Travels of the Mind Pt. 04

4 Time

Across the road, down the cul de sac and through the little kissing-gate into the park, the young mother jogged along her regular route. She had taken up jogging to tighten her tummy muscles after Maisie was born, to get her shape back. A wry smile at the thought -- she so wanted to lose that flat shape now and feel and see her tummy just grow and grow. But the last month had come around and, again, no luck. Perhaps this month would be different.

She smiled at a robin redbreast watching her with its shiny and beady eye as she toiled up the hill past park benches, some with people seated, alone or together and some evident lovers. Up and up she went, seeing more and more of the city, feeling the exhilaration of the run and the climb, her legs pumping until, at the top, she paused and looked out over the city, her chest rising and falling.

She could not be out too long. Though she felt like running for miles and miles. Such a lovely day. If only time could pause and leave her free to run. Where would she run? London had park after park. Green space after green space. Better in the countryside. She had suggested to Benjamin they move out, but he was a city dweller through and through. There were pluses and minuses. They had made their choice.

What a view of London from the top of Primrose Hill. She stood gazing, looking across at the spires and domes, the tall new buildings. The day was clear, she could see a long way. Gone the smog and yellowness of a hundred years before. Below her a gravelled path led towards the great city -- or cities indeed! She was not going that way. She needed to turn.

The sky so blue yet, in the distance was that a hint of cloud?

"A fine day."

She had not heard him approach but there he was right behind her. That man - Harris. Dark blue blazer, fawn trousers, a neat tie and a carefully positioned hat at a rakish angle. Even a silver topped cane. He regarded her. A gaze that almost seemed to undress her, but he had seen her naked before -- many times -- and perhaps her running gear did not leave too much to the imagination. "A bit too energetic for me. A brisk stroll as a constitutional I find more to my liking."

She had not the time to... surely, he was not thinking of... there were people around. It was not as if they could hide away in long grass or go somewhere hidden. It was not that sort of place at all. The thought of it -- copulation with Harris -- not unpleasing, but nowhere to do that; not even somewhere she could drop to her knees and take his cock in her mouth until he released.

"I haven't the time. I've got to get back. The time is not my own."

Harris looked at the watch upon his wrist. An elegant timepiece, as she would have expected. Rose gold with a tooled leather strap. The dial showing Roman numerals -- that oddity of IIII not IV. "More than enough time," he remarked. "You have plenty enough, plenty of time."

"How do you find me the time? I need to be back. How do you find me, time after time? How did you know I was out running today? How..."

Harris, dropped his head fractionally to one side and smiled his thin smile, but did not answer. That was not in his nature, it seemed. They stood looking at the view. She standing a little to Harris' front. It came to her that the man was somewhat like P.L. Travers' Mary Poppins. After all, 'Mary Poppins never told anybody anything...'

"I wonder," he said behind her, "could you find me? Now there's a question for you. If you had the time?"

Would she want to? Strange meetings, strange happenings, would it lead to her being with child? She turned and he was not there. Not there at all. But it was not just that. Silence had descended. As she rotated on the ball of one foot, she could see no movement. In the air in front of her that robin redbreast which had followed her, was paused in its swooping flight not six feet from her. Her mouth fell open. What had happened? No sound and no movement. Time itself for her seemed to have stopped. Harris' words still in her ear 'More than enough time. You have plenty enough, plenty of time.'

She did not need to return home straightway. She could jog for longer, but how long? She had all the time in the world -- it seemed. What had Harris meant about her finding him?

A turn upon her heel and she was not there at all. Not on Primrose Hill, not outside but inside. A wood panelled corridor, a marbled floor in black and white squares leading on to what? Her footsteps loud on the floor, the sound of a ticking clock coming to her as she walked forwards to where the corridor widened. Pictures hanging in a hallway all around her. Paintings of men and women all finely dressed from ages past, looking down on her in her running clothes, as the clock she could hear ticked faster and faster. Was time now running at speed, like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face, whirling faster and faster? She turned a corner and there it was, a tall, so tall 'grandfather' clock, all wooden and heavily carved. The sun shining out of the window of the moon dial. The phase of the moon correct but the hour and minute hands and the ticking just going far too fast and then slowing back, the tick too slow, two seconds a tick, three seconds a tick.

