Читать книгу Three Wishes - S. C. Loader - Страница 10

Chapter 2

‘Hello.’

The sudden and unexpected sound of another human voice startled him.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’

His heart was still recovering from the missed beat when he looked up to see a young woman, a particularly beautiful young woman. He struggled to stand up while simultaneously stuttering out a greeting of sorts.

‘Sorry I did not mean to startle you.’ Her voice was as beautiful as she was.

‘No, that’s okay,’ indicating with his hand a suitable place where she could sit, ‘please.’ He hoped that his ‘please’ did not sound too eager.

She smiled a thank you.

They both sat down. George returned to his previous seat and she sat to his left and unusually close he thought considering he was a complete stranger to her.

He would have said she was in her late twenties, but then she could be five years older or younger and he would never be able to tell the difference. Guessing a woman’s age was a minefield to him and invariably he always managed to step on one.

She wore a red, very feminine off-the-shoulder dress, which snugly fitted her contours down to the hips then flared slightly ending just below the knees. She certainly knew how to dress to capture a man’s attention, subtly hinting at her feminine charms without actually displaying them. An art he felt so many women no longer possessed.

Her arms were bare, as were her shapely legs. Her feet were small and she wore classic, short heeled, red leather shoes, which perfectly matched the colour of her dress. These especially delighted him, as he disliked the modern shoe styles intensely.

She was slim, but unlike those undernourished matchsticks that parade up and down catwalks, she remained perfectly proportioned. He was of an average height and pleasingly she was half a head shorter and contrary to the popular convention promoted in the media she was ‘beautiful’ although she was shorter than a lamppost. The reason behind the media’s insistence on only using ‘beautiful’ to describe tall women and ‘pretty’ or ‘cute’ for those of lesser stature had always baffled him, especially as they seemed happy to bend the rules for those shorter women who were either rich or famous.

‘What an idyllic place it is here and just look at that wonderful view!’

He was beginning to like her, not only did she possess an admirable beauty but also here at last was someone who appreciated the things he did.

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Oh yes! It is so peaceful here,’ her eyes widened with delight, ‘and look at all those beautiful flowers and these magnificent trees!’

Yes, he really did like her.

As she seemed content to continue admiring her surroundings, George contented himself by admiring her. A plain golden bracelet with a matching necklace and small golden loop earrings complimented her simple but elegant style. There were none of those unsightly adornments so popular with modern women, no studs through her nose or lips, no tattoos, no chains, no unwieldy rings decorating her fingers, in fact, she wore no rings at all, nor was she wearing a wristwatch. She also appeared to be without the accursed mobile telephone, or even a handbag of any description which he considered somewhat unusual, but the conspicuous absence of two further items raised his curiosity to a point where he asked himself, ‘How did she get here?’ She was without keys so she had not driven here, she had no purse so she could not have taken a bus nor a taxi, and although she could have cycled he deemed it unlikely that a woman in possession of such elegance of movement and attire would choose such a mode of conveyance. Even setting aside the transport question, how did she find her way to his sanctuary? The solution to this may have been easier to find if he had seen or heard her approach the tree, then he would have known from which direction she had come from, but he had not and her shoes did not provide any clues either. They were perfectly clean so she could not have come through the forest, even at this time of the year the tracks were still very muddy, nor could she have climbed the hill from the farm track below, which although dry was very rugged and required far better footwear than hers. After a minute or so mulling over his thoughts on the subject, he decided the question was of no importance and returned his full attention to admiring her, a very enjoyable task indeed.

The predicted light breeze had arisen and could now be felt as it gently made its way through the trees. As it passed by en route to its mysterious destination, it playfully lifted the loose strands of her long brown hair into the flickering rays of sunlight that had managed to penetrate nature’s parasol. As they passed through the light, that age-old cliché perfectly described this enthralling spectacle, each hair shone like a thread of pure gold.

