Where the West Wind Blows (8 page)

Twelve

I open my eyes and look around the strange room at the unwashed curtains, the salt-rimed window. It is a man’s room, a bachelor’s chaos.
What have I done?

I turn my head to where he lies and take the time to examine him more closely than I ever have before. His features are relaxed, smoothed and somehow he seems younger. It is some time before I realise that this is because the lines on his brow and around his eyes have been erased by sleep.
He has stopped thinking about it.

His hair has dried salty and stiff and is tossed like a windswept meadow, black in some lights, blue in others, there are even streaks of purple, a few stripes of white.  Dark lashes that a girl would envy lay soft on his cheek, his heavy hooked nose pointing the way downward to a wide, sensuous mouth with full lips.

I remember how hot those lips had been pressed against mine; how his tongue traced burning circles along my neck and down lower, between my breasts. At the memory warmth begins to flood over me, beginning at my toes, surging upward to drench me with renewed longing.

I bite my lip, remembering how shamelessly I had melted into him, let him do to me what he wished, wrapped my legs around his torso, almost begged him to take me. For a short time it had been heaven to have all sense of loneliness erased, all sorrow forgotten. It was not a gentle coupling but was all-consuming, rather like being fucked by a thunderstorm – exhilarating and … and …
fantastic
.

He stirs and I snap my eyes shut, suddenly shy, not wanting him to know that I’m awake. The covers shift and his hand slides upward across my ribs, rasping on my skin, seeking my breast. When his palm engulfs me and he rolls his thumb across my nipple. I stifle a gasp and hear him laugh softly and slide across the mattress to press against me. “Morning,” he murmurs, kissing my earlobe.

I want him to love me again, that much I do know but that doesn’t stop me from being consumed with shame. Never in my life have I behaved as I did this afternoon, shagging a stranger in some outrageous outpouring of lust. I don’t know how to reply or how I should behave, so I say nothing. Instead, keeping my eyes screwed shut, I place my palm lightly against his chest to let him know there are no hard feelings. I don’t know the rules of this game but luckily, it seems he does.

His hands are large enough to encompass my entire breast. He can somehow squeeze and stroke at the same time and I am uncertain which sensation it is that is making me groan aloud. I don’t touch him but, as his heat presses against my thigh, I keep my eyes shut hoping that I won’t have to do anything to encourage him.

To my relief he shifts round, I feel his lips wet on my neck, his breath hot in my ear, his cock pressing hard against my stomach. I open my arms. My head is swimming, my body suddenly light, my bones melting. Instinctively, my legs part and he eases between them, nudging at my soul. Another groan escapes me as he pulls away so we are joined only at the groin and he forces me to look at him, making my cheeks burn.

James was just a few inches taller than me, and a lithe and athletic lover. Mr McAlister is a bear of a man who consumes the whole of me, the muscles knotting across his chest as he supports his weight, the expanse of his chest like a soaring cliff face.

I lay like a child beneath him. Fragile.

I am as brittle as glass.

My mind spirals out of control and we are away, soaring above the world, two birds buffeted on an ocean breeze. An eagle mating with a sparrow. 

I forget who I am.

I forget where I am.

I forget why I am here.

I am a blank canvas …just for a while.

An hour or so later he pushes the door open and walks in bearing a tray of toast and coffee. He has no shame; his cock is dangling unashamedly from a nest of black hair. His legs are long and lean, his bum tight and high. I don’t know where to look. He looks very different without his clothes, younger somehow and if possible, more vulnerable.

He is a stranger again.

A naked one.

“What is your name?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on my plate as I take a bite of my toast. “I can’t go on calling or thinking of you as Mr McAlister.”

“Gerald. Gerald McAlister, at your service.” He executes a small bow, absurd in his naked state and I giggle, my face burning, still unused to his brazen nudity.

“Pleased to meet you.” I dimple shyly. “Can I call you Gerry?”

