Marcie smiled tenderly at Ben, seemingly about to say something, but then perhaps decided to acquiesce to his suggestion as she released his hands and turned to get some pans out. Ben turned back to the kitchen sink himself to finish the potatoes, feeling re-energised by the moment of gentle intimacy with Marcie, as she breezily said, “I’m glad you remembered it’s our home, Ben. I didn’t say before, what with all my performance, but I noticed that you’d called this place home just before we said goodbye this afternoon, when you were about to set off for the gym. You said it so naturally and it seemed so sweet. It made me feel warm and gooey inside. But I know you had another home. I don’t want to dwell on it if you don’t want to, and if it’s a bit raw for me it must be a thousand times worse for you. However, if you do want to talk about it, you know you can share anything that’s on your mind about losing your old home, don’t you?”

“Aye, I know, thank you Marcie,” admitted Ben, working with the peeler in the cold water, feeling his arousal retreat, “It is a raw feeling, and part of me doesn’t really want to dwell on it either. But in another way, perhaps it’s not such a big deal, or that’s how it feels. I’ve got a lot of my important things here now, thanks to you. The rest, well it’s just stuff. It was there, and now it’s become some ashy rubble, just like they say, ‘Ashes to ashes.’ But maybe I feel a bit guilty about that too, like I should care more, I should have taken more care. I think the real challenge is, well, that it just came on top of everything else, if you see? And that’s why I felt so tense and upset, and why I shot my mouth off at you.”

“Hey, that’s not what I meant by talking about things,” Marcie interrupted as she banged the oven door shut on the tray of sausages and set the timer, “We had a minor squabble, and I think we both regret it, but we’ve moved on. It was just a bit of hot air and it’s over and done with, along with the apologies and the making up, so we don’t need to rake over that. I thought what you might be raking over in your head were those ashes, and I was hoping that you’d let me in so that I could offer some support and try to help you if you were.”

“No, thank you. It’s not really the burnt stuff, the lost things, that are on my mind,” Ben tried to explain, standing shoulder to shoulder with Marcie now as he chopped the potatoes on her vegetable board, “I’ll go through it all later, when the insurance inventory thing comes, like I’ll remember the things that are gone then, to say goodbye, if that’s not stupid. I guess the destruction of my old home, the way that place has just gone, it does make me feel low now. But it’s more like it’s just stretched me too thin. I feel like, ‘What’s this now?’ Like it’s another heavy thing I’ve had to pick up and carry.”

“I think I understand,” Marcie said sympathetically as she took his chunks of potatoes to drop into the pan of boiling water she’d set up, “I remember being told it’s like we have a bucket for dealing with things, and if it starts getting too full then we feel stressed. The thing that tips us over into a crisis might not be such a big thing in itself,” she explained, seemingly illustrating her point by dropping the last chunks of potato in one at a time, “But when it comes on top of everything else, it can completely floor us. Your fire is a big thing, but I can see how the news about your health and its impact on your job might have been much bigger rocks that were filling your bucket to the brim already.”

“Aye, that’s what it feels like,” Ben admitted, “A bucket of rocks. I guess I’ll get used to it, with your strength helping me.”

Marcie rested her small warm hand on his wet paw, saying, “But you don’t have to get used to it, that’s the point. I think it’s supposed to be like a bucket of water, and you can let the stressful things drain away from it steadily, so then you can keep pace with the stuff that life is throwing into it. Relaxation and fun, being kind and gentle with yourself, keeping active and seeing people, learning new skills and using them in creative ways, being helpful and feeling like you’re having a positive influence in the world, they all help you keep a strong healthy flow that lets all that tension and pressure pour out of your bucket, spurting energetically through your big tap.”

Ben returned her smile as he gripped her hand, seeing that she was serious as well as being deliberately suggestive. “That sounds good,” he acknowledged, adding, “So I can focus on the good things that help my flow, not dwell on the bad stuff that might get backed up. And I can start now, being helpful by peeling the carrots too.”

Marcie laughed lightly as he let go of her hand with a final squeeze to turn back to the sink. Then she said seriously, “Ben, you must know you’ve been helpful pretty much since the moment you stepped into the flat. You helped me escape the car crash of my old relationship and make a fresh start, you’re planning work to beautify the backyard and make our neighbours happy, and you’ve done the most mundane things too, like keeping the laundry basket from overflowing and preparing a lovely dinner for me last night.”

