by Freya North
‘I should have gone!’ she cried.
‘But Jocelyn gave you special dispensation,’ said Chloë gently.
‘Bugger that! I could have pulled myself together and made it. If I can manage Monmouth – which is a good forty minutes – then London really should not pose a problem.’
‘Three and a half hours?’
‘I could have taken breaks. And Valium.’
‘Hyde Park Corner?’
‘I’d have taken the train!’
‘Changing lines? And then Paddington Station?’
‘I’d have hired a driver!’
‘And trusted his driving?’
‘Chloë Cadwallader,’ sighed Gin, placing her hand over Chloë’s, ‘you know me very well.’
‘I tell you, Gin,’ said Chloë kindly, sandwiching Gin’s hand between both of hers, ‘when I first learned I was coming here, that you were a friend but one I had no recollection of, well I was a little concerned. But having been here three months, I can understand why you are loath to leave the farm. You are needed here because you are the very bones of the place. It couldn’t function without you and,’ she broke, hoping it would not sound patronizing as it was meant only as a compliment, ‘I doubt whether you could function without the farm.’
Gin chewed over Chloë’s insight and was not offended in the least. As she contemplated how soundly Chloë thought, and how this quality was indeed Jocelyn’s legacy, she smiled and nodded and mouthed ‘I know’.
‘I would have liked to have been there. To have paid my last respects in a dignified way. To have heard Satchmo. To have become drunk on good Krug. Though I love Jocelyn the more for insisting that I was not there, I still wish that I could have been. Said a proper, fitting farewell.’
‘No one judged you, Gin. Least of all, Jocelyn. She’d have shuddered in her shroud if you had turned up on Valium and with a chauffeur – you’d have quite stolen her show! And say, just say, a hapless reshuffle of very little point had occurred in your absence? Can you imagine the consequences?’
‘Dear girl, you’re quite right of course. So terribly young – and yet furnished with such wisdom! How can that be?’
‘It’s having Jocelyn for a godmother,’ said Chloë. ‘Had,’ she rued. Gin squeezed her hand and winked largely.
‘Chloë,’ she declared, ‘I think it’s Time for a Tipple! To the drawing-room! We’ll have sherry in our socks. We’ll drink to Jocelyn and then play Monopoly.’
SEVENTEEN
With two days to go, Chloë tucked down for an early night. She now has the envelope marked ‘Ireland’ and Mr and Mrs Andrews are looking after it. She remembers how ‘Wales’ was dwarfed by them for weeks, nestling in a corner of the cornfield, but now, with the Andrews superimposed in miniature on to card, they teeter on top of this new envelope; the ‘I’ of ‘Ireland’ being quite as tall as Mr Andrews. Unfortunately, there was no trace of Mitsuko; Gin took a great sniff too but could detect nothing. Chloë has peeped at the contents. Another map, apparently culled from the same road atlas. Another letter, as yet unread.
During a particularly good dream, a loud crack woke Chloë. Initially she thought it part of the dream so she lay quiet and tried to remember what the noise might have been. Satisfied that it was probably the burly woodman in the smock chopping logs (the muscles in his forearms were delightful), she decided to go back to sleep and see if she couldn’t get a little closer to him. Before she made it to the start of the forest, another noise intercepted. She sat up in bed and wondered who or what was playing games with her mind or her sleep. Had she heard something? She’d just have to sit tight and wait awhile. Before long, another noise. It could have been an owl for the uninitiated, but Chloë knew well the call of the local owls. And Chloë knew Carl better.
Thud. Something hit the window. Chloë had neither the wits nor the inclination to suppress her squeal. Without checking her hair, or buttoning her nightdress, she whipped back the curtains and flung open the window. It was pitch-black and starless.
‘Psst!’
‘Hey Chlo!’ He sounded wonderfully throaty in his best whisper. Because he had been gone for shorter than the span of an animal’s memory, none of the farmyard four-leggeds reacted adversely to his voice. Desmond gave a low whicker but he did so frequently during the night anyway. In the kitchen, the dogs and cats cocked ears but once they had detected no stranger they settled back into sleep.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Chloë tried hard to whisper but was unable to prevent the involuntary edges of her voice coming through. She could make him out now, a break in the clouds allowing the new moon to send a soft light down to him. He was breathtaking. Chloë waved. He saluted.
