7 comments/ 5545 views/ 15 favorites As Time Goes By Ch. 02 By: Maonaigh This is a long love story in three chapters but you'll have to wait for the sex. If you want a plotless quick thrill, then there are plenty of those elsewhere on this site. Some characters from my earlier stories make an appearance in this chapter (although it is not necessary to have read those stories, it might help to know the characters). Characters in sex scenes are eighteen years old or over. All characters are imaginary—any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2015 to the author. ***** Pancreatic cancer stole my Dot. Although we didn't know at the time it was a symptom, an early indication was when Dot started to suffer back pain. At the time we put it down to a combination of her age and work, assuming that she wasn't as limber as she used to be. After all, she was fifty-one. "Guess the clockwork's starting to run down early," Dot grinned. We left it at that as the backache just came and went at intervals. Then when we undressed one night I noticed that her ribs seemed a bit more prominent than usual. "Are you losing weight, Dot?" "A little, perhaps. Nothing to worry about, I don't think." "How long's that been going on?" "Week or two, maybe." "Just take care," I warned, "You're slim enough without losing more. I think you ought to see our GP." When I first moved in with Dot, I found that she wasn't registered with a GP. Her plea that she never got ill cut no ice and I virtually bullied her into joining the practice where I was listed. "Now you know I don't like going to the doctor." Dot cupped my face and gave me a gentle kiss. "Don't worry about it love, I'm okay." It was when her skin became slightly jaundiced that I lost patience with her. "Right, Dot Barrow, you're coming to the doctor even if I have to knock you down and drag you there. And you're going to tell her everything." Dot could see that I was serious and nodded her acceptance. When it came to it, I didn't quite trust Dot to tell the full story so I did the talking. After I had explained the back ache and apparent weight loss, Doctor Llewellyn, our GP, took it more seriously than Dot. Her expression suggested that she knew what was wrong but she said nothing, simply arranged for us to see a specialist and for various tests and scans to be carried out. The upshot was that several weeks later we found ourselves in a hospital oncology clinic speaking to a consultant, a tired-looking elderly man with kind eyes. "Right, Miss Barrow, I'm not going to be evasive because you strike me as the kind of person who likes straight talk. I'm afraid you have pancreatic cancer." "It doesn't look good, then?" "I'm afraid not. One trouble with pancreatic cancer is that all too often symptoms don't show until it's too late. That's the way it is with you." The doctor sighed, obviously unhappy with what he had to say. "I'm sorry—it's very aggressive and it's spreading." "There's nothing can be done?" I asked. He shook his head. "Nothing of any good. I'm afraid it's inoperable and it's a bit late for effective chemo- or radio-therapy." I started to weep quietly. Dot put an arm around me. "Don't cry, Fran, else you'll set me off. Can't complain, I've had a good life—a good family, a great home, a job I love doing and the best wife in the world." She turned back to the doctor. "How long have I got?" He shook his head. "I really don't know. It could be months, it could be weeks." As we left the hospital, Dot became brisk. "Right, my love, we've got a lot to get sorted quickly. One thing, Fran, I don't want anyone to know about this until I'm gone. Not even my family. I don't want a fuss made. Promise me—please, Fran." I promised. * * * * * It was weeks rather than months. Seven weeks after our meeting with the oncologist, Dot's condition had deteriorated considerably and Doctor Llewellyn arranged a bed for her at a nearby hospice. They were wonderful there. Although I understood the principles of palliative care, the nurses took great pains to explain their purpose to me. Hospices are not there to provide a cure but more than anything to ensure that the terminally ill die as easily and as pain-free as possible. I was grateful for the loving care shown to Dot while fully aware that she was not singled out for special treatment—every patient there was treated equally. The loving care was extended to me and to other patients' families. Although Dot was sedated and remained asleep much of the time, in the brief periods she awoke she was lucid. Once she kissed my hand and said: "Don't stay alone, petal, don't be lonely. Find someone else and be happy." I was allowed to stay with her. They set up a camp-bed in her room for me and save for meal breaks and calls of nature I made sure that I was always beside her, holding her hand, talking to her. She was there for six days. It almost tore me apart when she came awake early on the sixth day and said: "I love you, Fran Roberts—always will." "God, and I love you," I choked, "so very much." Dot saw my tears flowing and smiled her sweet smile. "Please don't cry, my pretty lass. I'll be waiting for you upstairs when your time comes." She slipped back into sleep. She awoke again some time later and squeezed my hand. "Darling Fran, you've made me so very happy all these years." Another short while and her eyes opened for the last time. "Here's looking at you, kid," she murmured. A few minutes later she died in my arms. I slipped off her eternity ring and put it on next to mine. Then, holding her hand and stroking her hair, I wept. * * * * * The young woman administrator at the funeral director's office was excellent at her work. She was forthright and friendly, business-like and matter-of-fact, not oily and obsequious as I had initially feared. She offered genuine sympathy without crocodile tears. The first time that I visited the parlour to discuss arrangements, the woman had offered a firm, brisk handshake and introduced herself as Marjorie. She had guided me through the essential procedures, had liaised with the GP, had done everything she could to make an essentially distressing matter as easy as possible. Now I'd come to say farewell to my lover, my partner, my best friend. Marjorie led me through to the chapel where Dot lay at rest. "I'll leave you with her, Miss Roberts. Take as long as you need." I nodded thanks and went to the open coffin. Dot looked peaceful now, the lines of pain wiped away. Her work-worn hands were folded in front of her, those hands that were so skilled and could produce items of great beauty from plain lumps of wood. I gave a small, rueful smile. Dot had stopped smoking long ago, for my sake, she said, but I had brought her a small present to go into the coffin, her old tobacco pouch with some cigarette papers and a book of matches. I slid them down beside her. "For the journey, Dot, you deserve it." I reached out and gently touched a cheek. "Goodbye, Dot. I love you." I knew that Dot had loved me too, and that made worthwhile all the years we had been together. I appreciated, too, the fact that Dot had told me she loved me several times a day. Demonstrative affection was not the norm in her part of Yorkshire. Mother Barrow held the old school view that as long as you gave your children plenty of warmth and nourishment, then that was ample indication of your love. I shook my head and added: "Here's looking at you, kid," as I bent to kiss Dot's brow. I left the chapel and thanked Marjorie. "You can close the coffin now, please," I said, "Dot wouldn't have wanted anyone else to see her." * * * * * Perhaps needless to say, my Mum and Dad were there for me as soon as they could make it. Over the years they had come to love Dot a lot. They took a room at a guest-house in the village. And then Dot's mother and brothers turned up the day before the funeral. I think it must have been the first time that all three had left the farm together and I doubted that they'd trust their farm-hands alone for more than a day or two. I guessed that Mother Barrow was in her eighties now and the brothers well into their sixties but they all still worked hard. I apologised for not having told them