In Margot’s Shadow

Margot Allerton was an opinionated, forthright, woman of slender build and stately grace. She was socially gifted and never lost for words, either of a kindly or fiercely critical nature, often uncompromising if circumstances demanded it of her. She did not suffer fools gladly. Those she befriended were kept for life, and Margot's had been a fulfilled and happy one; a life of one marriage and three children; grandchildren, and a double-fronted Georgian house, with its portico entrance, the property set in a small park that lent it, and its occupiers, some distinction but few natural graces. She had been brought up to learn and perfect them.

Margot minded herself, and only prevailed upon others when she thought it necessary; deployed her gifts of persuasion, and ire, to get her way or to have her opinions become known. She just 'cut them', those that she did not take to and who were then put out of her life for good.

She was musical, played the piano, and was known to sing for the church choir at Christmas. She attended church, somewhat infrequently, and she played her part in the community, in the village set close to Salisbury, and as often as her age and somewhat enfeebled limbs still allowed.

Margot was happy with her lot and it showed, her vibrant personality and soft laugh engaging all whom she met. She was devoted to her husband, John, and they pursued an active and full social life. They holidayed and attended concerts in Birmingham and London and were often studiously engaged in a conversation whenever an art gallery was visited. John and Margot had each other, their family, and their home, and they also declared their love for each other in frequently physical and active ways.

The Allerton's star remained bright in the firmament until John was discovered, dead, slumped in his chair by the fire, in his study, one late morning in autumn and the crossword only half finished.

The vital woman that was Margot - she also died that day, if only in mind and rousing spirit; the latter buried deep in her soul along with her cherished memories of John. It was said that the first signs of dementia set in shortly after John's funeral; Margot's faculties seemed to dim even if her haughty, slender-faced beauty was there for all to see and by those who still came to see her.

'Allerton House' became too large, its gatehouse perfectly placed for a woman in her circumstances and she moved there. The main house was let out on lease, and as a self-contained, distinct, family home that it had always been, but that Margot's family could not part with.

They thought of the long-term. Margot lived in the present, and the closed-in world that her condition now brought upon her, memories of her other life seen as if through a net curtain; a life seen through a haze that she was never quite sure of, but a life that she believed had once existed and where she had thrived.. The vibrant beauty was sustained by her memories, so many thought; they kept her life from collapsing in, upon itself.

By some, it was said, the lights were still on but nobody was seen to be at home.

'Here you are, Margot. I've brought your lunch. Mind you don't spoil your dress so keep your napkin fastened.'

The day centre care worker fussed over her, but Margot pulled the napkin away from her throat, revealing a jewelled clasp.

'That man over there,' she sniffed haughtily, 'he keeps looking at me. Who...who is he? Do I know him that he should be looking at me the way that he does?'

'You're imagining it, dear. He's a guest of Alastair's and, yes, you do know him.'

'Do I?' Margot really couldn't recall him at all. 'I hope the car will soon be here to take me home.' Her thoughts had already drifted on

'Have your lunch, Margot. Don't let it get cold.'

♥

Paul had listened absentmindedly as his old school friend, Alastair Beasley, told him of the strikingly attractive woman seated not so far from them. Her long, slender face was studiously made up, her lips a flash of crimson red; her luxuriant white hair brushed up, then drawn back into a long plaited ponytail that must have taken a considerable effort, on her part, to achieve.

He had taken in her bottle green chiffon dress that was worn with a mauve jacket cast casually around her shoulders, as well as the woman's slender legs and small feet. Above all, he had suppressed a gasp of admiration as she passed their table, the walking frame pushed somewhat jerkily over the floor, as she went to the lady's cloakroom. She had chosen to wear a jewelled 'choker', the gold band studded with fake jewels of every hue. Its shape was that of some reptile, a crocodile, perhaps. On anyone else, it would have aroused derision. On the woman, it was entirely in keeping and she seemed of another time and she appeared lost in that place.