‘Hey Chlo!’
‘Carl!’
‘You want to mate?’
‘What?’
‘Mate!’
‘Pardon?’
‘For-nic-ate!’
‘I’m coming!’
‘Yih? You bet you will be, girl!’
Chloë has no idea what she is doing, what she should be doing and what she most certainly should not be doing.
What should I wear?
Does it matter? Will you be in it for long?
It’s still pretty cold! There! Jumper. Thermal socks. I may as well keep my nightie on.
She shakes slightly as she struggles with a back-to-front jumper that will do for now. She pads across the room as quietly as the boards will let her. Holding her breath, she eases the door to The Rafters and treads the steep staircase as balletically as she knows how. She hovers by the bathroom door, grasps the handle firmly and inches it clockwise.
Please don’t creak, Mr Door.
It’s silent. She thanks it.
Closing the bathroom door to within an inch, Chloë stands still and peels her ears while her eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. Along the corridor, Gin is snoring for Wales and Chloë blows a silent kiss in her approximate direction. Luckily, a large groan from the top stair is accompanied at that moment by a sonorous gruffle from Gin. The rest of the stairs are obliging accomplices and soon she is thrusting her legs into the first pair of gum boots she can find. They are not a pair. The right fits perfectly but the left is twice the size. It really does not matter. From the kitchen, she can hear JR murmur in his sleep. She kisses the front door and it heaves open without a murmur.
Chloë stands still, the silence and chill of the night catches her. She can hear the distant grandfather clock but momentarily she can see nothing. A blink and a deep breath afford her greater vision and she starts to see with her ears and her nose. A faint thread of diesel. A slight scuffle on the cobbles.
‘Carl?’ she whispers.
‘Right here.’
Carl and Chloë collapse into one another, burying faces in each other’s jumpers, stifling giggles while merry snorts keep full-blown laughter at bay. Chloë wriggles against Carl because she is ecstatic and because the March night is so cold. It has just gone two in the morning, Carl’s ferry leaves from Dover in eight hours. He has come from Scotland via Derbyshire and considers Skirrid End a minor detour to the south coast. For Chloë, the detour is major, she is immensely flattered and quite high; adrenalin and pheromones course through her, overriding instantly her calmness during the recent Carl-free weeks. He tells her she smells fantastic, she cannot think of a reply so she kisses him daintily on the nose instead. Something hard presses against her appendix and she allows herself a wry smile into the depths of Carl’s thick jumper. Carl tells her that he has parked in a lay-by a few yards up on the right. Chloë rejoices in his words and her ears buzz with the substitution of ‘ah’ for ‘ar’.
‘Come!’ he says with a lascivious twinkle in his eye. He holds out his hand and Chloë knits her fingers deep into it. They scurry across the cobbles and into the night like schoolchildren playing hookey.
Despite the darkness, Carl’s combie glares out from the lay-by.
‘Heavens,’ exclaims Chloë, still whispering, ‘isn’t
it orange!’ Her inane statement washes over both of them.
‘Yih!’ nods Carl, showing her his newly acquired stickers. From Sherwood Forest to Gretna Green, from the bridge over the sea to Skye to the ferry across the Mersey, Carl has seen it and done it and now he’s back with Chloë en route for France and who knows where.
‘You’ve made it very homey!’ whispers Chloë, taking a good look around the van. Carl plumps cushions proudly and opens a small cupboard to reveal neatly stacked tins of soup and beans and the smallest saucepan Chloë has ever seen. Carl has already flipped the table over into a bed so there is no embarrassment and also no alternative place to sit. They snuggle up and stretch their legs out in front of them, wiggling their socks and performing a synchronized dance of sorts with their feet. They both know what is coming, literally and metaphorically, and yet they wonder how to start. They catch each other’s gaze and smirk and giggle. They nudge each other tenderly.
‘Sgood to see yous!’
‘It’s lovely to see you too, Carl!’
Chloë sighs melodiously. Carl chuckles through his nose.
Come on!
