Past Present

by Secret Narrative

  Orange, mandarin, I wonder if it clashes with my Chanel red lips and nails, but decide it doesn’t matter, certain shades of orange, like terracotta, are tonal, more subtle than red. Sienna, baked clay, emits earthy, soothing warmth, and I wonder whether to try a different shade of lipstick. The fruity hue of the loose fitting robe suits my fair colouring and lights my complexion. I imagine an artist whirling his brush in sunshine yellow, dipping the tip into coral, creating whorls on his palette of the colour I now wear. I resolve to investigate the complementary colours sometime, expand my wardrobe to match the seasons. I once read that orange combines the energy of red and the happiness of yellow. The kimonos jostle, each vibrant silk holds its own, and yet hanging together, they fit somehow as if they belong on the same rail, should always be there. I thought that by removing one and putting it on, there would be a vacant space, but the others seem to have moved closer together to make up for the loss. The warm silk embraces my bare skin, I think about Matthew’s task, burning a hole in my handbag, I feel my heat shimmering, rising in a haze as if from melting tarmac on a blistering day. I move my fingers to the source of combustion at my core and work towards a swift conclusion.

  Arriving home, I add the events of the day to my journal. I’m hungry, and I need coffee. In our small, private kitchen, I filter my customary strength five choclately Italian, add a splash of skimmed milk, fetch chocolate biscuits and take the tray into the snug. Deciding to dash off a quick text to Julie, I send the message before settling down to catch up on my research for the Falconworth website.

  White Lady

  Eleanor rarely felt afraid during the nights that Matthew was away. Used to dealing with all kinds of situations for much of her adult life, little fazes her. Orphaned at seventeen by a car accident, she had been poised to join the air force and without family to rely upon, the services had become home and family in one swoop. She had chosen to specialise in nursing on completion of her basic training and had been lucky enough to serve overseas before being stationed in England.

  Eleanor felt at home now that she was settled in the manor house. It was as if Falconworth knew her. As if she belonged. It helped that the site manager and one or two of the other workers stayed on site twenty-four-seven, housed in the cluster of mobile homes and huts temporarily dotted around the grounds. Eleanor had reservations about Eddie, the site manager, nothing she could put her finger on, just something, a feeling outside her periphery.

  Eleanor’s research had taken her far deeper into the manor’s history than she needed for the website, but she was fired with a thirst for knowledge and excited about her discoveries. She had pencilled in the following morning at the local church, to follow up on a lead she’d discovered in the Parish Records. Apparently, Falconworth had been used as a hospital during the 1940s and early 1950s. Eleanor had nursed patients with TB, it had become antibiotic resistant in recent years but usually responded to modern intervention. In the period she’d unearthed, treatment was haphazard and experimental, the mortality rate high.

  One of the former patients fascinated Eleanor, her grave in the small churchyard was well tended, and Eleanor discovered that a relative still lived in the village. Having written a short note, she intended to pop over and drop it in by hand.

  oOo

  The gate of the mid-terrace cottage creaked a little on its hinges. Eleanor turned and hooked it closed behind her and walked up the short path to the front door. Panelled wood shone and bristled with brass furniture, the stone step gleamed. Evidence of a house-proud occupant. Neat borders on either side of the pathway stood barren, awaiting fresh planting. “I’ll bet they look glorious in full bloom,” muttered Eleanor as she lifted the letterbox to deliver the note.

  Suddenly, the door swung open, surprising both Eleanor and the woman who had been about to emerge.

  “Oh, my, you gave me such a fright,” said the woman, clutching at her collar.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Eleanor, “I just wanted to leave this note.”

  “Oh?” The woman had collected herself and stood squarely in the doorway, though her slight figure hardly filled the space. Her dark coat and hat gave her an austerity which in spite of her lack of height was intimidating.

  “I’m Eleanor Grant.” She offered her hand.

