Thanks Be

When I opened the door I got a stony look that said the rotund proprietor didn't want the custom of my sort, however the sight of a note or two settled the matter and I was soon seated. As he started to mix the lather for my shave, I gave him my usual spiel about being a wandering artist. This further reassured him and he became as talkative as his trade usually are.

'Stayed up the road at a farm last night. Farmer had three girls, but no wife around,' I said.

'That would be Caleb Parkin's place.'

'He seemed a bit religious.'

'Understatement, but it's mostly come on since he lost his second woman. He was always a steady churchman but he's really gone over the top since she died a couple-a-three years back.'

'Second, what happened to the first?'

'Gave him the older two . . . The twins . . . Turned out they weren't right in the head. Don't know what happened but she up and walked out on them all. Year or so later the other one arrived.

'What was she? Housekeeper? Single parent? Divorcee?'

'Never did rightly know. She appeared one day with that half-breed girl she called Thanksbe. Little thing she was then; still in a kiddie-cart. Some said the woman, Grace she were named, was a distant relative. Some that she were running away from an abusive husband, and a few that thought themselves better than her, that she was a whore he had rescued.'

'Seemed an odd set-up.'

'Aye, you can say that. The Social checked on them several times but couldn't find any reason to interfere. At least not till the woman died, but by then the girls were all too old.'

There wasn't much more to be learnt from him so, some half-an-hour later, I left looking rather more like a decent, if poverty stricken, member of society. I was glad he'd confirmed what the girl had told me. It wasn't that I distrusted her, but life has taught me not to be naive. People tend to see and reshape things the way they want them to be.

Next the grocers. They might not have the variety of a big supermarket but they provided the staples. A loaf, some cheese, tea (though if necessary we could always gather some herb or other and make an infusion) and a bottle of milk; some oatmeal for breakfast porridge and a collection of vegetables for stewing. Not your gourmet diet but tolerable for camping, particularly for someone like me who, although not a full vegetarian, rarely eats meat.

Returning up the road, I noticed a shop displaying some clothing among the tawdry souvenirs. A hasty rummage revealed a dusty pair of trainers that should fit Bea and a box of odd, scarlet, baseball-come-yachting caps carrying various labels. I took one labelled "Captain" for myself and another saying "Middy" for Bea.

THE SUN NOW BEING WELL UP it was becoming hot as I set out after Wilful and the girl. The visit to the barber's had kept me somewhat longer than I had anticipated so I hurried through the strolling tourists that were beginning to obstruct the pavement. In my rush I nearly tripped over the lead of a boisterous young dog dragging its elderly owner behind.

It was some half an hour before I caught sight of them far up the track, where it still climbed through the trees. Fortunately Wilful had taken advantage of the absence of the pack leader, me, to follow his own devices and meander along at a snail's pace or I might have despaired of ever catching them before the track divided.

'I tried to make him move faster but he just ignores me,' Bea complained.

'Yes, he will if he thinks he can get away with it,' I said, noting with pleasure that she had unbuttoned the shirt and knotted the tails under her breasts, leaving her slim waist bare. 'Give it time and he may improve.'

She watched me as I stowed my purchases. The caps I hid for later, but the trainers I gave her. It seemed I'd got the size right and she would be safe from the rocky ground we would meet as we got higher.

'I like you without the whiskers, and you've done something to your hair,' she said as we set off again. 'You look younger and proper handsome.'

Momentarily I was nonplussed. 'Thanks for the flattery but you're pretty enough to get by without it.'

She grinned, 'No, I meant it. I've always dreamt of being carried off by a good looking knight in shining armour.'

'And you're too trusting. How do you know I'm not taking you to my lair to have my evil way with you?'

'Oh, goody. Let's go.' She was bright and playful now she was away from that farm.

Was that what I was really doing? Some unconscious motive hidden in the depths of my psyche. No! I tried to pass it off with a light remark, 'Thanks, but I'll take a rain check.'

Before my injury I wouldn't have hesitated to make a play for that body, blessed as it was with the ripe contours of young maidenhood. Then I'd had a bit of a reputation as a Jack-the-Lad and took whatever pussy came my way without much discrimination. But now I managed to convince myself I wasn't interested in her sexually, I was just being a good Samaritan; that if I had been looking for a woman it would have been for one with experience, one who could also offer kindness, companionship and shared interests.

