Lizbeth holds
Benedict’s
father's bike
while sitting
on her own
waiting for
Benedict
to return
from the hedge
with bird's eggs
or the shells
of blackbirds
he had seen
once nest there
she is bored
she wants more
and other
things than this
bird watching
or looking
out for those
butterflies
she wants sex
not nature
study shite
Benedict
where are you?
she calls out
just coming
he replies
if only
she muses
watching bees
on flowers
the soft buzz
butterflies
going by
fluttering
Benedict
she calls out
where are you?
here I am
he replies
coming out
of a hedge
clutching blue
black speckled
eggshell bits
in his palm
look at that
fine eggshells
he says soft
she looks strained
her eyes scan
the eggshells
in his hand
is that it?
just eggshells?
lucky find
he replies
tucking them
in the black
saddlebag
on the bike
she watches
his fingers
how gently
they arrange
the eggshells
in the bag
can we go
to that hut
on the Downs
that you found?
she asks him
he buckles up
the black bag
I guess so
he replies
it's not big
just an old
shepherd's hut
unused now
is it far?
she asks him
ten minutes
walk away
he replies
we can't ride?
she asks him
too hilly
he replies
her lips pout
and she sighs
only way
he tells her
ok then
she replies
so they ride
to the foot
of the Downs
leaving their
two bicycles
by a tree
and walk up
and along
the pathway
between trees
he thinking
of a nest
he'd seen there
the last time
Robin's nest
he believes
she thinking
of hot sex
in the shed
on the floor
on the old
bath towel she'd
brought from home
she and he
all alone
Benedict
unaware
walks and sniffs
the fresh air
thinking of
possible
robin's eggs
and of them
getting there.
Lizbeth sits
in the bath
sponges down
and under
her thin arms
over small
but full breasts
soapy suds
hot water
pretending
Benedict
is washing
between thighs
(here she sighs)
wiggles her
two big toes
she wonders
if he would
do such things
she doubts it
not the type
but she's tried
to get him
to have sex
even once
in her room
but mother
came back too
soon and spoilt
her chances
and that time
in his room
with his tank
of old bones
skeletons
and bird's eggs
and model
Spitfire
hanging down
but no sex
frustrated
she sponges
along thighs
imagining
it is he
rubbing her
his warm lips
planting hot
wet kisses
on the back
of her hand
touch on touch
O too much
if was such.
Put your finger
along there
Jane said
gently
and she opened
her hands
to form
a kind of cup
and there
was the butterfly
yellowish with white
it opened and closed
its wings
feel the smoothness
she said
I focused
on her palms
the skin
thinking how lucky
the butterfly was
to land there
I gently touched
its wings
with my finger
gently so as not
to make it
fly off
she was intense
gazing at my finger
the wings opening
and closing
my finger
was a mere
breath away
from touching
her skin
the warmth
of her palms
I leaned in closer
could smell
apples or fresh air
and her dark eyes
turned on me
and I looked back
at the butterfly
and stroked its
wings again
it flapped
and flew off
and I watched it
go passed
her dark hair
her eyes following it
in the air
and I followed
her hair
the dark and straight
the opened necked blouse
the green skirt
isn't it beautiful?
she said
yes very much so
I said
gazing at
the line of her neck
the area
where her hair
and collar
didn't meet
the jawline
and she
was looking up
at the sky
where the butterfly
flittered amongst
nearby flowers
at the foot
of the Downs
so gentle their wings
she said
she imitated
a butterfly
with her hands
the thumbs
hooked together
flapping her hands
out and in
and looked at them
then at me
should I stroke
the wings?
I said
she smiled
flapping
her hands slowly
so I did
stroking slowly
and gently
the outer line
of palm
with my finger
and she gazed at me
then at my finger
her small tongue
at the corner
of her mouth
beyond her
the butterfly
flittered off
the white and yellow
exchanging
as it went away
my finger
moving up and down
then slowly
moving
like the butterfly
a little bit away.
Lizbeth sucks
her finger
imagines
it belongs
to the boy
Benedict
with eyes closed
savouring
each flavour
part salty
vinegar
(having ate
fish and chips
earlier)
tomato
of ketchup
the red thrills
sucks deeper
whole mouthfuls
of finger
thinking on
that church pew
old dark wood
where they could
but didn't
have made love
she sucks slow
finger length
the painted
finger nail
salty still
each flavour
so distinct
even in
her chosen
warm darkness
of closed eyes
she passes
over both
her knuckles
warm wet skin
imagines
so hotly
between thighs
him within.
