to bed, Helen was still awake. She lay with the light on, staring up at the ceiling, her eyes red. An open paperback lay on the rug within reach, but he guessed it had only been a pretence at reading. She didn’t even turn her head as he came into the room.
Stooping awkwardly under the low rafters, he got undressed and slipped into bed. No response when he leaned across to kiss her. He switched the light out.
Helen was breathing unevenly. Outside, the breeze quietly rustled among the trees. A dog barked somewhere far away. From the cottage came the occasional creak as it settled down.
He reached out for her, thinking he should make a gesture at least. She rolled over towards him, snuggling into his arms and sobbing unrestrainedly. No point in saying anything. What good could words do? He held her close. Gradually the tears eased; the crisis passed.
She was the one who started to make love, desperately searching in the darkness for his mouth, forcing her tongue between his lips, digging her fingers into him as though trying to unbury something she’d lost.
Gently he caressed her, but she broke impatiently away from him, sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off the nightdress over her head. To see better, she opened the curtains and stood for a few seconds at the window, her full breasts in silhouette against the starlit sky. Then she crawled back to his side of the bed.
For just over a week now he’d been out of hospital; on his first night home they’d attempted to make love, a perfunctory ritual with neither of them very interested. But this was different.
She found his hardened sex, running her spread fingers over it, moving up to his stomach, then down again; up to his ribs, exploring him with her hands, her lips, her tongue, till at last he swung over her, towered above her – her face expectant – and lowered himself into her.
She moaned and clung to him. ‘Matt … Matt…’
And it was more than mere sexual pleasure. He could just see her eyes in the dim light. The barriers which had grown between them, neither knew how, began to dissolve. They recognized each other at last. Turned back the clock, or so it seemed. The old firm…
They had breakfast next morning out in the garden, peeling off their sweaters as the warm sun dissipated the remaining wisps of sea mist. Maybe she was right, Matt was thinking; maybe his mind had become obsessed with sewer worms. And what was so different about them, after all? Nature contained many a threat. Puff adders, rattlesnakes, spitting cobras… Mankind had learned to live with them all.
The quiet was shattered by the splutter of a motorbike approaching through the lane. One final roar announced the rider’s virility before he switched off the engine and came striding through the gate: a boy of about nineteen, swaggering, assertive, with what looked like a knife scar down one cheek.
‘Telegram.’
He handed it over and sauntered off again, revving his engine several times before letting in the clutch and throwing up a shower of dirt in the lane.
‘From Jimmy Case,’ said Matt, showing it to Helen. ‘Wants me to ring him.’
‘If it’s work, tell him you can’t do it. You’re not ready yet.’
‘Depends what it is, doesn’t it?’
They had no phone at the cottage, so he would have to go down to the post office. On the way he would pass the craft shop. No harm in trying, he thought. Without saying anything to Helen or Jenny he went into the shed and wrapped the two rolled-up worm skins in a sheet of old newspaper.
When he came out, Helen was standing by the kitchen door. She had a resigned look on her face.
‘I’ll see if they’re interested,’ he called out, tucking the parcel under his arm. ‘Shan’t be long.’
But he didn’t hurry; it wasn’t that sort of day. The sun had already taken the early morning chill off the air and the little fishing town was settling into a slow, lazy rhythm. Swarms of tiny flies hovered above the scattered
Stooping awkwardly under the low rafters, he got undressed and slipped into bed. No response when he leaned across to kiss her. He switched the light out.
Helen was breathing unevenly. Outside, the breeze quietly rustled among the trees. A dog barked somewhere far away. From the cottage came the occasional creak as it settled down.
He reached out for her, thinking he should make a gesture at least. She rolled over towards him, snuggling into his arms and sobbing unrestrainedly. No point in saying anything. What good could words do? He held her close. Gradually the tears eased; the crisis passed.
She was the one who started to make love, desperately searching in the darkness for his mouth, forcing her tongue between his lips, digging her fingers into him as though trying to unbury something she’d lost.
Gently he caressed her, but she broke impatiently away from him, sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off the nightdress over her head. To see better, she opened the curtains and stood for a few seconds at the window, her full breasts in silhouette against the starlit sky. Then she crawled back to his side of the bed.
For just over a week now he’d been out of hospital; on his first night home they’d attempted to make love, a perfunctory ritual with neither of them very interested. But this was different.
She found his hardened sex, running her spread fingers over it, moving up to his stomach, then down again; up to his ribs, exploring him with her hands, her lips, her tongue, till at last he swung over her, towered above her – her face expectant – and lowered himself into her.
She moaned and clung to him. ‘Matt … Matt…’
And it was more than mere sexual pleasure. He could just see her eyes in the dim light. The barriers which had grown between them, neither knew how, began to dissolve. They recognized each other at last. Turned back the clock, or so it seemed. The old firm…
They had breakfast next morning out in the garden, peeling off their sweaters as the warm sun dissipated the remaining wisps of sea mist. Maybe she was right, Matt was thinking; maybe his mind had become obsessed with sewer worms. And what was so different about them, after all? Nature contained many a threat. Puff adders, rattlesnakes, spitting cobras… Mankind had learned to live with them all.
The quiet was shattered by the splutter of a motorbike approaching through the lane. One final roar announced the rider’s virility before he switched off the engine and came striding through the gate: a boy of about nineteen, swaggering, assertive, with what looked like a knife scar down one cheek.
‘Telegram.’
He handed it over and sauntered off again, revving his engine several times before letting in the clutch and throwing up a shower of dirt in the lane.
‘From Jimmy Case,’ said Matt, showing it to Helen. ‘Wants me to ring him.’
‘If it’s work, tell him you can’t do it. You’re not ready yet.’
‘Depends what it is, doesn’t it?’
They had no phone at the cottage, so he would have to go down to the post office. On the way he would pass the craft shop. No harm in trying, he thought. Without saying anything to Helen or Jenny he went into the shed and wrapped the two rolled-up worm skins in a sheet of old newspaper.
When he came out, Helen was standing by the kitchen door. She had a resigned look on her face.
‘I’ll see if they’re interested,’ he called out, tucking the parcel under his arm. ‘Shan’t be long.’
But he didn’t hurry; it wasn’t that sort of day. The sun had already taken the early morning chill off the air and the little fishing town was settling into a slow, lazy rhythm. Swarms of tiny flies hovered above the scattered
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