Chapter 6

There I was, in my new, fully equipped, comfortable, riverside residence. It took a few days, but it began to feel like home. It was lovely to have a proper shower, and a flush toilet which discharged into a septic system, rather than a chemical one which had to be emptied into a pit which had to be dug. It was great to be able to pop a load of washing into a machine and take it out a couple of hours later, warm and dry. Of course, if the weather permitted, I preferred to hang it out to dry in the wind and sun. It was pleasant to be able to cook a more complex meal in a reliable oven. But cooking for one isn’t much fun. Nor is living alone.

I varied the routine. The library was always good for a diversion. Sea Scout was there if I wanted a change of scene. On the quay, during a visit to town and a meal in the pub, I bumped into Phil from Topsail Charters...

“Hello, Norma! Good to see you. You did well in your outing as Third Hand in Kitty. Consider yourself welcome on board any time if you’re interested in more experience. You’re working on your Yachtmaster?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well a few trips as Third Hand, and I’ll ship you as Mate.”

That was certainly a thought, and it was good to hear that I was, potentially at least, seen as an asset. “Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.”

“Seriously – just call in to the office and see what’s on.”

So, suitably fed, fresh produce bought, I set off home. On the way, I decided to bake some bread. To my mind, baking bread is one way of making a house a home; partly, of course, it’s the smell as you bake it. Apart from that, I just like fresh home-made bread. While the bread was rising, I turned to Google for garden centres and guidance about salt-tolerant plants. There was a whole page from RHS (The Royal Horticultural Society) but a lot of the names were the Latin ones and I’d have to look them up to see what ordinary people would call them. Most importantly, I learned that it wasn’t just salt but also wind which presented a challenge to plants. I needed to think in terms of a wind-break.

Okay. Bread’s rising, but I don’t want to get deep into horticulture right now, so ... Ah, yes. I need to pop in to the next-door farm to arrange for grazing now the workmen have finished.

“Mister Clarke! Good afternoon. How are you?”

“I’m well, Missus Hancock. I see the construction work has ceased.”

“Indeed. I was wondering if you’d like to run some animals on the ground for the grazing?”

“Sure. D’you want to come in and talk about it?”

“I’ve got bread rising which I’m going to need to deal with, so I’d better not. If you want to take a look round, you’d be welcome.”

“I’d like to have a look to make sure nothing’s been left which might affect the cows. If I do run the cows on your property, you may want to rake their ... droppings ... to spread it out.”

I laughed. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“If you’re heading back, I’ll walk with you.”

Through my gate, I headed for the house, while the farmer wandered around where the builders had stacked materials and equipment. He stooped several times and moved his hands through the grasses. He was still there as I climbed the stairs and entered my house.

Dealt with kneading and proving the bread, one large ‘tin’ loaf and a tray of rolls. I’ll enjoy a roll, or two, or three, later on. Oven. Smell of baking bread, possibly one of the best ‘home’ smells there is, suffusing the whole place. Couldn’t just leave it, so washed some lettuce, tomatoes and such and put it in a covered bowl. Took the rolls out, perhaps a little more baked than I prefer, so lowered the temperature on the loaf. I’ll get used to this oven eventually. In due course, took the loaf out and tipped it out of the tin onto the cooling rack, made tea, and took it upstairs to the lounge. I was rifling through my music – CD and vinyl – collection, when I heard a knocking on my door. I have a perfectly good doorbell which works, and which I can hear anywhere in the house. Had I actually had music on I doubt if I would have heard the knocking. But I went to investigate.

Rusty:

Relationships stuff. Not something I’ve ever been able to take lightly. I’m not sure when I ‘fell’ for Norma Hancock. I am sure that I wouldn’t have taken her to bed ... rather, I wouldn’t have allowed her to take me to bed ... had I not been serious about her. It was just natural to ask her to marry me. In my mind, we were already married once we’d shared our bodies and slept together.

