Flesh and Spirit

I was so uncertain I had to ask, "Er...Mrs. Tregilgas?"

"That's right," replied an alto voice. "You'll be Gregory Price, Ned told me to expect you, come in."

I stepped into a dim passage and was asked, "You'd like to see the room?"

"Yes please," I replied. I could see I was right about it having been a miner's cottage. Originally it must have been just four rooms. I could see the doors along the passage but beyond them a step down into an extension of the passage. Mrs. Tregilgas opened the first door on the left saying, "This is it."

You might say it was a front room, but the wall between this room and the next one along had been removed to make quite spacious accommodation. There was a single bed, bedside table, wardrobe, chest of drawers and under the window a reasonable sized desk. The floor was covered with a fawn coloured carpet.

After a couple of minutes viewing the room Mrs. Tregilgas said "You'd better see the rest of the place," and led me out into the passage again. Pointing to the door opposite the one I had entered she said, "My bedroom." When we came to the door of the room that had been made part of the room I'd just looked at she remarked, "You can't use that door, it's been sealed up." The fourth room was announced as, "The spare bedroom."

As we passed into the part that had been added she warned, "Mind the step." There were two doors; "Bathroom and shower and toilet," she explained. We marched on into yet another later addition and came out into a large room that spanned the whole width of the cottage.

I wasn't sure what to make of it as it seemed to combine features of a lounge, dining room and office.

"The living room," Mrs. Tregilgas informed me, "and through there," pointing to an arch, "is the kitchen." I'm afraid the laundry is a shed in the back garden."

I surveyed the room. At one end were a dining table, chairs and a Welsh dresser; at the other end a desk with a computer on it and some neatly arranged papers; in between these two was what I would have called "The lounge." It had two comfortable looking armchairs, a divan of considerable dimensions and a table with a television set sitting on it.

"Sit down and let's have a talk," Mrs. Tregilgas suggested.

I sat in an armchair and she sat opposite me on the divan.

Mrs. Tregilgas came across to me as a bit formidable. I'm six feet three tall, and although she couldn't have been more than five feet seven or eight, I got the feeling that she was at least as tall as I was. It was her personality that gave this impression. She was one of those people who radiate energy; I could almost feel it like a mild electric current.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"Well...er...it's hard to..."

"Look Gregory – you don't mind if I call you Gregory?"

"Er...no...but make it Greg."

"Good, then you can call me Martha. Now look, nothing has to be set in concrete. We can give each other a try, and if it doesn't work out... well...." She shrugged and went on, "I provide breakfast and an evening meal; you eat in here with me. I do the cleaning and your laundry but you have to make your own bed. I'm a plain cook, so if you want any exotic stuff there's a Chinese and an Indian restaurant in town; you pay for that yourself of course. If you're not going to be in for a meal I like to know and I charge –"

She mentioned a figure that surprised me. It was less than the rent I'd paid on my flat. I must have registered my surprise because she went on, "I don't let out the room to make a profit. I take boarders because I like the company...having someone round the place. So what do you think?"

The place wasn't luxurious, but I couldn't afford luxury anyway; it had a comfortable and homely feel about it. I might get a flat or unit of my own later, and meantime despite Martha's formidable personality she seemed to combine with it a motherly, comfortable aspect; but the rent clinched it. My guess was that I wouldn't get such a good deal elsewhere.

"I'll take it," I said.

She smiled, displaying even white teeth. "Good, shall I make a cup of tea?"

"Yes please."

She stood and went towards the kitchen; "Come and talk to me if you like," she said.

I rose and followed her into the kitchen and I sat on a bar stool and surveyed her more carefully as she chatted about the "Young men" who had previously stayed with her; Fletcher and Foster of course.

She was wearing a cream coloured, casual, loose fitting dress that did not allow for any clear view of her figure except it was one of those dresses that seemed to hang from the points of her breasts and fall down in lengthwise folds to about knee length.

There was no other indication of the contours of her breasts, but they were clearly large and firm and it was obvious they were not constrained with a bra. This absence of a bra was indicated by the way her breasts moved as she went about preparing the tea. There came to mind the two hills I had seen as I approached the city, and despite learning later they were known as "The Peaks," to me they were always "Nipple Hills."

