A/N – my thanks goes once more to my steadfast band of readers and reviewers, who wait patiently and then pounce eagerly on each update, no matter when they appear. This is a rather M-rated chapter, just so you know.
Frowning at my reflection in the dressing room mirror, I debate whether or not to change out of my suit. I don't usually wear one when taking Ruth out for a weeknight dinner…but tonight is different. Tonight, I think I might welcome the additional confidence conferred by a good suit…I have worn one all day though, and it would be nice to be in civvies. Sighing at the image presented in the mirror – when did my hair start to thin out in earnest? – I am just about to walk away, when something catches my eye. Aunt Emily's Christmas present, neatly folded on the chair: a rather vibrant purple cashmere pullover, as yet unworn, with the gift card still tucked neatly into the neck. 'To my dearest (and only) nephew, with lots of love from your old Aunt: here's something to brighten you up. R will like it. Trust me!'
I had been grateful that my aunt had put the card into a sealed envelope before attaching it to her gift; Mother would have been very interested in the comment about R (she occasionally asks me when I am going to invite her for afternoon tea, as if I were courting a maiden in a Victorian novel), and she has been known to snoop through things such as cards and other people's post…impulsively, I shed my suit jacket, then strip off my blue shirt and step out of my trousers. I look out a little-worn shirt in a lavender Tattersall check, and my favourite pair of khaki corduroys, and dress quickly, topping off the whole lot with my new pullover and a new pair of socks that I had found in my desk drawer this morning with green and purple stripes: Colin, of course. A Post-It note was attached to the tag: So, they're not black silk, but I do owe you a pair. Green and purple stripes have always been lucky for me! He had winked broadly when I discovered them, early this morning, and said, "They're not the main event, but they'll do to be going on with. Happy birthday, mate!" I had shushed him; I don't like to make a fuss about my birthday at work, or indeed in general. Harry knows the date, of course, and Colin, and that's quite enough, in my opinion. I haven't even told Ruth. I don't want tonight to be about me, but rather, about us.
I have already put fresh sheets on the bed and clean towels in the bathroom, and just as I am about to walk out the door of the dressing room, I pick up a little blue velvet box from the top of my bureau and tuck it into my pocket with fingers that tremble. I glance at my watch, and hasten downstairs to put on my Barbour jacket, tweed cap and woolly scarf in readiness to walk across to Hampstead village, to the little trattoria where I am meeting Ruth.
It is a clear night with the sharpness of frost in the air, and I make sure I have my inhaler with me; it wouldn't do to suffer an asthma attack brought on by the night air, before I have even said what I am hoping to say. Wrapping my scarf closely around my throat, I walk through the kitchen to check that the champagne is still where I left it, chilling in the refrigerator; it is, and next to it is a tin of Beluga caviar. I'm not especially fond of the stuff myself, but Ruth had mentioned some months ago that she would love to try it; so I have had Fortnum's send some round, along with a basket of long-stemmed strawberries, hot-housed in Holland even in winter, and some dark chocolate to melt and dip them into, should the mood take us. Six free range eggs and half a pound of higher welfare bacon are on the next shelf down, in anticipation of breakfast tomorrow. I make my final checks, and then leave through the conservatory, setting the alarm as I go, and walk down to the back gate, past the dry-stone wall I built as testament to my love for her, and my state of utter distraction without her, and then out onto the Heath itself, etched in silver and black under the cold, clear light of the midwinter moon. The frosty grass crunches beneath my feet and the crisp night air takes my breath away as I stride up Parliament Hill, pausing at the top to recover and admire the sight of London spreading out in all directions as far as the eye can see. I spot the bench where Ruth and I sat and talked (and very nearly did a lot more) during her first stay at Hampstead, only a few months ago, and blushing at the memory, I turn towards the village and tramp downhill, eager to see her.
We have arranged to meet at the restaurant, and by my watch I will be there a few minutes early. I lengthen my steps as I see the lights of the village in front of me: being out on the Heath at night is an eerie experience, and from my earliest childhood, I have been told that on certain nights of the year, as when the veil between the worlds grows thin around the time of the winter solstice, spirits go abroad; I cannot be sure that I didn't see a small, bonneted figure flitting between the trees in front of me, nor if I just heard the faintest strains of laughter drifting on the thin little wind that has picked up as I have been walking. If anyone haunts the Heath, it must be Fanny Brawne and her beloved Mr Keats, and I feel oddly cheered at the thought of sharing the night with such companions. Keats, pale and thin, but with lively eyes and a livelier wit; and Miss Brawne, scarcely bigger than a child, but beautifully turned out in a dress of her own making, wandering arm in arm together through the beech hangers and birch stands…but here I am, in the front porch of the restaurant, and there…there she is, sitting inside, waiting for me. My heart skips a beat as I see her through the dining room window: Oh, my love, my life, my Ruth… I touch my pocket again, just to make sure, and then push open the door.
