Spirit  of  Ecstasy
by Carolyn Charles

CHAPTER  ONE.    This is how the first chapter begins:         

‘Bloody hell!' Jackie threw her car keys at the hall table where they promptly slid off the other end. 'Oh shit!' She manoeuvred herself behind the table to retrieve them. She banged them down this time. ‘Now stay.'

She jerked open the lounge door, threw her coat on the faded chintz sofa and flopped down beside it.

Jill, her flatmate, scrunched up her brows from her letter writing. She was crouched over in a huge arm chair. 'You're back early. I thought you were going flying?'.

Jackie's sessions at the flying club always finished in the wee hours. After dusk, when all the planes were put to bed, the whole crowd would troop into the bar at the far end of the hanger and play crazy games as they became more and more sozzled. They reminded her of birthday parties when she was a kid, like pass the orange under your chin, or the coat hanger to be threaded through your clothes, or charades. They were a crazy lot at the gliding club.

She had joined the club by accident. She only went to the Bank to get a small loan for a new hang glider. The bank manager had been so taken with her bright personality and gangly, coltish body that he asked if she wanted to have a go at ‘real’ gliding. Never one to turn down an offer, she tried it and loved it -- and spent many weekends at the club. Terry, the bank manager, had been somewhat persistent at first in his desire to claim her his property, but she felt he eventually got the message. At thirty-five he was, after all, much too old for her, and he was terribly old fashioned. It made her shudder to think of the few times he'd managed to grab her in the dark of the hangar after one of their late night sessions.

Jackie's coquettish face hardened as she reached for a cigarette from her bag. She lit it and flicked her long hair impatiently from her face. She stood up, pacing the lounge floor behind the sofa. 'God. I'm bloody angry, Jill.' She turned and looked at her dumpy friend, eyes ablaze. 'Shit, shit, shit. That bloody Martin. What a bloody cheek. Probably wants Terry for himself. Bloody queer.'

Jill interrupted. 'Care to fill me in?'     

Jackie exhaled deeply, swung round and continued to wear the carpet out behind the sofa. 'I've been booted out of the flying club.'

'My God! Did you crash a plane?'

'Nothing so simple and mundane, my dear.' Jackie inhaled on her cigarette deeply, then blew a cloud towards the ceiling. 'No, it seems I've broken Terry's blessed heart.'

'Eh?' Jill paid proper attention now. She put down her pen.

'Oh yes. It seems he thought I was his property! Hells bells, Jill, he's my bloody bank manager, not a prospective bed fellow! I wouldn't give him a leg over if he were the last man on earth.'

‘But he did take you gliding?'

'Oh yes, but I never said anything about being his woman! Jesus, do I have to do it with my accountant or solicitor just because they’re doing me a service? He was going to take advantage of me. He was my bank manager who just happened to ask if I wanted to go gliding since he knew I was interested in flying.'

'Calm down, girl. What happened exactly?' Jill put down her writing pad. She drew up her legs onto the chair and cuddled her apple-pie knees. She was used to her friend’s outbursts and composed her round moonface into a sympathetic expression.

‘Martin, one of the founder members of the gliding club, took me aside tonight and said that as Terry had been a founder member, he and another founder member felt they should stick by him. They said they regarded me as Terry's bird since he introduced me to the club -- but that some of the other guys were obviously interested and it was embarrassing for Terry, not to mention painful. So, I was either to get it on with Terry or go.' She took another gulp of smoke. 'Well, you can imagine what I said!'

'Yes, Jacks, I certainly can.' Jill looked suitably scandalised. She knew Jackie was not one to mince her words. 'So, what now?'

She finally sat down on the sofa. Pushing her tapering fingers through her long wavy hair she slumped back, stretching out her legs which looked especially long in tight jeans. 'I'm not sure. I suppose I can see Terry's point, but really! What an ass!’ She crinkled her nose. ‘There's always the club up the hill, you know, on the road to Scarborough. Bloody good for hang gliding too, I'd say, with that cliff.' She licked her lips. 'Yes, maybe I'll pop round on Sunday -- see if they have any room for little me.' 

Jill sighed. Living with Jackie was like living with a whirlwind. Still, it wasn't boring. Jackie stood up.

'You should come too. It's great fun.'

'Living with you is enough, thanks.'

'Coffee?'

'Ta.'

