What If It Hadn't Rained?

There was, though, a late-night bar called 'The View' that was much more to my taste. It had a tiny dance floor and a jazz trio -- piano, bass and drums -- who played really cool music that was good to listen or dance to. I didn't go much on alcohol, usually just a couple of glasses of white wine before I changed onto the diet soft drinks (my healthy regime was still in full swing and working well). The men who did approach us to request a dance from time to time were nearly always good natured and pleasant.

The summer was a good one. The place filled up with tourists and came alive. The scenery was unbelievably beautiful when I went for one my walks. The evenings at the View were just what I needed to relax and unwind after a week of working hard (I was beginning to take it seriously in the belief that it would be a lifelong job) and I began to feel contented at last.

August, after the fast couple of weeks was, exceptionally good; there was bright, warm sunshine almost every day and so, on the last Monday of the month (The 'Summer Bank Holiday' in the UK), having found myself with nothing to do, I decided on a nice long walk. I wore a tee shirt, shorts and a good pair of walking shoes, and I took a small backpack containing bottled water and a slightly warmer top in case it began to cool down before I got back.

Normally, I took my little car, parked it, and went on a circular route somewhere; but this time I was feeling a bit more adventurous so I caught a bus going out of town, stopped off about twelve miles from home, and began a leisurely stroll across country. It was actually less than ten miles in a straight line, but there were several steep hills, some deep valleys and a gorgeous glen that I wanted to explore. It was tiring, but immensely enjoyable and I was following a narrow path through a wooded area in late afternoon when the sky suddenly began to darken.

Had I checked the forecast? Of course I had! And, even though the local forecast was normally quite accurate, it hadn't given any indication of what was to come.

I'd only paused to pull the light sweater over my tee shirt as it began to grow cool, and I'd just about emerged from the trees, when the dark sky suddenly lit up spectacularly. Sheet lightning, followed just four seconds later (I counted them automatically to see how far away it was) by a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the very ground on which I was walking.

The next one, just as bright, had an interval of nearly seven seconds, so I guessed that it was passing down the east coast of the island and I wouldn't be any danger from it but, just as I gave a little sigh of relief, the heavens opened and I was exposed to the full force of a torrential downpour!

I was faced with two possible routes, both of which led to a led to an out of the way pub where I could find shelter and warmth; one was a long but gentle descent along a well-trodden path, the other a steep descent over jutting rocks and overgrown grass. Obviously, the second one was much shorter and quicker and, equally obviously, that was the one I chose.

I was more than halfway down when I found that it was much steeper than I'd expected. Without wanting to, I was almost running and trying desperately to regain control of my descent when, predictably, I lost my balance. It was an unseen rabbit hole that actually brought about my downfall but, to be honest, it could have been anything because it was almost bound to happen. As I tumbled, I felt a horrible pain in my ankle but there was nothing I could do about it because I was rolling, and falling for what seemed like ages until I finally came to a stop just a few yards from the roadside, but still a long way short of the pub.

I tried to stand up -- and immediately fell down again with shriek of pain. I didn't think the ankle was broken, just that I'd received a nasty sprain but, even so, it hurt like hell. So, there I was, by the roadside; sitting on wet grass, soaked to the skin, and in a lot of pain while the rain continued to pour down on me. All at once I felt helpless and lost.

I tried to manoeuvre myself into some sort of position where I could at least manage to regain an upright position, but the ground was so uneven that I found it very difficult and, when I finally did succeed, I almost immediately fell again when a stone moved beneath the foot I was standing on and I landed quite heavily. I think that was when I put my head in my hands and began to cry. I know that's what I was doing when I heard a voice say;

"What's up, Love? You alright?"

Slowly, I looked up, sniffed loudly and saw a large and very tall man standing over me. I was too sore and too depressed to take very much notice of him other than to notice that he wore jeans and a cagoule jacket with a hood on it.

Not even looking at him properly, I gave a brief outline of what had happened. And his response?

"You're obviously not a local... only someone from 'across' would think of trying to come down that way... especially when its pi... pouring down!"

