“Bloody hell!” He exclaimed in a heightened state of agitation. “I was right, she has buried him in the garden.”
Still reeling from finding the fork and with any number of black thoughts about the demise of poor Mr Henderson bouncing around inside his head, Donald couldn’t stop himself stealing a quick glance back at the rear of the house and although it was only a fleeting glimpse of some shadowy apparition, he was certain that Mrs Henderson must have been watching him… For the second time that morning, he felt like turning tail and not stopping until he’d reached Cardiff and the sanctuary of the medical team, who he’d so recently turned his back on.
Fearing that he might have left the sanctity of the hospital too soon or worse that he might be losing what was left of his mind, he closed his eyes and tried to focus on the real reason that he’d come to stay at the Monroe’s house… Martha.
She had been the angel that had saved him from the bony hands of death and the woman he’d fallen in love with… like an artillery shell exploding in his head, all the malevolent dark images vanished in a trice and like some grand magician’s trick were instantly replaced by the impish image of her grinning face.
It was a sweet smile that she had so innocently wielded time after time with such devastating effect whilst he was in hospital and which he knew would instantly disarm even the most ‘wither’d rigwoodie hag’.
Donald had been surprised to find the gate. It had been hidden from view by an explosion of vegetation and was only revealed as he pushed his way past a small copse of entangled dense shrubs that had run rampant and wild over the years.
But his discovery of the hidden gate, paled into nothing compared to the revelation that the opening in the surrounding high brick wall led directly from the overgrown garden onto the sandy beach that ran from the town down the length of the Firth and formed a natural backdrop to the Monroe’s house. Its course interrupted only occasionally by outcrops of dark granite that ran from the land and jutted out into the water, forming any number of small inlets and where the hard impermeable rock dipped its toes into the water of the Firth. Running almost parallel to the back wall, it was just possible to make out a line of kelp and barnacles that had colonised the outcrops and gave all those who were interested a guide to the high water mark.
As Donald walked out onto the shore, like some latter day explorer, he saw the three seals, bloated by their layers of blubber and stretched out on the stony sand like three obese sun-worshipers, lounging around a pool in some warmer clime.
The sight made him stop in his tracks. There was a moment of familiarity, a moment when Donald thought he’d seen them before but couldn’t think where… unless locked somewhere deep in his subconscious, he’d once met three obese naturists who regularly flaunted their fat bodies whilst sunbathing. Perhaps it had been a sight that had left him with such an indelible memory that no amount of blunt trauma to his head could obliterate it.
Entranced by the sight of the three marine mammals, Donald unwittingly took another clumsy stride across the gravelled surface of the upper shoreline and in that instant, the crunch of leather on the loose stone attracted the attention of the nearest lumbering hulk. The large bull seal menacingly opened its experienced eyes and stared at him with a piercing glare… a look which he knew even Mrs Henderson couldn’t have matched had he set a muddy foot back into her kitchen, just as she’d finished moping the floor.
Feeling duly chastised for breaking the seal’s peaceful morning, Donald carefully retreated backwards towards the garden gate and when his presence was no longer a disturbance to the seals, he turned his back on the sun-worshippers but rather than fight his way back into the garden, he elected to walk along the beach… towards the town.
He’d walked the length of the house’s garden, when the weather-beaten brick wall made a sharp turn to the left and revealed the cobbled slipway that ran between the houses from the beach up to the main street, which bisected the small town and split the local community.
The properties to the south of the High Street and especially those that fronted the Firth and the sea, were the most prestigious and valuable houses. Whilst the rows of small cottages that formed the northern perimeter were reserved for the poorest townspeople. It was here that the fishermen and farm workers could be found together with the pub in which most of them drank… The Fisherman’s Arms.
With a final lingering look back out to sea and a glance along the deserted beach, he turned left and walked along the narrow slipway until he reached the High Street, where glancing left he saw the pillared portico that marked the front door of Dr Monroe’s house.
A door, which Mrs Henderson had resolutely told him never to use. He might be living as a guest at the house but he should look upon himself as nothing more than the gardener and handyman… and that, as she had been all too willing to inform him, had yet to be proved!
Taking a moment longer to gain his bearings and wondering if he dared defy the Monroe’s housekeeper, Donald instead took the cautious approach to his first morning in Cromarty and decided to explore the rest of the small town. The cobbled slipway emerged onto the high street directly opposite the Fisherman’s Arms public house, which in spite of the early hour had already thrown its doors open for the first customers of the day, who after a long arduous night working their nets out in the North Sea were keen to slake their salty thirsts with a few pints of the landlord’s bitter liquid.
Next to the welcoming hostelry, was the town’s general store and on the other side the Post Office. The three establishments didn’t present much of a centre for visitors to explore but that wasn’t their intent. For if the Fisherman’s Arms was the meeting place for burly trawlermen and calloused farm labourers, then the shop and post office were the domains of the town’s womenfolk, where gossip and personal stories were as readily available as stamps, milk and bread.
