Almost Insentient, Almost Divine Read online

  Margaret got changed through in the toilet—which didn’t bode particularly well—emerging in a long blue nightdress and rushing over into bed, where she turned the side lamp out and pulled the covers over her, in what appeared to be one practised, single movement. Granted, it was a little chilly, but Robert had hoped there might be something a little more exciting she had found to wear. After some kissing and cuddling she said, rather flatly, “well, hadn’t you better start.” It sounded as though she was talking about a making an omelette, or washing the windows.

  So Robert “started”.

  Margaret was clearly uncomfortable and held him closely to her as she winced with each thrust. Just as things were getting a little easier and she seemed to be settling into it, with the covers tightly tucked around them, she suddenly threw him off and let out a loud scream.

  “Oh, Christ, Robert. There’s someone at the window,” she stammered, pointing with her right hand and frantically pulling her nightdress back down with her left.

  Robert had leapt out of bed unsure whether he had done something awful and now stood naked in the moonlight. He felt ridiculous and cupped his hand around his privates, reaching out to turn the lamp on.

  Bang! The bulb blew and a bright spark crackled out of the decaying flex along with a puff of dark smoke. Margaret let out another scream.

  “Oh for God’s sake Margaret it’s just the bloody lamp blowing. I’ll get the torch,” he said exasperatedly, running through to the boxes stacked by the sink to find it.

  “No, don’t leave me,” she called, desperately.

  “Well, I can’t stay there and get the torch can I,” he said, running back in to her a couple of moments later, flashing the light at the window.

  Margaret screamed again.

  “What! What!” Robert yelled. He hadn’t seen anything.

  “There it is again. There he is!” she sobbed, pointing at the window.

  Robert scanned the window again, slowly. And as he paused by the right hand side he heard her gasp.

  “You don’t mean that do you,” he said, stepping closer to the window and shining the light on a medium sized fern-like bush outside. He turned back to Margaret, keeping the torch on the plant.

  Margaret squinted in the gloom, “Er, yes, that’s him—I mean it.”

  “It’s a plant, Margaret—a sodding plant!” he said, turning the torch off and placing it on his bedside table.

  “Alright, there’s no need to be nasty about it,” she said, still looking over at the window. “It does look like someone though—in the moonlight—doesn’t it.”

  Robert peered over. There was something about it that looked like tangled hair, with a dark face beneath, but only if you really looked for it.

  “Of course it doesn’t, Margaret. It’s a plant,” he pushed his legs into the bed and rolled over with his back to her.

  After a couple of minutes of sitting in the tense quiet, with Margaret still sat up in bed, looking at the shuffling shape outside, she whispered, “Sorry, Robert. Shall we start again?”

  “No,” he said. “Let’s leave it for tomorrow.”

  He closed his eyes tightly and tried to sleep.

  *

  After an awkward breakfast of boiled eggs and toast the following morning was spent with further tidying up and checking what provisions the small shed contained—mostly wood, an axe, kindling and two large gas bottles for a heater that was, as yet, undiscovered. Raking out the ashes from the range Robert thought the bottom of it looked rather fragile and he wondered what they might be able to use to reinforce it a bit. Maybe he could ask Mr Buchanan for something.

  He suggested a walk down to the lighthouse at around eleven but Margaret said she wasn’t feeling up to it and fancied a bath, and a little rest. So he ambled off and explored a little of the rocky headland, before heading back in the early afternoon, feeling rather tired himself.

  As he plodded wearily up the cottage track he could see a figure out in the field a little way from their cottage and, at first, assumed it must be Mr Buchanan. As he got closer though he saw that it was Margaret, her beautiful hair blowing madly in the wind. She had a bright summery dress on and, although it was late Spring, there was still quite a bite to the sea air. He thought she must be freezing. He veered off the track and across the field to her, but noticed that she didn’t seem to move at all—as still as a statue.

  He picked up his speed and began calling her name. There was still no movement and no answer. He quickened his pace into an almost run.

