As Time Goes By Ch. 01

This is a long love story in three chapters but you'll have to wait for the sex. If you want a plotless quick thrill, then there are plenty of those elsewhere on this site. Some characters from my earlier stories make an appearance later on in this tale (although it is not necessary to have read those stories, it might help to know the characters). Characters in sex scenes are eighteen years old or over. All characters are imaginary—any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 to the author.

*****

They called me Little Miss Lonely.

That's one of a variety of nicknames my fellow students gave me. Nothing hurtful or rude, just slightly derogatory, things like Sally Shy or the Lone Ranger—it seemed like there was a new one every week. They considered me unsociable.

I wasn't really shy or unsociable. It was just that I couldn't stand the kind of pub most of them preferred for their evening's entertainment: places like The Mandolin, a modern 'pub' with ear-wrecking music, flashing lights, bland lagers and alcopops or shots. Oh, and big muscle-bound men with shaven heads and tight suits manning the front door. The sort of place with wall-to-wall people three or four deep, jumping up and down in a head-banging dance. I liked The Monk's Head, an old-fashioned inn dating back several centuries, small and cosy with neither music nor ranks of slot machines. A Free House, it sold a wide range of real ales from different breweries, all of them kept in top notch condition. Truth be told, I don't drink all that much but when I do I like it to be something decent. And I don't believe in drinking until I fall over, just for the sake of it. I did that once when I was new to the college. Never again. I didn't like the aftermath.

I think I was also considered odd because I had never dated any of the young men at the college, despite having been asked on numerous occasions (another of my nicknames was Goody-Two-Shoes). The chance of me accepting such a date was so remote as to be out of sight.

So of course I was alone the evening that I met Dot. As usual I was sitting by myself on an old wooden settle near the inglenook, sipping a pint of Gales bitter. I had brought other students to The Monk at times but they all disliked the very things I loved about the place. Sod 'em, I used to think, if they can't appreciate a decent pub where you can have a proper drink and actually talk to each other...

I was vaguely aware of someone sitting down beside me. Whoever it was spoke, a woman's voice. "Now that's what I like to see, a student who knows the difference between a good ale and the fizzy horse-piss that most of 'em drink. Excuse my language."

I turned to look at my new companion who was also drinking a pint of bitter. A pair of merry blue eyes gazed back at me. She was tall; even sitting down that was apparent. I'm five-six so I reckoned her to be six feet or so. She was wearing blue jeans, white shirt and a tweed sports jacket, casual but smart. Dark hair, tinged with streaks of grey and cut in a kind of ragged crop, was short but not too short; she looked to be some years older than me but attractive with it. However, her good looks could not have been described as beautiful nor even just pretty. Let's see, she was... handsome.

Seeing that she had my attention, she continued: "It's an odd thing, in Germany and other Continental countries, lager-type beer is superb but when it's brewed over here it's absolute shit. Excuse my language." She gave me a big grin and stuck out a hand to shake. "I'm Dot Barrow."

From her accent, I guessed that Dot was from somewhere up North, probably either Derbyshire or Yorkshire, thereabouts, although it was softened as if she had lived here in the South for quite a few years.

I took her proffered hand which was large and shapely with closely trimmed nails. The palm was warm, dry, a little hard as if she did manual work, and she had a good grip. I didn't feel disadvantaged as I've got a fairly strong grip myself from the years of helping out on my parents' small farm. "Hi, I'm Fran Roberts. What makes you think I'm a student?"

"Oh, I come in here from time to time—I've got a place a couple of miles away—and I know most of the regulars. Few of them will see thirty again, or even forty, so when I see a youngster like you in here, I assume that you're from the agricultural college—not that I see many like you in here. Most of the daft buggers prefer shitholes like The Mandolin. Excuse my language." She took out a tobacco pouch and a paper and started to roll a cigarette (this was some time before a caring government—or an interfering one depending on your viewpoint—banned smoking in public premises). "You mind?"

I shook my head. "You got it in one, Dot. I'm at the college. Final year. Then it's twenty-one years old and the world's my oyster."

Dot stuck the thin cigarette between her lips and struck a match with her thumbnail. I was impressed. I'd seen that trick in Western films but I'd never seen it done in real life before. Blowing out a feather of smoke, she said: "So, what's your aim then, for when you've finished college, I mean?"

