Remembering The Fallen 1

Foreword

I'm grateful to Randi for inviting me to take part in the Literotica writing event in December 2021, titled "

The Art of Falling

". This short story is my contribution. The "falling" is in reference to falling in love, so there's a lot of love in this story, but not a lot of explicit sex. Inspired by some true events, this is nevertheless a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people, whether living or dead, is purely coincidental.

*

The old kirkyard is in rural Stirlingshire, which is known as "The Heart of Scotland".

The small church, or 'kirk' in the Scots language, is a couple of hundred years old, as are some of the gravestones surrounding it. The kirkyard, with the church and its attendant graves, is set apart from the nearby village. It's at the end of a narrow lane, bounded by a sturdy stone wall and sheltered from the prevailing west wind by a row of gnarly old oak trees. The wrought iron gates of the kirkyard open onto a short path leading to the main door of the church. Most of the inscriptions on the older gravestones and headstones in the kirkyard are almost illegible, having been worn away from many decades of exposure to wind and rain.

The black granite headstone of this particular grave was from a more modern era and the inscription, inlaid in gold lettering, was clearly legible, showing the name of the deceased. I didn't have permission to scatter my old friend's ashes here, but it was a cold, grey, midweek day in November and it was the middle of nowhere, so I was hopeful no one would interrupt me.

In the middle of a graveyard, surrounded by the dead, I considered myself fortunate to still be fit and healthy. Unlike my old friend, I might soon reach my 'three score years and ten' and I hoped fate would allow me to enjoy good health and happiness for many more years to come.

Quietly and determinedly, I went about my business under the leaden skies, scraping a shallow little trench around the grave with my trowel. I intended to pour the ashes into the trench and then cover them up with the soil I had excavated. No one would be any the wiser.

You might believe it would be easily done, but scattering the last mortal remains of a dead relative or friend is not a task to be undertaken lightly. You might imagine a small tin, possibly no bigger than a tobacco tin, containing a fine, grey dust that could easily be dispersed in the wind and might cover a few square feet. The reality is very different. The cylindrical canister that had been delivered to me by the crematorium measured fourteen inches in length and five inches in diameter. It weighed almost exactly seven pounds and the contents were more like coarse sand than dust or ash. There was a considerable quantity of 'cremains', hence the need to do a bit of work with my little garden trowel.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing?" a woman's strident voice suddenly came from behind me. Just my bad luck, I thought, as I dropped my trowel and slowly stood up, turning to face her. I had been caught fair and square and there was no point in pretending I was undertaking some routine gardening or maintenance work. The grey canister standing by the grave was a dead giveaway, if you pardon the pun.

"Please forgive me," I said, addressing the woman, who was casually dressed in jeans and a field green waterproof jacket. I noticed she was fairly tall, with brown, shoulder-length hair, and appeared to be middle-aged, possibly in her early forties. "It's not as bad as it looks. Actually, I'm just trying to right a wrong from years ago and I'd be happy to explain if you'll let me."

"I doubt anything you say will make a difference. That grave and the ones next to it belong to my family and only our family members are interred there. Their names are on the headstones."

"Yes, I know," I replied. "I've been here once before and I know about your family. In fact, Maggie Murray was a good friend of mine. I have to say, you look very like her."

"You knew my aunt?" the woman exclaimed, clearly astonished.

"I knew her very well," I said. "We were at University together many years ago."

"I never met her," the woman sighed. "My name's Ann Margaret Thomson. Everyone calls me Annie, but my mother named me after her sister, Maggie. My parents and grandparents rarely spoke about her, so I don't know much about her."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Annie," I said. "Your aunt was a wonderful woman and if you have some time to spare I would be happy to tell you a bit about her. Then you'll understand what I'm doing here. I'm Colin Stewart, by the way."

"Well, Colin, somehow I have the feeling you can be trusted and I'd like to learn more about my aunt. The doors of the church are unlocked during daylight hours, so let's go inside and you can tell me your story."

