19. Basking in the Sun

A Chapter by Peter Rogerson

THE POETESS Part 19

It was a glorious summer’s Sunday and Rosie dressed herself in the thinnest and flimsiest cotton dress in her wardrobe, lay two large fluffy bath towels on the grass behind Miller’s Cottage, lowered herself onto them and closed her eyes.

The sun bathed her with its warmth and her mind emptied itself of any clutter that might have spoilt the day and she allowed random thoughts to play their tricks on her. And it was smack in the middle of one of those random thoughts that she heard a voice that may have been either generated by some inhabitant of that thought or else come along from the real world to spoil its randomness.

“Excuse me,” it said, “do you mind? I was just passing…”

She opened her eyes, avoiding the sun, and said “Nobody just passes here!”

It was Michael, the cartographer from earlier in the week, and he wasn’t carrying his clipboard.

“Well, you wouldn’t be, would you?” she murmured.

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Be carrying your council clipboard. It’s a Sunday and not even councils expect their map-men to work on Sundays.”

“Er .. no. I’m not at work. I’m sort of at a loose end and …”

“And you thought I might be, too.”

“Well, not exactly .. sort of.”

“Well, I suppose I am, though I’m perfectly happy to be here, soaking up the sun. It’s what I usually do when I find I’ve got a few loose ends.”

“You look pretty,” he said, and his voice sounded as though uttering those words had been part of a dare he’d challenged himself with.

“I always do try to look my best,” she said, lightly, “and I feel sorry for you baking away in those jeans!”

Yes, he was wearing a smart pair of jeans but at the same time they looked as if he might be uncomfortably warm. After all, it was a sun-baked day and in her mind no sane person would overdress in it.

“I haven’t much else…”

“It doesn’t matter. You know what I did since we last met? You won’t guess…”

“Met a new fella who’s about to leap out and clobber me for seeing you almost naked? Forgot to take that pill you mentioned? Had a baby?” he grinned.

“Now don’t! No, I don’t think I mentioned it, but I write poetry. I’ve won competitions and I’m planning to have a whole book published, when I can find the cash to do it. And I tried to write something about you, but it ended up as a cheap little limerick.”

“What made you think of me?”

“I dunno. It’s one of those things. My mind plays all sorts of tricks on me. Anyway, I couldn’t find a sensible rhyme for Mike and the whole thing slipped into being a silly limerick. Do you want me to tell you?”

“If you like and if it isn’t too unkind!”

“It’s not unkind at all, but you might find it a little bit rude. Here goes:

There once was a fellow called Mike

Who went to his work on a bike

And he carried a clipboard

Where his maps were all mis-stored

When he nervously sat on a spike!

“I haven’t got a bike, and there’s no way I’d sit on any sort of spike!”

“It was only fleeting random thoughts. At least I thought of you.”

“That was kind.”

“Not at all!”

“Can I sit down there with you?”

“Of course … if you take those sweaty jeans off and get comfortable.”

“I haven’t brought any shorts with me.” The expression on his face was ridiculously woe-begone.

“You’ll be wearing underwear, I presume?”

“Of course.”

“Then take those jeans off and settle down here with me. I promise not to make fun of you and I think the most important thing any of us can do for ourselves is to be comfortable. Sitting half-naked with me won’t be uncomfortable, will it? After all, we’re not exactly kids any more.”

What possessed me to say those things, and what possessed him to take his jeans off there and then? I can remember those boxer shorts to this day! They had cartoon figures in colour all over them, and he didn’t bat an eyelid when he lowered himself next to me, yet I could tell he was a ball of nerves.

“I wasn’t exactly serious… murmured Rosie, “I said it as a sort of joke.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not much good at reading what people, women mostly, really mean when they speak. I’ll just get dressed again,” he almost yelped, and he jumped onto his feet and pulled the jeans halfway up.

“Take them off, silly,” laughed Rosie, “anyone would think you were ashamed of your body!”

“I’ve not got the greatest legs… like you have,” he replied. But he did reverse the redressing and pulled those jeans back off again.

“I’ve not been like this with a lass since my one and only proper girlfriend was still living in Brumpton, but that was ages ago now…” he murmured,

“Now I’m going to lie down and close my eyes while you tell me the story of your life, starting with conception.” Rosie’s eyes were laughing as she spoke, and he was wise enough to know.

“Well,” he said with mock seriousness, “there was this man and this woman and they had a dream…”

“They did?”

“They dreamed they wanted a baby, a little girl with pigtails and a happy smile, so one afternoon when the sun was still out they sneaked up to their bedroom and tried to make one…”

“What with?” she asked innocently, “plasticine and clay?”

“Not quite. I believe tadpoles were involved. The lady, and she was yearning to be called mummy asked the man for one of his tadpoles…”

“Oh dear…”

“But somewhere along the line something went wrong and when the stork delivered their baby it wasn’t a little girl at all. It was me, and that made them very unhappy.”

“Now your story is getting to be sad,” protested Rosie, “You know, Mike, I didn’t understand any of this until I was well into my teens! If you’d told me back then you might have got me believing every word and giving me nightmares.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you did say starting at my conception.”

“Tell me about that girlfriend who ran away to Leeds,” asked Rosie, “the one with a drummer for a bedmate.”

“I was so fond of her,” sighed Mike, “it’s possible that I loved her. And we were a proper couple. It wasn’t just walking out and kissing goodnight at the front door. We did sleep together. Well, some nights I seem to remember not that much sleep was involved!”

“Then she flapped her wings and flew?”

“Far away, for ever,” sighed Mike. “What about your lovers? Can you remember the first one?”

“Roy,” she whispered, “and it was just the one kiss. Just the one wonderful, glorious kiss. It’s had to last for ever.”

“That’s too sad.”

“I never knew him enough to even think about love,” sighed Rosie, “but it was here, when my home was a tumbledown ruin. One kiss, that’s all we had, one fragile interminable kiss, and I was hooked on the ruin that cast its shadow on us during that long golden moment, and since then I’vespent every penny I had getting it rebuilt.”

“I’d love to have that sort of kiss…”

“With me?”

“Probably.”

Then a voice from the present merged into a voice from the past and her name was being called from near the back door of her home.

“Rosie, are you in, Rosie?”

It was Roy’s voice, and when she opened her eyes to see Mike’s lips moving towards her she could see Roy’s whole self, staring at her as if time had twisted itself into a knot.

“Roy!” she exclaimed.

But Roy had seen her, that she wasn’t alone, that his timing was wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I just wanted to, you know, make sure you were okay.”

Then he was gone as if he’d never been there. But he had, and unaccountably Rosie’s eyes leaked salt tears, which was something they rarely did.

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