  “Oh, yes. You’ll be the new missus up at the house.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “No harm done, I have an appointment, or I’d ask you in for a cup of tea.” The woman pocketed the note. “I’m Nora Joyce, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you. Perhaps we could have that cup of tea another time?” said Eleanor

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  “Are you going to the village? Will you walk with me as far as the manor?” Eleanor smiled again and the women set off back the way she had come.

  “Shall we have that tea tomorrow? Same time?”

  “That would be lovely, yes, Mrs Joyce,” replied Eleanor.

  “Call me Nora. I’ll see you tomorrow, goodbye for now,” said the woman, leaving Eleanor at the gates of the manor.

  That night Eleanor didn’t sleep well. Fitful, she counted the hours and minutes until daybreak. As the days grew ever shorter and the hours of darkness lengthened, lonely nights and Matthew’s absence seemed to stretch in front of her. The pinpoint of his return grew distant. Smaller and smaller until it was so miniscule, she couldn’t make out where the darkness ended. Finally, in the hour before dawn, the realisation that work at Falconworth neared completion and the order of the manor would soon settle into a quieter routine, everything would still to a leisurely pace. Falconworth’s grand opening was scheduled for New Year’s Eve, and Eleanor’s excitement at the thought of Christmas alone at Falconworth with Matthew seeped into her cells.

  Eleanor’s Journal: Eddie

  I’m not sure about Eddie. Now the work is drawing to a close, he seems a little over the top. Oh, I know he has a face which looks as if it is reflected from the bowl of s spoon, which Matthew tells me is down to the fact that Eddie was a celebrated sportsman at his public school. Rugby, boxing and other contact sports will do that to the prettiest of faces, Eddie’s has been rearranged spectacularly. But it’s not that. People’s physicality has never been that significant to me, goodness knows, I’ve seen enough dreadful burn victims to last me a lifetime. No, it’s not his appearance that is sinister, it’s something else. Something that isn’t quite so easy to pinpoint. Everything about him has started to scrape at my bones. I dislike the way he walks, hate the way he talks. He’s like a shadow, a phantom. At times, he seems to appear out of nowhere as if he is somehow intrinsically woven into the fabric of Falconworth.

  Matthew’s Maid

  Matthew sat at the desk writing. Your skin is like a chart, a map, spread out before me. You give yourself so freely, your exuberance and joy in everything is touching. You have embraced our lifestyle and my demands as if you’ve never known anything else and I love you for it. And…

  Matthew looked out of the window and over the city. A mantle of low cloud obscured by taller buildings, and it promised to be a typical November day. He resolved to ask Eleanor if she looked at the house’s history for the seventeenth century, fearing that she may be stuck in the early middle ages.

  In the bathroom, he shaved, took a quick shower and dressed. His breakfast would be delivered in ten minutes. He needed a coffee, at least one. He would conclude his business with the bank today. Needing to move some money around to pay for the final run of expenses, for now. They had set up a business account for day to day running costs. His next meeting with the bank would not be until the grand opening of Falconworth, he would be among the guests at the ball. Matthew’s military bearing gave him stature and a quiet strength, he exuded class and masculinity. Dressed in black jeans and a snow-white linen shirt, cuffs linked with gold, his hands dark against the bright fabric.

  “Room service.�
�

  Matthew opened the door.

  “I’ll take that,” he said, “it looks heavy.”

  “Oh, it’s okay sir, really.” A soft Irish accent arrested his attention, and he insisted on relieving the girl of her burden, and placed it on the table. Fishing in his pocket for a tip, his fingers grazed his cock, which sprang to life as it always did, when presented with an attractive woman or girl. “Thank you,” he said pressing a note into her tiny hand.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  She sparkled, her hazel eyes, soft, like a doe, her shining hair, burnished copper. He could tell she had trouble taming it for work because tendrils escaped entrapment, framing her pale, freckled face.