"Well, thanks very much!" I snapped, then winced with the pain and tried not to sob in case he'd say that a local wouldn't cry about it either.

"Right, then... well, you can't stay there all day," he said, and I just about managed to bite my tongue before a sarcastic reply about being 'perfectly comfortable, thank you,' was able to surface. I was about to ask him if he'd be kind enough to get some help when, without hesitating, he suddenly reached down, scooped his arms around me and lifted me up as if I weighed nothing at all! I did my best to protest about it, saying that if he could just put me down on the road I could hobble to the pub and call for a taxi to come and pick me up.

"Don't be daft!" he said, "I'll put you in the Landrover and take you to the hospital...."

"I just want to go home," I wailed.

Where do you live?" he asked and, when I told him, he said, "The hospital's nearer. You need to get that ankle looked at. I'll take you to A&E." and it was said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Although he was extremely strong, he also had a very gentle touch; that was confirmed by the way he placed me on the passenger seat of his vehicle and made sure I was comfortable before getting in the other side. There was practically no conversation -- I couldn't make up my mind whether he was shy or just surly but, as we entered the outskirts of the town, I asked him if he had blue lights on top of the car.

"Why's that?"

"Because you're driving too fast -- and this isn't an emergency!"

He turned towards me with a smile on his face and I realised that he was rather good looking in a sort of 'grizzled' way. He didn't say anything, but he did slow down to just a little over the speed limit and we reached our destination a few minutes later. I just about managed to open the door and swing myself around to clamber out when he was suddenly in front of me (he moved fast for a large man!) and my plea that I could manage from there was completely wasted as he simply hoisted me up and carried me inside.

As soon as we entered the casualty department, one of the nurses greeted him with:

"Hallo, Monty! Found another stray, have you?"

"Aye... they're always managing to slide down the hill! This one's damaged an ankle."

I didn't know what on earth that was all about, of course, but the nurse told him to bring me through. He held onto me while a plastic sheet was placed on the examination bed (my clothes were soaking wet and sticking to me) then he carefully placed me down on it, turned, and left.

It took nearly two hours before I was sorted out properly. The ankle (which was quite severely sprained) was tightly bandaged up, I was given an aluminium crutch to support me and some fairly strong painkillers, and a taxi was called to take me home. I had, of course, asked about my kind rescuer and the nurse had told me his name was Winston Montgomery. Apparently he hated his forename and his friends all knew it was best to call him Monty. He lived on a farm with his parents, their only son (their two younger daughters had already married and left) so he practically ran the place now that they were getting older. He was single, even though a few females in the farming community had 'set their caps at him, and seemed content to remain that way for the moment.

A couple of weeks earlier a youngster had fallen while making the same descent and Monty had brought him to the hospital. The youngster hadn't been quite as fortunate as I was because he'd actually dislocated a shoulder and received what they referred to as a 'greenstick' fracture of his wrist -- hence the comment about finding 'strays.'

The following day, I rang work to tell my boss what had happened and that I'd be staying at home for a couple of days. He was fine with it (he was one of the flirtatious married men who'd made a couple of gentle passes at me and I just prayed he wouldn't turn up at the door with a bunch of flowers or something!) and told me to take as long as I needed. By the second day, however, I was getting restless at being confined and needed something to do. I was also, to be honest, intrigued by my rescuer. Eventually, I found the number of the farm in the phone book and, after hesitating about it for a long time, finally plucked up the courage to ring it. The first time, there was no answer (and no answerphone to take a message, either) but, when I tried again a couple of hours later, it was his mother who answered.

I briefly explained who I was, and that I hadn't had a chance to thank him properly for his kindness. She took my number, and told me she'd get him to call me back when he came home. It was almost nine o'clock that evening before the phone rang and I heard his voice saying;

"Hello... is that Sally?" He didn't sound terribly enthusiastic when I asked if I could treat him to a quiet meal sometime and thank him for being so helpful (I eventually found out that he'd been working since early morning and was very tired). When he hesitated, I suggested a couple of places in town but he rejected them straight away. Although they were both pricey and seemed well run, he simply said that he'd seen inside the kitchens when he delivered fresh produce and wouldn't want to eat in either of them. I wondered for a second if I ought to pass the information on to the senior management at the bank who used both places on a regular basis to entertain important clients, but decided that I wouldn't be thanked for it.

