Chapter Nine
The room was basic, but clean. Two single beds lay side by side. A door led to an ensuite.
“Do you mind if I jump in the shower first?” she asked.
“On you go,” Tom answered hastily.
Gathering up her toiletries, Shirley headed for the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, face flushed and hair combed back, with a skimpy bath towel not quite covering her. Tom gulped nervously. There was just a hint of cleavage showing at the top of her towel. One hand tightly gripped the towel, in case it slipped. Barefoot, she was even smaller. Again he felt that protective urge, but that wasn’t all. Embarrassed, Tom realised he was becoming erect. He quickly lifted his towel off his bed and holding it in front of him, said, “Are you finished?”
Shirley, well aware of the reaction she had caused, said, “Yep, all done.”
Tom remained in the shower for a good ten minutes, a maelstrom of emotions sweeping through him. He finished his shower and walked back into the bedroom, where Shirley was drying her hair. As he looked out his clothes, Shirley admired his chest, which was covered in a sprinkling of blond hairs, tanned and muscular. Tom padded back into the bathroom to get dressed.
“I could just avert my eyes, you know,” Shirley joked.
“I don’t know if I could trust you,” he joshed back.
Shirley was just thinking the same thing. Wistfully, she turned her glance away from his long, lean body, as the door closed.
When they rejoined the others, the bar was considerably busier. It was always mobbed in the evening. It had a great reputation and if you didn’t enjoy yourself there, there was something seriously wrong. There was always live folk or rock music. The bar itself was nothing special. Some wooden benches and tables graced it, but the floor was stone and almost always sopping wet, usually from walkers and climbers who had come in from the rain, or the snow and dripped water, or carried in snow, which soon melted all over the floor. There was a large log fire, but as it had been a scorcher of a day, it remained unlit, although in winter, it was a particularly warming sight. Next to the fire, was a smattering of wooden tables and chairs and towards the back of the bar, there were two or three booths. A little nook off the main bar held some beat up old sofas, where patrons could take refuge from the noise.
Many people came straight off the hills and if they were camping would pitch their tents before setting out and wouldn’t go back until after closing time. It was a common sight to behold people with what looked like miniature miner’s lamps on their heads, enabling them to see their way back in the darkness. Those who were unlucky enough to be staying in the youth hostel, had to be under lock and key by eleven, so always missed the best the pub had to offer.
Tom pulled over two chairs and sitting down, whispered to Shirley, “We usually put a kitty in. Fifteen to start.”
“That’s cool.”
She handed him fifteen pounds and Tom, pulling a wad of notes from his pocket, handed thirty pounds to Jed.
“There’s our kitty money, Jed.”
“Thanks. What you having?”
“Guinness,” turning to Shirley, “Shirley?”
“Vodka and orange.”
Tom was torn with indecision over what to have for dinner.
“I’m having scampi,” Shirley said, “If you order steak pie, I’ll steal some of that and you can eat some of mine.”
“You’re on.”
Fed and watered, they sank pint after pint and soon had to add to the kitty. Sam met up with one of his friends, Ben, whom he hadn’t seen for ages. Ben worked in Fort William and was a mountain rescue volunteer. Simon knew just about everyone, as he’d been going there for years. By half way through the evening, the bar staff was more than able to rhyme off their order.
The Nifty Drifters started their host of folk songs just after nine, by which time the friends were half-cut. The band played mostly instantly recognisable songs. Where they knew the words, they sang along and where they didn’t, they tra-la-la-ed.
By the time the band had taken a break, some of the guys were hardly in a fit state to walk, but then that’s what cheap prices will do to you. Various hill walking tales were recounted and soon the Last Orders bell rang.
“It can’t be time already,” wailed Sam, “We only just got here.” Evidently he had incurred some short term memory loss. He quickly rose to his feet, but his lack of co-ordination made him fall down again. On his second attempt, he managed to remain upstanding and swaying, made his way through the throng of people to the bar, to get a double round in.