In no great hurry, we strolled up the path. As we climbed the trees gave way to low bushes and then to rolling, heather covered hills. The upper reaches of the stream where earlier we had met appeared and paralleled the path, which was becoming stony.

It didn't take long for us to fall into a routine. Bea and Wilful seemed to take to each other and mostly she led him sedately along the path allowing me to pause and sketch some detail that caught my eye and then hurry after them. Though occasionally a surfeit of energy had her skipping ahead, her tight boyish buttocks swaying and her boobs merrily bouncing.

While conversation was inevitably spasmodic, it became clear she was of an enquiring nature with a good mind just waiting to be cultivated. She seemed to be missing all the basic, formal, school type knowledge, yet to have a good grasp of social affairs and attitudes. Albeit she was somewhat behind the times with current events and many of her opinions were distorted from having no alternative to counter the farmer's bigoted opinions. Still exposure to other viewpoints would soon lead her to change and form her own ideas.

BY MID-DAY we were well into the heath, the wide vistas dotted with odd outcroppings of stone. Passing a tall menhir, I called a halt for a drink and a light meal. After eating, she disappeared into a fold in the ground to attend to a call of nature and I stretched out on a smooth rock intending to have a short nap in the hot, noonday sun.

At first it seemed distant, and then it became clearer; a quiet, melodious humming. Lazily I lifted an eyelid seek the cause, only to behold a scene from my phantasies. A beautiful, nude woman - nay a naiad - was dancing round the menhir. Arms sweeping the turf then lifted to worship the sun; hips rolling and swaying; breasts swinging and shaking. Was I dreaming?

Then I noticed her capering feet were shod in the trainers I had bought in the village. It was Bea! This time I did not look away but studied the curves of her fully exposed long legs, hourglass hips and proud breasts. After several enjoyable minutes I sat up, I reached for my sketch book and, as she faced me, arms lifted to the sky, barked, 'Hold it there!'

Surprised she stopped for a moment. 'Keep still, while I draw you,' I instructed.

It didn't take more than a moment; the lines seemed to appear on the paper without any effort on my part. It was arguably the finest thing I had ever done. The image seemed to live and breathe, to offer its naked femininity to any man blessed enough to grasp it.

Surprised at myself I almost ripped the paper in my eagerness to turn to another blank sheet and to try again; to prove it wasn't a fluke. Within ten minutes I had dashed off some half-a-dozen sketches. All with that same quality as the first. It seemed I was possessed, I wanted to go on drawing and drawing. I had found a muse beyond any I had thought possible.

At last, reason forced its way to my conscious. 'Right. Enough for now. Better put some clothes on,' I said.

'Why?'

'Well someone just might come along.' It sounded feeble even to me.

She grinned. 'You're just an old-fashioned fogy . . . Can I see?' She held her hand out toward my sketchpad.

'Not so much of the old, child.'

While I collected Wilful and prepared to carry on along the path she dressed and studied my drawings.

'They're brilliant,' she said. 'Is that really me?'

'Well, it's how you appear to me.'

She was thoughtful for several minutes as we started along the path, then said, 'How did you come to be an artist?'

'Interesting question . . . I didn't deliberately set out to be one. I used to draw a bit at school and was reckoned quite gifted, but I never took it seriously - sport was the big thing. Then, after I was injured, I did some sketching as a form of therapy - a way to fill the hours in hospital.'

'Were you there a long time?'

'What with convalescence, about a year . . . Anyway, at first I didn't consider it as a job. I used to be a sociable sort of guy and looked upon painters as loners. But since I was obviously in need of a career change, it was suggested I became an illustrator or technical draughtsman. Which I did. I managed to stick it for about six months.'

'So what happened.'

'Found it wasn't satisfying enough. Somehow I'd changed inside. I wanted to show people the reality I saw. That meant I had to try to become a true artist instead of a craftsman. Fortunately I've sufficient aptitude to convey something of my ideas.'

'So you've got lots of money.'

'I wish. No, I sell just enough to get by, provided I live simply.'

That seemed to satisfy her curiosity and we carried along in companionable silence for most of the afternoon.