“It’s no bother. I was glad to be here, to give a hand where I could,” Ben assured her as he ran the tap for a fresh bowl of water. After what they’d just been saying though, the sight of the muddy potato washings draining away had made him think of something. He explained, “But I’ve had a thought. Your bucket with healthy water flowing through it, it sounds better than what I’d imagined, something filled with rocks and ash. And it’s reminded me of your bath. You know there was just a shower, in the Trust’s old coach house, right? So I was wondering if I could use it, tonight? It would be a novelty for me, something gentle and relaxing, like you suggested. And it might feel like washing today away, even if I was never really in the smoke and ash.”

“Oh Ben, of course you can!” Marcie exclaimed, coming up behind him to wrap her arms under his, across his chest, resting her head on his shoulder. She reminded him, “This is your home too, your bathroom. And there’s no need to worry about the hot water when we can run as much as we like through the combi boiler. You could borrow some of my bubbles and light some candles,” but then she tensed as she realised what she’d said, “Oh! If that’s okay. I didn’t mean to bring the fire back.”

Ben reassured her, “No, candles would be lovely. We need to keep the fire too. We own it, safe, glowing, carefully tended. The fire of our love I mean.”

“Oh yes, I can feel its warmth now,” Marcie replied with a sigh as she hugged him, before loosening her lingering hands’ grip so he could finish the carrots. Then she returned to her own thoughts about Ben’s bath as she said, “I could keep you company too, if you like. Not in the bathtub I mean. I’m sorry, but I really don’t think there’s any way we could both fit in there together. I could sit comfortably next to you though, and we could chat while you soaked, if you could still relax that way.”

“I would like that,” Ben admitted, putting a wet hand over one of hers to squeeze it, not caring about the splash of cold water on his t-shirt.

“Ooh, your hands are icy!” she exclaimed, pulling back. Ben managed to twist around to peck her lips before she leaned back, insisting, “Let me take those now to chop for a veg pan.”

Ben passed the peeled carrots to her, before quickly finishing with the last one too. He deliberately resisted the temptation to make a cheeky remark about the firm orange rods, just as he’d noted Marcie had missed the opportunity to comment on the flaccid pink sausages that she’d laid out in their baking tray. As Marcie sliced precise batons, then nudged Ben aside to fill a small pan with cold water for them, it seemed her mind had moved on as she started asking about what to expect of lunch at his father’s tomorrow.

Ben thought quickly before guessing that it might actually be roast beef with all the trimmings. He explained that his dad hadn’t hesitated to step up the mark in the kitchen when his mum had passed away. Though he thought it unlikely that his dad had returned to dabbling in raising bullocks, he was sure the old man still had the stockman’s close contact with the local butchers. Ben expected their visit would give him an excuse to slaughter the fatted calf, as it were.

Marcie had started slowly fiddling around with the other steps toward getting a civilised dinner on the table - opening the back door to let the smells out, putting the living room lamps on, weighing out some frozen peas, preparing a jug for the instant gravy, getting out cutlery and plates, then filling glasses of water. Ben had stepped in to help a little once he’d cleaned up the sink, at that moment was laying the table alongside her as she set up his card beside the old vase of flowers, but his biblical reference made Marcie laugh.

“For an unrepentant heathen, you do know quite a few subtle details from the Gospels, don’t you?” she remarked.

“I don’t know why,” Ben reflected, “I must have just picked them up. Or maybe it’s growing up in the countryside. The stories of cutting vines and sowing grain, rich harvests and careful shepherds, maybe they mean more, if you’re doing those things too, on the land, seeing nature’s laws, day in, day out. Perhaps mum and dad, and me and my brother too, picked stuff up from my grandparents, who were quite churchy, or maybe bits were in everyone’s heads, so it just came out when they talked, like with me just now.”

“It makes sense,” Marcie agreed as she stood up from the CD player that she’d started with some quiet dreamy music that was unfamiliar to Ben, “But I wonder if it means those classical pagan stories have more resonance with country boys and girls too?”

“Well, maybe don’t start carrying on like we do with Dad. I’m not sure what he’d think of the stuff we talk about, like Danaë’s golden shower, or Nut’s heavenly body.”

“Don’t worry,” she reassured him with a cheeky grin and a playful slap on his wrist with the back of her hand, “I know how to behave. Did you want a bit of wine while we eat by the way?” Ben answered by saying he’d like just a small taste as they drifted back to the kitchen, before Marcie continued, “Tomorrow I won’t even mention the lively games that furry satyrs and nymphs play to honour the divine goddess of the moist Earth with her mate, the blonde sun god as lion rampant.” She became more serious as she poured a little wine into the glasses Ben had found, saying, “To be honest, I’m quite nervous, so I’ll probably be painfully aware of what comes out of my mouth.”

“Well, don’t you worry either,” Ben responded, “He’s may be a bit stuck in his ways, but he plays the gentleman, and I’m sure he’ll like you.”

