‘They’ve found Marjorie Benson dead,’ came the reply.
Johnny cycled on to the slipway, peddling like a lunatic. He propped his bike against the deckchair stand and set off along the three miles of beach. He took off his battered desert boots and red nylon socks and walked barefoot, kicking the sand with his toes. As he walked his chin sank lower and lower into his chest, and he began to sob great heaving sobs which racked his body. The tears came freely, burning hot and pouring down his cheeks, soaking the front of his tee shirt.
A couple taking a late stroll along the water’s edge looked at him curiously as he passed. Johnny didn’t even notice them. His grief was the grief of a very young man, too young to know that time can heal and despair does lift. His world had ended and Johnny made no attempt to wipe away the tears. It was the first time Johnny had wept since the death of his grandfather, and once again he felt that overwhelming sense of guilt. This time he was to blame.
He stooped to pick up a handful of pebbles and threw them angrily into the sea, tears still pouring down his face. He squatted in the sand, sobbing for what seemed like hours. But in the end the tears did stop. Dusk had turned to pitch blackness and within its comforting cloak he relived the six months of his life since he had first met Marjorie Benson.
It had been the day of his eighteenth birthday. His uncle had invited him to play a round of golf with him in the morning. Johnny was a natural athlete, he had been given golf lessons at school, and although he played very little he wasn’t bad. He had the makings of a good golfer. At lunchtime Uncle Len had made a great show of buying him a pint in the clubhouse — it was his eighteenth birthday after all. Marjorie was behind the bar. He had been aware of her from the moment he walked into the place. He found her extraordinarily attractive, and to his delight she seemed to take every opportunity to chat to him. She didn’t talk down to him, either, the way he suspected most women of her age would — he guessed she was in her early thirties. She looked stunning in a simple short black skirt and soft clingy white sweater which emphasised her sleek boyish figure. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her body as she moved. She caught him looking, raised her eyebrows inquiringly and smiled. He blushed crimson and was glad to be asked to join his uncle for lunch in the dining room.
It was while Uncle Len was visiting the gents’ that Marjorie strode through the room, barely pausing as she dropped a piece of paper into Johnny’s lap. It was a scribbled note inviting him to her room in the clubhouse and telling him how to get there.
‘Make sure nobody sees you,’ he was instructed.
Johnny couldn’t believe it. Could this possibly mean what he thought it meant? As his uncle returned to the table, Johnny was afraid that he was still blushing and would give himself away. After lunch he turned down the offered lift back to Durraton with a vague excuse. As soon as the coast was clear he nipped up the stairs behind the bar and found Marjorie’s room as directed. Surreptitiously he tapped on the door. When she opened it he saw that she had changed into a shirt which reached almost to her knees. She was wearing nothing else. Several buttons were undone at the front and he could just glimpse the slight swell of her breasts. Her legs were bare and brown and so were her feet. He even found her toes attractive. She leaned forward and lightly touched his shoulder, drawing him into the room.
He was overwhelmed by the nearness of her. He thought that she smelt of spring flowers and cool clear water drawn straight from a well. She closed the door behind him and he stood quite still, his arms hanging limply by his sides. He was terribly nervous. He did not know what to do. She stepped towards him, placed her hands loosely behind his neck and kissed him very gently on the lips. Her touch was feather light. He thought he had not felt anything so lovely in the whole of his life. She tasted of honey. He thought he had never tasted anything so delicious. He did not move. He realised he was frightened. He had been ever since the court case. Now here was a complete stranger who was making all the going. Whatever happened he supposed he would get the blame.
She was caressing the back of his neck, long fingers reaching inside his shirt.
‘Your skin is like satin bathed in sunshine,’ she whispered. ‘Warm, smooth, soft.’
She spoke beautiful English, with a slight accent Johnny could not place.
She placed her lips against his ear, barely touching, her tongue flicked against him, wet, tantalising.
‘Would you like to stay here with me a while?’
He felt himself nod.
She smiled. ‘Do you like me?’
He nodded again.
‘Would you like us to lie down together?’
This time he could not even nod. He felt the deep blush spread over his face again and realised sharply just how afraid he was. Crazily he imagined some kind of trap. He pulled himself abruptly away from her, and took several steps backwards in the direction of the door, until he was able to reach behind him for the handle.
‘I can’t,’ he stumbled. ‘You don’t know about me... I just can’t...’
She moved towards him again and touched his cheek. ‘It’s all right. Everything is all right. Just stand where you are, perfectly still.’
Her eyes were locked onto his. There was something eerie about her. It was as if she was hypnotising him, willing him to put his trust in her. She spoke to him softly, reassuringly, resting her arms lightly on his shoulders, before eventually she kissed him again, and gradually he realised that this was going to be different from anything he had previously experienced. And he became quite certain that he could indeed trust her.
He could sense the poetry in her. This was how it had always been meant to be. She began to undress him. She unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off him. Johnny knew he had a fine, well-muscled body. She stepped back and admired him and then she started to stroke his shoulders, his chest, his back, his stomach. Oh, and she was so gentle, so loving, all the time looking deep into his eyes. He reached out for her, ready now to take her in his arms.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No. Don’t move, my love.’
She crouched before him and unlaced his shoe, and lifting each foot in turn she took off his shoes and socks. Incredibly, extraordinarily she brushed her lips over his feet, flicked her tongue between his toes. She reached up and undid his belt, unzipped his flies and then slid his trousers down over his long lean thighs. Again he reached for her. Again she told him no.
She pulled his trousers off him, first one leg, and then the other. He stood before her in white Marks & Spencer Y-fronts. This was unreal, he thought. It must be a dream.
‘You are beautiful,’ she told him. ‘So beautiful. You have the body of an angel. My own angel.’
She reached up and felt him through the smooth cotton. Then her fingers tucked inside the waistband and she pulled his pants down. First off one leg and then the other. Now he was naked. He glanced down at himself with interest. He wasn’t even erect. She was in charge of everything this first time they were to be together. Even that.
She took him in her hands and stroked him and he started to swell. Then she knelt up and took him in her mouth. He had not known what she was doing to him was even possible. He really hadn’t. Her lips were so warm, her tongue was so gentle, he thought he was going to die of pleasure.
Eventually she coaxed him to the bed, sitting him on the edge. She stood in front of him and he saw that she was naked. He had not noticed her slip off the loose shirt. He gazed at her, loving every inch of her with his eyes. This time she stood still, enjoying the feel of his gaze, understanding him and his desires. Her breasts were perfect, standing up, pointing towards him. Her flat tummy led to the warm mound of her womanhood and crazily he noticed that her pubic hair was a different colour to the distinctly red hair of her head. She sat on the bed beside him, took his hand and kissed it.