  “Are you alright, Margaret?” he panted out, a few feet from her.

  Still she didn’t say anything and didn’t move. He circled round her and saw her eyes were closed, her nostrils flaring as she took in the sea air in deep, rhythmic breaths.

  “Margaret, are you ok?” he asked, raising his voice.

  She opened her eyes, startled to see him.

  “Oh, Robert, yes. Yes, I’m fine,” she said, gathering up her cardigan and looking rather flustered and embarrassed.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, helping put the cardigan over her shoulders.

  “Nothing really,” she said, somewhat guiltily, still looking rather dazed. “I was just thinking.”

  “Thinking… about what?” he continued, putting an arm round her and looking out across the sea.

  “Oh, this and that,” she turned and started heading back towards the cottage.

  He followed her and took her hand.

  “You’re not worried about the car are you?” he asked. “I’ll go down to Kirkcolm tomorrow and ring the garage…”

  “No, nothing as dull as that,” she laughed, turning back towards the sea, as though she had forgotten something. “I was just thinking about what Mr Buchanan said yesterday—about the old forts; about Dundream.”

  “Oh, he was only playing with you,” Robert said, pulling her round into his arms.

  She looked up at him seriously, “I know that, Robert. I’m not a little girl.”

  “Well, what is it about Dundream?” he said, unsure why she was suddenly so stern with him.

  “It’s the name,” she said, sadly. “Don’t you think it sounds like everything’s over—Dun Dream. The dream is done—finished!”

  Robert didn’t know what to say. He’d never heard Margaret say anything like this before, anything so sad and poignant. He felt rather empty and disoriented.

  “Anyway, I’d better get us something for lunch,” she said, snapping merrily back into her usual manner. She took his hand in hers and led him back to the cottage.

  “Do you know why they call it a honeymoon,” she said, swishing at the tall grass with her other hand.

  “I thought it was because the wedding guests spent all their time drinking the bride and groom’s mead,” he joked.

  “No,” she said, the serious tone returning. “It’s because this time is the best and sweetest of times. It doesn’t get any better. We are in the full moon of our love, from now on that moon wanes and gives way to all the everyday things—to homes and washing, to babies and cooking, to cleaning and earning money. These are our honey days.”

  They walked on slowly in silence.

  “Oh, right,” Richard said, as they got back to the cottage. “Well, we’d best make the most of them then.”

  Margaret nodded and opened the door for him.

  She made some sandwiches with the rest of the spam and put in a thick layer of piccalilli. Robert didn’t much like the mustardy, vinegary spread but didn’t want to say anything, uncertain whether she was in some kind of mood with him. She didn’t seem to be angry though, just a little distant. They ate their sandwiches in silence as she peered out of the open back door at the fields and the sea.

  They spent the afternoon reading and dozing on the bed. The night came, almost instantly, and the house was surrounded by its black, curtain less windows—odd lights from what must have been a ferry were visible on Loch Ryan and the arc of the lighthouse illuminated the clouds
off to the west.

  Supper was a lovely vegetable casserole enlivened by a tin of braised beef. Margaret claimed it wasn’t much, and that she’d need more supplies soon. Robert loved it though, the meat tenderly falling off his fork in lovely strips. He mushed up some of his potatoes, swede and carrot, and mopped up the gravy. He knew Margaret didn’t like him doing it, thinking it rather childish, but she wasn’t paying much attention at the moment—staring out of the dark window in the back door.

  “Glass of champagne?” Robert asked, dropping his plate and cutlery into the sink.

  “Yes, that would be nice,” she said.

  Robert had been given the bottle of champagne by his boss, Alan Barnett, as a gift. Alan had told him it was “top notch” and would be sure to “make any evening go with a bang”. Robert had never tried champagne and wasn’t certain how to open it. After a few minutes struggling with the cork it popped and a trickle of fizzy wine oozed down the side of the bottle.

  “There we go,” he said. “Here’s to us.”

  “I tell you what, darling,” Margaret said. “Why don’t we take the bottle outside and look at the stars.”