Alas, even hair as beautiful as this cannot compensate for an unsympathetic hairstyle, which is how he felt about hers. Artistically, rather than accidentally, a lock of hair on either temple had been allowed its freedom while the majority had been drawn tightly backwards and constrained by two plaits, one above the other. As a decorative touch, each played host to a small bow whose colour once again, perfectly matched that of her dress. Although not a style he particularly liked, it did have the very agreeable advantage of not only exposing the sides of her face but also her neck. Being no different from the great majority of men, he also enjoyed admiring beautiful women and found, as all men did, certain parts of the female anatomy to be far more appealing than some others. Breasts and legs commonly appealed to most men, however, he favoured eyes and necks. Unfortunately, unless he was on intimate terms with their owner, eyes were often difficult to admire without triggering a woman’s self-defence system, her tongue. A repercussion worth avoiding, especially by those like himself who lacked that extraordinary skill of producing an instant, resistance crumbling response when verbally confronted.

Happily and rather curiously, admiring necks never provoked the same reaction. Whether it was because women found this form of admiration less threatening, or were simply unaware that their necklines held the same sensual seductiveness for some men as their breasts and eyes held for others, he did not know, but whatever the reason was he was not going to seek it, admiring necks was considerably safer than asking potentially dangerous questions about them.

The neck of the young woman sitting opposite him was certainly worth admiring and engrossed in its alluring, elegant beauty George failed to notice that she had turned her head towards him. When he eventually looked up, his eyes fell straight into hers. Quickly he turned his head away in an attempt to hide his embarrassment at having been caught.

‘Do you like what you see?’ she asked.

Having recovered his composure sufficiently he turned back to her, ‘Yes you’re very…’ he paused desperately trying to find a suitable adjective that would be truthful yet inoffensive. Experience had taught him that some women, especially the more attractive ones, often view an overt compliment negatively, believing it to show that a man’s interest in them is only sexual. ‘Pretty, very pretty,’ came his considered compromise.

Avoiding her eyes he quietly spoke the words that the lack of courage did not allow, ‘Stunning, absolutely stunning!’

‘Thank you, I must admit I am very pleased with it myself.’ She looked herself up and down, ‘This really does make a pleasant change.’ Pausing to lightly cup her breasts in her hands, ‘Usually, I have to carry around abnormally large breasts and they always cause such dreadful backaches.’ She moved her hands down to her waist, ‘Look! A real waist!’ Then giving a gentle tug to the hem of her dress, ‘Sensible clothes and proper shoes too!’ and she stretched out one of her shapely legs and rotated her foot so that she could admire her shoe fully. ‘Those high heels are so difficult to walk on, why do men like women to wear them?’

George knew exactly why, but shrugged his shoulders to indicate otherwise, he felt that now would be an inappropriate time to explain the relationship between men, visually lengthened legs and sexual attractiveness.

‘Do you have a mirror?’ she enquired with a hint of expectation in her voice, ‘I would love to know what I look like, am I really as pretty as you say I am?’

George looked her up and down quizzically, ‘I’m sorry, I do not mean to be offensive, but one of us isn’t making a great deal of sense,’ adding an apologetically toned, ‘and… it’s not me.’

‘Why?’ she asked with an innocence that denoted she had either not understood his comment or had chosen to ignore it. She precluded any opportunity for a reply, ‘So you do not have a mirror. Shame, I would like to have seen myself before I go back.’ She gave a little sigh and with a sorrowful look turned to him, ‘No one has ever described me as “Stunning” before.’

Wide-eyed and somewhat sceptically he enquired, ‘You heard that?’

She did not answer.

Fidgeting about uneasily George tried to hide another bout of embarrassment while hastily evaluating his situation and his limited options.

She was physically a dream come true, but she was also to his mind behaving very strangely, so what should he do? Leave now and avoid any further uncomfortable incidents, or stay?