“Oh don’t!” Marcie pleaded, reaching out to grip Ben’s hand, “You’ll make me even more nervous if I’ve got to play the demure young lady and flatter him.”

“It will all be fine,” Ben reassured her again, but at that moment the oven’s timer went off, so they got busy with the final steps to get the meal ready, Ben mashing the potato as Marcie mixed the gravy, closed the back door, then started dishing up.

Once they were at the table, they raised their modest wineglasses, both simply saying, “Good health,” before tucking in eagerly. Ben’s stomach had been groaning and his mouth had been salivating as the smell of the baking sausages had filled the kitchen. Now he felt a deep comfort that echoed what he’d felt in Marcie’s arms, as the reassuringly familiar flavours and textures of the meal answered his yawning appetite.

As they ate, Marcie asked a little about the route down to Lincolnshire and they discussed sharing the drive, then Ben asked if they shouldn’t put a date in the diary to make the trip over to Manchester to see Marcie’s mother too. She sighed at this suggestion, admitting that she did need to make her regular Sunday night call tomorrow evening, but that she wouldn’t rush to set anything up with her mum.

“I know how it will go,” she explained, “I’ll be, ‘Hi Mum. I’ve got a new boyfriend. He’s just discovered he’s got a chronic lung condition and his flat has burnt down, but he’s moved in with me and we’re really happy together.’ And then she’ll just say, ‘That’s nice. Tiddles had a bit of an upset tummy this week. I think that Mrs Walsh gives him giblets to eat when he’s in her garden.’ Honestly, she’s a lost cause. It’s her cats and the things that upset her cats’ routines, that’s all her life is. Maybe we’ll drive over there before Christmas. No, I’m serious.”

Ben had laughed, but he nodded sincerely when Marcie had corrected his assumption that she’d been joking. He still doubted that she wasn’t teasing him, but he decided to play it straight, saying that it must be difficult for Marcie. “Oh, I had to get used to it years ago. She’s not going to change now. No, I’ve made a nice life for myself in the northeast now, and despite the awful things that have happened to a dear friend, in this last week it’s just become a whole lot nicer.”

Ben realised what she meant as he chewed his food, swallowing his mouthful before responding earnestly, “Thank you for saying that. And don’t worry too much about your friend. He’s hit some bumps in the road, sure, but his life has is suddenly a whole lot nicer too. Despite the knocks, he knows he’s a lucky man.”

Marcie had a forkful of food halfway to her mouth, but Ben’s assertion seemed to have struck her powerfully as she froze, fixing him with a wide-eyed stare, then slowly lowering her fork before asking with a plaintive hollow voice, “Why?”

To Ben it seemed there was a tangled complex of strong emotion rising to the surface behind her simple question. In dramatic contrast to their light-hearted joking chatter, she was suddenly very serious, and seemingly scared too, as if they’d been playfully bowling along but unexpectedly found themselves at the brink of a threatening precipice. He felt there might be a lot riding on his answer as he carefully said, “Well, he’s just found his life partner.”

He was surprised to see Marcie’s deep brown eyes brimming with tears behind her glasses as she let go of her cutlery and held out her hands, whispering, “Oh, Ben.”

He put his own knife and fork down, then reached to clasp her hands. It seemed awkward to be stretching their arms out across the corner of the table though, so he slid from his chair to kneel before Marcie’s feet. “It’s okay,” he said vaguely, uncertain of what was running through Marcie’s head.

Now that he was closer, Marcie dropped his hands into her lap to reach her arms towards him. Taking his cue from her again, Ben raised his own arms to encircle her in a hug, shuffling forwards as she leant down and parted her knees to pull him in, wrapping her arms around his neck. Ben was still gazing unflinchingly into her wide eyes, noticing the pearls of her welling tears beading on her eyelashes, as she gave a terse explanation of her thoughts in a broken voice, “I’m so happy it scares me, but how can I be happy when you’ve suffered so much? And then I shouted at you on the street. I was mean to you, kicking you when you were down. Mother of God, I’m so sorry!”

Suddenly Marcie was sobbing again, but her voice was making an uninhibited choking wail that Ben hadn’t heard from her before, sending shuddering waves through her heaving ribcage as Ben held her in his arms. She’d leaned over him to bury her face in the crook of his neck, and Ben could once again feel the spreading dampness on his skin from her eyes, as well as her nose and gaping mouth he guessed. He held her tight while the choking sobs shook through her, nuzzling his nose and lips against her neck, noticing her ticklish stray hairs as he pressed himself close. “It’s okay,” he murmured again, “We’ve said sorry. It’s passed. And it’s okay to be happy. I’m happy, utterly. I’m blessed, in our shared love. It’s all okay.”