He laughs like a big dog and pulls a face, quirking his bushy eyebrows. “I’d rather you didn’t. My friends, when I had any, called me Jezz.”

That is better. It suits him somehow; the word is sharp and to the point, like him.

The mattress sinks as he lifts the sheet and slides in beside me again, his shoulder warm and solid against mine. He passes me a brimming cup of coffee and proceeds to gulp his tea; then he belches, begs my pardon and leans across me to steal a slice of my toast. “Hurry up and eat your food, woman. I want to fuck you again before I cook you dinner.”

Thirteen

I lock myself away in my cottage. I am shamed. I am mortified. I am
guilty
. James looks at me so reproachfully from the bedside table that I turn his photo face down and try not to dwell on what I have done. I feel like a whore.

It isn’t adultery,
I tell myself,
not technically
, but it feels like it to me. I find my behaviour extraordinary; I’ve never done anything like it before, have known only one man.

I hadn’t thought I’d ever sleep with anyone but James although, when I was at school, there was one boy.

He takes me to the pictures, swimming and one day we go to the park. For weeks he’s been trying to persuade me to let him touch me but I push him away, I am not ready. Maybe it is him; maybe it is me. But on this particular day my resolution is weak and I let him put a hand up my skirt and feel his sly finger creeping up past the crutch of my knickers. It is much nicer than I’d imagined. He is gentle, searching, stroking the sparseness of my mound and I am just beginning to relax when it ends for him before it is properly begun.

I see his embarrassment as he scrambles up, scarlet tipped ears clashing with his hair as he backs away, not meeting my eye. “I have to go,” he says, “sorry,” and I watch him run from me. I don’t understand, until later, why he never looks or speaks to me again. He is shamed. He is mortified, just as I am now.
The only difference being that I am almost forty-nine and old enough to know better.

As the days mount up I begin to forget the wonder of sleeping with Jezz, the excruciating pleasure of release, the joy I had taken in his body and the bond we had shared. Instead, I let guilt paint a tainted picture of us and, unable to face him, I hide away, seeking refuge in my attic and commune only with my pencils and paint.

I throw different shades at the canvas. Nurturing my abstract rock of multi-toned colours, browns and blues and a splash of orange. I try not to think and, for hours every day, I pour all my concentration on nothing but my relationship with my subject and my brush.

I must forget about Jezz.

I must forget about James.

I must forget about guilt.

But, at the end of that time, when I stand back to view my progress, I see only a chaos of colour. The painting doesn’t even begin to resemble the image I’d conceived in my head. 

Irritably, I turn away to the window and glimpse a movement. Jezz is striding across the far beach. He doesn’t look toward the cottage but I can tell from the way his hands are thrust so deeply into his pockets and the way his great straggly head is turned firmly away from me, that he is angry.
He is always angry,
I tell myself, with everyone, with me, with God, with himself.
His anguish is nothing new. It is nothing to do with me.

I pick up my sketchbook from the table and flip through the pages, forcing him to look at me. What is that element that my pencil cannot capture? Why can’t I see it? I am so close, so very close. On impulse, I discard the painting of the rock, toss it to one side and select a new canvas.

The surface is as pristine as untrodden snow on a winter hill and, like a child running across a virgin, white field, I cannot wait to mar it. Propping the sketchbook where the light from the window falls full upon it, I squirt mini mountains of paint onto my palette, worms of black and grey and white, ochre, deep purple and cadmium blue.

I pick up my brush, take a deep breath.

I begin to paint and barely put down my brush until the third day.

Then I stand back, put down my brush and stare at him. 
Oh, he is raw. He is elemental and dangerous.
With a surge of triumph I know I have him now. It is perfect. I feel as if he is here in the room, confronting me. His tortured mouth is drawn tight, his eyes dark and probing, his hair as wild as a winter sea. I can almost hear him cursing.

No wonder I am afraid to see him again. I fold my arms and lose myself in admiration of my own handiwork until I notice that dusk is falling.