You walked with Jane
as you passed by
the water tower
she talked
of the various breeds
of cattle
there were some
for meat
others for milk
some for both
she pointed out
some cows
in a field nearby
and told you
their breed
have you ever seen
a calf born?
she said
no
you said
not seen anything
like that
let's go to the farm
I think they have a cow
that is due to drop
she said
so you turned up
the drive
that led to the farm
where you worked
some evenings
after school
or at weekends
she walked and talked
you listened
looking at her
dark hair tied back
with a green ribbon
her dark eyes shone
with sunlight
you looked away
at that moment
watching the farm dog
pass by
with its one good eye
(it had bitten you once
and you were wary of it)
a cowman
was at the side
of a shed
clearing out
has the new calf
been born yet?
she asked
he looked at her
then at you
no not yet
he said
but should be soon
want to watch then?
he said
gazing at you
kind of grinning
yes
Jane said
Benedict here
hasn't seen a birth
oh of course
these Londoners
haven't nought
he said
hang about a moment
and we'll go across
he said
you looked at Jane
she was silent
looking around the farm
have you seen
a calf being born?
you asked
many times
she said
ever since
I could stand
I’ve been near
cattle and sheep
I know most breeds
of both
she added softly
after a few minutes
the cowman walked
you both over to the cowshed
over the yard
and opened up
the half door
there she is
he said
waiting to drop
you and Jane
peered over
the half door
at a cow by the wall
looking at you
disinterestedly
her tail flapping
away flies
shouldn't be long now
the cowman said
never seen
a calf born then?
he said to you
no not yet
you said
don't suppose
you Londoners
see much of cows
he said smiling
no not at all in London
you said
he looked at Jane
then at the cow
which was standing still
making noises
then moving
then standing still again
I was about 5
when my old dad
took me to see
a calf born
the cowman said
all that blood and stuff
near made me
want to puke
first time
you looked at Jane
her hands
on the door top
her eyes focused
on the cow
she had on blue jeans
and boots
and a yellowy top
with small bulges
of breasts
there she goes
the cowman said
and you gazed
at the cow
and a head appeared
as if by magic
out of the rear
of the cow
and it hung there
momentarily
then it slid out
and dropped
to the straw filled floor
covered in blood
and stuff
and the cow
licked the calf
and you watched
fascinated
at the new life
laying there
moving
the cow licking
the legs moving
the head turning
that's how it is
the cowman said
easy one that
and you moved closer
to Jane
smelling her scent
her warmth near you
her arm next to yours
what will you call it?
Jane asked
don't know yet
the cowman said
might call it Benedict
if it's a bull calf
and Jane
if it's a heifer
he smiled at you both
and opened up
the lower door
and went in
then closed it up again
there you are
she said
now you've seen
a calf born
you nodded
and you walked back
out of the yard
and up the drive
let's go back to my house
she said
Mum'll give us
tea and cake
and we can tell her
about the calf
ok
you said
walking beside her
sensing her nearness
her hand close to yours
you wanting to hold it
but not doing so
walking there
beneath the sun's
warmth and glow.