Dot was ill but explained that was her wish. Charlie took one of my hands in his big one and said: "We understand, love. Even when Dot were nobbut a little 'un she hated to admit it when she were poorly." I surrendered my bed—our bed—to Mother Barrow and slept on the sofa. Charlie and Geoff, having been told how small the cottage was, had brought camp-beds and sleeping bags and settled themselves in the small flat above the carpentry shop. I took them all down to The Monk's Head that evening where we met my folks and quite a few people stopped by our table to offer condolences and praise Dot. I hoped that the trio appreciated the sentiments. As always, the Barrows were poker-faced much of the time and it was nigh impossible to tell what they were thinking. The funeral was well attended as many people from the village turned up; I think they were split pretty evenly between those who had genuinely liked Dot and those nosey small-town old women who would go to just about any funeral that happened along. Several businessmen who had bought her furniture came to pay their respects; all of them gave me generous sums to donate either to cancer research or the hospice. There was a short service at the local church, then another for family only at the crematorium, followed by a wake in the church hall. Fighting hard to control my voice and tears, I spoke of my love for Dot and the happiness we had brought each other. Several others gave their memories of her: Mary Little told of 'Prince Charming' who lurked in a Land Rover so that she couldn't spy on him; one businessman doubted he'd live long enough to see Dot's furniture become sought-after antiques but hoped his great-great-grandchildren would benefit; to laughter, Jack, still landlord of The Monk's Head, recalled Dot's last visit to the pub, about three weeks before she died, still pouring scorn those who drink "...fizzy horse-piss, oh excuse my language..." Old Joe Brownlee said that renting land from Dot was about the best thing he had ever done because she had turned into such a good friend. It was a consolation to know just how highly thought-of Dot had been. I was pleased that my dear friend Emma Wainwright had been able to come, together with her wife Samantha—Dot and I had been to their civil partnership ceremony, a wonderful, happy occasion. They had been together... what...? four or five years now and it was obvious in so many small ways--a touch of the hand here, a fleeting glance, a little smile there—that they were still besotted with each other. Sam had had a little girl by artificial insemination, my goddaughter Amanda, two years old, and now Emma told me that she was planning pregnancy by the same method. Funny thing about Emma, I'd always thought her looks pleasant but rather ordinary in a girl-next-door kind of way, not exactly plain but certainly no beauty although she did have lovely eyes. But since she had been with Sam she seemed to have acquired an inner glow which made her almost beautiful. I wondered if Emma had ever told Sam about us. We were what you might term each other's first love, both of us being teens at the time although Emma was a year or two younger than me. She stayed on my parents' farm for a week while her mother was in hospital and had to share a double bed with me. I knew full well at that age that I was gay and I took a chance with Emma on our first night together, giving her a hesitant kiss and half-expecting her to run away screaming. Instead, she had leapt enthusiastically into my arms and there was no turning back. After that one week there was nothing more between us but we stayed friends. Years later Emma told me that she had recognized her sexuality from a fairly young age and had been thrilled when I made that pass at her. In turn I confessed to her that she was my first experience as I was hers and that my know-how had been gleaned from a sex manual I'd found in my mother's bedside cabinet. Of course, the manual was aimed at straight people but I'd been able to adapt. Emma and Sam spent some time talking with the Barrows, for which I was grateful. The family's taciturnity didn't seem to bother them at all and it was good to see even the old woman cracking an occasional smile with them. At one point, Mother Barrow came over to me and whispered: "Yon two, Emma and Sam—are they like you and Dot?" "Yes," I told her. "Thought so, they're wearing matching wedding rings." The old woman considered for a moment then nodded. "Whatever, they seem to be really good lasses. I like 'em." High praise indeed from Dot's mother. Then she confided: "I've started going to a different church at home. There's a new minister in our old chapel and he's been saying some real nasty things about homosexual people, as how they're all wicked and doomed for eternity, but lasses like you and those two show he knows nowt. If anybody's wicked and doomed it's him, the miserable old bugger, and I told him so." Before they left to return home, Emma and Sam each came to hug and kiss me. "You know where we are, Fran," Emma told me, "Just pick up the phone if you want to come and see us or if you just need to talk." She touched my cheek gently. "You'll always have friends in us." I felt tears well up. "Thank you," was all I could manage to choke out. My Mum and Dad had to leave about the same time as Emma and Sam. They had tried to persuade me to go home with them but I felt that I needed some time to myself. I knew that they, or Emma and Sam, would smother me with loving attention but I believed that right now that would do me more harm than good. I was right about the Barrows—they didn't trust their farm-hands to be in charge for too long and they were setting out for home that evening. As they were getting ready to leave, Charlie and Geoff put their muscular arms around me. "You come and see us when you can, lass," Charlie said, "Tha's our little sister now. We'll all go down to The Shepherd and raise a pint of Speckled Hen to Dot." "We'll do that," Geoff added, "And if tha's not too hung-over next day, I'll let thee do all the morning's milking." I managed a smile. "Dot would have something rude to say about that. Then she'd excuse her language." The brothers laughed. "That's true." Mother Barrow intervened. "Go and get the Land Rover, you two," she ordered, "I want a word with Fran." "Well, lass," she started when her sons left the church hall, "Tha's on thy own now. It'll be tough, although I suppose not as tough as if you had kids. But the lads were right--tha's got family in us, so be sure to come and see us. If you don't come often before I die, then I'll bloody well come back and haunt you. "I'll be honest with you, Fran. I've never really understood your lifestyle but I know the good Lord must have his reasons for making some folk the way you and Emma and Sam are. And the way Dot was. I reckon you and Dot were good together, as good and better as many married couples I know. What are you now, thirty-three, thirty-four...? You're young yet, lass. When you think life's looking better, when you're ready, you find someone else to love. Dot wouldn't have wanted you to be lonely and you'll get no objections from us." I recalled Dot saying virtually the same thing the day she died. Then the old woman did something unprecedented. She threw her arms about me and gave me a short, fierce hug. Again I could feel the tears welling—coming from her, the hug was the height of approval. She stepped back looking vaguely embarrassed. "Dot was a good daughter and I loved her. I think she knew that without it being said. It probably seems odd to you, Fran, but in our part of the country most folk don't talk about love—it's considered soft." Here the old woman's voice lowered, almost as if she was muttering to herself. "Don't you dare tell anyone I said this but I love you too, lass—you made our Dot happy. You likely don't know this but every time she phoned me she spent ages boasting about you. Now think on—come and see us... lots..." "I will Mother Barrow," I promised. "Tha'd better—I think I'd make a bloody good ghost." Other people gradually departed and so eventually I was left alone. And now I had the rest of my life—my