To Sail Beyond The Sunset

Priscilla did not answer. Donald said quietly, ‘Slugger, you're crowding your luck.'

I rejoined George at his car; he handed me in. ‘Where now, dear lady?'

‘I would like to look again at the furnished house.'

‘Good.'

We rode in silence. George Strong was a comfortable man to be with; he had no small talk. Presently I said, ‘Did you bring those two envelopes?'

‘Yes. Do you want them now? If so, I had better park. They are in a concealed zipper pocket, rather hard to reach.'

No, I was just checking, before we got too far from your office.'

When we reached the house, I went upstairs with George at my heels, and into the master bedroom. I started undressing; his face lit up.

‘Maureen, I had hoped that you had this in mind.' He sighed happily and started reaching for fastenings himself. It's been a long time.'

‘Too long. I've been overwhelmed with mother problems and with school. But school is over for me, for a long time at least, and my mother problems I have under control - I hope - and I'll have more time, if you want me.'

‘I'll always want you!'

‘I've been thinking about you and your sweet ways all day. But I had to park the children first. Do you want to undress me? Or shall we both hurry and see how quickly we can be in bed?'

‘What a choice to have to make!'

George wasn't the greatest bedroom artist in the world, but in the six years I had been his now-and-then mistress, he had never left me hanging on the fence. He was an attentive and considerate lover and he took as his prime purpose being certain that his partner in bed reached orgasm.

If he was no Adonis, I was no Venus. When I was Priscilla's age, I looked pretty good - as tasty as she did, I think. But now (1952) I was seventy and a simulated forty-seven, and did look past forty despite special effort. An older woman must work at it, just as George worked at it (and I did appreciate his efforts). She must keep her breath sweet, her inner muscles in good tone, her voice low and mellow, her smile ready and her frown never, and her attitude friendly and co-operative. Father had told me, ‘Widows are far better than brides. They don't tell, they won't yell, they don't swell, they rarely smell, and they're grateful as hell.'

That's Maureen Johnson from 1946 to 1982. When I first heard Father's bawdy formula I was simply amused by it and never expected it to apply to me... until that sour day that Brian let me know that his younger concubine had displaced me. Then I found that Father's joking description was the simple truth. So I became an available ‘emergency squaw'. I worked hard at being agreeable and smelling good. And I didn't insist on Adonis, just a friendly fair exchange with a gentleman. (Never an oaf, never a wimp!)

I always left time for a second one, if he wanted it. He wants it, if you have done the job on him you should do. The reason American men are such lousy lovers is that American women are such lousy lovers. And vice versa, and around and around. ‘Garbage in, garbage out.' You get what you pay for.

That twenty minutes to an hour between goes is the best time in the world for intimate talk.

‘Want first crack at the bathroom?' I asked.

‘No hurry,' George answered, his voice rumbling in his chest (I had my right ear against it). ‘How about you?'

‘No rush. George, that was a goody. And just what I needed. Thank you, sir.'

‘Maureen, you're the one Shakespeare had in mind - "where other women satiate, she most makes hungry":

‘Go along with you, sir.'

‘I mean it.'

‘Tell me enough times and I'll believe it. George, when you do get up, would you please get those envelopes? Wait a moment. Do you have time today for a second one?'

‘I have time. That is what time is for.'

‘All right. I did not want to waste time in bed talking business if you were in a hurry. Because I do know ways to get you up again quickly if you are in a hurry.'

‘You do indeed! But I got a day's work done before ten in order to devote the rest of the day to Maureen.' He got up, got the two envelopes, came back, offered them to me.

I said, ‘No, I don't want to touch them. George, please examine them. Is there any way I could have tampered with them?'

‘I don't see how you could have. They have been in my possession continuously since 4 July 1947.' He smiled at me, and I smiled back - that was the date of the second time we had been in bed together. ‘Your birthday, girl, and you gave me a present.'

‘No, we exchanged presents, to our mutual profit. Examine the envelopes, George - have they been tampered with? No, don't come closer. I might bewitch them.'

He looked them over. ‘The flap seal has both our signatures written across it, on each envelope. I know my signature and I saw you sign under mine. I do not see how even Houdini could have opened them.'

‘Please open number one, George, and read it aloud... and keep it. Put it back into your zipper pocket.'

‘Whatever you say, dear girl.' He opened it and read, ‘ "4 July 1947. In the spring of 1951 a man calling himself ‘Dr Pinero' will infuriate both scientists and insurance men by claiming to be able to predict the date of any person's death. He will set up in business in this sort of fortune-telling. For several months he will enjoy great business success. Then he will be killed or die in an accident and his apparatus will be destroyed. Maureen Johnson." ‘

(As George read aloud, I thought back to that Saturday night, 29 June 1918. Brian slept part of the time; Theodore and I not at all. Every now and then I ducked into the bath, recorded in crisp Pitman everything Theodore told me - many details that he had not given to judge Sperling and Justin and Mr Chapman.)

George said, ‘Interesting. I never did believe that this Doctor Pinero could do what he claimed to do. It must have been some complex hoax.'

‘That's not the point, George.' (I did not speak sharply.)

‘Eh?'

‘It does not matter now whether he was a charlatan or not; the man is dead, his apparatus destroyed, none of his notes remains. So said Time magazine and all the newspapers. All this happened last year, 1951. That envelope has been in your custody since July 1947, four years ago. How did I do it?'

He answered mildly, ‘I wondered about that. Are you going to tell me?'

(Certainly, George. This man from the stars and the future came home and made love to me and told me these things because he thought they could help me. And then he died, killed in a war that wasn't his. For me. [Only now I know that he went back to the stars and I lost him... and found him... and now I'm lost again, in a darkened lorry with a screwball cat: Pixel, don't go away again!])

‘George, I'm a soothsayer.'

‘A soothsayer. That's a fortune-teller.'

‘Literally it means one who speaks the truth. But I am a prophet, rather than a fortune-teller. All those envelopes contain prophecies. Now for envelope number two. Don't opera it quite yet. George, have I been in your office in the past month?'

‘Not to my knowledge. The only time you were ever in it, that I can recall, was about two years ago. We had a dinner date and it suited you to stop by my office rather than be picked up.'

‘That's right. You read the Wall Street journal, I'm sure. You are a director of the corporation managing the Paradise atomic power plant; I suspect that you read the journal pretty carefully concerning public power matters.'

‘That's true. Managing business involves studying all sorts of finicky details.'

‘What is new in the public power business lately?'

‘Nothing much. The usual ups and downs.'

‘Any new power sources?'

‘No, nothing significant. Some experimental windmills, but windmills, even improved ones, can't be classed as new.'

‘How about sunpower, George?'