Lizbeth lies on her bed, hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. All that way out to the darn farm cottage to see Benedict and not even a kiss. All that showing of skulls and bones and egg shells, and where his father had given him a parch of earth to grow stuff, but not a single hint of a kiss or cuddle. She closes her eyes. His double bed was there, the room with just him and her, his mother downstairs, his father at work, his siblings out playing in the fields or some place, and he talked about birds and such. She had put on her best black short skirt, white blouse, and clean underwear just for him, and did he notice? Not one jot. She even waited sitting on his bed while went downstairs to ask about lunch for her, hinting maybe, might set him going, her sitting there legs crossed, skirt risen up. He came up the stairs in bounds and she thought, here he comes for it, and all he said was: cheese or ham sandwiches? She said cheese. Off he went again. She even bounced on the bed to see how the springs were. Not to good. He had a model Spitfire hanging from the ceiling in his room. There was a fish tank full of bones and skulls and birds eggs. She imagines how it could have been. He coming upstairs with the sandwiches, seeing her there on his bed, her skirt risen up, showing thigh...but no, she hates pretending. He brought the cheese sandwiches up and sat next to her on the bed and talked about the work he did on the farm across the way. He didn't seem to notice her thighs. She ate the sandwiches, looked at him as he talked on about maybe one day being a cowman and such. If only he had, she muses, opening her eyes, looking at her untidy bedroom, LPs on the floor, a box record player, soiled linen(as her mother called it), a small plate, a cup. If he had only hinted at it, she muses, just put a hand on her thigh, touched her hand, said he loved her short black skirt, but no, not a word about it. She had ridden all that way on her bike to see him and hoped that he might this time, but no; all she got was cheese sandwiches and a cup of tea(downstairs), and his mother asking her questions about her father and mother and work. Benedict smiling and looking at her, then his mother, then her again. Still a virgin. She can't say she hasn't tried to lose it. She'd read somewhere that King Henry VII's mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, had him when she was thirteen years old. How old was she when she had sex? Lizbeth muses. She can hear her mother downstairs banging away with pots and pans. A bad mood day. She had moaned at Lizbeth when she came in from her bike ride to see Benedict. Room untidy, clothes everywhere, tidy up. Words words. What if he had though? She thinks, turning on her side looking at the wall, what if they had done it? She smiles. What if they had on his double bed, she laying there seeing the Spitfire above the bed moving overhead, him entering her, she lying there, hands around him, eyes open or closed, looking at him, the hair, the quiff moving. But he didn't. She runs a finger down the wall. But what if he had though? another voice in her head asks her, what then? She thinks on it, running a finger down the wall again. She didn't know. She remembered asking the girl at school about it. What's it like? She had asked her. What's what like? The girl had replied, grinning. You know, sex? The girl had told her. Detailed each aspect. But to her now, it was all theory. How did she know without doing it? The girl could have been all talk. And that thing about self relief was yuk. She turns back on her back, the ceiling is still there boring her. But it wasn't just a fact of losing her virginity, it had to be with him, not just any boy. She wanted it to be with someone she liked and someone whom she would remember years to come. She knew there were boys in her class at school who probably would if they could(doubts with some) but that wasn't it. He was a hard fish to catch. Was that the phrase? She'd tried four times, and nothing. Even in the small village church he'd said no. That would have been memorable, even if the church benches were rather hard to lay on and it wouldn't have been that comfortable to do it, at least it would have been done and with him. But he hasn't and nor has she. She wonders what would have happened if they had and someone came into the church at that moment and found them at it? Especially some one like her mother or older or some old dear who had a heart attack. Then there was this room, not long ago. She had actually got him here and still no joy. Her mother had been out shopping, the room to themselves, silence, bed. Nothing. Except frustration on her part. In the corner of her bedroom, up on the ceiling is a spider. Black, big bellied. A web in the corner. It waiting. She hates spiders. What if came down in the night? She watches it, making sure it doesn't go anywhere. She ought to hammer it with her slipper. But she doesn't. She closes her eyes. She came that close to doing it. If only. But if onlys are fictions, she muses, turning on her side and opening her eyes. The room bores. The untidiness is part of who she is. And if they had, would she have a kid at fourteen? What then? Maybe she would call him Henry or Henrietta if it was a girl. No she didn’t like that name. But they didn't, so names don't matter. Maybe next time, she thinks, maybe next time he may. Tomorrow is there just another hopeful day.
Jane opened her hands
and the butterfly
fluttered off
across the grass
and you watched
and she told you
what its name was
and its colouring
but you
were more focused
on her hands
the fingers held so
as if Michaelangelo
might have
painted them
in a creative urge
to pin down
an example
of beauty
and as her voice
spoke on
you saw the hands
come together
and embrace
and caress
each other
as you both walked
along the lane
between
high hedges
first this finger pointed
then that
gesturing towards
this flower
then that
names came
and colouring
and her voice sang
as she talked
the words
being flung
in the air
like a juggler's balls
and you reached out
to catch each word
and place
its meaning
but her eyes
caught you
the colour
the brightness
and fires flamed there
and they grow
only here
she said
so I’ve read
her words said
and the lips parted
just to allow
words to go
like busy bees
to work
and the glimpse
of teeth and tongue
and what do you think?
she said
beautiful stuff
you replied
not quite
the words
you wished for
but which came
like lazy boy's
to school
they are
she said smiling
her hands parting
one reaching
for yours
O that
may have been Heaven
for all you knew
a bright
sun-blessed smile
out of the blue.