Her refusal was a disappointment. Actually, more than that. She did soften it by saying she’d be my mistress. My mistress? I have my reservations about feminism, but not about any woman taking any role she is capable of fulfilling. Norma is fully capable of just about anything she wants – certainly of working as Mate on a barge, and probably of qualifying as a Master. Unless ... no, surely she’s not the dominant type?

Anyway, we had several days together before she sailed with me and Brenda as Third Hand on Kitty. After that cruise, I took her back to her plot of land and left her as she made no move to stay with me. I then had some work to do with Kitty, pending my replacement. I couldn’t get her out of my mind, though. No contact. I landed from my last cruise (for the time being, anyway) in Kitty. Took my dunnage back to my flat, stuffed a load of washing in the machine, showered and dressed in some of my better gear. Got in the Beetle and drove over to Norma’s place. I could see changes. The caravan was gone, and so were the piles of materials and rubbish. Gate unlocked, so I drove in and parked behind the house. Climbed the stairs, and knocked on the door with my knuckles, not noticing a discreet bell-push.

There was a delay, just long enough for someone to hear and get to the door, and it opened. She’s beautiful. Mature perfection. “Hello, Norma.”

Norma:

I opened the door, and there was Rusty. I smiled. “Rusty! Come in!” Several twinges; spiked nipples, moisture in my nether regions. Oh, my ... I stepped back to let him in. He sniffed.

“Baking bread!”

I laughed. “Yup! Fresh, home-made bread rolls, salad, cheese. Join me?”

“You bet!”

He stepped through the door and I closed it behind him. I couldn’t say who initiated the move, but suddenly we were wrapped up together, and we were kissing. Kissing, and my knees were wobbly, so I hung on to him. In fact, our arms were around each other, and my head was resting on his shoulder. We stayed like that for a brief eternity. Okay, that makes no sense, but it does to me. Reluctantly, I pulled away. “Upstairs,” I said, and led the way. Near the top of the stairs, I paused and turned. Rusty was a few steps behind, his eyes just about at the level of my ... behind. “Like the view?” There might have been a trace of sarcasm in my question. The only trace in his reply, though, was admiration.

“World class.”

I blushed. Yes, this middle-aged widow blushed. “Really? Go on with you!”

“I told you, Norma. You’re beautiful. I wanted to marry you.”

I turned back and began to finish the climb, hearing his steps behind me. In the lounge, we faced each other. “I’m twenty years older than you.”

“Fifteen,” he corrected. “Not such a big deal. Actually, about the difference in life expectancy between male and female in this country.”

“But...”

“Norma, that’s what I’d prefer.”

“I told you I’d be your mistress. I will.”

He sighed. “I can’t remember where I heard it. Probably Dulcie. As far as I’m concerned, we were married when we made love and slept together. If you’re not willing to make it legal, I’m willing to live with you, you know, cohabitation, believing that we’re married de facto, if not de jure.”

I hesitated. I really did. But there wasn’t any choice, quite honestly. I took his hand and led him downstairs to my bedroom. Don’t ask me why I bought a big bed, because I cannot answer; I certainly didn’t do so expecting another relationship. Perhaps there was some subconscious wishful thinking? I dunno. But there was my bed, all made up with fresh linen and two pillows – I will admit to sleeping wrapped around a pillow for comfort. I was ... urgent. And, strangely, shy; I face away from him as I peeled out of my clothes. Since I was wearing only four items, that didn’t take long. I turned to face him, only to see he was still fully dressed, staring at me. Had I made a fool of myself? Surely not?

He came to me, and caressed my face with his fingertips. “Won’t you marry me, Norma? I really think you should.”

His fingers continued down, stroking my neck – I shivered – and my shoulders, before tracing my breasts, then my waist – I sprouted goose-bumps – and hips to my thighs.

He sighed. “Beautiful.”

“Cellulite,” I retorted.

He snorted. “Where? I hadn’t noticed. And it’s pretty normal, anyway.” His fingers reached my knees before starting up my inner thighs.

Dammit! I’m in my mid forties. My pussy should not be drooling the way it is. One finger slid through my slit and I jerked as it touched my clit. He lifted the wet finger to his lips.