4. THE TROUBLED BULL

A third girlfriend for the young Braxtoo

Braxton couldn’t understand why the girl didn’t answer him. It was a simple enough question, surely, a proposal of marriage to a man of very obvious means and great age, and surely great age meant great experience, which must be an incentive. But she stood there, gazing at him.

And was that an amused look on her face as though she thought the whole question of marriage was too silly for words? Maybe she didn’t believe him. Maybe she thought it was some kind of joke, like the one Juliet had played on him that war-torn day in the forties when he’d been celebrating his seventeenth birthday. Yes, that must be it.

“I was seventeen,” he began, and paused, memories piling up and reminding him that he’d been callow once, and foolish.

Chantelle, that’s what she’d said her name was, was looking at him, but was she listening? Of course, she could hear what he was saying, but was she actually listening with her brain, understanding the great chasm of time that lay behind him? Because he had the sort of wisdom that can only come with time, and he had lived for a long time so he must have that wisdom in spades.

Not enough wisdom, though, to realise he hadn’t said very much to the girl, and not shown her much of the dramas re-enacting unbidden and silently in his head.

“Yes, seventeen, and the world was at war. All of it, but that didn’t matter to Juliet and me. You wouldn’t have the slightest idea what war’s like, would you, dear? With bombs and stuff, falling all around you? Father was only enriched by the war, you know, made even bigger piles of money which he converted secretly into bullion and stashed away in bank vaults. It’s still there, you know, gold bars to make your eyes water. You can never go wrong with gold, that’s what he said and lived his life by.

“We were out down an autumn lane, were Juliet and me, before my birthday party. There might have been bombs falling on towns and cities, but the country lane was untroubled by them. The trees were turning from green to a beautiful orange...”

He paused and the narrative, silenced by his mouth continued in his mind.

Juliet had been what they called a tart back then. Not a prostitute, not that kind of tart, but a brash creature willing to go any distance a man would want her to go, and just for the pleasure of the moment and the expression in his voice when she took it all away in a cruelly teasing moment. So the clothing that she wore was always what they called provocative. It hinted at a lovely body, but concealed most of it at the same time, and he found her company intoxicating for no other reason than he was seventeen and horny.

She had gone with him down that leafy lane, he in his school jacket, stripes and sexy he thought, and she in her expensive cotton dress carefully measured to be no more than a smidgeon below her knees. She had attractive legs, and knew it. But don’t show all of them, don’t ever do that… She was a proper tease and that’s why he loved being with her.

There was something about being teased that excited him. That brought the worst out in him, and he knew it. But then, he was only a lad and if anything went wrong and needed putting right, then father could afford it. He’d done it before.

“It’s not as warm as it was,” she told him, “it being September and all that, and mummy says I should be careful because of my chest.”

That roused something basic inside him! He wanted to be careful with her chest! The very words, half-whispered in that sultry voice of hers, was almost an invitation. That chest of hers was more than obvious. It was splendid. At least he thought it was, and so did the other young men, and she was known for it rather than for any wisdom she might possess. And it wasn’t just her voice and the words she uttered that stirred something inside him either, it was written on her face and in her eyes.

But Braxton was careful. The last year had taught him a lot about how to treat girls. It had started him being convinced they would always be like putty in his hands and yet he’d been bitten, and putty never bites.

Chantelle was little more than a memory by the time he was seventeen, but she had taught him to be careful or stories might be spread about, stories he didn’t want to be told, not everywhere, not to everyone. And Melissa, well, daddy had paid for her abortion and enough to keep her mouth shut, but then, daddy had thought the bump on her stomach was down to himself and not to his son. That was a cat Braxton expected Melissa to let out of the bag any time soon, only there were complications, an infection, everything Melissa-wise was going wrong and, he didn’t like to think about it, not these many years later, but she had died.

It was a shame that. She’d taught him things and had paid the ultimate price. The war had been raging and decent medical care was harder to come by even if, like father, you had tons of money. RIP Melissa, then.

The same wasn’t going to happen to Juliet even though she provoked him as much as she dared without being too obvious. She was a clever lass, was Juliet, and there was no doubt that she knew what she wanted.

She wanted a laugh, she wanted to make a fool of him. He was toffee-nosed and wealthy and she wanted to pull him down a peg or two because her father was away at war and his wasn’t. So he allowed her to lead him through a wooden farm gate, over a stile and into a field. There was still some sort of corn waiting to grow a last little bit before being harvested, and when they walked across it they were both almost hidden from sight.

“Do you like it here, Braxton?” she asked.

“It’s just a field,” he replied, wondering what she expected him to say.

“If you do like it you’ll like the next field,” she smiled, “and when we get into that field, if you want to kiss me I might let you. Just kiss, mind you, I’m not a push-over!”

But the suggestion had worked. And to add to the fun of it, she had chased him through the waving corn, then he had chased her and they had ended up by chasing each other back and forth. It had been such fun.

When they got to the far end of the field they were both out of breath and gasping at the merriment of it all.

Juliet knew about the hand-pained sign, but Braxton didn’t even notice it because he leapt over the gate into the second field with the kind of dexterity he’d used in games at his expensive private school.

Juliet giggled to herself as the bull noticed a stranger in his field and contemplated charging. It had been a boring sort of day with little else to do, and a good charge would do him good.

Braxton saw this fierce opponent just in time and raced towards the laughing Juliet who was still, sensible, the other side of the gate and half-leaning on the BEWARE OF THE BULL sign.

“You see, my young friend,” almost whispered the older Braxton as he gazed at Chantelle, “I learned early on not to trust the fairer sex. Not at all. But now I’m, what do you call it these days, past it? Now that I’m past it I need a woman to love. And more than anything, I need a woman who can provide me an heir for my fortune. So I ask again, will you marry me?”

© Peter Rogerson 03.12.19