Sunlight streamed into his bedroom through a gap in the heavy plum drapes. Allen rolled onto his side and faced the warm Spring sun, clutching at her pillows. Ruth had been taken from him cruelly, at such a young age. His throat was sore. His head ached. He coughed, wondering if he had the virus. A tiny fireball hurtled across his weak right eye: the first sign of a migraine.
Tired, lonely, consumed by grief at losing the love of his life, he turned away, shutting his eyes, deep in thought. The bed was too big without Ruth. He’d have to buy himself a smaller bed. Their house was too big for a widower. He decided to sell her cherished antiques at auction and move into a flat. His spirits deflated. He felt sick. His hands shook. Allen fought back tears. How much longer could he carry on living like this. Without her?
Blearily, he reached for the phone-on-the-wall, pressed eleven buttons from memory, waited for voicemail, and left a message telling the office that he wasn’t well. Might have the virus. Best work from home. He fell asleep. When he awoke, Allen felt the sun’s rays burning the back of his neck. There was a copper silent-sweep clock on his side of the bed, by the kindle Ruth never found the time to read. He squinted at its vague yellow hands: it was seven o’clock.
Kean would be at work now on toilets, bathrooms, showers, cisterns, no call out charge, no job too small. Tall, bluff, big-hearted Kean, his friendly, reliable, local plumber. His best friend. Allen rang him on his mobile,
‘Kean?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Allen.’
‘Hello, mate! How are you?’ Kean’s voice was rich, deep baritone. Warm and cheerful.
‘Not good. I think I’ve caught the virus.’
‘Sorry to hear that. There’s a lot of it about.’
Allen mimicked him, ‘There is a lot of it about.’
‘How’s Ruth?’
He didn’t know what to say. How to break the news. His mouth dried, parched of saliva. He coughed, gulped, then blurted out the words,
‘She’s dead, Kean. Ruth died four weeks ago.’
He could feel his friend’s face strain with disbelief at the other end of the line.
‘Oh God! Tell me it isn’t true.’
‘It is true, I’m afraid. She was taken by the virus.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. If there’s anything I can do to help?’
Allen cut the call and stared at their favourite photo of Ruth dressed in antique white lace, her mother’s wedding dress, gripping his hands in hers as they cut their wedding cake. The phone rang: Kean again, calm as ever,
‘I lost you.’
‘I need to meet up with you. I can’t cope without her.’
The phone went dead. The sun blazed down. He poured with sweat, descending into panic,
‘Kean? Kean!’
When the plumber spoke, his voice was flatter, dull-monotone,
‘I’m in Bulgaria.’
‘You’re where?’
‘I’m at the villa with Celine. Don’t get back till Sunday. Give me a ring on Monday.’
‘But Kean.’
‘What is it, mate? Tell me.’
‘The cistern’s gone in the bathroom.’
Allen climbed out of bed, drew the curtains, dressed in an old sweater, tracksuit bottoms, socks, trainers, and flew downstairs. The list, his keys and wallet were in the kitchen which he kept spotless for her. It was still early. If he hadn’t caught the virus then with luck the supermarket might be empty. He could shop, come home, cook breakfast, have a bath, and go back to bed.
When he stepped outside, he was relieved to find the street deserted. Most of his neighbours self-isolated voluntarily. The supermarket was a five-minute walk away: past an Indian corner shop, Chinese takeaway, and a boutique NHS dentist: The Tooth Fairy. He noticed a sign on the door informing her clients that she had gone away until further notice. The surgery was closed. Another casualty of the virus.
It came as no surprise to him when he turned the corner and found the supermarket car park empty, other than a white van and a juggernaut bearing heavy hydraulic lifting equipment. The text hit his phone just as he was stooping to collect a shopping basket on the way in:
Come to The Tawney, we can marry and then we’ll make love,
You can’t ignore me, I’m the woman your dreams are made of.
Allen stared at the screen, momentarily transfixed, bemused. He had no idea what it meant. He saved the message, duly took the basket, and entered the store.