As he stood and stared at the row of three buildings, Donald’s attention was suddenly taken by the two men who had just emerged into the early morning light from inside the Fisherman’s Arms. Adjusting his eyes from the dim interior, the first man looked up and saw Donald staring aimlessly across the road in their direction. Wary of strangers, especially at such an early hour, the man nudged his friend and pointed at Donald with his glass of ale.
Fearing a confrontation and not wishing to cause offence to anyone in the community before Mrs Henderson had spread the news of his arrival around the shop and post office, Donald bowed his head, turned to his right and walked away from Dr Monroe’s and the only people he had the least memory of. But he’d only gone a few yards when the sound of an argument drew his eyes back up the street to where an old woman, doubled with arthritis and armed with nothing more than a besom brush, was shooing her wayward customers back inside. Donald couldn’t hear why she was angry but doubted it mattered… perhaps he thought Mrs Henderson had a sister.
After less than a hundred yards, the narrow street open onto the town’s small quay and fortress-like harbour. Moored inside and bobbing gently up and down were five tiny fishing smacks, which had just unloaded their night’s haul of fish. Stood in groups on the cobbled dockside, the boat’s crews who hadn’t sneaked away for a desperate pint, were earnestly trying to guess who’d landed the biggest catch and which captain might be buying the first round at the Fisherman’s Arms.
Suddenly and without any warning the good natured banter turned into a more visceral and physical argument. The tone of the men’s voices changed in an instant and became more threatening and loud. Donald, who’d been mesmerized at first by the sight, now froze with fear, as the first punch was thrown and the first man hit the cobbled surface of the dock.
Control of his body, of his limbs was ripped from his conscious self and their administration given over to some sub-conscious part of his brain… a part over which he had absolutely no control.
He didn’t know why his feet felt as if they were embedded in concrete or what it was that was making his bladder bubble lik
e a simmering pan of water, but whatever had caused him to react as he had, he knew that he had no intention of putting himself in a position of danger… not when there was no need for it. So without thinking further about the whys and the wherefores, he turned his back on the developing violent fracas and headed back to the house.
By the time he set foot on the beach, the seals had moved away and their place on the shoreline had been taken by a small flock of seagulls that seemed intent on foraging the beach for anything that might resemble breakfast. Donald stood for a moment and watched the squawking flock fight and jostle for even the most inedible piece of flotsam before he pushed open the garden gate and watched in horror, as the old wooden structure collapsed in a rotten heap onto the path, whilst the gate’s handle still remained firmly clasped in his hand.
“I think that might be one of your first jobs.” The voice said, from the other side of the large Buddleia. Taken by surprise and not wanting to be caught holding the evidence, he quickly put his hands behind his back and tossed the incriminating piece of rust away down the beach.
“You’re up early.” He replied, as he lifted what was left of the gate and propped it against the stone wall. Then like Stanley meeting Dr Livingston, he pushed his way through the shrubbery and foliage until his eyes embraced Martha’s dark sultry looks. “Couldn’t you sleep?” He added with a guilty smile.
“I wanted to introduce you to Mrs Henderson but I seem to have been about an hour too late.” Donald smiled nervously, as the thought of Mr Henderson and the fork flashed into his head once more. “She likes you, I can tell and that doesn’t happen very often.”
“What her liking people or you being able to tell what she’s thinking?” Donald teased sheepishly, as his embarrassment at being caught walking around the garden without an invite suddenly got the better of him and forced a wave of red to blush his face.
“Well, now you ask… both.” Martha replied. “I like to think I know her better than anyone but I wouldn’t have guessed that she’d take to you quite so quickly.”
“It’s my rugged charm that’s won her over.” Donald explained with a false modesty that made Martha chuckle. “You never know, perhaps it will work its magic on you someday?”
“Perhaps…” Her answer was accompanied by a slight blushing of her own cheeks, which she hid in an instant by pushing her way through the bushes and walking through the open gateway onto the beach.
Since her mother’s death, the shoreline had been her retreat… the place she went to for solace and peaceful reflection.
~~~~~
Patrick’s visit was unexpected and one which took Rachel completely by surprise. With the restaurant closed for the day and Henri having taken the opportunity to drive into Penzance to see his accountant and solicitor before doing the rounds, as he always called his visits to his many rural suppliers, Rachel had grabbed the chance of an extra hour or two in bed with two cups of coffee and some early morning television followed by a long soak in a steaming hot bath.
She’d just resurfaced from a second total submersion when the banging on the rear door that led to the yard pulled her back into reality from the Caribbean island retreat and her early morning dip in the warm soothing salt water. She waited a second to check that she’d not been mistaken, then squeezed the water from her hair, threw a towelled turban around her head and jumped out of the bath. The soapy water rushed from her body forming pools across the tiled floor and with little thought about her looks, she grabbed her silk dressing gown, threw it around her shoulders and ran down the stairs to berate the delivery man who had so blatantly forgotten the restaurant’s golden rule… ‘No Deliveries on a Monday!’
Leaving a Hansel and Gretel trail of wet footprints all the way from the bathroom to the rear door, Rachel with her admonishments well and truly ready for the unsuspecting man, unlocked the door and yanked it open.