Jackie stopped at the door.  'And to think I turned down a date for tonight!'

Jill giggled. 'Not another cyber pet?'

'Yes, as a matter of fact.'

'I've never known anyone with so many fellas panting after her, yet she can't get enough. I just can't understand why you have to join a marriage bureau.'

'Compudate is not a marriage bureau! I'm not that desperate!'

'Oh, there are degrees of desperation, are there! What are you on the richter-desparado scale then -- three?'

Jackie scowled. She sometimes regretted telling Jill she'd joined Compudate. She thought she'd understand, or at best find it amusing, or at least feel sorry for her and not taunt her. She still wasn't sure why she'd joined herself -- life was just too short to mess about, she supposed. Her life was pretty full of men already but they weren't the right men. They were too tall, too small, too thin, too podgy, too young, too old, or just plain boring. She didn't want to get married, or so she told herself. She just wanted a friend she could really get on with, gel with -- not Jill her very best friend, but a male friend, a male friend who could be a counterpart to Jill.

'Look, you snotty bitch! I'll do as I please.' She shut the door with a bang, then opened it again to put her head around. 'In fact, I think I'll phone him back. See if he's free.' She flashed a sudden, winning smile and closed the door gently.

Jill slapped her forehead. 'Oh Jesus! Here we go again.' How many men had Jackie been out with from the computer dating agency? She's chasing rainbows, thought Jill. Mr Perfect doesn’t exist -- but try to tell her that!

* * *

The Boeing 747 banked as it began its descent towards Heathrow.

Richard Vance watched as the clouds thinned and streamed past the little window and over the metallic silver of the wing. The morning sunshine glinted on the wing and illuminated the clouds. Hope stirred in his breast. Far below the green fields began to show through. Then he was watching the familiar rows of red tenement houses, the pattern of blocks and winding streets inclining towards him. It was seven years since he had looked out on the same view. It had been receding, then, as he returned to South Africa with a London PhD safely tucked under his belt.

The intervening years hadn’t been happy and had just ended in divorce. They hadn’t been entirely unhappy, of course. But as those years had worn on and the inevitability of the divorce became clearer, he had become more and more despondent. He felt emotionally dead and called himself a burnt-out case and took little pleasure in life. His body continued to breathe as a matter of course. But now, as the plane levelled out and a warning ‘ping’ called the air crew to their seats, a new excitement lurched in his breast.

Pat would be waiting for him at the airport.                                                                                   

The thought was like brandy in his veins. He called to mind, again, the studio photograph she had sent him -- her legs crossed, her chin cupped in her hands, the soft gold of her eyes beneath the honey blonde hair. It troubled him that her black silk blouse blended so completely with the black background, for he’d like to have seen her waist. Nevertheless, she was perfect. He heard, again, the golden bubbles of her laughter that came across the world when, in a daring moment, he had phoned her from South Africa. ‘I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!’ she kept saying. But she had known, instinctively, that it was his call when the phone rang, as she confessed in her next letter.

It was delightful, hearing her voice -- not only on the phone, but on the tape cassette she had sent him. There her laughter kept bubbling, too, because she was self-conscious about recording her voice. ‘Oh, it’s easy for you,’ he heard her saying, ‘you being a scientist. You’re used to it!’ Her voice was musical, so unusual, the accent so different from the flat Transvaal vowels he was used to hearing. It could even be described as picturesque, he thought.

The aircraft shuddered under the decelerating effect of the wing flaps. Below the clouds the sun was no longer shining. Electric motors whined as metal plates slid smoothly into new positions on the riveted wing. Richard watched raindrops spray off the leading edge that cut into the damp London sky.

Yes, he thought with amusement, it was certainly a strange thing for a nuclear physicist like himself to do. It was the start of his sabbatical leave, though he was coming to Britain for his holiday since the Pelindaba Nuclear Research station in South Africa had involved him with the highly secret arrangement to ship a new form of enriched uranium to the nuclear plant in Dounreay in Scotland. For this purpose it had been arranged for him to be based in a quiet Scottish glen north of Glasgow where contacts with officials from Dounreay could be made without attracting particular notice.

But what would his fellows security-conscious scientists say if they knew he was about to be met by a computer-selected date? Well, he thought defensively, he had gone about the whole business like a serious scientist. He had filled in the computer questionnaire very strictly. He had eliminated from choice the selection of women who, in the slightest way, failed to come up to the ideal he had in mind.