The day centre with its treatment rooms, meeting spaces, and the small cafeteria and restaurant where they sat, had been fashioned within a redundant, but ornate and splendid church, the churchyard's paths lined with studiously clipped yew trees and shrubs. It was peaceful and it would take some effort to reach on foot. He had seen a few cars parked in the narrow lanes close by, in the heart of the small town.

She was seen sitting at a table with two women and eating her lunch, falteringly but with determination. She brushed away any offers of help as if she were, again, a child. He saw her as proud and beautiful; not of an age to have been struck down by a condition that he knew would see men, and women, drift in and out of a known world, and the comfort that it offered.

Paul met her glances upon him. He would smile in response, but there would not be the slightest twitch of her lips or a smile in acknowledgment of him having seen her.

Margot, for Alastair, had told him her name was lost in what seemed to be her bounded world. He was taken back to his younger years and could remember some of those formative times only too well. Being an art dealer, with an encyclopaedic knowledge, had brought him into a very different world from what had been known of at home; the influence of an extended family and the maelstrom of relationships that were formed and could so easily fracture, along with the ensuing acrimony.

'It really wouldn't do for me to reminisce, Alastair. What I got up to in those days.'

'Because of what I've told you about Margot?'

'Yes,' he sighed, 'it goes something like that. The lady brings back too many memories for me and I've got to take them all in, again.'

♥

'Paul Tamblin -- Art Dealer & Fine Art Appraiser'

That was what his card had said about him in the early years of his career.

Working in London dealerships, and galleries, straight after university, had brought him into the company of many rich, well-connected, women; his tall lanky frame, studious looks, and black hair swept back from his, then, lean face, easy wit, and ready charm a cover for his eye for a deal or the value of a cherished painting, a family treasure, that would not be parted with, even in a divorce settlement.

Favours were often exchanged, and his earliest sexual experiences were pursued with mature women he was only too eager to take him to bed and thus to be flattered. It was such a demeaning description, but only too appropriate to describe the accomplished pleasures to be found in their beds. His wife was some years younger than he was, but her claims did not deny to him the pleasure of the continued company of older women that he so often met. They always had their uncomplicated ways of it and saw life so very differently, and that changing social attitudes permitted in these times.

Now, as he met the glances of Margot, he felt discomfited to be reminded of events in his thirties, when he had established his reputation and made something of a fortune and at a time that saw him happily married but not cured of a habit pursued in his younger days.

One former lover had found her way into his thoughts and confirmed what he had heard someone say on the radio: 'a determined force is soon found to be unstoppable'.

Isla had been that woman. After the premature death of her husband, she lived alone for some years until the family persuaded her to move into a smaller place close to them. It was not done so that she would be an interfering soul, but so that they could be on hand whenever the need arose.

She was a flaxen-haired woman who seemed to have a permanent tan, an engaging smile, a wondering look in her muted green eyes, and a delightfully firm and shapely body, that he would often take to wondering about when Isla was seen in her garden. She was a woman whose age it was difficult to place, even by him who had not been a casual observer of Isla when he was at home and he caught sight of her. Then, he thought that she was in her fifties, but hearing from his wife that she was well into her sixties. The giveaway was that her 'flaxen' hair was, in fact, a luxuriant grey.

He walked a great deal in local parks, deciding long ago that he wasn't into that self-obsessed pursuit of jogging as Isla was. She would do so at a sedate pace, but keeping her heart beat up and his interest keen. She jogged regularly and he would enjoy catching sight of her body, clad in shorts and a jogging top, her legs firm for a woman of her age; her breasts not quite still.

On first meeting her, some months after she had moved in, and a period of mourning at an end, he and his wife had engaged Isla in conversation and he had done a few simple chores for her as an act of good neighbourliness and she had learned, in passing, what he did in his work. Sets of prints from the late eighteenth century were shown and his opinion was sought.

Isla had stood close by his side and she had even touched his arm as if to steady the picture that he held. It was then that he had become acutely aware of her simmering sexuality, an engagement with him that she seemed to be struggling to control. Isla was unaware of his interest, nor the effect that she had upon him. The pleasant, good-natured, and engaging woman, with her wonderful smile, had taken him back to his pubescent days and the discovery of that feeling for the woman shaming him.