Marcie pulled back a little to stare into his face again through her bloodshot red-rimmed eyes, gripping the back of his head in her fists as she almost howled, “But it can’t last! It’s too good to be true! You’ll find someone else, someone more suitable, a true goddess, blonde and elegant, and you’ll forget me!”

“That’s just not true. Our love will last,” Ben asserted, and as he did so, he realised just how sure he now was of that himself. He was moved to raise his lips towards Marcie’s, shifting his hands to cradle her jaw, heedless of the wet mixture of tears and the fluid from her running nose that glistened around her mouth.

He had thought that they would kiss tenderly, their relaxed and parted lips just brushing together, but the shifting course of Marcie’s strong emotional expression took him by surprise as she pulled his jaw hard against hers and pushed her tongue deep into his mouth. He eagerly responded in kind, though still holding her neck and damp cheeks gently as he sucked and stroked at her tongue with his own. In her mouth, he tasted the sausages and gravy that she’d been eating, and enjoyed that simple shared experience, the mundane earthiness of it making him even more enthusiastic for their kiss. As the straining muscles of their jaws worked in sympathy, their wide open lips pressed and slipped over each other chaotically, tilting Marcie’s glasses, squashing their noses together wetly, and even sometimes painfully knocking their teeth together.

His own hungry passion matched Marcie’s as they continued to urgently devour each other, panting as their kisses went on and on. But now Marcie was no longer gripping the back of Ben’s head as she’d moved her hands between them to frantically fiddle with the front of her blouse. He realised what she was doing with a dizzy rush of excitement even as they kept moving their mouths and tongues against each other’s.

Then, as Marcie finished unbuttoning herself and swiftly pulled her shirttails out of her trousers’ waistband, she pulled back to look down at Ben, breathing heavily. As he stared deep into her eyes, still on his knees between her parted thighs, he saw they were pink from her weeping, matching her damp reddened nose. But her gaze now seemed self-assured and confident under her lowered eyelids, rather than wide and scared. He saw her cheeks were glowing too, even as they glistened, along with her mouth and chin, with that slippery mix of tears, snot and saliva. In the fading twilight and the room’s lamps, her dappled face with its strong jaw and proud nose seemed to glow, surrounded by the crinkled whisps of dark hair that had escaped her tight clips and pins, loosened by the vigorous activity of their kisses. It took only an instant to see all this, and to feel her exotic beauty and vulnerable humanity trigger a surge of warm affection within him, before she murmured, “Come to me, Ben.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant, but as he lowered his eyes, he saw her parted blouse and felt his impulses taking over. There was just a strip of her naked chest and abdomen exposed, running from her neck and collarbones to her navel in her soft flat stomach. Between was the deep groove of her cleavage, his silver hammer hanging from her long silver chain to rest on her sternum, the curve of her breasts sweeping away low under the loose fabric. She seemed to breathe in deeply, raising her chest towards him, as he lowered his face towards her. As he did so, he dropped his hands to find the hem of her blouse, using his fingertips to pull one half gently aside, watching intently as the fabric drew jerkily across her breast.

He felt another dizzying wave of thrilling excitement as he saw the full and heavy orb of Marcie’s naked breast, with the wonderful dusky pink areola wide around the creased bump of her nipple, rising above the delicately thin mole-spotted skin beneath. He felt his instinctual response to her revealed femininity as a powerful surge to the arousal that had been growing while they’d kissed, bringing a firm hardness to his hidden erection. He’d already brought his face up close to Marcie’s skin, close enough to clearly see the subtle bumps and dimples around her nipple, the blue hints of her veins’ tracery, and even the pores of her stretched skin. He was sure that she knew what he would do next, and he felt a calm confidence in that mutual understanding, also sure that she would be utterly at ease with his specific attentions.

Yet he paused for a moment with his lips hovering over her nipple, his palms flat on the smooth skin of her waist under her blouse, the tip of his nose just brushing her warm soft breast, savouring the intimacy that Marcie allowed him. He inhaled deeply, catching again the scents of her perfume and soap, as well as that comfortingly honest odour of her hard day, pungent and a little sour, yet also carrying the deep musk of old wood or rich soil. Marcie’s dusty personal fragrance only reenforced his robustly satisfying arousal as he reverentially put his parted mouth to her nipple.

Her hands rose to the back of his head again and he heard her breathe out a relaxed sigh as he kissed and licked at that sensitive bud of her womanly bosom. He could feel her fingers tangling in his hair and caressing the skin behind his ears in a delightful way as his mouth almost involuntarily became more eager. Then he was vaguely aware that Marcie had dropped one hand to her lap, but his attention was filled by the sensations in his mouth as its muscles were once again working hard, just as they had when they’d kissed. So now his jaw was stretched wide, his lips still covering his teeth, while his tongue was rolling itself forcefully against her teat, even as he experimented with hard sucks to draw her flesh into his mouth.

