‘Charming couple,’ said Jim.
‘You really think so?’
‘I was being sarcastic. Actually, I think they’re a pair of drunken old sots and I didn’t care for the way he kept eying you up through those dreadful pebble glasses of his, dirty old pervert.’
It was the most expressive statement Jim had made since our mind games in the tunnel and his most caring of me. I was touched by his unexpected warmth. My stomach danced twirls inside which didn’t mean I agreed with him, least not openly. I can be absolutely hypocritical at times.
‘Just because Ben admired an attractive young woman like me doesn’t make him a pervert,’ I said lying, ‘I think you’re an ageist. Is it that you have a grudge against auld people? I can’t imagine you speaking about me like that. If you ask me, the auld should be free to live their lives to the full, stay youthful, and enjoy their final years however they like, not rot away out of public view.’
‘It isn’t that Isla. I care about you. I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.’
His words touched my heart. Nae-one had ever spoken to me as lovingly as that, nae-one had ever really cared. His love tumefied in my throat. My eyes watered at the corners. Bonnie loved me, aye, at least, she said she did, but hers was a simplistic, needy, reliant, kind of love. Jim’s was more paternal: he cared for me as if he were my dadaidh, the father I never knew. I couldn’t contain my emotions any longer. Big tears trickled down my cheeks, my nostrils ran all wet. Jim pulled a man-sized handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to me. I blew my nose, I thanked him.
‘I made you cry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
I wiped my nose and dabbed my eyes and cheeks which were puffy and soft from crying: ‘You did nae upset me,’ I said, stammering, ‘Those are the loveliest words anyone ever said to me.’
The train left for Arrochar & Tarbet. Jim turned off his tablet, listening intently as I opened up:
‘My father went off with a fishwife from Fionnphort when I was a bairn leaving my mother to bring me up on her own. She abused me, made me sleep in the coal shed. I often went hungry. I was sent to bed without any supper. Not her, she never starved. She had a waitress job at the local hotel. They gave her free meals. But the money was poor. She could only afford second hand clothes for me to wear at school.’
Jim was having difficulty keeping up with me, ‘A fishwife? From Fionnphort? Where’s that?’
‘It’s a fishing village on the south western coast of Mull? You can catch a ferry to Iona. The sea often gets choppy and rough. It made me all seasick when I made the crossing with Bonnie.’
He reached across the table, and took my hand in his, ‘Your mother abused you as a child?’
I stared at my bent knuckles and stubby fingers enfolded in his hand. My voice was an innocent yet guilty woman’s moan, ‘Aye, she did.’
‘I’m sorry.’
I started to cry again, ‘When I asked mamaidh.’
Jim gripped his forehead as if it ached hard, and frowned, ‘Mamaidh?’
‘Sorry, Jim,’ I must stop falling into Gaelic. It means mother.’
He nodded at me, ‘Go on.’
‘When I asked mother why I had to sleep in the shed, she told me to be thankful, said I should count myself very lucky, said there were kids in this world with nae parents, nae roof over their heads at all, said it would…’
He chewed his nails. My neck hurt. I brushed it lightly with the back of my hand, ‘She said it would make me strong. I’m used to getting hurt by her, men, girls. I suppose I’ve been getting hurt ever since she died.’
Jim took hold of the damp hankie and dabbed my eyes dry, ‘I know, Isla. I watch your fights.’
I felt as if my jaw had just fallen off, at least, as far as my breasts, ‘You watch me fight?’
‘On the dark web,’ he added: ‘I really do care about you, Isla. I don’t want to see you get hurt.’
‘And I care about you Jim,’ I said, without thinking deeply about what care meant, ‘very much.’
He posed the question I had been anticipating all along, ‘As much as you care about Bonnie?’
‘She’s nae nepo-baby, but she’s my girl,’ I admitted freely, ‘Don’t worry, I’m bisexual. I love girls and men equally.’
He squeezed my hand. Our tactile game would have to end by the time we reached Crianlarich. I climbed up on the seat and scanned the entire carriage like an excited child. It was half-empty. Across the aisle a group of young climbers were discussing the shooting of the final scene of Skyfall at Glen Etive. I could tell they were climbers: the girls were wearing steel blue axion pro weatherproof jackets and the men wore navy blue nebulas. An auld couple argued over the price of gas, electricity, eco-fuel and food. And a mamaidh there-there’d her crying infant child.
