Afterwards I couldn't remember what I had been thinking about. Losing concentration , not looking where my Nike feet were pounding the park grassland, my foot slipped and I fell heavily, twisting my ankle.
I had started running in the local park, in the early morning. Why, I couldn't have said. I wasn't a fitness freak. After the first few weeks my body seemed to need the exercise and I continued, five kilometres a day and sometimes, without necessarily making a conscious decision, running a second round of the park.
That morning, as I struggled to drag breath into my winded body, by turns clutching my ankle and rubbing at the grass burn on my leg, tears welled in my eyes. Tears of frustration rather than reaction to the pain. Falling down on an open grassy slope without an obstacle in sight, somehow seemed consistent at that time with the direction of my life. I didn't know what I wanted; who I was. Increasingly, I felt cut off from friends and family.
A slight built women, mature aged, hurried over from the pathway that bisected the park. I recognised her immediately although we had never meet. She lived in the end house, across the park from my parents home.
"Can I give you a hand? I saw you fall; can you get up?"
"I'll be alright, I...." I cried out, as I tied to put weight on my foot.
Margaret Passmor was her name. Something of a mystery in the neighbourhood, or so I heard my mother say in conversation with a neighbour. She stopped a man walking his dog, and between them they supported me to Margaret's house. "I'll drive you home, rather than have you hobble across the park".
I explained that I was on my own for the weekend and Margaret suggested I stay, bath my ankle and later, she would drive me home.
Despite my ankle and feeling foolish, I was also curious. I had often passed the house which was small but attractive with pointed brick- work and ivy, laced around bay windows fronting the street. Once or twice, I had heard orchestral music coming from the house and on one occasion, a man and woman in evening dress, bidding their host goodnight.
"Best we bath your ankle and then see about ointment and a wrapping." "That's you.! "
We were in the hall. Margaret with her arm around me, having bid our other helper goodbye. The photograph that caught my attention, was a large grainy print, in a silver frame. The ballerina was caught in mid flight, by a band of light from an open window, and at first I had not recognised the face turned partially away from the camera.
"It was a long time ago".
Margaret helped me into a bathroom. With some difficulty, I managed to sit on the end of the bath with my feet in the bath. With warm water running, Margaret left and returned with a jumper. I realised I was quite cold. While running, I wore brief nylon running shorts and on top, a cotton tee shirt; no bra. I was aware my nipples had hardened with the cold. My breasts were small; " titless ", I had heard one of Brian's friend's say. Of the things I disliked about myself , I disliked my breasts the most. I was sixteen and it seemed as though ever other girl, certainly everyone at school, had bigger breasts. The bulky jersey warmed me and I rubbed my hands up and down my arms.
"I'll bath your foot until there is enough water to cover your feet. Tell me if I hurt you"
Margaret knelt beside the bath and using a washer began to gently bath my ankle.
Margaret asked questions about my parents and school. Now with the warm water and Margaret's gentle washing , my ankle throbbed in a rhythmic way and I closed my eyes paying attention to the beat.
I was suddenly aware the Margaret was no longer speaking or bathing my foot. My flimsy shorts had been pulled tight between my legs as my body weight was pushed forward by the inclined slope of the bath. Looking down between my legs, I saw two fine blond pubic hairs, having escaped the restraint of the panties under my shorts, were now visible, curled against my inner thigh. Simultaneously, as I registered the hair I was aware of Margaret's gaze, focused between my legs. She turned her head and looked at me. Briefly, and so quickly did the moment pass, I wasn't sure afterwards exactly what I had seen in her eyes; vulnerability, longing?. I was shocked without knowing why. There was something about Margaret's eyes, about that look, something it reminded me of.
Then Margaret was bustling. Dressing my ankle, chatting, supporting my awkward movement to a chair in a sunroom, mothering with a cup of tea and blanket tucked about me. From the depths of a cupboard, a walking stick was found. She left me. The sun filtered between large leafy plants. On the wall an abstract oil painting hung. I decided before drifting into sleep, it was a landscape configured with breasts, shoulders and flanks of tonal land-forms.
