The Continuing Story of the Lovers of Wensley Dale
by Bill Kirton
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: More passion, cheese and heartbreak from Wensley Dale.
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Leticia’s body was still awash with the desire Roger’s parting kiss had kindled in her. Her time at Lidl had dulled her appreciation of metaphor to such an extent that she was ignorant of the fact that the conflation of the words ‘kindled’ and ‘awash’ implied a soggy fireplace. For her, the passion was an awakening, a confirmation that her time spent watching those TV movies written by Jane Austen had been the beginning of her education as a Belle Dame sans Merci.
She got up, poured herself another glass of the rich red wine and once more stood before the cheval mirror, turning her body to admire the way the satin folded jealously down the curve of her back. She lifted the hem of her dress, admired the legs which Roger had kissed and likened to freshly dug asparagus, and felt again the stirring inside her that was always provoked by the memory of his lips on her skin. She wanted him again. Badly. His sardonic laugh was a drug, the curl of his hair a challenge, his cheese-related quips a delight.
His image came to her – pulsing, hot, eager – and the melodious tinkling of the Beethoven sonata was suddenly infiltrated by the counterpoint of the Nokia theme from her cell phone. It must be Roger! It was a sign. Merely thinking of him was bringing him to her, giving her access to his voice and, by extension, the tongue and lips which caressed its modulations into the air. The telepathy she sensed between them could fly through the night and burrow into his mind. And his body. And force him to call her.
She put down her glass and looked around for her cell phone. (She’d stopped calling it a ‘mobile’ when Roger had smiled at her and told her that anecdote about himself with the Chihuahua and the B-movie actress in the elevator in Philadelphia.) It was on the rug in front of the blazing fire. She grabbed it without bothering to look at its little screen, spread herself on the sheepskin, rolled onto her back and pressed the button. There was silence with only a faint sound of breathing to disturb it.
‘Darling?’ she said.
The silence stretched. Then came a sneeze.
‘Roger?’ she said, alarmed at the thought that he was in any discomfort.
‘’sno Roger,’ said a voice.
Leticia sat up.
‘Who is it?’ she snapped, angry that her lover’s place had been usurped by a stranger.
‘’sme. Gavin,’ said the voice.
‘Oh no. Whit do youse want? Bugger aff,’ said Leticia, her accent resurfacing for the first time in days.
‘Ah cannae. Ah’ve got a puncture,’ said Gavin.
‘Ah’m no a bloody bike shop,’ said Leticia. ‘Whit you phonin me fer?’
‘’cuz Ah still love you, Doris,’ said Gavin.
‘Dinnae call me that,’ said Leticia.
‘But it’s yer name.’
‘No any more. So bugger aff. Where are ye onyway?’
‘Ootside,’ said Gavin. ‘Ah rode up here to see you, but me bike got the puncture just past the village so Ah pushed it here.’
Leticia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The village of Wensley Dale was a mile away. The snow was over a foot deep. He couldn’t be here. Not Gavin. Not that loser. Outside Roger’s log cabin? Impossible.
She went to the window and looked out. In the yellow light it cast on the deepening snow stood a figure, wearing only a Celtic football shirt and a pair of jeans. Over his shoulder was a bike.
Bloody Gavin. She felt the hot tears brimming in her eyes. This never happened to Miss Bennett. It made a mockery of the flickering fire, the cabin’s sumptuous interior. It breached her dream and, in its place, built stark reminders of Lidl and special offers on selected brands of cheese.
Gavin’s phone was still pressed to his ear.
‘Oh God, you look gorgeous,’ he said.
‘So Ah bloody should,’ said Leticia. ‘This is a Vera Wang frock. Twelve hundred quid’s worth.’
Gavin knelt in the snow, one arm stretched beseechingly out toward her, the other still holding his phone.
‘Come home. Please,’ he said.
Home. The single room in the tenement. The Pizza Hut deliveries. The laundrette. The TV with just five channels. No, she’d graduated from all that. She’d been elevated to the hushed corridors of amorous elegance. She could control her own destiny. Doris was dead. Long live Leticia.
She closed the phone and drew the curtains. Even in such adversity, love would triumph.
Outside, Gavin fell forward into the snow, wracked by the cough that had started as he began the climb from Wensley Dale.
Swearwords: None.
Description: More passion, cheese and heartbreak from Wensley Dale.
_____________________________________________________________________
Leticia’s body was still awash with the desire Roger’s parting kiss had kindled in her. Her time at Lidl had dulled her appreciation of metaphor to such an extent that she was ignorant of the fact that the conflation of the words ‘kindled’ and ‘awash’ implied a soggy fireplace. For her, the passion was an awakening, a confirmation that her time spent watching those TV movies written by Jane Austen had been the beginning of her education as a Belle Dame sans Merci.
