by Gary P Moss
‘It’s my son; he’s come down with a cold so I’m heading to the shop to see if they have anything.’ The beach woman continued, perhaps anticipating further questioning. ‘My husband’s busy keeping the fire going; it takes some warming up in there.’
They’d reached the shop.
‘Well, perhaps I’ll see you around,’ the woman said. She walked off at a brisk pace, without giving the beach woman an opportunity to prolong the conversation. Studying the other woman’s mouth had eventually bored her.
The heat within her had gone, but the longing remained like an ache.
Chapter Four
Thursday
* * *
The woman lopped off the top of her son’s boiled egg. By the time she retracted her arm, the yolk was running down the egg cup, the first of the boy’s toasted soldiers, and his hand. He tried licking the dripping yolk from his wrist while almost poking himself in the eye with the egg covered bread. The woman huffed impatiently. She licked a paper napkin, before rubbing the boy’s face. He turned away sharply, causing the napkin to smear the yolk down his face. He half turned, and grinned.
Agnes hurried over with a tea towel. Uninvited, she rubbed at the boy’s face while he writhed around. When she’d finished, standing back with hands on hips to admire her work, the boy sat quietly staring at his overturned egg cup. His face, red but clean, wore an expression that was somewhere between a scowl and a scream.
The woman fought the urge to glare at Agnes; she needed to ask her for a favour. She hid her hands underneath the table in case they shook. She hoped her nervousness was not apparent.
‘I was wondering if it would be possible for your daughter to have the boy for a while again today while I visit my husband.’ The woman thought she detected the first twitches of a raised eyebrow from Agnes, so she pressed on quickly.
‘He really enjoyed it yesterday, and I’m so grateful.’
Agnes wrung her hands on the towel. When she spoke, her gaze was fixed towards the garden through the dining room’s glass patio doors.
‘Well, she’s a very busy woman, you know, with a kiddy of her own. And, well, you were quite a long time yesterday, longer than we expected you’d be.’
The woman felt heat rush to her cheeks.
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. I was upset, for my husband, and I ended up wandering a fair distance, to clear my head. I wouldn’t be nearly so long this time, honestly I wouldn’t.’
Agnes’ gaze hadn’t shifted from the garden. The woman opened her handbag.
‘Wouldn’t your man love to see his little one?’
The woman dug in her bag, extracting her purse.
‘It would tire him, probably upset them both.’ She took out a note.
‘I’ll pay this time.’ Her eyes implored. Her body ached in desperation.
Agnes eyed the note.
‘Well, perhaps a few pounds might be a nice gesture. To treat the bairns with, of course.’
The woman took out another note. She pressed them into Agnes’ outstretched hand.
‘Thank you, so much. I’ll get him changed and down in ten minutes.’
‘It’ll have to be half an hour, if you don’t mind, dear. I’ve to clear away breakfast and wash the dishes first.’ With the notes tucked in her apron pocket, she’d reverted to her usual, cheerful, helpful self.
The woman chose her garments with care. A cream silk blouse, and a black skirt, not too tight, not too short. She wanted casual elegance. She smiled, recalling something she’d read in some magazine; she couldn’t remember which one. Luscious but Demure, yes that was it. It had been an article about a famous American actress, but she couldn’t recall which one. She spritzed perfume on both sides of her neck; a final, light spray. She smoothed down her skirt, her fingers resting on her thighs, feeling the bare skin underneath, above her stocking tops. Minimal kohl, and an equally minimal application of pale pink lipstick, and she was ready.
The woman opened her purse, counting the remaining notes. There was plenty left, the holiday a frugal outing since her husband’s hospitalisation. But spending money was furthest from her mind as she covered her outfit with her coat. Despite the early hour (it was barely after ten), she wanted a stiff drink. She wondered if there would be a bottle of something when she got there. She couldn’t settle her breathing, her heart banging away like an erratic drumbeat.
