Icon of Gold

by Teresa Crane

Chapter Nine

  The year started with a cold spell; at the end of the first week and into the beginning of the second Sandlings was snowed in, a not uncommon state of affairs in January along that exposed North Sea coast. To Cathy it was almost a relief; quite happy to be cut off from the world she worked long and absorbing hours, concentrating with single-minded determination on the task in hand and filling what spare time she had in reorganising and redecorating her favourite room in the cottage, the kitchen. She had been planning this project for some time, and had purchased paint and materials months before. It had been her lifelong habit, when disturbed or uncertain, to apply herself to some satisfying physical task or activity. Cleaning and scrubbing, splashing paint on walls and furniture, sewing curtains and cushions served a dual purpose — the first the simple pleasure of seeing the bright transformation of her special room and the second the assurance of a good night’s sleep at the end of an extended and physically tiring day. She tried not to think of Nikos, and for the best part of the time at least was successful. Only occasionally did her defences slip and she found herself remembering those words he had spoken as the year had turned. And even then, at this remove, and in these different and so clearly familiar surroundings the whole business took on something of the air of a dream; he could not, surely, have meant what he had said? It wasn’t possible. firmly she pushed to the back of her mind the memory of his intense gaze, of the misery in his eyes when she had left him at Liverpool Street. He was a child. Her stepson. A lonely young man in a strange country, clinging to the first warmth and kindness he had encountered after the loss of his grandmother. He would by now, she was certain, be regretting his impulsive behaviour. What Nikos needed was a girl of his own age, a fling of the type at which her own son seemed so adept.

  And even as she thought it she was uneasily aware of how much she disliked the idea.

  At first she had half expected a letter, but the days and then the weeks slipped by and none came, reaffirming her own certainty that Nikos had come to his senses and was regretting his passionate but possibly Champagne-induced declaration. She would, she resolved, remain buried in the country for as long as was likely not to draw notice or comment, and then, when a meeting with Nikos was unavoidable — which it undoubtedly would be sooner or later — would simply act as if nothing untoward had passed between them. The poor boy must be suffering agonies of embarrassment. It was up to her, sensibly and with care, to ease the situation for him.

  Thus she reasoned, safely and sanely, during those busy waking moments when despite her resolution she found herself thinking of him. But there were other occasions when, snuggled beneath the huge, soft eiderdown, drifting in the quiet darkness between waking and sleep, her unguarded senses conjured other pictures, other possibilities. And in that hidden core of her that she supposed some would think of as her soul she was forced to face the fact that whatever Nikos’ state of mind her own desires were neither as straightforward nor as irreproachable as she would like to believe.

  Leon spent most of that first month of 1953 in Greece. Obviously whatever business it had been that had taken him from her at Christmas was both ongoing and successful. Cathy received the odd note, the odd postcard, quickly scrawled and, as always, actually divulging very little. The snow cleared and once more the fog crawled in from the sea. The day came, three weeks or so after she had started, when she stood, hands on hips, and surveyed with satisfaction the greens and blues and lemon-yellows of her refurbished kitchen. That night she opened a bottle of wine in celebration, sat by the fire sketching and listening to Mahler on the ancient wind-up gramophone and almost convinced herself that there was no better way to spend an evening.

  In the darkness outside, the sound so familiar that Cathy hardly took account of it, the cold sea continued its endless, attritive assault on the long and vulnerable coastline, the tide creaming and thundering in, reaching with watery fingers greedily to the dunes, to retreat at its appointed time, seething and with its appetite unsated.

  *

  ‘Bad weather on its way I reckon.’ Tom Blowers tranquilly tamped down his pipe, lit it, sucked on it noisily.

  ‘Wind’s gettin’ up a bit.’ Mrs Hamilton was rearranging a shelf of tins. ‘They’ve been havin’ it bad up north. Gales and whatnot. Low pressure everywhere, they said on the shipping forecast. Bad time with the tides high.’

  The old man nodded his head. ‘At least the winds in the southeast. That should keep ’em down, not whip ’em up. We’re safe enough.’