lonely life—to get on with. When Dot first died, I thought that I wouldn't be able to sleep yet strangely I slept very well. I think perhaps I'd spent so many nights in light sleep recently, alert for Dot's needs, that nature was now being kind to me. For about a week or two I cried myself to sleep but that eased off. I did find myself weeping at odd times, only natural I suppose. Usually something small triggered it such as coming across some possession of Dot's or hearing a piece of music she had liked. And every night I spoke to her in my head, telling her of my day and anything else which might interest her. I don't know if there is an afterlife and if there is, I don't know if Dot could hear me. But it gave me some comfort to think she could and that she was happy where she was. I also determined to live the way I know Dot would have wanted. Some people just cannot cope and let grief crush the life out of them. Others accept that life is for living and determine to overcome their loss. I'm one of the latter, a glass-half-full sort of person. Life is for living. Anyway, if Dot thought that I'd given up she'd probably come back and kick my backside, hard. So I got on with it. * * * * * I was feeding the chickens early one morning some months later when Joe Brownlee came to see me. "Fran, can I say something without you taking offence?" I didn't know what could cause offence. Joe was a sweet old man who had always gone the extra mile for Dot and me. I think if I'd asked him to crawl over broken glass for me he would have done so. "Go ahead, Joe—what is it?" "You, girl. You're working yourself into the ground and unless you're careful, you'll end up ill. Do you reckon Dot would have wanted to see you do that?" He thrust his chin out, as if daring me to contradict him. "Joe, I've had a couple of breaks." "Yes, you have that. You went up to Yorkshire to see Dot's folk, there and back in a weekend. You probably spent more time travelling than you did visiting. And you've been to see your folks and your pals Emma and Sam once or twice. Each time it was off in the late morning, back before nightfall. Now don't you try to kid me that they were proper breaks. You need to take at least a week off, girl." "But Joe, I can't leave the smallholding right now." "Don't give me that guff. I can look after the place and so can my boy (his 'boy' was at least ten years older than I am). Look, Fran, I always considered you and Dot honorary daughters and I ain't going to stand back and watch no daughter of mine work herself into a breakdown. Now you take a proper holiday or I'll... I'll piss all over your vegetable crops, see if I don't." I realised then just how serious Joe was. He was old school and never used vulgarities in front of a female. I started giggling and pulled the old man into a hug. "Okay, Joe, I promise I'll take a week off very soon if you'll promise to pee anywhere but on my vegetable crops." The deal was done and there was no backing out. I thought about it and decided on a few days in London. I wasn't a great fan of the big city but I'd always loved museums and they had some of the best in London. I knew most hotels in Central London were ridiculously expensive but a careful search on-line led me to a place called The Balustrade in East London. By London standards it was a reasonable price and so I booked a few days there. For the sake of my vegetable crop, I let Joe know straight away. As Time Goes By Ch. 02 * * * * * The Balustrade was small but it was clean and my room was comfortable. There was a narrow counter just inside the street entrance manned by a forty-something woman who seemed to be a cross between receptionist and concierge. After I had checked into my room and freshened up, I went to their dining room and had a decent enough meal and then I found their drinks lounge where I sat at the bar and had a couple of small Heinekens. For the first three days I enjoyed myself just wandering around the different museums and art galleries I'd ear-marked. I found a couple of good bookshops and stocked up with several books I couldn't easily have found at home. I'd have my evening meal, a beer or two, read in the lounge or my room until I felt tired, then, as Samuel Pepys put it, '...and so to bed...' Joe was right—I really did need the break and I think it was doing me good, although Dot was never far from my mind. The third evening at the hotel, though, things turned a bit strange. I'd finished my evening meal and as usual went into the bar for a drink. A number of men I hadn't seen before, half-dozen or so and mostly middle-aged, sat at a nearby table. They looked like business types, salesmen perhaps, and were pretty raucous. A pile of empty glasses and bottles on their table suggested that they had been at it for some time. After a while, one of them, an unhealthy-looking, red-faced fat fellow got up and approached me. "Now then, what's a pretty girl like you doing all by yourself?" Whisky fumes wafted over me as he spoke. "Come and have a drink with us and have a good time." "No thanks." "Come on, love—you'll enjoy it." "No thanks," I repeated. He shrugged and returned to his friends who made mocking noises. Ten minutes later he tried again. "Come on, what are you drinking? My treat." I glared at him. "What part of 'no thanks' don't you understand?" He glared back. As he returned to his table and sat down, he said very loudly: "She must be a lesbian." Now I'm not a man-hater, quite like most of them in fact, and usually I can ignore morons like him, but in my current situation I'd had enough. I drained my glass, walked over to the men and said to the fat one: "As it happens, I am a lesbian. But even if I was straight, you certainly wouldn't figure among my choices. So why don't you fuck off and leave me alone?" "You can't talk to me like that," he blustered. "I just did. Fuck off and take your pathetic tiny dick with you." If at all possible, his face seemed to become even redder with anger and he started to struggle out of his chair. Then one of his companions said: "It sounds as if she's met you before, Arthur," and all except the fat man bellowed with laughter as I made my escape. I asked the concierge to call me a taxi. "I'm sorry about that, Miss Roberts," she said, gesturing towards the bar, "They're regulars and bring a lot of money to this hotel. The owner would probably sack any staff who told them off." She considered for a moment. "Black cabs don't come round this area much in the evenings, but if you don't mind waiting here for a few minutes there's a private taxi company called Lasses Cabs nearby. It's run by women for women." I thanked her. "That sounds good." When the taxi turned up, the driver was a large, cheerful girl with ginger hair and a big goofy grin. "Hi, I'm Jackie. Where to?" I grimaced and told her about the hotel bar. "Is there anywhere I can go without being pestered by bloody men?" She nodded. "I know just the place. It's called Radclyffe's and it's not too far. There'll be a five pounds cover charge if that's okay but the drinks are a reasonable price. Oh, I'd better warn you—basically it's a lesbian club although quite a lot of straight women go there." "Believe me, Jackie, that'll suit me just fine. Let's go." Jackie was right, it wasn't too far. We entered an area of what looked like old warehouses and stopped opposite a small door with a discreet neon sign above and a queue of about half-a-dozen women outside. I paid Jackie's fare and she gave me a business card. "Won't be long before you're in," she said, "best to get here earlyish, it gets quite busy later on. Tell them Jackie brought you. Our number's on the card. Just call if you need us and we'll get to you as quickly as we can. Have fun." She gave a little salute as she drove off. When I got to the door, a well-built black woman with the name-tag Myra took my fiver entrance money. "You're new here, honey," she said. I nodded and she added: "We've one cast-iron rule. You fancy some girl and she don't fancy you, then you leave her alone, okay?" "Okay," I agreed, "But I'm not looking to hook up with anyone, I just don't want to be any place where there're men right now." Myra