*

I first met Maggie Murray when we studied French and German at Stirling University in the late seventies. We were all teenagers and green behind the ears, but Maggie had a gracefulness about her that enhanced her natural beauty and intelligence, giving her an air of youthful wisdom. Her brown hair framed her pale face, distinguished by hazel eyes gleaming with good humour. She was about 5' 10", which was quite tall compared to other women in those days, and she became a regular on the women's hockey team. All in all, she was a real bonnie lassie.

During the first year of our studies I didn't see much of Maggie, apart from when our paths crossed at tutorials or lectures. All I knew was that she came from a village somewhere in Stirlingshire and stayed at home during her first year at University. I later learned from Maggie that her parents were stern Calvinist Presbyterians, whose God held them in thrall with the prospect of eternal damnation. Maggie's father was a bullying authoritarian and the slightest misbehaviour by his two daughters as they grew up resulted in severe spankings and lectures about burning in hellfire for their sinful transgressions. Maggie's older sister, Jean Murray, escaped the parental home by marrying Willie Thomson, a young man from the same area who was approved by her parents.

Maggie had problems getting to the campus during the winter months of our first year at University, due to adverse weather and unreliable rural bus services. Her parents reluctantly agreed she could stay on campus from the beginning of second year. In those days student accommodation on campus was single sex, so Maggie's parents were satisfied her room was in a 'women only' block and she would be safely locked away from the unwanted attentions of young men. Nevertheless, she still had to return to her parental home every weekend and attend church with the family every Sunday before returning to the campus on Monday morning.

From the beginning of that second year I shared a small apartment close to the campus with James Aitken, who was also studying French and German. James was an incredibly clever young man who had managed to escape from difficult and impoverished family circumstances in a deprived area of Glasgow. He had studied hard at school and had spent countless extra hours studying in the local public library to ensure he got the grades he needed for University. He wasn't a genius, but he was very intelligent and adept at learning French and German, which meant he invariably scored top marks when exam time came around.

James was small of stature, but he was very fit and had bags of energy. Having spent so much time on his own before coming to University, he was a bit of a loner. He wasn't interested in team sports and preferred to play squash. I think squash appealed to him, because that particular sport allowed him to take out any frustrations by battering the hell out of a wee rubber ball a few times a week. Despite a fierce competitive streak, outside the squash court James was one of the nicest people you could hope to meet. He was a good listener, often helping fellow students with problems or issues to do with our studies. I fell into that category and benefited from his mentoring, but I returned the favour by becoming a good friend and sharing an apartment with him.

At this point I should explain that although I very much appreciated Maggie Murray's good looks, by second year I had found myself a steady girlfriend, with whom I was deeply in lust. Caitlin was a wee, red-haired firecracker, with sparkling green eyes and an impish grin. I really thought she was 'the one', so I wasn't sizing up anyone else as a potential girlfriend. Maggie was a good friend and classmate, but I wasn't interested in her romantically. Her platonic status in my book was reinforced when I became aware that James Aitken had fallen in love with Maggie Murray and she was equally smitten with him.

Maggie and James seemed to be drawn to one another, almost as if there was some sort of gravitational force at work. Their love for one another wasn't the result of a sudden impulse or a sudden impact, like a bolt of lightning or a meteorite strike. It started gradually with some friendly companionship over an occasional lunch in the students' cafeteria, comparing notes from tutorials and lectures. From there, they progressed to also meeting up for drinks in the students' bar a couple of evenings every week. I don't know exactly when Maggie and James first kissed, but I think it must have been towards the end of autumn term in second year.

When we returned to campus in early January for the spring term of our second year, everyone saw the light of love in their eyes when Maggie and James looked at one another. This was no simpering, cheesy gaze, cast at one another with the main aim of excluding whoever else was present. Instead, it was almost like an aura that brightened up their surroundings by bringing a positive vibe to those around them. In case you're wondering, no hallucinogens were taken by anyone who witnessed this phenomenon. It was simply pure and true, undiluted love.