There was nae sign of the ticket inspector or of the trolley maid. She must have been busy selling tasty wares in the front part of the train, destined for Mallaig and Fort William. I smiled.
Jim stared at me wishing, maybe, I could be his girl. I enticed him, perched on the edge of my seat. The neon red illuminated sign above the toilet read VACANT. I imagined we were engaged, coupled, human carriages on a never-ending joyride of sex.
He sucked his middle finger and showed it me. Encouraged by his riggish body language, his let’s play signal, I made the first move.
‘I noticed you looking at me,’ I said using a chat-up line I’d heard in a sci-fi movie years ago.
‘Are you surprised, after how you misbehaved earlier?’
‘How I misbehaved? Is that how you see it, Jim? As me, misbehaving? Oh, sorry I misbehaved.’
‘Don’t be, I enjoyed you.’
Two could play at his game, ‘Which part of me did you enjoy the most?’
He didn’t answer me. We gazed into the window which had darkened, a black mirror reflecting our lusts. The vast expanse of the firth receded into the distance and dusk descended upon us, lovers poised at twilight.
‘Soon be dark.’ I had a habit of stating the obvious when I felt all excited. ‘I enjoyed you, too.’
I admit, I was struggling to keep my tremulous voice on an even keel by then. He startled me, telling me I was an extremely sexually attractive woman. Blushing hard, I placed my hands on the table like cat’s paws clawing at the smooth metal rim. I leaned forwards to be closer to him.
‘I’m glad, ever so glad,’ I said, coyly, ‘Can I ask you if you’re always this direct with women?’
‘Why, does it bother you?’
My mouth desiccated with excitement. I found it hard to spill out the words. I felt overwhelmed. I heard myself mumble something vaguely committal like: it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.
‘Take off your cardigan, ‘he said, sternly, ordering me about, ‘so I can take a good look at you.’
I giggled like the naughty child who heard her first rude joke in the schoolyard, ‘My cardigan?’
He told me: just take it off. I slipped out of my olive cardy and revealed my pale grey gym vest, scooped round my armpits, low-cut, v-shaped, loose at the front giving him a tantalising exposé of my breasts. I needed him so badly I didn’t care if anyone saw me, teasing him unashamedly, blatantly attracting him. I wanted to play with him.
I climbed on the seat and checked. The climbers were asleep, the carriage silent, there was nae-one watching. My voice hoarse, my throat taut with anticipation, I spoke, in my sexiest whisper.
‘Play with me.’
Jim slid across the seats, rounded the table, and sat with me. I held his face in my hands gently rubbing his earlobes with the pads of my thumbs, caressing his swarthy neck, curling his greasy hair in tangled bird’s nest swirls with my eager fingers.
‘Want you, Jim,’ I said.
He breathed his reply in my face. Our noses rubbed. My lips explored his neck, chin and mouth. I parted his dry lips with my tongue and kissed him deeply, throatily, tasting his saliva, licking the roof of his mouth, his gums, loving the tingly sensation of his tongue, wriggling over mine.
Breathless, I unlatched my mouth from his, flopped in my seat, his rag doll, gasping for air. I asked if he’d like to see my breasts. He licked his moist lips watching me salaciously as I lifted up my vest.
‘Bloody hell, Isla,’ he cried, loudly enough for the whole carriage to hear, ‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Need to visit the toilet,’ I said, as quickly as I could, ‘Will you come with me, Jim?’
He fondled my breasts. His hands caressed my soft, inner thighs. A gorgeous liquified sensation flowed thru my body, scintillating my nerve endings.
‘Jim?’
I lowered my vest bit-by-bit as if it were a personal safety curtain creating an interval in his private cabaret. He let go of my legs, drew me into him and kissed me in a way that left me in nae doubt that he wanted me.
‘I need something first,’ I said, ‘Get my bag down for me, Jim.’
I used his name as often as I could. Saying his name relaxed and encouraged him, I found.