I felt a lurch somewhere in the pit of my stomach and a tingling sensation in my groin and knew that this presaged an erection. If this needs excusing then remember I was young, potent, and had been deprived of sexual gratification for some time – since Celia.... That was odd; the thought of Celia didn't seem to hurt quite so much.

Recalling that in Martha I was dealing with a religious lady who would probably decry "the lusts of the flesh," I tried focusing on other aspects of her appearance. The dark hair and eyes I had already noted, and these were set in a face that tended to be round rather than long, displaying a small slightly upturned nose and a generous mouth.

She was barefoot and her dress only allowed a view of her calves that were long and firm, and ended with a neat pair of ankles.

It occurred to me that I was not only studying a religious lady somewhat salaciously, but she was almost old enough to be my mother.

"Young Fletcher was very unhappy when he had to move on," she said.

I was jolted out of my lubricious reverie and gathering my wits I asked, "And what about Foster?"

She paused for a moment, the corners of her mouth turned down. "Yes, Foster," she said thoughtfully, "he wasn't really happy here. I expect you'll hear something about him at The Weekly."

"I already have," I grinned.

"Yes; I felt a bit sorry for him. He lived in a world of self delusion; you know, believed he was wonderful but didn't have what it takes to back it up. If he'd stayed with me much longer I think I might have suggested he leave. As I say, he wasn't happy living with me and, well..."

She broke off for a moment then went on, "I wonder how he'll get on at The City Daily, he wasn't doing too well on The Weekly."

We went back to the living room with our tea and sat.

"What brings you from the Daily to The Hill and The Weekly?" she asked.

So she already knew I was from The Daily and I'd hoped she wouldn't ask me that. I prevaricated; "Oh, The Daily editor thought that the change would do me good." Well that was partly true but it didn't deceive Martha.

She looked at me shrewdly with a half smile on her face and asked, "Trouble?"

"Sort of," I mumbled, not looking at her.

"Not to worry," she said, "Old Ned can be tough, but he believes in giving people a chance, especially young people. Young Fletcher was transferred from a daily after some trouble. A newspaper up north, The Morning News I think it was called. He's a television journalist now."

She became dreamy eyed for a moment and a little sad; then snapping out of it she said, "You'll want to unload your things and settle in."

"Yes, I've got most of them in the car but I left a few things in the motel; I didn't expect to find somewhere to live so quickly."

"You'll be in for the evening meal?"

"Yes please."

I unloaded my gear from the car, including my precious computer, and then headed back to the motel to collect the rest of my things. After that it was, as Martha had said, settling in time. By the time I'd tucked things away and set up the computer on the desk pangs of hunger began to be evident.

It can be difficult when you first move into a place that's not your own. You're not sure where you are meant to be. Do you stay in your room until you're called for the meal, or was it okay to move around other parts of the house?

I stepped out boldly and went in search of Martha. On arriving at the living room I could smell the aroma of cooking and hear sounds coming from the kitchen. I entered and saw Martha busy over the cooking stove. She glanced up, smiled and said, "Come in and talk to me."

"I wasn't sure if I should..." I began to say, but she seemed to understand the awkwardness of newly settling in.

"That's all right. I told you I like the company so feel free to use the rest of the place, but don't interrupt me when I'm working at my desk...by the way, where did you put your car?"

"I left it out the front."

"Ah, well, we have the luxury of a double garage, so why not park it in there? By the time you've done that I'll be ready to serve the meal."

I drove the car into the garage, constructed of course with the ubiquitous corrugated iron, and then noticed it was not only a garage, but served also as a workshop. There was a bench and tool racks and an electric drill, but from the dust on them it looked as if they hadn't been used for a long time.

Returning to the kitchen I commented about the workshop and for a moment Martha went very still, then said quietly, "Yes, Harry, my late husband, was a keen handyman."

She said no more and went about serving up the meal. Having taken in some of her physical attributes I now noticed how easily and gracefully she moved, almost like a dancer, and this was unexpected in one so voluptuous.