  “Ok, then,” Robert said. “That sounds like fun.”

  She was already outside, and Robert gathered the glasses and the bottle and hurried after her. She crossed the small patch of lawn at the back of the cottage and headed out into the longer grasses of the field behind. After a few feet she collapsed, laughing.

  Robert stood over her, awkwardly trying to balance the glasses in his hand by their stems and then pour the champagne into them.

  “Oh, don’t bother with that, we’ll just swig from the bottle,” she said, giggling. “We’re on our honeymoon, after all.”

  “Yes, great idea,” Robert said, lying down beside her.

  They lay there in the grass, hand in hand, for over an hour, looking up at the patches of darkness, speckled with dots of stars emerging from behind tumbling folds of cloud, passing the bottle of champagne between them.

  “Do you know, I don’t know anything about them,” Margaret said in a low voice, almost to herself.

  “About what?” Robert said dreamily.

  “About the stars, silly,” she said, nuzzling into his side and kissing him on the cheek.

  “No, neither do I, I’m sorry to say,” Robert replied, drawing her closer. “Tom knows all the names of them and he’d take me and Steve out on Winter’s evenings and point them all out. I was too busy trying to catch creepy crawlies and never really listened. I can’t remember anything much about them now—I remember The Plough, that’s easy enough to spot.”

  “Yes, everyone knows that one,” Margaret said, tickling him. “There it is.” She pointed over at the mainland to the familiar formation.

  “Oh, everyone knows that one, do they?” Robert said, tickling her back and rolling on top of her, smothering her neck with kisses.

  She wriggled and squirmed and they began to pull at each other’s clothes with increasing passion.

  After they had made love they lay there in the darkness. Robert was surprised, given her rather prudish attitude the night before, that she was happy to have done it outside and was still there now, naked, swishing her legs and arms through the grass.

  “Could you feel it Robert—the grass,” Margaret whispered.

  “Yes, it was a bit itchy, wasn’t it,” he chuckled.

  There was a long silence. “No, Robert,” she said, with that heavily meaningful tone again. “The grass was… it was caressing us. The grass was cradling us as we made love.”

  Robert lay, staring up at the dark sky, wondering what on earth that meant.

  *

  Robert woke to a gorgeous smell of bacon and came through in his dressing gown.

  “Sorry, I seem to have slept very late,” he yawned.

  “Oh, don’t worry, darling,” Margaret said, serving three thick rashers of bacon onto some fried bread and putting the plate on the table next to a bottle of ketchup. “You need to get some good rest.”

  He tucked into his breakfast, taking cup after cup of tea from the pot. He noticed she hadn’t sat with him but continued to wash and tidy at the sink.

  “Have you already had something?” he asked, through a mouthful of bacon.

  “No,” she said, looking out to sea.

  “Don’t you want anything then?” he said, slurping down some more tea. He felt ravenous.

  “No,” she said, still staring outside.

  He carried on, and could have finished off a few more rashers if there had been any more.

  “Do you think I’m any good at it?” Margaret asked, still staring out, absent-mindedly drying up a mug.

  “Any good at what?” he said.

  “You know—it,” she said, turning to him quickly and sitting at the table. “Am I as good as your others.”

  Robert laughed nervously, uncertain where this was going, “You say others as though there were a great long list of them. You’re my wife.”

  “I know,” she said, stroking his fingers. “But I want to be better than anyone else you’ve been with.”

  “And you are,” Robert said, stroking her cheek and trying not to think of the woman in Soho.

  “Good,” she said, jumping up and falling onto his lap. “Shall we do ‘it’ again then?”

  “Why not…” he said, whisking her up and taking her through to the bedroom.

  *

  Robert awoke sometime in the afternoon, feeling sticky with sweat and a little dopey. He wandered through the cottage with a sheet wrapped around him, calling out for Margaret. He looked out the back door and saw her kneeling out in the field bent over something.

  He pulled on his clothes and wandered out to her.

  “What have you found there?” he said, seeing some large stone amidst the grass.