She was standing by the cut-price fruit selection, testing pears to see if they were ripe and ready to eat or not: Eat me? Keep me? A lithe figure with a short blonde-bob and a suntanned face, splendidly attired in her lightweight quilted beige jacket, a chequered beige and caramel scarf, skinny brown jeans, and trendy flat cap. A woman who promised warmth, finesse, the softest of touches. She dipped a thumb inside her pocket, pulling at her jeans, swaying her hips, and cooed brightly,
‘Don’t say hello then.’
She strode up to him, wrapping her slim fingers around his left wrist, holding him still as if he were a bad boy at school. She was tactile, very forward. He was horrified. Suppose she had the virus? She looked sensational. Her touch was tender, erotic. Allen hadn’t felt a woman’s touch since Ruth had lain asleep in her death bed, her pneumonia-riddled lungs rattling out their final breaths, her solitary last rites. He’d held her limp hand, felt her slip away. He shook his head out of her trance,
‘Antonia?’
‘That’s me. How are you?’
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘That’s ok. I’ll let you off this time. How are you keeping? Well, I hope? Not infected, are you? Wouldn’t like to think I’m holding the hand of a man with plague. If you’re unclean, you should be tucked up in bed, you know.’
She had an uncanny effect on him: raising his spirits, lifting his heart, soothing his woes. It was impossible to feel low in the presence of such a lovely person. He bared his soul to her, gripping her hand. She felt soft and vulnerable, held like that, responding gently, squeezing his fingers,
‘I started sweating last night, brought out a cough, felt a migraine come on, don’t feel so good.’
To his surprise, Antonia tightened her grip on his hand. Why did she do that? Was she lonely?
She answered his prayers, ‘So, that’s why I’m here. To look after you. Make you feel better.’
Allen frowned, mopped his sweaty brow, acted kind of confused, ‘I don’t understand. How?’
She brushed his doubts aside with a sweep of her free hand,
‘I’m immune, you see. One of the herd, lucky to be alive. I sweated the ague out of me, fought her off single-handed, battled her on my own, in solitary. She tested me, made my very bones hurt, filled my lungs with snot and mucus, till I could barely breathe. But I sweated her out, refused to give in. And now I’m here.’
He regarded her slim physique with fresh interest, astounded at her resilience, her drive,
‘How much did she take out of you, Toni?’
‘I lost two stone. I’m afraid there’s not very much left of me,’ she released his hand, touching her flat chest, ‘Left me looking boyish, here, and here, if I’m honest. You can barely feel them.’
She lowered her head despondently. For a second, Allen thought she was going to cry. But she bounced back. Antonia was the living definition of strength. She lifted her face for him, and smiled. Her eyes were gleaming with tears. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her.
He noticed Joe the supervisor, Stacey the cashier, Brian the assistant manager, staring blankly at them. Had best not hold her. Not here. In front of them. They might be reported to the Police. Cohabiting or touching another human was a notifiable offence, resulting in an instant fine and a criminal record.
Instead, he glanced around. The store was empty, like most shelves, stripped of every item by last night’s panic-buying epidemic. Allen had seen the cars queuing past his house, the grimly-determined faces of men, women and children on their final family outing for months.
She intrigued him. He needed to know more. All of her suffering. Antonia, the first woman he had seen, touched, felt, since they took Ruth away from him to the temporary mortuary outside town: her interim resting place before her interment with the other ten bin-liner-bagged corpses.
He held her hand. Sod the consequences. He cared for her,
‘How long did she plague you for?’
‘Eight weeks.’
Allen was appalled, ‘Eight weeks?!’
‘Mm.’
Inside her chest, her little heart beat wildly at the prospect of his company, his love, the ending of her abject loneliness. He made her feel safe, secure, made her lighten up within. She wanted to, needed to, love him. Hell, her life needed purpose! Antonia bit her lip, ventured her question,
‘I’m sorry for your sad news, Allen. The way she took Ruth from you was callous, heartless. You must be lonely. Me, I survive. For what, for who? I don’t really know anymore.’
She gazed into his red-rimmed eyes, searching for signs of hope, filled with earnest expectation,
‘Can we be friends again, please?’
He sighed, a deep sigh of relief, bordering on latent euphoria. Antonia’s intent, her olive branch, thrilled him to the core. The chances of finding her, of even seeing her again today, in the store,
‘I’d love that, Toni, I’d really love that.’
