Part Eleven: ALL THE WARMTH OF THE PAST VISITS THE UNWORTHY DRISCOLL

When Driscoll switched the light on in his room the bulb blew and somehow he was strangely relieved. He did not want the evidence of his decay to be seen by anyone and particularly not this will o' the wisp creature who might fly away, like some exotic butterfly, at the slightest upset.

He had intended to make a cup of tea for them both but the woman, who was now bathed like some wraith in the light of the full moon streaming in through the window, had started taking off her clothes, folding them neatly and laying them over the back of a chair at the foot of his bed.

Driscoll watched the scene with a depth of compassion he no longer thought that his shrunken heart was capable of. She must be exhausted, he thought, but he was not thinking about the possibility of sex, because, even now, he did not think that there WAS any possibility.

He noticed again the clues to a hard life evident in her clothing; the frayed hem of her dress, the ladder high up one stocking, the button about to fall off the little matching jacket, the whole in the sole of one shoe.

Finally, she slipped out of a pair of worn, ivory coloured drawers with a detached and silent grace and slipped bewtween the covers with a grateful sigh and lay her head down, before remembering Driscoll who was still standing with the teapot in his hand.

"Aren't you getting in then?"

She had a nice voice. It was clear and well modulated but he could not think of which part of England it belonged to.

"Come on. You can't stand there holding a teapot all night." There was a matter of fact mirth in her tone.

He nodded towards another chair. "I'll kip in that".

She studied him for a long moment, touched by his awkwardness.

"Come on. Get in." she said in mock schoolmistress tone.

He was too tired to argue and besides it had been a long time since he had experienced genuine concern and he was superstitious about such things and felt that a rebuff to any kindness, however small, might mean that that was the last of any he might ever see.

So, he settled down with her and as he placed a nervous hand on her belly and as they were now the only two people left in an empty moonlit world, he decided this WOULD be his Margaret for as long as the sun kept its distance.

"What a pair we are" said Lesley drowsily.

"A couple of Lipton's orphans" replied Driscoll.

Lesley laughed. "The Start Rite Kids before they started".

Driscoll reached out tremulously to encompass one small breast with his hand. He was not sure of her reaction, even at this late stage in the proceedings, but she was already asleep.



Sometime in the early hours of the morning he was awoken by Lesley massaging his chest, moving her hand round and round in circles and working lower and lower. He opened bleary eyes to see her smiling down at him. She looked younger and even more vulnerable.

He put his hand on hers and she stopped what she was doing to look down at him quizzically.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He was groping for the appropriate words when, once again, he decided against rebuffing tenderness. What if something like this never happened again in his life. He took his hand away. She continued.



Once the Old Ceremony was over they lay exhausted in each other's arms. Driscoll glowed. He had stepped out of the shadows again. Now he was more than just a memory in other people's lives. He was , for however briefly, part of someone's life but, just to reassure himself, he placed the tip of a finger gently under her left breast. Yes, there was another heart beating alongside his own in this newly blessed dark. Outside the full Moon was still riding high and mighty in his kingdom and the reborn Driscoll was safe for now.



The two refugees from the day lay in bed bathed in moonglow talking of their lives in generalities as if they feared that being too specific about anything would turf them out of the warmth of this bed, and its companionship, and back to the reality of the cold streets again. When the spell cast upon you matches your desires you will do anything not to break it.

They commisserated with each others difficulties, as far as this non specificality would allow, and offered cliched advice and support for a future which Driscoll fervently hoped could be held at bay forever.

He would have been only too happy for this moment, this very one, to be his past, present and future all rolled up together. He knew that all too soon that arrogant ball of fire and gas would come raging over the rooftops looking for him. It would peer into every nook and cranny, illuminating each shabby, mishapen thing that was better left to the shadows. Burdened by that knowledge, he struggled heroically to stay awake till his moment of peace was wrenched from him by force.



In the event, he woke just after dawn, hoping for a last embrace to send him out into his solitary future, but he was already alone in his bed. A noise by the door made him look up.

Lesley was neatly putting back his wallet into his inside jacket pocket. She saw him observing her with his old familiar and unkind eyes but she showed no sign of fear or a guilty conscience as she held up three £10 notes splayed out like a fan.

"That's fair, isn't it sweetheart. I mean you did have a good time, didn't you?"