  She looked up at him with a strange expression as though he were a stranger.

  “Oh, Robert, it’s you,” she said, her eyes seeming to focus and recognise him. “It’s ever so odd, it’s some old carved stone.”

  He knelt down and watched her trace her fingers over the rounded surface of the thing, which was about the size of an inverted wheelbarrow, and a similar shape.

  “There’s a face, with thick brows and long horns, like a cow,” she said. “And all around it there are these dancing figures, thin and tall.”

  Robert couldn’t see anything, just the crumbling yellows and greens of lichen and moss.

  “They’re female—the dancers. You can feel their… their breasts,” she laughed.

  “Can you now,” he said, a little concerned.

  A sudden flurry of noise erupted a few feet from them and two hares darted up from the grass boxing away frantically at each other.

  Margaret jumped up with a strange delight, “Oh, look, Robert. They’re fighting. They’re fighting over a mate.”

  “Why don’t we go back inside and have some lunch?” Robert said, as the hares darted off towards the sea on hearing their voices.

  “Ok then,” Margaret said playfully, taking his hand and heading back to the cottage, occasionally looking back at the stone and giggling.

  Once they were inside Robert started to make some sandwiches but couldn’t find anything better than cheese to put in them. Margaret was hampering his efforts, constantly cuddling him and grabbing at him as he was trying to make them.

  “Shall we do it again,” she said, as he put the sandwiches out on the table.

  “What, now?” he said, taking a bite of the sandwich.

  “Yes, now!” she said, petulantly. “Why not?”

  Robert felt a bit pressed by her, and didn’t really feel like it.

  “Oh, God,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’d better race down to Kirkcolm and ring that garage in Stranraer if we’re to get that damned car fixed before we’re meant to go home.”

  “Ok then,” Margaret said, seeming to instantly forget her demands. “I’ll see you later.” And with that she ran
off outside like a little girl going out to play.

  Robert shrugged and grabbed his coat, despite it being warm he felt as though there was a storm brewing. He headed off down the track thinking that Margaret was behaving very strangely indeed.

  About halfway there the rain began and he pressed on with increased pace. Only one car came by during the hour-long walk and that didn’t stop to offer him a lift. At the hotel, dripping and bedraggled, he managed to arrange for the car to be picked up the following day—they knew exactly where the cottage was, having had to repair the vehicle twice before when uncle Tom had been staying there.

  Robert sat in the hotel bar and had a couple of beers, thinking over Margaret’s sudden sexual appetite and whether he’d be up for the challenge should such continue over the next few days.

  On his way back he cooked up a plan to fill their days with long walks around the area that might use up some of her newly found energy.

  The last few hundred yards of the walk were marred by torrential rain and vast bursts of sheet lightning that seemed to illuminate the whole sky above the Firth of Clyde.

  Robert stamped the water off his boots in the hallway and wrung out his jacket as best he could before coming into the main room and squelching across the tiles to the range, where he spread his jacket out to dry. Margaret was standing at the back door, looking out across the dark waves, the rain tracing little rivulets down the glass. She had a tartan picnic rug wrapped around her, hunched over, her shoulders heaving occasionally.

  “Are you alright?” Robert asked, wringing his socks out and draping them over the wooden clothes stand.

  There was no answer.

  “Margaret, is everything ok?” he said, more concerned.

  She let out a great sob and took a gulp from a glass of whisky she was cradling in both hands.

  Robert rushed over and turned her around. She looked down at the floor ashamedly and buried her head in his chest, tears flowing, her whole body shuddering as she drew in gasps of stifled breath.

  “Oh, Robert… I don’t know… What’s happening to me?…” she cried, gulping at the whisky with every pause. “I feel so… so strange. I see things out there… out there in the darkness. I hear things… I hear music and voices… and then… there are these terrible thoughts… I thought you’d gone… forever. I thought you’d been killed. I could see your body—like a vision—all mangled and broken in a field. I just felt this terrible, aching loss inside me… I just wanted you back… I wanted you near me again.”