He heard her moan a little now as she repeatedly breathed out heavily panted sighs above him, then she was quietly crooning as her hand fidgeted about somewhere down between them, “Yes, Ben, yes! Eat me, feed on me. Take my body, our sins are forgiven. Yes, take more, suck it hard! Holy Mary, swallow me! Take me and drink deep. I wish I could leak, like Shona’s liquid breast, my mother’s milk, Mother of God, oozing Holy Spirit. I want to cream you, to cream for you, to gratify you, like your sweet seed, leaking from me, into your body, nourishing a new life, my baby, leaking together, swelling your stomach, in Holy Communion, our salvation, our shared chalice, brimming goddess milk-sperm, sweet as honey, our purifying balm, my spurting breast, sacred creamy semen, gushing from me to you, washing us clean. Oh, shut up! It’s nonsense. Ignore me. Just enjoy, share my joy.”

Ben hadn’t known quite what to think of Marcie’s words, but he guessed they arose from a place of dreamy pleasure that he felt she was welcome to enjoy. Now she was quiet as she held his head in both hands again, but he was still kissing and sucking her nipple, her whole areola, whilst his fingertips gently stroked the smooth skin over her waist and ribs. He cherished his intimacy with her, feeling blissfully aroused himself, in his own state of ecstatic communion. But now Marcie unexpectedly made a shivering quake in his arms as she convulsively gripped his scalp. He realised what this meant as he delicately drew his mouth back and raised his head to look into her eyes with sincere concern.

He saw she was indeed crying again, yet it seemed to have come over her more softly and gently this time, even as her chest shook. She smiled down at him sadly, her hands still cradling his head, as a tear rolled down her cheek. Ben straightened up to draw her to him in a compassionate hug, recognising belatedly that she might want comfort more than intimate stimulation at that moment.

Once again, they rested their heads on each other’s shoulders as they embraced, even though now Ben was acutely aware of Marcie’s exposed breasts hanging between them, one nipple slimy with his saliva and perhaps a little sore from his over eager attention. He felt the wet warmth of Marcie’s cheek against his ear as he deliberately slowed his breath, imagining that his pounding heartbeat was easing back too, while he waited patiently for his solid erection to soften.

As Marcie’s soft sobs and sniffs subsided, she whispered in his ear, “Oh Ben, you don’t think I’ve gone mad do you?”

“No,” he immediately reassured her again, “It’s all okay. We’re good. It’s just been a funny old day.”

“The things that come out of my mouth though!” she explained, speaking a little louder, “And what am I doing? Exposing myself at the dinner table, forcing my boob into your mouth, rubbing myself through my work trousers, trying to get you to eat me when there’s real food going cold on the table? It’s like I said that first time in the kitchen, about losing control to Mother Nature’s will. It feels as if there’s a primitive animal inside me that just takes over when we get close enough to procreate. Like when you said my oven was up to temperature earlier, I was on the edge of saying, ‘Yes it is! Fill it now with that great sausage of your manhood!’ I’d have fucked you there, again, in the blink of an eye. She scares me, and maybe she could terrorise you.”

“Hey, you weren’t trying to do anything I didn’t want to,” he pointed out, “I was really eager too, just now, really excited, you must have known. I’d happily repeat our kitchen fuck too, anytime - though the bed’s more comfortable. I think we’re both feeling the passion strongly, in new love, when we hold each other close, maybe especially because of the mad things that have happened today. But those things are out there. We’re here together now, just us, and everything we do together is healthy and caring.”

“You’re so right Ben, just as wise and kind as you always are,” Marcie said, pulling back to look into his eyes again with an anxious smile, “But what about those mad words?”

“Don’t worry,” Ben said calmly, “They’re not quite real, are they? The goddess and Holy Mary are just in our heads, the real Shona’s not here - though she’d more likely cackle with laughter if she’d overheard, rather than be shocked or offended. So the words are private to us, said just in our own safe den. But I think you’ve got a magical mind. It finds surprising ideas all the time. And to be honest, a lot of your dreamy words made sense. We felt close, and you know you’ve given me a new life. I feel like I am divinely blessed, in a state of grace, but still deep in my body’s senses too, rising to physical ecstasy. Also, your breasts are sexy, but they could make milk too, and my mouth was working like I was eating.”

“And we should be eating now!” Marcie wailed, “I know how hungry you were.”

