let out a surprisingly raucous laugh and slapped her thigh, and now, thanks to Tove, I was also confirmed. “Your friends sound great” she smiled, slaying me with those glacial eyes I hardly dared meet. God help me, I could fall for this one.
We covered a lot of ground in a short time. After an hour, I brought the whisky bottle from the kitchen so I didn't have to keep going away from her. Swapping stories and laughing, we began to hold each other’s gaze in way that constricted my lungs and sent a sharp spire of desire through me. Those astounding eyes, like she'd died while being amazed.
She was forty two, the same as me but precisely two months younger. She squeezed my biceps and raised her eyebrows in approval as we discussed the trials of being a woman in a physical job, despite the fact I hadn't done it for years. She'd let out that rough laugh when I told her that once I'd caught Quincy in a client's garden, farting into a twelve foot length of discarded drainpipe and how I'd put my ear to the other end, giggling at each quack.
“Gutter press” she said, which was fairly funny, but we laughed disproportionately because we were drunk and excited. Then she inadvertently released a quack of her own, which set us off again. “Oh God, and now I've farted” she wheezed. “Disastrous”.
“No” I said, “priceless”.
Sitting end to end on the sofa, our legs touching, we purveyed ourselves.
“Your toes are cold”. She took my socked foot in her hands and noticed her watch. “Bloody hell, it's half past three. I'd better be off”.
My heart churned in panic.
“You can't go”.
“And why is that?” she smiled.
“You just shouldn't” I shrugged.
“I should stay?”
“Yes, you should”.
She leant forward, training those blue stars on me.
“Thank God for that”. She touched her nose to mine. “I fancied you the first time I clapped eyes on you”.
“Well I fancied you when I first spoke to you on the ‘phone”.
“But I fancied you when the ‘phone was ringing, before I even answered it”.
“But I fancied you from the B of the bang” I said.
“OK, you win” she smiled, sliding to the floor and gently tugging my sock.
The cast presented tactical problems. Sitting on the floor, our bodies pressed together, my legs spread-eagled around her, hers crooked over mine, her thighs gripping my waist with the cast resting on her right one. I noticed our boots, tucked together under the table. Cocking her head, she kissed me long and rhythmically, sweeping her tongue around mine, making small grunts of satisfaction and arousal. A bloom of dark dots, much like her freckles, swarmed before me as I was skewered, cunt to throat, by an acute horn.
I caressed the small of her back and stroked my middle finger along the top of her bottom crack, where there was a fine down. Passing her thumbs over my nipples and rocking her hips in time to our tongues, I began to worry.
“I don't think I can do this properly with the cast” I whispered.
“Are you suggesting we wait five weeks?” she said, dryly.
“No, it's just that I might be a crap shag. I need two hands to do all my moves”.
Her white teeth hanging before me in a broad crescent.
“We'll figure it out” she said, unhooking my bra and reversing a bit so the cast balanced on her knee. Pushing up my t-shirt, she squashed my tits together and kissed the cleavage she'd formed and dipping her tongue into it, looked up at me like a husky. Unable to remain upright, I lay back, resting the stupid cast on a cushion while she sucked my nipples and kneaded my tits together mercilessly. Something way down there began to tip and slide and my back arched spontaneously. This can't be right I thought, she hasn't even touched me yet, but it was happening nonetheless.
“Oh God, I'm coming” I said, baffled.
She smiled and carried on her work, spinning the gathering cyclone with her mouth and hands, hands used to handling stone. My hips undulating under her – it was like being run over by a sex bus. Keeping a nipple in her mouth, she deftly
unbuckled my belt and tugged open the buttons on my jeans, slipping her hand in just in time to catch me. Moving with me, she didn't penetrate or push, merely fielded and observed my face carefully with those otherworldly eyes ...she was astonishingly beautiful.
The cast overheated me and my arm throbbed, entombed, dying to participate.
