Sun Dance (34 page)

I waited; tiny puffs of warm air brushed my cheeks. The Hilda moved with the tide. Three boat lengths off the jetty, the merest breath and the helmsman brought his boat slowly round.

In her turning the moonlight shone on golden hair.

Transfixed, I neither spoke nor moved. The Hilda drew gracefully alongside the jetty. A coil of rope landed at my feet. Mechanically I secured it to a mooring ring and looked down on Eilidh. She looked up, laughing eyes, outshining the night. Neither of us spoke. In the meeting of our eyes was all that was needed, binding us, bringing us together. I reached down, caught her stretching hands and she was in my arms, crying sobs of happiness. Crushing her to me, “Eilidh,” was all I managed to say. Astonished at her coming to me, the hardiness of her sailing alone; a night which had filled me with longing and imagination, now found me shaking with inexpressible joy. My longing dissolved into elation, I held the woman I craved.

I stroked her lustrous hair, holding flowing strands to the light; moonlight ran through my fingers. I buried my face in silky thickness of golden hair and breathed her fragrance. The soft growl of loving came to my throat. Caressing her shapely head, soothing and caring, gradually the sobbing eased as though a great stress were passing. Her face stayed hidden against me. Her body trembled. Gently I lifted her chin and bent my head; lips and tears were mingled.

We kissed the unbroken kiss that knows no time, nor bounds of thought- knows just the bliss of touching, the touch which sweeps two people into the harmony of being in each other’s arms. Under the heavens, in the unbroken peace of an island, two people were in love.

I struggled to comprehend how it could be she was here, by the bay, in my arms, that we were holding each other. How, it mattered not, I was overwhelmed by happiness, this woman had come to me. Out of the hideous trauma of these past days, staring death in the face, the woman that I’d called to, of whom I’d thought of beyond all else in those desperate hours, had come to me.

Only the steadfast moon and the gently making tide counted time, for to us, it held no meaning. The world could turn until its complexity became the simplicity of beauty in a realm where only the waves of entanglement exist. I looked over Eilidh’s head to the silver water and the stark outlines of the headland of death and knew that when minds were one, there would be no parting.

With an unexpected laugh Eilidh sprang out of my arms and ran helter-skelter to the edge of the tide. A shade bewildered, I watched. In moments her clothes were a discarded pile on the sand. White as the moonlight she skipped into the sea, splashing and calling. “Come on Hector, it’s warm.”

In moments her head shone golden on the moon pale water. Down the shore I ran in wild excitement, peeling off garments on the beach, leaping in strides through the shallow water, flinging up showers of glistening droplets. One mighty dive, I swam out to her. Under a silver moon in the glowing ripples of a phosphorescent sea, our bodies clung together.

Our every move created a trail of gleaming specks, minute forms of ocean life they clung to our limbs, glowing for a second, shedding their tiny store of photons. I turned Eilidh’s lithe body and held her on my chest as I floated. Our heads were together. Moonbeams surrounded us. We swam in a circle of light. I whispered, “Eilidh, just the three of us.” “Yes, three of us” and she gave a little laugh.

The rustle of our swimming alone broke the silence. Suddenly crashing sounds carried over the bay. Startled for a moment we trod water. Amidst much grunting and splashing the seals plunged off their roosting ledges. Churning waters shone out of the shadows. In moments curious heads bobbed around us. Big dark eyes gazed, unblinking. Eye level contact, before, with a snort, each black dome slid out of sight. We followed their every twist and turn by the trails of a million sparkling golden dots. Lowly life? Only human hubris believes in the pyramid of life.

“Race you to the house.” Eilidh set off with a flurry of strokes. Laughing, I caught her foot. We were in the shallows, hugging and kissing. Breaking free, grabbing her bundle of clothes, she was off, running through the dunes until bare feet were in the softness of meadow grass. She turned at the house, panting and laughing at the same time and held out her arms to me.