Well, why not? It wasn’t just to meet girls. Here was a chance, for once, to put into practice a scientific principle. If it were just girls you wanted, you could meet them anywhere. Pick them up on the plane, no doubt. Though, he had to admit, he’d never picked up anyone. He was much too shy for that. In any event, he’d carefully eliminated short girls, fat girls, unattractive girls, girls who smoked, girls who were not conservative, who were atheists or agnostic, and who were not Protestant.

He was impressed by the detailed nature of the questionnaire. You could specify qualities like home-loving, the kind of house you wanted her to like (a country cottage instead of a penthouse flat or town house), and the kind of music she should enjoy. A tailor-made woman, in short. There was even a block that specified what her favourite pet was to be -- a cat. hound, goldfish, and so on.

But the combination of sociological, psychological and personality information wasn’t aimed to produce a match based on maximum similarity of character. Needs and interests that complemented one another were the real basis of compatibility. And a compatible match, Compudate’s publicity literature explained, ‘is a pair of people who have a high probability of being mutually attracted.’

That meant, Richard thought with rising excitement, that the woman waiting for him in the airport was -- for him -- the perfect woman! She would be a country-loving, gentle person who liked to travel, who enjoyed the theatre and liked literature. A girl who was no older than thirty -- he was thirty-five -- who liked children, who was a good cook, was not more than five feet and eight inches tall and not less than five feet and five inches short, who was slender and considered herself attractive. And -- who didn’t smoke. She will have attended a private school, would have a good sense of humour, and -- most important - would be conservative and refined.

‘Good Lord!’ Bob had exclaimed three months ago. ‘You’re going to get Margaret Thatcher!’

Bob was Richard’s best friend. His dark eyebrows slanted upwards and outwards, expressing amused cynicism as he paged through Richard’s completed seven-page questionnaire.

‘Not at all,’ Richard had explained. ‘The computer is supposed to search its memory files for a woman that best complements me. Don’t you see? She’ll be the other half of the quince.’

‘Quince?’

‘Yes. The ancient Greeks believed we were once sexless -- a perfect whole, like a quince. But the gods cut up the quinces into male and female pairs, and since then we’ve all got hopelessly mixed up. We spend the rest of our lives searching for our other halves. The computer eliminates our ineffectual attempts to search. It practically makes courtship obsolete!’

‘But look at this!’ Bob objected, slapping the questionnaire. ‘Your bit of quince will be tall and skinny, all stretched out into nothing! I mean, five feet eight inches and only eight and a half stone! And you’ve excluded "Southern European and Latin!" Christ, Richard, don’t you like passion fruit? Your bit of quince has to be "Central or Northern European!" Do you call that complementary? You want something less quintessential and more quince-sensual, if you ask me!’

Richard laughed. ‘Well, there has to be a measure of similarity.’ He ran his fingers through his fair hair that stood up more untidily than usual.

‘You’ve used too many "noughts"!’ Bob shook his head, trying not to laugh at is friend’s serious attitude. ‘You should have used more "ones", or just left the blocks blank, to show you don’t mind, really. I mean, what’s it matter if she smokes, or is widowed or divorced, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Yes, well, I don’t want unnecessary complications, do I?’ He smiled thoughtfully as he fingered his dimpled chin.

The aircraft shuddered as its wheels hit the tarmac. Richard felt his body pressing against the seat belt and a great rumbling shook the plane. A woman’s metallic voice came through the overhead speakers: ‘Please remain in your seats until the aircraft has come to a complete stop.’ Airport buildings loomed outside, grey and shapeless through the raindrops that splattered and patterned against the window.

She was in there, somewhere, he thought, and some of the words from the computer dating literature ran through his head: ‘I have met the girl of my dreams through Compudate ... a match that couldn’t have been made better in heaven ... our compatibility is almost uncanny ... your microchips have done it again ...’

* * *

'Must be my lucky day after all!’ Jackie's smile was from ear to ear.

'Mmmm?'  Jill looked up from her writing pad.

'That was Greg on the phone -- from the flying club. He thinks it's awful what Martin and Terry did. Says he has friends at the club on Sutton Bank. He's taking me over for a formal introduction.’

'Formal introduction? Doesn't sound like you. Don't you normally just barge in?'

