Death, Taxes and Nurses

"I see it."

"I've never taken drugs but I imagine that the heightened sensitivity I feel in art is what drugs are like."

"Art is your addiction, then?"

"Yes, but I can stop anytime I want."

She laughed.

"It's nice being able to work with what you are passionate about, Charlie."

And, proving the quickness of her ear and the retentiveness of her brain, Melanie asked:

"Why did you say it was 'Crude but appropriate' when I said 'Fuck me'?"

Charles hesitated again: he was conflicted between the pleasure of instructing a willing student and his sense of delicacy. Then he thought that, despite her 'Carry-On Nurse' outfit, she was a professional medic; she knew how the body worked.

"I call it the 'museum erection'," he explained. "After about an hour of looking at art, many art-lovers get sexually aroused."

"Blimey! From all those nude women?"

"No, curiously, but from landscapes, still-lifes, domestic scenes, even devotional pieces. An art-lover is that curious beast who can look at a painting of a nude woman and think of 'art' rather than 'sex' but when he looks at a painting of a tree or a waterfall, his body thinks of 'sex' for him."

"Gosh! So art's a real turn-on for you."

"Not only me, I think;" he said, abandoning all delicacy as he lowered his eyes meaningfully to her chest: "... or is it colder in here than I think?"

She giggled. He was right. She recognised her own arousal but had not analysed its cause. Perhaps it was a reaction to the art, and it certainly was cold in there now, but another element, she realised, was that a charming, cultured, intelligent man was interested in her for her mind. This was a novel experience for Melanie. She rather liked it and wanted it to continue.

She asked:

"How do you tell that the artist is really feeling what he shows and is not faking it?"

"In my case, I never get the sensation of communing with the mind of the artist when he is faking it. I'll try to show you an example."

Charles delved into a drawer and laid a small frame on the tabletop. In it was a chalk and ink drawing of a woman, naked except for a sheet or towel around her waist, dabbing one foot in a pond.

"This is by Rubens. It might be a preliminary sketch for a composition of 'Susannah and the Elders' ... but look at the water here and the trees there and the woman's expression: it's all so mechanical, as if he wasn't really feeling it, he just knew how to get the effect he wanted."

"Yes, I see it. You know, all this art being around me, and me not seeing it: it's like having short sight and suddenly someone gives you a pair of glasses. I'll never be able to look at paintings the same again now, will I?"

"Sorry, no. I compare it to acquiring a taste for fine wines: after you train your palate, you can no longer enjoy cheap wines. Luckily, British art-galleries are free but I would also use your gift sparingly and not wear it out."

"I'll try, but I want that feeling again."

More than an hour had passed by this time, and while Melanie and Charles had warmed to each other, the room had noticeably chilled.

"I think it's got colder, Charlie."

"I think you're right. Maybe Clara is having problems with the heating system. Shall we ring her, or will you take my jumper for now?"

"Then you'll be cold."

"I'll be fine. Here, put it on. I'll just take a look at the Raphael now, then we can go."

"Okay. Thanks."

He pulled out the last rack of frames. The Raphael was in the centre, on its own.

In 'The Madonna with a Chaffinch', the Virgin Mary sat in a three-quarter pose with the Christ-child on her knees, her brown hair tied in a bun. She had a long aquiline nose, pink cheeks and a half-smile on her pink lips. Her eyes were down, looking at her child, who was the usual plump two-year-old, with rosy cheeks and knowing eyes. Outside the window behind the Madonna was a fantasy Italian town set on a hill. On the window-sill was the chaffinch of the title, its normally restless eye focussed on the child. The pink in its breast echoed the Madonna's cheeks and lips, while the yellow tabs in its wings matched the yellow in the chair on which the Madonna sat and the yellow border on her green jacket.

Melanie and Charles were bowled over by the painting. Melanie understood when Charles explained how one colour or shape balanced another colour or shape, giving the composition a lyrical quality. A genuine communion was fast developing between the two art-lovers.

Still feeling elevated by the Raphael, Melanie and Charles walked slowly and silently to the door, each waiting for the other to speak first, not wishing to intrude on private feelings. It was Charles who reluctantly spoke first when they reached the door, saying quietly:

"Time to go, Melanie. I must say, it's been a real pleasure having you accompany me today. I have never enjoyed explaining art to anyone so much as you. You have a real talent for it."