‘Sure,’ his voice was shrill, excitable, tinged with awe, ‘Isla’s a lovely name, lovely – like you.’
He made me feel valued. I told him Isla meant island, that I was born on the isle of Mull in the quaint fishing village of Torloisk, where the rugged, windswept coast was pounded by roaring waves. He told me he thought I made the place sound wildly romantic and passed me my bag.
‘Oh, it is, Jim,’ I agreed, ‘It’s beautiful. You should visit. You’d love it there. Here, take this.’
I pulled out my pink pastel hand towel and gave it him, leaving the bag lying open on the table.
He pressed the soft towel to his face and sighed, ‘Is this for me to dry my hands on after, Isla?’
‘Nae, it’s for you to sit on.’
He laughed. I slipped my hand under his loose tee-shirt, rubbed his hairy belly, slid my fingers over his lower abdomen, as far as his crotch, tenderly caressed his genitals, and made him pant.
‘Isla, Isla,’ he moaned.
I sucked in my liquid lips. I murmured my irresistible invitation to him: come with me. He was craving me, pining for me, needily, hungering for my sex, crying loving phrases like:
‘Want you so badly, Isla,’ and, ‘Teach me how to love you, Isla.’
Teach him how to love me? He was standing in the aisle, preparing to usher me out of my seat. I sat perfectly still absorbing the thrill of what we were about to do, my eyes fixed on the orange words which appeared out of one side of the train indicator then disappeared into the other:
This train will call at Arrochar & Tarbet, Ardlui and Crianlarich where the train will divide.
There wasn’t an awful lot of time left if I wanted to have sex with Jim. Arrochar was minutes away. Ardlui just a few minutes more. Crianlarich half an hour. I wondered if the cubicle would automatically unlock each time the train pulled into a station. Would a guard bang on our door?!
A man’s rough lips pressed against my ear, his soft hand nudged my neck and shoulder, ‘Isla?’
‘Sorry, I was miles off.’
My body was at his mercy, my mind focused on Crianlarich, and in my heart I loved Bonnie. I left my cardy on the seat to show others that it was still occupied and joined Jim. We linked hands like two newlyweds making our way down the aisle towards our altar of love, me leading him on in the hot way he loved. The train swerved round a sharp curve. Clumsily, we stumbled and staggered, grappled and grasped our journey thru the sliding glass doors till we reached the nearest accessible toilet.
The door was closed. There were pale-yellow buttons with dull metallic centres: one for CLOSE one for OPEN. We paused awhile and stood hand-in-hand at the entrance as I studied the yellow warning sign:
Do not flush toilet when train is standing at a station.
As if I would. A blue sign with mauve lettering and a diagram of a stack of toilet rolls stated:
We Like To Be Prepared!
‘I don’t have a condom on me,’ mentioned Jim, considerately I felt, as I like a man to be honest.
He made me want to consent, ‘Neither do I. Don’t worry I won’t get pregnant. I can’t conceive.’
‘Can’t?’
‘Nae, I can’t. It’s a long story. Can it wait till later, Jim?’
‘Isla are you sure you want to do this?’ he asked, looking at me seriously, rather straight-faced.
‘Absolutely sure,’ I squeezed his hand reassuringly, ‘Shall we go inside?’
I pressed a button and the door opened. We stepped inside the cramped cubicle. I pushed the CLOSE sign followed by the PADLOCK sign. There was a tiny clicking noise as the door locked. Inside it was perfect: there was just enough space for us to have sex. It was immaculately clean. The soap, paper towel and tissue dispensers above the loo were all full. Whoever designed the cubicle had even thought to install disability handles for me to cling to either side of the toilet. I ignored the baby changer unit built into the wall concentrating instead on a transparent flip-top bin to its left, and the ebony black wash hand basin. I would need to wash myself in that afterwards.
A bland announcement in the background told us the train was approaching Arrochar &Tarbet. Jim’s ears pricked up. I snatched the towel out of his hand and draped it over the toilet in much the same way mamaidh might have clothed a table for two laying up afternoon tea in the hotel.