THERE BEING NO LIKELIHOOD of a sheltering farm or croft meant we would have to sleep under the stars for at least the next two nights and, if we tarried, possibly a third. So I decided that, while the weather remained warm and dry, we should continue well into the evening, for who knew what the morrow would bring. Thus the sun was well below the horizon before I called a halt at a spot where there was a slight depression in the ground; a dip that would give a little protection from any breeze that might develop.

It was fully night by the time I'd spread the ground sheet and we had eaten. The sleeping bag I unrolled for Bea - the spare blanket would suffice for me; I was inured to sleeping rough. Fortuitously a full moon gave enough light for me to see my sketch pad, if I peered, so I suggested my muse pose for me again.

Unhesitatingly she peeled off her shirt, allowing those beautiful, perfectly curved handfuls, with their long, hard-pointed nipples, to bounce briefly in celebration of their freedom. A treat for my eyes.

She grinned, 'Do you want all of me?'

Did she really mean that? Surely not! Without thinking I said, 'Of course. You're too beautiful to leave anything hidden.'

She blushed at my compliment and I nearly lost the supposed dispassionate regard of the artist for his subject. Quickly I added, 'But it's up to you.'

Without further ado she pushed off her trainers and slid the mutilated jeans down her legs.

Posing came naturally to her as, following my gestures she knelt, sat, lay; leant back, forwards, and to the side. The moonlight created mysterious shadows and pools of darkness which while obscuring, encouraged one to imagine those delectable tits and pussy.

Formal figure drawing was something that I had rarely attempted and it should have strained my technique, but once more the images seemed to spontaneously emerge from the paper. After half-an-hour I sensed she was becoming tired so called a halt and suggested we sleep.

A last quick stretch of her ripe young maidenhood, which nearly undid my resolve to look upon her solely as a model, and she slithered into the sleeping bag remarking, 'You could get both of us in here.'

'I know. It's a double. I hate to feel constricted.'

'Why don't you join me.'

'Perhaps, but it would lead to other things. Which wouldn't be right.'

'Spoil sport.'

LATER, LYING BACK, my arms supporting my head, I gazed up at the stars and considered my reaction to Bea. What was it about her that affected me so much? For, deny it as I might, I finally had to admit to myself that she did affect me. Why else was I putting myself out to help her? I'm quite social, but I was helping her far more than I would anyone else. Why? Because she was so beautiful? In another girl I would have said she was deliberately leading me on, trying to arouse me, but she was such a mix, so unworldly in some things, yet down to earth in others, that she clearly had no idea what she was doing to me.

Perhaps I should take a chance; see if my ability to get an erection had returned. But, what if it had? Great for my future pleasure but with her could it be sex without obligation? Could I do that to her? Was she ready for that? My former comrades-in-arms wouldn't have hesitated; they'd have enjoyed that nubile body as of right. And yet, deep down, I knew that with her it had to be something more meaningful or it was wrong.

And there were my sketches. Mainly I was into landscapes; people did not interest me that much as an artist, yet not only the studies I had made, but just about every sketch I had done that day included her in it somewhere. Also my talent, such as it was, seemed to have improved out of all recognition when I was drawing her.

As I drifted toward sleep I saw a picture take shape before me in the gloom. I could almost touch it. I would paint it life size. The nude, ancient watcher seated in shadow; his beard white; the hands on his stick gnarled and liver marked. The girl outside the window, Bea, dancing naked in strong sunlight. A complete departure for me but a painting I was burning to attempt.

I AWOKE TO A WARM, somewhat humid day, the outline of the picture still before me, the details firm. More than a superficial picture of a voyeur, a statement about life; a contrast of hoary age with nubile youth and beauty. Then my vision expanded. What about a pair of pictures? The second a reversal - with the firm fleshed maiden contemplating a wrinkled old woman seated, dreaming in the sun. I could see the details and the style, which should be that of a Vermeer.

I reached for the sketches I had made of Bea. Several would serve my purpose, though it would be even better if I could get her to model for me in my studio. But what of the ancient mariner? Wesley perhaps - a loudly garrulous old fisherman with a flowing white beard who often regaled my local hostelry with his opinions. He would be ideal if I could persuade him.