He glimpsed the three Store staff, pretending not to notice, going about their daily preparations for shoppers they might not serve again. Antonia reached for his swarthy face, took his cheeks in both hands, and kissed him firmly on the lips.
Delighted for her, Joe, Stacey and Brian exchanged glances. Their smiles told her all she needed to know, made her day:
Don’t worry, we promise not to tell the Police.
Allen felt all the stress, the tension from his devastating bereavement lift like mist burning off of a summer’s lake at dawn. They stood there in the aisle by the bruised pears, embracing, at one with each other. Presently, he broke the silence, sharing the omen that had haunted him all these weeks. He stumbled over his tongue at first. She felt him tense, drew him close, held him tight: his pounding heart beating against her chest until he had calmed, and was able to speak,
‘Ruth has been sending me messages,’ he faltered, ‘Messages from beyond the grave. I think she misses me. Think she can’t cope with our parting. With how she was taken from me. By the ague. By her. By them.’
He broke down. She wiped the tears from his cheeks, let him cry, sharing the intimacy of his grief,
‘They buried her in a pit of lime, Toni, lime!’
‘I’ll take care of you, Allen. Look after you, always. We’ll make her proud of us. Help the sick, the vulnerable, the aged. Make her proud of you, darling, up there in Heaven, okay?’
He snivelled, she had this funny way, this incredibly positive aura about her, ‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. You’re welcome. All part of my customer service scheme!’ she laughed.
He laughed back, couldn’t help himself. She had that effect: filling him to the brim with joy, her joy. She buoyed him,
‘Now, show me what Ruth said.’
Allen scrolled up the message on his phone and showed her:
Come to The Tawney, we can marry and then we’ll make love,
You can’t ignore me, I’m the woman your dreams are made of.
Antonia paled, tried to hide her true feelings for him – the secret. She kept her secret, for now,
‘My goodness! That’s some message. How d’you know it’s her?’
‘I can’t explain it. I just know?’
She felt her shopping bag: its bulging contents between her calves. Felt the distinct urge to pee. Pressed her thin thighs together, kept it inside for later. Made her decision, looking serious for once,
‘I’ll help you find her. We’ll put Ruth’s soul to rest. I know the Tawney. D’you ride?’
He beamed a little, showing off his manly pride, ‘A little, I have a mountain bike. Why?’
Antonia lifted her limp wrist and checked her chunky bracelet watch: it was still only seven-thirty. She had all the time in the world, for him,
‘Meet me at the railway bridge at eleven. I’ll make us a picnic. It’s a lovely ride. You’ll love it! She’ll love it! We can all love as one!’
It occurred to Allen that the ague might have rendered her loopy, fruitcake, nuts, raving mad. He rubbed his unshaven chin, took the wallet from his baggy tracksuit bottoms, frowning at her, watching him, the hope stamped all over her luscious face,
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’ he gasped, stifling a chesty cough.
‘Are you game?’
He relaxed at last, grinning broadly for her, ‘Game as I’ll ever be.’
‘See you at eleven then. Don’t be late,’ she bent down, delving inside her shopping bag, ‘You’ll need some of these. Here, take some.’
He reached out to her, touching hands, loving the feeling of their soft warmth, ‘What are they?’
‘Toilet rolls,’ she said loudly, ‘The very last ones, Allen,’ she quietened, ‘For a very long time.’
His saviour let go of him, stood up straight, took her bag, pecked his cheeks, span on her heels, and left.
His shoulders slumped. He felt all the energy drain from his body. His head ached; bones ached. The virus seized him with a vengeance, forcing droplets of thick sweat to ooze from every pore in his body, wetting his teak hair black, sheening his brow with perspiration. Shocked by his contagious transformation, Joe backed away from him, his hands raised high, mood altered,
‘Stand well back!’ he shouted, for the benefit of all and sundry.
A burly Indian security guard, face clad in eye goggles, a tough grey rubber mask, approached him expediently. Joe appeared flustered,
‘Please leave the store or I’ll call the Police.’
Allen stared at the puffed-up millennial as if he were crazy,
‘I need shaving foam, deodorant, sanitiser, brown sliced bread, kitchen roll, washing-up liquid.’