It's difficult to explain why the love that Maggie and James had for one another was so special. I can only offer an analogy that might seem ridiculous on first consideration, but perhaps paints a picture readily understood by just about anyone.

Imagine you like pizza. In fact, imagine there's nothing you like to eat more than a char-grilled chicken and pineapple, stuffed crust, sourdough pizza from one of those big name restaurant franchises found almost anywhere. Now imagine I take you to Italy, to Naples, to the home of pizza, to the oldest pizzeria. The pizza dough is spun by hand and the pizzas sizzle in a traditional wood-fired oven, which is lined with lava rocks from nearby Mount Vesuvius. The smell of the pizza makes your mouth water and the taste of the pizza is truly amazing; the sensations almost overwhelming your taste buds. By comparison, any bogus impersonator, such as your chicken and pineapple fast food concoction, pales into utter insignificance.

How did I come up with such a strange analogy, comparing love to pizza? Compared to James and Maggie, what Caitlin and I had was a cheap, fast food substitute for the real thing. As time passed, this became increasingly obvious to me. There was nothing wrong with the sex. Caitlin and I fucked like rabbits whenever we got the chance. Caitlin knew how to get the best out of me and liked nothing better than an energetic humping. It was almost as if sex was some sort of extreme sport for her. Don't get me wrong. I thoroughly enjoyed our horizontal jogging and I appreciated her enthusiasm and how she strove to improve our sexual technique. Her blowjobs were wonderful and I will never forget the first time she took me right to the edge with her mouth on my cock and then shoved a finger up my arse. I came like an express train.

Although our sex life was pretty good and there was plenty of physical activity between the sheets, there was little chemistry between Caitlin and me. We were like ships passing in the night; in communication from time to time, but not really close. I ditched her shortly after she returned from a geography field trip to Italy that spring. As well as becoming thoroughly familiar with various terrains during the trip, she had become thoroughly familiar with Terence, a fellow geography student. From what I was told, they had been banging loudly every night, like a shithouse door in a force ten gale, so her dalliance with another man wasn't just a brief mistake.

Meanwhile, Maggie and James had an entire chemistry lab's worth of love fizzing and bubbling. James was Maggie's rock, providing her with strength and inspiration, and she was his window on the world, keeping him connected and involved. They were devoted to one another and they spent their time together as productively as possible. Even in the silence of the University library, studying side by side at a table, they were together, exchanging occasional reassuring touches and tender glances from time to time.

Living alongside Maggie and James, I learned the difference between lust and love. In later years that experience helped me find the woman who became my wife and the love of my life.

Apart from studying in the University library and her room on campus, Maggie did a lot of her academic assignments and revision for exams during the weekends when she was at her parents' house. In Maggie's absence, James studied during weekends, but he also worked as a barman in a local pub on Friday and Saturday evenings. He could have had more of a social life, but studying and working at weekends meant he had more time together with Maggie during the week.

During the summer between second and third year, Maggie and James attended a six week course at the University of Montpellier in the south of France. They more or less lived together in student accommodation near the campus, studying French language and literature during the week and spending their weekends at the beach.

When they returned to Scotland, James got a temporary job working in a garage in Stirling until the start of the autumn term. By the end of that summer he had managed to acquire a used Ford Anglia. The little car must have been at least fifteen years old and had seen better days, but James had sufficient skills and experience to maintain it in roadworthy condition.

Maggie kept her room in the student accommodation on campus in third year, but she was sleeping with James by then. She stayed overnight at our apartment during the week and she kept many of her clothes and personal items there. Depending on our schedules, the three of us often shared an evening meal together.