"Thank you, Charlie, for teaching me. You were very patient."

Melanie was sincere in this. She had also been considering the connexion between art and sex, using Charles as a theoretical model. It was natural for the thoughts of a healthy twenty-four-old to turn to this subject. Even more so a young woman who, in Casper's employ, was officially single. Thus she had admired the passion Charles showed for art and thought to herself: if he is as passionate in sex as he is about art, then he would make a useful lover.

Such thoughts would go nowhere, she realised, now that they were leaving and Charles would again feast his eyes on the adored Clara. Resigned, she picked up the telephone and dialled '1'. It rang for two minutes before she put it down, puzzled. She tried again, letting it ring for longer. No response. She rang all the available numbers. No one answered.

Melanie and Charles were concerned. What had happened to Clara? Was no one in the house, or was the telephone system perhaps broken? And why had the heating not come back on?

"Have you a mobile 'phone with you, Charlie?"

"It's in my coat pocket, in the hall. And yours?"

"In my room upstairs. We're a pair of ninnies, aren't we?"

They tried the house telephone again and fifteen minutes later were justifiably worried. None the less, Melanie said with characteristic patience:

"Well, there's nothing we can do until Clara remembers us; which she will, sooner or later. I suppose she's just popped out for some fresh air."

Unfortunately, it was unlikely that Clara would remember them. On her journey to the hospital, she had been absorbed in speaking to Casper's family. Now she was almost there, her worry about Casper completely distracted her from any thought of the pair trapped in the vault.

Charles looked at his watch and then checked the temperature gauge.

"It's nearly six o'clock and it's thirteen degrees. That means the temperature has gone down one degree an hour, which shows the heating has gone off, I think. It also means it will get colder in here faster now it's night-time. We should perhaps think of how we might find another way out or what we can do to stay warm if necessary."

They made a futile search for an alternative exit. At least they learned that the toilet in the lobby worked and that there was hot water in the tap. They even discussed setting off the fire alarm. It might automatically open the door, Charles thought; but they decided against it, not wanting to have to make an awkward explanation to the fire brigade and possibly get Clara in trouble.

Instead, they chatted for the next hour about ordinary things, such as where they had grown up, places they had been, films they liked, interrupted every fifteen minutes by further attempts to contact someone in the house by telephone.

Melanie was an East End girl, from a rough neighbourhood that she had been keen to leave as soon as possible. Charles was from a socially ambitious family in a West London suburb. His parents made sacrifices to give their children a better education than they themselves had enjoyed. He was not brought up with art and music but his parents strongly encouraged their children whenever they showed an interest or aptitude beyond the ordinary.

At about seven o'clock, they were both feeling cold and found that walking around the vault was not helping much. Melanie had the obvious idea that they should sit together on the bench and try to share their body heat. He happily agreed, so they sat side-by-side, with a leg and an arm pressing against the other.

They were occupied with their own thoughts. Melanie's concerned her response to the courting couple in the skating-scene. Her emotions had been informed by her own current circumstance. It was the eve of St. Valentine's Day and Melanie had not had a boyfriend in nearly two years; she, who had never been without a male admirer. She was on duty last Valentine's Day and pretended not to care; but this year, she would be visiting home for a few days and, frustrated at the idea of being loveless again, despaired yet more at the thought of the quality of men where she used to live.

A mixture of her natural playfulness, therefore, and the thought that Charles would do nicely as a Valentine's Day date, motivated Melanie to begin teasing him, saying:

"I know a secret, Charlie."

"Do you?"

"You're in love with Clara."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I can tell. You gave yourself away when Clara said I would accompany you today."

Charles remained silent a moment. He could not resent her knowing his secret if it was that obvious. And, anyway, why should he be ashamed of it? Any sensible man would worship Clara. He wondered if Clara knew as well.

"All right, I admit it," he said, happy to confide in the warm-hearted girl. "I have loved Clara from the first moment I saw her. I even intended telling her today; but you know what happened. I am sorry if my disappointment showed. It was not intentional."