She smiles as she sees me, and as I divest myself of my outer wrappings, just inside the door, I drink in the sight of her, subtly splendid in a simple, long-sleeved dress of midnight blue velvet, her diamond pendant sparkling at her throat, and her dark hair curling under at the ends in the way that I love, framing her face far better than any artifice yet devised by hairdressers. Her eyes light up as I walk towards her; this little place has become a favourite of ours, and we feel safe here, amongst friends. "Hello, my love, you look ravishing!" I smile, bending down to kiss her. "Have you been waiting terribly long?" She shakes her head as we break off the kiss, and says, "No, I only just got here myself. It's a beautifully clear night, isn't it? And your jumper, is it new? I haven't seen it before. I love the colour on you!" I nod in response to the first of her questions, as I reply, "Yes, while I was walking over here, I felt as if I could reach up and lift the moon out of the sky, it seemed so close. It's nice to be back in the warm, though. And yes, the pullover is a gift from Aunt Emily; I'm very glad you approve." I approve of her choice of table, too, nestled towards the far wall, away from the swinging doors leading into the kitchen, and not near the other diners. Perfect, for what I have in mind…
The maître'd bustles towards us, and after the usual round of pleasantries and orders are exchanged, Ruth looks at me, that arrow-straight look that sets the blood leaping through my veins, and says in classical Greek, "Of you first I sing, and with you I begin; now that I have begun with you, I will turn to another song," her eyes glowing deep sapphire in the candlelight as she recites the ancient words of Homer's hymn to Artemis. I take her hand, lying on the table between us, and follow with, "She gives kindly gifts to men: smiles are ever on her lovely face, and lovely is the brightness that plays over it." I bring her hand to my lips, just as she says, eyes suddenly serious, "Dread is she, and with Ares she loves deeds of war, the sack of cities and the shouting and the battle. It is she who saves the people as they go out to war and come back. Hail, goddess, and give us good fortune with happiness…oh, why can't real life be like it is in Homer?" she finishes. I blink, thrown off balance for the thousandth time by her mercurial mind. "All in iambic pentameter, with tragedy galore, do you mean?" I ask, trying to lighten the moment. She looks down, her hair falling forward across her face, and when she lifts her eyes to mine, there is a shadow in them that wasn't there before. Coldness seeps into the pit of my stomach, and I feel sick.
"What is it, my love? What's wrong?" She stares at me, and repeats, "Tragedy galore…we have that, at least. What an awful year it's been…I miss him, Malcolm…Danny…I know I'm just being silly, but it seems so strange that it's Christmas, and he's not here…the world is moving on without him, and soon it will be as if he was never here at all." A tear trickles onto her cheek, and I can see that she is sinking deeper by the moment into that dreadful place of grief and guilt. Gently, I brush the tear away with my thumb, and she leans her face into the palm of my hand, as I softly say, "You're not being silly, and it's perfectly natural to think of absent friends at this time of year. There's not a December that passes, that I find myself wishing that my father were here, leading the Christmas service from the pulpit…Danny will never really be gone, not as long as you're here to remember him. That's what you and I must do; honour his memory, as we honour all our past friends and colleagues. Tom, poor Helen, Zoe, even that wretched Tessa…this is always a time when the memories they left behind roam Thames House. Perhaps it's the Celt in me, but I rather think that nothing is truly gone forever; everything is reborn in its time, and this is just the season of shadows, here in the dark of the year."
Ruth smiles tremulously. "The season of shadows…I like that. You've the soul of a poet, Malcolm." Something else occurs to me, and I say brightly, "Did I mention that I had another encounter with the curious old gentleman at St Margaret's, on Christmas Eve?" She shakes her head, eyes wide. "No! Really? Do tell me all about it!" just as our first course, a thick and fragrant zuppa alla Milanese, is placed in front of us, along with a basket of warm pane di casa and curls of home-made butter. I am famished, after my walk in the brisk night air, and picking up my soup spoon, I set to with a good will. My bowl empty, I tell Ruth about my latest visit to St Margaret's, and gradually the shadow recedes as she listens to my tale. "Dickens himself couldn't have come up with anything more fantastic," she comments, as I describe singing Silent Night with the old gentleman whose eyes were so calm and so warm, and so full of wisdom. "But really, Malcolm, who do you think he is? He must be some old verger or churchwarden, getting a bit vague in his old age…there must still be quite a few about, who lived through the Blitz." I half-shrug doubtfully, recalling once more how the very quality of the light in the church had changed when the old man appeared, and how peace had flooded my aching soul as we had spoken. "I truly don't know, and for once, in my life of forever finding things out, I think I prefer it that way. Perhaps there are things that are meant to stay just beyond our ken, while we live in this world…we might get the answers one day, but not now, not here." Ruth looks surprised at my rather mystical explanation, or rather, lack of, so I add, "I can't explain it empirically, it was one of those 'you had to be there' moments. Perhaps it was some kind of faith encounter, perhaps not. Maybe you would have seen someone altogether different, if it had been you instead of me. All I know with absolute certainty is that he's a good man. Truly good."