Joe, his cheeks flushed with anger, eyes burning with rage, finally lost all sense of self-control,
‘They’re out of stock, now get out!’
The middle-aged unhappy shopper felt the guard’s iron fist grip his upper arm. He noticed that Ali Sadiq was wearing royal blue surgical gloves.
Why were the amazing doctors, nurses and carers unable to obtain personal protective wear?
Allen was forcibly propelled towards the exit. He twisted his head, and took one last look at the supervisor,
‘How dare you treat me like this. You haven’t heard the last of me. I intend to complain to Customer Services.’
‘Customer Services are all dead.’
Allen was horrified, ‘They’re what?!’
Ali Sadiq intervened, ‘You heard what the man said.’
Allen was shoved outside onto the pavement. The automatic doors slid closed and locked, leaving Antonia’s toilet rolls strewn across the tiled floor.
Antonia crossed the empty high street and walked past a restaurant in a state of reconstruction, a bistro, ladies’ hairdressers, and a green café, wondering if they’d ever reopen. At the junction, by the fire station, she turned right into Simmel Street. The undertakers were open for business, busier than ever. Her council flat was a short trot past the closed sports centre, through a leafy cutting on the left.
There were four single-bedroom flats in the house known as 3, Hill Crescent. Antonia lived on the first floor. She saw the wilting daffodils in the overgrown front garden, suddenly feeling an immense sense of loss. Felt weak, listless, guilty. Ruth used to love daffodils. Spring was her favourite season.
The sun’s warmth diminished as a cloud scudded across the sky. The slightest zephyr kissed the blonde hairs on the back of her neck, like soft lips, tentative touches, invisible fingertips, stroking her cheeks. She felt giddy. Her shopping bag slipped to the ground as she sought to steady herself, leaning against the porch. A presence gripped her, tightening around her chest. The sombre mood passed. The sun came out again.
Antonia saw a woman in the corner of her eye. She glanced over her shoulder. The garden was empty. Scared, she reached inside her zip-up jacket pocket, took out the key, unlocked the door, and quickly stepped inside.
Since Ruth’s untimely death, Allen had become a recluse, constantly phoning the office with excuses for not going into work. Instead, he completed tax assessments in their three-bedroom terraced house in the high street, submitting the outcomes online.
Privately, his senior partner at the firm was relieved that Allen preferred to work remotely. Half of the office team had struggled into work on a crowded Underground train and succumbed to the virus. Seven had since died of respiratory failure in an overwhelmed hospital intensive care facility. There was talk of closing the firm at the end of the tax year and laying off all the staff.
No-one had an inkling of how long the pandemic would continue to proliferate: weeks, months, years? The mood of the nation changed to one of uncertainty and fear. Allen contemplated his fate: an indefinite period of self-isolation. If he survived the virus. He had few friends to speak of other than Kean, who could be stuck in Bulgaria for weeks, a handful of casual acquaintances at work.
Ruth was his life. They’d been trying for a child. It was all too much. He slumped against the supermarket wall coughing his rasping dry cough, out of breath, intensely fatigued, smiling inanely to himself at Antonia’s ridiculous outpourings of false comfort:
‘I’ll help you find her. We’ll put Ruth’s soul to rest. I know the Tawney. Do you ride? I’ll make a picnic. It’s a lovely ride. You’ll love it! She’ll love it! We can all love as one!’
Ride? He could barely stand. Doubt crept into his mind about Antonia’s true intentions. Was their meeting really a coincidence? Or had she planned it all along? Had she sent the ghoulish messages from Ruth? If so, how could she act in such a despicable, cruel, way towards him?
With the doubt came a growing sense of guilt at the way he cheated on Antonia. His illicit trysts with Ruth in the cheap Airbnb in Gants Hill. Pretending to work late at the office while Toni cooked his favourite creamy turkey lasagne for supper. The hurt he inflicted on her when she returned to her flat to find him packing his bags. The way in which he left her, crying on the toilet. Wasn’t that cruel? And through it all she’d never stopped loving him. A love-lump formed in his throat as he recalled her desperation, the hope in her sad eyes, her offer of a new life:
‘Can we be friends again, please?’