Eventually, after removing a small excuse-serving twig from where he had been sitting, he settled back down.

With his decision taken his gaze slowly returned to the beauty sat beside him.

She had also changed position, leaning against the tree on her right shoulder her upper body now almost faced him squarely and her outstretched legs had been drawn up and turned sideways so that both knees pointed towards him. A position that oddly made him feel very comfortable in her company despite his misgivings about her behaviour.

He said nothing and restricted his gaze to her hands that now rested together on her lap. He had already made two mistakes and was not keen on making a third, which he concluded might be the one that would drive her away, and he would rather spend his last few hours admiring this beautiful example of nature’s artwork than the one in the valley below.

The discovery of her own hair induced a delightfully broad smile and although conceding that her hair was indeed extraordinarily beautiful, he could not understand her obvious joy at this discovery, nevertheless, he smiled in response.

‘Talk to her or she’ll leave,’ he thought to himself, ‘say something!’

She was still admiring her hair when he finally plucked up enough courage to break the silence, ‘Do you not have any mirrors where …’ he paused slightly, ‘where you go back to?’

He mentally kicked himself for not thinking of something far more interesting to ask, yet again proving his university education was insufficient to overcome the affliction caused whenever his admiration and a beautiful woman met for the first time, the lack of co-operation between his brain and his tongue.

Seemingly undisturbed by the lack of intellect in the question she calmly replied, ‘No, we have no use for them.’

‘Then why did you just ask me for one?’

‘Because I am here,’ and she gestured with her hands to indicate their present idyllic surroundings, then without the slightest hint in which direction it lay added, ‘and not there.’ Brought to her attention by her own gesturing she looked up momentarily from her hands, ‘I am different every time I come here and I was curious to know how I looked on this occasion.’

Each time she spoke, her words only confirmed his belief that not everything inside her pretty head was quite as it should be, ‘Beautiful but unbalanced!’ he thought to himself.

Surreptitiously George looked her over once again while she was busy admiring or examining, he was not sure which, the lines in the palms of her hands and spun his thoughts further. If she was unbalanced he could possibly trigger a violent reprisal simply by saying or doing something completely innocent. What would he do if she did attack him? He pictured a possible scenario in his head, she suddenly leaps up and brandishing a razor-edged kitchen knife, she charges at him screaming. Although fully capable of dealing with a man in such a situation, his principles would cause him great difficulties with a woman assailant, for they prohibit him, even in self-defence, from striking a woman.

Urgently seeking evidence of a potential threat his eyes passed her over once again, her apparent innocence, serenity, and radiant beauty quickly defused his thoughts, ‘Besides,’ he happily concluded, ‘nobody could possibly hide a weapon under that dress anyway!’

‘OK, perhaps she’s not dangerous, but she’s still deranged.’ Feeling highly ashamed of his own discourteous description he hurriedly corrected himself, ‘Eccentric,’ and slowly nodded as if to agree with his new assessment.

A few minutes passed in an amicable silence as he continued to watch her odd, but somehow delightfully innocent behaviour of self-discovery. She had by now removed one of her shoes and her attention was drawn towards five wiggling toes, leaving her face endowed with a broad captivating smile. Not the normal everyday type of smile, but one that comes from the heart, a smile that can be seen in the eyes and brightens the whole face. A smile that is heart-warming and infectious to the beholder, unconsciously he smiled that same smile in response.

Although beguiled by her beauty and her odd but somehow enchanting behaviour, the whereabouts of her ‘there’ and the reason for this very strange behaviour played upon his mind. The thought occurred to him that she could be a member of some weird sect, the particular behaviour of some of these people often left the rest of the population feeling much as he did at the moment, totally bemused. After pondering on the thought for a while he discounted it, nevertheless, he still found himself needing answers to these niggling questions.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how do you apply make-up without mirrors?’ he thought the addition of a compliment would help in case she did, ‘because I think your make-up is terrific.’