Ruth smiles at this. "The world needs all the true goodness it can get," she offers, and I smile back, relieved that we seem to be moving away from the quicksand and onto safer ground. "Did you make your donation?" I ask, and Ruth nods, sipping her wine. "Yes, to the Royal Lifeboat Society. Did you?" I reply, "Of course. Help the Aged, just as you suggested. Merry Christmas!" At Ruth's insistence, we have not exchanged Christmas gifts, but rather each of us have made a donation to a charity of the other's choosing. I had been at first surprised, and then touched at the idea, before agreeing to it with enthusiasm. It is so rare to find anyone capable of thinking beyond their own selfish wants and desires, these days. But then, that's just one of the reasons that I love her so much…my kind, thoughtful Ruth. I raise my glass to her, and all thoughts of her silence over Christmas and of the mysterious glimpse of a small woman in a long white winter coat, swiftly crossing the far end of the foyer at Claridge's, much less the ongoing mystery of the Tessina, are forgotten…for the moment.
The waiter returns, and sets a heaped plate of osso buco in front of me, and a more delicate dish of roast pheasant in red wine is placed before Ruth. A bowl of soft, cheesy polenta to share, and another of winter vegetables – cavallo nero, broccolini, and spinaci, sautéed in butter as is the wont of northern Italy, completes the meal, along with a bottle of Chianti (at Ruth's request) in its distinctive straw-wrapped bottle. We eat companionably, sharing morsels from each other's plates, Ruth scrupulously dividing the side dishes between us, while I pour the wine, both of us making the sort of conversation that people who have been together for some time hold at mealtimes. We comment on the food, talk guardedly about work, speculate about what might be going on with Fiona – Ruth has also noticed her air of distraction and secrecy lately – and generally catch up on everything that we never have time for during our life on the Grid. The little blue velvet box, safe in my pocket, presses against my thigh like a small but insistent reminder of my hopes and dreams for tonight; I ignore it. It's not yet time, and the conversation hasn't gone exactly as I would have hoped, but I can see that the combination of good food and strong wine is working on Ruth, who is growing more relaxed and mellow with each glass she pours for herself, her eyes starting to roam shamelessly over me as the alcohol dissolves her surface demureness to reveal the tigress lurking just beneath the surface. I stop drinking at two glasses, aware that any more may well have a detrimental effect on my vascular system, which would be highly inconvenient later on, if I am reading the signs right. Ruth has no such inhibitions, and she has almost finished the bottle. We decline the waiter's offer of dolce, choosing cheese and fruit to share instead; whimsically, the waiter brings a heart-shaped, rich yellow Cuor de Valle cheese, with dried figs and fresh pomegranates to accompany it. He winks at me as he sets it down, and tips my head towards Ruth knowingly. Come on, Wynn-Jones, it's now or never…quivering with nervous anticipation, I am just about to make my move, when Ruth beats me to it.
Out of the folds of her dress, she produces a small, wash-leather drawstring bag, and places it neatly on top of the cheese. "What's this?" I query uncertainly, and she gives me a wide smile. "Open it, and find out. I believe that's the usual procedure with presents…yes, of course I know it's your birthday, even if you didn't tell me. Happy birthday, sweetheart!" she says expansively, slurring her s's slightly, and leaning across the table to kiss me. I open the little bag, which is deceptively weighty, and shake out the contents – a heavy silver ring – into my palm. Something is engraved on both the inner and outer surfaces, and I hold it to the candlelight to examine it more closely, my heart racing as I try to fathom the meaning of this most unexpected gift. Runes! the characters on the outside of the ring are runes, and in the next instant I know what they are: my initials. All of them. Peering closer, I see that the inside of the ring is engraved in tiny, elegant Elvish script: This above all, to thine own self be true. Automatically I identify it: Hamlet. Polonius, to his son Laertes, just before he takes ship for France… "Try it. It should be the right size for your middle finger," Ruth says, and I slide it onto that finger of my left hand; it is a perfect fit. I turn it around a couple of times, admiring the heft and feel of it, even as my mind turns over the possibilities. "Well?" she asks, triumphantly. I look at her, but her face is open and honest, happily waiting for my response. I don't quite know what to say. Why has she given me a ring, of all things? And why now? Her face falls: I have been silent for too long, I realise.