Soon even their double round was depleted. Finally, the bar manager, stood over them, interrupting their chatter,
“Right folks. Drinking up time was an hour ago. Beat it.”
Everyone laughed at his straight talking.
“He’s a right charmer,” Shirley said.
“We should go.”
“You guys up for a walk tomorrow?” Simon, ever energetic, even after a good skinful, asked.
“Let’s see how our heads are,” Tom wouldn’t commit himself.
“Do you want to go into the residents’ lounge or are you done in?” Shirley asked.
“What would you rather do?” Tom asked.
“I’m pretty tired. I wouldn’t mind going walking tomorrow, but I’ll need some sleep.”
Tom agreed. He was sozzled. He’d have to sleep until tomorrow night to be fit to drive.
They walked in silence side by side. There was a strange feeling in the air, a sense of anticipation. Tom opened the door and Shirley quickly turned the lamps on. Suddenly he felt very awkward.
“I’m just going to brush my teeth,” he told her.
As he put his hand on the bathroom door, he felt a hand cover his, “Don’t. I like the taste of Guinness.” With that Shirley stood on tiptoe and kissed Tom very gently, parting his lips with her tongue. His teeth were almost chattering with excitement. He realised he had fantasised about this happening. Shirley’s tongue found his and met no resistance. Then they were kissing passionately, urgently. Tom felt himself grow hard. Then he felt Shirley’s hand on him, stroking him, undoing his flies. He could hardly believe it when she knelt in front of him and tugged down his boxers.
Shirley had never before behaved so brazenly, but she really wanted this man and had come prepared. He moaned then cried out and came simultaneously. Content that she had satisfied him, Shirley felt like the cat which had got the cream. Cleaning herself up, she returned to Tom’s mouth, where hungry lips awaited her.
Tom’s orgasm had been intense. Wanting to let Shirley experience the joy he had, he pleasured her as best he knew. By the time she came, he was hard again and they were both ready for that final, crucial step. Tom never wanted it to end and held himself back as much as he could. They made love twice more and fell exhausted into a deep slumber, their arms around each other, legs entwined.
Tom woke with a headache like none before. Ugh, he’d best get some water. He stretched out his hand for the glass he’d left beside the bed the evening before, but it grazed something sticky. Opening one eye, he squinted to see what it was. A condom. A used condom! He sat bolt upright. Three used condoms! Ohmigod! It all came flooding back to him. He’d slept with Shirley. Oh Jesus! Finally he worked up the courage to look across at the lumpy outline in the next bed. She looked like a tiny porcelain doll. She hadn’t behaved like one last night, he reminded himself. More like a Russian gymnast. He’d been unfaithful to Holly. What was he going to do? Then a thought struck Tom, which made him feel marginally better, Maybe last night was just a bit of fun for her. Shirley stirred just then. It looked as if he were about to find out.
“Morning,” Shirley yawned, pulling herself up into a sitting position, making no attempt to cover herself.
She’s beautiful, thought Tom guiltily. Struck dumb, he gawped at Shirley, who was looking at him, but no words came out. Forcing himself to speak, he asked Shirley how she was feeling.
> “Absolutely fantastic.”
Oh Holy Jesus, what had he done?
After breakfast, the troops universally agreed they were in no fit state for another walk. Shirley and Tom clambered into Simon’s Volvo. Gone was the easy camaraderie. Tom was unsure why Shirley was so quiet. Maybe she regretted the previous night too. The journey passed slowly, with Simon fortunately blethering away most of the time, to whichever of them would listen. Neither did, each lost in their own unhappy thoughts.
“Bye, Simon. Thanks,” Tom called, with forced jollity, whilst Shirley looked out her keys. Tom watched her anxiously. What he had done was wrong, very wrong. He’d been totally unfair on Shirley too. He was just lonely. Lonely, with too much on his plate and happy to sleep with the first person who showed him some attention. Disgusted, Tom slipped into the passenger seat. He hadn’t even had time to fasten his seatbelt, when Shirley broke the ice, “So, Tom, do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
Chapter Ten
Maggie – AQUARIUS
Visionary, curious, open-minded, independent and eccentric, creative. Emotionally detached, but friendly and sociable. Often attracted to activism. Less concerned with practical and physical matters, than with intellectual pursuits. Have difficulty with personal relationships.