  “A pleasure,” he smiled. The devastating, shining glint from emerald eyes that had floored Eleanor at their first meeting had a similar impact on the Irish girl.

  Flustered, she made a hasty exit and Matthew allowed the glow of satisfaction to warm him while he poured the coffee and opened his email.

  Darling, Matty, I feel a little like Scheherazade. Not that I have to weave a story every night in order to save my skin and keep you interested in me. But, in carrying out your tasks, it is as if I am creating a new and captivating adventure every day…My experience is my erotic currency; flourishing heroines emerge from my life-story to create their own. Their male counterpart loosely based on a single person reborn. Moneyed, powerful, strong. Fragments of experience survive and are fitted together as if an archaeologist has carefully lifted each piece, clutched in the grasp of tweezers, held in latex gloved hands. Each tiny relic is assembled until it is almost whole again, lines and cracks criss-cross its surface, creating a path to the past.

  Domestic spectacle is valuable, the personal dilemmas of others makes entertainment for the rest of us. It is the currency of shared experience, speaks to our emotions connecting us, intimately.

  I look at the apple tree close to the ground floor window of the room where I now sit. The one that stands just inside the walled garden, its mid-September branches now laden with fruit. Every so often, an apple falls into the neglected flower beds at its base. A few bounce away trunk and roll across the uneven lawn reminding me that we need a gardener and that I could bake a pie. Your Puss.

  Smiling, he conjured up the image of Eleanor wearing a light dusting of flower and little else, emanating the scent of nutmeg, cinnamon and baking apples, and pictured him taking her from behind across the large, oak table in the Falconworth kitchen. Matthew dashed off a quick reply to that effect.

  “Book me a taxi for ten thirty, please,” he instructed into the house phone, before making final notes in preparation for his meeting.

  Death in the Afternoon

  “Did you have a pleasant trip?”

  “Yes, very successful, I’ll tell you all about it shortly. I brought us back a little something, would you like to try it?”

  “It looks intriguing, the perfect colour for Halloween. What is it?”

  “Absinthe.”

  “I’ve heard about it. Isn’t it very strong, I’ve heard that it causes hallucinations.”

  “That’s just myth. It varies in strength depending on where it comes from. But just try it, I brought along everything we need. I’ll show you how to make a perfect Death in the Afternoon.”

  “Oh, Matty. Just like Halloween. Next year I have lots of plans to have themed evenings in October for Halloween and November for Guy Fawkes. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a good idea. Let’s not worry about it now. I want to get quietly smashed with you and do unspeakable things to you when you are too inebriated to do anything about it. My cock’s getting hard just thinking about playing with you. It’s high time I practised my rope skills. It’s been a while, Eleanor. By the way, this is for you, open it.”

  “Oh, you’re so thoughtful. You think of everything don’t you?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it, and it’s such a surprise. The shape of the long box reminds me of a doll’s box. But I didn’t think it would contain one. When I saw the doll, I felt in a flash as I did, when a little girl: but with a difference. The loving, tender thought behind it makes me want to weep for the fact that those childhood days are gone forever: but I feel so happy too. The need to hug and kiss you washes it all away. She’s a Tudor queen, how lovely. Oh, thank you so much, darling.”

  “It’s part of a collection. I thought they’d be perfect for and for Falconworth. You can make a feature of them. She is just the start.”

  “She’s beautiful,” said Eleanor, placing the doll carefully on the chair alongside hers.

  A high table behind the sofa provided the perfect place for Matthew’s cocktails. He mixed the drinks while Eleanor banked up the fire and pulled cushions onto the fireside rug.

  “To us.” He toasted, handing her a glass and touching the rim of his own against it.

  “To us and Falconworth,” said Eleanor, “my goodness, it tastes sensational.”

  “I shall teach you how to mix cocktails using absinthe. We’ll feature them in the bar on specific evenings. It will be fun. We’ll install a traditional fountain and get all the accessories. Obviously we’ll make sure the bar staff are experienced, but I think it will be fun if you learn too.”

