Marge watched Rachel and Finn leave with Geoff around 4AM, along with the other customers, and decided the old wooden counter needed further polishing. It didn't really, but there was something about the mindless, repetitive motion that seemed like meditation to her. Sometimes, she would stare at her reflection in the gleaming wood, and see Nigel's face in it as well. The polishing cloth became her plectrum, which she used on the old counter to try and summon Nigel to keep her company. But he rarely answered the summons, and Marge knew it was because it was his way of telling her she needed the company of the living.
She polished furiously now, because she needed him then, needed him to tell her it was okay to not celebrate her birthday with friends. But he didn't appear and she slowed, weighed down by her loss. After ten years, she thought, it should be easier.
It wasn't. The longing for him pleasuring her still made her ache.
And then there were the memories in dreams, like the one she had last night.
XXXXxxxxxxx
He touched a finger to his lips for reverent silence, and then took her hand, leading down the steep wooded slope towards the old stone aqueduct that crossed the river. Marge took a look back at the classic green Land Rover Nigel borrowed from his parents, parked on the road at the crest of the slope, and felt a flush of excitement. A week-and-a-half ago she was Marge Johnson, stage actress, New York City born-and-bred. Now she was Marge Bailey, tramping through the wilds of England's West Country, on honeymoon with her new husband.
Halfway down the slope, in the shade of gnarled oak trees, Nigel stopped. Marge waited, breathing heavily.
"This is very ancient forest," he said, almost in a whisper, looking about him in awe.
The air was close under the canopy. Everything seemed a shade of green or black-green. There was the musty smell of old leaves and wood; some of the bright June sunlight managed to dapple the forest floor. Marge wiped sweat from her brow, wondering what Nigel would do next. She could have kissed him when he pulled the thermos of lemonade from his backpack and offered it to her.
"Almost there, luv," he said, amused at her trying to look demure and sip when she wanted to drink the entire cupful in one gulp.
"It's gorgeous here," she said, looking around. It was so quiet she could hear the soft rushing of the Torridge River below, and every cry of a bird startled her. Through the trees she could see the arches of the aqueduct.
"Do you think we can actually find the spot where Tarka was born?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I doubt it." He pulled an old, battered book from his pack and opened it to the first bookmark. "He was born in the hollow log of a fallen oak, by this bridge. Williamson published the book in 1927. After fifty-five years the log will have rotted away. If we just find the approximate spot, it'll be enough."
She drew up behind him, and looked at the book over his shoulder. It was Tarka the Otter, by Henry Williamson, a novel Nigel read when he was a young child, and which he said had a huge influence on him. It portrayed the life of an otter with poetic realism. All of the places Williamson described in the book actually existed, and when Nigel asked if she would like to go find Tarka's actual birthplace with him, Marge was delighted.
The night before, when they were in bed back at the farm, Nigel told her the book was a classic of nature writing. Marge had never heard of it. Was it like The Wind in the Willows, or Watership Down? She loved those.
"I'm not surprised you never heard of it," Nigel had replied, sadly. "Williamson's reputation was ruined by his Nazi sympathies. His experiences in the trenches during the Great War made him a pacifist, and he thought Hitler's early programs in Germany were admirable and peaceful. I think he came to recant those views later, but it was too late." He seemed truly down by that, so she had snuggled close and nuzzled his neck, trying to lighten his mood. It worked.
She dropped her day pack and flung her arms around his neck, kissing him as a reward for, well, marrying her. His soft beard caressed her face as she pressed against him, and she felt his desire for her creating its inevitable electricity.
Nigel was the most virile man she had ever met. It wasn't something he projected outwardly; he was small, almost slight, but she knew how tough and sinewy he was beneath that Savile Row suit. He boxed at Oxford, and backpacked across Nepal. Best of all, along with the cool, intellectual exterior and the impeccable manners came a prodigious sex drive dedicated entirely to pleasuring her. There had been lovers in Marge's past, but none of them drove her as crazy, brought her to such heights of ecstasy, as Nigel Bailey. He adored her, pure and simple. It was an honor, he once whispered to her late at night, to just be able to speak her name. And she adored him back. From the very beginning their passion for each other was so natural, so all-encompassing, that when he actually proposed to her, on the stage after a performance, in front of the entire cast and crew, it seemed almost anticlimactic.
"Hold on to that that thought," he murmured as she threw him a smoldering look. She strapped her pack back on and they crept further down the slope of the combe, hand-in-hand for support, until they found themselves at the bottom, on the bank of the river itself. The aqueduct, a multi-arched edifice of gray and green stone, spanned the river before them, only two-hundred yards away.
"Is all of Devon like this?" she asked. "Steep valley after steep valley, with streams or rivers at the bottom? It sure seems like it."
"Not all," Nigel replied. They were making their way out of the trees to a grassy expanse approaching the aqueduct, reeds swaying on the bank. The breeze was refreshing after the closeness of the wooded slope. "We skirted some moors to the west as we drove up here."
"Moors?" Marge was delighted. "Wuthering Heights kinds of moors?" Nigel smiled.
"Probably not as bloody cold as the ones up in Yorkshire, but similar, yes."
"Let's go see them on the way back," she said, loving the look of happiness come over his face.
"I'm so glad you're enjoying this part of the honeymoon, luv." His voice was tender. "I wasn't sure if it might not be a touch too…provincial."
She just looked at him.