The clock struck three. The invigilator told them to turn their papers face down, and remain in their seats until all papers had been collected. Maggie had been doodling on the exam sheet. She thought she’d done OK, but who could tell. Politics was meant to be one of the easier subjects. But, she supposed you were actually expected to listen to the news and watch current affairs programmes. She asked herself why she’d opted for Politics. Perhaps it was because she had been fooled into thinking it was an easy choice. Whatever the reason, she wasn’t sure she’d done enough and she certainly didn’t want to repeat. That meant two months worrying about the results and then another two cramming for the re-sit. She should have studied. If she hadn’t spent so long preparing for that last demo.
Since the age of twenty-five Maggie had been involved in demos. The cause didn’t really matter. Anything she believed in was enough for her to be out there brandishing a placard. The last one had been this weekend, entailing a twelve hour round trip to Morayshire, returning exhausted and with not enough energy even to cram. History of Art was tomorrow. She would do better in that. Even as a toddler, she had always doodled, apparently very well. It was no surprise when she was accepted to Glasgow School of Art. Just a pity she’d had to give it all up. Gathering up her rucksack and coat, Maggie strode purposefully towards the exit.
Outside the exam hall, scores of students stood chatting and the smokers who had been prohibited from puffing away for the past three hours, lit up, dragging gratefully on their cigarettes. Maggie joined them, inhaling lustily.
“Hey, Mags, how d’you think it went?” Josh, Maggie’s best friend at university came up behind her.
“OK.”
“OK? I thought it was a nightmare. I really should listen in lectures.”
“Well it usually helps,” Maggie grinned.
“So, how’s the greenfield site campaign coming along?” Josh asked.
“Not bad.”
“Sorry to hear about the badger’s sett,” Josh was sympathetic.
“Yeah, well at least we made ourselves heard. It was even in The Guardian.”
“Really?”
“Yep. And guess who was in the photo?”
“You were not!”
“Yep. I’m just hoping whoever marks my Politics paper doesn’t read The Guardian, or they’re a badger lover and understand why I didn’t study.”
“You must have studied a bit,” Josh was shocked.
“Not recently.”
“You’re brave. I couldn’t do that, badgers or no badgers.”
“Anyway, stuff it. Fancy a drink?” proposed Maggie.
Hidden in the darkness of the student union, Maggie and Josh chattered away about Josh’s goings on at the weekend. They made a funny pair; Josh, the camp gay who adored clubbing and Maggie the rebel, champion against injustice. Josh would entertain Maggie with tales of who he had pulled at the weekend and Maggie would relay to him the minutiae of her campaigns. Next week was the Gay Pride march. Even though Maggie wasn’t gay, she supported other people’s right to be. This was one march where Josh could accompany her.
“Another?” Josh gestured towards the bar.
“Go on then,” Maggie smiled at him.
A couple more Millers down the road and Josh and Maggie were tipsy.
“Do you know if I were straight, I’d want to marry you,” hiccupped Josh.
“I know and you’re the nearest I’d ever get to marrying again.”
“Why?” Josh was curious.
Maggie hesitated, then said, “Why not?”
“Well, because I’m gay.”
“I just don’t see the point.”
“Of what?”
“Of tying yourself down to one person.”
“But isn’t that what all women want? Marriage, a five bedroom detached and two or three sprogs?”
“That’s a seriously sweeping statement! What happened to the new empowered woman? Did Emmeline Pankhurst teach you nothing?”
“Well, don’t you want to get married and have a gaggle of children? I mean, no offence, but you’re not exactly a spring chicken.”
“Thanks,” Maggie said.
“Well, you know what I mean.”
