Flowers Of Amsterdam

I wanted to help this fragile thing.  The wet matted hair, keen almost lustful eyes.  Her lips were thin and delicate.  A rain drop slipped down her cheek and dripped off the side of her chin.  She wiped the space, looking hopeful.

 

Of course I could give her a lift.  She hopped up the difficult step into the cab and as she clambered to sit I let the hand-break off, slipping into first gear, while dropping my clutch and pulling off, all in one movement -- like scratching my beard. The truck laboriously snaked out from the grass edge and into the centre of this old bent road.

 

I had my mind on things of home.  The kids, probably the best thing that had ever happened to me.  But I had to drift back for a moment.  The road bent and toiled on its own.  I'd done this trip so many times, so it wasn't something I really had to think about.  A scratch, a surmise, and the road flowed like a river.  So I thought I better get to asking this young woman some friendly questions.

 

“How come you're out in this murky weather.”

 

It wasn't quite dark yet, but it had been a grey drizzly day.  I noticed the wet cling of her brown cotton jacket and black combat trousers.

 

“I'm going to travel the world.”

 

“What here, in dirty Dartmouth?”

 

“I'm from Ivybridge.”  

 

“OK, I guess you've got to start somewhere.”

 

I noticed her fighting spirit.  She spoke with attitude and determination.  The kind that says, “I will make my dream any which way I can.”  Ivybridge to Dartmouth.  Not far.  I pondered on what she might have done so far.  Maybe come up the coast a little.

 

“What have you seen on this trip?”

 

“A seal.” 

 

My eye caught her muddy walking boots.  A little snake poised to dart up her leg was tattooed into the inner left ankle.  The image of her naked legs flashed across my mind but I brushed that away with the blink of my eyelids.  It's funny what beauty can do to you.

 

I tried to dismiss the tingle through my core and out into my finger tips, with a continuing resonance in my breasts and belly.  Her brown curls dripped a little, down into the cloth that could take a little more damp.  I turned the heater up.

 

I didn't want to -- or did I? -- I was feeling lustful.  Brown curls and fragile beauty encasing a hard-bone frame.  The contrasts that go into to making something so tangible and yet abstract -- it was art.  Surely the appreciation of art was good.  Then again, I was in my thirties.  I wasn't supposed to see beauty in a fragile flower of perhaps eighteen years.

 

I was travelling from Dartmouth up to Newton Abbot, and then on to Exmouth.  To be honest I don't remember what I had on board.  It was probably some kind of farm produce -- carrots or swede.  It felt good to be a transporter of something wholesome like that.  I generally quite liked my job.

 

“I have some dry clothes in my bag,” she said.

 

“Oh”

 

“Well, I was just thinking I could do with being dry.”

 

Panic started to grip me, just a slow starting squeeze, but it was there nonetheless.  The fact was, I found this girl... woman? … quite enchanting.  I shouldn't really want these excitations, pulses of bodily chemicals, giving me pleasure at feminine beauty.  I had a family.  She was young.

 

“Maybe I can find a stop somewhere, where you can get changed.”

 

“Oh no.”

 

“Really”

 

“Just don't look for a second.”

 

And she looked as if she whipped off her jacket and, leaving her wet white vest on, searched her bag.  I kept my eyes on the road.  Gulped.  There is no stopping such a glance, so I glanced, and then faced the now darkening roads again.  I don't mean to be too erotic here, but there was erotic charge.  The sky could have cracked with lightening.

 

“Oh, OK.  I won't look, of course.” 

 

And of course, I wouldn't look with a renewed determination.  So I clenched my neck muscles, determined not to turn.  It was just that first determination and things were fine again.  Some feelings in me subsided.  There on the hill was the old bent and knotted tree, forming a silhouette -- its jagged arms protesting at its age and eventual demise.  Once, this tree would have stood proud and tall, king of its surrounds.  Now it was bent.  Somewhat cowering in its obstinance.

