Islanders

After eleven months Tim's mother got another stroke, which proved too much for her. He arranged the burial with his father. They spent a long time listening to music and choosing the things to play, and they wrote his father's speech, which he was to read for him. It felt strange to him, but it really was quality time together, and he wrote Marguerite a long letter about it.

His father slowly got worse. He started shaking a little, and then he began to forget things. But his heart was strong, and he kept on going for a long time, with occasional admissions to hospital, and a couple of false alarms...

The years strung together like an iron chain on his leg. He kept writing to Marguerite - absence, in his case, did make the heart grow fonder, although he sometimes felt it was in both meanings of the word - and she was on his mind whenever he found the time to wind down.

At long, long last - it'd been nigh on sixteen years - his father got pneumonia, the old man's friend, his GP said. It was a blustery autumn day, with strong squalls and wailing winds around the houses, and the ride in the ambulance to St. Mary's hospital felt like a nightmare. His father lay breathing like a steam engine, short of breath and scared, and it only became bearable when they administered morphine through a drip. It took another seven hours before he died.

Tim buried him in early December. It was a sober burial; almost all his father's friends were dead already, and as he was an only child there were no relatives, apart from an old aunt who was completely demented.

He put his own and his parents' house up for sale. His own house didn't do too much, but his parents' one, an old, well-kept cottage with all mod. cons and a beautiful thatched roof was so desirable, the estate agent said, that it was better to sell it to the highest bidder, and it made a good six tons. When the death duties were paid he still was reasonably well off. He had got rid of all his unwanted things, and packed the rest for shipping, and when all the financial formalities had been dealt with he shipped the crates to the island, got on a flight and returned to Marguerite's place.

When they were almost there he looked down and saw the island lying in the late afternoon sun. It was no tourist season, and there were only few ships in the harbour, and no speedboats out at sea. There were just a few fishing boats, and the whole place looked very peaceful. He got off the plane with the happy feeling of coming home.

He carried only a small suitcase, and he didn't have to wait for his luggage, so he almost ran to the tuk-tuk stand; he was outside Marguerite's house within thirty minutes. He paid, got out and silently opened the gate - he remembered she always kept the hinges well oiled.

But as he walked down the garden path of Marguerite's old, colonial house she came round the corner. He dropped his suitcase and ran to her, arms wide, and she hurried into them. She smiled at him the way he remembered so fondly, and said, "You're home."

She offered him her lips, and they stood trembling with happiness, the feeling of each other's presence, and the need for each other.

"Your father died in November, didn't he?" she said when they broke their kiss.

He nodded. "You knew," he said.

"Yes," she said. "I did. I knew you'd come home today."

He looked at her happily. "You're even more beautiful than I remembered," he said.

There were a few strands of grey in her hair; as she was over fifty now, it wasn't too surprising - it only made her even lovelier to him. Her mouth was as wonderful as always, and her eyes...

He showed his years a little, too. The hair at his temples was greying, and his face had got lines around his mouth and wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. She saw to her relief that they were lines of laughter, rather than despair.

He realised with a start that yes, he was back - but she was well past childbearing. He thought of their long night's talk about children, and Marguerite's miscarriage, and how much she'd wanted a child, and his eyes filled with tears.

"It's been so long," he said. "It's been too long for your great wish - we'll never have children now..."

She wiped his tears with her hand. "Tim," she said, "on those last nights, long ago, I took an advance on our union. I willed myself to get pregnant - we have a daughter. She has your hands, and my eyes and hair, and she is coffee-coloured. I called her Amber."

She saw his eyes grow wide, and he slowly broke into a big smile. "You are my sweet witch, aren't you?" he said. "That's the best you could ever tell me. Didn't it cause a lot of talk?"

"Here? On the island? Oh no. Tim, half the children around here don't grow up with fathers."

He nodded. "Yes," he said. "I see."

"And besides... She's got your name, you know."

"Really? How did you manage?"

"It was quite easy," she said. "The man at registration was an old admirer of my mother's, and she did him a little favour."

She grinned at him. "Jimmy's quite nice, actually. They're still together. But come now. There's someone eagerly waiting to meet you, my love."

She took his hand and led him around the side of the house to where Amber was standing, waiting for them.

Tim saw a young woman who was the spitting image of her mother apart from the shape of her hands and the colour of her skin. She smiled at him in the same way Marguerite did, and she quietly put both her hands in his. "Hallo, papa," she said.

Tim had to swallow hard before he could speak. "Hallo, Amber," he said.

