10. MARMADUKE MAKES LOVE

Part ten, and not at all offensive I hope

The honeymoon, scheduled to last for three days, lasted for a week, and was remarkably uneventful.

The extension to what wasn’t really a holiday due to Marmaduke’s instinctive conservatism was down to Dragona who made it quite clear that they’d both be ridiculed off the planet if they only celebrated their wedding for a mere three days.

For her, the week was one of moderate interest because Colin Fairfax seemed to go to great lengths to engage her in frivolous conversation, and enjoyed those moments despite having to listen to the rather cruel things that Marmaduke had to say about his old school friend.

“I’ll never forget those pyjamas of his,” he told her, “every colour under the sun, and some the sun never even saw!”

“Well, he wears striped ones these days,” she smirked, and added “I’ve seen them!”

What she didn’t add that she’d seen them on the washing line at the back of the hotel, in a private garden where the public weren’t suppose to go, but she had, and at the time they were most certainly not being worn by him.

There were other unkindnesses said or suggested by Marmaduke, who had actually been very fond of Colin Fairfax when he’d been a young teenage boy at public school where a lad had to find affection where he could, but now he thought the grown man absurd because of the Poirot-style moustache he sported.

So both he and Colin were glad when the extended honeymoon was over and the love birds had to return home, though he was less pleased when he saw that Dragona intended to drive the fifty or so miles wearing the tiny tartan micro-skirt she’d exposed at dinner on their first night. She hadn’t worn it since, but then they’d not really done anything nor gone far from the hotel, the latter because the weather had turned chilly and Marmaduke wanted to preserve his own good health.

“You’ll catch your death in that,” he objected pointedly, trying to sound considerate but really being critical. It wasn’t that he thought there was anything wrong with his wife’s legs, just that he didn’t want anyone else to see so much of them.

“I’m driving and it’s comfortable like this,” she told him, and that had to be that.

Half way home Dragona decided that the car needed a recharge, it being solely dependent on battery power, so she pulled into a supermarket that had charging points, plugged into it and smiled at Marmaduke.

“Time for breakfast,” she said.

“But we’ve already eaten,” he objected.

“I don’t mean the slimmer’s fare of the wretched hotel,” she said, “but I fancy a proper breakfast with bacon and stuff.”

“But I thought you were a vegetarian,” he protested.

“I am in my head,” she told him with a wink, “but where bacon’s concerned I must admit to a weakness Anyway, it takes time to charge the battery and we may as well be comfortable.”

“Damned modern rubbish, needing to be charged!” he grumbled, but followed her into the supermarket cafe where she had a full English breakfast and he chose a muffin.

And it was from that moment that Marmaduke’s future was finally decided. Sitting at the table, she enjoying bacon and egg with tomatoes and hash brown, he took a few moments to think about her. She was the exact opposite to himself, in just about every way, but he found that in a way he envied her.

It was the skirt, he supposed. She wore it, seeming to be totally careless of the opinion of others though her long legs were emphasised by its brevity, and even though he’d never thought about anyone’s legs before, not even the schoolboys with whom he’d collided at rugby, he couldn’t help wishing she wouldn’t excite him in public by exposing them at every opportunity.

Then he took in her face. Although she was eating the kind of breakfast he’d never had (they called it breakfast when he’d been at school, but it hadn’t really broken anyone’s fast). And then, at University, he’d barely had time between struggling out of bed and going to his first lecture to eat more than the odd biscuit for breakfast.

Since then a pattern had been established that his stomach seemed to understand, and he’d rarely had much first thing in the morning, not until lunch time when he’d made up for lost calories as early as he could.

So he looked at Dragona as she showed how well brought up she was by carefully making her way through her substantial breakfast without one dribble of egg yolk marring her almost perfect chin.

He supposed it was then he fell for her. Blindly, unexpectedly and completely. He even thought, for a fractured moment, that there might be something about her politics that he might learn to like, but dismissed the thought as momentary insanity

It was watching her delicate good manners that he saw the person she really was, and then everything about her fell into place, including that tartan mini (or was it micro?) skirt.

“You know,” he said at last, “I think I haven’t really got to know you until this very minute.” It wasn’t like Marmaduke to be so honest about anything, including his feelings. “I mean,” he added, “everything’s been such a rush, the engagement, the wedding, the honeymoon. I suppose I haven’t really looked at you properly.”

“Most men do that before they think of proposing marriage,” she told him.

“I suppose I’m not most men,” he sighed.

“You can say that again!”

He didn’t.

Instead he suggested something the Marmaduke of mere moments ago would have found outrageous.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, and he was being sincere for possibly the first time in his life.

“Then come with me,” she replied with a smile, delicately wiping the last traces of her breakfast from her lips with a tissue.

Suddenly, and he couldn’t help it, he found he was fascinated by those lips. It was a feeling that wasn’t to last long, but for the moment he was almost overwhelmed by the novelty of admiring someone other than himself.

“Come on, then,” she urged, and she took him by one hand and half-dragged him back outside.

Then his world went topsy turvy.

“The car won’t be charged yet, but I know a little corner of creation where we might have a conversation and, if you like, a little kiss,” she said with a twinkle that he didn’t recognise in her eyes. But he let himself be tugged round a bend and onto a public park with swings that were deserted, it being a school day, and an air of desertion in every corner.

“Come on,” she giggled, and within moments they were in an area where wooden picnic tables formed a sort of enclave that suggested privacy if there was nobody else there. And just then, at that time of the day they were alone and somehow Marmaduke found his trousers being undone and all sorts of unmentionable things being done to his hitherto private flesh.

“It’s all right: we are married,” she whispered.

“But … but …” he stammered, for possibly the first time ever being lost for words.

There wasn’t any way he would be able to explain even to himself what he did then. Suffice it to say Dragona managed to briefly couple with him, and even more briefly he discovered that the thrilling sensation he’d known since in his teens when he’d been alone shot through his body, and then it was over.

He knew what he’d done. Of course he did. He just didn’t know why he’d done it and how he’d let his morals slip so far from the straight-laced Marmaduke that he instinctively was.

“My, that was quick,” whispered Dragona who did a sideways shuffle and she was suddenly and immaculately properly dressed again. Meanwhile, his own fight with a zip fastener took longer and risked doing painful injury to his flesh, a possibility that demanded unbelievable care.

© Peter Rogerson 27.05.22

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