  The door bell jangled. Mrs Hamilton looked round. ‘Afternoon, Sally. Hello, young Jimmy. How are you?’

  The baby on the young woman’s hip gapped a wide, toothless smile.

  ‘Pound of flour, Mrs H., please,’ the girl said. ‘An’ half of best back. Afternoon, Tom.’

  The man nodded, dourly.

  ‘Bit breezy out there.’ The young woman moved to the window, peered out. ‘Hello — there’s the Yank again — Mrs Kosti-what-not’s stepson.’ She leaned closer to the window. The tall figure who had stepped off the Friday afternoon bus turned his coat collar up, pulled the brim of his trilby down against the wind and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Reckon he knows where he’s goin’ this time.’ Nikos had set off up the lane, walking fast. The girl watched him for a moment, a trace of wistfulness in her expression.

  ‘Run out of back I’m afraid,’ Mrs Hamilton said. ‘Streaky do?’

  ‘What?’ the girl turned from the window. ‘Oh - yes — OK — if that’s all you’ve got —’ She felt in her pocket. ‘Me Mum’s given me some sweet coupons for the baby — you got anythin’ in?’

  *

  Cathy was aware of the freshening wind as she sat, board on lap, sketching a collection of delicate, sea—worn shells. The book she was illustrating was a children’s fantasy set in a mythical kingdom beneath the sea; her efforts of the past three or four weeks were now truly bearing fruit – another couple of weeks and she should have a portfolio well worth presenting to her publisher.

  Sandy lifted his head, cocked it sharply, looking at the door. The wind blustered again. The dog growled a little in his throat.

  Cathy did not look up. ‘Don’t be daft, Sands. It’s only the wind.’

  The window rattled a little, and a gust whistled in the chimney.

  Sandy growled again, jumped from his chair and trotted to the door, looking expectant.

  Cathy glanced up, laughed. ‘If you expect me to let you out in that you’ve got another think coming. You get that wind up your tail and I won’t see you for a week, you little tyke —’ She stopped. Over the sound of the wind and of the radio that was playing quietly in the comer, and muffled by the heavy, draught-excluding curtain, she fancied she had heard a rap on the door.

  Sandy yapped, shrill and excited.

  Puzzled, she set her sketches on the sofa beside her and stood up. As she pulled aside the curtain there was another, sharper knock The wind whistled through the ill-fitting door. She opened it.

  The fresh gust that entered with her visitor billowed the curtain and sent papers flying about the room. Nikos slammed the door behind him and leaned on it.

  There was a very long moment of silence.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Cathy asked at last, very quietly.

  Nikos said nothing. He took off his hat, ran his fingers through his flattened hair. He looked wretched, his face was thin and haggard, the Mediterranean-dark skin almost blue with cold, the usually brilliant eyes ringed with tiredness. Right up until the moment he had lifted his knuckles to the door he had not been certain he could follow through his decision to see her.

  ‘I asked a question.’ No trace of the turmoil that the unexpected sight of him had triggered sounded in her voice. She clenched her hands against their trembling, schooled her face.

  Still he did not speak. His eyes, tormented and searching, held hers. With a sudden brusque movement she turned from him, began to pick up the scattered sketches.

/>   ‘Cathy — please?’

  At the sound of the whispered words, at the depth of pleading contained in them her movements stilled and she stood, rigid and silent, her back to him.

  He came to her, standing very close, but not touching her.

  ‘Please!’

  She felt his distress as if it had been a physical pain in her own body. Defeated, she turned, and his arms went about her.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ she said, quietly and desperately, into his shoulder, ‘Nikos, please, don’t cry -’

  The sobs continued to shudder through his body. His arms were clamped painfully tightly about her, his face was buried in her hair. Gently she freed her arms, lifted them about his neck, drew his head down on to her shoulder, her own sudden, help- less tears mingling with his. ‘Darling Nikos, please don’t cry.’