“I can’t,” Maggie mumbled.
“What?” asked Josh.
“I can’t have kids,” she said firmly.
“Really?” Josh was appalled at his lack of sensitivity. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Yes, but before?”
“The subject never came up.”
“Well no, but did you want to have kids?”
“Yes,” Maggie’s voice was almost inaudible, “I did.”
Josh broke the uncomfortable silence which followed, saying “At least you won’t have to fork out for them until they’re eighteen.” It was the only way he knew how to deal with the awkward moment, Maggie realised, but it still made her wince to see her infertility made light of.
“Another beer?” Josh asked.
“No, I’m going to go.”
“No! Come clubbing with me.”
“I’m not really in the mood.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” Josh tailed off.
“I’m sure.”
“Let’s get a taxi then and I can drop you off?”
“No thanks. I’m in the mood for a walk.”
Maggie walked along the river, the quickest way back to her flat. Although a student, she was past flat sharing. She didn’t want to become part of the mortgage paying percentage of the populace, but valued her privacy. Tonight had been a lapse. She didn’t normally discuss serious matters with Josh.
Fighting back tears, she thought back to her twenties and of the times she had tried so desperately to have Michael’s child. Five times she had come close, only for each pregnancy to be snatched away. She even had to deliver her six month foetus stillborn. She had asked to see him. She wanted to hold him. He was beautiful, perfectly formed. He had the most beautiful little mouth and ten little toes, which would never wiggle for her. Then came the final straw. She needed an emergency hysterectomy. Michael held her in his arms as she tried to take in the news. She cried silently inside for months. Eventually the strain proved too much for both of them. They still loved each other, but it was too hard. She couldn’t bear to see him, as she could read the sadness in his eyes. A clean break seemed the only way for them to keep their sanity.
That last night, they had clung to each other. They hadn’t made love. They lay in each other’s embrace, tears wetting their cheeks. If only things had been different. In the past thirteen years, she had spoken to Michael rarely. She hoped he was happy. Maybe he was a father. She really must stop
torturing herself. On reflection, she hoped Michael was a father, as she had loved him intensely and saw how broken he was each time her pregnancy bore no fruit. Shaking her head, as if to rid herself of these unwanted thoughts, Maggie stopped in front of the communal entry door to the flats. The bulb was out. She couldn’t see a blooming thing. Where was the damned keyhole? It didn’t help that her eyes were blurred with tears. She let herself into the tenement and was greeted by its warmth. Trudging up the two flights of stairs, she entered her flat.
Chapter Eleven
“Morning,” Akbar acknowledged Maggie.
“Mmm,” grunted Maggie. Not usually the most communicative, after a heavy session she was even less so.
“What can I get you?” Akbar beamed at her.
Maggie pointed to the poppy seed loaves behind him and said she’d have a root around to see what else she needed.
“Right-o,” Akbar’s sing-song voice rang out. “Let me know if I can help.”
It never ceased to astound Maggie that an Indian had opened a German food store in Glasgow. An Indian delicatessen she could have envisaged, but German? She had once asked Akbar if he had German relatives, to which the reply was negative.
‘So, how come you opened a German store?’ she had dared to ask.
‘Oh well, every other Indian family either has an Indian restaurant or an Indian deli. I wanted to be different.’ Maggie was one of his better customers. She was in here practically every day.
“So, how did your protest go?” Akbar asked.
“Not great,” admitted Maggie
“Does that mean the poor wee badgers are homeless?” Akbar teased.
“Akbar, it’s not funny.”
“No, of course not, but if we worried half as much about people as we do about badgers, the world would be a better place,” he pronounced sagely.
“I do worry about people,” retorted Maggie indignantly.
“Not you. Some of those wildlife lovers treat their own children as if they don’t exist, yet they’ll defend animals to the death.”
“Well, I don’t have to worry about that.”
“You’d make a fine mother,” offered Akbar. “But I suppose you’ll need to find yourself a good man first.”
Sign of the Times Page 7