AT THE EDGE OF A LONG LONE LAND

Photo by Paul Arky on Unsplash

The night was crisp and clear, with a full moon hanging low over a calm sea and lighting the hills around me with a soft glow. The dew-laden grass looked to be sparkling with gems. There were a thousand stars hanging low on the horizon, the Milky Way spilling across the sky as if it were a trail of soft, glistening tears. I pushed Da’s bicycle up to the top of the hill, looking back briefly to make sure I hadn’t woken Mum, all the while thinking that she’d be laying in bed, listening for me. When I crested the hill I paused, looking out over the wide Celtic Sea and wondering at the silence and the serenity of it—the very stillness of everything about me—before making my way to Felicity’s house where I could see the soft blush of lights glowing in the distance.

As I made my way up the trail leading to the house, I heard the piano in the distance. I’d yet to hear her play, and paused long enough to listen as the thundering notes gave way to a soft, melancholy whisper. I marvelled at the delicacy of her touch. There was raw emotion in the music she played—nothing less can describe it—and it clawed its way through the hills and surrounded me, wrapping itself around me; comforting me.

I stowed the bicycle in behind the house, hiding it in the darkness and making my way to the front door where I took my boots off before entering. The room was lit by the light of two dozen candles melting in their own little saucers on top of the piano; two of the kerosene lamps beside the sofa were burning low.

She sat at the piano wearing a delicate silken shift she’d left untied, her soft skin a pale reflection glowing in the light of the candles and radiating with her every movement. She’d washed her hair and I watched it shimmer down the length of her back, the tiny droplets of water dancing like stars as I slipped behind her and cupped my hands around her breasts. She gasped as the coldness of my hands, and leaned back against me as I buried my face into the soft nape of her neck. I could see her smile as she turned her lips up to meet my kiss.

“That’s beautiful,” I said, sitting down on the piano bench beside her. “What is it?”

“Grieg. ‘Wedding Day at Troldhaugen’,” she smiled.

“Where?”

She smiled again. “Troldhaugen.”

“I didn’t think ye actually played this thing,” I said.

“I told you the first day you were here, that I played.”

“I must’ve forgotten.”

“Indeed.”

We made love by the light of the two dozen candles burning and sputtering in their little saucers on top of the piano. I lay on the floor looking up at her in the soft light, her long hair a waterfall of twists and curls hanging in front of her face and cascading across my chest. I held her breasts as she straddled me, sitting up tall and lifting her hair in her hands to let it fall as she arched her back, moaning softly that she wanted more, needed more, and then just as suddenly, crying out and falling on top of me.

After, we lay in each other’s arms staring up at the ceiling. I could hear the sea as it crashed into the rocks below and knew the tide had come in; I’d have to leave soon. I could sense the coming dawn as the white linen curtains stirred in the gentle air of a half-open window.

“Are ye really leaving for London?” I asked at last.

“Yes.”

“What’ll ye do there?”

“I’ll live with my sister.”

“An live yer life as a war widow? What’ll ye do?”

“I’ll start my life anew.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No one need ever know what truly happened with Robert. I suppose there’ll always be men about—men like your father, and Charlie—men who witnessed his execution—but they’ll never know me, and I’ll never know them, so it won’t really matter, will it? I doubt they’ll come searching for me to let me know his dying declaration.”

“His undying love, you mean?”

“Is that what you think it was?”

“What else could it be?”

“Because you know what it means to be in love?”

“Yes.”

“Oh Jackie,” she said with a laugh. “You have no idea of what love is. You served a purpose for me, just as much as I served a purpose for you.”

“Served a purpose? What purpose?” I asked, sitting up on my elbow and looking down at her.

“Why, Darling,” she said, turning her head and looking up at me with a sad, mournful smile. It was the sort of smile one uses so as not to hurt someone’s feelings—the kind of smile that breaks your heart and leaves you breathless.

“I needed someone to make love to me—not someone to fall in love with me. There’s a difference. I needed to be touched and held—it’s something every woman needs…the warmth, and the passion…the raw passion I never had with Robert. I was lucky because you were able to fill that need.”

I looked at her, speechless.

“I need a child, Jack. An heir.”

“I don’t understand.”
“With Robert…” She laughed lightly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have started it like that? I know I should have never married him in the first place; I knew that after the third day.”

“Ye were married for three days and knew it was wrong? And yet, ye were willing to spend the rest of yer life with him?”

“Yes,” she said, and the word seemed to trail off into the waning night. “Robert was fourteen years older than me. I was twenty-three when we married. I was a weekend in Paris, at best—a week at most—looking at it in hindsight. His is a titled family, and they never accepted me from the moment they met me; not as I am. But Robert was the second son, and we both knew there’d be no titled inheritance for him—until his brother died in France on the first day of the war.”

“And then Robert died?”

“And then Robert died childless.”

“So the title dies with him?”

“It would have, had I not taken things into my own hands.”

“And how did you do that?”

She smiled, and the light of the candles reflected in her eyes as she leaned over and kissed me. She looked out at the breaking dawn and sighed.

“Your dear mother will be waiting at the door for you if you don’t go soon.”

Mum was in the kitchen, preparing dough and pasties when I walked in the back door. She looked up at me and I saw her shoulders sag, as if she were a puppet and someone had cut one of her strings. The air was a thick fog of flour that caught the morning light slanting in through the window over the sink as she pounded the dough with her fists. I pulled a chair out from under the small table and looked up at her with tears in my eyes.

“She’s gone and told ye then, has she?” Mum said, pausing long enough to wipe her hands as I nodded, unable to speak.

“You knew, didn’t you? All along?”

“Knew? I said, if she wanted to have a baby, she’d do no better than yerself—at least not here. ”

“What?”

“I thought it was for the best.”

“Ye thought what was for the best?” I asked, confused.

She came around the large butcher’s block and sat in the chair in front me. She picked up my hands and kissed them softly, then put her a hand around my neck, pulling me toward her as she touched her forehead against mine, as if she knew it might somehow soften my aching heart.

“I knew it was taking a chance, Jack,” she said in a near whisper. “An’ I was fearful of yer falling in love with her, and that ye have—hard—but I was more fearful of ye running off to enlist with yer friends.”

“Enlist?”

“She needed a son, and I was afraid of losing mine.”

“So ye set her on me with a purpose?”

“Aye, and now she’s gone. She’s taken yer heart with her, and left ye with a broken thing in its place.”

“She said she didn’t love me.”

“A woman doesn’t need a man to love her as much as ye might think.”

“But I loved her.”

“Of course ye did. And yer a better man for it.”

“Is that all ye have to say?”

“I can’t do any more for ye than that. It’s yer father’s son ye are—through and through,” she said, wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron as she stood, hugging me close to her breast. I could smell the fresh dough in her clothes, and it reminded me of all the other times in my childhood when she’d held me after I’d hurt myself, only this time, the pain didn’t go away.

This is the last section of this story. Next week will be the start of a new story. I hope you’ll consider converting over to my PAY page and help support my work. These stories will always be FREE.