Where was she? Where was he? What was happening?

Another turn of the corridor and there he was, Harris immobile in a leather armchair. Dressed just as he had been moments before, but seated upon a dark wood chair, its arms high and leather padded, his own arms resting upon them, his hands grasping their wooden ends carved as lion's paws pointing inwards. His white cuffs showing with gold chain links. Harris immaculate as always.

Everything still but the ticking of the clock. Everything had stopped but the ticking. A hold on reality, the steady ticking, the steady beat as if of a heart. And then that too stopped. The silence was just as they say -- 'deafening' -- the complete absence of sound hit her. It was like a weight, a pressure in her ears. It was as if her heart had stopped.

She took a step towards Harris -- and she was back on Primrose Hill, with the robin still in its act of swooping downwards. Had it espied a juicy worm? The worm would still be waiting, unsuspecting of its fate.

Below her came a figure dancing up the slope. Movement in a time stopped world. A fantastical figure. Had he escaped from a theatre, a dream, or maybe a nightmare? Not quite upright, his limbs seemingly only loosely connected to his body. The dance barely rhythmic but certainly acrobatic. And as for his clothes... The man was wearing tights and pointed shoes; he seemed to have a sort of skirt or was it just a long tunic in motley. Brightly coloured with red predominating, the skirt or tunic's bottom cut in a zig-zagging pattern. Upon his head a ridiculous hat with golden bells. As he came closer, she could see he had a little pointed beard and a moustache curled up at the ends. No movement, no sound, but him. His almost dance and the tinkling of his little golden bells.

What was this? A jester, a clown, a fool? But would a court jester have had a codpiece like that? Ridiculous and oversize. The man danced around her giggling, the cod piece waving. Was she going mad? It had been such a normal morning. At least to start with.

And then it came. Out from his mouth in a little quavering voice. Not a song. Surely not in the deafening stillness. The words seeming as ridiculous as the man:

"The column of stone all soaring above.

The lightness of love,

A boy who grew not.

The hero we lionise, way up.

Six upright cocks but only one ball. Stumped?

Seven ways of meeting, six faces to see.

But Harris, now where is he?"

Repeated again, with a giggle as he danced around, the ribbons tied to his tunic's arms wavering and moving just as the branches and leaves of the trees were not. A jester, an entertainer of old with acrobatics, juggling, magic tricks, jokes, japes and puns, stereotypes, imitation, and magic tricks. All comic and ridiculous as he.

A very rude action right in front of her with his hand upon his codpiece, and then he was off back down the hill, dancing and singing. But what had he in his hand? Her running clothes, her underwear all being twirled in the air as he pranced away.

What was she to do? Chase and regain her clothes but already he was fading into the distance. The robin had not moved, was still swooping not six feet away. What was she meant to do? Find -- Harris -- was that his name? First or last but, importantly, where?

What had the jester's foolish song meant? 'The column of stone all soaring above -- what was that. What column, what pillar? Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square perhaps, but no, surely that was the 'hero we lionise, way up'. Yes, certainly the hero and surrounded by Landseer's bronze lions. What other stone column? Yes, yes, the Monument to the Great Fire of London 1666 in Pudding Lane. That must be it, designed by Sir Christopher Wren. The 'boy who grew not' must be Peter Pan, his statue in Kensington Gardens. 'Six upright cocks but only one ball' was easy coupled with 'stumped?' So obviously Lord's Cricket Ground -- the home of cricket. But what of the 'lightness of love' and 'seven ways of meeting, six faces to see'?

And what was she meant to do? Walk across town naked but the world so still? Or, of course, run as she had been doing. Run across London, go to each site -- was she meant to touch, like she had touched that bronze statue? And how would that help finding Harris and... She looked out over the scene. The robin hanging in the air, even aeroplanes up in the sky not moving, and the silence, the utter silence starting to press in upon her ears. So quiet, a roaring silence indeed.

What was she to do? A rising panic. It was all running away from her, more and more out of control; like a snowball down a mountain starting no bigger than a tennis ball but gaining bulk, gaining snow as it rolled, bigger and bigger until down in the valley the good folk of the village could but watch helpless as a giant ball of snow thundered towards them, closer and closer tearing a path behind it, destroying all in its path. Terrifying, unstoppable.

