the raising of Lazarus; and so far she had managed it twice. Although it would have been a considerably more erotic encounter if she hadn’t cried the first time and kept telling Bernie what a dear, sweet man he was.
Not that Bernie had too many problems with the idea of being a charity case in this particular instance, although when she managed it a third time even he was surprised.
Holding her tight up against him in case she stopped her ministrations, Bernie said, ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this – this relaxed and happy, Stella. It’s been a fantastic evening. You have no idea how good it’s been –’
‘Oh James,’ she whispered thickly.
Bernie froze for an instant, feeling as if he had caught her out in some act of betrayal until it struck him that he was, of course, now James Cook. He really had to get used to the idea, before his face gave him away, although fortunately for him, Stella wasn’t looking at his face at that particular moment.
On the drive home from the pub he had floated the idea of dropping in for a coffee.
‘Oh all right, then,’ Stella said with a giggle. ‘If you insist.’
Bernie, who, as he was driving had only had a pint of bitter and then gone on to orange juice and was as sober as a Methodist Minister, smiled. ‘Your place or mine?’
‘It’d better be yours. Mum will probably still be up. She’s a very light sleeper – get’s a lot of gyp with her back and her sciatica and her waterworks – and besides there’s the two West Highland whites, Nancy and Ronald, and that bloody parrot of hers. The row them three make if she isn’t awake when we get in she soon will be.’
Bernie nodded and turned off towards the caravan site. The night was dark and warm, the wind rustling through the treetops like indolent fingers.
‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like animals,’ Stella was saying, her speech slurred with drink, ‘but them bloody little dogs make such a row, yap-yap-yapping, and the parrot is so messy, seed and bits everywhere. No, as soon Mum passes away, God bless her, or goes into a home, they’ll have to go.’
Bernie nodded. He knew better than to interrupt a woman when she was rambling. ‘Okay,’ he said when he was certain that she’d finished. ‘Although I have to warn you that the caravan’sa bit of a mess at the moment, but at least it’s nice and quiet and it is only temporary.’
Stella looked at him slyly and said that she quite understood that it was only temporary, and no, she didn’t mind the mess at all. No, really. It was fine, after all things would be different when he got his new house, wouldn’t they? Maybe she could drop by with a copy of the local paper later in the week; they had a big pull-out housing section at the back and she had always liked house-hunting.
So here they were, stretched out half-naked on the hearth rug in front of the gas fire, in the wee small hours. Stella moaned softly and crept up towards him.
‘Would you like to go to bed, James, only I’m getting terrible carpet burns on my knees.’
Bernie did his best to look tender and serene, although he did wonder just how much she could see without her glasses. ‘You know, Stella, this really is the best evening I’ve had in – in –’ he began, wondering what constituted a suitable measure of time.
Fortunately he was saved by Stella pressing her fingertips tightly to his lips. ‘Don’t. It’s perfectly all right. There really is no need to say anything, James,’ she murmured in a low throaty mewl. ‘Let’s not dwell on the past, this is not the time. Why don’t we just go to bed instead?’
Bernie grinned. It suited him fine; this way hewouldn’t have to try and make up some plausible story for the last best time he’d had; and after the bottle of wine they’d drunk since arriving back at the caravan he’d forgotten his poor dead wife’s name anyway. At the door to the bedroom, while looking back at him over
Not that Bernie had too many problems with the idea of being a charity case in this particular instance, although when she managed it a third time even he was surprised.
Holding her tight up against him in case she stopped her ministrations, Bernie said, ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this – this relaxed and happy, Stella. It’s been a fantastic evening. You have no idea how good it’s been –’
‘Oh James,’ she whispered thickly.
Bernie froze for an instant, feeling as if he had caught her out in some act of betrayal until it struck him that he was, of course, now James Cook. He really had to get used to the idea, before his face gave him away, although fortunately for him, Stella wasn’t looking at his face at that particular moment.
On the drive home from the pub he had floated the idea of dropping in for a coffee.
‘Oh all right, then,’ Stella said with a giggle. ‘If you insist.’
Bernie, who, as he was driving had only had a pint of bitter and then gone on to orange juice and was as sober as a Methodist Minister, smiled. ‘Your place or mine?’
‘It’d better be yours. Mum will probably still be up. She’s a very light sleeper – get’s a lot of gyp with her back and her sciatica and her waterworks – and besides there’s the two West Highland whites, Nancy and Ronald, and that bloody parrot of hers. The row them three make if she isn’t awake when we get in she soon will be.’
Bernie nodded and turned off towards the caravan site. The night was dark and warm, the wind rustling through the treetops like indolent fingers.
‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like animals,’ Stella was saying, her speech slurred with drink, ‘but them bloody little dogs make such a row, yap-yap-yapping, and the parrot is so messy, seed and bits everywhere. No, as soon Mum passes away, God bless her, or goes into a home, they’ll have to go.’
Bernie nodded. He knew better than to interrupt a woman when she was rambling. ‘Okay,’ he said when he was certain that she’d finished. ‘Although I have to warn you that the caravan’sa bit of a mess at the moment, but at least it’s nice and quiet and it is only temporary.’
Stella looked at him slyly and said that she quite understood that it was only temporary, and no, she didn’t mind the mess at all. No, really. It was fine, after all things would be different when he got his new house, wouldn’t they? Maybe she could drop by with a copy of the local paper later in the week; they had a big pull-out housing section at the back and she had always liked house-hunting.
So here they were, stretched out half-naked on the hearth rug in front of the gas fire, in the wee small hours. Stella moaned softly and crept up towards him.
‘Would you like to go to bed, James, only I’m getting terrible carpet burns on my knees.’
Bernie did his best to look tender and serene, although he did wonder just how much she could see without her glasses. ‘You know, Stella, this really is the best evening I’ve had in – in –’ he began, wondering what constituted a suitable measure of time.
Fortunately he was saved by Stella pressing her fingertips tightly to his lips. ‘Don’t. It’s perfectly all right. There really is no need to say anything, James,’ she murmured in a low throaty mewl. ‘Let’s not dwell on the past, this is not the time. Why don’t we just go to bed instead?’
Bernie grinned. It suited him fine; this way hewouldn’t have to try and make up some plausible story for the last best time he’d had; and after the bottle of wine they’d drunk since arriving back at the caravan he’d forgotten his poor dead wife’s name anyway. At the door to the bedroom, while looking back at him over
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