Then she put her arms around him and held him close. "Mama told me so much about you," she said. "I'm so glad you're here, and I'm so happy for the two of you..."

She looked into his eyes from close by, and he was struck by her beauty and sweetness.

"My daughter," he said, filled with wonder at the thought. Then he smiled at her and stroked her hair, and he said, "So you knew all about me."

"Yes," she said. "I learnt about the Isle of Wight at school, and we listened to your song together, and mama used to read your poems and letters to me until I could read them myself. They are nice poems. Would you like to read mine?"

"You write, too?"

She nodded. "It's nice," she said.

"Yes, please!"

She ran inside and returned with the exercise book he had left for Marguerite, half full with poems written for her. Amber had filled the other pages. He took it from her and sat down on the veranda, and read through her poems. They were obviously a young girl's work, but they were well written, and they showed she had an ear for language and something to say.

She had sat down on the armrest of his chair, with an arm round his shoulder, and she looked at him anxiously. "Do you like them?" she asked when he had finished.

"I do," he said. "I'm very impressed. You are a musical poet, Amber. Great work." He regarded her earnestly. "Do you know things?"

"Know things? Of course - everyone does."

"Er, no - like Marguerite - like your mother, I mean."

"Oh... Oh, that. No, I don't. Mummy says it a good thing I don't - it doesn't make life any easier, she says."

He looked at Marguerite, and she smiled at him.

"It doesn't, you know. I've got something for you, too," Marguerite said. She handed him six exercise books, and he looked at her questioningly.

"You told me all that happened to you, and all your thoughts and hopes, in your letters," she said. "I didn't want you to miss all those years of my life, so I did the same for you in these exercise books." She smiled a little. "I wasn't very good at writing, but Evie helped me a lot, and it got easier as the years went by."

Tim held the exercise books as if they were made of porcelain. They were numbered, and he opened the first one and read Marguerite's thoughts when she saw him disappear through customs, some sixteen years ago. The text was in the capital letters her note had been in - he had kept it carefully - and then he had a look at the sixth one. It was three quarters full, in a much more practiced, quite individualistic handwriting, and there were four short lines at the end. They read:

This is the final tome.

I'll write the final line:

Rejoice, old heart of mine,

Today you're coming home.

He got up and looked at her and he put the exercise books down on the chair. Then he took her in his arms and said, "This is the most wonderful thing you could give - apart from Amber. Thank you very, very much!"

She kissed him and extracted herself from his embrace.

"Dinner's ready," she said. "We'll have to eat early. Remember Evie was pregnant? She's got a son, Louis, and he has his birthday today. Amber's going."

"You don't mind?" Amber asked.

"No," Tim said with a smile. "We'll have time enough together."

She nodded as they went into the house.

Marguerite took a big pan to the table. Tim recognised the smell immediately.

"It's your fish soup," he said. "Hmmm, it smells as good as I remember it."

She ladled three bowls of the greenish liquid, and they sat down to eat.

Tim found it hard to concentrate on his food. He had so much to say and to ask that it interfered with his eating, and Marguerite and Amber answered his questions indulgently.

Eventually he finished his meal. Marguerite looked at her family, and said, "Tim, would you like to walk to Evie's with Amber? Then I can clear these things away. Oh, and your suitcase is still on the garden path."

Tim brought his suitcase indoors, and then they walked down the path to Evie's - he remembered it in every detail, and it didn't seem changed at all. Evie was delighted to see him. She poured out a torrent of questions, and almost flattened him in an enthusiastic embrace. He was here to stay now? Oh, good, good. Then she introduced him to Louis. Tim smiled broadly at his reception, but he declined the offer to stay for a drink, and when Evie realised he hadn't seen his Marguerite for some sixteen years she blushed.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I wasn't thinking. Off you go, Tim, and say hello to Rita. And please come back soon!"

She kissed him goodbye, and he went back with a happy feeling - it really felt like coming home all round. He opened the gate, and went round the house to the veranda to find Marguerite waiting for him.

"Tim," she said - and then she was in his arms, with her arms round his neck and her tongue pressing into his mouth, and he lifted her off the ground and carried her to the bedroom, revelling in the feeling of her buttocks on his hands.

He deposited her on the bed, and she pulled him down to her. He felt her breasts through her gown, and she tried to unbutton his shirt while they kissed each other deep, hard, eagerly... They sat up for a moment to remove their clothes, and found each other's mouths again. Their hands were all over their lover's bodies, groping, touching, trying to make up for lost time in a second; Marguerite found his cock and held it as if she were afraid he might escape, and she squeezed his buttocks with the other hand while Tim's hands were on her breasts and between her legs. She pressed her vulva into his hand so hard her hips got off the mattress, and she loved the feeling of his fingers exploring her labia and probing her depth...