'Thanks!'

'Really, that's great. '  Jill smiled mischievously. 'I suppose Greg fancies you too!'

'Oh God!'  Jackie rolled her eyes.

'Mmmm?'

Jackie shook her head and spoke scornfully. ‘Greg's a weasel. He's about seventeen and pimply. His voice hasn't even broken.'

'Puppy love.'

'Oh God.' Jackie pushed her fingers through her hair, which had been scooped back into a band. Stray strands around her temples gave her a dishevelled look. 'Why aren't there any good looking guys around of about thirty! Where are they?'

'Married?'

'Not all, surely?'

'George next door.’ She stretched herself and half closed her eyes, smiling languorously. ‘He's beautiful.'

'Yuk! Reminds me of Richard Geere.'

'So?'

'You know.'

'What?'

'He has a penchant for hamsters.'

'But you like small furry things.'

'Depends where you like them.'  Jackie grimaced.

'For someone who's nose is constantly tarnished with newspaper print you're horribly uninformed.'

'Oh, never mind. He's too old for me anyway.'

'Who?'

‘Oh jeepers, Jackie. Richard Geere!’ She put her arms around her knees. ' I’ve at least got John.' She gave a sublime smile.

Jackie was about to leave the room and stopped. Turning, she looked at Jill. Yes, despite the fact that she was small and dumpy, she had a devoted man in tow who adored her. She pursed her lips in frustration. 'Yes, I'm aware of John. I don't know how you do it, Jill.'

'Oh, thanks, Jack.' She looked hurt.

Jackie blanched, realising the implication of her words. She spoke contritely: ‘Oh, Jill -- I didn’t mean it like that. I just don't meet anyone I really gel with. I think I'm frustrated.'

'That's easy enough to take care of.’ The corners of Jill’s mouth quirked into a smile.

'You know what I mean!'

'I thought you didn't want to settle down?'

'I don't. It's just -- ' she reached for a pack of cigarettes. ' -- I don't know. Must be my hormones. There's just something missing.'

'That's why you race around like a lunatic -- so you don't have time to think about the empty part of you.'

'You're being very philosophical.' Jackie drew on her cigarette meditatively.

'Well, think about it. Life doesn't have to stop just because you have a man, you know.'

'I know.’ She frowned. ‘I feel sort of empty but you can't fill an emptiness with a person. It wouldn't be fair to that person -- and what if that person leaves you?.'

'I think that's exactly what you should fill it with -- a person.' Jill smiled and shook her head. Jackie was such a scatter brain. She wouldn't see love it if hit her in the face. She'd just run the other way. It would have to grab her unawares..

* * *

‘Of course,’ Richard heard himself telling Bob, ‘she must have the golden key. That really is important.’

‘Golden what?’ Bob’s mouth hung open.

Richard’s blue eyes crinkled. ‘I mean, that magic something that makes you fall in love.’

Bob’s brows rose steeply in surprise. ‘And you expect a computer to find that for you!’

‘Well, if the combination of statistics is right, the magic spark ought to follow. It should come from the right combination of interests and needs and personality factors. Why do you think people fall in love in the first place?’ He smiled at the disbelief on Bob’s face.

‘What about sex?’ asked Bob, smiling cheekily. ‘That makes a pretty good key.’

‘Yes, but it’s not a golden key, is it?’ Richard sipped his whisky and leaned back in his chair. ‘The computer eliminates random sexual attraction. It eliminates chance. It gives us an opportunity to determine our lives. It puts us on a higher plane of choice -- or even destiny. Not like the destiny of dogs, for instance. They run after the nearest bitch on heat. We’re not just stimulus-response mechanisms, are we?’

Perhaps, Richard thought as the passengers around him began to shuffle and file out of the plane, that was why his marriage had failed in the first place. He had been drawn to the first young thing that happened to cross his path. She had roused his latent sexuality and romanticism. But it had been a tragedy for both of them -- a tragedy of circumstances that might have been avoided. He saw again, in his mind’s eye, the mischievous young face of his first love, the sparkling blue eyes and frizzy blonde hair. He compared it to the face it had become: the calculating steel-blue eyes that hid unshared secrets, the heavy jowls and the small mouth buried in double chins. They had planned together and schemed together -- but their latent incompatibility and diverging aims and needs had pulled asunder the first tender bud of their relationship.

