28. Approaching Night-time

THE POETESS Part 28

It’s too late to worry about a young and beautiful woman who took her own life all those years ago. The truth is she swallowed a toxic mixture of both prescription and illegal drugs and passed swiftly into an endless sleep.

Bit that’s all in the past, as is the way Anthony Descartes blamed himself (quite rightly) and the Reverend Saint John Boniface went on a sabbatical to Rome, where he hoped to regain his faith. He didn’t, though, and left the clergy soon after when it dawned on him that if there’s no wizard in the skies prepared to offer a helping hand to desperate human beings no matter hard people pray for them, then what’s the point of his ministry?

And so I move my thoughts on as I sit in this pandemic parlour of mine and stare out at my long lawn. It’s been a wet spring and I can hear the chirruping of the stream as it negotiates a hurried journey towards the big river, and from thence, the sea.

My spare room had been unoccupied for a couple or maybe three years when I went on holiday with Peter Umbridge one glorious summer, for a fortnight.

I know he was a man and I know I’d sworn loyalty to a lovely man I’d not seen for years and had no reason to believe I’d ever see again, but he was a decent guy, about my age, mid forties back then, and full of good words. He worked in a gents’ outfitters next door to Woolworth’s, so we met casually quite often.

Peter Umbridge smiled at Rosie over a coffee at their favourite cafe not so far from the shops where they worked.

“It’s at the coast, not far from the sea,” he said (of his caravan). “It’s on a decent site and I’d really love your company. I feel sort of lost since Mary passed away.”

“But what would people say?” asked Rosie, tempted by his offer but wary that the opinions of strangers might in some way reflect on her own morality.

“They won’t say anything,” he replied, sadly, “and I won’t pretend that we’re married, just that we’re good friends who, at the moment, need each other. At least, you may not need me, but I darned well need you.”

“I see,” she murmured, frowning, wondering what he really meant.

“And if you’re worried about any funny business, there are two double beds, one at each end of the van. We won’t need to sleep together. Mary wouldn’t have liked it if she knew that I slept with you.”

“All right,” she decided, “I’ve not had a proper holiday in years!”

“That’s good, then,” he smiled, “and I’ll try not to spend too much time mourning, but it’s bound to hit me. Mary and I went to our caravan every year at this time. Even last year when she knew it would probably be her last.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “for your loss, I mean.”

“I could ask Dave, and he’s a good friend and a thoroughly nice chap, but somehow … I’m more comfortable with a woman, and, who knows, you’re single and fancy free still, and pretty as a picture with that hair of yours down to your bum, and you might find a partner, at least for a few days.”

“I’ll not do that,” she assured him, “I’m waiting …”

“So you’ve said before. But where us this mysterious man of yours?”

“The last I heard of Roy was he was trying to make his fortune growing rare vegetables on an allotment,” she said, “he never could stick at a proper job.”

“Best of luck to him,” grinned Peter, “You know, I get the idea he’s not the right man for you! You’re so organised and I bet you couldn’t stand living with someone who wasn’t.”

She smiled back. “But he couldn’t half kiss,” she whispered, “when I was sweet sixteen…”

“Is it that long?”

“We’ve bumped into each other once or twice since then, but life’s been a bit confusing, and here I am at this age, still confused!”.

“I suppose life can be an eerie mess. So you’re up for it, then? A couple weeks with me? I’ll try not to blub too much if precious memories come zooming back,”

And that’s what we did. Early one Saturday he picked me up in his Land Rover and we made for Little Morrow-on-the-Sea, a journey of less than a hundred miles, yet to a corner of creation that could hardly be more different from home. It had everything you want for a holiday, an almost luxurious site complete with not too many slot machines a little bingo, fish and chips and as much liquid refreshment of all kinds that a person of sound mind could possibly want…

“I never thought I’d do this,” murmured Rosie to Peter, “go away with a man I wasn’t married to.”

“From what you’ve said of yourself it seems you never expected to be married either,” said Peter, “and I know it might seem odd to you but I sincerely believe that if you take romance and sex out of a couple like we two, you end up with really good friends who can supplement each other perfectly.”

There wasn’t much she could say in reply to that, so she sat still in the passenger seat and watched the scenery as it moved at its apparently varying speeds past. Peter was a sensible driver, never going too fast, but hedgerows bordered the road flickered past whilst cows ruminating in the far fields, moved out of sight at a much more leisurely pace.

Little Morrow-on-the-Sea was a small village that had formed round a small harbour and had once been home to fishing families. But that had almost petered out and it was now a centre for holiday-makers after sun, sea, sand and society. Therefore farms bordering the village had sprouted caravan sites so that the society element could be satisfied.

There was a pub there, too. The Trawler’s Arms catered for locals, who tended to stay in the tap room, and visitors who gathered in the large lounge in bad weather and garden when it was fine.

Peter drove into the site where his own caravan was permanently parked. When he wasn’t using it he let it to friends and neighbours, always people he knew well and could trust to look after what was quite an expensive investment for a man of modest means.

Rosie fell in love with it the moment she saw it. It was big enough for a family of six to feel themselves comfortable at night, without anyone being squashed. So for just Peter and Rosie there was more than enough space, and as he had told them they could have the length of the caravan between them if that was what they wanted.

The first night put that to the test.

It was gone midnight when, three-quarters asleep, she heard the soft padding of feet on the carpeted floor of the caravan, and then the whisper of Peter’s voice near her ear.

“Rosie,” he whispered, “can I join you please, just for a minute or two?”

© Peter Rogerson 03.04.21

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