"My parents have got a small dairy farm fifty-odd miles away, in Wiltshire. I guess I'll go back there for a while. But what I'd really like to do is have a small-holding where I could grow organic vegetables and fruit, perhaps breed free-range chickens and maybe have a few goats. Nothing big scale: I'm thinking farmers' markets, local independent shops, that sort of thing. Not easy when you're starting out, though. I've got to the stage where I find cows boring."

"There's a coincidence. My family have a dairy farm up in Yorkshire. Cows weren't my choice either." Dot took a couple of final puffs and extinguished her cigarette-end in the ashtray. "I'm a carpenter. Love working in wood—I'm pretty good at it too. Got my own little business. As for cows—bunch of stupid four-legged twats is my opinion. Excuse my language."

"Dot, you don't have to keep excusing your language. I'm not a delicate little maiden aunt. I agree, cows are stupid twats." I put a hand to my lips and widened my eyes in mock-consternation. "Oh dear, excuse my fucking language."

Dot stared at me for a moment and then burst into laughter. "I think I'm going to like you, Fran Roberts. Empty your glass and I'll buy you another pint."

"Okay, thanks. But only a half—I don't drink much."

"Half it is," Dot nodded as she made her way to the bar. I liked that. People of student age tend to pressure you into having more than you've asked for. Dot just accepted it. That's maturity, I guess.

I enjoyed that evening with Dot. We didn't talk profound matters or try to set the world to rights, we simply talked about things which interested or amused us. Once or twice Dot started to say "Excuse my—" but caught my eye and laughed instead. "Old habits die hard," she explained.

About ten o'clock I said that I'd have to be getting back to my lodgings as I had an early study call in the morning. "I'll give you a lift," Dot volunteered, "My car's right outside."

"Thanks, but it's only about ten minutes walk and I'd like some fresh air."

"All right, then I'll walk with you, make sure a werewolf doesn't get you."

"How do I know you're not a werewolf leading me into a trap?"

Dot shrugged. "Moon's not full this week."

"In that case let's go," I said. I'd always felt safe enough by myself in this village but there was something reassuring about Dot and I realised that I'd appreciate her company.

"I'm seeing this young lady home, Jack," Dot called out to the landlord, "I'll be back for my jalopy." He waved acknowledgement.

As we passed the car-park, Dot indicated a time-battered old Land Rover. "That's the luxury coach you turned down. Not much to look at but a godsend at my place in bad weather."

We reached my lodgings and Dot said: "I've really enjoyed meeting you, Fran. Maybe we can do it again sometime."

"Yes, that'd be nice."

Without warning, Dot grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me towards her and leaned in to kiss me on the mouth. Her lips tasted of bitter tobacco but they were soft and warm and I found myself starting to respond.

Then she let go and stepped back, an odd look on her face.. "I'm sorry, Fran, I shouldn't have done that." I recognised the look—Dot was embarrassed. I started to laugh and embarrassment changed to chagrin. I hastened to make amends.

"Sorry, Dot, I'm not laughing at you. Well, I am in a way... your expression was priceless. But I'm not in the least offended that you kissed me. I'm gay, Dot, always have been, always will be." I grabbed her face in my hands and reached up to return the kiss.

"That's okay then." Dot's grin was rueful. "That was a sudden impulse and I couldn't help myself. You're a pretty lass and you did look quite kissable. And there is that little something about you... well, I think you'll know what I mean." She changed tack. "Do you like old films, Fran?"

"Some, although I haven't seen all that many," I said.

"The local cinema has a Bogart retrospective all week. They're showing a favourite of mine tomorrow, Casablanca. Have you ever seen it?"

"No."

" Would you like to come with me?"

"Why, Dot Barrow, are you asking me on a date?"

Dot ran a hand through her short hair. "I suppose I am."

"In that case I'd love to."

A big smile split Dot's face. "Pick you up here at seven. Watch out for my golden chariot." She leaned in to give me another quick kiss before waving goodbye.

When I went indoors, Mary Little, one of my housemates, was coming down the stairs, the hall light reflecting from her thick glasses. We were friendly enough without being really close. Mary was tall and built on the comfortable side so you can probably guess what her nickname was. "Not so much of a Goody-Two-Shoes after all, are you?" she said, "All right, Fran, who is he?"