  The sobs subsided a little. Still he caught his breath unevenly, like a desolately weeping child. Her hand lifted to his hair. It was soft, and thick, smooth as silk in her fingers. She lifted her head. At first his lips were gentle, salt-tasting and trembling on hers. Then inexorably, his arms tightened about her and his mouth bore down on hers. In the space between one moment and another she knew she was lost; all her pious excuses, all her efforts to deceive herself in that second she accepted for the sham they were. His mouth still on hers he shrugged the coat from his shoulders and threw it into the corner. Then his arms were about her again, and now she could feel the urgency of his body, an urgency matched by her own. She pulled away from him. ‘Nikos – I’ She might as well have tried to stop the rising wind with her breath. His hands were at the buttons of her shirt, and then her breasts were bare and his mouth was at her nipples. She threw back her head and cried out. His long-fingered hands, that she had watched so often, gripped her waist, clamping her to him; eyes closed he teased her with teeth and tongue. Once more, half-heartedly, she attempted to pull away from him. He lifted his head. ‘No!’ the word, like his face, was fierce. Still holding her to him he straightened, stood breathing heavily, looking down at her. She stood quite still, her shirt open, tears still running down her face. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘Cathy, I love you. You’re the most beautiful, the most perfect woman I’ve ever known —’

  She shook her head, dashed a hand across her eyes.

  ‘Yes.’ Suddenly he was calm. Calm and very sure. Her body was warm, and soft and trembled against his. At last he knew — was utterly certain — that he was not alone in this madness that had taken him. The wind, that had died a little, suddenly gusted against the window again, and as it did so the small lamp in the corner went out abruptly and there was a sudden silence in the room as the radio died, the electricity cut off. He lifted a hand to Cathy’s wet face. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, softly. His eyes were intent. ‘Cathy, I don’t care if it’s right or wrong. I can’t care any more. I only know it’s so. I love you. I have never and will never love anyone the way I love you.’ Very gently he brushed his fingers across the smooth, taut skin of her breast. ‘And you are beautiful. You are perfect. But that isn’t why I love you. I love you because I can’t help it. I love you because you are in my soul and my soul would die without you.’

  She was watching him as if mesmerised, almost unaware of her own nakedness.

  ‘I love you and I want you.‘ He let a small silence linger. ‘And I believe you want me,’ he said, softly.

  She ducked her head, would not reply.

  He took her chin in his hand and lifted it so that she had to look at him. ‘Tell me. Tell me the truth. Do you want me to go?‘

  She stood in a stubborn, desperate silence.

  ‘Answer me, my darling. Do you want me to leave? I will, if that’s what you want. I won’t force you, if that’s what you’re hoping for — ah!’ His fingers tightened on her arms as she made a sudden, furious movement. ‘Don’t be angry. I’m only trying to be honest. To force you to be honest. Tell me. Do you want me to go?’

  She closed her eyes. ‘No.’ It was barely a breath.

  ‘You know what will happen if I stay?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Cathy?’

  Her eyes flew open. Angrily, almost defiantly, ‘Yes,’ she said.

  His hands slid down her arms and took hers. Very gently, his eyes never leaving her face, he drew her to the door which led to the shadowed stairwell. The afternoon was darkening. The wind blustered about the house, a primeval force, isolating and enclosing them. At the foot of the stairs he turned her to face him. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not. How could I be? You’re —’

  He put his hand to her lips, stopping the words. ‘Forget who and what I am. Do you love me?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was anguished.

  ‘Then for now that’s all that matters.’

  ‘It’s wrong!’

  His certainty would not leave him now. ‘How can it be?’ he asked, simply, and drew her with him, up the dark stairs.

  *

  Nikos had not so far abandoned conscience that he could make love to her in his father’s bed. He drew her into Adam’s room. She stood trembling and allowed him gently to undress her.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ he said.

  Cathy shook her head.

  ‘Please.’

  She opened her eyes. She was shivering with cold. Chill draughts whispered through the small room. Nikos moved to the fireplace and set a match to the ready-laid fire. flames licked and flickered, fight as well as warmth. He turned back to face her. Automatically she put up her hands to cover her breasts.