"Don't you like it?" she asks uncertainly. "I wanted to give you something special. When I saw the jeweller in the Covent Garden market, making personalised rings, I remembered how fond you are – how fond we both are – of Tolkien, and I couldn't resist. I had to write out the message for him, and he said he had gotten a lot of requests for runes and Elf-writing since those movies had come out, and I said I hadn't seen any of them, but I knew the books almost by heart, and we laughed…and that bit from Hamlet, it always reminds me of you. You have such integrity, Malcolm, such wholeness of soul, I'd almost be pea green if you weren't so humble, so unaware of it. There have been times this year when I've been so lost, but you found me every time… That's why I had your initials put on the outside, and the quote on the inside…to remind you of who you are, in case you ever lose your way." Her eyes are misty as she stops speaking, and her hand has gone to her throat, playing unconsciously with her pendant as the silence lengthens.
My heart seems to have lodged in my mouth, making speech impossible. Just when I think I know her, she surprises me with something like this…my beautiful, wonderful Ruth. I take both her hands in mine, and lean across the table to kiss her, unable to articulate the swelling emotions in my heart in any other way. She moves forward, and the kiss deepens. "I love you so much, my dearest heart," I say somewhat breathlessly, breaking off the embrace, "and the ring is just…perfect. No-one has ever given me anything like this. I'm quite overwhelmed by the thought and consideration you've put into it. Gandalf himself wouldn't have a ring so fine!" Ruth grins at this, and whispers, "And Gandalf wouldn't get what's coming next, either. Let's go home, and I'll show you..."
I immediately call for the bill, and a cab, and bundle us into it precipitately, for once immune to the broadly insinuating smiles of the restaurant staff and the cabbie. Ruth's hands roam at will during the short ride home, and it is with difficulty that I extricate myself from her clutches as I pay the driver, who nearly shakes my hand in congratulation as Ruth steps out and heads for the front door. "'Ave a good night, then, mate!" he says, adding, sotto voce, "well, you're bound to, aren't ya?" I ignore this, and he disappears down the drive, honking irreverently, as I open the door and we stumble into the hall, already tangled together, Ruth shrieking with delight as I sweep her into my arms and carry her purposefully upstairs. I want her in my bed, and I mean to have her; by the way her fingers are working under my pullover, undoing buttons and pulling my shirttails loose, the feeling is mutual. She wraps her arms around my neck as I push open the door to my rooms, and her wine-scented breath fans across my cheek, making me feel as light-headed as if I had drunk nearly the entire bottle of Chianti, instead.
Reaching my bedroom, I shift her weight slightly so I can flick on the sconce lights on either side of the old four-poster, before settling her onto the bed. She stretches luxuriously, and then catches hold of my hand and pulls me down before I can even remove her shoes. It all becomes a bit of a blur then, but we somehow manage to struggle out of our clothes, leaving them strewn on either side of the bed, while never seeming to break contact; we kiss, and caress, and tease, bringing all our most intimate knowledge of each other to bear until she is gasping at the movement of my fingers, and I am unable to wait any longer, so compelling is the sight of her body, glowing like ivory in the soft light, arching beneath my hands; my new ring glints brightly as my hands slide over her skin.
She rolls onto her back and I follow her motion, bracing myself on my elbows as we share that electric moment just before we become one: her eyes, coal-black with desire, just a few inches away from mine, widen even more as I slowly ease my way into her welcoming wetness, that indescribable feeling of peace and home-coming rolling over me as we begin to move together until our breathing quickens and Ruth bucks beneath me with a cry that fires my blood and increases my pace. She pushes her hands against my chest to still me, and taking my cue from her, I change tactics, and employ long, slow strokes instead, stirring inside her like a heavy spoon, while her internal muscles ripple around me and my fingers coax a swift climax from her; Ruth hooks a leg around my thigh and we turn over until she is in her favourite position, riding astride, her eyes half closed as she concentrates, my hands wrapped around her hips to balance her as she rises and falls with a little exhalation on each downstroke, each breathy sound wildly erotic in my ears, as she chants her mantra of 'Yes…yes….unh…oh…oh…oh…yes…yes!…" and her diamond pendant swings to and fro, between her breasts, mesmerising me completely; I am in thrall to her.