"Who's who?"

"Prince Charming. The bloke I saw you kissing outside when I was looking out of my bedroom window. I didn't have my glasses on but I'm sure you were kissing some tall bloke who wasn't from the college."

"Oh, Prince Charming. A friend. Not from college. Look, Mary, it's fairly new so I'd appreciate your not telling anyone." I knew that I was on safe ground here. Mary could be the soul of discretion when asked.

"Okay." She regarded me for a few seconds. "Is it going to get serious then?"

"I don't know. It's new. Possibly."

Mary nodded and said goodnight. Halfway up the stairs she turned and added: "Good luck, Fran. I hope this bloke's good for you."

"Oh, I think Prince Charming might be very good for me."

And that was the start of it.

* * * * *

The small cinema had seen better days. Built in the Twenties or Thirties, it had lost most of its former glory and now looked tired and sad. It had been closed down several times and then money had always been found from somewhere by somebody to tidy it up and reopen it. It wasn't really geared to modern films and I think the current owner must have been quite a film buff for the cinema often showed retrospectives of old black-and-white films. Although I'd never seen Casablanca, my grandparents had talked about that and similar films, you know the line: "They don't make 'em like that any more!" I was looking forward to it.

As the lights went down and the film started, Dot reached out and took my hand in hers, lacing our fingers together. I responded by squeezing her hand and we moved as close as the arm-rest between the seats allowed so that our shoulders and knees touched.

When the show was over, we left the cinema hand-in-hand. We got one or two odd looks but nobody said anything. I had thoroughly enjoyed Casablanca except for the fact that something seemed to be missing. I mentioned it to Dot.

"I thought Bogie was supposed to have said: 'Play it again, Sam'."

She laughed. "Everyone waits for that line the first time they see it. It's one of the great myths of cinema but it was never there. It's like believing Cagney said: 'You dirty rat!'—he never did say it. He did sing 'Yankee Doodle Dandy' though."

We popped into The Monk for a drink and Jack the landlord raised a laugh at our expense with a lisped quotation: "'Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.' I knew you couldn't resist Casablanca, Dot."

"Jack, you sounded more like Lauren Bacall than Humphrey Bogart then," Dot riposted. There was more laughter. I loved it—the pub was so much more friendly than the youth-orientated Mandolin.

We got our drinks and sat at the table by the old settle, again holding hands. None of the regulars seemed bothered by this, in fact all looked as if they were ready to accept us as a couple. Dot turned to me and raised her glass in her free hand. "Here's looking at you, kid." I'd no idea that you could get such fun quoting from one film script.

Dot took me home again, this time in her old Land Rover. As we pulled out from the pub's car-park, she started to sing the song from the film, 'As Time Goes By'. She had a pleasant contralto voice and it seemed quite romantic. She did change some of the words though. Where Dooley Wilson sang:

"...Woman needs man and

And man must have his mate,

That no-one can deny..."

Dot sang:

"...Woman needs gal and

And gal must have her mate,

That no-one can deny..."

She finished and said: "My favourite song. Love it."

At the lodging house we made arrangements to see another Bogart film later in the week. Dot kissed me again, a little more slowly this time. I threw an arm around her neck and nibbled a little at her lower lip. She looked at me and said: "Do you think this could be going somewhere, Fran Roberts?"

I realised then that I wanted to see a lot more of this woman. "Oh, I hope so, Dot Barrow, I really hope so."

When I got into the house, Mary Little was practically standing behind the door waiting to pounce. "How was it? Did you have a good time? Did you enjoy the film? I didn't see him because he stayed in the car. What's he like?" All this on almost one breath.

"It was brilliant, I had a marvelous time, I enjoyed the film and... I'd better tell you now, Mary, because you'll find out sooner or later. He's not a he and I think she's great."

"She? You mean you're—"

"I'm gay, Mary. Now you know why Goody-Two-Shoes never dated any of the hunks at college." I waited for the reaction, expecting something negative.

To my surprise, Mary beamed. "They say there's a first time for everything and now for the first time I've got a gay friend. Fran, do your folks know?"

"Yes," I told her.

"How do they feel about it?"

"My Dad was okay from the off. My Mum was a bit sniffy at first but she came round in time."