let out a rich chortle. "Welcome to the club, honey." She directed me to a door at the end of a narrow hallway and I found myself in a huge lounge-bar-cum-dance-hall. Jackie had told me that Radclyffe's got busy later on but it looked pretty full to me now. The music was country and western—Johnny Cash was Walking the Line at the time of my entrance—and the dance-floor was filled with women of all shapes and sizes doing their thing, whatever it was. Many were line-dancing, others doing what looked like square-dancing, even more just bouncing up-and-down or hopping around to the music. The dress code for some of them tied in with the music: jeans, checkered shirts, fancy belts, gingham dresses, some cowboy-style hats. I spotted an empty stool at the bar, went to it and caught the eye of one of several nice-looking barmaids. Of course, a place like this didn't stock real ales so I ordered a Heineken. "I didn't realise this was a country and western club," I said when the girl brought my beer. She smiled. "First time here? It's not—we play different kinds of music on alternating nights so there's something for everyone. It's disco tomorrow. They'll all turn up looking like John Travolta only prettier. Enjoy your drink." Over the course of an hour or two, a number of women asked me to dance and I did so and found that I was quite enjoying myself. Old Joe had been right—I really needed a proper break. Several of my dance partners threw out heavy hints about taking it a bit further than dancing but I turned them down as nicely as I could. One, older than me, mid-forties I'd guess, studied my face for a moment and then took my left hand and looked at the matching eternity rings on my third finger. "You've lost her, haven't you?" Her voice, a soft Welsh lilt, was sympathetic. Suddenly I felt my bottom lip trembling and I couldn't speak so I nodded. "Recently?" I nodded again. "Me too." She held up her left hand to show me two slim wedding-rings. "Six years now and I still miss her. But it does get easier, my lovely. You just have to give it time." She leaned in and kissed my cheek and went back to her friends. A few minutes later I felt better and sat sipping the last of my beer until I noticed what looked like a minor ruckus a little way inside the door. A tall girl, young-looking, seemed to be in some kind of argument with a woman who was holding her quite firmly by an arm. It seemed obvious to me that the tall girl was distressed and on impulse I wandered over to see if I could help her. Of course, if it was a domestic then I'd back off quietly and go back to my seat. But it didn't look like one. And the woman holding her looked out of place here. Despite some of the country and western outfits, the majority of women I'd seen and spoken to here were feminine or borderline femmes. If there were any out-and-out butches, they were very discreet about it. This one was über-butch, though, looking like an extra in a biker film, about as wide as she was tall, with cropped spikey hair and full leather gear. As I drew near I heard her say: "What's your name, girly?" "D-D-Dusty. But p-please, let me go... I don't want to go with you." "Tough, kid. You're just my type and tonight's your lucky night." The girl looked scared stiff, trying to pull away and failing. "Dusty, darling, there you are," I called out, "I didn't see you come in—I thought I'd missed you." The pair turned, the girl hopeful, the woman glaring. "What'd you want?" "I had a date to meet Dusty here tonight. Guess I didn't see her coming in." "So tough shit. You ought to look after your girlfriends better. I saw her first and she's leaving with me." The biker leered. "Unless you'd like a threesome. You're quite tasty yourself." Even several feet away I could smell the booze on her and it seemed as if she might be a mean drunk. It was beginning to look nasty, as if it might turn into a fight. I'd had the bit of boxing training with Dot but I'd never hit anything more aggressive than a punch-bag. And punch-bags don't hit back. I reckoned this woman could take anything I could throw at her and still lay me out with a flick of her finger. And while I was trying to work out my next move, the cavalry arrived in the form of Myra and another well-built woman. Myra gripped the butch firmly by the arm, saying: "Come on now, Belle, let the young lady alone—you know the rule. Now apologise to the nice people." Immediately the biker deflated, looked embarrassed and released Dusty. "Yeah, okay Myra." She turned to us and mumbled: "Sorry." "Good girl, Belle. Now let's find you a taxi and get you home." Docile now, Belle allowed Myra to lead her away. The second woman turned to us. "Sorry, girls. Belle's okay most of the time, not as rough as she looks—she hasn't even got a bike. Likes to create an image is all. It's just that every few months she goes on a bender and does something stupid like this. She won't even remember anything tomorrow until she finds out we've barred her for a month. Then it'll be all remorse until the next time. Hey, Annie—" she called out to one of the barmaids, "—a drink on the house for these ladies." I took the girl Dusty back to where I'd been sitting and settled her on a bar-stool where she asked for a small white wine. I'd already had my couple of beers so I just went for a mineral water. And then I relaxed and took a good look at my new companion. I guessed her to be about twenty-one, twenty-two, and she was very pretty with short, dark curly hair and a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. There was a slight scar above her left eyebrow but it was so faint that it didn't detract from her looks. "Dusty... is that after Dusty Springfield?" She shook her head. "Just a nickname." I held out a hand. "Hi, Dusty, I'm Fran." Dusty kept her eyes lowered, giving me the impression that she was extremely shy. She took my hand briefly, muttering: "Thanks for trying to rescue me. That woman was scary." I agreed. "She was that. I could almost hear the ambulance coming to pick me up. Some knight in shining armour I'd have looked, wrapped up in bandages like an Egyptian mummy." I think I got a flicker of a smile at that but it was so fast I couldn't be sure. Conversation with Dusty was difficult, her shyness inhibiting almost every gambit. When Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers started singing 'Islands in the Stream' I grabbed Dusty's hand. "C'mon, let's have a dance." She hung back, head lowered which seemed to be the norm for her. "I don't know how." "Well, I'm not exactly Ginger Rogers either. Look, we'll just get behind some of the line-dancers and do what they're doing. Relax, Dusty. If you came in here for fun, what better way than dancing badly?" Still reluctant, Dusty allowed me to drag her onto the floor. Odd thing, once she let herself go a little she was a fair dancer, certainly better than me. But it didn't last too long. After a couple more numbers, the DJ announced that she was taking a short break and we returned to our stools at the bar. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" I said. Dusty still kept her gaze lowered and whispered something. I had to strain a bit to catch it. "Will you come back to my hotel with me?" "Are you sure about this, Dusty?" "Please..." "All right." I picked up my bag and held out a hand to the girl. She took it but kept her eyes to the ground, as if afraid that she might trip. By chance as we left Radclyffe's, a black cab was just dropping several women off so we grabbed it. I climbed into the back while Dusty leaned into the cab to tell the driver where to go. She joined me but despite my best efforts, said very little until we reached our destination. * * * * * I paid the cabbie while Dusty waited on the pavement. Her whole stance spoke of extreme nervousness as if she had suddenly realised that I might be a serial-killer disguised as a good Samaritan. I put an arm around her waist and gave a little squeeze. "Hey, I'm not that fearsome, am I?" Dusty gave me a weak little smile as we entered the hotel. As hotels went, I think this one should have gone. The reception area was grubby and off-putting with a stained and scarred desk and a greyish, threadbare carpet underfoot. An unsavoury-looking receptionist or proprietor, blubbery, stubble-cheeked with grimy, collarless shirt, barely glanced at us as we passed by. Dusty's room was little better, making my room at The Balustrade look like a suite at The Ritz. I guessed that Dusty's budget must have been pretty tight to come to a dump like this. Then Dusty shocked me. As I was closing the door, she grabbed me and pushed me hard against the wall, mashing her mouth against mine and jamming her tongue into my mouth. It was real Jekyll and Hyde behaviour. I was surprised at how strong she was but managed to push her away. "Steady on, Dusty, what makes you think I like it rough?" Her arms fell to her sides and suddenly the shy, anxious girl was back. "I'm sorry, I thought that's what you'd want." Abruptly, she sat on the edge of the single bed, a sad-looking piece of furniture with a worn candlewick bedspread, and buried her face in her hands. She looked so alone and lost at that moment that my heart went out to the poor kid. And then I realised. "You've never done this before, have you? You're a virgin." "No I'm not," Dusty muttered, voice defiant. She refused to meet my eyes. "I've done it dozens of times." I replied as kindly as I could. "Well, in that case you've probably realised that most of us aren't keen on rough stuff." I didn't point out that if Dusty herself liked it rough, she could have gone with Belle. "I'm sorry..." "That's okay..." I looked around the sleazy little room. The place didn't run to a TV but there was a small radio on a chest-of-drawers. I turned it on and started to fiddle with the tuning button. I quickly found the station that I wanted. "...Icy finger waves, Ski trails on a mountain side..." Ella Fitzgerald singing 'Moonlight in Vermont'. An easy-listening channel, almost non-stop gentle music playing into the early hours. The music switched to Peggy Lee and 'The Folk Who Live on the Hill". I held my hand out to Dusty. "What?" "Let's dance," I told her, "There's nobody else here to see us and it will help... help us to relax ..." I had almost said: "...help you to relax ..." but guessed that would have made Dusty feel worse. After a little coaxing, she stood and came into my arms. She was taller than me although not as tall as Dot had been, I'd say about five-nine. I pulled her in close and after a few seconds her arms crept around my neck although she remained slightly stiff. We swayed together, not moving much but just letting ourselves go with the rhythm. Carefully, so as not to alarm Dusty, I kissed her throat several times, just slight, glancing kisses, and I could feel the stiffness evaporating. Peggy Lee segued into Nat King Cole followed by Dean Martin and I continued with light kisses. Sarah Vaughan sang 'Tenderly' and I turned Dusty's face towards me and kissed her on the mouth, lightly and with closed lips. 'Tenderly' was right. I think she began to respond... And then the music changed again... "...You must remember this, A kiss is just a kiss, A sigh is just a sigh..." 'As Time Goes By'. It was only a song but shock jolted through me. It was Dot's favourite song and the music really got to me—I couldn't go through with this. I abruptly dropped my arms and stepped back from Dusty who looked bewildered. "What?" I snatched up my jacket and bag, heading for the door. "I'm sorry, Dusty, I can't stay with you." I could almost feel her hurt. "It's me, isn't it?" she said, "I'm awful, aren't I?" "You're not awful, Dusty, you're lovely. It's nothing to do with you. It's me, something personal. I can't explain now." I opened the door and glanced back and Dusty's obvious pain wrenched my heart. She was sitting on the edge of the bed again, tears rolling down an anguished face. I virtually ran before I was tempted to return. Oh God, Dot, what have I done to that poor girl? I kept running as I left the hotel and after a few streets I realised that I was lost. I hadn't heard Dusty instructing the cab driver and I'd foolishly taken no notice of the gungy hotel. I went to the nearest corner, noted the names of the intersecting streets and took out my phone to call Lasses Cabs. * * * * * I spent most of the next day not enjoying myself because of guilt over my treatment of Dusty. It was obvious that she had little or no confidence in herself and she was likely devastated at my hasty departure. It was obvious too that despite her protestations of great experience, Dusty was an innocent looking to lose her virginity. And I had run out on her. The least she deserved was an explanation and I went to Radclyffe's early in the evening in the hope that she'd be there. But she wasn't. Still, there was always the next night, so I'd try again. I went into the club for the third night and after several hours, still no Dusty. Perhaps it would have been sensible to let go then but my guilty feelings only served to make me determined. As well as feeling guilt over the way I had treated Dusty, I still yearned so much for my lost Dot and her love. It was then for the first time—the only time, thankfully—I approached something like... desperation, I suppose. And that's when my stupid gene kicked in. I stared moodily at my barely-touched glass of Heineken and shoved it to one side. Hailing one of the waitresses, I said: "Will you bring me a very large vodka and a very small bottle of tonic, please." I gave her five ten-pound notes and added: "Keep bringing the vodkas up as long as that lasts. If you need more, just ask..." * * * * * "Does anybody know who she is?" Olivia, one of the club's owners, sounded exasperated. Radclyffe's was empty now except for the staff and the unconscious woman slumped across the table. Following a general denial she added: "Well, is this the first time she's been here?" "No, she's been in a couple of times before," said Myra, "Jackie of Lasses brought her here the first time, two...three nights ago. I think she came in a Lasses cab each time." The other doorkeeper, Ellie, added: "That's right. The first time she left with some girl. Tall pretty girl, rather slim—looked fairly young. You remember, Myra, the one that Biker Belle was trying to grab and we had to butt in. This one claimed she was the girl's date but I don't think she was—she was just trying to protect the girl." "How about the girl? Do we know her?" "No, she was only in the one time." Katie came out from behind the bar, carrying a shoulder-bag which she passed to Lainy, Olivia's business partner. "It's hers," she said, indicating the recumbent figure, "I put it behind the bar for safe-keeping when she passed out." As Time Goes By Ch. 02 "Thank, Katie, that was sensible. Was her drinking bad when she was here before?" Katie shook her head. "No, that's an odd thing. Both nights she just had one or two small beers. It was only tonight that she hit the vodka." "Did she cause any trouble while she was getting in this state?" Olivia asked. "No, it was a bit of a shock when she passed out—very well behaved, she was, the drink didn't seem to be affecting her much. She paid for all her drinks and gave a decent tip. I saw a few girls ask her to dance but she turned them down very politely." Lainy had opened the bag and produced a wallet with driving licence. "At least we know who she is now. Her name's Frances Jane Roberts at an address in some Hampshire village. She's a good way from home, must be on holiday or something. And here's a hotel card—she's staying at The Balustrade. I think that's about two or three miles from here." Olivia groaned. "So what do we do with her? We can't take her back to her hotel in this state and we can't just leave her here." "I guess it's a good thing that Caro and I came in tonight," said Lainy, "We walked here but if Myra could give us a hand with the corpse and a lift in her car, we can put Frances Jane to bed in our spare room for the night." She turned to her wife. "Is that okay with you, babe?" "Yes, of course it is," Caro said. She gave Lainy a mischievous grin. "Pity, though, beautiful... I had something special in mind for you when we got home—guess I'll have to postpone." Myra laughed. "You go ahead with your special