“Come on then,” Ben said pragmatically, taking Marcie’s hands in his and resisting the urge to lower his eyes to her gaping blouse, “Let’s top up the wine, test what’s still on our plates, then pop them in the oven for a blast of heat if we need to.”

Marcie agreed, helping him get to his feet, then shyly buttoning her blouse as he went to get the wine. He’d noticed that Marcie’s glass was empty whilst he’d barely touched his, so he was more generous toward her as he poured out the last of the old bottle. Once he’d sat down, they chinked their glasses together again, both taking a slurp of the crisp dry wine just as if they were starting the meal anew. Ben imitated Marcie as he mixed some food, pushed it onto his fork and tentatively tried a mouthful, but they both agreed it was still warm enough to enjoy.

Then Marcie seemed to deliberately divert their conversation back onto a much more light-hearted course, saying, “Talking of animals inside us, we know you’re a lion, and I’ve got a bit of vixen in me, but have you ever thought you were like any other beasts or birds?”

“I don’t know,” Ben admitted as he chewed, “And I’m not sure I am the lion. You’re the one with the strength and courage, the way you stood up to the detective, and Richard too. Also, you were brave sorting stuff at the university, and finding the lawyer.”

“Oh shut up!” Marcie chastised, her smaller plateful already nearly empty, “This isn’t about me. I was thinking of those old myths, and Narnia too. Lewis’s talking animals seem pretty naff to us modern educated adults from the scientific West, but it’s the most natural thing for children to think that their cute furry or feathered friends can learn to talk, just as they’ve only recently done themselves. And worldwide there are innumerable stories of people shifting into animal form, or animal spirits giving wise if enigmatic counsel through the shaman, or via more grisly auguries. So if you reached into your own shadowy dream world, what could you be?”

“Erm, a horse maybe,” Ben suggested, “Big and strong, patient and hard-working too, I hope.”

“Hey! You’re just copying me from earlier, when I said I was an old mare released from her harness-girdle,” Marcie playfully criticised. She sipped her wine, before reconsidering thoughtfully, “Or maybe you were inspired by that boy Patch who we saw in town, who tried to impress me with his running horses tattoo. He was certainly committed to them as his totem animal to get inked like that. Either way, perhaps that’s okay. You can be the fair shire horse, a wall of muscle on great hooves like dinner plates, and I’ll be the little pit pony, as dark as the coal dray that she dutifully hauls, even if she does occasionally give you a frustrated nip with her big yellow teeth.”

“No, you’re a wild moor’s pony,” Ben corrected her, “Galloping with eyes wide, free as the wind rushing through your thick mane, sure-footed in moonlight, under the vast star-filled heavens.”

“Hmm, I like the sound of that,” Marcie conceded, “But galloping under the shadowy night’s fickle lights makes me think of you dancing at your trance rave parties or whatever you’d call them, with the music’s rhythm rather than your head leading your body’s movements. It must be a bit like a shaman’s trance. Do you ever feel as if you’re moving like an animal there, like you find yourself tapping into a deeper flow than the normal everyday chatter of humanity?”

“Aye, maybe,” Ben agreed, casting his mind back, but deciding to avoid any mention of the artificial stimulants or female company that might have inspired his feelings back then, “I remember noticing my spine moving like a snake, with my arms raised, hips and head led by its waves. But most of the time I felt more like a bear, heavy-footed, lurching around, head and paws swinging dangerously. I think my name, Osborne, means bear too.”

“Well, a bear is good,” Marcie reassured her, “He’s definitely a powerful spirit animal for a shaman to encounter and channel. Like the snake too, the serpent, is-serp in Maltese. Maybe he seems evil in the Bible, in the Garden of Eden, becoming the object of eternal enmity, ‘And the seed of the woman shall bruise thy head,’ or whatever it is God says. But really he’s God’s own agent provocateur, who awakening Adam and Eve from their naivety. Is-serp is an essential agency in the divine plan, teaching man and woman about the responsibilities of free will.”

“I’m not sure that’s what I felt, in my spine, or in Roddie, if he’s playing the snake too. It’s just a good feeling, flexing about. But what about you? Does Tabone have an animal meaning?” Ben asked, keen to listen to her ideas while he consumed the last of his cooling meal.

Marcie gave a short bitter laugh, saying, “No! Shall I tell you what my name means? Tabone comes from a mocking epithet for a fool or a dullard.”

“That’s not you,” Ben said earnestly, “You’re so smart, so clever. You know so much, and you’re building a brilliant career in academia.”