Buxom as she was she seemed to be bursting with energy and health and something more not easy to define, but perhaps a sort of animal sensuality best describes it. I was intensely aware of her femaleness.

I felt that little lurch in the pit of my stomach again and this time a definite erection. I gave myself a mental slap on the wrist and decided that the sooner I got to know some of the local girls the better.

"It's ready." I was yanked out of my ruminations. I realised I was staring at Martha and I think she knew it because she had a quizzical smile on her face.

"It's ready," she said again, offering me a plate of lamb chops and vegetables.

"Oh thanks," I said, and followed her to the dining room.

I was about to start eating when Martha said, "I always give thanks before I eat."

I felt my face redden. I'd been warned about her religiousness but this was the first clear sign of it. I bowed my head hastily and Martha said a brief prayer of thanksgiving.

As we ate she asked, "Do you belong to any Church?"

Why do people always ask the questions you don't want to answer? "Ah, no, not recently, I er...sort of gave it up."

An evangelical gleam came into her eyes. "Perhaps you could start again. A new job, new city and a new home" – she waved her fork to indicate the cottage – "meeting new people, it's a fresh beginning for you. Why not let it be a really new beginning and return to the Lord?"

I almost made the gaff of asking her who the Lord was since I thought aristocracy was passé in our society, but just in time I remembered my Sunday School days and some of the lessons.

Having received no answer she went on, "Why not come with me to The Hill Saints on Sunday, you'll meet lots of young people there?"

"Lots of young people," that sounded promising. There might be some nubile girls interested in a bit of conviviality. On second thoughts, and continuing to recall Sunday School, I seemed to remember that saints foreswore the temptations of the flesh.

"Well...I'll..." I began, but Martha interrupted:

"That's good; we leave at half past ten Sunday morning."

"Trapped," I thought, and I could almost feel her missionary triumph.

Of course I could have refused or backed out at the last minute, but the low rent and the excellence of the meal persuaded me that it would be profitable to keep on the good side of Martha; at least until I was ready to move out into a place of my own.

It occurred to me that everybody was telling me what to do. I wondered if I was selling my soul for a mess of pottage (to misquote the bible), that is, if a job, low rent and Martha's cooking can be defined as "pottage." Perhaps it didn't matter if they had my soul just so long as they left the rest of me alone.

Chapter 4. "Getting to Know You."

In talking over the meals situation for the next day I pointed out that Ned had given me the day off in order to settle in.

I saw Martha's eyes light up. "How would you like me to show you over the town and introduce you to some people you ought to know?"

Since contacts are frequently a journalist's life blood I agreed to this.

"If we start out about nine o'clock," Martha said, "I'll be able to give you an overall look at the place."

Since my one previous visit to The Hill had been a brief one I thought it would be useful to get a guided tour.

That more or less ended my talk with Martha for that day. She announced that she had work to do, but if I cared to watch television it would not disturb her. I thanked her and said I still had some tidying away to do.

What I wanted to do was see if my friend the computer had survived the journey without getting upset. When I booted it up it gave me its usual friendly welcome, and after playing with it for some time, and seeing it had come through its excursion without being disturbed, I put it to bed and did likewise for myself.

On the whole it had been a satisfactory day. The only immediate shortcoming was the absence of female comfort, but perhaps that would come to pass in the near future. It might turn out that some of The Hill Saints girls were not quite as virtuous as they were supposed to be. In the meantime I had to deal with my now pressing emotional needs myself.

As I drifted off to sleep I vaguely wondered how Martha would take my bringing a girl into my bed for the occasional night. I dreamt that night of a choir of naked girls singing religious songs.

When I woke in the morning to a strange room for a moment I didn't know where I was. Orienting myself I thought I heard the distant hiss of the shower and then Martha moving around.

I put on my dressing gown and headed to the shower just at Martha was coming out in a state of dishabille, wearing only a night dress that was somewhat more seductive than might be expected in a lady of pious inclinations.

She smiled and said, "Good morning, did you sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you, and you?"

