Climbers – Part 2: Boy

Emerging from the subway, Alex drew the powerful flashlight out of his deep coat pocket, taking the chalkstone path through dense woodland until he reached a frozen lake, disused barns, some silent dog kennels, the barren vineyard – and the secret walled garden he kept at the foot of the downs. A short shale path led to an archway with a solid oak door in the stone wall. Built into one side of the arch were a red wrought iron post box, an indigo security eye, and an illuminated keypad. He punched in six digits. The door swung open. He went inside, flicked a switch, and the whole garden lit up like a fairground attraction. The garden wall concealed a pristine lawn bordered by gravel paths with empty vegetable plots and bare fruit trees along each wall. A decrepit potting shed with cracked glass panes and a mossy tiled slate roof sat crumbling in one corner. There were climbers up the walls.

His wagon, the wonderful twenty-first birthday present from his doting commère, Sarah, was waiting to welcome him home at the far end of the garden. The olive green replica gypsy caravan was mounted on six cartwheels. Entry was by a flight of natural wooden steps. Careful not to slip, Alex grabbed hold of the cold steel rail, hauling his weary body up to the stained glass door. He recited his date of birth, his surname spelled backwards, there was a soft click as the door unlocked, and all of the interior lights came on at once.

He heard her cry: shrill, pleading, desperate, behind him in the darkness, ‘Wait! Please!’

Swinging around at the top of the steps, he searched the walled garden with his flashlight.

She was standing inside the arch, sheet white, his frozen angel of the night, her nose and lips cyan blue, wearing just a pretty, striped, off the shoulder summer dress. Her arms and legs were bare. Her slim fingers and toes had turned a purpled shade of blue with the cold.

Alex swore and blasphemed about her alarming state of dress, silently, under his breath.

‘Quick! Come inside before you catch your death!’ he called, shining a light ahead of her in a clear trail up to the steps. The last thing he needed was for her to cut her feet to shreds on the sharp gravel path or slip on frosted grass and break a limb, or spoil her lovely face.

The girl sprinted across the lawn, mounting the stairs in twos to be with him. He slammed the door firmly shut behind them, a blast of warm air caressed her frozen cheeks, and she entered a different world.

The young man shrugged off his coat. She appreciated the lean, well-muscled, torso, arms and legs, all tightly compressed inside his slim fit shirt and skinny jeans. In the light, he was handsome. His tousled caramel hair fell as far as his walnut eyes. He had an innocent, clean-shaved, boyish face. He was the kind of man she’d dreamed of meeting in real life.

Before she could admire him any further, he grabbed her wrist, led her to a small cubicle at the far end of the wagon, pushed open the door, and bustled her inside. There was a toilet and matching olive hand basin, an oval mirror mounted in a white medicine cabinet, a flip-top bin, a compact shell-shaped bath equipped with shower gel, shampoo, soap, and a yellow plastic duck for her to play with: a silly baby toy that made her face break into the loveliest smile and giggle.

‘Is she for me, the duck?’

His face flushed, ‘She’s meant for you to play with in the bath.’

‘You’d like me to take a bath?’ she enquired, rather sheepishly, smiling from ear-to-ear.

He handed her a fluffy pink bath towel and face flannel, ‘There’s a warm dressing gown for you to wear afterward hung on the door, women’s deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush, tissues, scent on the shelf. Take as long as you like. If you need anything just shout. I’ll go make us pizza. Do you like pizza? I’m not a good cook, I’m afraid. I’ve left a jumper, socks and a pair of my old jogging bottoms on the bed in your bedroom for you,’ he said, pointing over his shoulder to the left, ‘They might be a bit big, but they’ll keep you warm.’

She was stunned, ‘A hot bath, meal, clothes, a warm bed for the night. Why are you doing all this for me? What’s the catch? There must be some sort of catch to all of this, surely?’

She fell quiet, contemplating the risk she was taking in the middle of the night, miles from any help, with this strange young man. She wondered how she’d defend herself if he tried to force himself on her. On the other hand, he hadn’t threatened her, yet, just welcomed her into this warm place, promises of comfort she hadn’t enjoyed since she ran away from home, and it was freezing cold outside and likely to get much colder as the night flew by.

She made up her mind to stay, at least, until she had a better idea for how to survive: until the warmth of springtime, the thrill of summers in the open air, the likely, balmy autumns.

‘There is no catch, promise, cross my heart and hope to die,’ he assured her, crossing his chest with his folded arms, ‘I’ve been lucky in life. I want to give something back. I saw you struggle in that cold subway. It made me want to help you. You’re free to stay as long as you like, leave whenever you wish,’ he reiterated, his face flushing, hotter, and redder.

She held his hand which felt all warm, smooth, and soft. They stood there, hand-in-hand, cherishing the lovely tingling sensation that passed between them, relishing their moment. The moment they’d searched for since he grew out of a boy into a handsome young man, and she grew out of a girl into a beautiful young woman. They let go of each other’s hands  and the moment they’d waited for, for so long, slowly, sublimely, came to a magical end.