Carl takes Chloë’s hand to his mouth and kisses each knuckle in turn; he keeps his eyes on her while she looks demurely away and, subconsciously, straight to his crotch. She observes, there, a little tremble and then a definite lurch. She looks at him, wide-eyed and impressed. He grins expansively, his tongue tip working against the corner of his mouth. Chloë twitches her nose and raises her eyebrows, she is so excited that she can no longer giggle, let alone speak.
‘Say Chlo,’ says Carl, ‘now I’ve got you here, can I have my wicked way? Hey?’
Chloë nods.
‘Can I give you a good seeing to? Please?’ he asks.
Chloë nods vigorously.
‘Can I make your eyes water and set your pussy on fire?’
Chloë bounces up and down on the bed with enthusiasm.
‘Till you beg for more and holler for mercy?’
Chloë squeals from the back of her throat.
‘Can I take your top off?’
Chloë shakes her head while her eyes dance, and leaps off the bed, regarding Carl slyly, hands on her hips. Pursing her lips into a new smile that is both awkward and elated, she flings away her jumper and casts off her nightie. And so she stands before him, proud and confident, gloriously naked but for her knee-length chunky socks.
‘Shit Chlo,’ drools Carl, ‘what a bod!’
Still Chloë cannot speak so she sidles over to him, smiling all the while. He perches on the end of the bed and she wades in between his legs. He places his hands on her waist and kisses the dip between her breasts which would have been a cleavage had nature been more generous. Carl does not clock any shortcomings, he thinks her nipples the rosiest and prettiest he has ever seen. He traces a line of kisses straight down to her navel into which he flicks his tongue lightly. Chloë’s stomach muscles tense and twitch in delight so Carl does it again and hears her give a little gasp. Her arms have sprung goose-pimples and the downy hairs stand on end. She speaks.
‘I’m f-f-freezing!’
‘You daft cow! And I thought it was all me, the pert nipples and goose-bumps. Pah!’
‘Believe me, you can take all the glory for the former but this drafty old van is the sole cause of the latter!’
‘Do you mind! She has a name – Bertha.’
‘You have given the van both name and gender?’
‘Sure thing – I’m going to be sleeping with her for the next few months after all. Thought it was polite. Thought it was humane.’
‘Er, yes!’ says Chloë, seeing that Carl is utterly serious. She snuggles deep into the quilt and watches Carl strip. He is now down to polka-dot boxer shorts and odd socks; Chloë flings the duvet right over her head, giggling uncontrollably. Carl says not a word. Slowly, she peeks over the top. He pounces on top of the duvet and straddles her while making strange roaring noises and pummelling where he approximates her buttocks to lie. Chloë shrieks and laughs until it is positively painful.
‘Stop! Stop! Please!’
‘Already?’
‘Come in, come in! Quick!’
She holds open a corner of the duvet and he sidles in, affording her a peek of his pubic hair and a glimpse of his socks.
Writhing and snuggling to keep warm, they knock heads and rub noses affectionately. Carl’s hands are everywhere but Chloë is happy for them to go anywhere they like. He rubs her thighs and buttocks because they are cold; he strokes her stomach because he loves the way it twitches beneath his touch; he runs his hand over her knees because she coos when he does so; he walks his fingers right up her inner thigh because it makes her gasp and writhe and this turns him on.
Chloë kisses Carl. All over his face. She licks his neck and chews his ear lobe. Lightly, she brushes the back of her hand over his smooth chest, her fingers tripping over his pronounced stomach muscles. She weaves her fingers through a gentle fuzz of stomach hair and lets her hand travel lower.
Oh! Crikey! Heavens!
Well, what did you expect down there?
She traces the shape of his cock gingerly at first, but hearing his breathing quicken instils confidence in her hands so she explores further with a firmer touch.
‘Shit Chlo!’
Chloë says nothing. She is lying across his chest listening to his heart and her own thoughts. Carl has a foreskin while Brett was circumcised but, though new, it seems to aid her manipulation and Carl is obviously enjoying it.
‘Give us a suck, girl!’
Chloë whips her hand away and stares at him squarely. He looks glazed, his lips are parted and she can feel his breath on her face.