  ‘No,’ he said, quietly. ‘Please — I want to look at you.’

  ‘Nikos!’

  ‘Please,’ he said again, gently stubborn. ‘I told you. I think you’re beautiful.’ He was loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt.

  She was genuinely bewildered. ‘But I’m not!’ she whispered. ‘Can’t you understand; that’s what frightens me. I’m not!’

  ‘To me you are. You always will be. No matter what happens. No matter how old you get —’ he saw her flinch at that, came to her, naked, and took her hands, gripped them firmly. ‘Cathy, don’t! I know how much older you are than I am. There’s nothing we can do to change that; but it doesn’t matter, don’t you see? I like it that you’re older. I love it. And you are beautiful.’ He bent to her, brushed her lips with his. His skin was warm and smooth as silk; she could feel his body’s arousal. She shuddered again, but this time not from the cold. When he laid her upon the bed it was her mouth that became suddenly urgent, her hands that clung, pulling him to her, trying to cover her own body with his. Laughing softly he resisted her, forcibly unclasping her hands from about his neck and stretching her arms wide upon the bed. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, very quietly, ‘I’ve waited too long for this. Lie still, woman —’ His mouth was on her breasts, his hand smoothing her belly, slipping to the cleft between her legs, that had already flooded, awaiting him. ‘Don’t think. Feel. Let me love you. Let me show you how beautiful you really are.’

  Tenderly and fiercely he loved her, all the pent-up needs and emotions of the past few weeks expressing themselves through his fingertips, his tongue, and at last, all restraint abandoned, through the sudden, savage thrusting of his body in hers. As the warmth of him erupted in her, convulsing him, he cried out and clung to her. Like a flower in sunshine she opened to him. His body still and heavy upon hers she tasted the salt on his cheek. In gentle silence she held him; and as the wind howled like a banshee about the house and the firelight flickered upon the ceiling, they slept.

  Waking, Cathy had absolutely no idea how long they had lain there. It was full dark, and the fire was low. The room was cold. Nikos had curled himself up beside her, his head on her shoulder. As she moved a little he stirred, immediately aware of her even in his sleep. In the faint light from the fire she studied his face. Relaxed and calm, the sweep of his lashes shadowing the high, smooth cheekbones, she thought she had never seen anything so beautiful; she ached with love for him. A
s she watched, the eyelashes fluttered and lifted. He smiled. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  He put up a hand to touch her cheek; she took it in her own and kissed it.

  ‘You’re cold,’ he said, softly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll make up the fire.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Neither of them moved.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  ‘And I you.’

  He smiled.

  She kissed him, butterfly-light, on his mouth, his chin, his closed eyelids. ‘Fire,’ she said.

  She watched as, lissome and naked, he rolled from the bed and crossed the room, bending to the fire. The grace of the movement all but stopped her breath. As he shovelled coal on the glowing embers a sudden billow of smoke blew into the room. He leaned back from it. ‘Hey, what’s that about?’

  ‘Wind’s veering about a bit I expect. It always makes the chimney smoke.’ Cathy was still watching him. She held out a hand. ‘Come back to —’ She stopped. Sat bolt upright. ‘Oh, shit!’ she said, quietly, her face screwed up in exasperation, and then again, explosively, ‘Oh shit!’ She buried her curly head in her hands for a moment, then, scrambling from the bed, reached for her clothes and started to throw them on. ‘What’s the time?’

  He was watching her in astonishment. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Bert.’ She struggled her arms into her shirt, ‘Oh, blast it, I can’t see what I’m doing —’

  ‘Bert?’ His voice was incredulous. ‘Oh, come on —’

  She stopped her hasty dressing, came to him and flung her arms about his neck, kissing him. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you.’ She smiled a little, touching his lips with a finger. ‘I didn’t get much chance if you think about it. Bert’s very unwell. I think it’s flu. I’ve been looking after him. And now — oh, blast it — when did the electricity go off?’

  He looked at his watch in the glow of the fire. ‘A couple of hours ago I guess.’