4 July 2012
Isabeau’s last breath did not fight to stay a part of her body, it slipped away without fanfare. John knew if he let it his heart would break; not yet he thought as he watched the dust motes dance in the afternoon sunlight, he had an appointment to keep. She had asked him the day he had come home for good. The last day they sat by the window together...
He watched her for a moment as she sat contemplating the outside world. He was adjusting to the long dormant rush that coursed through his body. Her ability to invade his senses, to possess him like a drug; this is what kept bringing him back throughout the years. ‘Hello siren.’ He whispered as he crossed the room. With those two words Isabeau knew he was truly home at last. ‘Hello John Tucker’ she whispered and turned to watch him as he took the one remaining step that would bring him to her side. A slow smile spread gently across his weathered face hiding the pain he felt. How frail she looked, as though the first spring breeze could push her gently to the ground. It had been too long since they had both sat by the window and watched the season’s parade. ‘Sit John,’ she gestured and he sat as directed in the second of a pair of wing-backed chairs positioned to catch the first of the day’s rays that streamed through the floor to ceiling windows. Isabeau studied his face for those changes one expects and yet dreads in a loved one; the changes of age. John had a few more lines, the countries he’d travelled etched on his forehead, his skin darker than ever. Not for the first time did she wish that time would be a little less unforgiving on the mere mortals that must follow her path. John smiled as he turned from the window to look at the lass that had captured his soul and never let go. He smiled into her eyes and stretched long jean clad legs out before him. So much to say and yet he was here and she was happy, did anything else matter? She had changed in many ways. She had travelled a harder path and that was his cross to bear. He liked her hair, defiant of the bun brigade she wore it pixie short, close curls like a cap about her head. It was grey where once it was the colour of sunsets. Her eyes were still bright and sharp, twinkling at his scrutiny. Her frame, always frail looking now fulfilled the image truly. Even in the warm spring sunlight she was wrapped in a blanket and her hands felt cold when he moved closer to touch them. She cupped her right hand against his cheek, tracing his jaw line with her thumb.
‘Do you remember?’ she asked softly. ‘I remember it was spring...’
The young lass sat on the veranda, a book in her lap. She was watching the stranger as he confidently trespassed over her family’s fields and was wondering if it would be considered too forward to intercept him as he entered the orange grove and enquire as to the reason for such blatant disregard of boundary lines. Daddy was concerned with forwardness in women. However, deciding that daddy’s reaction would be sometime in the future and so could be ignored in the present Isabeau headed for the grove. She reached the edge of it just as the stranger vaulted the wooden fence bordering this most treasured of places. Isabeau almost ground her heel into the soft earth at the brazenness of the man but decided that it would be unbecoming a lady and so lifted her chin at an angle of disdain; she secretly practiced in front of the mirror in her room and so knew it was a good angle. The stranger had landed on the balls of his feet, catlike grace coming as natural as breathing. About to stride onwards he was checked by the scent of oranges, it embraced him; became a siren’s call. At the height of summer she had sucked all colour from the surrounding landscape and pumped it into the grove. It was a kingdom of green lushness, the oranges bright jewels in verdant bowers. ‘And here be the siren herself.’ He raised a hand in greeting pushing his wide brimmed hat to the back of his head as he did so. His tone was gentle and yet there was an undercurrent that if asked he would have been unable to explain. ‘Sir, I have no wish to appear rude,’ began Isabeau, her stance giving the lie to her words. ‘But I must respectfully ask that you explain your actions.’ ‘My actions?’ queried the stranger an eyebrow rising in amusement. ‘What actions would those be little siren?’ ‘Trespassing of course!’ exclaimed Isabeau, the disdainful angle of her chin giving way to a pout of frustration. ‘And please stop referring to me as a siren. I am as real as you are, and a damn sight more respectful I might add.’ All thought of remaining aloof and ladylike forgotten, Isabeau strode closer her finger held as a weapon before her; anger carrying her to within a foot or two of the stranger. She stopped, flustered, unprepared for the sheer physical presence of him, and something else. She had not been totally sheltered throughout her twenty two years; she had flirted and courted, even fancied herself in love for a few brief months. Yet this feeling, this instant recognition showed those past loves for what they were, frivolous, fun and very shallow. ‘My name is John Tucker.’ He spoke softly, soothingly as one would a skittish colt. ‘I am here at the invitation of your father. I am to work for him during the summer to pay for my school fees. I am to travel to England in the autumn so it seems we must try to be friends until then. Can we manage that do you think Isabeau Lamont?’ ‘I think we could be civil John Tucker, I believe it would not be too wearisome.’ Isabeau took a step back, attempting to pull back into harness her once orderly thoughts. A heartbeat was all it took to convince her that life had been changed forever.
‘That was a beautiful summer wasn’t it John?’ she asked leaning back into her chair her energy almost spent. ‘It was the perfect summer Isabeau.’ He replied. ‘And then you left me.’ It was a whisper almost too low to hear but the pain of those words drove into his soul finding the darkness there, taunting, jeering; dancing a demons jig upon the edges of a wound beyond healing. ‘Isabeau...’ John hesitated. ‘It’s okay John, truly it is.’ Isabeau sighed. ‘I understand now, I think I probably always did, but it hurt so much the first time. There was a catch in her voice as her thoughts took her to the end of the perfect summer.
They stood facing each other less than an arm’s length apart and yet worlds separated them. ‘I cannot follow you John Tucker.’ ‘I know my siren.’ ‘And yet you will still go?’ Isabeau knew she was being unfair. They would have the summer together and no regrets to follow, that was their pact. Such an easy thing when the oranges filled the air offering their promises of sweet delight and the green bowers willingly gave their shelter to young lovers lazily content to discover the wonderment of each other. All too short a time when the last of the oranges are sent away, the sirens call has faded and the once lush grove a stark and naked forest offering no comfort. She wanted to be brave, to smile and laugh and wish him safe journey but the words would not come and the smile cowered inside her. ‘Yes, I will still go.’ John tilted her chin so that he could place a kiss on lips salted with tears cried alone. ‘You must call to me and I will return for no man can resist his siren’s call.’ He jumped into the back of her father’s pickup truck, thumped twice on cabs roof and without looking back he set off for England. Over the years Isabeau called him home across the oceans. He knew he was killing her slowly. Not physically, but there are other ways to die. She lived a half life waiting for his return and yet he could not do otherwise; could not be less than he was and neither could she.
The light was failing and the dust motes gone; almost time. John turned as the door was opened tentatively. A lass of about twenty held out her hand in greeting. ‘Hello, I believe my mother mentioned I would be coming. I’m Lucia.’ John shook the offered hand and gazed in wonder at the face of his daughter.
Isabeau And John • Opuss № I