When I get there? And who’s to say there’ll be anyone there, with no invitation. She stared at her reflection in the mirror.
He’ll want me. He’ll want me. I need to have him.
She trod lightly on the carpeted stairs, hoping to sneak past Agnes on her way out. As she passed the fussy woman’s room, she thought she’d made it, until the familiar round head popped out from behind the door.
‘Give my best to your man, won’t you?’
‘I will, yes. Is the boy with you?’
‘Ach, no dear. My daughter fetched him a while back; they’ll be frolicking around somewhere by now.’
Agnes appraised the woman. ‘You look nice, dear. You’ll be a breath of fresh air for your husband, aye you will be that.’
The woman didn’t reply, instead raised a hand, hurried through the front door and onto the street. The crisp morning air helped settle her heartbeat. She jogged down the hill as if a fierce wind pushed her on.
The sky darkened quickly. As the woman reached the bottom of the hill, it turned almost black. Then, within seconds, came the rain. It poured relentlessly, drenching her hair before she even had a chance to raise her hood. She cursed as her polished shoes turned dull and dirty, the accompanying wind sweeping great swathes of sand high over the chalets and meagre sea defences, till it hit the main street, swirling across the road. Where it hit water, it turned into slushy piles.
Her wet fingers tingled from the cold. She shoved her hands as deep as her coat pockets would allow, her head bent, braced against the wind and rain. To her left, huge funnels of wet foam leapt in the distance before crashing down, tossing the escaping waves into a furious cauldron. Her eyes stung but she reckoned that the tide was still a way out.
The lighthouse rose like an indignant defender, daring the weather to do its worst. The huge light blinked, its pulse making her own quicken, and even through the dark, arrow-like rain, the woman could see Devil’s Point rock standing a little way behind, as if creeping up on the lighthouse, preparing to strike, to toss it into the sea. Showing itself to her. She wrenched her gaze away from its lure. There was something bewitching about its presence. Something dark and dangerous. Something threatening.
The rain drummed off the causeway, but a haphazard carpet of blown sand and stone gripped her shoes as she hurried along. The rope rails on either side were taut but rough and wet and they slowed her progress. She wouldn’t fall; one broken member of the family was enough this holiday. She pushed her husband firmly from the back of her mind. This was her holiday, and she was going to enjoy it. Somehow.
She hammered on the giant door, not for a second considering that the lighthouse keeper might not be at home, or that the combination of the storm and the great door’s thickness would turn her pounding into a feeble tap. The curved adjacent window remained in darkness. The woman peered through, then resumed her battering at the door, her hand and wrist now painful from the effort. She breathed a big sigh, preparing to give up and go somewhere for a drink, perhaps try the weird pub up the hill. Perhaps he was there? But no, surely it was too early, and the huge light was pulsing so he must be here. But didn’t the shop guy say the lighthouse was automated, that there was really no need for a full-time lighthouse keeper?
Her earlier excitement had dimmed, threatening to outstrip the turn of the weather from promising to dour. She stared at the dark sky. Great black thunder clouds jostled for space, crashing and splitting, throwing heavier rain that bounced off her hood, the sound as if it were hitting a tin roof instead of the tough fabric.
Light filled the window. Her mouth’s sourness
dissolved as the saliva returned, her heart resumed its racy pace, and despite the cold, rain, and thunder, a warmth trickled through her body until it found its spot and surged. The familiar unkempt hair and Aran sweater came into view. A look of surprise, of mild amusement, perhaps.
The clunk as the key turned was audible even above the wind’s roar as the lock sprang free. The lighthouse keeper beckoned her in before he closed the door quickly. He locked it immediately.
‘Your timing’s impeccably tide-conscious. Or perhaps it’s just a coincidence?’ He smirked, with a look that said it’s a joke, and now’s the time to laugh.
All she could do was drip onto the stone floor, and stare into his eyes. Before she lost control and flung her wet-clothed body at him, he extended an arm, guiding her through to a small, heated room. She was able to see the tide racing in now, crashing around the base of the lighthouse and covering the causeway.