Without a word, lifting her off her feet I carried her round to the gable. Still holding her I turned the tap of my makeshift shower. Cold fresh water straight off the hill, her squeaks carried to the Hill of the Shroud. In a minute I was back, soap and towel. We washed off salt water. Exhilaration, every artery pounded as the warmth grew. I dried Eilidh with tenderness, she was beauteous woman. I hugged her again with the towel about us.

It was then I realised how few words had been spoken. There was no need, the ecstasy of enfolding arms, the glory of the night, what need of speech? Taking her hand I led her into the house. There was no light inside, only the sinking moon through a window pane. Two bodies together and in the shaft of white light, one brown, one a ghostly white.

I began to say, “goodnight,”… tent and sleeping bag waited. I crossed to the door. Reading my thoughts Eilidh quietly took my hand. Putting her arms around my neck she whispered, “My Hector.”

We lay in the bed I’d at looked at each day. And the woman I’d wanted to be with, to be mine in its purest meaning since our eyes first met on a tube train, in a teeming city, was beside me now, giving herself to me, warm and loving.

The moon laid her tip on the edge of the Atlantic, the last of her light a silver path across the bay; it shone at our window in the old House of the Haven. Slowly it faded, a reflection of all things past.

Tenderly my kiss closed her eyes and together in that passion which knows no tomorrow, we reached into the endless galaxies, entangled, body and mind.

They'd known each other since prep school days and indeed in later years for a couple of terms at Eton, in fact, young Tim Winthrop-Bagley, now Sir Timothy Winthrop-Bagley, to much leg pulling, had fagged for Jeffrey Norton-Winters. Both received adequate instruction in the handholds that allowed them to climb the slippery pole, or more correctly, ascend the backstairs of political power. Naturally a knighthood for Winthrop-Bagley, or ‘Windy Bags' as he was called by his familiars, reflected his rise to the post of Senior Permanent Secretary to Her Majesty's Treasury, whereas his erstwhile ‘senior boy', the ‘Shivering Jeff' Winters, had to make do with the cloth cap position of Permanent Secretary to the Department of Trade and Energy.

Each week they lunched together at their favourite French restaurant, just off Mayfair, discreet and it must be said, thanks to its exotic menu, rather exclusive, not that the bill concerned either gentlemen, the tab went to the taxpayer. After all, important policy issues concerning their respective roles in the running of the country could be discussed, minus the ear or note taking of assistant secretaries, in short the justification of a working lunch with the benefit of a frank exchange of views. At best, when joined casually as it were by the captains of finance and industry, they kept their fingers on the pulse of the Nation.

Norton-Winters swilled round the drop of Reserve red, tasted it, nodded a grudging approval to the waiter, allowed him to pour and waved him away, “Saw you'd made it down to the old Nail and Garter last night Bagley. Must say ‘Bags' old sport you looked a bit miffed about something,”

“By God ‘Shivers' old chap you couldn't be more right, had one hell of a day with that numbskull of a Chancellor, talking about flogging orf the family silver. Has to be, I'm afraid,” Sir Winthrop tried his wine, “let any tuppenny banker orf the leash, nose for a bonus, better than my best Pointer when he's onto a Woodcock, as for these expense happy politicians buying votes with their soft cushion economy, then blaming the Yanky-doodles,” a flush tinged his heavy jowls,

“I tell you Jeff, they couldn't have blarsted a bigger hole in the vaults if I'd supplied them with a charge of TNT. No Jeff, it's over to Mr.Taxpayer to fill the crater, raise the standard rate, that's what it'll be. Selling the silver, won't make a blind bit of difference, even flogging the Channel Tunnel. Mind you,” he paused, an idea occurred, “umm, remember old ‘Floppy Prick' Hankey, he's done rather well for himself considering the rumpus over that takeover job. Not a bad shot for the chap who won Wanker of the Year Award, I say what.” They laughed together. Norton-Winters steered away from the topic.