Gripped by a creative fervour I threw back the blanket and set out to prepare for the coming day; a day when I intended to press on and get far as possible toward my cottage. The sooner I was back in my studio, the sooner I could start painting.

By the time I'd finished my ablutions, cooked a pan of porridge and made some tea, the slight mist had burnt off. As we sat finishing our frugal repast I dug out the hats that I had bought the previous morning.

'Happy birthday,' I said, giving Bea her's. 'It's not much, but all I could get at short notice.'

'Oh! . . Thanks . . . How did you know it was my birthday?'

'You told me, in the barn. You said you would come of age on Tuesday. Well it's Tuesday today.'

She sat still, not knowing what to say. Then, her eyes full of tears, she leaned forward and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek.

'I haven't had a present since Mother died.' She brushed water from her eyes before turning the hat round in her hands. 'What does "Middy" mean.'

I put my cap on. 'See where mine says, "Captain", that labels me as the boss of the boat. Your "Middy" is short for "Midshipman". I suppose in this day and age someone will say that should be "Midshipgirl" or "Midship-person". Anyway, that's what they call a cadet officer on a ship. So, I'm the boss and you're the trainee. When we find a boat.'

She smiled; happy, 'Aye, Aye, Captain.'

We set off again, our red hats vivid splashes of colour in the drab landscape.

AS THE MORNING PROGRESSED a thin veil of high level cirrus spread across the sky followed by some patchy cumulus. By midday a slow build-up had begun and the small clouds had become large ones complete with the typical anvil shaped tops of cumulo-nimbus thunder clouds. A cold front was bringing cooler air over hot ground. I was glad we were pushing on as fast as we could, not stopping to do any sketching. However, to be truthful, there wasn't much of artistic interest, just a rolling vista of heather cloaked moors.

Mid afternoon brought a strong scent of rain in the air and I could hear thunder in the distance, we would be lucky to avoid a drenching. I've been caught out in the past and find there is little that is as miserable as trudging along cold and wet to the skin. Nor, having given my emergency change of clothes to Bea, would there be any real prospect of getting dry again. So, although it was still reasonably warm, with little hope of proper shelter we would be at some risk of exposure. It was time to start looking for a likely spot to camp and protect ourselves as best we could.

Coming over a slight rise I saw, about a mile ahead, what appeared to be an old cottage built from the local granite boulders. That might be the answer.

When I tried to hurry him Wilful, of course, took it into his head to be just that and to slow even more. Still, about half-an-hour later, under a darkening, grey flannel sky, we came up to the building only to find it was little more than the tumble-down walls of what had originally been a small two-room croft.

It was apparent others had used it as a temporary camp site, for fallen stones had been cleared to the edges and the level floors were soft with invading grass. The roof, which had probably been of thatch, had long gone, but at least most of the walls remained to protect us from the rising wind and I should be able to lash-up a temporary covering from the plastic ground sheet I carried. Thankful at having arrived before the rain I unloaded Wilful and allocated him one of the rooms.

I was too optimistic. There was a brief flurry and the rain started as I stretched my sheet across one corner of the second room and began weighting it to the top of the walls with loose blocks. It was just a light shower at first, but the thunder was rapidly coming closer. It was going to be bad.

Quickly I had the sheet roughly positioned and we sheltered below as the first heavy drops started spattering the top, the water flowing out over the walls. Fine at first, but the downpour was increasing and the blustery wind was already lifting our covering, which clearly wasn't going to hold. We needed more stones to weight it down.

Reluctant as I was to venture out and have my clothes saturated it was obviously unavoidable. So, deciding skin could be dried more easily than cloth, I stripped. Carefully I lay my shirt and jeans in a dry spot before venturing forth in my Y-fronts to pile heavier blocks around the edges of the material.

By now the wind was chill and the rain almost tropical, huge drops hitting the ground in big splashes. I was soon dripping as I fought to stretch and weight the recalcitrant ground sheet in place. Pausing to brush my eyes, I became aware of a pale brown shape, clad in only a sheen of water, working round the other wall. Bea had seen the problem and had come to help. A beautiful, naked nymph, she was using her wiry strength to heave stones into place with more enthusiasm than skill.

'That'll do,' I shouted at last and bolted back under the reinforced cover.