plans, honey. I reckon the two of you could scream the house down tonight and Sleeping Beauty here wouldn't notice a thing." * * * * * When I woke up I felt like death, and not a very nice death at that. My mouth tasted like something dredged from a sewer, my throat felt raw and half the street-menders in London were using their pneumatic drills inside my head. I looked around, not recognizing a thing. Where the hell was I? Not in my hotel room, that was for sure. The last thing I could recall was setting out to get blitzed in that lesbian club... what was it...? Rag—something... Ragnarok...? No, don't be silly, that's something from Norse mythology isn't it?. Think... not Rag... Rad... that was it... Radclyffe's. Well, it looked like I succeeded, getting blitzed that is. I hadn't felt like this since the one and only time I'd got drunk as a student. I'd forgotten how awful it was and I sure as hell didn't want to feel like it again. I eased myself up in the bed and looked around. Somebody had been very thoughtful. There was a towel over my pillow and a bucket by the side of the bed, I suppose in case I had thrown up in the night. Fortunately I hadn't. There was a large glass of water on a bedside table together with a couple of aspirin tablets which I took immediately, draining the water in one go. My clothes were on a small armchair, neatly folded, along with my shoulder-bag, and a bathrobe had been placed at the foot of the bed. An open door opposite the bed-end led into what was obviously an en-suite bathroom and I realized that my bladder was near to bursting point. I glanced at my watch—it was close to nine a.m. I clambered out of the bed, very carefully for the sake of my poor head, and found that I was dressed in a pair of pyjamas, just about my size—I still had my bra and panties on under them. I had a long pee and discovered a new toothbrush on a shelf over the sink. I didn't much like what I saw in the mirror: something out of a zombie film, I think. After washing my hands and face and cleaning my teeth, I donned the bathrobe and went in search of my benefactor. Leaving the bedroom, I found myself in a huge, open-plan flat and a murmur of voices led me to a kitchen area where two women, I'd guess about my age—early thirties—were standing at a breakfast bar, drinking tea or coffee. Both were of similar height and build to me as well, and both were very attractive. For one silly second, I wondered if I'd died and gone to heaven and these were angels. Then I realized it couldn't be heaven because I still felt like shit and God wouldn't allow that in heaven, would She? On second thoughts, perhaps She would, just to punish me for being so stupid. Just imagine, eternity with a hangover like mine—who'd need hell?. One of the couple, whose dark hair was cropped to a fairly short pixie cut, was dressed in t-shirt and jogging trousers. The other, more formally dressed in a business suit, had thick auburn hair in a stylish bob. She saw me first and greeted me with a big grin. "Hi, I'm Caro. I'll bet you could do with about a gallon of orange juice." Hazel eyes twinkled as she poured a large glass and handed it to me. I thanked her and drank gratefully. "And I'm Lainy, Caro's other half," said the dark-haired woman, also with a warm smile, "Sit down and I'll make you some fresh tea." While Lainy was waiting for the kettle to boil, the one called Caro said to her: "I'd better get off to work now sweetheart, before they think I've got lost. Love you." "Okay, babe," said Lainy, "See you later. Love you too." Arms around each other, the two kissed. The kiss lingered but there was nothing sexy or erotic about it—it was simply a kiss that seemed to say 'You're-the-most-precious-person-in-the-whole-wide-world'. It was the kind of kiss that Dot and I used to share. Caro came over and gave my hand a friendly squeeze. "Whatever's troubling you, Frances, I hope it'll get better in time," she said. A quick wave and she was gone. "What makes her think I'm troubled?" I asked peevishly, "And how come she knows my name? Anyway, I prefer Fran." "Okay, Fran it is—well, we got your name from your driving licence," Lainy said, "Katie, one of our waitresses, had the good sense to put your bag behind the bar for safe-keeping when you passed out. We brought you home with us last night because taking you to your hotel wasn't practical. As for being troubled, you weren't entirely out of it when we got here—you were doing a lot of unhappy-sounding mumbling and a fair bit of crying. Most of it was incoherent but the names Dot and Dusty kept cropping up. You seemed to be apologising to them." My bag! I'd drunk myself stupid and totally forgotten about my shoulder-bag. My money and credit cards and keys were all in there. What an idiot I was. If I'd lost that... Bless you, Katie, whoever you are, I thought. Lainy put a cup of tea and a couple of slices of toast in front of me. I tried to refuse the toast but she insisted. "It'll help," she told me. After I had managed to force down most of the toast and had a second cup of tea, I did feel a little better. Lainy took me by the hand and led me to a large sofa, where she sat beside me. "Now, I'm not going to ask if you're an alcoholic because if you are, you'd probably just lie to me and deny it. But if there's anything I can do to help, I will." I managed a feeble smile. "It's okay, no lies—I'm not an alcoholic. Most of the time I don't drink and when I do it's only one or two beers. Last night was a bit of a car crash for me; in fact, the past year or so has been a car crash—it's not been good." I could feel tears trickling down my face and then I found myself sobbing and telling Lainy all about Dot's illness and death and how I met Dusty in Radclyffe's and must have hurt her badly with my abrupt rejection and exit. Lainy put an arm around me and let me cry for a while. When I had calmed down a little, she told me: "I am a recovered alcoholic. I had a long-time girlfriend called Susannah who died too, and the booze was my way of handling it. Fortunately, I was only on the stuff for about a year but that was bad enough. Thanks to a brilliant uncle I managed to get off the drink before I'd sunk too far into the gutter but it was a close call. Even then I was carrying a lot of misery for a couple more years until I met Caro. We fell in love and that turned me right around—been together almost five years now. "I guess what I'm trying to tell you, Fran, is that given time it does get better but props like alcohol don't help. For me, it turned out that having someone to love, and who loved me, did the trick. I'm not suggesting that you go out looking for love—it might not work for everybody. Anyway, love should come to you naturally rather than you go seeking it. But if you can bring yourself to let go a little, then sooner or later something will happen to make life better. As for Dusty, well, from what you say she sounds like a nice girl but a one-night stand wouldn't have been good for either of you right now. You might have woken up detesting both her and yourself. I think you perhaps realised that. "Another thing, if you're as decent as I think you are, and I'm a fairly good judge of character, you won't forget Dot or stop loving her. I think that once you've loved deeply, it's always with you. Although I love Caro so much it overwhelms me at times and I can't imagine life without her, I still love Susannah in a way, or at least the memory of her. Caro understands and she's comfortable with it." Lainy gave me a little hug. "Lainy, do you think the manager of Radclyffe's would let me in if I go there again tonight?" I said. "Why do you ask?" "Two things," I said, "I'd like to thank Katie for rescuing my bag and I'd like to see if Dusty's there so that I can try to explain and apologise to her." "Shouldn't be a problem." Lainy got up, went to nearby desk and delved into a drawer. Returning, she handed me a gold-coloured laminated card. "There you are—fill in the nameplate on the back and you are now a privileged life member of Radclyffe's. This will always get you straight in—no queues, no cover charge. I'll let the door staff know you're okay." She