“By the way, ‘Bags' before ‘Goldilocks' turns up, he's always late, you might have heard, courtesy of this damn fool Freedom of Information Act and that's something which should be tightened up, it'll be the undoing of our democratic system,” Sir Winthrop nodded emphatically, “Absolutly, couldn't agree more, worse than any leak, far harder to control, no saying how deep this exposure of Westminster expenses could go. A leak, you can turn it orf at source, simple, bring the press hounds to heel, they know what's good for them.”

“Quite so, but I should mention ‘Bags, you may have got a snippet, anyway the nuclear boys up in Scotland, I think somewhere on their God forsaken north coast, have been caught pants down holding hundreds of tons of radio active waste, came from all over Europe. Damn'reptiles' have splashed the story; ideal Green fodder and helps the wretched Scotch Nats' anti-nuclear lobby no end. Don't understand what actually happens, I think they stuff it into barrels, anyway to put a good head on it they've poured in a dollop which seemingly arrived from ‘Down Under'.”

“Really,” Sir Winthrop-Bagley looked mildly shocked, “Australia of all places, my son's out there, just pulled orf a job in Canberra, Private Secretary to Her Majesty's Governor, he's young of course, something better's bound to turn up. You know ‘Shivers', the flight's so awfully boring, still we may go out for the Christmas break, I have to say Anthea so feels the benefit of their wonderfully dry weather, her arthritis…..”

Norton-Winters interrupted, “Point is about this nuclear stuff, ‘Bags', we agreed to return it to the countries of origin, but storage is such a nice little earner, keeps everybody happy and can't think of a better dustbin than Scotland; and now that's blown. There's got be a way round this little problem. Talking of selling silver, never mind the Met Office, we must get ‘Goldilocks' and his company to offer for the new range of nuclear facilities that's on the drawing board. Naturally the French are keen, but Josh is such a bloodhound when there's a whiff of lucre in the wind; either way offloading our nuclear worries should put a bob or two in your begging bowl.”

“Good thinking Jeff, totally with you.” Looking out from their secluded alcove, Winthrop-Bagley spotted the polished dome of their school chum. As a waiter helped Sir Joshua Goldberg off with his winter coat, ‘Bags' whispered hoarsely, “Look here, ‘Shivers', don't mention this bally climate change issue to ‘Goldilocks', he's such a bore, caught me at the Club last week, seems to think it's quite a serious matter. I suspect rather importantly from his point of view, it has the infinitely more serious prospect of being a cash dispenser. He went on and on, this nuclear thing, our only solution to keeping temperatures down, such a bore, I told him its varstly more pleasant in the garden these days, nectarines've never done better, even Anthea's hip has improved, Finally fell asleep, wakened up, he was still bloody well talking.”

They both rose to greet Sir Joshua, “Josh, how awfully good to see you and so nice you can spend a little time on this side of the pond and looking so spruce. Capital, so glad you made it, do sit down.” The waiter tucked a chair beneath the Nuen's chairman's ample posterior spread a linen napkin across his knees and to a nod from Bagley vanished silently to reappear with a fresh bottle of Reserve.

“How jolly splendid to see you both,” Goldberg responded to their greeting just a shade less effusively never having quite forgotten his ‘three of the best' administered in the Prefects' Room by senior boy, Winthrop-Bagley. The flat of a cricket bat on bare buttocks amongst a group of smirking cronies left him smarting for days and inflected an indelible mark on his mind.

Pleasantries and platitudes and not a little gossip passed concerning the foibles and fornications amongst bureaucracies ruling orders, until ‘Shivers Norton' found an opening to comment darkly, “You realise our dependency on this wretched Russian gas pipe could have a ghastly effect on UK energy prices. I know old ‘Barmy Blakensop' at the Foreign Office is working hard with MI6 to find some way to blunt the Sickle before the Hammer crushes our goollies.”

Goldilocks rose to the fly, “Now, that's exactly where I can help you chaps. This climate change lark, all the rage at the moment, international conferences! Enough hot air to put a degree on the graph,” he warmed to the theme, unaware behind his back ‘Windy Bags' Winthrop's eyes reached for the ceiling, “we at Nuen have the complete answer.” To gain effect, Goldberg allowed his eyelids to fall.