‘You’re kneeling on the hassock my mum embroidered of a lamb, that’s nice. She’d have been pleased.’
He put an arm round Niall’s still shaking shoulders.
‘Sorry to be such a wuss,’ Niall gulped. ‘It was just having no one turn up except Major Cunliffe. He said I ought to pack it in, I’d lost the hearts of the people here.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Woody, then, looking up to the roof: ‘Sorry, God. Don’t listen to the insensitive bastard. You saved my horse chestnut, now I’m going to save you.’
Standing on the check-tiled aisle, they gazed at each other. Their mouths, one trembling, one smiling and reassuring, were so close, their eyes meeting, the next moment they were in each other’s arms, for a kiss that went on and on and on, until they were both giddy.
‘You may kiss the bride,’ murmured Woody. ‘Don’t be frightened, nothing so miraculous as that could be blasphemous. I’ve wanted to do that for such a long time.’
‘Have you?’ said Niall in amazement. ‘Oh Woody.’
‘Come home for a fry-up,’ Woody took his hand, ‘my mum’s been taken out for the day.’
Inside the church, the candles burnt on.
Outside in the churchyard, Niall praised the limes Woody had pollarded so beautifully, like women in tight dresses spilling out at the knee because the leaves shoot like mad round the base. Piling into the stump-grinding van, they rolled back to the Salix Estate.
‘I’ll tell everyone you’ve come to talk to me about Mum,’ said Woody, locking the front door and leading Niall straight upstairs, where light filtered through already drawn curtains on to an unmade bed. The shelves were filled with books on trees, the walls adorned with photographs of more trees including one of the Willowwood Chestnut in spring, its candles driven crooked by the rough winds of May.
There was no more time to look. Niall was shivering like a poplar, but didn’t resist as Woody pulled off his surplice and black shirt, and slowly kissed him on each shoulder.
‘You’ve got a great body.’
‘I must sound more of a wuss than ever,’ muttered Niall through desperately chattering teeth, ‘but I’m a virgin.’
‘Very right and proper,’ said Woody, ‘I don’t like slags. I can break you in as I like.’
Niall’s trousers fell to the floor as Woody pulled off Niall’s shoes and socks. His spectacles were the last thing to go.
‘You’re so beautiful, Woody.’
‘You’re certainly not a beast, Niall, you just need building up physically and spiritually, and that is a great penis.’
Dropping to his knees, Woody put his beautiful lips over Niall’s cock, sucking and licking, then gently parting his buttocks and probing and jabbing with his right hand, until Niall gasped and gave a sob and shot into Woody’s mouth.
This was the only breakfast Woody had until four o’clock in the afternoon, when he cooked bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes and black pudding for himself and Niall.
Niall, his eyes drowsy with love, wearing Woody’s red and black dressing gown, a present from Etta, said, ‘Do you think what we’ve done is terribly wrong?’
‘Terribly right,’ said Woody, pouring himself another cup of dark brown tea, ‘because we love each other.’
Niall had to dress very fast and pretend he was just making a social call on Woody’s mum, when her carer brought her back.
Woody insisted on walking Niall home.
‘You oughtn’t to go out without your dog collar,’ were his parting words. ‘I’m going to microchip you, so I never lose you. I love you, Mr Forbes.’
77
Term came to an end at Greycoats, bringing home not only Drummond and Poppy but also a beautiful patchwork rug made for Mrs Wilkinson by the children of Willowwood. It was snugly lined with felt and had a weeping willow embroidered by Tilda on each side.
The presentation was made to Mrs Wilkinson as she hung over the dark blue half-door of Valent’s former office. Chisolm was presented with a straw hat which she promptly ate, reducing the children to helpless laughter. Both Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm consumed so many treats, it was surprising their good and bad legs still held them up.
‘When’s she going to run again?’ the children pleaded.
Poor Tilda looked very tired, thought Etta, who hoped she would get a break now, then remembered that she had to organize Shagger’s holiday lets during their busiest time, which meant five or six lots of sheets a week, and seeing the house was clean and tidy. Judging by the wilting balloons on the gate of Shagger’s cottage and empties which included a case of Jacob’s Creek, twelve