Читать книгу Three Wishes - S. C. Loader - Страница 11

Chapter 3

The breeze carried the faint chimes of distant church bells down the valley, an especially evocative sound which, like that of humming lawnmowers and clicking garden shears would always be associated with long, hot, but not necessarily lazy summer days.

Through the shimmering heat haze and far beyond the red brick farmhouse stood a large group of trees clustered by the riverbank. From within rose the source of these delightful chimes, the tall, imposing spire of a village church. George had visited the quiet picturesque village in which it stood many times since his divorce. Initially, it had been his interest in buying a cottage there, but sadly ownership of that small piece of the nation’s rural heritage passed into another’s hands. Nevertheless, the village captured his heart and its open-armed friendliness drew him back time and time again, so much so that its small, family-run café began to feel more of a home than his flat did. Here the local customers, especially those who had long since exchanged their teeth for walking sticks would, given the vaguest of excuses, eagerly recite humorous tales from their impossibly long memories. One story in particular, that of a boatload of drunken naked women and two very young inexperienced policemen, had been told countless times and each new rendition was even funnier than the previous. Through these colourful tales, and on less busier days, his long chats with a very pretty young waitress called Doris, he came to know the village, its past and its people.

There did however remain one small island of ignorance in his knowledge of this place, the source of the current and admittedly charming sound of pealing bells, its church. He had never set foot inside it and had never had any desire to do so. Churches he felt were cold and unwelcoming, completely at odds with whom they were built to glorify but then, who exactly were they built to glorify? The God that created man or the God that man created?

The bells once again fell silent and George’s attention returned to the young woman. She was still resting. He now knew that she was not sleeping because she did not make any of those cute, endearing little sounds women made as they slept, at least in his somewhat restricted experience they always seemed to. Her closed eyes once more invited his to roam and they duly accepted this appealing invitation. Slowly they slipped down the full length of her shapely body, pausing at all the usual places that most men find of particular interest, finally finishing at her pretty little toes. Funnily he had never really paid any great attention to toes before, and thinking back through the women that had passed through his life; he could not recall what they looked like on any of them, not even those of his ex-wife. Perhaps, unlike these, they were not attractive enough to be memorable.

An amusing thought crossed his mind. Had he stumbled upon that elusive secret of eternal happiness, an appreciation of your partner’s toes? Perhaps not.

She gave a small sigh and it drew his eyes back to hers, but happily they remained closed, providing a further opportunity to secretly admire her. Following a line from her eyes, down her pretty nose his eyes settled upon her slightly open mouth. Her lips were a pleasing rich pink and happily, she wore no lipstick or lip-liner which he deemed always made women look like clowns, the latter especially so. For a few minutes his gaze remained hypnotised by this sensuous mouth and the longer he gazed at it, the stronger the desire became to lean across the short distance between them and kiss it.

‘Go on… do it!’ come an unsolicited piece of advice from the back of his mind and despite the resolute counterarguments of his morals, George found himself being drawn closer and closer to the point of fulfilling that desire. Her eyelids gently rose and under the gaze of her dark bewitching eyes George froze shamefully, she smiled. Not wishing to withdraw, but still too unsure of himself to advance, he found the encouragement to remain where he was through the warmth in her smile. A few brief moments passed exchanging gazes, the silence only broken by the mysterious language spoken by her eyes, a language that was gradually drawing him closer, a language that caused his heart to race and his breathing to stop.

Abruptly George took a deep breath and withdrew, someone deep inside that department called self-esteem had suddenly, and very loudly, rung the alarm bells. Why it demanded to know, was she not moving towards him? Did she not want to be kissed? Had he misread her signals? Was he about to make a complete fool of himself?