"Provincial? Baby, Paramus New Jersey is provincial. This is just fucking gorgeous! Besides," she pulled him close again, "this is where you grew up. It helped make you what you are. And I love what you are, how could I not love it also?"
They walked onto the flat, grassy area.
"This looks as good a place as any," he said, and pulled out his camera. "It's perfect otter habitat…but it needs a bonnie lass in the picture." So she posed for him. Years later, as she cleaned out his office at NYU, Marge found the picture in a little frame, on a bookshelf next to the old hardback copy of Tarka the Otter.
They ate lunch on a large white-and-red checked cloth: Ham sandwiches, potato salad she made before they left, washed down with ginger beer. She remembered lying back afterwards, content, and Nigel saying how gorgeous her red hair looked in the sun, and how they couldn't keep their hands off one another, and how she looked forward to spending the rest of her life with him.
Afterwards, lying naked in his arms, the soft breeze tempering the warmth of the sun, Marge didn't think she'd ever been happier. But then, she had been saying that almost since the moment they met. The wedding in New York, the first week of their honeymoon-indulging their passion for the theatre by seeing a new play every night, and making love much of the rest of the time, with occasional meal breaks- were blissful enough, but this week in England, alone in this rural paradise where Nigel grew up, was overwhelming.
It was fascinating to see him in his element.
The first day at the farm, his parents had them settle into the old gamekeeper's cottage on the property, for privacy. It dated back to the 18th Century, but had been renovated with some modern amenities, like electricity, a bathroom and running water. There was no kitchen; meals were all served up at the main farmhouse. It was rented as a bed-and-breakfast to tourists during the spring and early summer.
That evening, Amos Bailey drove the family down to the local pub to show off his new daughter-in-law. Marge was terrified. She, of course, had met his parents at the wedding, and loved them. Amos and Emily Bailey seemed overjoyed with her. But she wondered what the rest of his world felt about this tall, exotic Yank actress from New York who had won the heart of their local boy who made good.
The Sparrowhawk was an ancient inn, 400 years old, situated in a wood on an old post road, with massive wooden beams and a thatched roof. Inside, it was all dark wood, dominated by a large hearth and fire. Five or six people were scattered about at tables, or at the large, polished wooden bar. All looked up as they entered, and Marge could feel the looks of recognition for Nigel and his parents, but almost cold glances at her. She panicked, but Nigel gently squeezed her hand as Amos announced "this is my new daughter, Margaret." The thaw was immediate. People began offering to buy the four of them rounds, and she tasted excellent Dorset ale, Tanglefoot, for the first time. There were lots of questions about her profession, and had she been in any films? By the end of the evening she felt welcomed and loved by all. Everyone certainly knew and loved him.
Marge noticed Nigel revert more and more to a very thick accent as the evening wore on. Tisch had trained her in several accents, but those of England's West Country weren't any of them. Lots of z's in place of s's, and strange words. She often had trouble following it. In New York his accent was usually a charming Queen's English inflected with a soft West Country tang. Perhaps the alcohol loosened the control he maintained on his speech, or maybe it was just being surrounded by people speaking the way he did when he grew up that broadened his tongue. It fascinated her.
She asked him about it that night, luxuriating in the comfort of a real feather bed.
"You tailor your accent to your audience," she noted, stroking his hair, "Just like Mellors, the gamekeeper in Lady Chatterley's Lover."
He chuckled, somewhat embarrassed. "At Oxford I noticed people treated me differently when I dropped the heavy accent, took me more seriously. Of course," Nigel laughed again, "I forgot to relax it when I came back home, and caught a hell of a ribbing in that very pub. Got called posh."
"It wasn't like you were poor or anything," Marge pointed out,"You told me the farm was very prosperous. So…did people think you were stupid or something when you spoke in your normal accent?" She understood where he was coming from. The situation was similar in New York. She had a flat Manhattan accent, as compared to the broader Queens and Brooklyn dialects; some people thought she was from California. But she realized that in some circles, a Bronx, Queens or Staten Island accent carried a stigma with it, as being unsophisticated.
"It had nothing to do with money or intelligence," Nigel said, shaking his head, "but everything to do with class. Which was also the problem with Mellors's accent, if you recall." He didn't let that sink in, however; she was soon writhing under his kisses.
They made love one more time before leaving the riverbank. She caught him looking back at it as they started up the slope back to the car. He was that little boy again, entranced by the life of a river otter, filled with an open innocence. She engraved that image of him on her heart, another facet of the man to whom she pledged her life.
She rewarded him for marrying her again by playing Cathy to his Heathcliff as they stopped by the moors on the way back to the farm.
XXXXxxxxxx
The memory brought a smile to Marge's face, softening her countenance, and the world-weary waitress persona she projected while at work fell away, revealing the beautiful, middle-aged woman she actually was. The lankiness, which was deliberate, disappeared. The wavy, coppery-red hair set off her still-creamy, fair skin with the sprinkling of freckles, and if she had chosen a more subtle lipstick, her full lips would have been seductive and sensual. There were lines now around her deep-set green eyes, and her cheap waitress uniform and sensible shoes did her slender figure no favors, but it was still easy to see the woman Nigel fell so madly in love with all those years ago.
A sudden thought caused her to freeze. There was only her reflection in the counter. She wondered, almost guiltily, if anyone else could love her like Nigel did. And if she could ever love him back.