His question drew her attention back and she looked straight into his eyes. His heart sank. Had his compliment been misinterpreted? Was she about to get up and leave?

‘Thank you, it is not often men find make-up something worth complimenting women over,’ adding as an afterthought, ‘and Maurice will be pleased to hear his artistry was appreciated.’

‘Maurice!’ exclaimed George, ‘who is Maurice? A Boyfriend? Your husband?’ Until that moment he had presumptuously assumed she was unattached and had not given any thought to the prospect that she may be in a fixed relationship, or far worse, married. Really beautiful women, he conceded, only marry muscular bound, hunky men with IQs equalling that of adolescent gorillas. Therefore, it is good for one’s health to maintain a discrete distance from these women, which on this occasion he had failed to do and the prospect of facing up to a jealous husband was not something he relished the thought of.

Her puzzled expression suddenly transformed into another broad smile, it was as if she had suddenly understood the punch line from a joke, ‘No, Maurice is neither,’ and as if to clarify her last comment added, ‘I am not spoken for.’

George found her use of such an outdated turn of phrase appealing, it also drew his attention to the absurdity of his own thought process. He was sat on the last seat he would ever occupy and there would never be another tomorrow. Yet subconsciously an instinctive sense of self-preservation had stepped in to warn him about the potential future dangers of a relationship. His brain, a claim he knew many would refute he possessed, had gone through the long and exacting process of planning the exclusion of a future, however, there remained one small part of his subconscious that was planning the exact opposite with this woman. He was still wondering whether there was a message to be found within this observation when her voice broke into his thoughts.

‘Maurice was the one who applied my make-up for me. Without mirrors, it is very difficult to do these things oneself so I had to ask one of the other angels to do it for me and Maurice kindly agreed.’

‘Oh! Okay,’ his words were more a courtesy than a reply, for it had occurred to him that she might be toying with him, playing one of those irritating senseless female games to which, in his youth, he had twice fallen victim to.

Both incidents had left him deeply resentful and consequently always wary of unduly positive female attention, furthermore, he had no desire to be publicly humiliated yet again because of some woman’s idea of a practical joke.

Discreetly and on the pretext of adjusting his seat, he took the opportunity to visually search his surroundings, behind tree trunks, the distant undergrowth, and even the treetops because to be successful this joke would require witnesses, but he saw no one.

Relaxing a little, but still distrustful of her motives, he thought over everything she had said and done. If she was playing a game then she was playing it exceptionally well but if not…

Somewhat sarcastically he suggested, ‘And I suppose Maurice-the-make-up-angel also did your hair for you?’ Her smile remained fully undisturbed by his undisguised sarcasm, ‘No, that was Constantia, one of the other angels. She always manages to create a hairstyle that fits all the descriptions, unfortunately, I rarely have an opportunity to see them.’ Then abruptly pointing towards her feet she whispered, ‘Oh look! How sweet!’ Their attention was now drawn to a bird that had landed surprisingly close to her.

George leant slowly back against the tree and watched as she talked to the bird like a mother would do to her newborn baby, quietly and soothingly. She asked the bird, a large magpie, simple questions and like all mothers repeated the simplistic answers they imagine their child would give. Remarkably the bird was not startled by the sound of her voice, on the contrary, it seemed quite content to stay and listen to it.

Were her actions completely natural? If she was playing a game was it possible to maintain her ‘character’ during an unanticipated event such as this?

He thought back to those two incidents many years ago that even today gave rise to great resentment, of his failure to notice the verbal and visual signals that would have saved him from so much humiliation, and of the resulting wariness that he had treated every new relationship with ever since.

He had learnt his lesson and had learnt it well… or had he? Was this resentment really caused by what these two women had done, or was it due to his own failures? Oddly, this was a question that he had never thought to ask of himself before, and the more he thought about it the more he came to realise that it was himself he resented. Anyone can fall into a well-laid trap once, but it takes someone unbelievably foolish to fall into that very same trap a second time. He slowly shook his head, self-realisation did not always result in shouts of joy and triumphant arm-waving.