To those men possessing large egos, there was little to fear in making this kind of mistake, but George was definitely not one of these men. He knew he was neither the most handsome of men nor the youngest, strongest, fastest nor the tallest, he was just Mister Average. So why would such an extraordinarily beautiful woman allow him to kiss her? Instantly realising there was no rational reason his eyes immediately deserted hers and sought refuge on the forest floor. Unfortunately, there was no hiding place for his embarrassment to be found there, for despite the fact he had not kissed her, he still felt he had managed to make a fool of himself. He had acted like an over-eager teenager out with his first date, impetuously leaping at the first glimmer of an opportunity to kiss without any regard to its timing or appropriateness. Her eyes may have spoken to him, but he had misinterpreted their warmth and friendliness as something far more intimate, a ridiculous mistake to make at his age, and one he felt he should apologise for.

Drawing a steadying breath he looked up, she was still there but curiously her smile had faded. His apology only amounted to a deplorable ‘Sorry, I…’ before his words failed, her smile or the lack of it had engulfed his thoughts. Why was she not smiling? If she had not wanted to be kissed then she should be smiling, on the other hand, if she had wanted to be kissed then…

A few unspoken expletives followed the realisation that he may have made yet another mistake. He had excelled himself, two mistakes in as many minutes. A feat not even his ex-wife had ever accused him of!

For a few moments, he speculated on his own incompetence, was he alone in the world, the only man incapable of interpreting a woman’s unspoken wishes? If there were others then their numbers must be relatively low as most women seem to assume all men have this remarkable and to his mind, enviable skill… or was it a gift? Either way it was something he did not possess and some deeply regrettable and highly embarrassing incidents bore witness to that, just as the latest had. Alas, reflecting over his own inabilities did not help solve a more pressing problem. Which was the best way to apologise for an affront unintentionally caused while trying to avoid another one… without making himself look more foolish than he already felt? Her gaze had not left him since his first feeble attempt at an apology. Not only did this feel particularly awkward under the circumstances, but he also felt obliged to give an immediate response, one he was yet unprepared for. Allowing his gaze to fall to the open palm of her left hand offered a respite and the chance to gather his thoughts together.

However, even here his thoughts were not to remain undisturbed. The hand that held his gaze slowly cupped as if cradling something, her right hand then softly covered it capturing this unseen but presumably delicate object. Both hands then gently rose from her lap drawing his eyes with them, rising slowly they stopped above her heart. Mounting curiosity gradually displaced all his other thoughts while he waited patiently for something to happen. Smoothly her hands resumed their graceful ascent, rising slowly up past her chin they covered her mouth, then her nose and then once again fell still. He stared at the motionless hands inquisitively, what did they hold captive? Was it as delicate or as beautiful as the cage that enclosed it? Her hands slowly opened and the mystery drew its last teasing breath.

Disappointingly the prisoner was neither delicate nor beautiful, for curiously her hands were completely empty, they held nothing worthy of admiration. But as they continued to move apart they revealed something that was, undeniably so, two wonderful dark enchanting eyes and they smiled affectionately, an affection shared unreservedly by her whole face.

Her gaze no longer invoked the uneasiness that it had previously, now her sparkling eyes simply radiated warmth and friendliness. He still felt she deserved both an apology and an explanation, although it would be difficult as he was not the most articulate of men in these circumstances, but he could not insult her so badly and leave it unaccounted for.

Once again he took a deep breath to steady himself, ‘I’m truly sorry, I did not…’ she touched her lips with a finger to quieten him.

‘But you deserve an explanation,’ again she touched her lips to quieten him.

Perceptively she prevented any further attempt at an explanation by offering one of her own, ‘The first kiss is always the most difficult,’ an accompanying smile and her softly spoken words were a sign of forgiveness, a rare quality, and one that he was grateful she possessed. A reciprocal smile and a simple, ‘Thank you,’ drew the episode to an agreeable, although to his mind not an entirely justifiable conclusion.

With this incident laid to rest George felt it was time to ask her name, then should the same situation arise at least there would be one less argument his morals could use to restrain him.

‘May I…’

‘Christine,’ she replied before he had even finished his question.