In the year that followed, he had become aware that she was subtly flirting with him whenever they met and had an opportunity to talk. He took perverse pleasure from such moments and enjoyed them. They were prolonged, but not with any intention of pursuing or quelling his feelings for her. Susie, his wife at the time, met his needs regularly and passionately.

He indulged Isla and brought her past editions of art magazines, or antique journals. He engaged in the to-and-fro of repartee that skirted lewdness. They simply conversed over the garden fence or in the front garden whenever they met, or caught sight of each other attending to only too mundane chores. They would often discuss a piece of art that he brought home from the gallery where he worked, intending to clean the painting before its sale and having taken it from the car that he could usually park near his house and in front of Isla's.

'If I'd known you had that specialist skill, and worked from home on occasion, I would have asked you to clean a gilded frame I have to a landscape painting that once hung in the hall of the family home.'

He had seen tears well up in her eyes as Isla spoke of it. 'Ask for my help, any time you wish. You know that you can do that now.'

'I'm glad to have you as a neighbour, Paul, dear.'

They did so much already or spoke of a shared interest out of their family's hearing, but such moments began to get to him, to wind his clock. They arose in him from the nagging wish to know of her and to be pleasured by that studiously dressed body that still left a glimpse of what she would bring and for him to delight in. His lust for her gnawed and became too much to leave unrequited. He even had a nickname for her: 'Perky'. All that remained was for the moment to arrive and for Isla to give some sign that she agreed.

A month, or so, had passed since he had decided on it. His car had been playing up and he had been fortunate enough to get to the dealership before it packed in, all but died as he reached the forecourt. He called in at a favoured bistro where he bought some pastries and flagged down a passing cab, soon arriving home to find a note from Susie declaring that she would be late home for supper. He had a catalogue to write up and finish, so he could work from home and the gallery could call him there. Laura, his fiendishly clever assistant, was told all of this as the taxi brought him home and there he would wait until that garage rang to tell him the news.

Isla was tending to her flower pots on the steps leading up to her house. Seemingly unbothered by her appearance, she wore a pair of unflattering shorts and a sleeveless blouse that clung to her warm skin. His unrequited interest in her was again aroused. He decided on some remark, just to engage her attention as he made to look for his front door keys, but he stopped in his search as Isla engaged him in conversation. He watched, totally engaged by the sight of her, as Isla pulled the fabric of her blouse away from her skin, then pushed back her hair with a graceful sweep of one hand.

'I've come to like that look of yours on me,' she confessed and provoked into doing so by his unwavering gaze.

'I can't keep that from you, Perky,' he grinned, meeting her surprised look on hearing his nickname for her.

'That you should call me that!' she said with a disbelieving laugh at the overtly sexual nature of the word that he had used to describe her appearance.

He pouted a smile. 'You look hot, or is it the sun?'

'And your imagination...perhaps both.'

'There's that too. I've been caught out I guess, and at last.' He confessed to it in a teasing manner and that Isla had grown used to it, but the words had not been spoken out before. It was clear that she enjoyed his flirtatious ways with her now.

'Are they cakes for your lady...for when she gets home?'

'And for you. I thought to come round, to take the chance and ask it. Or would that be unwelcome or unwanted attention?'

She laughed heartily and moved to stand by the wall between them and touched his hand as he held it out to her.

'Paul, you are a tease and such a flirt. At my age attention is so scarce that not much of it is unwanted or unwelcome. My late husband spoiled me, but that's not for you to hear. Had I known you'd be returning home at this time I'd have been in the back garden on my sun lounger basking in the sun and hoping you'd catch a glimpse of me.'

'You'd be hotter still,' he laughed and on a shake of the head at grown-ups talking in this way.

'At last, we understand each other and have given voice to what has been there all along, Paul. I may be older than you, but I'm not blind. Far from it.' Isla tugged on the fabric of her blouse once more; her movements shaping her. 'Are these why you call me perky? My late husband said much the same thing...before acting on it.'