"Okay, then..." I said, trying not to sound as exasperated as I felt, "You're the one with the local knowledge. You name the place and time and I'll meet you there."

"It won't be this week," he replied, "There's too much to do." Then he went silent -- he never did like to talk unless he really had something to say -- I'd already been told that!

"So?" I tried, hoping for a little more help." There was another silence, but this time I just waited and then he said:

"Next Thursday evening, if that's alright?"

"Yes... that'll be fine..." was as far as I got before he interrupted.

"I'll pick you up at seven." And then he was gone.

He had, without even trying, managed to irritate me. I was the one who'd called to thank him, to invite him for a meal and yet, somehow or other, he'd completely taken charge of the whole thing. Who the hell did he think he was? I was almost tempted to call him back and tell him to forget it.

I needed a third day off work but, when I returned to it on the Friday, I found my desk was covered with flowers, chocolates and 'get well' cards. I was really touched by it and, though still hobbling a bit and using the crutch for support, I went round every office to thank them for their good wishes and, as I did so, I finally felt that I was 'accepted.'

On Saturday night, I managed to make my way to the View to meet Sandra. It was a lovely evening; the band even played their version of Dave Brubeck's 'Waltz Limp' when they saw me with the crutch although, thank heavens, no one was crass enough to ask me to dance! At the end, one of the young men who'd sat down and talked to us for the latter part of the evening, asked if he could see me home.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted. He was good looking and pleasant; I'd danced with him a couple of times in the past and his hands hadn't strayed (well... maybe a tiny bit!) and I knew he was single and unattached. Somehow, the injury had made me much more aware of my own body and, to add to that, there was the fact that I hadn't had any sex for a long time. So... yes... I was definitely tempted, but no one was offering anything to Sandra and I didn't want to make her feel she was being deserted, so I turned him down.

By the beginning of the next week I was able to discard the crutch and, with a simple, elasticated ankle support replacing the heavy bandaging, I could walk with just the merest suggestion of a limp ("walk slowly, but walk as normally as possible -- that way you'll heal quicker" is what I'd been told) and, once I was back into my daily routine, I almost forgot about it apart from the occasional twinge of discomfort.

More than ever, I was content with the atmosphere at work. I was happy and it must have showed, even in my voice because, when I rang mum on Wednesday night, she remarked on it -- and even asked if there was a new man in my life. I told her there definitely wasn't (although my mind went back to the man who'd asked to see me home from the View, making me wonder if he'd be there this weekend and whether I might be tempted to make a date with him). I also told her, fairly truthfully, that I wasn't really looking. "Good... that's when you're more likely to find one!" She told me and we laughed about it.

It wasn't until Thursday afternoon that I remembered about the arrangement to meet Monty that night. To be honest, I thought of it as an obligation rather than a 'date' and, because work happened to be a bit hectic that day, I was tempted to call and try to rearrange it for another time. Believe it or not, although the high street banks close quite early, that is not when the staff normally leave. I knew I wouldn't be able to get home much before six -- if I was lucky -- and that wouldn't leave much time to get ready.

As it happened, it was well after six when I tumbled in through my front door, scattering my working clothes wherever they fell as I rushed into a quick shower. After drying off, I applied my make up (far less than I'd needed when my face had been blotchy and puffy!), decided to leave my hair down for a change (and because there simply wasn't time to do much else) and rummaged through the wardrobe for something to wear, eventually settling for a fairly simply-cut, white dress. I hadn't worn it since the previous summer, and it was good to discover that it fitted perfectly (another sign that my healthy regime had paid off!). It was fairly short, but not too revealing at either end; and my legs were tanned enough not to need any covering.

