by Iain Banks
So I just sat there, across from her, looking into her soft-skinned face all glowing in the candle-light, that long, thin nose rising straight above her small, smiling red mouth as if together they made an exclamation mark, and I felt lost in the grey sparkle of those eyes.
We walked out into the cool March night. It was fair but it had been wet and the pavements shone. Ashley stood on the steps as I put on the old tweed coat that had been my dad's. She wore a black dress and the old naval jacket with the turned-over cuffs I remembered from Grandma Margot's funeral. She leant against some railings, watching me button my coat up, and with her left foot she clicked her toe and heel as if in accompaniment to some song I couldn't hear.
I looked down at her tapping black shoe as I adjusted my collar.
"Morse code?"
She shook her head, long fawn hair spilling over her dark shoulders.
We went arm in arm down the steps. "What was that film that had a dancer tapping out insults at somebody?" I said.
"Dunno," Ash said, click-clicking her feet as we walked.
"Was it Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid?" I scratched my head. I wasn't wearing gloves and I could feel Ashley's warmth through her jacket. She smelled of Samsara, which was a departure for her, I thought.
"Maybe," she said, and then she laughed.
"What?"
"I was just remembering," she said, squeezing my waist. "Mrs Phimister's class. Remember? The French teacher? We were in the same class."
"Oh yeah," I said. We turned onto Woodlands Road.
"You hated her because she'd confiscated a radio or something, and you used to tap out insults in morse code." Ash laughed loud.
"God, yeah," I said. "That's right."
"'Fuck off you old cow', was the witticism I recall best," Ash said, still snorting with laughter.
"Jeez," I said, pulling away from her a little to look into her eyes. "You mean you could decipher it?"
"Yeah," Ash said, with a sort of friendly scorn. "You rotter!" I laughed. "You absolute cad-ess. You cad-ette; I thought that was my secret. I only told people later, after I'd left school, and then nobody believed me."
"Yeah," Ash said, grinning at me. "I knew. A couple of times I almost got detention because I was giggling so much. Nearly wet my knickers trying not to laugh. Got some very stern looks from Mrs Phimister." She laughed again, throwing her head back.
"I didn't even know you knew morse code," I said. "I learned it in the scouts. Where did you learn it?"
"My grandad taught me," Ash said, nodding. "We used to sit and pass messages at meal times by clinking our cutlery off the plates. Mum and dad and the others always wondered what we found so hilarious about yet another helping of shepherd's pie and chips."
"And you never said!" I shook my head. "You rascal!"
She shrugged, looked down at her black, medium-high heels as she did a little tap-dance. "You didn't like me; what was the point?"
"I didn't like any girls," I told her. "In fact I wasn't that keen on any of the boys either. Come to think of it, I felt mostly contempt even for my friends."
"Yeah," Ash said, leaning over towards me so that her grinning face was almost on my chest. "But you didn't break their noses with a boulder disguised as a snowball, did you?"
I stopped in my tracks.
Ash gave a little squeal as she staggered, suddenly losing support on one side. She steadied and turned. She faced me, looking puzzled, from a metre or so away. I just stood there open-mouthed.
"You knew that was me?"
"Course I did." She frowned and smiled at the same time.
"Another secret gone!" I exclaimed, waving my arms. "I've felt guilty about that for years!"
Ash tipped her head to one side.
"Well, not all the time," I said. "I mean, on and off."
She raised one eyebrow.
"Okay," I said, slumping a little. "Mostly off. But I did feel bad about it. I really did. I always felt bad about that."
Ashley shook her head gently and came forward, took my arm and led me along the street. "Never mind," she said. "I never told anybody. And I forgave you."
"Really?" I said, putting my arm round her again, "When?"
"At the time. Well, after it stopped hurting, anyway." We turned the corner into Woodlands Gate. I shook my head. "Why didn't you ever say you knew it had been me?" I asked her.
She shrugged. "The subject never really arose before."
I shook my head again. "Good grief," I said. "All this time. Good grief."
* * *
Ashley had been ravenous when she'd arrived at the house in Park Terrace a little after seven that Sunday evening, so she'd just dumped her bags and we'd gone straight out to the restaurant. When we got back after the meal, I showed her round the place. We opened a bottle of Graves I had in the kitchen — after first agreeing that of course we shouldn't — and then walked from room to room while I did my guided tour bit and pointed out the more interesting or valuable works of art, while we sipped our wine and the statues gleamed and the chandeliers glittered and the paintings glowed and the carpets spread before us like gigantic blow-ups of oddly symmetrical printed circuits.
Ashley shook her head a lot. When she saw the main bedroom she laughed.
We went back to the kitchen. She demurred when I offered to top her glass up. "I should go to bed now," she said, pulling a hand through her hair. She put her glass down on an oak working surface. " Take some water in a big glass and get to me bed… " she said. "Do you mind?" She looked at me.
