Islanders

"I'd love to," Tim said.

"Good," she said. "Thank you for a lovely dinner, boy." She took his head in her hands, pulled him to her - he was six inches taller - and briefly kissed him on the lips.

"Goodnight," she said. "See you tomorrow on the beach."

That night Tim wrote two more poems before he went outside to the veranda. He couldn't get rid of the image of Marguerite and the feeling of her lips on his was so precious to him that he considered not to wash his face for a moment. Thinking of her made itself felt in his fingertips. "What a woman!" he said aloud.

He fell asleep with a smile, and when he woke up the song was in his head. He realised that he was falling in love - if he hadn't done so already - and that he might have underestimated those emotions after all. When he closed his eyes Marguerite was in his mind's eye, and when he opened them there was more poetry, and an eager anticipation - he would have dinner with her tonight at her place! He didn't know where she lived and he was looking forward to finding out.

He spent his midday break to do some shopping. He ordered a new bottle of purified water, and he bought a bunch of flowers to bring along that evening. He wondered if he should bring some of his poems, too, but decided against it - if everything went well, there would be time enough.

Marguerite got up feeling very happy. She realised that there was no avoiding this stranger, and she didn't want to, either. He was shy, but not too much so, and he didn't look out of place.

Then she remembered she'd promised Evelina to give her the low-down on Tim, and she paid her a visit on her way to the market. Evie welcomed her with a big grin, and they sat on the veranda together.

"So," Evie said, "did you talk to him?"

"Sure. You needn't worry about him. He's harmless. He is a teacher, and he's come here to write."

"So he's no sex-tourist, then?"

"No. He's not after women, but I think he likes me." She smiled a little. "I'll have him over for dinner tonight."

"He invited himself?"

"Evie! Of course not - as if I'd be ok with that. He took me to Linda's yesterday."

Evelina looked at her friend. She knew Marguerite wasn't the kind of woman to take her contacts lightly, and she raised her eyebrows. "You think he's nice?"

Marguerite nodded. She smiled and looked at Evelina, and said, "I seem to know things about him."

"Oh wow. Rita, that's really right, then."

Marguerite didn't reply. She knew Tim must be important for her in some way or other.

"You're going to do your fish soup?"

"Yes - I'd like to impress him."

"You probably already have," Evie said.

Tim was at the beach before her. He put the flowers down in the shade and sat down next to the rock. The sand was warm and the sky just a little hazy, and the late afternoon sun was on its way down. He stretched his legs, and put his hands behind him, and closed his eyes. He saw Marguerite before him and smiled happily.

After some time he heard the sound of her flip-flops on the path, and he got up to greet her. She smiled at him warmly, and kissed his cheek.

"I couldn't wait any longer," he said. "I had to go here and hear you come."

He looked at her; she wore a dress similar to the one she'd worn when he first saw her, but the bodice was a little tighter and it had a lower neckline.

"That's a beautiful dress," he said.

"Thank you," she said with a smile. "I'm glad you like it."

They were silent for some time. Then Marguerite said, "I never get tired of these sunsets. They are so perfect, and they always make me feel a little solemn, and very happy."

Tim nodded. "Yes," he said. "I know. And they're even better with you."

She moved her hand his way, and he took it and held it while they watched the sun go down and disappear behind a low, distant bank of cloud. It was soft and cool, and it made his fingertips hurt, and his heart beat a tattoo for joy.

Then she got up. "Come," she said. "I'd like to show you my home."

She didn't release his hand.

"One moment - I'll have to pick up the flowers I brought for you," Tim said. He went over to where they lay and then he took her hand again. "We do grow flowers at home as well," he said, "but they are no way as abundant as those you find here. I'd love to live here, I think."

Marguerite remembered the things he'd told her about his home. "You would miss the winters, and the bluebells in spring."

"I could have a holiday in England sometimes." He thought about it for some moments. "But there would be so many delights instead..."

Marguerite could read his mind like a book, and she squeezed his hand.

"There would," she said. "Come."