* * * * *

I had come out to my parents one evening during the college's previous summer vacation, mainly because my Mum was starting to make old-fashioned noises about meeting a nice boy and settling down. As usual I was working on the farm during the vacation and so I waited until after supper when I'd be sure to get the two of them together. I didn't beat about the bush, I simply told them straight out I was gay and there wouldn't be any settling down with a boy, nice or otherwise. I suppose their reactions were more or less what I had expected.

Dad, who was sitting beside me on the sofa, looked up from his local newspaper and said: "Are you happy about it?" When I nodded he leaned over, kissed my cheek and added: "Well, that's all right then, isn't it?" before carrying on reading the farming news. I don't think anything perturbed Dad. If I'd come in and told him a blue-skinned multi-tentacled alien from the planet Zog was at the door wanting to buy the farm, Dad would probably have shrugged and asked how much the alien was offering.

Mum, however, seemed to go into a state of shocked displeasure. She didn't throw a tantrum or berate me but I certainly felt her disapproval. Tight-lipped, she asked: "Is this something new with you—something fashionable in college maybe?"

"No, Mum, it's not new and it's not something fashionable in college," I told her, "I've known exactly what I am for years."

After that, relations between us were quite strained for a couple of weeks. She just... well, she didn't stop talking to me but she talked as little as necessary and then only about essential matters. I'm sure that she had several goes at Dad about it because one evening while in the kitchen brewing us some tea, I heard lowered voices in the sitting room and edged a little nearer to the door to eavesdrop. I heard Dad say: "Look, Maggie love, if Fran is a lesbian, then she is what she is and your being upset about it won't change a bloody thing."

Then one morning Mum went into the market town several miles away to do some shopping and when she returned she came to me, gave me a big hug and kiss and a tearful smile. "It's okay now, love, I'm sorry I was such a miserable cow. I think I understand now—you can't help what you are and what nature made you, so live your life any way that's best for you."

Snuffling a little, I hugged her back. "What's changed your mind so suddenly, Mum?"

She told me.

* * * * *

Maggie Roberts had just left the fishmonger's and was heading for the bakery when she heard someone hailing her. Turning, she saw a casual friend, Rebecca Wainwright, coming towards her. They hadn't seen each other for some time and spent a few minutes in idle chit-chat. Then Rebecca said: "Hope I'm not being nosy, Maggie, but you look worried about something. Can I help?"

"Not really, thanks. It's just something about Fran—a family matter."

"Well, it never hurts to confide in a friend," Rebecca said, "Look, we're right beside Caffè Nero—come on, I'll buy us a coffee and if you want to talk about it, I'm a good listener. I might even have the answer." She took Maggie's arm and tugged her towards the coffee shop. A reluctant Maggie allowed herself to be led.

When the two were settled at a table with their drinks, they talked about things in general for a while then Rebecca said: "Now, do you want to tell me what's bothering you?"

Maggie hesitated, looked around carefully to check that they couldn't be overheard, then half-whispered: "It's Fran... she's... she's told us that she's... she's a lesbian..."

"Oh, and I take it you're not happy about that?"

"I'm not sure how I should feel," Maggie admitted, "She said she's always been that way but perhaps she's just going through a phase. It does make me wonder where we went wrong, though."

"How does your husband feel about it?"

"Dave? Dave's okay with it. Nothing worries Dave." Maggie's mouth turned down a little as if disapproving her husband's laid-back attitude.

Rebecca leaned forward and put a hand over Maggie's. "How old is Fran now... twenty odd? At her age I doubt it's a phase. And don't blame yourself—you did nothing wrong. If she's a lesbian, then it's something in her, something she was probably born with. Call it fate or nature or whatever you like. And if she's happy with it, why should you worry?" She smiled. "Maggie, you're not alone. Our Emma's a lesbian too. She told us a couple of years ago. 'Coming out' she called it." The Roberts family had looked after Emma, who was a little younger than Fran, for a week several years previously when Rebecca had a stay in hospital.

"And how did you and Thomas feel about it?"

"How should we feel about it? Maggie, she's still the same person she always was—being gay hasn't changed her nature. She's our daughter and we love her. Just because she'd sooner have a girlfriend than a boyfriend doesn't make us love her any the less. Everyone deserves to find love in their own way.