“Aw, he was just buying a book.”
“For the love of…he was not just buying a book. He was buying the most expensive version of your favourite book. Now, there’s them as will flash a Rolex in a lass’s direction, or pull up in a Lamborghini wi’ a spare passenger seat, and there’s women that’ll impress – tarts for the most part, but that’s by the by. He’s not that type and neither are you, but it’s the same deal writ a good bit smaller. Flashing a bit of cash on things you like in the hopes you’ll notice and be impressed. More fool him. He’s following you around like a dog wi’a broken leg. Now either you take him in and nurse him back to health, or you take him round back and give him both barrels, but don’t pretend like you don’t notice. It’s not fair on him. It’s not the first time he’s been round here wi’ those big puppy dog eyes of his. I tell you, if you don’t give him some attention, maybe I will and then where will we be.”
“Hmm. I’ll think about it,” said Emily non-committally. Verna knew her well enough to know that was what she often said when she wanted a conversation to be over immediately. Neville Blackly wasn’t every girls cup of tea, but for a self-professed lover of hobbits, you’d think he’d be ideal. Still none of this getting through to her as far as Verna could tell, and with EasyJet Flight 1971 waiting for her at Gate Thirteen, Manchester Airport, there was little to be done but leave matters where there were for now.
“Aye, well make sure you do. Proper like. And put that blummin’ book on witches down before any of that nonsense starts seeping in. And make sure you walk them dogs – before it’s dark, mind. Right, anyway, that’s me off. Next time you see me, I’ll have a tan on.”
Emily put the book down, but as Verna headed out the door, she saw Emily pick up one another one from the pile — she wasn’t certain, but it she could swear it was the one on sex magic.
“God love us,” Verna muttered to herself as she got into the taxi. “What is she like?”
2. The Awakening
To Ted Norris, one of the advantages of being a plumber, and a self-employed plumber at that, was that you got the use of your own white van of an evening. There was a certain amount of unpacking needed beforehand and an equal amount of repacking the next morning, but it was worth it for the extra amount of freedom you got — freedom to do stuff that just wasn’t possible in a family hatchback. It was a definite perk. The van made him and his Brenda the undisputed king and queen of the local dogging community.
They’d been at it for six months after a dry spell in their marriage had required radical action. Not every man would be happy sharing his wife, but early on in their experimentation the strange calculus of wife-sharing had become clear — the more you shared of her the more there seemed to be of her to go round. She was permanently horny these days, even on those evening when they didn’t have an outing. Many who’d sneer at him, if only they knew, would go straight home to cold, sexless beds. He’d even gotten to some play with the other wives, though with nothing like the frequency Brenda got it on with the husbands.
They’d pulled into the wooden area and parked up about half-an-hour ago as the sun began to go down. With Ben off at his school leaving party and Becca at a sleep over, they had all evening to indulge their new hobby, and had set off early to be the first ones here. That said, it was June and it wasn’t getting dark much before nine, so they’d still managed to catch Gardener’s World before heading out. He was checking the football scores on his iPad while she was knitting another scarf. It was funny how she’d taken up knitting at around the same time as dogging, but it made sense. There was a lot of sitting around waiting for something to happen. Still, it’d be funny come Christmas when she handed them out to all their elderly relatives and he remember what they’d been doing for each one: Red with white snow-flakes — that was the infamous spit-roast; Blue and White Leeds United — that was when she’d gobbed off three guys in a row without even bothering to wipe down her blouse between men — happy times.
“Pass us the pasty, will you, pet. I’m right starving,” said Brenda, setting down her latest creation mid-stitch.
“You’ve only just had your tea. You go scoffing it now, there’ll be nothing left for after,” he warned. Their appetites both increased on these evenings out.
“Stop your blathering and hand it over. We can always stop at late-night chip shop on the way home,” she complained.
“Oh, you’ll nip out and get it in will you? Past all the yobs and drunken lasses. Not likely wi’ state you usually end up in. It’ll be muggins here who has get out and wait half-an-hour in the queue wi’ all them louts constantly mouthing off and starting stuff.”