‘Excuse me,’ she. cries, ‘but ladies first, if you please!’
This delights Carl who scurries down between her legs and licks at her thighs like an excited puppy. Chloë wriggles and giggles and clamps her legs around his neck. He makes a strange noise in his throat which turns into a laugh when she releases the pressure slightly.
‘Here, puss puss,’ he muffles from the depths, making little kissing noises and tickling the very tip of Chloë’s pubis, ‘come here, you sweet little pussy!’ Chloë laughs uncontrollably and her thighs clamp together.
‘Come come, my cute little furry pussy wussy.’ The more Carl tickles and twitters, the tighter the grasp of her thighs. He smacks Chloë lightly on the stomach and lies heavily on top of her.
‘Come on girl,’ he groans, batting doleful eyes at her, ‘show us your snatch!’
For Chloë, this is cunnilingus really for the first time – Brett’s occasional half-hearted dry dabs most certainly do not count. With her eyes closed, she rocks herself slowly against Carl’s mouth, gyrating slightly so that his tongue meets the precise point intended. He has one hand grasping her thigh tight, the other is dancing over her left nipple like a feather. Her mouth is dry but she is vocal none the less and gasps and moans spontaneously. She moves faster but Carl’s tongue has the edge and moves into and away from where he knows she wants him, before she can hump her pelvis towards him. Carl knows she is close to orgasm but Chloë is living only for the moment. It feels so idyllic, whatever could better it?
She yells. She bucks her body up from the bed and yells some more. Her body momentarily loses all its structure before it is racked into spasm once more. She sits bolt upright, clonking Carl on the chin. Her eyes roll, her mouth is agape. She can feel the blood pumping. Her heart seems to be beating right there in the centre of her sex.
‘Oh – my – God!’ she chants hoarsely, ‘what on earth! Heavens God Jesus! What the bloody hell!’
Carl grins.
‘That, Chlo, was your orgasm! And by the way,’ he says, pinching her nipple and winking at her, ‘it was all my own doing – nothing to do with those guys from the Bible!’
It does not bother Chloë to share with Carl that it was indeed her first orgasm. She tries to express the feeling but gets only as far as ‘It’s like, it’
s like’ before Carl plugs her mouth with a deep kiss. The fact that it was her first orgasm, and he was, undoubtedly, the perpetrator, excites him. He has sustained his erection for a good half-hour and quite rightly feels it is his turn.
‘Wannanather?’ he asks, making a fan of a selection of condoms for Chloë to choose from.
‘Hey?’ says a woozy Chloë, fingering the packets and pressing her buttocks against Carl’s cock. ‘Come again?’
‘Ah! You do!’ He smiles as she points to luxury lightweight rippled. ‘Well then, hold on for the ride of your life, girl!’
It had been months since Chloë last had sex but her new-found orgasmic facility left her well lubricated and Carl slipped inside her with ease and an ecstatic gasp apiece. It had been quite some time for him too, not since that au pair at his cousin’s house in the Bay of Islands. Or was it that student with the tattoo? Whichever, both were pretty nondescript. For sure, neither had fired his hunger in the way Chloë had. And the fact that he was so firing hers made his appetite all the more acute. Keeping the rhythm slow at first, he continued to explore her body with his mouth and hands. As he twisted and humped to reach all parts of her, Chloë slipped her hands into the spaces he made between their bodies so she could feel, touch and hold both him and herself. And yet she felt it deep within her when she traced his lovely broad shoulders, her breasts quivered as she slipped her hands over the smooth mound of his buttocks, her sex tightened as she reached for his balls. He gasped as she held her breath. He tasted her neck as she smelled his forehead. It was the first time for her that sex had been an act to share, that the pleasure increased with the give and take, that her enjoyment was as important to him as his own. The purpose of it all was not the release of sperm into a handy vessel, but the cerebral and physical happiness that two bodies could create. The communication.
Chloë smiled throughout. And when Carl took his face from her neck, or away from her breasts or the depths of her delicious-smelling armpits, he grinned back at her. Laughter followed naturally. The squelching and slipperiness. The threat of cramp. Sometimes, though, they paused for silence just to appreciate fully the bliss of it all.