Antonia scaled the concrete stairs to her flat. Everything was going well: her poetic messages to Allen, her surveillance of his house, their perfectly-timed meeting in the supermarket. She breathed a sigh of relief, slammed the door behind her, dropped the bag on the floor, and rushed to the toilet. After she’d peed, she washed her hands for twenty seconds, dried them on a sheet of kitchen roll, then she stared at herself in the mirror.
She took off her cap. Her scalp was burning hot, her hair saturated with sweat. The sweat ran down her face, soring her eyes, making her wince. The salt tainted her mouth, leaving a briny tang on her palate. Her head ached. Her muscles ached. She struggled to catch her breath.
‘Must’ve caught the virus from Allen,’ she decided, ‘So much for my herd immunity. I need him, want him. Can’t stand this loneliness any longer, feel so lonely without my baby.’
She closed her eyes, picturing The Tawney in her mind’s eye. The wonderful walled garden, she discovered on a cycle ride. Its broken walls, smothered with ivy. The overgrown vegetable plot strewn with dandelions and weeds. The disused potting shed. Her secret – which lay within.
‘I should get some rest,’ she resolved, ‘I’ll feel better after some sleep, feel more like making love.’
Sensing a thrill inside her, Antonia brushed her teeth and went to her bed, forgetting to unpack the shopping which lay scattered on the bathroom floor.
Allen pulled himself together and trudged homewards. At the end of the lane, he turned right into the high street. At this time on a Monday morning there would normally be a queue of cars stretching from the mini-roundabout, opposite the new home hub, to the traffic lights at the far end of Bell Common. Today, other than an ambulance which tore past him with its sirens wailing and a white delivery van, the street was empty.
He stopped to read a hastily scrawled notice on the glass door of the first restaurant, an Indian, in a small parade of shops. The notice said that the owners had been forced to close indefinitely as a result of the virus. Allen inspected other signs: at the entrance to a Chinese restaurant, a trendy gift shop, Turkish barber’s, a designer kiddie’s clothes shop, the local estate agents, dry cleaners. All closed due to the virus. Why hadn’t he noticed them before? The Indian corner shop was still open. He decided against going inside for fear of seeing the latest news headlines.
At last, he reached home. He crossed the crazy-paved garden, inserted a key in the lock, and paused to listen. The world fell silent. There was no constant drone of traffic from the nearby motorway. No workmen’s bustle. Or children’s laughter. Only birds, singing. He’d never felt so alone in his life.
Antonia stood in front of her bedroom mirror, unwound her scarf, removed her quilted jacket, then pulled her worn brown tee-shirt over her head. Topless, loving the tickle of the sun on her bare skin, she appraised the soft puffy protuberances jutting from her boyish chest, her exposed ribs, the cute stub of belly button protruding from her wasted stomach.
‘Oh God, won’t you look at me now,’ she murmured, bursting into tears, ‘Hope I please him. Hope he can love me like this.’
She forced herself to spit out the words, ‘His sad little boy-girl.’
Crying, blinking out her stinging teardrops, Antonia undid her belt, pulled down her jeans, and climbed into bed. She lay on her back, shut her eyes and dreamed of the potting shed, imagining the look of surprise on his face when she shut the shed door behind her, locked them inside, and stripped off in front of him: the divine explanation she rehearsed every night.
Allen closed the door behind him and walked through the small hallway. Past Ruth’s treasured lounge diner. Her walnut writing desk, shelves crammed with books, embroideries, paintings, trinkets, cameos, knickknacks, the dusky pink chaise longue, her comfortable armchair,
‘My little bird’s nest, see sweetheart,’ Ruth so lovingly used to call it in her soft, lilting Welsh.
He leaned against the jamb of the diner door, staring at her empty armchair, bathed in sunlight.
Then she was there, for him. Ruth, his beautiful bride. Her oaken hair flowing in flouncy curls, fluffy waves, into the small of her slender back, kissing the milky beige skin of her breasts. Her caramel peek-a-boo nipples clearly visible through the elaborated patterning of her white lace.