She was soaking wet. She had wanted him so badly for so long, and here he was in her arms, home, home at last... She stroked his cock and then he found her entrance and pushed into her in one slow, long stroke, up to his balls - she felt them touch her ass - and he took her head in his hands and found his rhythm, and she bucked her hips to meet his strokes, and he pressed into her relentlessly, smiling into her eyes, and she panted and cried and laughed all the same time... She bit his lower lip and chewed his mouth while they kissed but he didn't feel it as he felt their bond had only grown stronger. She was in his mind and in his heart, and his thoughts were reduced to a singsong repetition of her name, over and over and over again - Marguerite - Marguerite - Marguerite...

She pressed him close to her with her hands, and she dug her nails into his back and she spurred him on with her legs. The silken walls of her pussy felt like balm to his cock. She squeezed him with her pussy muscles, and she thought she could feel every little ridge as he moved in and out of her, hard and insistent, eager, needy, demanding -

She tried to devour him with her mouth. Tim - her Tim - finally back, finally in her arms and in her body, finally where he belonged - they were finally made whole together. They were all sweaty and their skin seemed to burn with the passion circumstance had denied them for so long.

Tim raised himself on his arms for a moment to look at her. He bent down to kiss her nipples and then he returned to her mouth, and picked up speed. He felt close to coming as Marguerite's pussy warmed his cock and squeezed him harder, and they found each other's eyes, pools of love and desire to drown in...

They lost all sense of time and place. There was just the other person, one body, one face, one set of eyes... limbs groping and the consummation of all they'd been waiting for for so long.

At long last Tim saw Marguerite's eyes go dark, and he felt her pussy convulse around his stem. He pressed down into her warmth as deep as he could go, and Marguerite felt his semen enter her womb, spurt after spurt... she held him as if she were drowning, and clasped her legs round the small of his back like a vise, and she whispered endearments to him as she came, and came, and came.

They lay still for a long time. Tim stroked her hair, and she drew circles on his back with her index finger, and they kissed each other, softly and tenderly now that the immediacy and urgency had been met.

Then he whispered, "Thank you so much, my love - I'm so happy to be here with you. It was worth every single minute of the wait, sweetheart."

She smiled at him. "Thank you, Tim - I've been so lonely so often - and I've waited for this moment so eagerly. Oh Tim, I'm so glad to have you home!"

Then she felt for his cock and he felt himself come slowly back to life as she rolled and kneaded him with her hand. She nibbled at his earlobe, and he felt for her pussy and parted the labia in search of her ruby centre. She was all sticky, the hairs of her pussy wet with their come.

"Let me clean you a bit," he whispered.

She smiled at the idea. "Yes, please," she said, and she let go of his cock as he knelt between her legs and licked her clean. He worked in circles to end up at her slit; then he put his mouth over it and sucked softly - and when he touched her clit at last she came again, moaning softly with her hands in his hair.

He had gone very hard for her again, and when her orgasm had subsided she smiled at him and told him to lie on his back. She took his cock between her lips, and used her saliva to get him good and wet, and her hands to get him even harder, and then she sucked him into her mouth. She stopped at times to plant a little kiss on the tip, and to look into his eyes, and just when he thought he couldn't stand it any more she got up and squatted down over him. She rolled his cock between her hands and then she rubbed the tip back and forth along her wet, glistening slit, before positioning him at her entrance. With a deep sigh of contentment she let herself sink down over him, and she sat on top of him, grinning and panting, before she began to move. She stroked his chest, and pinched his nipples with her nails, and the she moved her buttocks back and forth, moving his cock with her.

It felt to him as if she were using her hands and her pussy at the same time, and she moved very slowly and tenderly, making sure he got as much out of it as she did, slowly, slowly...

He caressed her breasts, reverently feeling their beauty, and paying a lot of attention to her areola, and to her nipples.

She loved the feeling of his hands on them, but she liked his mouth even better, and after a little time she bent over and fed a nipple to his mouth. Tim loved sucking her nipples, and he used his tongue and his teeth to make her feel even more aroused.

When she couldn't stand it any more she lay down on top of him and slowly, sweetly rode him to a climax.

She waited until he slipped out of her, and then rolled onto the mattress. She looked at him, supporting herself on an elbow, and bent down for a short, sweet kiss on his mouth.

He smiled up at her. "Will you marry me, sweet witch?" he said.