“Thank you Ben, but I’ve had my foolish moments haven’t I? Anyway, to get back to those totem animals, you know Manchester’s emblem is a bee, right?” she asked, taking a restorative sip of her wine, “Well, that’s resonated with me as a symbol for diligent activity, just like your big farm horse I guess. But the stereotyped busy worker bee is more frenetic isn’t she? Also bees are so social, but I’m aware I can be quite self-sufficient. They make me think of wasps too though, and of course they build their nests of paper. So can you imagine a busy solitary bee-wasp thing that is always out compulsively collecting scraps of paper, chewing them up to bring back to her nest where she plasters them around her walls to make a safe and cosy cell? I guess that also means you have to watch out for my sting if I get wound-up and bothered though. Do you think that sounds like me?”

“Erm, I’m not sure,” Ben said cautiously, swallowing his last mouthful then picking up his own wineglass, “Bees and wasps have style, like you, but individually they’re maybe, well, insignificant. Your energy and drive can have a huge influence, I think. You’re more like the queen, not the worker.”

“Thank you, Ben,” Marcie responded with a smile that he thought seemed slightly sad, then she explained, “But perhaps the hard truth is that we are insignificant in the big scheme of things, all just little workers and dancers in this Newcastle hive.”

“You’re not insignificant to me,” Ben reassured her, reaching to grasp her small hand, “You’re the queen of my world, the sun in my sky, the goddess of our shared secret kingdom.”

She smiled at him with twinkling eyes as she said, “You’re trying to flatter me, and you make it all sound like an innocent lover’s poetry, but I know what you believe about the portal to that secret kingdom now. And I’m warning you, before I let you through there again, everything needs a serious of a clean-up. We need to tidy this kitchen mess, you need to have your nice calm relaxing bath, and I’m in dire need of a thorough hosing down too.”

“Well, if you like, I’ll wash up while you have a shower, or you could run the bath and hop in before me,” Ben suggested, eager to think that Marcie’s hints were indirectly suggesting they might still make love later.

“Hmm, you’re keen, as ever, aren’t you?” she teased, even as she rose to her feet, “It’s very early to get ready for bed, but maybe that’s okay after our early start. As for sharing the bathwater, that’s very kind, but I want it to be your special treat. There will be plenty of other opportunities to take turns for a quick dunk in a cosy-couple’s way later, I’m sure. But you might not want to get in the bath after me in my normal routine. These legs and armpits don’t keep themselves smooth, you know.”

Ben smiled as they stacked the dirty pots by the sink, having moved back to the kitchen together now, feeling a surprising inner warmth at the thought of being included in Marcie’s personal routines. It was comforting to feel that she trusted his strong attraction towards her enough to be confident that he wouldn’t be at all put off by seeing her shaving. He looked forward to sharing those routines with her, perhaps towelling himself down after a quick dunk, as she’d put it. He imagined them together on a Sunday afternoon, chatting about mythological spirit animals in the steamy bathroom while she diligently and unselfconsciously used her razor.

“Aye, we’re furry mammals after all,” Ben felt safe to joke, “Like I said, I want you to feel comfortable, whatever we do or don’t do, day to day.”

“If you’re suggesting I could forgo my depilatories, forget it,” Marcie said strictly, “I might sometimes feel like losing my bra after a stressful day, but I’m not going to let things slip that far. I don’t want to encourage those old-fashioned sexist jokes about Mediterranean women’s armpits.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Ben protested, “It just seems right, thinking you’d be comfortable doing things, your usual personal things, with me there too, without worrying. I’d be happy in that picture, sharing our everyday jobs.”

“Well, if you say so. But speaking of which, won’t you let me help you with the pots?”

Ben already had a bowl of soapy water and put their cleaned water glasses to drain, so he suggested Marcie help with the drying. As she started, she returned to their earlier more polite conversation about animals, asking whether his family had kept horses on the farm when Ben had been growing up. He explained they hadn’t, but neighbours did ride and breed them in an amateur way, so he had school friends with ponies and later horses, admitting that one was actually his girlfriend for a short while when he was about sixteen. Marcie was delighted at this titbit of ancient gossip and immediately asked if this young woman featured in the story that he’d not got around to telling her about, of the first time he’d had sex. Ben told Marcie truthfully that she didn’t, then tried to divert the conversation back to its previous innocent course by asking if horse spirits featured in Narnia.

If Marcie knew that he’d made a feint, she didn’t protest as she explained, “Yes. As you maybe noticed, there’s a whole book, The Horse and His Boy, and I remember there’s a big part for a horse from Victorian London who finds himself in Narnia by accident at its creation in The Magician’s Nephew. I’d say that’s a better story than The Horse and His Boy, and I’d recommend it highly, but it’s a while since I reread them. But I don’t think there are any talking horses in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. You’ll miss your chance to read some more of it this evening and maybe find out for yourself if we skip my usual postprandial time with a mug of tea and book on the sofa though.”