He sank to his knees, suppressed, compressed, confounded by her beauty, her virginal purity. Ruth had saved herself for him for their wedding night. She took his breath away. Her skimpy bodice accentuated her bare shoulders, her slender arms. He started to cough. Her slim fingers were buried within the lacy folds, the stiff furls, of her dress. He felt a sharp stab in his chest.
Antonia propped her faithful old bicycle against the mossy wall and stood at the railway bridge, gazing down the deserted station platforms, their empty trains. There was a shrill whine, a brief announcement, and one of the trains moved off. She watched it fade into the distant heat-haze, and wondered if life would ever return to normal. A sense of hopelessness possessed her. The virus plagued her mind and body, weakening her inner resolve to survive the onslaught of her second wave. Then there was the portent, the warning the woman mouthed when they met in the garden. Her deathly vision of their future. Were they destined to die of her virus? Was their mutual infection a punishment for falling in love again, so soon after her premature death?
A train rumbled into the platform. A blackbird sang. Antonia shook herself to her senses. Life without Allen, his love and care for her, would be unimaginable, her dire loneliness unbearable. She would despair, lose the will to live, end it all. She felt the rucksack between her legs, knelt down on the smooth tarmac and unzipped it, revealing the chilled cans of ginger beer and foil-wrapped low-fat cheese and vine tomato sandwiches: the best menu she could muster given the circumstances.
‘Anyway, it’s too late to change my mind now,’ she decided, ‘I made us lunch.’
Antonia drew her phone out of her quilted jacket pocket and checked to see if she had any new messages or missed calls. Unsurprisingly, there were none. She checked the time on the screen:
10:30.
Her heart fluttered with excitement.
When Allen woke up on the carpet, Ruth had disappeared. Groggy, he felt the hard bulge inside his sagging tracksuit bottoms vibrate. He withdrew the phone from its velvet cover and looked. The orange circle next to the saffron message icon indicated that he had a new message, it read:
Come to The Tawney, we can marry and then we’ll make love,
You can’t ignore me, I’m the woman your dreams are made of.
His mind raced. He selected apps. WhatsApp was on a second screen, next to Skype, Assistant, and Play Music. The orange circle next to the green quote icon told him: he had a new message. His heart beat like a funeral drum. His mind instructed him to leave the message well alone, avoid temptation, trust to fate. Against his better judgement, he opened it:
Come to The Tawney, where we married and then we made love,
You can’t ignore me, I’m the woman your dreams were made of.
Allen collapsed in a pool of tears, gripping the phone. His battery was low. His device had fifteen percent power remaining: wasting away – like him. A yellow sun shone on the screen. Vaguely remembering Toni’s rendezvous with him on the bridge, he stared blankly at the time:
10:30
Distressed, Allen shook himself out of his stupor. He’d been asleep for two and a half hours. Deciding to forego breakfast and a bath, he flew upstairs, changed into his best pale grey t-shirt and matching chinos, threw on some sneakers, and visited the bathroom. He peed briskly before sanitizing his hands and brushing his teeth. His beard needed trimming. There wasn’t time. He checked his face vainly in the mirror:
‘Hair looks good today. Shame about the shadows under my sexy brown eyes. Can’t be helped.’
Allen descended the stairs two-at-a-time, raced through the kitchen, crossed the artificial lawn, and hurled open the door to the garden shed. His hybrid mountain bike still had two flat tyres.
11:45
‘He isn’t coming, I know it.’
With a heavy heart, Antonia mounted her ladies’ bicycle, adjusted the strap on her dayglo pink helmet, selected first, and slowly pedalled up the steep incline of Station Hill. She met Allen hurtling down the hill in sixth. Passing her by in a grey blur at great speed. He called out to her,
‘Toni!’
Her heart leapt inside her chest: the thrill of him,
‘Allen! What kept you? I thought you’d stood me up.’
He applied both brakes at the same time, so sharply that he left the saddle, almost flying over the handlebars in his bid to stop. He pulled up opposite her, near their local care home. She scootered across the road to be with him. His smile filled the width of his face. She had never seen him so happy. He warmed her heart. Toni was delighted. Allen had suffered so much grief since Ruth’s death. She would make him happy, she vowed, always, for the rest of their lives. He was laughing, madly.
Love it when you laugh, she reflected,
‘Well, why’re you so late?’