While watching her continuing natural display of rapport with nature, or was it motherly tenderness, the latter certainly felt far more appealing, he began to wonder whether he had made another mistake. Was he treating this young woman with the same habitual wariness with which, as he now realised, he had unjustifiably treated all of her predecessors? Consequently, was he automatically considering anything unusual she should say or do as a potential threat? Did her strange behaviour really warrant the assumption that it was all an act? If it was, then to what conceivable purpose? She was no longer a teenager that needed to prove to her friends that she had the prowess to manipulate the male gender and there was no victory in proving him to be a fool without witnesses.

Whichever way he thought about it, he could find no justification in continuing to believe she was a spiteful woman playing a game based solely on her strange behaviour, but if she wasn’t, then what were the alternative reasons for this behaviour? Mental delusion? Schizophrenia? Dementia? There were probably far more afflictions of the mind, but these were all that he knew, and if it were one of these then surely she deserved his sympathy rather than his distrust.

He looked at her dress, it was perfectly clean and well ironed and the colour was bright, almost like new, her polished leather shoes also looked relatively new. Her shoeless foot had been well pedicured, her fingernails were well-manicured and her long hair shone with health. Absolutely nothing about her appearance gave him the impression that she was suffering any form of mental affliction but then, would it have shown in her appearance? He had heard that this was often the case with those suffering severe depression, but could this rule be applied to those illnesses he had thought of? Perhaps it was something completely different, but what? And how should he now deal with her not knowing what lay behind this strange behaviour?

Abandoning his concern over her intent was easy, it was unwarranted and unjustifiable and as he now realised, it was born entirely from his own failures, but should he now replace that concern with another, that over her mental state?

Thinking about why he had come here this particular day was all that it took to convince him to simply appreciate her delightful company for as long as it lasted, regardless of her questionable level of sanity, after all… tomorrow it would not really matter.

Having dealt with his concerns left him feeling far more relaxed, however, it had not helped piece together the intriguing puzzle that this young lady had become and although her every word and action added new pieces to it each time, they appeared only to confuse the picture, not clarify it. Nevertheless, he enjoyed puzzles, and this one was becoming of personal interest to him. His only concern now was whether or not he had time to solve it.

He set about his task, if he could uncover the whereabouts of her ‘there’, her only reference to the place where she came from and presumably lived, then some of the smaller pieces of this puzzle may start to fit together.

Maurice and Constantia, he also had to presume, lived in the same place, or perhaps nearby, but in referring to them, she had described both as angels. Those of a religious nature believed angels lived alongside God, together with the spirits of the virtuous in a place called heaven. However, he was not religious and he doubted very much that there would be a need for hair stylists or make-up artists in heaven, unless of course… God was a woman! But as neither angels, God, nor heaven existed, then all three lived here somewhere on earth, but where? The obvious solution would be to simply ask her.

With perfect timing, she returned her attention to him, her conversation with the magpie apparently over, although the magpie itself had clearly not yet realised, as it made no attempt to leave. In fact, it had moved so close the young woman was now able to gently smooth the back of two fingers over it as a mother would to a small child’s cheek.

‘May I ask,’ George enquired in a soft tone so as not to disturb the bird, ‘where do you live?’

‘Back there.’

‘Do Maurice and Constantia live there as well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does this place where you all live have a name?’

‘Of course, but I am unable to pronounce it.’

‘Which way would I have to go to find this place?’

‘You cannot go there, it is not permitted.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you are not an angel!’

In answering his questions she had, either deliberately or accidentally, he felt the former far more likely, successfully avoided giving him any indication as to where ‘there’ was, but it was worth one last attempt.

‘When you arrived at this tree, from which direction did you come?’