Marguerite's home was not unlike 'Bougainvillea.' It was another colonial house, painted a light brick red. There was a medium high fence around it, with a garden gate and iron spikes that had grown a little rusty, and the garden was an abundance of flowers. Later, when Tim saw it in the daytime, he knew he hadn't seen such an explosion of colour on the island before, and it was utterly lovely, he thought.

Marguerite beamed at him as she unlocked her front door and welcomed him to her house. It had a definite feminine feel to it, rather different from Tim's abode on the island - but that had been left much the same as it had been when Evelina's parents lived there together, and Marguerite had furnished it her own way, when she came to live there some ten years ago.

Tim gave her the flowers, and she went to the kitchen to put them into a vase, and then she showed him round. There were old family photographs, with a large picture of Rudy, and she had some beautiful furniture. When he'd seen enough she said, "I will go and heat the soup. We'll have dinner outside."

Tim went to the veranda. There was one lamp in the centre that must have come with the house when it was built. Tim liked its shape; as a source of light it wasn't too fantastic, though. But the table had been laid with a couple of candles, and the night air was very pleasant. He went back indoors and drifted to the kitchen.

"Is there anything I can do?" he said.

Marguerite smiled at him and shook her head. "Give me just a moment," she said. "I'll bring out the food in a sec."

Tim stood in the kitchen looking at her. He liked the way she moved, and he thought he had not seen so beautiful a woman before. He sniffed the smell of her fish soup; it made his mouth water.

Marguerite looked over her shoulder and smiled. "Ready," she said.

They went to the veranda. Marguerite lit the candles and ladled out the soup.

"It's spicy," she said, "but not more so than Linda's food."

"It smells great," Tim said.

"Can you pour the wine, please?"

Tim got up and took the bottle of white wine from the bucket on the floor. He walked round the table and poured Marguerite a glass, and then he had one himself and restored the bottle to its bucket.

He sat down, and Marguerite raised her glass. She looked at Tim earnestly, and said, "To the two of us."

Tim nodded and touched her glass with his. "To the two of us," he repeated.

They smiled at each other and they ate their soup in silence, both of them wondering how to say what was on their minds, and looking at the other with joy.

Tim was the first to put down his spoon. "I never had fish soup like this in my life," he said. "I think you were too modest about it."

She looked at him happily. "Good," she said. "I'll ask you round again!"

She finished her own soup and sat back. "I'll have another glass of wine, please," she said.

Tim got the bottle and walked over to her. He poured her another glass; then he put the bottle on the floor and stroked her shoulders. "Thank you very much for having me here tonight," he said.

She turned her face up to him, and he understood what she meant; he put his mouth to hers and she kissed him hard, with her arms round his neck. She touched his lips with her tongue, and when he opened them she slid her tongue into his mouth, smiling into his eyes all the while.

They enjoyed their kiss for some time and then she released him.

"You taste good," she said. "I'll go and get us some ice cream."

Tim sat down again. His heart was racing, but he felt wonderful. She felt the same about him as he did about her - he didn't speak for fear he'd be incoherent.

Marguerite smiled at him warmly and went to the kitchen. She returned with two bowls on a tray.

"Hmmm," he said. There was some ice cream with lots of fruit, and it looked delicious.

Marguerite briefly ruffled his hair and then she sat down to her own dessert. When she'd finished she looked at him with a Giaconda smile, and then she lazily stretched herself, with her arms over her head.

It made her breasts strain against the material of her dress, and it made her show rather more cleavage than before. Tim looked at her mesmerised. To his disappointment she lowered her arms again.

"Let's clear the table," she said, "and we can have some coffee afterwards - or would you prefer something else?"

"I'd prefer another kiss," he said.

"Oh, you'll get one, too - don't you worry," she said with an impish look. "I meant like whisky or something."

"Yes, that would be nice. I've almost finished the bottles I brought. Where do you get it here?"

"I'll take you there one of these days. Coming?"

They removed the dinner things and after they'd washed up, quickly, Marguerite got a bottle and two glasses and they went back outside. She poured two drinks and handed one to Tim, and then she took his hand and led him to a swing seat in the garden. They sat down, facing the house with the candles on the table. She put an arm round him and rested her head on his shoulder. He had his arm around her back, and sat still - he didn't want to miss a single moment of it.

