J.

by David Brining

  xiij

  VEDA opened her eyes slowly and smiled. Although the light from the afternoon sun was kept out by the closed yellow curtains, the warmth washed over her nakedness. She turned her head and watched the gentle, rhythmic rising and falling of Iestyn's pale chest. The boy lay on his back, mouth slightly open, eyes gently closed, one hand resting on his flat smooth stomach. Veda shifted sideways, supporting her weight on an elbow. Leaning down, she kissed his nose softly and brushed the black hair away from his forehead. His features twitched just for a moment then peace and contentment returned. She traced a circle with a tentative fingertip round the nearer of the two pale nipples and marvelled that the warmth of the sun could be absorbed so effectively by the human skin. She smiled again. Her Virgin Juvenile.

  "You're very young," she had said, "Much younger than me."

  "So?" He had fumbled clumsily with her bra in his hot-breathed excitement.

  "Are you sure you want this?" She held his wrists.

  It sounded absurd. Iestyn was desperate. He buried his face in her breasts. When they had finished, she had kissed his nose.

  "Oh, God," said the boy, "That was fantastic. Forty-two minutes. I never thought I would last so long the first time." Then a frown had creased his forehead. "I was OK, wasn't I?" The anxiety, the sudden tension in the voice saddened her. "Wasn't I?"

  She kissed him again, reassuring. "Yeah. Don't worry. You were fine."

  He relaxed again and tucked his hands behind his head. "So were you."

  "Cheeky brat." She ruffled his hair. "What would your mum say?"

  "Ie-styn Tho-mas." He put on a heavy Welsh accent. "Ie-styn Tho-mas. You dir-ty boy."

  "Would she be angry?"

  "Nah," said Iestyn. "Got to happen sometime. I suppose this could be A Maidenhead Taken. Is male virginity a maidenhead, I wonder?"

  "No idea," grinned Veda, running her fingernail along the boy's spine and feeling him shiver deliciously. "Maybe it's a fountainhead." With her fingertip she gently stroked the maroon and orange JASOn tattooed on his left buttock. No comment was necessary. He had lovely buttocks.

  Iestyn propped himself up on an elbow and glanced at the clock. "Shit. It's nearly five. I've been here hours."

  "Are you hungry?"

  "Yeah." He writhed away from her to the edge of the bed. "I’ve got to go soon."

  "I'll fix you something to eat." She kissed his shoulder. The sun caught the silky sweat-sheen and fine delicate hairs on his skin and bathed them in gold.

  "Can I have a shower? I'm…" He laughed self-consciously, "A little sticky."

  "Sure." She kissed him just behind his ear. "Justin. Just-in-time."

  He draped his arm around Veda's neck and smiled. She kissed his freckled nose. He grinned. "Let's do it again." He pulled her down on top of him.

  Later, as Iestyn's youthful figure gyrated under the hiss and swish of the powerful shower and surging steamclouds misted the mirror, he started to sing the Jackdaw's Song, "Kaark! Kaark!" Veda left her perch on the edge of the bathtub and called through the cawing that she was going to collect up his clothing. Iestyn raised a soap-sudded hand and carried on singing.

  She slipped into her dressing gown and picked up the scattered white socks, the screwed-up burgundy pants (to fit waist 26) and scrunched-up black shorts (Medium) which he had strewn around the bedroom. His sweat-stained T-shirt (M) was crushed up somewhere down the back of the sofa with the lost biros and magazines and his grey trainers (size 6) were separated, one in the kitchen, one on the stairs. The shorts weighed heavy in her hand. On an impulse she dug into the pocket and pulled out

  a crumpled pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum

  a screwed up handkerchief

  a card, folded in half

  and

  a piece from a jigsaw puzzle.

  Somehow she knew before she turned the cardboard shape face up that it would be the missing piece from the Dürer woodcut of St Jerome.

  Jerome, Saint (c. 331- c. 420 AD) translated the Bible into Latin, the so-called Vulgate of Jerome. He was born near Aquileia and studied in Rome, moving to Bethlehem in about 386. The saint's symbol is a lion. According to legend, a lion wandered out of the forest and into the cell, roaring with pain caused by a thorn which had bored into its paw. Jerome drew the thorn forth. The lion responded to this kindness by not eating him. Traditionally regarded as curmudgeonly and reclusive with an acerbic tongue, Jerome is a popular figure in Renaissance Art. He is the Patron Saint of Scholars and Humanists. His feast day is September 30.

  She unfolded the card. It advertised

  The Masque of Apollo and Jacinthus

  by Giles Jankyn,

  In the house of David and John, July 25.

  The shower shut off.

  Hastily she stuffed the objects back into the pockets and piled the shorts with the rest of the clothes then went downstairs to retrieve his T-shirt, butter some bread and brew some tea. Ten minutes later, Iestyn appeared fully dressed in the kitchen, black hair sticking up.

  "Good shower?" she asked.

  "Yeah." He lifted the corner of a sandwich. "Cheese and tomato. Excellent."

  "Help yourself," she said. "There's tea in the pot and fruit cake in the tin. I'll have a shower myself now you've finished."

  The bathroom looked like a bomb-site. Damp towels soaked in pools of spilled water. Steam dripped down the mirror. She didn't care. She threw off her dressing gown and slipped under the shower. When she had finished, dried herself, pulled on her jeans and sweater, blow-dried her hair and returned to the kitchen, Iestyn had gone. The bicycle was gone. The boy was gone. The only trace of him on the blue grey tiles was

  On the coffee table, the jigsaw puzzle of Dürer's Jerome had been completed with the addition of the Saint's face

  Next to it, a note pencilled inside the box-lid read

  Thanks for everything. I brought you a present.

  Love Iestyn

  xxx

  Veda slumped into the still-warm chair, felt suddenly empty, suddenly lonely, and suddenly old.