‘How did you know what I was going to ask?’ enquired George, his voice still heavily laden with surprise.

‘Because I am a woman and…’

George grinned, ‘I guessed as much!’

‘And… women can read men’s minds!’

‘Rubbish! Women may have their intuition, but they certainly cannot read minds!’

‘Yes, we can.’

‘If that were true,’ argued George, his grin broadening as he caught sight of the mischievous glint in her eyes, ‘then there would be no need for me to tell you my name is George, would there?’

‘Exactly!’

‘I guessed as much!’

‘You “guess” a great deal.’

‘That’s because I’m a man and…’

‘I guessed as much!’

George smiled at her apt and timely use of his own words, ‘And guessing is all I can do, for I would stand a better chance of understanding a paper on advanced theoretical physics than I ever would have of understanding a woman’s mind.’

‘And do you understand advanced theoretical physics?’

‘No, not a single word! Have you ever tried reading that stuff!’

‘Yes, it is a very interesting subject.’

George smiled knowingly and winked at Christine, spontaneously she burst into laughter.

Christine’s laughter slowly faded and they sat for a while in a comfortable silence, broken only by the twittering of a few birds and the sound of a distant tractor. Her name had brought back recollections, and George’s thoughts had wandered back to the distant past of his school days. In particular to a girl in a class one year below his who was, although she never knew it, the first love of his life. Her name was also Christine, but unlike this Christine sat next to him, he had never heard her laugh and sadly could only ever recall seeing her smile once. That was when he helped her stand up after being knocked over by some lumbering oaf.

She was not the prettiest girl in her class and her mother’s strict insistence on both her dowdy, unfashionable clothing and her short, unattractive hairstyle ensured she would never be the most popular either. Predictably none of these were the cause of his childhood crush on her, instead, it was something no one else seemed to notice, her sad but hauntingly beautiful eyes.

Even now, many years later these eyes would return to his thoughts during long restless nights where sleep seemed only a vague possibility. He would lay awake asking himself questions that could never be answered, like what would have happened if he had overcome his youthful fear of being teased and had told her how he felt? Or why did the small, dark heart-shaped birthmark on the back of her left hand embarrass her so? Or why, even though she had caught him staring at her a few times, did she never react like the other girls? There was never a sarcastic comment, no name-calling and she never made the ever-so-popular rude finger signs. Could she have known what he lacked the courage to say? He doubted it, but then he would never know for sure.

Looking at the young woman beside him made him wonder what the Christine of his childhood looked like now, sixteen years later. A hurried calculation caused some dismay, it was not sixteen, but almost eighteen years since that incident. This would now make her approximately thirty-two years old, not a dissimilar age to this young woman. This Christine also shared some similar features to the one of old, especially the eyes, but sadly this one bore no birthmark on the back of her hand, nor any tale-tale sign of ever having had one, just pure unblemished sun-kissed skin. Turning he looked out across the valley. She was out there somewhere and he truly hoped that she had found someone who had taken that sadness from her heart and her beautiful eyes.

Upon returning his attention to Christine, George realised she had been quietly watching him. Immediately he offered an apology, ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to be rude,’ adding the afterthought and what he hoped she would consider an acceptable reason for his impoliteness, ‘Your name brought back memories of someone I once knew long ago.’

Christine smiled, ‘She must have been someone very special if the mere mention of my name brought back recollections of her?’

‘She was,’ he answered, then after a moment of thoughtfulness added an insight into the regret that haunted him, ‘but she could have been so much more if I’d allowed my heart its freedom.’

Although Christine did not verbally enquire into his comment, her very expressive eyes did.

George suddenly felt awkward talking about a past love with someone who was rapidly climbing in his affections, especially as it seemed disrespectful to the latter, so he allowed the invitation for a proper explanation to pass with a simple, ‘I was young at the time.’