When I awoke, I did so suddenly. As though jolted awake. I remembered clearly; the expression in Margaret's eyes reminded me of Marnie. That look. What was it ?. The same hazel eyes, the same look; definitely longing and Marnie crying and my, ... my confusion and, later, thinking about it, my longing?
I had been kept back by the sports teacher and the change rooms were deserted. Normally, I hurried to change and shower, uncomfortable with the noise and casual comraderie of the other girls. That day I dawdled, enjoying being on my own. I stayed under the shower, mindful of the warmth. The water beat against my breasts, coursing in rivulets, arcing over the rise of flesh.. My nipples wept tears; the puckered pink crests like tightly shut babies eyes. My breasts were small but firm. Marbled I thought, because I have very fair skin and it is possible to see lightly etched veins like tracery in marble.. Holding my breasts I formed a catchment so that each nipple nuzzled a pool of warm water damned by my hands. I liked the flare of my hips, angled from my narrow waist. The fuzz between my legs, was splayed and flattened like long grass after a storm. Turning my back to the shower, moving forward a step and bending at the waist, caused a stream of water to seek passage over my bottom. A small stream like a lovers' tongue, curious and insistent found my sex before surrendering to gravity. Clenching my bottom, hands on hips and thrusting my pelvis at the flow of the shower, a slow warmth was starting to radiate between my legs. Languidly, my hand sort the mound of my sex. I thought of Brian and how he had wanted to touch me; how eventually, almost petulantly because I didn't want his hands on my body, he had guided my hand to his groin. I could feel the urgent hardness of him. At the same time a feeling of panic, of wanting to be anywhere but labouring and sweaty in the confines of the car.
The cooling water reminded me of the need to change and catch up with the routine of the day. Turning off the taps with eyes muffled in a towel, I stepped from the shower. Marnie stood there, looking at me.
I called out her name, not in greeting but shocked that anybody had been observing me. Marnie looked strangely at me, wide eyed and staring. Her hand was reaching as though to touch my breast. Then her hand jerked to her mouth, tears spiked her eyes and with a muffled cry, Marnie turned and fled.
For a long time after, usually at night in bed, I replayed the scene in my mind. It was the startled, fearful look in Marnie's eyes I returned to. I came to believe I had seen, in the troubled depths, yearning, perhaps, worship. Always the rememberence ended in fantasy as Marnie's hand touched my breast. Gradually my fantasy developed, taking shape and detailed form. Like colours and shapes liberated by water in a child's paint book, my fantasy enriched within my mind. Marnie's fingers teasing the points of my breasts, her tongue lapping like a cat at the moistness between my thighs.
In reality, Marnie and I never spoke about the incident, remaining as before, distant. Marnie blended anonymously into the school's daily fabric, for no known reason ever an outsider. Not unpopular, simply never accounted. But it was as though she had transferred the longing I had seen in her eyes, to my being. I was obsessed by my feelings. My desires, a confusion of lust, guilt and self doubt, were focused not on Marnie but on the knowledge that I was attracted to women. I joined in with my friends social chatter, using David as a passport, but all the time I had a sense of acting a part and wondering who the real me was.
Aware the sun had transferred its warmth to another window, I realised it must be late afternoon. Perhaps I should go home. Using the walking stick I gained my feet. I could hear music and followed the sound.
The strings from the slow movement of Swan Lake drew me down the hall towards the rear of the house. A partly open door provided a view into a room and a blur of movement accorded with the raised intensity of the music. Margaret was dancing, pirouetting, crouching, leaping and disappearing only to reappear with arms gracefully arched and pointed toes stepping. Her image was caught in a mirror attached to the wall nearest the door . Carefully, I leant against the wall and watched. Margaret was totally absorbed and unaware. There was a fluidity about her movements that was captivating. Her body seemingly weightless, defying nature and describing a smooth progression of changing form. So graceful did she appear, it was as though the walls were the only boundaries, that the elements of space and body were as one flexible medium..
The music reached a climax and Margaret folded with the last note . The silence was immense . Margaret stood and suddenly noticed me.
'Ah you found me,'
'That was wonderful. It was beautiful. You are so good, I've...'
'Oh no, no, once not any more. I'm only working out. I do it most days. It keeps me subtle.' 'I would love to dance like that, I...