Turning slightly, she pointed up into the forest behind them, ‘I came from over there.’

‘At last!’ he thought to himself. ‘Something to work with.’

There was a small village on the very far side of the forest, but it amounted to only a handful of cottages neighbouring a farm and its name, like those of every other town and village hereabouts, would not have presented even the slightest of pronunciation problems. Perhaps this mysterious place was a building rather than a village or town, but why was she so keen on keeping its name a secret? Was she worried he would turn up on her doorstep one day?

A new approach was required, his direct questioning had failed to uncover the name or even the whereabouts of this bizarre place where they had no use for mirrors, but the only other information he had were the occupations of two angels called Maurice and Constantia, and that the latter used ‘descriptions’ to style hair. For a few minutes he mulled over the clues in his head, an idea sprung to mind inspired by one of them.

Something about the appearances of both Maurice and Constantia must have either caused this young woman to perceive them as angels or earned them the pet name of ‘angels’.

‘A n g e l s,’ he said to himself slowly, ‘what do angels look like? They have wings, halos, harps and …’ he had run out of ideas, ‘there must be something more, but what?’ He was annoyed with himself for failing even this relatively simple task. Hoping to find something that would trigger a spark of inspiration he furtively looked her over, her attention had by now returned to the patiently waiting magpie. ‘Hair! All angels are beautiful “blond” women,’ unconvinced he continued his search.

‘Goodbye!’

Her voice broke his concentration and the departing magpie flew so low over his head that he instinctively ducked and there, on the underside of the bird was the elusive inspiration he had been searching for, ‘white!’ he said aloud. Turning to the departing magpie he called after it, ‘Thank you!’

Seemingly undisturbed by this curious outburst, for she neither reacted to nor passed comment on it, she once again turned her upper body to face him, rested her gaze in his and smiled. George now neither concerned about her intent, nor her sanity willingly allowed his eyes to remain a resting place for hers.

Slowly her eyelids fell closed, only for a few seconds, but long enough to allow George to admire the other features of her face, her fine eyebrows and eyelashes, her pretty nose and ears, her smooth, unblemished sun-kissed skin, and her lips. She was, without doubt, the most attractive woman he had ever seen in his entire life, finally, his eyes returned to meet hers and they warmly welcomed him back.

She did not move or speak, and her eyes did not question him, he was for the first time ever, enjoying the opportunity to gaze into the eyes of a singularly beautiful woman without being expected to explain or excuse himself. The warmth within these big hazelnut coloured eyes gently held him captive, and although he did not understand the language he knew they were talking to him.

After a while his thoughts strayed well beyond admiration, blushing slightly, he struggled to divert his mind before evidence of these other thoughts became too obvious. Very reluctantly he broke eye contact, grateful that in such circumstances one’s innermost thoughts remained private.

‘Angels are always dressed in white,’ although his mind returned to the challenge his eyes remained steadfastly with her. She leant herself fully against the tree, made herself comfortable and closed her eyes again. He had never seen an angel, but should one exist then he hoped with all his heart it would look like her. Her contented smile broadened into a bright grin and then back again, leaving him wondering what she was thinking about.

‘What could Maurice and Constantia have worn that made them resemble angels?’ George found that talking to oneself was frequently a good way to solve life’s problems, however, he also found it rather ironic that providing this process was kept to oneself it is socially acceptable, but to speak it out aloud was tantamount to social suicide, or worse, one would be dragged away wearing a straitjacket by men in white coats.

A disturbing thought suddenly crossed his mind. In psychiatric institutions the staff all wear a uniform colour, white! Were the doctors and nurses her angels? Did this also mean that she is under psychiatric care? This would certainly explain her strange behaviour and her reluctance in naming the place where she lived. Could this also be an explanation as to why there were no mirrors ‘there’?

He refocused his eyes, was she now sleeping or simply resting? His head had questions to ask, but his heart wanted no part in disturbing her.