"Quite well thanks; breakfast as soon as you're ready."

With that morning interchange over she disappeared into her bedroom, leaving me with the impression – already formed but now reinforced – of a curvaceous body, and thinking it was a pity she wasn't a few years younger, for if that had been the case my stay in number seven Trafalgar Avenue would have been very interesting.

Over breakfast Martha seemed unexpectedly excited and in a hurry to begin our tour of the city. I couldn't imagine that touring round a city that she must have lived in most of her life could have given rise to this excitement, so I assumed that showing it to me was the cause. This seemed to be confirmed once we started the tour.

I quickly noticed that Martha seemed to extremely well known around the place and was treated with a sort of friendly deference. We looked at a few of the art galleries and museums, the unexpectedly lavish Arts Centre, the trades hall – a very Victorian building that despite recent redecoration still seemed to be impregnated with the cigarette smoke of past union gatherings – and the Town Hall, also in the nineteenth century style.

We lunched at a small café and as the afternoon started to fade towards evening, and I began to wilt, trying to keep up with the seemingly indefatigable Martha, she said, "We can take a look at one of the mines some other time, and there's a special one some way out of town I want to show you."

She glanced at her watch and said, "It's getting late, suppose we eat at a restaurant?"

I readily agreed and she pulled the car up in front of the "Star of the East" Indian restaurant.

Without reading the menu properly I order a curry that turned out to be a raging, ferocious fire ball. Martha had ordered a bottle of red wine rather to my surprise since I supposed a lady of religious bent would forswear the demon drink.

As the tears streamed down my cheeks and my sinuses freed up, I tried to grapple with the demonic curry by drinking copiously of the wine, even ordering a second bottle to try and extinguish the inferno that was me. By the time we finished the meal I was still ablaze and slightly inebriated. The proprietor handed me a small certificate that announced that I had survived the curry ordeal. She went on to say that hardly anyone dared to order that particular curry.

Arriving home I flopped down into an armchair and proceeded to recover from the trial by fire.

After a while, and feeling a bit better, I found myself taking in the room in a bit more detail. When you first arrive in a place you get a general impression, it's only later you get to the particular.

Martha was sitting in the other armchair reading what looked like some official papers. I wandered over to the desk and noticed a framed photograph of a man. It was a black and white photograph, but from what I could tell he had dark hair, dark eyes, was broad of shoulders and stocky.

Martha must have noticed me looking at the photograph and said, "My husband."

I wanted to ask what had happened to him, but didn't want to appear prying; Martha, however, answered my question without my asking it.

"He was a miner and he got killed."

"How?"

"They brought in a piece of machinery that got the name of being 'The Widow Maker' because so many men got killed using it."

"That's terrible."

"Yes, they don't use it these days." She smiled and went on, "The old miners reckon the men who work in the mines now aren't really miners at all, they're mechanics and drivers. I'm glad those old days are gone. If you go up to the restaurant on the mullock heap they've got a memorial to all the men who died in the mines; there's hundreds of them. Perhaps we can have a meal in the restaurant and I can show you the memorial."

"Yes; they don't serve curry do they?"

It struck me at that moment that Martha seemed to be anticipating that I would be staying with her for some time. My idea had been that number seven was only a staging post on the way to getting a small place of my own.

Martha interrupted my train of thought.

"We were only married for a short time before Harry got killed."

"That's very sad, Martha."

"Yes; it wouldn't have been so bad if we'd had a child; at least I would have had..."

She stopped speaking and I thought she was going to cry. I felt a bit embarrassed, especially as Martha did not seem to be the sort of woman who cried easily.

She seemed to recover and continued, "But life goes on and I've busied my self getting involved in local affairs."

I took the risk of overstepping the mark and asked, "How long is it since Harry died?"

"Ten years."

"And you've never thought of..."

"Remarrying? That's what a lot of people ask me, and I ask myself, 'Who could there be after Harry?'"

She sighed and seemed about to cry again, but didn't. "I'm not sure that it's true that there's only one person for you in this life, but I have to admit that Harry was very special in my life. After he died and ever since, I haven't had the heart to get married again."