‘Wow, that was close,’ she breathed.
‘Here, put your coat over the chair near the heater, and warm yourself. Fancy a wee snifter, or is it too early for you?’
She smoothed her blouse down with her drying hands, still staring at him.
‘No, it’s not too early. A drink would be great. And I’m sorry, to come unannounced. I thought that, well, you know, you might be able to show me around.’
She swallowed, knew it sounded false. She hoped he wouldn’t play along for a while, give her a tour and then see her out. But the tide’s in, she thought. How long does it stay in for? Six hours, or thereabouts, she remembered. But was that low tide or high tide? She was confused now, and she remembered that he’d joked about the timings.
He returned with a crystal tumbler, a third filled with amber liquid. They clinked glasses and each took a swig. The fiery whisky hit her stomach, soothing away the remnants of anxiety she had felt earlier. A couple more gulps and they’d finished their drinks.
‘Okay, are you ready for the tour?’ He said it with confidence, slightly theatrical, and with a mocking smile that ran from his mouth to his eyes. She hoped it would not be all mockery, that he felt some attraction towards her, too.
After climbing a few steps, they emerged into a sparse room, humming with the sounds of two large electricity generators. The woman was already breathless from watching the lighthouse keeper’s behind.
‘As you can see, very boring but absolutely necessary. Apart from the light room, it’s the most important space in the building.’ He looked round at her, saw her shivering, although she didn’t feel particularly cold. ‘When we get nearer to the top, I’ll give you one of my pullovers, keep you toasty.’
His smile, now more open than mocking, seemed to melt her insides. He began to climb again. She followed directly behind, the act of swallowing a basic means to halt her inclination to reach out and grab him.
They passed another level which was used as a storage room for equipment that would probably have baffled her if she’d shown any interest at all. She began to take notice when they reached the next level, which housed a basic kitchen and bathroom. She smiled when he pointed out the rudimentary cooking apparatus and ancient bathroom suite, nodding but only half hearing what he was saying.
‘And the next level; is that where you sleep?’ She tried to ask the question in an offhand way, but it came out almost breathless. She thought that it sounded desperate. And, she supposed, it was.
‘Aye, that’s the next level, and one of the best. Has a wee balcony, like the light room.’
The woman’s legs began to shake as she climbed the next few steps, the vibration rising, swirling through her midriff and back down again, leaving a fire as it descended.
They were quiet for a while as they reached the main bedroom. Eventually, as her eyes settled on the large wooden bed, the mattress high, and covered with thick woollen blankets, the lighthouse keeper broke the trance that was beginning to take hold of her. He pointed to a door opposite the bed.
‘Through there is the balcony, but I wouldn’t advise going out there for the next few hours.’ He laughed. ‘Unless you want to be mashed on the rocks, that is. The waves, during a bad one, would sweep you right off.’ She shivered.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
She’d gone to a window a couple of feet to the right of the balcony door. It rose several feet from waist-height. Curved at the top, it had a wide sill at the bottom. She placed her palms on the ledge, and then she peered through the glass. Despite the horrid weather and the mass of black clouds, she thought that she could see for miles. Devil’s Point rock, although perhaps several hundred yards away, seemed to rise from the sea to greet her. A flash of forked lightning illuminated the sky like the prequel to some gothic nightmare. It appeared to strike directly behind Devil’s Point rock, but she couldn’t judge the distance. More flashes filled the sky. Instead of unnerving her, it invigorated her, made her heart beat faster, created more saliva.
‘I shouldn’t stare at that for too long,’ he said, laughing. ‘You know what they say round here. Or maybe you’ve escaped that bit of tittle-tattle?’
The woman turned to face him.