Christine leant back against the tree with a knowing smile, leaving George wondering why her sense of curiosity was so easily appeased, and that was not the only thing he found unusual about her. She never made idle small talk and rarely asked questions, two very unusual traits in a woman as far as he was concerned, and why was she so at ease with him? Most women under these circumstances would not only ensure a respectable distance was kept between them but would also make sure they had some form of convenient weaponry close to hand just in case that distance should narrow without their consent. Christine however, sat well within kissing range and had nothing with which to defend herself, not even the infamous bloodletting nail file. Odd, he thought considering that she knew what he had in mind to do earlier and what her slightly open mouth was tempting him into doing right now. Nevertheless, it pleased him greatly that she felt as comfortable in his company, as he did in hers.

The day grew hotter under the summer sun and even beneath the protective parasol of beech leaves, the warmth could be felt. George removed his waistcoat, then his shoes and socks, freeing his feet to feel the coolness offered by the forest floor. Christine used her foot to pry off her remaining shoe, as she leant forward to retrieve it and its almost identical twin, the breeze playfully lifted the loose locks of hair on either side of her face, then released them strand by strand to fall gently down again.

‘Hair!’ his subconscious was trying to send him a reminder, but he was too preoccupied admiring yet another perfect example of the delightful elegance with which this young woman always moved. Having retrieved her shoes she sat back upright, closed her eyes and gently tilted her head backwards bringing her face into a flickering ray of sunlight. A look of contentment rose and spread with a gracefulness befitting her every move. With her head tilted backwards her plaits fell freely and his subconscious made yet another, but far more determined attempt to gain his attention, ‘HAIR!’ Despite the strong opposition posed by her slightly open mouth, it won and those questions he had in mind to ask earlier, patiently waiting to be aired now returned fully to his thoughts.

More unmeasured time passed by in secret admiration before he finally set about trying to gain answers to the three questions uppermost in his mind, who were the hairstyling and make-up applying angels she previously spoke of? Were they the white-coated doctors? And where in reality was ‘there’?

‘Your hair is wonderful, didn’t you say one of the angels styled it for you?’

Christine lowered her head and returned her eyes to his.

‘Yes, Constantia.’

‘How many angels are there?’

‘Two hundred and fifty-six,’ she replied without even a hint of hesitation.

George was surprised by such a high figure and one that greatly exceeded his estimate for the number of staff found in a psychiatric institution. Perhaps she was referring to the patients? Although he was fairly sure they did not wear white like the doctors and nurses… or did they?

‘Is there anyone else there?’

‘Yes, there are fifteen archangels, sixteen including myself, four guardian angels and God.’

Lost for words he fell silent, but his thoughts refused to follow suit.

He sat silently, her answers had fallen like heavyweights deep into his stomach, for they had brought with them the realisation that she was not, ‘A sandwich short in her picnic basket!’ as an earlier thought had summarised her, instead she was undoubtedly playing a game with him, a possibility he had already mistakenly discounted.

The strange behaviour and the admission to being an angel pointed towards a delusional illness, but these were no more than very clever tactics, a strategy that would have worked but for one small slip-up. Each figure she just quoted, with the exception of the ‘one’, was simply the square root of the previous. Theoretical physics may be beyond his comprehension, but elementary mathematics was not, as a statistician his job depended upon it. What was she trying to achieve with this subterfuge and why? A thought suddenly crossed his mind… was she just being mischievous? It was an explanation that would fit together with her wonderful sense of humour, and also account for why she never took full advantage of the non-kiss incident, which she almost certainly would have done if there were a malicious intent behind all this, but why bother? Was it just fun to see how long she could keep up the ruse? Was it for the excitement of pretending to be someone else?

And what should he now do, let her know he had seen through her charade, or play along with her as if he was none the wiser?

There was a slight risk in the first option, if he exposed her pretence then she might lose interest in him and do something highly undesirable… leave. The second option felt a little deceitful, but it would guarantee her charming company for a little while longer, at least until she became bored with this charade and gave up. After that, he could only hope she would stay of her own accord. The choice was hardly a competition as far as he was concerned.