My stomach growls and I realise it is hours since I had anything to eat. I tidy my brushes and turn off the light, begin to go down stairs. As I reach the first landing, someone hammers on the front door, setting the windows rattling and I jump a foot in the air, my heart like a tambourine.

I know it is him.

And I know what he wants.

Silently, I freeze on the landing and take slow, deep breaths to calm myself before peering down to the hall. When he knocks again, he bangs so hard that dust falls from between the cracks of the door and the latch threatens to surrender, showing its weakness. Cowering in the shadows, I mentally riffle through my options. He won’t give up and go away and he will have seen the attic light shining and will know I am at home. There is nothing else for it so, steeling my courage, I creep down to the hall and reach for the knob.

Before it is even half way open he is barging in and I flinch from his fury and retreat into the kitchen.

“Where the hell have you been, woman. I feel like a jilted bride. Why are you hiding from me?”

A jilted bride?
I hadn’t expected that.

“Come in, do,” I say, disguising my fear with bravado. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

He fills up the cramped space in the kitchen, dwarfing me. He is an intrusion in my sanctuary but I do not ask him to leave. When I have plucked up the courage to look at him and our eyes finally meet I feel a jolt of something unexpected, as if I have touched an electric wire that is better not touched.

It’s a feeling I’ve never experienced before.

He is staring intently at my face. “No, I don’t want a drink, I want an explanation.”

“Of what? I force myself to remain calm as if nothing untoward has ever passed between us. As if I am not a suicide victim and he is not a murderer; as if there can never be anything for two such people to find in common.

“Well, why have you stopped taking your walks for one thing? Why aren’t you out there sketching, walking and weeping, or whatever it is you do out there? You’re avoiding me, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be silly,” I say, poking the fire back into life. “I’ve been busy, that’s all.”

“Busy.”

He doesn’t believe me; my lie is weak and it is not only to him that I am denying the truth. I can barely stand to look at him because every sinew of my being is remembering the things he did to me in his bed and each of those sinews is secretly loving the memory.

“Was it my cooking? Is that it?”

“No,” I almost laugh, but I bite it back in time and take a deep breath. “I’m not ready, Jezz. It was a mistake. That day I was feeling lost and vulnerable. You just happened to be there. That’s all.”

I risk a glimpse at him. His expression is bleak, disbelieving. “You’re always vulnerable …But it helped, didn’t it? Being with me, you liked it, I know you did. It made you feel better. You were relaxed …laughing …for a while.”

I ignore his refusal of a drink and fill the kettle anyway, wishing he would go but knowing he won’t, even if I ask nicely. And now he is near me, I’m not sure if that is what I really want after all.

Plonking the kettle on the hob with a clang, I turn toward him and perch on the edge of the table, fold my arms across my chest. He lifts his chin, looks at me sideways. “You didn’t answer me.”

I get up and begin to pace the floor. “Ok, so I liked it, that doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t mean I am ready. I feel so, so …so
guilty
!”

“Guilty?” he roars. “You feel guilty? Don’t talk to me about guilt, woman. I’m the fuckin’ king of guilt, I am. Look at me. I
murdered
my
wife
, there will never be a day in my life when I do not feel shame for that, but you? You have nothing to be shamed about, nothing! I don’t understand.”

“James …”

“James is dead. DEAD. And I’m sorry about that, but would he have expected you to be lonely forever? Would he have wanted you to slash your wrists, throw yourself off
Y Pen
, waste your life and your talent? Do you think, if you kill yourself, you’ll both be together in some fairy tale heaven? Well, you won’t.  You’d just end, finish, stop, capput, finito; to rot in some cold muddy pit when you could be here, loving me.”

Loving him?
I am beset with that swimmy, weightless feeling that accompanies the onset of arousal. When he puts it like that it does sound like a very nice idea.

Thankfully the kettle begins to sing on the hob and I turn away to fumble with cups and teaspoons. I tip biscuits onto a plate and plonk them in front of him, slop tea into the cup and hold it out.