Pat, on the other hand, was a perfect match, as far as he could tell from her letters. He grinned nervously at the air hostess who smiled warmly as he made his way out of the plane. Her short coifed blonde hair was curled at the ends, her voice crisp and clear: ‘Good bye, sir.’ Yes, she would do nicely, he thought, his pulse racing. But then it was doubtful her data would complement his. Nevertheless he hoped, secretly, that Pat would look as nice as her -- even if there were no doubt about Pat’s sociological and psychological data ...

Patricia. That’s how he addressed her in his letters. She replied in her characteristically bouncy style: ‘I’m not Patricia. That’s far too sophisticated. I’m Pat. You’ll see, when you meet me!’

* * *

Jackie put the phone to her mouth. 'Yes?' she asked demurely.

'Jackie, this is Winston Smith. You're on my list. Are you free for a date one night soon?' He rattled on without waiting for an answer. 'I know it's Sunday, but Sunday evenings can be so drab. Do you fancy a pint?'

'Well, when you put it like that maybe I do. Do you mind if I drink Guinness?'

Winston sounded surprised. 'No, not at all.'

'Winston?'

'Yes?'

'How tall are you?'

'Six foot two. I hope you like big men. I used to play rugby for Bradford.'

Jackie winced. 'Oh God. Are you going to talk rugger all night?'

'No, sweetheart,' he laughed. 'Not on the first date at any rate!'

Jackie felt immense relief that he was over five foot and had a sense of humour. Two points in his favour. 'Okay Winston. You're on. Should we meet at the pub?'

'No fear. What if I get the wrong woman? If you don't mind, I'll pick you up -- say about 8 p.m. How do I find you?'

Jackie gave him directions.

Jill stood leaning against the door post twining her Scandinavian blonde hair round plump fingers. ‘What happened to your resolve? Remember last night?'

'Oh Gawd! Don't remind me!' Jackie laughed. 'This guy has a sense of humour and doesn't mind if I drink Guinness.'

'Oh, so that's the latest criterion!'

Jackie pushed her fingers through her disheveled hair and sighed. 'I'm a sad case, aren't I Jill?'

Jill smiled her sweetest smile. She could afford to be magnanimous. She had her John, after all. For once she felt sorry for Jackie. When she first met her she was in awe of such a vivacious personality with so many men at her beck and call. She was even jealous. Over the months she came to know Jackie was not the scatter brained man-puller she appeared to be; she just didn't sit still and was a natural magnet for males -- the wrong type, it seemed. She wouldn't pass a street busker or a tramp or someone lying in a doorway without a word of cheer and 50p for a cup of tea. Lame birds and dogs, abandoned cats, run over rabbits and foxes sensed her coming. Living with Jackie was fine once you got used to it. And look how she had rescued Sarah who had recently joined their entourage! Jackie had found Sarah, a gawky girl barely eighteen living in a box outside Leeds station. An old man was trying to molest her. Jackie felt such outrage, she grabbed Sarah by the arm and brought her home. And Sarah never looked back. Jackie introduced her to the Oxfam shop up the road, gave her pocket money and food and got her a job in the sweetie shop downstairs. Jackie hadn't asked questions of Sarah which the girl appreciated. Sarah had an independent streak which Jackie liked, but she was also incredibly shy and frightened. She brought out Jackie's mothering instinct. Seven years is a big gap when you're twenty-five.

'Yes, Jackie.’ Jill spoke affectionately. "A sad case, you are. But the world would be poorer without you.' She smiled and went back to her writing in the lounge.

* * *

Pat was really going to be fun! Her style was lively, her personality bubbling. And she’d insisted on coming to the airport to meet him. ‘I’m going to run up and kiss you, right away!’ She was confident she would recognise him. And he had only sent her one small photo taken in a photo booth.

He stepped onto the moving walkway and drifted down the long corridor. People squeezed past him on the left, in a hurry to collect their luggage and meet their friends and relatives. His heart fluttered as he thought again of Pat, unknown yet familiar, waiting up ahead. He breathed deeply to steady his heartbeat. The grey morning light of London seeped through the tinted window panes that lined the corridor. Slowly, the walkway drew him closer to Pat, like an ineluctable destiny.