“Look!” She demanded without even following her own sage advice. “How many times do we have to tell you people, no deliveries?”
The three hundred pound tan coloured Churchill shoes were the first clue that she’d made an error of dramatic proportions, closely followed by the Hugo Boss black trousers, Ralph Lauren primrose, open-necked shirt, topped off with the Gianni Versace silk wool sports jacket. But if she needed any further confirmation that her left foot was wedged securely in her mouth, it came as she locked eyes with Patrick Fitzgerald.
His eyes unlocked their hold on Rachel’s and in one swift silky movement drifted downwards and then back. On their short journey, they briefly halted at the place where Rachel’s dressing gown had slipped open, revealing just the merest glimpse of her left breast, before moving further south to where the wet material had clung to her body leaving little to the imagination and certainly left Patrick in no doubt as to what she’d just been doing before he’d so rudely interrupted her.
As their eyes locked together again, she couldn’t decide whether the smile, which followed was more seductive or lascivious, but whatever his thoughts, Rachel quickly checked out what might have caused such a reaction and was horrified to see even more of her nakedness had been revealed. Hurriedly, and just a little too late to avoid her blushes, she pulled her gown closed and tightened her hands around the remaining v neck of bare flesh.
“Sorry…” She stumbled. “I was just having a soak and taking some ‘me time’. If you’re looking for Henri he’s gone into Penzance for the morning and won’t be back until later this afternoon… I think he said something about suppliers.” As she finished her excuse, she realised too late what it might sound like, especially dressed like she was, and although Patrick was particularly gorgeous, she’d never thought about him in any way other than as a friend and a relatively new friend at that. Feeling more vulnerable after her confession, she retreated further behind the door until only her head was showing.
“Well it doesn’t matter. I came round to see you both really… I was wondering if you would care to come round to the hotel tonight for dinner. Henri said you closed on Mondays, so I… we thought it would be nice to see you when there’s no one for Henri to worry about. So far, each time we have eaten at the restaurant, we seem to have seen less of you each time.” Patrick moved forward slightly and placed his foot on the doorstep, as he leant against the doorframe. If his eyes could have popped out on stalks, Rachel was sure they would have inched their way around the door for another look at her embarrassment.
“That’s very nice of you both… when Henri gets back I’ll ask him. I know he likes to normally keep his solitary day off mostly free, just so he can relax. We’ll call you later, if that’s alright and not too short a notice.” Rachel could feel herself starting to get cold and she’d lost all sensation in her feet owing to the cold tiled floor and the puddle of bathwater, which had formed around her. Before Patrick could reply, she shivered uncontrollably.
“Sorry.” He said, stepping inside the kitchen’s rear entrance. “It was inconsiderate of me to keep you talking like this, when you’re obviously wet and your robe doesn’t look as if it would be much use in keeping out the cold. Tell you what…” Gently he pulled the door away from her and closed it behind himself. “Why don’t you go back and dry yourself off and I’ll put the kettle on and make us both a cup of tea… or would you prefer a coffee?” His well-practised smile inched across his face and without waiting for any acceptance of his offer, he walked across the stainless steel clad kitchen and filled the kettle.
“Go on, get yourself dry. I’d never forgive myself if you caught pneumonia.” He added without looking at Rachel.
In the bedroom she slipped out of the wet silk robe and with a dry towel started to rub herself dry, whilst at the same time trying to bring a little circulation back to her body. Standing naked in front of the long dressing mirror, she realised for the first time how much weight she’d lost over the past few months and although she said it herself, she now cut quite a trim figure. She wrapped the towel around her and pulled the hairdrye
r from the bedside drawer.
As she directed the stream of hot air over her head and hair, her shivers subsided and the natural warmth began to return to her body. With her senses mesmerised by the powerful draft, she closed her eyes to heighten the sensation and then let the towel slip from around her body and wafted the warm air all over skin.
With the noise of the hair dryer drowning out the sound of the landing’s creaking floorboards, she never heard Patrick’s approach and it was only when his soft hands clasped her breasts and gently pulled her backwards that she realised she was not alone. Whether through fear of the unknown or the sexual excitement caused by the skilful massaging of her nipples, the hairdryer tumbled from her grasp, and she felt herself fall backwards.
Her first thought had been of Henri’s sudden return, before she remembered Patrick’s unannounced visit, and as her body brushed against his own naked form, she looked sideways and caught sight of her visitor in the bedroom’s full length mirror.
Before she could utter a word in her own defence or gasp at the horror of the unprovoked intrusion, she felt his naked arms entwined around her like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, and unable to resist, she pressed herself into him.
“I thought that’s what you wanted, that first time I saw you.” He said bending his head down and kissing her neck gently, caressing her skin with his soft lips. His hands, which had run and played all over her body, sought out her nipples once more and with all the dexterity of a young milkmaid squeezed and teased them until they erupted under his expert guidance becoming hard and erect.
“My, you’re almost as hard as I am.” He whispered seductively in her ear.
“Almost.” She replied turning round and locking her mouth onto his. Her tongue found little resistance in its journey, as his hands now sought out what he’d risked everything to find.
Stranger at the Wedding Page 13