smiled. "I'm one of the owners. Take care of that card, we don't give many out—only to special people." That evening in Radclyffe's, I sought Katie out, thanked her and slipped her twenty pounds for looking out for me. But Dusty never showed and after a while I headed back to the Balustrade ready to return home the next day. * * * * * As I walked past The Balustrade's small bar, I heard a voice call out: "Hello there!" I turned. It was the middle-aged Welsh woman I'd danced with on my first visit to Radclyffe's. There were several other people in the bar but thankfully the fat man and his cronies had left a couple of days before. "I didn't know you were staying here," I said. "I suppose our paths just didn't cross, my lovely. My name's Meg." She lifted a glass of wine. "Come and have a drink with me." "Hi, Meg, I'm Fran. I won't have a drink, thanks, but I'll sit and talk for a while." I settled in the chair beside her. Meg was perhaps an inch or so shorter than me, slightly plump but pleasantly so, with whitish-blonde hair and large blue eyes. "How long are you here for?" "Just for a few days—off home tomorrow. It's been an annual reunion with friends of mine. They've all left already." I made some sort of interested but non-committal noise and Meg continued: "There're five of us, we met at university. We're all gay and... well, even as recently as the late Eighties some people were only too willing and delighted to make our lives unpleasant and so we gradually banded together." She smiled. "Funny thing is, there was never anything sexual between any of us, we were just a bunch of really good friends who looked out for each other. So ever since leaving uni we've had an annual reunion, always a few outings and dinners followed by some decent gay club like Radclyffe's where we can dance and have fun. And we're still always there for one another. When Sian—my lover—died, the others all dropped everything and rallied round to take care of me. I'd do the same for them as long as I was still breathing. Anyway, enough about me, Fran—what are you doing here?" I gave Meg the short version, telling her about Dot but omitting to mention Dusty. I didn't mind talking about Dot because I knew it was better than bottling it up, but it still got to me sometimes, especially if my listener seemed sympathetic. My voice quavered a little and I could feel tears welling up. Meg's eyes were compassionate and kind and she laid a soft hand on mine. "I'm going to make a suggestion, cariad, and I won't take offence if you say no. It strikes me that right now you could do with a little TLC. Why not spend the night with me? We don't have to do anything unless you want to—I'm just offering you some no-strings comfort." I thought for a second, wondering what Dot would say if her spirit could see me. Probably: What are you hanging about for, darling Fran—go for it! The idea of no-strings companionship and caring, even for only one night, appealed strongly. Meg was more mature than Dusty and she seemed like a nice woman. I decided and squeezed her hand. "Thanks, Meg, I think I'd like that." Meg said: "It's best we go to your room. I'm leaving very early in the morning and wouldn't want to throw you out of mine." Holding hands, we headed for the stairs. As I was shutting the door behind us, Meg crossed the floor to switch on one of the bedside lamps so that there was a soft, warm glow in the room. I turned to see her standing in the middle of the room holding out her arms. "Come here, cariad—let me give you a hug." It felt right. At length she released me with a little laugh. "I think bed now, my lovely, before we take root here." Meg stripped down to a lacy bra with matching French knickers. Her breasts were larger than mine, she had a little pot belly, surprisingly sexy, with a silver ring and Welsh dragon motif adorning her pierced navel. She also had a broad tattoo banding an upper arm, some sort of Celtic design. Turning down the duvet and top sheet, she crawled into the bed and waited for me. I quickly undressed down to panties and bra and joined Meg who said: "My Mam always reckoned a short hug should be followed by a nice long cuddle." She opened her arms to pull me to her. It felt so good to be held against her warmth. We lay there for a lengthy time, arms around one another, Meg stroking my back with a gentle touch, and I felt more totally relaxed than I had since Dot's passing. I found my lips pressed against her shoulder and couldn't help planting a series of butterfly kisses up to her neck and jawline to the soft spot behind her ear. I hesitated briefly, thinking Forgive me, Dot, and then decided that Dot would probably approve—I could almost hear a ghostly voice: Don't be daft my pretty lass, carry on and enjoy it. I nibbled on Meg's earlobe and ran my tongue around the rim. I felt Meg shiver a little as she sighed and tightened her arms about me. I continued to kiss my way slowly until I reached her lips where I allowed my tongue to trace their outline. Meg responded, her lips opening a tiny bit so that the tip of her wine-scented tongue could flick against mine. We both became a little bolder, tongues swirling in and out of each other's mouths although the kiss itself remained quite gentle. I gave a tiny moan and wriggled more closely into Meg's soft body. I could feel moisture seeping out between my legs. "Meg?" "What, my lovely?" "Don't you think we'd be more comfortable naked?" "What a good idea," Meg smiled. Sitting up, she removed her bra. Her breasts were big and cushiony with long nipples, sagging a little which I suppose was to be expected at her age. God, I can't criticise—mine are nowhere near as perky as they used to be. Meg's French knickers came off and I could see a curly tangle of blonde pubic hair, slightly darker than that on her head, covering her mons. Meg's hands caressed my freed breasts and I could feel my nipples becoming hard. "Your boobs are lovely, Fran, a perfect handful." She pressed her lips to each in turn. I could have told her about Goldilocks but that was something special and private between Dot and me. "And yours are... comfortable." They were, too, and I rested my head against them, burrowing my face between and inhaling Meg's delicious woman smell. Meg gave a soft laugh. "Well, I've heard all sorts of things said about my tits before but never 'comfortable'. You enjoy the comfort, cariad." She kissed the top of my head. Taking her at her word, I latched onto one of her nipples, sucking and exploring with my tongue while playing the other between finger and thumb. "Ahhh... that's right, my lovely, suck my boobs as hard as you can." Meg moved one hand down between my thighs. "Now there's lovely, a bare pussy to play with. I like that. And it feels as if you're nice and wet for me." She slid one gentle finger down my slit and into me, somehow hitting my g-spot immediately. I hadn't touched myself in that particular spot since Dot died and the sudden thrill made my hips jerk while I let out an involuntary: "Oh fuck!" Meg gave a little laugh. "Ah, I love it when girls talk dirty to me." That made me laugh too and for a while we just clutched one another giggling like a pair of teenagers before our lips met once more and our tongues danced. Meg started to suck on my breasts and at the same time turned her attentions to my pussy again, inserting two fingers and gently pressing a thumb on my clitoris. I caught my breath again as a warm flush spread through my body. Having come to rely on my fingers and my little vibrator, I had lost touch with the sheer pleasure of another person's body against mine, another's hand bringing thrills to my most sensitive parts. I think Meg could feel the warning changes in my body—she could certainly hear my increased breathing rate, and speeded up with her fingers, at the same time increasing pressure on my clit. Release came as I climaxed with a soft cry and clutched Meg's body closer. "Mmmm!" Meg had withdrawn her fingers and brought them to her mouth to suck off my juice. "You taste good, Fran," she told me, "Now turn on your back, my lovely. It's been a long time since I ate shaved pussy and I think I deserve a treat, don't