Pull yourself together, woman!

Yes, yes -- she had it -- 'Seven Dials' in Soho: seven roads meeting and at the centre a column with dials -- sun dials - but only with six faces. She had read about it, the column provided the gnomon for the seventh sundial, the place - the meeting of the roads itself - providing the dial for it.

Columns liberally sprinkled in the jester, the fool's doggerel. Upright shafts of stone, phallic of course like his codpiece -- all so very male. Indeed, so very like her repeated dealings with Harris -- but where was he? One more riddle she did not understand: the 'lightness of love.'

Ah, yes, she had it! The stone phalluses, those columns, and the codpiece had led her to it. Piccadilly Circus and the statue of Eros! Cast in Aluminium, hence the lightness. Lithe and almost naked except for strategic drapery; winged and just balancing there with bow and arrow. Ancient Greek god of carnal and romantic love, bawdy and beautiful, there in the West End at that place of traffic and bright lights. Strangely butterfly winged, not feathered.

Not actually Eros at all but Anteros. Eros the Greek god of passionate love -- lust - and sex, Anteros different, being the god of requited love - love reciprocated. Less 'nudge, nudge, wink, wink,' more the romantic novel. Perhaps more Miss Eliza Bennet than Lady Chatterley!

There was nothing for it but to run, make the journey. She had come out for a run but not this. Down the grassed slopes of the hill, down towards Regent's Park. Out of the park and into Allitson Road, past Victorian and Edwardian red and stock brick mansions rising four or more stories, along Wellington Place heading for Lord's, her first of her half dozen way markers. She hoped there would not be a match on, she did not follow cricket, did not know. She hoped the ground would be empty but for perhaps a groundsman or two.

On the contrary it was packed on the third day of a 'test'. A match between England and the West Indies, in fact. No sound as she approached, no sound of leather on willow, no polite clapping or cries of 'well played, sir', but, of course, there was no sound other than that of her running shoes on the pavement. Unnerving in the extreme, as was Lord's. The ground was nearly full, perhaps 25,000 spectators to see, if they had seen anything, her 'streak' across the turf to the pitch. England's innings and the 'over' in full play, the bowler just having bowled towards the wicket. The red leather ball in the air half way down the 22 yard pitch, hanging there like the robin redbreast was, presumably, still doing atop Primrose Hill.

Was she meant to touch the wicket, touch the stumps and bails? Certainly, she should not be so naughty as to remove the bails! Her feeling of complete nudity intense, stepping past the batsman like that, his bat at the ready, and all around the thousands of spectators. She would have been on television, the 'News' even, if suddenly time restarted. What would Jonathan have thought -- and said? What would her explanation have been? Not one mentioning the jester or Harris certainly.

On from Lord's heading south. What was the best route to Kensington Gardens? A long way. Down past Paddington Station. No mention of the statue of a certain bear. No need to touch his hat. Down past Lancaster Gate Tube station and into Kensington Gardens, down the west bank of the Serpentine. And there it was, Peter Pan, the boy atop the rock, standing with one foot forward, arms wide, holding his pipes upon which he is blowing. Lovely, but she barely stopped, just enough to touch the ears of a standing rabbit, one of several carved into the plinth, its ears shiny from the touch of countless little fingers. So different from the last shiny part of a statue she had caressed.

On and on, down the edge of the Serpentine, out at No. 1 London and up Piccadilly past the Ritz, past Burlington Arcade and the Royal Academy to Piccadilly Circus and Eros -- or Anteros. Should she climb up to touch the statue? She shrugged, there was nobody to see her, despite all the cars and people, nobody likely to stare at a naked woman climbing up to touch.

On down Haymarket and thence to Trafalgar Square. Vice-admiral Lord Nelson on his column in its centre. She splashed through a fountain, ignoring all the visitors, no problem getting wet in the sunshine and with her nakedness. Rather pleasant in fact. A touch to a lion, even choosing to mount and sit upon its back. The bronze warm on her spread sex leaving a wet mark. She was surprised, had the run really aroused her or was it the nearness now, or at least she hoped, of Harris? Sexual activity would be involved. She was sure of it. The jester's codpiece more than a suggestion, much more an indication of what was to come. A touch to the stone plinth and she was off up the Strand to run along the Embankment alongside the great river up past Blackfriars and Southwark bridges to London Bridge and the Monument.