'Now you're embarrassing me...'

'Me, embarrass you?' she laughed, pushing away at her hair, every movement drawing Paul's yes to her. 'I don't think so, no. Not embarrass you, but engage you...perky, indeed!'

She laughed again, her eyes sparkling and her softly rouged, pouty lips smiling to reveal carefully, and expensively, tended white teeth.

'Perky, hm! Isla you've always been hot...a wonder to my ways of seeing you. I felt that way from the first days you revealed yourself to me. I felt the slow heat of the fire in you,' he chose to admit.

'There you go flattering me again...an old girl in your eyes no doubt.'

'No, not that, even if it was to be true. It's a tended beauty that you have...just as I seek to achieve in my work of art restoration. You want to care for what is before your eyes and touch.'

'Paul, I can't say that I don't enjoy hearing it from you, though I do wonder what to make of it all...you being spoken for, I mean,' she said, and blushing, shyly, Isla now looked away. She pretended that she was tidying up a shrub she had moved to on his arrival home, so unexpectedly.

Paul could not keep from letting his eyes roam over the woman's attractive body, clothed in those everyday clothes, saved for attending to household chores; dirty work she had even called it if he remembered right. Her short's hems finished a few inches above her knees; the topmost buttons of her blouse were unfastened, enough, to reveal a freckled cleavage and the swell of her breasts; their flesh loosely held in what he could only take to be a loosely fastened bra because of the heat of the day.

He followed Isla's progress as she took steps up to her front door, and noted her inviting thighs; the skin was smooth but showing the first signs of wrinkles that even her exercise routine could not keep at bay.

'What...what are we going to do about this?' Isla enquired on a tilt of her head as she met his look upon her once more.

'Damn!' he shouted out, startling her. 'My house keys aren't on me! I've left them in the car...at the garage. I'm locked out and the cakes will spoil.'

'And you've only got me to help you...' she smiled suggestively.

'There's that,' he laughed. 'I didn't plan it to be this way.'

'Of course you didn't...'

The way she said it made them both laugh. Paul hitched his bag strap on one shoulder and clasped the paper packaging holding the patisserie's box in his other hand.

'Well now...'

'Yes, Paul, well now...your options are that you call a taxi and go to collect your keys...or, you could break in somehow...or, you come round here and to me. You could work from my place...have a drink and some lunch...a lunch for two which will be a wonderful change for an older lady like me...and you can call the garage later and see if the car can be collected. Have I missed out on anything?'

Isla sat down on the steps and slid her hands slowly over her legs as she looked him in the eyes and waited for him to reach a decision. To help him, to provoke him, she fussed again with her blouse, a soft teasing smile on her lips.

'You know what my answer will be, Isla, don't you?'

'Perky...was the word you used. Is there another coming to mind?'

'No, Isla...I prefer that.' Paul walked down his garden path and then up to her; taking in the pleasing sight of Isla moving to stand before him. 'You also know why I'd choose the only option...the only other one.'

The time was right and, he thought, as Isla opened the door and stepped into the cool of her tiled hallway, a few coaxing words of persuasion might bring Isla to meeting him in his sought-after claims upon her. Everything had casually and unexpectedly fallen into place.

'Put your things on the chair, Paul. The cloakroom's through there if you want to freshen up. I'll go and change out of these work togs. I can't receive you in my home looking like this.'

He had seen Isla glance down at her clothes; to take in her appearance in the hall mirror. She turned around and now hurried off in the direction of the stairs.

'I won't be long,' she said nervily and in response to but a moment's touch of Paul's hand to her arm.

'Don't be. For a long time, I'll admit now, I've wanted to spend time with you...like this, and not just talk over the fence. I want a different way of bonding with you.'

'Soon...you may do that soon,' she whispered and left him.

Paul felt a palpable ache for her, his imagination of being with her was no longer passing and left unrequited. He fished a small optic from his jacket pocket before he shrugged it off and put it on a chair. He used the small magnifier to study the quality of a painting's surface, and noted the artist's name through the dirty patina that aged the picture; and dulled its colours.