I felt the train was rolling to a halt. I held my breath for a full minute as it waited at the station, pressing my cheek to Jim’s chest. His heart pounded in my face. He held my head, running his strong fingers deeply thru my silky hair, gently massaging my scalp. His free hand crept along my spine settling snugly on my waist. I eased him off me and told him to take off all his clothes.
He leaned forwards and slipped his t-shirt off over his head, crouched to remove his shoes and socks, placed them with the folded shirt in a neat pile next to the door, then dropped his trousers. I admired his well-muscled arms and legs, the lean torso, his rippling slabs of chest muscle, the flat stomach, his bulging black Classic for Men briefs: a style I could buy for a reasonable price at any Essex street market.
‘You’re a fine figure of a man, Jim,’ I remarked.
He smiled: a humble, ordinary, pleasant kind of smile, ‘Thanks, I try to keep myself in shape.’
I jerked my brows in an amusing way that made him laugh, ‘I can see that. Take off your pants!’
He peeled off his cheap briefs. Jim’s penis was erect. My cheeks burned. His eyes shone. Beads of perspiration oozed out my pores. He read the wanton snarls on my lips then told me he never watched porn. I was astounded. Jim was one of only six per cent of males who claimed never to have watched porn. I read in The Mail that the remaining ninety-four per cent were flaccid, impotent, and psychologically neutered thru masturbating while watching contrived online sex.
‘But you do watch me fight naked,’ I said.
‘I do.’
‘And it doesn’t make you want to have sex?’
‘Violence doesn’t have that effect on me, Isla.’
‘Really?’
The train lurched forward. He held me. I brayed, pleasurably. I felt his proud flesh press into my soft belly for the first time and pleaded for him to take off my vest. We squashed into the confined space between the pedestal and hand basin admiring each other’s smiling faces in the mirror on the wall. He let go of me. I shifted myself a little creating an infinitesimal gap, chasm, fissure, marginally separating our bodies so, he could undress me. His hand brushed my hips.
He lifted my vest, freeing my breasts, tugging it off over my head and outstretched arms then threw it away. I reached for his hands, held them to my breasts, and asked him to be my bairn.
He glared at me as if I were some kind of circus freak, ‘What did you just say?’
‘I said be my bairn,’ my voice was all hushed: a faint whimpering, a sexual whisper, ‘My baby.’
I leaned on the wall-mounted baby changing unit provocatively and cupped my breasts for him.
‘Your baby?’
‘It’s a fantasy of mine,’ I didn’t disclose that the fantasy had to do with the adolescent obsession I had with my mamaidh, just made it sound like any normal fetish, ‘Don’t you have fantasies?’
‘I do, Isla,’ he admitted, ‘I fantasize over you as I fall sleep. Does that make me sound pathetic?’
‘Not at all,’ I decided not to discuss the effects of my treatments, ‘Just means you’re human.’
I sat on the towel on the toilet seat and said, ‘Sit on the floor beside me, Jim.’
He did his best to squat on his side on the clean floor beside the toilet with his knees drawn up.
‘Rest your head in my lap.’
He obliged me. With his head resting in my lap, I drew his mouth to my right breast and suckled him as if he were my bairn talking to him all the while like the young mamaidh at Queen Street.
‘Your my little angel, aren’t you? I can nae get you off my breasts, you know,’ I admitted, shyly, ‘You like my milk too much. Just as well I’m expressing lots of milk for you to drink, isn’t it my wee bairn?’
I wasn’t actually expressing any milk just playing make-believe with a man before we had sex.
My face went totally red, ‘Love your mummy’s milk, don’t you bairn?’
After I’d finished, I made him sit on the towel. He sat, watching in silence, as I undid my fiddly clasp, unzipped my miniskirt, and let it fall to my feet. I was wearing my frilly beige pants, the ones with a white saltire cross on the waistband. His jaw slackened at the sight of me parading myself intimately for him: his flirtatious, sexy coquette.
‘Would you like me to take them off for you?’ I teased.
‘I’d love you to,’ he said.
I shed my pants. I’d ugly feet: my toes were bent and twisted from fighting. I had nae intention of letting him inspect my horrid feet.
‘Mind if I keep my gym shoes on? I suffer from terrible blood circulation and feel the cold.’