She had been the last of three names on his printout. He’d written the same letter to each of the girls, telling them how carefully they had been selected. His letter was long and frank, explaining the serious intention of his search for the ideal women. It was filled out with details concerning his large four-bedroomed house and swimming pool and caravan. He avoided details about the nature of his work as a nuclear physicist, but informed the selected and elected candidates even of his one-time involvement in lay preaching, and of his academic degrees. To say the least, the letter was presumptuous.

When he arrived at the luggage carousels his two suitcases were already circulating. They nudged and jostled against the anonymous suitcases and bags of anonymous travellers who grabbed their belongings with anonymous arms.

Yes, he thought, out of all the faceless people in the world the computer had selected the ideal partner. Into the anonymous sea of life it had thrown a pool of light, illuminating a golden girl with honey blonde hair.

It was ironic, he thought, that hers should have been the last of the three names on the printout. There should have been six, with addresses and telephone numbers, but because of his strict selection criteria he only received three. She had been the first to reply. ‘I’m getting this off quickly,’ she explained. ‘I’m staking my claim.’ And then had followed a correspondence which, had it not been for his own restraint, might already have blossomed into love. Her effusive enthusiasm was overwhelming. Her own parents, she explained, fell in love through their letters. Her father was on the war front when her mother wrote to him -- a letter to boost the morale of an unknown soldier. Pat explained: ‘Mummy says that when we meet it will be like we’ve always known each other.’ That’s how it had worked with her parents: they were married within a week of their meeting. She saw it as a blueprint for her own romance. But Richard was mildly alarmed by her impetuosity, delightful though it was. After all, he was thirty-five and his first marriage had hit the dust through impulsive action. He suggested caution and some restraint. ‘Don’t pin your hopes too high, Pat. The head must still rule the heart a little, I suppose.’ His words evoked effusive scorn: ‘Richard, you’ve paid your money and you must accept your lot. For my own part, my heart is in full control. Head be blowed!’

He loaded his two suitcases onto his luggage trolley. He balanced a smaller one on top. It was a small suitcase that he’d been asked to bring over for a medical student studying in London. It came from the student’s parents, and the young man’s aunt would be waiting to take delivery of it outside the arrivals gate.

Richard wondered who would be the first to see him. Pat -- or the student’s aunt, Grace Shepherd. He had known Grace and David Shepherd in his own student days in London -- a couple some ten years his senior. They belonged to a strict religious sect of which he was once a member, and from which he had since resigned -- or, as the sectarians preferred to put it, ‘fallen away.’ He liked Grace Shepherd but wasn’t terribly keen about seeing her again. She and her husband had heard via the sectarian grapevine that he had ‘fallen away.’ They would now regard him as a lost sheep.

But what was uppermost in his mind, now, was the eventful meeting with his perfect woman. His heart thumped as he manoeuvred the trolley past the customs counter. Far too soon he broke into the arrivals hall. He channelled the trolley between the rope guidelines.

Anonymous people crowded on the other side of the rope, staring dispassionately at him as they searched for their friends and relatives. Uniformed chauffeurs held up name cards. He took in the sea of faces at a glance. A loudspeaker was insistently calling a Mr Baxter to report to the enquiry desk.

He adjusted his expression to a suitable degree of nonchalance. The trolley had assumed a will of its own and was determined to veer into the rope and into the crowd. It took a determined effort to counteract its will with his own. And all the time he was keeping a watchful eye on the female faces. He progressed down the line, heart thumping, breathing deeply.

He saw a face, radiant with beauty, some paces ahead of him. His heart missed a beat.

Yes! She had thick golden hair. She was slender, too, in a close-fitting sky blue suit. A smile creased her soft cheeks as she looked at him. He drew level with her and breathed deeply, opening his mouth in a wide grin. The moment had come ...

But she was smiling past him and he saw that she had blue eyes -- not brown. She called out to someone behind him: ‘Keith darling!’ His heart twisted in disappointment.

His legs moved mechanically. Then he was past her, his lips holding on to the remnants of his smile.

But his heart was still beating high with hope. Why shouldn’t Pat be as nice or much nicer than her? He peered out of the corner of his eyes at the faces around him. He reached the end of the rope guideline.

Just then a figure swooped from behind, smearing a kiss on his cheek like the passing lick of a dog.

‘Hi!’ it said breathlessly. ‘Told ya ah’d kiss yer, din’ I?’

He turned and looked.

Oh, My God!

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