  “Hmm,” said Eleanor, snuggling against him.

  “Okay, darling,” Matthew laughed again and squeezed her to him. “I booked something else too. Now that I have you where I want you, I have something to tell you. I’ve hired a waitress.”

  Eleanor straightened, “Oh, Matty, you promised we’d interview the staff together. As a team.”

  “I know, Eleanor and I’m sorry, but hear me out. The girl is Irish. I poached her from the hotel, where she was working as a maid. She’s delightful, the guests will love her. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Did you sleep with her?” Eleanor’s voice soft and steady didn’t betray her.

  “No, I did not.”

  “Yet?”

  “Eleanor, I am the same man as the man you met that night on the base. I never agreed to be faithful, and you know how I feel about sex, you and sex. We came here to Falconworth with specific plans already agreed, don’t let me down now.”

  “Will she live in the staff quarters?”

  “Yes, obviously. Her home is in Eire, she can’t commute.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic, Matthew.”

  “Oh, it’s ‘Matthew’ now is it? I must be in the doghouse.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Andrea.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Stunning.”

  “You seem to have the knack of attracting stunning women, Matthew, what with Simone and now this Andrea.”

  “Yes, aren’t I lucky? That reminds me, I must check with Simone, make sure that everything is on schedule. I’ll call her tomorrow while you’re dealing with Danny and the website. Drink up, I’ll pour us another, don’t pout so. Nobody is perfection, like you, my darling, not another living soul. I have a couple of rope tricks I’d like to try out. Come closer.” Matthew took her empty glass from her and kissed her fiercely before fetching the pitcher for a refill.

  Wicked Games

  The remnants of his dream recede into the long distance and as he wakes, Matthew Fletcher’s cock stirs. Lazily semi-hard, his breath quickens, along with his heartbeat. In the peaceful pre-dawn of Christmas Eve, he slips carefully out of bed, moves quietly to the desk and re-reads Eleanor’s note. Her words dance and tease. Fully aroused, he closes his fist around his erection and begins again…

  My beloved, Matthew, I tied a wide piece of ribbon around my neck, tight enough so that it constricts my throat slightly, the pressure against my skin feels divine, and my heart is thundering, moving the fabric of my silky wraparound dress rhythmically as it beats nestled expectantly behind my ribcage. I intend to give it a run for its money today. I’ll put myself under so much pressure as I climax fo
r you. I want my cream to soak my panties. Did I tell you about my panties? They are deep burgundy in colour, overlaid with black lace and trimmed with black velvet ribbon, not unlike my choker. I’m wearing a matching suspender belt, covered only by a sheer dress just in case anyone I’m not expecting comes to the door. As a further precaution, I have wrapped a sedate scarf around my neck to hide the choker, but I know it’s there, I can feel it, and you know it’s there because I’ve told you.

  My footwear. Long, suede boots that extend over the knee and buckle with two long fierce straps, which I shall ask you to remove later using the straps as a whip to beat me with. Buckle side down. The heels are high, but not too high, I can’t wait to part my legs for you, wide, as wide as I can, my moist channel an open vessel for you, your fingers, cock or tongue, or anything else you see fit to fill me with, I am yours for the taking.

  I shall turn around and bend over the bed, face down into the bedding. I want you to pull the choker tight, and jerk my head back with a force so intense I think you will snap my neck. Reach down to my pussy, feel how wet it is, and dip, dip your fingers, one, then two, try three, before deciding to bugger me hard without further ceremony. Force me down. Force me, and plunge into my rectum with all your strength you can muster and spill your seed into me. Flood me with it. Flood my depths with your essence and brand me with the marks of our passion. Still semi-hard, you turn me, face up on the bed and straddle me, your hands, in place of the choker, you apply pressure, firmly, solidly, and squeeze, just right, just enough to obliterate me for a brief moment, as I look up into you and meet a little death.