He shrugged his shoulders and showed me a foot, ‘Don’t mind at all, look at the state of mine.’
Jim had long, slim feet with neatly filed toenails. There were ugly thread veins protruding from his feet, and his ankles were swollen: early signs of varicose veins due to too much sitting at a desk. One of his big toenails had fungus. His toes were pale at the extremities. He wrapped his arms tightly round his chest and crossed his legs shut as if he were trying to keep himself warm.
‘What is it?’ I said, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve never had sex with a woman before.’
‘Would you like me to help you, Jim?’ I asked sounding all motherly, ‘Is that what you’d like?’
He beheld me respectfully in much the same way that a puppy beholds its owner, ‘Would you?’
‘Aye, now try to relax, mo ghradh.’
‘Mo who?
‘Mo ghradh. It means my love in Gaelic.’
I squatted in his lap with my breasts and belly firmly pressed against his torso, my legs apart.
‘Put your hands under my bum,’ I murmured, ‘Hold me, Jim. Oh, that feel’s lovely. Hold me!’
He went into spasm. His cheeks flushed heat in my face. He was dripping thick animal sweat. I held him as closely as I could giving him a hickey or kiss mark on his neck while he recovered.
‘You came already?’
He touched my wet hair, kissed my fiery cheeks and moist lips, ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.’
‘Don’t be,’ I said, pecking his lips and eyelids, his wee lovebird, ‘I came, too. You were great!’
‘You’re beautiful, Isla,’ he gasped appreciatively, ‘you’re such a lovely woman, so kind to me.’
My eyes misted over and we kissed. I dismounted him, slipping him out of me ever so tenderly.
The inevitable taped announcement was released seconds later:
The next station will be Ardlui.
Outside, carriages would be coming back to life, travellers reaching for their bags, walking up the aisles to the exits. The wheels of the train squealed, ground, and glided to a halt beneath us.
Jim hung his head in shame, ‘This is my station, I’m afraid.’
‘Stay on the train with me,’ I said brightly enough: there was nae point in me acting all negative.
‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t, or won’t?’
‘Can’t. I have an important presentation to The Board tomorrow morning and need to prepare.’
‘An important presentation on candid discourse’s restrictions, I gather.’
‘You eavesdropped on my confidential meeting with Ayhan and Doug?’
‘I’d hardly call it confidential, Jim,’ I said, ‘The whole carriage could hear you jabbering away.’
‘Get off of me!’
I swallowed the sour taste in my mouth as he shoved me off him, threw on his soiled briefs, his shirt, trews, socks and shoes then reached for the open button. Perched on the toilet seat feeling utterly wretched, I rubbed my weepy eyes which were already sore enough from crying earlier.
‘I’m sorry, Isla,’ he said miserably, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m stressed out. I’ll miss you.’
As soon as the words left his mouth, I knew he meant them. There was true sentiment, warmth, heartfelt apology in his voice. I stared up at the moving orange travelogue riding over his head:
This station is Ardlui.
He was about to open the door and walk out of my life. Concerned I might never see him again, I scrambled for my miniskirt and put it on. I ripped my purse out the slit, undid the clasp and extracted a cream card with bold blood red raised lettering on the front:
Isla Ethnie McNair
‘Jim wait!’ I shouted searching for my vest, ‘Take this, it’s got my contact details: email, texts, messenger, mobile number, social media handles, dark web network, all of me. Quick, take it!’
I flicked the card. It landed near his feet. Somehow, my vest and pants had been stuffed inside the transparent flip-top bin. I plucked them out, slipped the vest over my head and shoulders then tried, hard, to pull it over my breasts and tummy which were all smelly and wet from him.
He stooped, grabbed my card, and said, ‘Sorry Isla. Promise I’ll stay in touch.’
‘Stop saying you’re sorry, won’t you?’ I cried collapsing in a heap on the floor upset, ‘Just go!’
He left me sprawled over the toilet, opening the door just as I pulled on my pants. I felt as if all of Ardlui was watching me:
‘Are you alright, lass?’ they said, ‘Do you need help?’ they asked, ‘Did he hurt you?’ they said.
Someone with a heart must have pressed the button as the door slid shut, hiding me from view.