When she feels that I am close, she starts the internal rhythm that never fails to incite me, and steps up the pace; a few seconds later I almost shout her name as I come hard, and she slows her movement, smiling down at me with that cat-like, inscrutable look of hers as she brings herself off once more, grinding against my pubic bone and deploying her hands. My eyes close involuntarily as the final moments of pleasure pulse through us both; she snuggles onto my still-heaving chest, and I manage to force an eye open again, to find her staring intently at me from a distance of about six inches. "No. I can't. Not again. I just turned forty-eight, so for the love of all that's good, have pity on me!" I protest, and the feline smile widens into a Cheshire cat's grin as she starts to slide backwards down the bed.
"I have a special birthday present for you, and you just might change your mind about no more tonight, afterwards." I half sit up in dismay. "My love, you know I don't think that…" She reaches up and pushes me flat with one hand; the other is already engaged. "Sweetheart, please. Why don't you just lie back and who knows, you might actually enjoy it. Don't worry, I wouldn't offer if I didn't want to, truly I wouldn't. I just want you to experience it once, in order to be able to make an informed decision…" She refocuses her attentions, and I can't help but gasp at the exquisite sensations she is creating as I am transported to a whole new world of sensuality. My toes curl, my heart pounds as if it would break free of my ribcage altogether, my hands clench the sheets, and as from a very great distance, I realise that those strange panting noises I can hear are emanating from my own throat. The centre of my being seems to have shifted into my loins, and I am as light-headed as if I have run a mile. The world around me seems to phase in and out, and life itself has become no more than this moment, and then the next; single instances of existence, comprised solely of extraordinary sensations. When all these feelings finally do coalesce and surge into a coherent whole, I appear to be having an actual out-of-body experience, just as Ruth locks eyes with me in a soul-baring moment so intimate that I can hardly manage to hold her gaze; and then my back arches, my hips rise off the bed, my head snaps back, breathing is evidently no longer an option, and the most profoundly shattering orgasm of my life crashes over me like a great wave rolling relentlessly onto the shore, before everything goes black and I know no more.
When I recover, Ruth is curled against my side, the lights are out, and she is asleep, an enigmatic smile still playing around the corners of her mouth. Her mouth…I blush in recollection, and pull the duvet closer around us both. "La petite mort…" she mumbles, opening the eye nearest to me…"sweetheart, you actually passed out on me. I've never had that happen before…but then, I've never done that to anyone for the first time, either." I draw her onto my chest, and say, "That was…transcendental. Stunning. Mind-blowing…" and then Ruth gets the giggles at my unintentional pun. "Mere words don't seem enough… but thank you, thank you a thousand times over, my darling." Ruth props herself up on one elbow and replies, "If words aren't enough, you can always show your appreciation by returning the favour. Not now, it's late, but sometime. You'd be giving me something that you know I like!" I kiss her sleepily in agreement, and fall back into the clutches of Morpheus.
The next time I wake, it is to see Ruth standing between the bed and the window, silhouetted against the watery, pale light of dawn as it leaks into the room; I had forgotten to darken the privacy glass in last night's rush to bed. She is wearing my purple pullover and nothing else, as she looks at a small, bright object on her finger. I am afraid to move, as I begin to comprehend the meaning of the scene before my eyes. The little blue velvet box lies on the floor, not far from my discarded corduroys; it had been forgotten in the shock of unexpectedly receiving a ring, myself, and then in our frenzied undressing, it must have fallen out of my trouser-pocket, and lain there all night unheeded, until now. Ruth has not realised that I am awake, as she holds her left hand up to admire the icy brilliance of the stone, turning it this way and that in the faint light so that it scintillates, throwing tiny rainbows around the room. Her face is solemn and sad as she contemplates it, and when she slowly slips it from her finger and puts it back into the box, before tucking it into a trouser-pocket as if it has been there all along, I know that I have my answer, although the question remains unasked.
Ruth might very well love me, but she does not want to marry me. With this realisation, the papered-over crack in my heart tears open, even wider than before, and it is only with a great force of effort that I manage to hold in my grief until she has gone down the hall to the bathroom, and I hear the sound of running water rushing through the pipes, before I turn my face into the pillow, as dry, jagged sobs force themselves out from a painful place so deep within I had forgotten it even existed.
Why did I ever think that weeping for that which is irretrievably lost was something exclusive to the confusing, frightening world of childhood?
Ruth…Ruth…oh, Ruth…
A/N – Malcolm and Ruth are quoting to each other from the Homeric hymns to the gods, referencing, in order, Artemis, Aphrodite, and Athene.
