William was standing alone at the bus stop so I pulled over and offered him a lift into town. He accepted with alacrity. My passenger seat was a long way down, much further than he anticipated, and he lowered himself into it gingerly, and with difficulty and some agonised groaning.
But once he was established and his seat belt was on, he recovered quickly. ‘’Tis lovely to see you again,’ he said, placing four fingers lovingly on my bare forearm and keeping them there. I think the old countryman was hoping I’d lean across and offer him my mouth. The fingers exerted the faintest pressure and I could feel his gaze, intent on my profile. I’ve never given William the slightest encouragement, but he never fails to give me the opportunity to allow him to kiss me. The offer is made in the subtlest manner possible: the lips moving always closer to mine until halted by the first flicker of protest or irritation; the old brown fingers resting lightly on my forearm until it recoils or I withdraw it slightly. He kept his fingers resting lightly on my skin as I let off the handbrake and went up through the gears. His tenderness and desire were palpable, though I still couldn’t make up my mind whether I was on the receiving end of a cynical, well practised art, or an innocent infatuation, or even a late infilling of the Holy Spirit — which is always a possibility with rural, chapel-going folk .
It was his first trip into town for over six weeks, he said. The last time he was there he’d fallen off the pavement and twisted his knee and been a fraction of an inch from being run over and killed.
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