‘I had some punctures to repair. Do you believe that?’
She sounded surprised, ‘Oh, really?’
Allen flushed and looked down at his pedals. Toni was used to his lies, inured by his deceitful past. He stopped lying to her,
‘I’m sorry, I was ill. I went back to bed, and overslept.’
Antonia sighed with frustration, ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Better, thanks.’
‘You don’t look better. You look awful.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Allen,’ she said firmly, ‘It’s half hour ride downhill to The Tawney. There’s a steep uphill climb all the way back. Are you sure you can manage it?’
Barely concealing his irritation, he snapped, ‘Sure, I can.’
Antonia shook her head at him. She made her mind up, ‘Okay, let’s go then, shall we?’
There were shattered terracotta tiles on its roof, allowing the sunshine in, covered with clinging moss. The windows were coated in thin green algae, creating privacy for her, the solid oak door bore a sturdy padlock.
The Potting Shed where she and Allen had first made love.
Antonia had cleared away the broken clay pots and left them piled in an untidy heap by the garden wall. The green and yellow mattresses, arranged neatly on the splintered wooden floor, were brand-new, bought at a local garden centre, which was closed except for collected orders.
The sun hid behind some thick black clouds. The air turned dense and muggy. There was a thunderstorm brewing. They removed each other’s cycling helmets, and strung them onto their handlebars. The bike rested against the garden wall: Allen pushed his hand through his soaking wet hair. His t-shirt was drenched in sweat. His tight-fitting chinos clung to his red-sore crotch, abrading his groins with an inflamed rash. He felt weak, sick, uncomfortable in the stultifying heat. Antonia felt sorry for him. She took his hand in hers, and led him to the potting shed door.
She mothered him, ‘Come on, let’s get you inside out of the heat, shall we?’ peering skyward, ‘Looks like rain, doesn’t it?’ unhinging the padlock, ‘I’ve a surprise for you,’ opening the door.
Eagerly, she gestured for him to step into the half-light. There was a rumble of thunder. A flash of blanket lightning illuminated the dark skies overhead. The first spatters of heavy rain fell on their bare heads. Allen lingered, inhaling the freshly-charged air. The clouds burst. Rain teemed down from the heavens, soaking them both to the skin. Invigorated by the cool refreshing rain, they entered the warm earthy dry of the potting shed. The air was stale: filled with must, dust, soil, an unfamiliar putrid smell. Antonia firmly shut the stable door behind her, and set the lock.
Allen surveyed the shed: bare walls, cobwebs, bare floor, window daubed in grime, mattresses?
The rain drummed on the rooftiles. Deliriously happy and content, Antonia recited her poetry,
‘Come to The Tawney, we can marry and then we’ll make love,
You can’t ignore me, I’m the woman your dreams are made of.’
Allen slumped to his knees, crawled onto a mattress, and lay with his hands behind his head, exhausted, overwhelmed by his mixed emotions,
‘It was you all along, wasn’t it? The text, the message, our chance meeting in the supermarket.’
‘Of course, it was me. Who did you think it was, Ruth?’
She felt inside her pocket, drew out her white-gold wedding ring, and slid it onto her ring finger,
‘I still love you, Allen. Do you still love me?’
He was lost for words. Ruth had been dead for only four weeks. He had rediscovered love with his ex-wife. Dare he commit his heart, mind and body to Antonia, so soon after Ruth’s decease? The rain splashed down on the potting shed roof. But they were safe: snug and warm, inside. Her longing, yearning face implored him to love her. He wanted her. He pushed himself up off the mattress, went and clung to her. Felt her slim fingers clawing his damp hair. Her lips kissing his earlobe, whispering gently in his ear,
‘Let’s get you out of your wet clothes, shall we? Might as well make the best of the situation.’
He stood perfectly still as she peeled off his tee-shirt, pulling it over his head. She smudged his cheeks with nude lipstick thumbing his tightly closed lips, prising them apart, savouring his hungry mouth, swallowing his saliva, loving his acrid taste on her palate. He felt her lips trailing down his bristled neck, through his fuzz of hair, her lambent tongue flickering like a snake’s lick, teasing his nipples. Voraciously, she tore out the copper stud holding up his chinos, pulled his fly, unfurling him, exposing his classic charcoal grey men’s briefs, the bulge which grew within. Antonia pulled his trousers down as far as his knobbly knees, wishing she had a cane,
‘They’re stuck!’ she remarked, giggling.