 

As I thought of the night's work ahead, time began to move again.  The whizz of a car as it veered to the sloping edge of the tarmac to overtake; to miss my lumbering truck, which eased over for the car's passing.  And there was Jack Blately elegantly shimmying as he came towards me in his pick-up truck -- the dance of the roads, as we faced each other and only moved to the side of the road at the last moment.  We did it almost every night.  Ah, the dance of the roads.  And then I thought of Cheryl and the fun we used to have out on the town -- “Dance, dance, dance till we drop.”

 

Absent mindedly I glanced over to the left, checking the wing mirror, and then down to the snake tattoo and up the glistening calve.  A towel draped over her knees.  I quickly looked away and thought of anything I could.  But I thought of her wet skin.  And the tides surged in me again and I had to get my mind again on the now dark roads.  They flowed, my truck glided, and I was at sea in my thoughts.  Back to all the youthful lusts and desires.  Do they never go away?  Does the old knotted tree still dream of its prowess and the tender things that used to nest in its branches?

 

We got to Newton Abbot OK.  I always did.  The flowery frilly top of the girl didn't seem appropriate for the autumn night.  Nor her crinkled dress against the still sodden boots.  I didn't mind the dirt on my truck floor. 

 

“So you're gonna hitch on?  Where too?”

 

“Oh, I don't now,” she yawned.

 

“Where shall I drop you.”

 

“Hmm, um.  Just wherever's good.  I'll probably try and get on the M5 somewhere.”

 

“What will you do there?”

 

“Oh, sleep.”

 

That was fine. I admired her adventurousness.

 

“I need to pull up here and do one drop, and then I'll be heading up that way.  I can drop you somewhere near Bristol.”

 

I swung into Bill Brashnall's, leapt out of the cab and swung open the back doors, clenching muscles and tightening sinew, I clasped the pallet truck and with the ease of thoughtless action delivered the pallets.  Then, I jumped back out of the back of the truck, down onto the soft wet dirt -- the zip sound of gravel moving -- swung the doors shut, and ran back to the cab and jumped back into my bouncing drivers seat.  Those little excursions from the sitting keep you alive and energised on long damp autumnal nights.  A little dampness from the misty drizzle and sweat clung to me.  The girl was trying to sleep.

 

I decided I should think of my wife's body.  She was a good strong woman.  I always loved the strong kind.  I sometimes wondered what people saw in that pathetic kind of femininity.  The helpless “help me” look.  I always wanted a woman strong in body and mind.  Nancy was that.  I could never have dreamed of a better woman.  I was a lucky man. 

 

Nancy wouldn't mind the beauty that thrilled me.  But perhaps she would mind the lust for the road a young woman, who now seemed like she could be my daughter, had aroused in me.  Lust can be of so many kinds.  The lust of the dancing roads can wane.  The deep friendship of my wife could never wane.  But a stronger lure could form.  That is, I didn't want to miss the flowers of Amsterdam or the fires of Varanasi.  I wanted to see a few things.  I had been told 'need' is a weak word.  But what about 'want?'  Shouldn't the flames of want be used? 

 

I realised I needed to guide the urges inside of me. I thought of my father. He was a gentle man. I felt his fatherly nature stir in me. I suggested the girl sleep in the section behind the seats.

 

“I’ll drop you off a couple of hours up the road. Get some rest.”

 

I’m glad her eyelids didn’t flutter and that without a smile she climbed back to sleep a little. She was a kid really. I got back into my right mind alone on those dark roads again.

 

A chapter of thoughts later, I began dropping down through the gears. The young woman woke.

 

“Are we in Varanasi yet,” she asked.

 

“Not yet,” I laughed. “But I can drop you off here on the slip road to the M5.”

 

“Thanks so much Mister.”

When I got home to Nancy she looked at me. She was the best woman I’d ever known.

 

“What’s eating you?” she asked.

 

“I want to go to Varanasi and see the flowers of Amsterdam.”

I thought she said yes with her eyes but we both laughed. There was no time for travel of that kind in our lives.

 

“Okay hun,” she said. “We can do that. First can you just help me haul up this branch. We need to chop that up later. Also, where are the jump leads?”

Reviews

[Stacy Purvis]

Wow. This is fabulous! More! More! I love this. Well written, clear, consise, and leaving the reader wanting more.
Thank you for sharing.

[Joshua Knight]

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