Ben guessed what she meant, but a thought occurred to him, “Erm, or maybe not.”

Marcie looked at him suspiciously as she dried one of the pans with the limp tea-towel, asking, “What are you thinking?”

“Well, it’s just an idea, and you don’t have to agree,” he started explaining, prompting Marcie to punch him lightly.

“What? Don’t tease, just ask,” she insisted.

“I was thinking of my first night here, when you read to me. I enjoyed that. Could you do that again, while I soak in the bath? How would you feel about it? Only say yes if you’d enjoy it too.”

“Of course. I’d love to do that with you!” Marcie enthusiastically agreed, “But what were you thinking I’d read? It was Mort on that first night, but I think you’ve two other books on the go, under my bad influence. Did you think it would be sexy for me to read Tracy Cox’s Hot Sex aloud to you?”

“No,” Ben immediately responded, even though the unexpected suggestion appealed at some level, “No, it was Narnia I was thinking of.”

“Where are you up to in the book?” Marcie asked.

Ben tried to remember the details as he scrubbed at the oven pan, which he’d left to last, “Erm, Edmund had got to Narnia and run into the queen. She’d charmed him with treats, then tasked him to bring the others to her palace, to find his way between two round hills, it seemed. Then she’d left, but Lucy had found him, and they were about to go home, if that’s the right word.”

“Yes, I remember,” Marcie said thoughtfully, smirking at the suggestive details he’d described, “And I think there’s about to be some angst and sibling conflict to play out before all the children get into Narnia together, when the real drama starts to unfold. But you are getting into their story?”

“Aye,” Ben admitted, “I thought the children spoke strangely at first, like they were too old fashioned and adult to believe. But I think I feel for them now. Edmund’s clearly meant to be horrid, but I feel sorry for him too. I wondered if the whole story’s really about him.”

“Hmm, that’s not something that might be obvious to the reader the first time around,” Marcie remarked, finishing off the drying up as Ben drained the washing up water away.

“Maybe I’ve some sympathy for him, as the younger brother. He’s petty and selfish, but that must come from frustration, especially if Peter’s rubbing his nose in his faults, his shortcomings, all the time,” Ben explained, borrowing wet tea-towel while that Marcie still clutched to dry his own big hands a little.

“I think you’re right. Did you want more wine, by the way?” Marcie asked, but Ben thought not, so they both agreed they’d have a tea instead. Then Marcie went reflectively on as she moved around Ben to fill the kettle, “But maybe Lewis wrote the Pevensie children to be a simple model that pretty much any child could fit their family to, so long as they’re not a singleton, though there are characters in other the books for only children too. The Pevensies are also a model for the personality types, had you noticed? Have you heard of the old Greek theory of the four humours for the human body and medicine, and how character goes with that? It’s an idea that went right through medieval times, probably holding back proper useful medicine. So, let me think, Edmund’s a brooding melancholic, Peter’s a fiery choleric, Lucy is the happy-go-lucky sanguine type, and Susan is practical and phlegmatic, or maybe the girls are the other way around.”

“No, that makes a whole lot of sense, even if I didn’t know all those technical words,” Ben agreed sincerely, “But I guess that begs the question, who do you think you’re like, or who would you want to be?”

“Oh, I always wanted to be Lucy, with her love of life, and her love of Aslan too, though that sours a bit when you realise he’s meant to be Jesus,” Marcie said with an enthusiasm that turned suddenly to what seemed like slight disgust.

“I hope this doesn’t sound funny, but I want to be Lucy too,” Ben admitted sheepishly, making Marcie laugh, “But I think I worry that I’ve got a lot of Edmund in me too.”

“Hey, it’s no bad thing to be a little self-critical, it’s better than being the righteous holier-than-thou Peter, but you can be confident I don’t see Edmund in you. Maybe we each have a bit of all of them inside us, so each of those old enduring characters and behaviours come out in our moods and outward actions sometimes. But I can let you join the Lucy Pevensie Fan Club with me, even if you’re about fifteen years late and it breaks the ‘only girls allowed’ rule, when I think back to when Amber wrote that postcard you’re using as a bookmark.”

Ben chuckled too as he took the hot mug of tea from Marcie. “Thanks,” he said, perhaps for the invitation to the club as well as the tea, then asked, “Do you want to drink these in the bathroom then?”

“Ooh, you are keen, aren’t you?” Marcie teased, “Well, do you want to find some candles and whatever else you want while I have my shower quickly? There might be some on the bookcase, or in that kitchen drawer, or even in my dressing table, if you’re brave enough to go in there. I’ll leave the door ajar.”