Allen sat on the mattress, removed his sneakers and sports socks, then shed his cloying chinos. Straining, rearing, for her, he wanted to take down his briefs. She raised an admonishing hand,
‘No, leave them on. Sit still and wait for me.’
He sat on the floor with his legs crossed like a child at a school assembly, watching her undress. When she was wearing just her soft panties, Toni lay on the mattress beside him. They listened to the downpour, strumming, sheeting, over their heads. The sun came out shining thru the rain. She turned to face the window, childish in her excitement, boyish in her physical appearance,
‘There’ll be a rainbow.’
She lay back for him, ready, willing to make love. He teased her nipples with his lips, plucking at her tender growths, pleasuring, arousing her, sucking, pulling, even twisting them. His mouth released her tiny breast. He asked her his vital question. She gave him her determined response,
‘Want to have your baby, Allen.’
His hand slid over her exposed rib cage, pausing to caress her cute stud of navel, her divine belly. She rasped, struggling to breathe, sweating profusely. He felt inside her panties, parting her mound of lush, soft, moist hair, gently caressing her. She thrilled to his touch, running her fingertips through his damp hair, pausing to rub his earlobes, venturing down his neck, his taut spine, until she reached the fuzz of hair in the small of his back, sighing, pleading for him,
‘Make love to me.’
Struggling to restrain his burning desire for her, he pulled her panties down, lifting each of her legs in turn to unravel the tangle around her ankles, thrilled by her denouement. He lay on her, crushing her fragile body with his physique, groaning as she slid her soft hands inside his briefs and peeled them off, exposing his clenched hairy buttocks to the warmth of the breaking sun,
‘I love you, Toni.’
She gazed into his weary eyes, imploring him, demanding of him, ‘Love me, baby, won’t you?’
His forbidden fruit. They kissed.
He thrust himself deep inside her, gasping as she wrapped her slender calves around his thighs, loving the thrill, the joyride of her impalement, seeding her, her rash of disappointment, his sad voice,
‘I’m sorry, I.’
‘That’s okay, honey, I love you. Anyways, any ways, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? The sentiment?’
She caught her breath and fell asleep, emotionally fulfilled, their bodies intimately entwined.
He turned his head and saw her, watching them through the grimy window. She looked sad, wistful. Her bushy brows were raised in pity for him. Her eyes: teary, sorrowful, mournful. His mouth dried, he couldn’t speak. Her lovely face. The sublime contour of her chin, her sensuous high cheeks, her soft, snub nose. Tears ran down her blushing face, trickling as far as her mouth. She parted her thin lips. She felt her breath on him, her soft beige brushing his lips, her mouth enfolding his. He struggled for breath, suffocating. Demented thoughts pervaded his distrait mind.
Ruth changed: she wore a soot-black fascinator. A wide-meshed veil covered her face as far as her crude hair lip. Allen craned his head, worshipping his bridal queen, his adored wife on their wedding day, their sacred words. He felt her excruciating pain as she died, her love stabbing him deep inside his heart, as she opened her blood-red mouth to speak,
‘Come to The Tawney, where we were married and then we made love,
You can’t escape me, I’m the woman your dreams are made of.’
Her face became indistinct. Ruth gradually faded away. He felt Antonia stirring beneath him. He looked into her eyes. They were brimming with tears. Her face was lit by the happiest smile. He brushed her damp cheeks, brushed away her tears, stroked her hair. He loved her so much,
‘You’re crying, Toni.’
She found herself wanting him again, rubbing the hairy small of his back, clawing his buttocks,
‘I always cry when I make love, you know. How are you feeling?’
He relaxed onto her, sighing contentedly,
‘I haven’t felt so well in years. I love you, Antonia.’
She felt his weight, his manly body bearing down on hers, igniting his passion with her promise,
‘It’s over, Allen, I promise. She’s gone. I can feel it. I can feel her, sweetheart, I can feel her…’
Ruth