And there, on Fish Street Hill, the Monument soaring up to its flaming gilt-bronze urn. Did she just need to touch, or climb the staircase of 311 steps leading to the viewing platform? She had run so far, climbing seemed not to add that much to the effort, and so up she went! A bit of a squeeze on the way up past people. A couple of elderly gentlemen might have had their day made to know a rather attractive woman, stark naked and with pretty boobs, round bottom and fluffy pubic hair had not just been close but pressed against them. It would have been as naughty to have squeezed their genitalia as she went past -- as naughty as removing the bails at Lord's. So she did not. How good she was being! What a sight the gentlemen missed, as well, as she climbed the stone spiral staircase above them, both on the going up and the coming down. A so pleasing look between female legs. A popular thought amongst mature gentleman -- and younger ones as well!

Alone at the top of the Monument. A spectacular view of the Thames and the City. Tower Bridge quite close further down the Thames. It came to her how good it would have been to have found Harris there and to have copulated right there with that view. A touch of her own fingers between her legs. So wet and just so ready to be 'taken'. She stood for a few moments looking at the view, idly stroking her extended clit with a finger. Pleasant -- very pleasant -- she knew she could make herself come, but she had to get on. So strange the silence and the pigeons hanging motionless in the air. Down and down past the two elderly gentlemen and a very nice young man. She did touch him. Something she had never done -- 'copped a feel.' There seemed quite a lot of it. Tempting to unzip and have a real grope -- but what was she thinking of!

Back westwards, she could have easily taken in Seven Dials by nipping up Shaftesbury Avenue from Piccadilly Circus -- Theatreland -- but she had a feeling... the feeling she should reach the last of the six places -- last. Cannon Street, Fleet Street, Aldwych, Drury Lane, Long Acre, and there it was, as she ran down Earlham Street, the sound of her now tired feet the only sound. She touched the stone plinth and turned at the sudden glimpse of movement.

No, it was not a resumption of time. She was not suddenly exposed to the shoppers or the drinkers at the 'Crown', or the young American tourists, she was sure they were American, sitting around the plinth. Indeed, one young man with his face inches from her curls -- her pubic curls -- as she squeezed between him and a young woman to touch the sundial's plinth. It was a flash of red -- red and motley dress. And to her ears the sound of tinkling bells, almost harsh and seemingly remarkably loud in the silence.

It was the jester, again, dancing away from her waving his mediaeval fool's stick or sceptre, its carved wooden head, mimicking his own face with little dark pointed beard and moustache, looking back at her over his shoulder. She followed, what else could she do? And then he disappeared into a doorway.

Inside, the same panelled corridor she had been in before. The same black and white chequerboard marble floor, the same hallway and then the same grandfather clock, tall and beautiful in its highly polished deep red mahogany -- but silent, not a tick from it, let alone a chime. Another turn of the corridor and there he was, Harris, still immobile in that dark wooden leather chair, almost a throne, its arms high and leather padded. His arms resting and grasped around its lion paw, inward turning, carefully carved wooden ends. His white cuffs peeking from the dark blue blazer, complete with gold chain links, his fawn trousers sharply creased, mustard yellow socks showing above tan brogues.

She so wanted to be fucked. She wanted to be pregnant - she wanted to fuck. But Harris just sat there motionless. She scrabbled at his trousers, her fingers at his fly; in her mind the thought of sex, the need for a penis -- in her mouth, in her vagina, in her bottom, in her hand, in an armpit; just anywhere. Joy of joys, his penis within was hard, not the softness she expected, but turgid, tumescent, stiff, cocksure, firm and potent -- gloriously firm, its lovely, streamlined shape there before her. Out of his fly and into her hand. Vagina shaped in reverse. Long, veins sinuous up the shaft -- snake like, as was the penis. Did she not want it deep within her?

But then it came to her, the arms of the chair were in the way. In the way of her making that male to female or female to male connection she so wanted. She could not get her hips down between them. She could not insinuate herself onto his lap, either facing or away. Could not get her so needy hole to the penis. She could hold, she could stroke, even do that vigorously, and she could suck - but she could not fuck.