"Evie was afraid you might be here for the wrong reasons. I believe you are here for a reason -" She smiled at him - "but not in the sense she meant."

She took a sip from her drink and continued, "And there is nothing wrong about it."

She thought for a moment and then she said, "Before things went wrong with Joey, I knew they would. I know things sometimes; I don't know how, or why - I just do. I knew other things about Joey, and he thought I was a witch..."

She was silent for some time. "I didn't want to acknowledge I knew. It felt disloyal... It would have been better if I had; and I had seen things before. Later I realised that I only see things when people are important to me. When you said you'd come to write I saw you weren't a writer... Tim, I want to get to know you better before I will give myself to you completely; but I think about you most of the day, and I love thinking of you."

She smiled at him, and then she offered him her lips.

They kissed for a long time; then she sat up and they finished their drinks.

"We'll meet tomorrow on the beach, right?"

"Please," Tim said.

She accompanied him to the gate. "Goodnight, Tim," she said, and kissed his cheek. He thanked her profusely, and said goodnight.

He went home with his thoughts in a considerable turmoil. So this is how it feels to be in love, he thought. He was too excited to sleep, and he walked down to the beach, and stood in the darkness listening to the surf and the sounds of the night. "I believe you are here for a reason..." Her voice was in his ears, and he saw her face before him, and he recalled with hot cheeks how beautiful she'd looked when she stretched herself.

He stayed on the beach for at least an hour; then he went home and turned in, and he dreamt about the island, a confused but happy dream of which he couldn't remember anything when he woke up.

The next few days they only met on the beach, but they stayed there for a long time, talking and highly enjoying each other's presence, getting better and better acquainted.

They didn't kiss the way they had that night, but she often held his hand, and she stroked his hair sometimes, and it seemed just as pleasant to him.

After a week or so Tim brought his notebook with him; he wrote his prose on loose sheets, but his poetry was done in the notebook. They'd talked about his writing, and he'd told Marguerite about his poems, and she had asked him what they were like. When they were settled on the beach he read one of his poems to her. It was a short one about her eyes, and she blushed with joy.

"Oh Tim," she said, "that's really lovely. You are a sweet talker."

But she knew that he meant it, and she felt very happy.

"Would you like to have dinner with me again?" Tim asked hopefully.

"Yes," she said. "And I'll come home with you afterwards - we need to talk." She gave him a smile that made his knees go weak, and she took his hand and squeezed it. Then she put her head in her hands and looked at the sunset, thinking of the way Tim had made his way into her being.

Linda, who loved to know things, knew that Tim and Marguerite met on the beach every evening, and she smiled broadly when she saw them enter together, hand in hand. So that was the way the land lay. She gave them a table in a quiet corner, and nodded as she saw them sit down, talking all the while. The look in their eyes told her all she wanted to know. She wasn't given to talking and she would keep it for herself, but she was glad a suspicion had been confirmed.

After dinner they went to 'Bougainvillea' together. She hadn't been there during his stay, and she looked at table, his desk, with interest.

"So this is where you wrote about my eyes," she said.

Tim nodded. "I do all my writing here," he said. "And my reading, too. Well - sometimes I read in bed as well. But I haven't read much lately -" he smiled at his beautiful visitor - "my head is too full to take it in."

"Yes," she said. "I know. Tim, I want you. You are on my mind most of the time, too. I want to grow old with you, and I want a child with you..."

She touched his arm as he stood at the table, rearranging his papers. He put his hand on hers, and turned to face her. She lifted her face and he bent over to kiss her, a moment he had been waiting for, ever since their meal at Marguerite's house. She put her arms around him and pressed him close, and he felt her nipples against his chest. They stood enjoying the moment for a long time.

When she released him, he quoted: "Let us not speak, for the love we bear one another - / Let us hold hands and look. - Both for a moment, little lower than the angels / in the teashop's ingle-nook."

"Yours?" Marguerite said.

"No. It's by John Betjeman, and I've left out the middle. These bits fit you; the rest doesn't." He grinned. "Oh girl, you've bowled me over completely. Shall I make us something to drink?"