The bone china teacup is white with scattered violets and he looks absurd with it balanced between his big, clumsy fingers. I sip my tea delicately, as if we are caught up in some absurd Oscar Wilde farce, and look at him from beneath my fringe, not knowing what to say next.

I wish he’d go home.

I wish he’d stay.

I wish he’d kiss me again.

He slurps his tea like a schoolboy and dunks a ginger biscuit while I reflect on the ludicrous way we British continue our domestic rituals in the face of crisis.  For this
is
a crisis and I’m not sure that it is one either of us know how to handle.

Apart from the crackling flames of the fire taking hold in the Rayburn, there is silence. Then, upstairs, the timbers creak as if someone is tiptoeing across the floor. He raises one eyebrow.

“Do you have someone up there?”

I shake my head. “Don’t be silly. It’s just this old house. I was frightened out of my life when I first moved in.”

The kitchen clock ticks loudly in the pause that follows.

“Are you frightened of everything, Fiona?”

“No.” I am indignant. I’ve never thought of myself as a coward. Before I lost James I could have taken on the world and fought off monsters … as long as he was with me.
It’s just that I’m going through a bad patch
, I want to tell him,
I’m bigger and better than you think.

“Are you frightened of me?”

I want to deny it but it’s true, he terrifies me. He is so big, so vibrant, so alive, so elemental. It’s as if a tornado has ripped through my life, shaking me so violently that I don’t know what to think anymore. I no longer know what I desire or need. He is blotting out the light so I can’t see clearly.

“You are, aren’t you?” he says and I shake my head as tears,
stupid
weak tears spring to my eyes. I dash them away. “No, I’m not scared of you,” I cry between sobs, “I’m just confused, I need time to think, time to work things out; why can’t you just leave me alone.”

My teacup crashes onto the table and I run from the room, past the open front door and clatter upstairs to my attic, slamming the door. There, I slide to the floor and give way to feeble, womanish tears, tears that I think will never stop.

I am crying for James, for myself, for poor dead Mrs McAlister, for Jezz and for the whole world, the whole of humanity. There is nothing but endings, nothing but pain for any of us.

Crying sometimes seems to be the only thing. 

When I am calmer, I sit up and wipe my nose on my sleeve because I don’t have a handkerchief and, as I sit there sniffing, I hear the front door softly closing. I do not move and, when I finally uncurl my legs, wash my face and go downstairs, the night is pulled up around the house like a blanket and the room is in semi-darkness.

Our cups are still on the table, mine tipped over, liquid drying into the scrubbed pine surface. Jezz’s cup is half empty, or half full perhaps. I gather them up, rinse them beneath the tap, fill the kettle and stoke the reluctant fire again. Then I squat, hands out to the chilly flame and try not to think about Jezz as I wait for it to boil.

A handful of raindrops rattle at the black window.

My thoughts are on a loop and, although I tell myself to stop thinking, to clear my mind, empty myself, I have no control and I am consumed with doubt. At length, when I hear the water beginning to stir in the kettle, I get up to fetch the milk from the fridge. As I open the door the internal light floods into the room, illuminating the dark and from the corner of my eye, I see I am not alone.

I let out a high-pitched, hysterical scream and fall back so that I am sitting on the floor, looking up at him. A figure cloaked in the shadowy corner.

Relief escapes in a head of angry steam.

“What the hell are you doing? Are you some kind of stalker?”

I scramble to my feet as he shifts in his chair, calmly crosses one leg over the other, rotates his ankle. He is deadly calm. “I like things to be clear and we hadn’t finished.”

“But I heard you leave!”

“You heard me close the front door.”

He watches me steadily, his coal black eyes unflinching on my face, trying to understand me. Trying to penetrate my thoughts. I am reminded of my shrink …my
therapist.
I cannot look him in the eye and, whirling around, I begin to dribble milk into my cup.