“Let's go to bed” she whispered.
The colour high in her cheeks as she stood and helped pull my t-shirt over the cumbersome bastard, before taking off the rest of my clothes and hers. Catching sight of us in the mirror, I regarded her with awe. I avoided looking at my ridiculous self, accompanied by the plaster party pooper. As I climbed the wobbly ladder, she bit my arse.
“Sorry I couldn't resist it” she giggled.
Once in bed, she straddled my waist, let her tits hang down over my face and helped her nipples into my mouth as I touched her with my right hand. Her arousal evident, she slid down my thigh and frotted against it in long, slick sweeps. Positioning my hand beneath her, she lowered herself onto my fingers, grinding down. Mashing herself onto the ball of my thumb, I felt her walls contract, she crouched forward, forearms squeezing my sides and hair tickling my tits. She rode me like a jockey; every so often she paused as if jumping a fence, only to resume with increased momentum, her eyes squeezed shut, brazen breasts joggling. She gripped the under sheet like reins. I could have watched this spectacle for the rest of my life. She began to pant, approaching the finish line now, looking at me with surprising equanimity before baring her teeth, the cords of her neck standing out as she let out a kind of growl and spasmed on my hand, breathing hard. Her muscles sucked at my fingers as she subsided. Then she did something unexpected; laying her head on my chest, hot tears pooled in the hollow of my throat.
“It's OK baby” I said, stroking her corkscrews.
“Intense” she said, eyes bloodshot, exaggerating the blue. I could have said it then and meant it.
“How're you doing?” Her finger tracing my eyebrows and blessing my lips.
“I'm a bit restricted with this” I said, raising my arm weakly. “I feel like a spectator”.
“Nonsense, you were very proactive. Anyway, you don't necessarily need hands” she said, resting on her back beside me. A strategy came to mind and I reversed down the wobbly ladder, stopping on the third rung and resting the cast on a pillow with the bed at shoulder height. Catching my drift, she shuffled forward and spread her legs wide, planting her feet on the fence posts which went up to the ceiling. Dale in my bed, a prospect so flimsy I hadn't even bothered to entertain it, but now for once, I was in the moment. I looked at the raven of sin – point blank.
We embarked on this intimate odyssey in the small hours of Saturday morning and weren't done until the following Friday. We fucked and bathed (not much) and talked and sometimes we slept, always entwined. Hardly needing food, we survived on black tea, toast, alcohol and cigarettes and the odd thing in my fridge: olives, red onion marmalade and Kika's home made rhubarb compote. We didn't go out.
She told me her mum had died when she was nine – sudden cardiac death.
“But you're OK, aren't you?” I'd heard these defects were sometimes hereditary.
“Yeah” she said, “I'm fine”.
Well, you just had to look at her, I'd never seen an individual in such fine shape. Strong, vital and I would have put her in her early thirties, not middle aged like me. Clearly not a duff gene in her.
She decorated my cast with intricate doodles, colouring like a child until it resembled a tattoo sleeve.
“What's that?” I pointed to a voluptuous heart containing a spiky star burst.
“The B of the bang” she said.
“That would make an excellent logo”.
I read her e.e. cummings and she listened thoughtfully, stroking my labia with her thumb. We sat on the bed, legs around each other, vaginas together, while she read me extracts from 'To Kill a Mockingbird' over my shoulder. She spoke Arabic and Swedish, the phrase 'jag kommer' sometimes erupting from her mouth at the point of orgasm.
For some reason, I'd Veeted off my pubes after Nancy, and, liking the feel of it had kept hairless ever since. Dale approved; 'Porno' she said, referring to it as my coco. It had also inspired her to call me 'Minky', my new private name. Occasionally, I'd refer to her as Curly Shirley, but it didn't stick. I'd never known anyone who populated their own name so entirely.
She put the book down and kissed me.
“I've fallen in love with you, Minky”, matter of fact.