you?" Meg dived between my legs to kiss and lick around and above and below my labia. Raising her head briefly, she said: "You smell just as good as you taste. Wish I had the recipe." With a little laugh she returned to her ministrations, this time taking my clit between her lips and suckling it like a tiny nipple. Again, a finger crept into my vagina seeking my magic spot and between that and her tongue, Meg quickly brought me off again. This time my cries were louder and prolonged as a massive orgasm shook me. Meg lifted her head, wiping my come from her chin with a finger which she then sucked clean. Cuddling me once more, she said: "Feeling better now, cariad?" I didn't have to say anything, I think the long, fierce kiss I gave her was sufficient thanks. As soon as I stopped trembling and my breathing returned to normal, I paraphrased Meg. "It's been a long time since I ate hair pie so I think I'll have a slice now." "That's a very vulgar thing for a well-brought up young lady to say," chuckled Meg, "You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself." "Yes, I'm so ashamed of myself I might have a double portion," I replied. We both started giggling like girls again, clutching one another as we laughed. Sex with Meg was proving to be more than simple physical pleasure; it was fun and laughter as well and I think that's exactly what I needed. I spent quite a few minutes playing with her navel decoration while dropping fleeting kisses and nips over that soft little pot belly before moving down to give her pussy the attention it deserved. The hair on her mons was fairly thick but sparser around her outer lips which gaped a little and shone with lubrication. I dipped my tongue in and sighed with pleasure. This was something else that my vibrator could not give me, the taste of another's pussy. I looked up at Meg. "There's not much difference in the recipes—yours is a little more spicy, if anything." As Time Goes By Ch. 02 "Didn't your Mam ever tell you—it's rude to talk with your mouth full," she said and we started laughing all over again. When I had brought Meg to a couple of orgasms and we were cuddling once more, she told me that it felt weird having me laughing into her pussy "...but nice weird..." Afterwards we slept, or at least I did. Early in the morning I was vaguely aware of Meg moving around and then of soft lips kissing my forehead. "Goodbye, my sweet Fran." I awoke properly a couple of hours later and found a short, handwritten note on the pillow beside me. "Fran, It does get easier, I promise. Love, Meg x" There was no address or phone number so I guessed it was a matter of ships in the night. But I will always be grateful to Meg for her tender loving care. That wasn't the end of it. From home I sent Lainy and Caro flowers to thank them for their kindness. They replied and over time a friendship grew between us. I'd take the odd day off and go up to London to have lunch with one or both of them and occasionally they would visit me for a day or a weekend. When you're bereaved, having good friends is important, and if anybody could understand my deepest feelings it was Lainy. Meg would have understood too but I never saw her again. * * * * * For several months after the fiasco at Radclyffe's and my night with Meg, I trundled along, existing and working my guts out so as not to think too much. As far as my living situation went, I had no problems. Dot had paid off her renovations loan on the property years before and save for some small legacies to her family, she had left everything to me. As her legal civil partner I was exempt inheritance tax which was a great relief. But while I was fine with my produce and egg business, there remained the problem of what to do with the carpentry shop. It wasn't much good to me. I couldn't tell one end of a screwdriver from the other and everything was just lying there, unused. I had advertised the place several times in the local newspapers but nobody had shown any interest. So it had become a burden and it looked as if I might have to sell the tools, lathe, work-benches and so on off to some dealer. From our early days together, Dot had shown me how to maintain her tools in top condition if necessary, how to oil and clean them, and I had carried on doing this since her death. Dot had told me that they were all of the very highest quality and worth a lot of money but I guessed I'd get no more than a fraction of their true value from a dealer. I'd covered unfinished pieces of work with dust-sheets, half-hoping that perhaps one day somebody could complete them. I was holding off putting it all on the market but knew that I'd have to do something sooner or later. A suggested solution came from an unexpected source. One weekend I went to visit Emma and Sam and have lots of cuddles with my lovely little god-daughter. After supper Saturday evening we were sitting round just talking general matters. I had my usual small beer, Sam a glass of wine and Emma, being near her time, a mineral water. I don't remember exactly how it came up, but I told them about my dilemma over the carpentry shop and Dot's tools. Emma and Sam looked at each other, smiled and chorused: "Louise Duncan!" They laughed, sounding almost excited. "Louise is the daughter of one of our clients, Roger Duncan," Emma explained, "Roger's a master-carpenter with his own cabinet-making business, quite successful in a small way..." "...and Louise works for her father," Sam butted in, "He says that she's the best of his whole work force..." "...been doing woodwork since she was about three or four," continued Emma, "Wouldn't have a thing to do with dolls or other girly toys..." "...anyway, she's about twenty-something now and wants to go into business for herself..." said Sam. "...so she might be ideal to take on Dot's work," concluded Emma, "And fully equipped premises already there—that's heaven-sent for someone starting out in business. The flat above the shop is a bonus." "Sounds good..." I mused, "But how's she likely to feel being away from home. I don't want to be stuck with someone young who's likely to get homesick and up sticks within a few days." "I don't think that Louise is that type," said Emma, "She's rather a shy girl but when she puts her mind to something, she sticks to it. And it's only about fifty-odd miles away. She can always visit home weekends." So it was arranged that my details would be passed on to the Duncans and they could let me know if Louise was interested in the proposition. A few days later I had a phone call from a gruff-sounding Roger Duncan. I explained my circumstances and why I was seeking someone to run the carpentry side of the business. He was mainly interested in the workshop and equipment. "Like any good carpenter, Louise has got her own set of tools," he told me, "What can you offer her there?" While admitting that I knew little about tools, I told him of a large workshop with flat above and I was able to reel off the brand names of some of the equipment. "Hmm, sounds like all top-grade stuff," he commented, "If it's okay then, I'll get Louise to come and have a look. I'll be sorry to lose her, as an employer as well as her father, but I can understand her wanting to go it alone. That's just what I did at her age." We made arrangements for Louise to come and see me and on the appointed day I went into the carpentry shop to remove the dust sheets so that she was able to see the equipment and the unfinished works which had been in progress. While I was in the shop I heard a car approaching and glanced out through the doorway. An old dark-green VW Beetle was pulling up in the yard. The sun was reflecting off the windscreen and I couldn't see the driver so I finished folding the last of the dust sheets. I heard the car door slam shut and a woman's voice called out: "Miss Roberts?" "In here," I replied. Somebody walked into the shop and I turned with a smile of greeting, saying: "Louise...?" And then I stopped and we both stared before exclaiming simultaneously: "You!" It was Dusty... The story concludes in Chapter 3 [Author's note: the word "cariad" which appears in this chapter is the Welsh language word for "sweetheart".]