She got up, poured herself another glass of the rich red wine and once more stood before the cheval mirror, turning her body to admire the way the satin folded jealously down the curve of her back. She lifted the hem of her dress, admired the legs which Roger had kissed and likened to freshly dug asparagus, and felt again the stirring inside her that was always provoked by the memory of his lips on her skin. She wanted him again. Badly. His sardonic laugh was a drug, the curl of his hair a challenge, his cheese-related quips a delight.
His image came to her – pulsing, hot, eager – and the melodious tinkling of the Beethoven sonata was suddenly infiltrated by the counterpoint of the Nokia theme from her cell phone. It must be Roger! It was a sign. Merely thinking of him was bringing him to her, giving her access to his voice and, by extension, the tongue and lips which caressed its modulations into the air. The telepathy she sensed between them could fly through the night and burrow into his mind. And his body. And force him to call her.
She put down her glass and looked around for her cell phone. (She’d stopped calling it a ‘mobile’ when Roger had smiled at her and told her that anecdote about himself with the Chihuahua and the B-movie actress in the elevator in Philadelphia.) It was on the rug in front of the blazing fire. She grabbed it without bothering to look at its little screen, spread herself on the sheepskin, rolled onto her back and pressed the button. There was silence with only a faint sound of breathing to disturb it.
‘Darling?’ she said.
The silence stretched. Then came a sneeze.
‘Roger?’ she said, alarmed at the thought that he was in any discomfort.
‘’sno Roger,’ said a voice.
Leticia sat up.
‘Who is it?’ she snapped, angry that her lover’s place had been usurped by a stranger.
‘’sme. Gavin,’ said the voice.
‘Oh no. Whit do youse want? Bugger aff,’ said Leticia, her accent resurfacing for the first time in days.
‘Ah cannae. Ah’ve got a puncture,’ said Gavin.
‘Ah’m no a bloody bike shop,’ said Leticia. ‘Whit you phonin me fer?’
‘’cuz Ah still love you, Doris,’ said Gavin.
‘Dinnae call me that,’ said Leticia.
‘But it’s yer name.’
‘No any more. So bugger aff. Where are ye onyway?’
‘Ootside,’ said Gavin. ‘Ah rode up here to see you, but me bike got the puncture just past the village so Ah pushed it here.’
Leticia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The village of Wensley Dale was a mile away. The snow was over a foot deep. He couldn’t be here. Not Gavin. Not that loser. Outside Roger’s log cabin? Impossible.
She went to the window and looked out. In the yellow light it cast on the deepening snow stood a figure, wearing only a Celtic football shirt and a pair of jeans. Over his shoulder was a bike.
Bloody Gavin. She felt the hot tears brimming in her eyes. This never happened to Miss Bennett. It made a mockery of the flickering fire, the cabin’s sumptuous interior. It breached her dream and, in its place, built stark reminders of Lidl and special offers on selected brands of cheese.
Gavin’s phone was still pressed to his ear.
‘Oh God, you look gorgeous,’ he said.
‘So Ah bloody should,’ said Leticia. ‘This is a Vera Wang frock. Twelve hundred quid’s worth.’
Gavin knelt in the snow, one arm stretched beseechingly out toward her, the other still holding his phone.
‘Come home. Please,’ he said.
Home. The single room in the tenement. The Pizza Hut deliveries. The laundrette. The TV with just five channels. No, she’d graduated from all that. She’d been elevated to the hushed corridors of amorous elegance. She could control her own destiny. Doris was dead. Long live Leticia.
She closed the phone and drew the curtains. Even in such adversity, love would triumph.
Outside, Gavin fell forward into the snow, wracked by the cough that had started as he began the climb from Wensley Dale.
About the Author
Bill Kirton was born in Plymouth, but has lived in Aberdeen for most of his life. He’s been a university lecturer, presented TV programmes, written and performed songs and sketches at the Edinburgh Festival, and had radio plays broadcast by the BBC. He’s written four books in Pearson’s ‘Brilliant’ series and his crime novels, Material Evidence, Rough Justice, The Darkness, Shadow Selves and the historical novel The Figurehead, set in Aberdeen in 1840, have been published in the UK and USA. His other novel, The Sparrow Conundrum, is a crime spoof set in Aberdeen and Inverness. His short stories have appeared in several anthologies and Love Hurts was chosen for the Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 2010.
His website and blog can be found at http://www.bill-kirton.co.uk.
His website and blog can be found at http://www.bill-kirton.co.uk.