30. A Nightmare in the Rain

THE POETESS Part 30

Outside the house the rain is thrashing down as if the skies were running out of water, and the sound is so loud, what with the wind adding its pennyworth, that I can’t even hear the stream racing along its path at the bottom of my garden.

Well, if the weather’s going to turn wild there might as well be a pandemic lockdown because I’d be staying in anyway, here in my pandemic parlour from where I can at least see the present and savour memories of the past.

The holiday in Peter’s caravan was coming to an end and we had both learned a lot about each other. I, for one, had come to appreciate that love isn’t ended when a partner dies, but still exists in the surviving heart, even when the sun is shining day in and ay out. I was safe in the hands of Peter even when he climbed into bed with me at night, which is something he did every single sight. He was still very much devoted to Mary even though she was little more than a memory coloured with love.

So that’s how we were for that week in the caravan, Peter Umbridge and I. It was one of those couple of weeks when clouds daren’t put in an appearance spoiling the endless blue of the heat-burdened skies during the hours of daylight, but the rain outside in the here and now brings to mind the change in the weather when we were due to leave.

And it reminds me of what must be the very worst day of my life. It all began as we left the caravan.

“Well,” said Peter with a grin, “that’s our two weeks over and done with, and I hope you’ve enjoyed it s much as I have.”

Rosie piled her suitcase in the back of his Land Rover as quickly as she could because the threatened rain was already beginning as angry and torn skies seemed to skid to a standstill above their heads. “More than enjoyed it,” she said quietly, “you must know that.”

“That’s good, then,” he said. “Mary would have liked you,” he added, “and she would have been proud of you.”

“Proud of me? Why?” she asked as she climbed into the passenger seat. She was still dressed for the summer despite the sudden appearance of rain, and her legs were spotted with rain. She wiped them on a tissue, and he joined her inside. The caravan was locked and he had the key safely stowed in his pocket. The next person to use it would collect it from him once they arrived back in Brumpton.

“Well, for one thing you taught me that a man wearing shorts isn’t an absurdity,” he said, “and I now see that rain-soaked legs are easier to dry, and certainly more comfortable, than rain-soaked trousers!”

“You look okay in shorts,” she told him. “The trouble with some people is they have some strange old-fashioned hang-ups.”

“Like me, you mean?”

“You’re all right, Peter. And I know I’ve told you,.but I’ll tell you again. You’re the only man I’ve ever slept with.”

“Slept being the operative word,” he said as he pulled off the camp site and onto the main road.

“Sleeping was enough. You never let yourself down,” she smiled at him, and then:” Goodbye, Trawler’s Arms,” she waved as they passed the rain-sodden pub.

“It’s not as if we were too puritanical,” Peter told her, “after all, you did make it easy for me to see you in the altogether a few times!”

“A girl’s got to wash herself even when space is limited like it was on the caravan!” laughed Rosie, “and there isn’t a square inch on my body that I’m ashamed of! Anyway, I saw just as much of you. Look, Peter, we’re not kids any more, and grown ups sometimes have grown up thoughts and even do grown up things if the time’s right.”

“Talking of hang-ups, though, we’ve both got them when it comes to modesty,” said Rosie thoughtfully, “looking back through time to the way we as a species evolved, when did it begin, I wonder? I mean, once upon a long, long time ago our distant ancestors must have gone around naked, before they discovered that animal hides can be warming in the winter, and it would seem perfectly natural for a man to see endless naked bosoms wandering about.”

“Strange way of looking at it, but I suppose so,” he murmured, concentrating on the road. The rain was still falling heavily and his rather ancient windscreen wiper could barely cope with it. And every time a speedy smaller car overtook him the spray added to his difficulties.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he muttered as he pulled into a lay-by., “I’m going to wait until it eases off a bit.”

“Well, at least it waited until our holiday was over,” she grinned, “what were you saying about seeing me in the nuddy? You didn’t stare, I hope! I did try to be as decent as I could be.”

“There’s nothing indecent about you, and when it comes to your flesh I’ll give it nine out of ten any day of the week.”

“What? Only nine? What’s wrong with me?”

“Oh nothing, nothing at all. But you lose the one mark because I’ve never touched you, and a touch can tell a thousand stories.”

“It can?” how?”

“Well, for starters, it can guide the heart into knowing that little bit more…”

“And you wanted to touch me? An old hag with the start of wrinkles?”

“I don’t think Mary would mind...”

And that’s how it began, with a casual but rather loose conversation which ended me thrilling to the way he actually did touch me. And then, with the world outside the Land Rover obliterated by the downpour, I touched him. Intimately, Privately. Affectionately. Secretively.

For the first time, and there was no shadow of Mary between us. Then he kissed me as the thunder of the rain echoed the thunder in our hearts...

Until, that is, the mini came from nowhere and ploughed into the driver’s door and stole Peter’s life right there and then in a sudden chaos of twisted metal, oil fumes and death.

“Peter!” shrieked Rosie in the chaos and confusion of the rain-swept disaster that had been a perfectly lovely if not somewhat elderly Land Rover.

But Peter was in no condition to do anything but stare questioningly at the wet world that was finding its way into where he sat while Rosie, almost unscathed, looked on in almost total confusion, the loosened straps of the bra she was wearing testament to a new kind of affection she had discovered for so brief a moment.

“And Rosie…” he forced out in bubbles of blood, “and Rosie…”

But it was all too late for her to ask him what was on his mind because she could tell by the way his head slowly slumped as well as the sudden way his eyes faded to sightlessness that he would never end his sentence. So she ended it for him.

“Yes Peter,” she whispered, “and I love you too.”

© Peter Rogerson, 05.04.21

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