Julie Blog #8

Her hands occupied with a precariously piled plate of biscuits, Margery tugged on the screen door with one little finger, calling, “Oo-oo, you there Joanie?

Marge was tall and thin but without elegance. She wore a cheap cotton dress, clumsy white sandals and a cardigan whose hemline sagged at the front and swooped up behind. But her faded old-maidish face with its protruding pale blue eyes hid an unexpectedly puckish wit.

She was inside before the reply came, dodging between bunches of drying herbs hanging overhead, china saucers for cats at her feet.

“Brought you some of my muesli biscuits,” she warbled cheerfully as she passed shelves of home preserves and a half-completed Afghan rug abandoned on a chair. Her eye was momentarily held by an assortment of fresh vegetables on the scrubbed pine kitchen table. They lay on damp newspaper and were obviously home-grown, dark clumps of wet soil still clinging to fine roots on the carrots and parsnips.

Joan was in the front room where the light was best, dabbing oil paint onto a canvas board.

She hoped she managed to turn her scowl at yet another interruption into a fair semblance of a welcoming smile as Marge entered.

“Muesli biscuits! Lovely! Well I guess that means it’s time for a tea break.”

“Not your first this morning either!” Marge responded archly. “I see the fruits of Arthur’s garden have once again found their way to your kitchen.”

Joan, heavy of body and feature, pulled a face. “Really, the poor old fellow is bringing me more stuff than I can use. You’d better take that lot home with you. Just leave me the spinach.”

Marge’s eyes sparkled. “He’s courting you, you know. Courting you with food!”

Joan roared. “You are joking! You really are joking. What would he court me for? Fat, frumpy and far from fit!”

“He is! He is!” Marge insisted. “He’s lonely. He likes all the activity here. And you’re a very good cook.

“Also,” her voice dropped huskily “he’s probably after some sex.”

“Marge!” Joan squealed. With stout hips rolling and bosom bouncing under her huge paint-daubed smock she rounded the easel and tipped Marge backwards onto a sagging sofa. Thin scaly legs shot into the air, followed by twenty muesli biscuits.

The pair spent the next fifteen minutes hunting for biscuits on and beneath Joan’s furniture while they discussed Arthur’s possible intentions.

“The carrots and parsnips are suggestive – very phallic.”

“And he always brings me fruit in pairs.”

“Has he ever made any, um, advances?”

“Once he came in with his fly undone, but by the time I’d boiled the kettle he’d done it up.”

“Does he ever go into your bedroom?” Marge’s eyes shone with a wicked gleam.

“Only when he’s looking for the cats.”

“Mark my words, that’s just an excuse to get in there. He expects you to follow him in, then close the door – cats outside, of course.”

After Marge had left Joan poured herself another cup of herb tea and pondered over their conversation.

It’s been so long, she reflected, that I’ve almost forgotten about sex. Since that old fool Merv left, glad to see the last of him, I’ve been so busy with the painting and the sewing and the crochet, not to mention the herb and flower gardens. Well I certainly don’t need another old bludger to cook for and pick up after. But if he just wants the odd bit of passion…

Joan went into the bedroom and studied herself in the dressing table mirror. Front view, yuck. Profile, worse. She pulled off her smock and the shapeless shift beneath. The glass showed her a pair of pendulous breasts draped over a big round belly; pads of fat nestled on broad hips above heavily-dimpled thighs. What kind of a pervert was Arthur anyway?

Sure enough, Arthur called the next morning with more vegetal offerings, pleasurably anticipating the cup of tea he would be given in return. He eyed a plate of battered muesli biscuits with a curiously hairy appearance which stood waiting by the teapot together with two paint-smeared china mugs.

“The tomatoes are ripening well now,” he wheezed as he fondled a large dimpled pair affectionately. “As soon as I saw these two beauties I thought of you.”

He broke off, disconcerted as he realised that Joan was not sharing his pleasure in the rotund fruits but was staring fixedly at his crutch. Had he left his fly open again? He stole a glance downwards. No, all neat and in order. His honest, weather-worn old face was scarlet by the time Joan raised her eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry Arthur!” she cried. “I was a million miles away, thinking of my next painting!”

“Ah, yes, well,” Arthur muttered, never knowing what to make of Joan’s strange daubs at any time. Was she planning a composite of men’s trousers, perhaps?

Joan was still staring strangely at him. “Where do you think the cats are, Arthur?” she asked with glinting eyes.

“Well, er, I didn’t see them on my way in.”

“The bedroom, Arthur. They’re probably in the bedroom.”

To his horror Arthur found Joan’s large hot body approaching his so closely that he had to move away to avoid actual contact. Hemmed in on either side, it seemed, by the huge breasts, he found himself guided into the bedroom. No cats. Joan closed the door.

Far from leaping upon his hostess in a sudden rage of passion, Arthur resembled a rabbit whose burrow has been stopped up after the introduction of a ferret. Panting in agitation, eyes rolling, white moustache quivering, he shuffled about the room until he spied the open window over the bed. With a frightened squeak and an arthritic leap he was gone.

“Well,” said Joan, surveying a loamy footprint on her patchwork quilt, “I think Marge was a bit off the mark there, and it looks like I’ve lost my supply of fresh vegies too!”

(from Tales of the New England)