"I don't mind, Charlie. ... You know it's hopeless, don't you?" she asked, kindly.

"I didn't until now. Why is it hopeless: is she in love with someone else? I thought she was single?"

"Clara is single only in theory. All the 'Greenwood girls' are. Casper wants it that way. I don't know why, but I had to pretend to ditch my last boyfriend before I could take this job. Then I did ditch him for real because he was a dickhead; but that's another story. The point is that Casper wants us to be 'clean-living girls', as he calls it, and do our courting (another of his words) openly; and if we find someone, then he lets us go but gives us a generous present when we get married."

"You put up with these restrictions?"

"Oh, I don't mind so much. Casper's sweet and generous and though it can be frustrating, it's not really much to put up with for the job I've always wanted. After travelling and staying in posh hotels, I'm not sure I could work in a dirty, rundown NHS hospital again; though that was real nursing," she said wistfully.

"So Clara has a lover?"

"Yes. His name is Count Hubert von Starfish-Blunderbuss."

"Come on, Melanie, no one is really called 'Hubert von Starfish-Blunderbuss'."

"It's something like that. I can't pronounce it. Anyway, he's German, the grandson of one of Casper's friends, and the problem is that he's a really nice man. You'd expect that someone so beautiful as Clara would throw herself away on a mean, cruel, cheating waster, like so many beautiful women do; but Count Hubert is good-looking, seriously rich, generous and kind. He's been educated all over the world and he's a real gentleman. He's perfect for Clara and she's perfect for him. So it really is hopeless, Charlie."

He remained silent, looking down. She put her hand on his shoulder.

"Charlie, you're not too disappointed, are you? It was really only a dream, wasn't it?"

Charles looked hard at her. Melanie had revealed a fact about him that he had secretly known but had not realised until she said it. Had Melanie really understood him better than he understood himself, or was it a lucky guess?

"Why do you say that?" he demanded.

"Because you've known her two years and you were only going to make your move today. Why didn't you ask her out the day you met her or shortly afterward: you had her phone number, didn't you?"

Why hadn't he? He suddenly realised what she was really saying: that he wanted the fantasy of Clara rather than Clara herself. It was horribly close to the truth. Clara's apparent unobtainability attracted him just as much as her beauty.

"My, God! You're right. I am such an idiot."

"Don't be hard on yourself, Charlie. Clara is adorable. Everyone I know fancies her ... and they all put her on a pedestal, like you" (though maybe not so high a pedestal, she thought to herself).

Charles was only deflated, not devastated, which surprised him. Due to the realism injected by the homespun Melanie, he seemed as instantly over Clara as he had instantly fallen for her two years before. He was self-reproachful but not bitter and soon would be laughing at himself for a hopeless dreamer.

"Cheer up, Charlie. You'll find someone else, a good-looking lad like you."

"I wasn't moping, Melanie. I was thinking."

"What about?"

"About you, actually."

"About me? What for?"

The fact that Melanie was right about him made Charles think again that her intelligence belied her manner and costume.

"Why do you hide your intelligence, Melanie? You're a bright girl and your judgment in art is just as good as mine: all you need is information and experience."

This unusually blunt question from the meticulously polite man so surprised Melanie that she answered automatically.

"Where I was brought up, you didn't want to stand out by being good at school. And we thought that art-galleries and classical music were for snobs. It was one reason I always dreamed of leaving."

"I understand. So what's the story with the Benny Hill outfit? Is Casper a dirty old man?"

"No!" Melanie insisted. "It's my choice to wear showy clothes. I think Casper appreciates my style but he doesn't demand it. It was Kelly who started it. She's been there longer and I just followed her lead. We both like sexy outfits."

She pouted at his bemused look.

"We do real nursing, as well, you know ... though," she admitted, smiling ruefully at him, "I agree, most of the time we are just company for Casper. For instance, I played backgammon with him this afternoon."

Eight o'clock soon came and still no one answered the internal telephone. This was because Mildred was in her flat and Clara had been nearly two hours at the hospital. Casper was asleep in a private apartment, carefully looked on by Kelly and his daughter, Elizabeth, who had arrived in the late afternoon.