My social life was fairly busy at that time and I usually spent Wednesday evenings at the University folk club, drinking beer and listening to whichever local group was playing. Maggie and James made the most of having the apartment to themselves on those evenings. I know that for certain, because the folk club was cancelled at the last moment one evening and I came home unexpectedly. The bathroom door was unlocked and I walked in on them. I quickly retreated and afterwards the three of us more or less pretended it hadn't happened. However, I never forgot the sight of Maggie's milky white breasts being cupped lovingly by James as she leaned back against him in the bath. That brief glimpse of their intimacy is a special memory for me; a moment of love and tenderness, rather than lustfulness.

One weekend, as she was getting ready to leave her parents' home and return to the University campus, Maggie broke the news that she had a steady boyfriend. She went on to tell them she wanted to spend some of her weekends with him, instead of visiting them. From what Maggie later told James and me, there was a very heated discussion, during which her angry father called Maggie all sorts of horrible names. According to him, Maggie was a Jezebel, a harlot, a whore of Babylon and so on. Needless to say, Maggie's relationship with her parents went downhill from there on.

In an attempt to help mend bridges with her family, James drove Maggie to her parents' house most Sunday mornings. Despite her mother's entreaties, her father insisted that Maggie would never darken their doorstep while she was living in sin with James. This obstinate insistence that she be denied access to her parental home meant Maggie's relationship with her father remained very strained, although her mother prevailed upon him to allow Maggie to attend church with the family. This was acceptable to Maggie's father, as it constituted an effort to save her soul, so Maggie joined them outside their house on Sunday mornings to walk to church with them and sit in the family pew.

Having dropped Maggie off at her parents' house, James stayed well away for the next couple of hours, waiting patiently in his little car until the church service ended and Maggie rejoined him. Sometimes they went for a walk in the Stirlingshire countryside afterwards, before heading back to the apartment.

Maggie and James graduated with honours on a sunny day in June at the end of their final year at University. Maggie soon got a job working in Vienna for UNICEF, the United Nations Children's Agency. James went with her and got a job working for a press agency there. They rented a small flat close to the centre of the Austrian capital and enjoyed exploring the "City of Music", which had been home to the likes of Beethoven and Mozart. There was no shortage of cultural events to enjoy, with magnificent baroque palaces, classical music concerts, theatre and opera. The city's extensive tram network operates throughout Vienna and its immediate surroundings, so there was no need for them to buy a car.

A few years later my wife Helena and I honeymooned in Vienna. It was early summer and the weather was lovely. We had plenty of time to ourselves, but we also met up with Maggie and James when they were not at work. They showed us around many of the sights and took us to a wine tasting at a vineyard on the outskirts of the city. Everywhere was reachable by the ubiquitous tram. Maggie had just turned 28 and she proudly showed us the brand new Sony Walkman that James had given her as a birthday present. Helena and I had a wonderful time in Vienna and returned to Scotland, ready to start our married life and pleased to have experienced a taste of the good life that Maggie and James were making for themselves.

In late September that same year Maggie was walking home one afternoon from an appointment with her doctor. She had pulled the hood of her jacket up to protect her from the chilly autumn wind and she was enjoying classical music playing through the headphones of her Walkman. She had just been given the news that she was in the early stages of pregnancy. James knew Maggie had scheduled a doctor's appointment, but he had no idea she was getting a pregnancy test. Maggie was probably thinking how happy James would be to learn he was going to be a daddy.

Trams are the backbone of Vienna's public transport network and they run in both directions on the city's streets, even those that are designated 'one way' for all other traffic. After all, the trams were there long before anyone came up with the idea of 'one way' streets.

Maggie's peripheral vision was blocked by the hood of her jacket and she was likely distracted by both her thoughts about impending motherhood and Tchaikovsky's 1812 overture playing through her headphones. With the thunder of cannons and the peal of church bells ringing in her ears as the overture reached its noisy crescendo, Maggie checked for traffic coming along the street from one direction, but stepped in front of a tram coming from the other direction. She evidently hadn't heard the rumble of the approaching tram or its warning bell.