Right on the very stroke of seven, the doorbell rang (Actually, it played one of those strange little tunes that are unidentifiable but stick in your head for ages afterwards -- the landlord's choice, not mine!). I hastily slipped a cardigan over my shoulders, grabbed a small bag, popped my keys, purse and emergency make up in it, and was on the way down the two flights of stairs when a couple of things made me suddenly panic.

The first was that I'd forgotten to put my ankle support on; the second was that I'd chosen a white dress (and a fairly expensive one as I recalled) to climb into a working farm vehicle! God alone knew what kind of stains it might get on it!

So, I was already a bit flustered when I opened the outer door of the apartment block -- and immediately became even more disconcerted when I saw him waiting there for me!

By that time, I had only a vague memory of him from our previous meeting; just an impression of someone tall and strong, with limited conversation and a pleasant smile -- but not much else, really. As I've said, I hadn't really thought about this meeting because I'd been occupied with other things -- and I certainly wasn't prepared for the man I found waiting for me.

He was, in fact, well over six feet tall (I'm 5' 6" and he towered above me!), broad and muscular (and, when I say 'muscular' I mean with the kind of build that comes from regular hard physical work -- not the "I'm-a-body-builder-don't-I-look-wonderful" kind!). He wasn't handsome in the style of pretty-boy male models, but his rugged, weather-beaten face was attractive and clean-shaven.

Presentation? I'd have awarded ten out of ten for that. He wore a crisp, white tail-less shirt outside a pair of smartly-pressed, cream-coloured trousers, with pale grey shoes. It was perfect for a warm summer's evening and the top two buttons of the shirt being undone allowed me to make out some stray chest hairs.

I'm not sure whether I gasped out loud or not -- I do know that I wanted to. He looked absolutely stunning and, when he turned on that wide smile, it suddenly felt as if I had more problems with my knees than my ankle -- because they were trembling as if they were about to give way. I can honestly say that no man had ever made me feel that way before.

"You look very nice," he told me.

"You don't look too bad yourself," I managed to answer, hoping it didn't sound too much like the come-on that I probably wanted it to be. The grin returned to his face -- and the evening sunshine suddenly seemed remarkably warm as he said;

"Aye... me mam says I scrub up okay when I put the effort in!"

He guided me to the Landrover (both of us probably remembering that he'd carried me to it the last time we'd met) and I could see that it was absolutely spotless, both inside and out. He held the door for me (I'm old-fashioned -- I like it when a man does things like that) and, when he'd climbed in and started the engine, I took a deep breath to calm myself before asking:

"So... where are we going?"

"It's in the south of the island," he replied as we moved out into the sparse traffic, "a little place alongside the harbour. Good, plain food and decent portions."

"Sounds good." I said, just to keep the conversation going.

"Yeah... I've been there a few times. It's not licensed, unfortunately... but we can pick something up on the way if you want?" I hesitated, and he added, "I don't want to sound like a wimp, but I never drink when I'm driving. I got caught doing that when I was 18 and I learned my lesson... but you're free to...."

"No... honestly... I'm fine with soft drinks," I told him. I was feeling giddy enough as it was without adding alcohol to the mix!

"There's just one thing though... and you may not like this," he said, rather hesitantly and, when I just raised my eyebrows, he explained; "I'm a bit old-fashioned... I can't help it... it's the way I was raised. When I go out with a lady... I'm the one who puts his hand in his pocket!"

"But this is...." I tried to protest.

"...Something we're not going to argue about," he laughed, but his words had sounded very firm. "I know you intended it as a way of saying 'thanks' for last week...."

"Exactly!" I said, "And...."

"...And your company is reward enough for me!" I'm sure he blushed a little when he said that, and I know that I positively glowed. "So... no argument... this is on me."

And that was how the evening went, with Monty taking charge of everything -- very gently and good-naturedly. I was happy to accept his recommendations when it came to the food; Sweet potato & thyme soup, followed by Cannon of lamb and spinach mousse, wrapped in Parma ham, with carrot puree, minted peas, chateaux potatoes, redcurrant & aromatic herb jus. Everything about it was perfect. We were both too full to contemplate a dessert, the coffee was quite enough.