A single pair of car headlights pierced the mist that lay across the New Forest. They traced a path that was the only evidence of a road in the dark winter night. Even that light became obscured now as the car entered dense woodland then emerged again and came to a stop as they converged with the light that came from what appeared to be a lone cottage’s curtained window.
A light came on inside the car as the driver’s door and the nearside passenger door opened. The driver fetched a large holdall and a bulging rucksack from the boot and there was a short conversation as the passenger paid his fare. The taxi pulled away and the passenger shivered as he walked up the short, paved path and knocked on a painted white door that was dripping with condensation.
After a short wait, the door opened, and he could make out the figure of a tall woman silhouetted against the glare of the house lights. “Mr. Davis? Please come in.” said the figure.
“Pleased to meet you Mrs. Cook. Please, call me John.” he replied as he gladly stepped into the glow of the house. He felt a pang of guilt as his eyes adjusted to the light and he noticed that Mrs. Cook was in her night clothes.
“How was your journey?” she asked. Now that he could see her better, John guessed that she was in her mid-50s. She had a naturally full figure, but she had kept herself in good shape. He had been expecting her to be older, perhaps with difficulty moving when he had replied to her advert:
1 room Nomansland, £10/week – looking for someone to help me out over winter.
“I’m afraid my first train arrived late so I missed my connection. I’m sorry it’s so late,” he said.
“No need to apologise, it’s quite alright. I’m glad that you are here now. Let me show you to your room so that you can get settled in.” she said. The kindness in her words was undercut by the slightly stern manner of their delivery. Her eyes seemed unusually round and large which lent her a slightly doleful appearance. Her hair would once have been raven black, but a few streaks of grey meant that the locks that fell just beyond her shoulders were now charcoal.
The chill of the fog had thawed after a few minutes in the house and now he was starting to feel uncomfortably hot. Mrs. Cook’s dressing gown hung just above her knees which had a rosy glow in the warmth. She didn’t appear to be wearing make-up, but her lips put him in mind of ripe, juicy raspberries. He removed his coat and hung it on a hook by the door as she waited for him at the foot of some steep stairs.
“It’s just up here.” she said as she hefted his holdall over her shoulder and led the way. As he climbed behind her his gaze was drawn to the plump pink soles of her heels where they jutted out of her fluffy, red slippers and the taper of her strong ankles that led to the wide curves of her calves. He slowed his pace a little and dared to lift his gaze further. Even in the shadow of her nighty, the sight of her thick thighs made him giddy for a moment and he missed his step. “Mind how you go!” she called down without looking back.
His room was small with just a single bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a desk as furnishings. A narrow window looked out from the back of the house. The bed was dressed in tight layers of sheets and blankets rather than the duvet that John was accustomed to. Mrs. Cook spotted a corner of sheet that didn’t meet her standards. As she bent to tuck it in, her night clothes rode up and treated John to a glimpse of the perfect crescent of one of her cheeks and he took a sharp intake of breath. Her expression didn’t change as she straightened and turned to him. “I hope everything is to your satisfaction.” she said.
“Everything looks perfect.” he stammered “Very nice!”. Had she heard him gasp?
“Help yourself to anything that you like while you are here.” she said, still holding his gaze. Her expression was serious still but now John saw a twinkle in her big brown eyes that he had missed earlier. “I want you to enjoy your stay here. There’ll be some soup for you downstairs when you’ve unpacked.”
It didn’t take long to unpack. The door to the room opposite was open as he left his own room. The lights were off, but he could see a double bed in there. Mrs. Cook’s room he presumed. He saw a flash of orange against the pale sheets from the corner of his eye as he turned to go downstairs. It had only been a glimpse, but he was fairly sure that there had been a couple of carrots lying on the bed, one fat, the other somewhat thinner.
John asked Mrs. Cook how he could help when he got downstairs. “There’s nothing at the moment, thanks though.” she said. He sat trying to read a book at the kitchen table but found it increasingly hard to concentrate as Mrs. Cook’s big breasts jiggled as she rummaged in drawers for cutlery and her thighs came into view as she stretched to get the crockery. He shuffled awkwardly to the stove when she eventually asked him to stir the soup to try and disguise the obvious bulge in his trousers. He let out another small gasp when she inadvertently brushed the back of her hand against it when she reached for a tea towel. Obediently he stirred the pot, absent-mindedly noting that it was carrot soup.
Mrs. Cook watched John intently as he slurped down the soup. It was delicious. He hadn’t seasoned it, but it had a salty tang nevertheless and a perfumed flavour that he couldn’t identify. She beamed at him as he polished off his bowl and asked for the recipe. “All in good time John.” she said with a twinkle.