I shrugged. "No, of course not. There's glasses in the bathroom, beside your room." A terrible sadness settled on me then, and I had to swallow hard a couple of times. I drank, to hide it, then said, as matter-of-factly as I could, "What time do you want up tomorrow?"
"About seven should do."
"Right," I said, looking at my glass. "Right. Seven. I'll bring you tea and toast, all right?"
"Fine."
"Okay then," I said.
I looked up and she was smiling. She looked at her watch. "Well," she said, and flexed her brows. "Night-night."
She came forward, put one hand on my shoulder, kissed my cheek.
I put my hand on her hip, let my head nuzzle towards hers a little. She put her arm round my waist and I turned to her, hugged her, my lips at her neck, kissing delicately. She pushed her head against mine, and we started to turn to each other at the same moment, as she put her arms round me; the kiss just seemed natural after that.
It went on for some time. Ashley seemed to loosen and grow more tense at the same time; her mouth appeared to want to swallow mine, her hands grabbed my curls, nails scratching at my scalp. I pulled on her hair, kissed and licked her neck. She dug her nails into the small of my back through my shirt. We kissed again and I kneaded her backside, then pulled the dress up while she wriggled a little to make it easier, and I found skin, stockings, her knickers, and pushed my hands inside, gripping her smooth, warm bum. She pulled herself up against me.
This," she said, breaking off, breathing hard, while her hands stroked the nape of my neck and her gaze flicked from my mouth to my eyes and back again, "this might be better suited to that ridiculous bedroom, what do you think?"
I nodded. "Good idea."
"Bring the wine."
"Better yet."
* * *
It was something. On that monumentally ostentatious bed of the late Mrs Ippot's, Ashley and I made love like we'd done it for years and then been apart for years and just met up and hadn't forgotten a thing.
A couple of times, lying there panting afterwards while we trickled with sweat and licked at each other, or were stroking and caressing and thinking about starting all over again, she laughed.
"The room?" I said, first time.
"No," she said, shaking her gorgeous head, all tawny hair and flushed face. "It's just you and me; I never thought this was going to happen."
And, later, when she cried out, I heard the crystal bowl on th
e table by the side of the bed ring, pure and faint, as if in reply.
* * *
It was later still, when we'd put the lights out and had agreed just to cuddle, exhausted and drained, but had not been able to merely cuddle, and so had coupled once more, and I still lay on top of her, inside her, while she breathed and I breathed and our hearts gradually slowed down again, that I did what I'd done before in that situation, flexing whatever muscle it is in the male genitals or the associated support systems that briefly fills the slowly detumescing penis with blood again, sending a small pulse of socketed touch into Ashley's body. She gave a little exhalation half-way between a sigh and a laugh, and then squeezed back with her vaginal muscles, like a hand round me.
There was a pause, and I thought I felt her go very still for a second, and then she squeezed me again; two quick grippings in succession. There was a pause, and I responded, but she dug her fingers into the small of my back as though to stop me, and so I relaxed.
She squeezed again, four times, the second pulse longer than the other three. Another pause, during which I realised — it was morse! Then another four pulses, the second one short and the others long.
I.L.Y.
I had raised my head away from her shoulder while I concentrated on what she was doing in there; now I lowered my face to her skin again. I laughed, very lightly, and after a moment so did she, and then I sent the same signal back, with a single long pulse at the end: I.L.Y.T.
And I swear the sending made the signal all the truer.
And that falling was followed by two more shared fallings, as we fell apart, and then asleep.
* * *
I woke and she was dressed, standing by the bed, a beatific smile across her face, which was washed and glowing and framed by neatly combed hair. I struggled to get up on one elbow.
"Ash?"
She put one hand to the back of my head and kissed my lips. "I have to go," she said.
"What? But — you mean to Canada!"
"Prentice, I promised. I have to."
I felt my jaw drop. I rolled onto my back for a second, then sat bolt upright. "But last night!" I said, spreading my arms wide.
Ashley smiled even more broadly and climbed half onto the bed, one black-stockinged knee on the crumpled sheets. She kissed me. "Was wonderful," she said, "but I have to go."
"You can't!" I slapped myself on the forehead with one palm. "This can't be happening! It's a dream! Stay!" I reached out to her, held her face between my hands. "Ashley! Please! Stay!"
"I can't, Prentice. I said I'd go. I promised."
"I'm serious!" I said. "I don't —»
She put one soft hand gently to my mouth, shushing me, then kissed me long and tenderly. "I'm going, Prentice," she said, "but it doesn't have to be for ever."
"Well, how long?" I wailed.
She shrugged, stroked my shoulders with her hands. "You get this degree, okay? If you still want me then, well…»
"Promise?" I said, in what was meant to be a terminally sarcastic manner, but came out pathetically. She smiled. "I promise."
"Oh my God!" I said, looking at the clock by the crystal bowl. "I don't believe this!" Maybe, if I could just stall her…
"There's a taxi waiting," she told me. "It's all right." She smoothed some hair away from my eyes, her touch like silk. "But I was going to drive —»
"You rest," she said. "You probably had too much wine last night, anyway. The taxi really is waiting." She slipped her hand under the covers, held my penis as she kissed me, then slipped away as I fell forward, trying to embrace her, hold her, keep her.