‘I heard about it, yes. Fascinating.’ She noticed a new look in his eyes. Despite his continuing boyish humour there was now a hunger. She recognised the look, but it had been a long time since she’d seen it, from anyone. The roar of wind and crashing waves fought the lighthouse keeper for her attention and she wasn’t sure which would win. She wanted them both, and she wanted them at the same time. She was high up, but the snarling waves called to her from below, mocked her, told her in an ancient language that they would win, that the lighthouse would never be strong enough to hold her safe. She loved it, and barely heard him as he spoke.
‘Well, I don’t believe in these things, but I try to keep my emotions in check if I stare at it directly.’ The woman leaned her head, gave him an inquisitive stare. ‘I mean, if it were to be true, no point in tempting fate, eh?’
The woman nodded towards an old rounders bat that leant against the side of a dresser.
‘Is that what that’s for, then? To fight off the demons?’
‘Ach, no. A throwback to my boyhood. My dad burnt my name into the wood; I’ll never get rid of it.’
She turned to look at the rock again. A thrill, like a mild electric current, ran through her body, growing stronger by the second. She shivered.
He dragged a heavy woollen garment from a drawer. It looked tatty, like an old army sweater. ‘Here, sorry about the state of it. I’ve been meaning to wash my best ones.’ He laughed.
‘Thanks, I think.’ She laughed, temporarily breaking the spell she’d found herself under.
Am I really going to be needing this?
A heater threw adequate warmth into the room, but she poked her head through the neck, plunging her arms through and pulling it down. The sweater was so big, it could have doubled as a scruffy dress.
The lighthouse keeper covered the couple of feet between them and pulled her into his arms, pressing full lips onto hers. She reached hungrily for his tongue with her own, grabbing hold and pulling his hair. She felt her own tugged hard, felt him harden. Her legs became so weak she found it difficult to stay on her feet.
The heat within her had found its spot again, surging around, making her want more of him. All of him. She reached for his trousers, undoing the thick, worn belt. She rubbed her hand up and down, her breathing laboured as they kissed, flicking the trouser buttons, teasing him till she pulled open the top button, popping the others as she did so. Her hand inside his trousers, she released him, ran her fingers along the length, the hard muscle straining against her hand. Back and forth she moved her hand, his head back now, releasing them from the kiss.
His hand moved up her sweater, underneath her blouse and bra. She gasped as he ran a rough finger around her nipple, pulling it gently at first, then rubbing it hard between finger and thumb. As her hand continued its work, the lighthouse keeper moved his
hand away from her breast, moving it down to her thigh, caressing the fabric of her skirt before reaching underneath. On discovering bare skin, he looked down into the woman’s eyes. She was beginning to shake now.
She moved her hand away, looked up at him, could smell the whisky on his breath. It was driving her insane.
‘I want it. Now.’ She could barely get the words from her mouth. Her desire overwhelmed her, removed everything else from her mind; every consideration, rational thought, fear of discovery. Everything. He took her hand, began leading her to the bed as he kicked off his shoes.
‘No, not there, not yet.’ He looked confused but she pulled him round, dragged the trousers from his ankles, bent down to briefly take him in her mouth. She looked up at his face as she gently pulled him back and forth.
‘I want you from behind. I need you from behind.’ She ripped off the sweater.
The woman placed her hands on the windowsill, shoulder width apart. She waited for him to lift her skirt but when she turned to look where he was, she saw him ripping a long strip of material.
‘What are you doing?’
‘If you insist on it this way, facing the window, at least wear this across your eyes. Just in case.’ He grinned. He placed the blindfold across her eyes, knotting it lightly at the back of her head.
She felt her skirt ride up high to her waist, felt strong fingers move her panties to the side. She moved her hips back, impatient for his next move.
An electric wave ran through her body, surging through her belly, exploding just below. She gasped as his thrusts, slow at first, gained momentum, until she felt all her frustration ebb away, like shedding an old skin.
‘I don’t have anything,’ he said through his gasps.
‘It’s all right,’ she breathed. ‘Don’t stop.’
His thrusts were deeper now, their power increasing.