"Coffee, please," she said, and went with him to the kitchen. She saw he kept the place nice and tidy, and he was quite practical.

"You know how to use a kitchen," she said.

"Yes. I've lived on my own ever since I left home. You have to know how to fend for yourself." He looked at her over his shoulder. The kitchen suddenly felt alive. "It's nice to have you here," he said.

They had their coffee at the table; he had put the paperwork aside, and it was big and well polished, glowing in the lamplight. "So what do we do?" he said. "I could try and find work here. Maybe there is a school that can use a teacher..." He tried to envisage the future on the island. It seemed the best thing that could happen to him - he'd come to love the place unconditionally over the weeks.

"I don't know yet," she said. "I've been thinking about it for days. I want you so much, Tim, yet somehow I don't see what we must do yet. But I do see that you are here for me..." She got a far-off look in her eyes, and she seemed to look straight through the wall. When she'd finished her coffee she got up.

"I have to see it before me," she said. "Maybe I should try harder..." She grinned at him and kissed him again. Then she said goodnight and walked into the darkness.

The following evening she wasn't there on the beach. Tim waited for her until the sun had almost left the sky, and then he went to her house. To his relief there was a note for him on the front door. It was in unpractised capitals, but it was legible and correct, and it said that she had gone to nurse Evelina who had fallen ill, and was afraid because she was pregnant. Marguerite said she would be alright, and her unborn baby as well, but she had to have someone to help her. If he wanted to he could come round and cheer Evelina up a bit.

Tim folded the note carefully and put it in his breast pocket. He went to Evelina's house straight away, and Marguerite opened the door for him. She kissed him briefly. Then she said, "Come, I'll take you to Evie. She needs to be distracted - could you give it a try? Just tell her about Wight. She's very interested in England."

Evie lay in bed under a lot of covers. She obviously had a fever, but her eyes were not too bad, and she clearly took an interest in what he had to tell. He sat talking and laughing with her for over an hour; then he took his leave of the women, kissed Marguerite goodnight and went home.

"Lucky girl," Evelina said. "He is really nice, and I love his accent!"

Marguerite felt a pang of anxiety. She knew she was a lucky woman to have found someone she really, really loved, and who loved her just as much, and she still couldn't envisage their happiness together. She shrugged it off, and said, "He is nice, isn't he? Remember your fears about him?"

Evie did, and she grinned at the memory. Then she felt her eyes go heavy. "I'd better try and go to sleep now," she said.

Evie stayed ill for a long time. She wasn't ill enough to go to hospital, but Marguerite's presence was very necessary, and Tim only saw her in the evenings, during the visiting hour, as Marguerite said.

Tim had decided he should take action, as Marguerite was too preoccupied with Evie's illness, and he had gone to the town and ferreted out the address of the International School. The head appeared to be a Mr R. Murchkin, and he went home and wrote him a letter of application.

It took a long time before he got an answer. In the meantime Evelina slowly got well again, and Marguerite stopped her vigil at Evie's place.

She returned to the beach, and that evening, finally, she came home again with Tim after another meal at Linda's. They talked their heads off, about the future - Marguerite had resolutely decided to give it her own slant - and about children, and about their days together. Tim said he had applied for a post as a teacher on the island. If they'd employ him he would resign in England... He smiled at Marguerite. She made an effort to return his smile - but his words filled her with sad misgivings that she couldn't really place. It didn't feel good, though.

When she left she gave the situation a lot of thought. She was certain - she knew that it wasn't Tim who was wrong - but she couldn't get any further than that. It gave her a headache, and she went to bed with a couple of paracetamols.

That night Marguerite dreamt about Tim's parents. In her dream she saw his mother stretched out on the floor, and his father looking at her, pale and distraught and completely helpless. He said something but there was no sound. She woke up in a sweat. "It's only a dream," she thought, and though it wouldn't leave her alone she kept it to herself.

The next day Tim received an invitation to come and talk. It had been written a couple of days ago, and he had to be at the meeting that very morning. The letter asked him to bring some examples of his handwriting, so he put his notebook into a small bag and took a tuk-tuk to town. He had an appointment with the principal, Mr Murchkin, at ten thirty and he arrived at the building well in time.