"Ashley!" I said desperately. She was at the door.
"Yes?" she said.
"I didn't dream that… signal last night, did I?"
She laughed. "Nope. Meant every letter; every word. With all my heart." One brow flicked. "Amongst other organs." She tipped her head to one side, eyebrows raised. "And you?"
"The same," I gulped.
She looked down at the floor, then back at me, still smiling.
"Good. Well, we can take it from there, okay?"
"I'll write every day!" I told her. "Don't be ridiculous," she laughed, with one shake of her head. "Just pass those exams."
"They'll be over by mid-June," I said, more to keep her there in my sight for a few seconds longer that for any other reason.
"Then I'll be back in mid-June," she said.
She pulled her black gloves from her jacket pockets and put them on. "Bye, Prentice." She blew me a kiss.
"Bye," I gulped. She closed the door. I flopped back, stunned, staring at the glittering red chandelier.
I jumped out of bed as the front door banged closed; I tore downstairs bollock-naked and waved to her from one of the drawing room windows, which went from about human knee level to giraffe's head level.
She saw me; I could see her laughing. She pushed the window down and waved, and pointed to my groin and made a shocked expression as the cab started away. The driver saw me too and looked amused and shook his head. The cab drove off around the curbed terrace. I opened the window and leaned out, waving, and Ashley pushed the cab's window right down and stuck her head and arms out and blew me kisses through her wildly waving, slip-streamed hair all the way until the cab rounded the corner and disappeared.
* * *
I sat down on the parquet, staring at the white gauziness of the huge net curtains, all my muscles complaining, my head pounding, my penis tingling, my flesh goose-pimpling against the cool wood of the floor. I shook my head. I collapsed back, banging my already internally abused head on a Persian rug. The carpet's pile was luxuriously deep however, so it didn't hurt as much as it might.
I looked up at the ornately carved wooden ceiling, not entirely sure what to think. Then I started to laugh, lying there in the enormous room, naked, tummy wobbling, laughing like an idiot and hoping the resemblance ended there.
"Oh well," I said, laughing, to the ceiling. "Here's hoping."
* * *
"Good; you're getting sensible," mum said. She walked carefully towards me, the big blue sheet folding and drooping between us. She took the sheet's other two corners from me.
"Getting?" I said indignantly.
Mum smiled, folded the sheet over twice more and put it on top of the tumble drier. I pulled another sheet down off the old clothes pulley that hung under the ceiling of the utility room. We took an end each, stood apart, pulled the sheet taut.
"Mm-hmm," she said, tugging at the sheet again. "I think selling the Bentley is very sensible." She folded the sheet over, hand to hand; I did the same. We pulled it taut again. Mum looked thoughtful. "Maybe we should sell that ancient thing sitting in the garage out there, as well."
"The Lagonda?" I said. We folded the sheet over again.
"Yes," mum said, walking towards me again. "It's just a waste of space at the moment."
"You mean you weren't thinking of going in for classic car restoration after you've finished the harpischord?"
Mum smiled as she took the sheet from me. "Well, actually that had occurred to me, but… " She wrinkled her nose. "No; I don't think so."
"Well, we won't get much for it in the state it's in at the moment." I pulled another sheet down.
"I'm not bothered about the money," mum said. She folded the sheet away, shot me a mischievous look. "And besides, whose fault is it the car's in the state it is, anyway?"
"What?" I said. I stood looking at her.
Mum took the sheet from me and put two of its corners in my hands as she backed off, pulling it tight. She smiled. "It was you who tipped the big dresser down onto it in the garage that time, wasn't it?"
She pulled the sheet; it flew out of my fingers, billowing over the floor of the room like some slow motion wave. I ran after it, catching it. I retrieved the corners, untwisted the sheet and studied the amused expression on my mother's face. She tugged the sheet again and I held onto it this time.
I'm ashamed to admit that it even occurred
to me to deny it, albeit briefly. I grinned sheepishly as we folded the sheet over. "Yeah, guilty as charged, but it was an accident." I shook my head. "How did you work that out?"
She walked towards me, took the sheet from me. "Found a bit of broken glass in your underpants when I was washing them," she said, and gave a tiny laugh as she turned away to place the sheet on the drier.
I looked up at the ceiling. "Oh dear," I said.
Mum turned round, standing there in her jeans and blouse, glowing with what might well have been self-satisfaction. She reached up and pulled a last sheet down off the pulley, handing one end to me. "Yes. Well, we'll draw a discreet veil over that little incident, shall we?"
I nodded, pursed my lips. "Might be best," I agreed. I coughed, pulled the sheet taut with her, and with a textbook expression of interested interrogation, asked, "And how is the harpsichord-construction project going, anyway?"
"Well —»
* * *