My heart roared.
“So have I”.
“Do you believe in the one?”
“It's hard to say” I fudged.
Her pupils intensified.
“Do you still think about her?”
I'd decided to be honest about my Nancy fixation, even telling her about the wisteria, which remained dormant on the balcony.
“I haven't thought about her at all since I met you” I said, stretching the truth a little. This pleased her.
“I think you are the one” she said. “Let's be together”, she paused, “for as long as we can be”.
“Let's do that” .
We became inseparable.
Chapter 3
We went to Dale’s to make sure her lodger had been feeding Prudence, her cat. Dale owned the entire three bedroom house and let out a room, I assumed to help pay the mortgage. She'd bought it with her girlfriend at the time, Maggie. They'd lived there for three years and Dale had been by herself for six. When I quizzed her about the split, she was circumspect, but eventually conceded: “I realised she wasn't the one; it's amazing how little you know when you're thirty three”.
The house was Victorian Gothic.
“Wow, I love it, it's like the Addams Family house”.
The décor, an Anais Nin opium den of brocades, Persian rugs and beaded curtains.
“A lot of this came from my family in Jordan” she said.
Heart stuttering as my gaze fell upon a photo in a carved, dark frame. For a split second, I thought it was Nancy and Sasha, but on closer inspection there was the inevitable brown and orange 1970s room of our generation's childhood. Dale's mother, darker than Nancy, her metallic green eye shadow matching the beads on her diaphanous kaftan, beautiful like Dale. Little Dale, almost a blur, squirming on her mother's lap, a child in constant motion. The smile the same as big Dale, but the ringlets, like Sasha's, still blonde and I remembered those little red Clarks sandals because I had them too.
In contrast to the exotic living room, the kitchen was pure Scandinavian, tongue and groove walls, painted white and a large, scrubbed pine table with a series of pine chairs, all old, all different and all with rush seats. The kitchen furniture, pre-loved and freestanding. A wooden clothes airer hung from the ceiling and pots and pans dangled over an old butcher's block. A simple dresser containing jam jars filled with herbs and pulses and a butler sink with chrome industrial taps.
“Are you hungry? she said, rummaging in the freezer.
“Do you know, I think I am”. Rare for me.
“I made this last week”. Withdrawing a frozen lasagne, she slipped it into the microwave to defrost and turned on the oven.
“That's massive” I said.
“Well, if we don't eat it” she said, “Cath can finish it”.
“Where is Cath?”
“She's the perfect flat mate. She visits her boyfriend in Oxford at weekends and stays in her room the rest of the time and she feeds Prudence when I'm away”.
The microwave went ting. She put the lasagne in the oven and fucked me on the kitchen table. Afterwards, she braced her hands against the butcher's block while I fucked her from behind, rattling the jars and crockery on the dresser. Prudence came in to investigate the commotion and promptly left in disgust.
My intention was to go home that evening to get some perspective and rest but, easily dissuaded, I spent an active night under Dale's duvet. Her period came the next morning and I studied the
rusty sickles under my nails. Sometimes, the fact I was a lesbian still had the power to both disappoint and galvanise, the fact I was female inspired a similar paradox. I detested the monthly cycle, but felt somehow honoured to share the arcane tide with pretty much every woman who would and had lived. It was visceral and private, like sex, like being a lesbian ...like being a woman.
Dale dropped me home on the way to the yard in her black Toyota Hilux, a grown-up version of Fritz.
In the bed/living room, I sat on the floor drinking tea, smoking and although I missed Dale, my hand hovered over the handle of the Nancy door, the presence behind it willing me to comply. It felt malevolent. Whether I opened the door or not, I was already in a state of cognitive dissonance. The spectre of Nancy had receded, but still remained. I was both relieved and horrified – Dale would exorcise her. But, for now, I concluded I'd miss them both. I played Brickbreaker on the Blackberry for three and a half hours until it beeped.