There was fresh flowers
on the grave
that Jane showed you
outside the small church
the sun was warm
and cows
were just over
the hedge surrounding
you could hear them
munching the grass
and trotting by
unconcerned by death
or the symbols
of death
and Jane said
the tractor fell
on top of him
the other month
you stared
at the flowers laid there
colourful
bright in the sunlight
a small glass vase
holding a smaller bunch
child picked maybe
they'll have to
move out now
that he's dead
it being
a tied cottage
she said
and you could see
the sadness
in her features
the tearful eyes
mouth slightly open
words like
broken china pieces
where will they go
the mother and children?
you asked
the local council
will house them
I expect
she said
she gazed at the grave
and bent
and picked up
a small flower
from the nearby grass
and laid it
by the other flowers
God bless him
in His peace
she said softly
the cows
stilled munch
over the hedge
a bird called
from the hedgerow
you looked at her
standing there
a blue ribbon
in her dark hair
her green top
and black skirt
knee length
sad end
you said
yes
one of the dangers
of farming
she said quietly
she moved away
and you followed
and she held out a hand
and you took it
and went
into the small church
and sat
in one of the pews
inside and stared
at the stained glass windows
sunlight pouring in
like liquid gold
touching
the flagstone floor
and pew end
at the front
and her hand
still held yours
warm
alive
blood pumping
along arteries
life and living
and she and you
and outside
he sleeping
in his God's peace
and the cows
munching the grass
and birds calling
from hedgerows
and sky
and always
with you
the eternal why.
She crosses fields to find him,
passing cows, over low fences,
along dust tracks. He's probably
at the farm, his mother said, he
works there after school some
days and at week ends if he has
time to spare, so she goes there,
her bike parked by the cottage
wall, on foot, treading her way,
warm morning, Saturday. He
sees her coming through the farm,
dressed in jeans, blouse and boots,
her red hair tied in a bunch, hands
in her pockets, mouth chewing gum.
Farm hands view her a she passes,
their eyes feeding on her swaying
behind, her tiny tits, not knowing
13 years had scarcely gone, then
turn away, back to their work of
milking cows or weighing milk
or cleaning cow sheds of shit and
straw. Your mother said I'd find
you here, Lizbeth says, eyeing
him, his face and eyes and the
way he stands. He views her,
sensing her non-countryside ways,
a towny, others'd say. Just doing
a bit, he says, got hay bales to
stack, tidy and lay. Can I help?
she says, I’ve nothing much to do?
If you like, he says, and walks
along to the barn and she follows,
swaying her hips, holding her
head to one side. He shows her
the hay bales, where they need
to be and how to stack. It smells
in here, she says, heat of hay,
he says, gets stuffy. She runs a hand
over the nearest bales. Soft enough,
she says, looking at him, her eyes
focusing, sniffing the air. Soft enough
for what? He says. To lay on, cuddle
on, she say softly. Best not, he says,
others may come. Not up there, she
says, pointing to a higher place above
their heads, there we'd not been seen.
Best not, he says, they want me for
work not to laze or shirk. She pouts
her lips, walks about the barn, touching
with her fingers, running palms over
the bales. Just a little while, she says,
unbuttoning her blouse, needn't be long,
fingers slowly working the buttons.
There's mice and rats about, he says,
could be anywhere in here. She pauses,
her fingers still, her eyes enlarging.
Here? she asks. He nods, seen them
about, a few hours ago. She buttons
up her blouse, gazing around. Shame,
she says, wanted to, you know, here
in the quiet, us alone. He stands and
gazes, takes in her slim frame, her eyes,
her hands holding each other and
squeezing. Another time maybe, she
says, some other place, somewhere
that's quiet, where we'd not be disturbed.
He nods, viewing her small breasts
tidied away, at least for the day, like
small babes put to bed, and tucked
up safe and sound. She kisses his cheek,
touches his arm, see you, she says softly,
see you around, and she walks way,
her swaying behind, tight in her jeans,
walking through dust and hay, see you,
she says, blowing a kiss, another day.