Elizabeth Moreton was a proper English lady of sixty-five: tall, refined and formidable; her grey hair cut at the neck, her back ramrod straight. Only a slight twang in her accent and her open, friendly manner betrayed her American birth and upbringing.

Clara stayed in the private apartment in case Casper woke, answering telephone calls from family members and friends and contacting the manor house to order rooms prepared for the visitors and to check that cook knew how many more people she would be catering for. All this activity contrived to divert her mind from the couple in the vault, where the temperature had fallen to ten degrees and Melanie was feeling the chill.

"I'm really cold, now, Charles. Can we sit closer?"

"I don't see how, unless you sit on my lap."

"That's what I mean."

Cuddling was the obvious solution to preserving body heat but Charles was reluctant at first. As an ordinary flesh-and-blood male, he already fancied Melanie, but he did not know what she would think of his erection pressing against her. Melanie divined his feelings and reassured him, saying:

"Trust me, I'm a professional. This is a medical procedure."

She was none the less pleased to feel his warm interest in her as they sat facing one another across the bench, snuggling closely, his arms around her waist, her legs bent at the knees over his.

There was more silence than conversation now. Charles had lots to think about and what he most thought about was Melanie. He thought of her beauty and sexiness, of course; but also of her intelligence and sense of fun.

Melanie likewise thought about Charles. Here was someone who admired her mind. She loved learning new things from him. She liked his politeness but there was something that prevented her from falling for him completely, however attractive he was. She could not quite decide what: maybe it was his reserve.

With the temperature continuing to fall, making them snuggle ever closer, Charles took to rubbing Melanie's back to help warm her. She enjoyed his touch and leant back to smile at him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he would smile back and then pull her toward him for a kiss.

Melanie was not surprised. She had been hoping for this for a while. She kissed him back greedily, holding him tightly. Their cold lips soon warmed up and Melanie was pleased to feel his physical interest in her rising again.

They kissed and whispered nonsense and laughed and kissed again. The passionate couple kept this up for an hour or more and it was now well past nine o'clock.

Still it got colder as the night advanced. Even though Melanie was wearing Charles' jumper, she had on only stockings under her short skirt. She shivered. Charles noticed and said:

"Maybe we should jog around the vault to warm up."

"Then we would lose the heat we have conserved by cuddling."

Melanie thought for a minute.

"The obvious answer is to combine cuddling with jogging."

Charles looked blankly at her for a second; then he caught on and smiled.

"Would that be a medical procedure as well?"

"Of course."

"Well, I think you know I'm up for it."

"Oh, yes," she said, with a hungry undertone to her voice.

They improvised a bed on the floor out of the cushions from the benches and some large papers (in fact, antique architectural plans and Admiralty charts, that Charles had a conscience about using) to play the role of sheets.

Pleased with the result, Melanie lay on her side on the bed. Charles lay facing her and pulled the paper sheets over them. They kept their clothes on and intertwined their legs and arms. They went back to kissing and were soon warmer than they had been for a while.

After some time, Charles rolled Melanie on her back and rubbed his hands to warm them up. Then he lay on her, pushed his hands under her jumper, unbuttoned her blouse and slipped them behind her back to undo her bra strap. Melanie giggled encouragement, running her fingers through his hair and rubbing her heels on the backs of his legs. He slipped his hands under her loosened bra and fondled her breasts while she kissed him.

He felt he could never kiss this wonderful woman enough but there were other pleasures to take, so he began to kiss his way down Melanie's neck while pushing up the jumper and pulling the loose bra down to expose firm white globes. He adored her breasts with his tongue and mouth, kissing from the valley of her cleavage, around one nipple, then to the other and back, before finally taking her left nipple into his mouth and sucking firmly. Melanie's back arched and she gasped.

While Charles suckled on left nipple, he fondled her right nipple between his fingers. With his right hand, he rubbed Melanie's pussy through her knickers. Her response was an erotic dance. He carefully kept her on the boil, loving her squeals of delight from his teasing stimulations.

Melanie was warm, content and getting firmly aroused. Her breathing was shallow, her nipples hard and her pussy dripping wet. They were ready and, although Charles was having as much fun as Melanie, something held him back. He relaxed his attentions, rolled off her to lie on one side, his hand idly resting on her breast.