And then we both laughed. Aware of how absurd it sounded with my ankle strapped and clutching a walking stick. I also became acutely aware of Margaret's body. She wore a leotard over small panties but no top. Her breasts were clearly visible through the stretched fabric, her nipples prominent. For the second time that day there was a tension between us, electric almost palpable and I could feel my throat tighten with the nervous energy of the moment. I couldn't stop looking at Margaret's breasts, at her slim body , the shadowed area between her legs.
' I,.. I'd better change. Then take you home. '
Normality returned. My uncomfortable stance of leaning on a stick for support and Margaret again, all bustle. I didn't want to go home and when Margaret returned, dressed in a blouse and skirt, I asked if I could stay.
I stayed for a cup of tea, and then for the remainder of the afternoon and then I stayed for dinner. We talked, potted plants under a Jasmine covered arbor, laughed about my ignorance of food and how to cook it. Like two friends with nothing on our minds, not the age difference, not the awkward moments of heightened sensitivity to the other's body, not the carnality which had infused my body as I watched the display of Margaret's dance; two friends with only the mutual enjoyment of each others company.
Dinner was relaxed but serious, as Margaret insisted on describing it. Food, wine are like good friends; a celebration of difference and uniqueness. We prepared and ate small helping of chicken and fish. Leafy salads most of which were picked from the garden. Crystal glasses. Margaret talked of the wine and its relationship to the food. We also laughed a lot. Often at my expense, because I new so little.
After dinner , we sat on the deep leather settee in the lounge, watching Dahgiliv's Berlin Swan Lake, on video. After the first movement, trying to ease the pressure on my ankle, Margaret suggested I use the length of the settee to support my legs. She put her arm around my shoulders and I lay with my head in her lap. Margaret whispered to me, identifying significant moments in the plot or technical comment about the dance. Gradually I became absorbed in the story, the beauty and poetry of the dance. As the swan lay dying tears pricked my eyes and slowly eased down my checks.
With the finale my tears turned to sobs. Margaret made soothing noises, patting my shoulder and then stroking my hair. 'Silly one don't cry.'......... life ends but the dance goes on.' 'That is what the swan learnt.' ' Poor one, there.......
Even as I cried with the abandon of a child, my face buried in Margaret's lap, I knew my tears were more about me, about an unaccountable sense of loss. Gradually my sobbing ebbed to a whimper, my shoulders relaxed coxed by Margaret's comforting hands. A contented stillness claimed me. Margaret's hand played a light rhythmic movement around the contours of my face and neck. I closed my eyes to increase the stillness. How long we lay like that I'm not sure. The sense of Margaret's body gradually claimed my attention, dragging my mind through the surface of self absorption; the teary dampness of her lap, the half moon curve of her breasts. I trapped Margaret's hand and touched my lips to her fingers; an act of gratitude, I wanted to express the tenderness I felt.
Margaret lent forward and lightly, unhurriedly, touched her lips to my neck; with deliberation she brought her lips to my ear and finally, slowly, with silent concentration, touched my lips.
I have no memory of that first kiss, only that it happened. No taste, no feel, no sensory definition; my body reduced to a sharply drawn breath. Then inarticulate sounds whimpered from my throat as the pressure of Margaret's mouth imposed a rising warmth. The volume and weight of her body supporting the need I felt to graft to her, fitting substance to the impression, wanting more, wanting to be absorbed.
I kissed Margaret's fingers and placed her hand on my breast. I lay with my head in Margaret's lap, reflected in the dark centre of her brown eyes. Calmly, I watched as doubt, acceptance and desire flickered and flamed. First her fingers and then her hand, began a slow soft dance on my breasts.
Our love making that night was awkward; in turn comicly painful because of my injured ankle and desperate, because of my inexperience. At the end, I raised my hips, thrusting, demanding, pleading and finally, I reached that point when self is annihilated by sensation, when existence is fused to a point of savage intensity.
In the newness of early morning, I lay awake taking pleasure in the nearness of Margaret's sleeping body. Enjoying a sense of belonging. Warming my body and my mind. It was working out.
Simone Graham
Copyright National Beagle 1997