There is a part one, chapter ten; but it's entirely sad and rather preachy and I've decided to drop it from the Literotica version. The intelligent reader will be able to reconstruct all the action of that chapter from reading part two.
Chapter One: La Grande Voiture Jaune
Andrew turned the ignition key, and the rumble of the straight six died. In the sudden silence, the ticking of the cooling engine seemed loud.
Beside the old steamer pier, a new concrete slipway stretched down to the water. At the bottom, a demobbed Normandy landing craft waited, ramp down, two ex-army lorries and one car already aboard. A young man stood by the end of the ramp, looking contemplative.
Andrew walked over. "It's a fine afternoon, for the time of year."
"Aye," said the man. "It is not a bad one. You will be wanting a ticket for Islay?"
"No," said Andrew. "Just stopping by for old time's sake."
"That car of yours - I think I saw its like in Algiers?"
Andres looked at him more closely. "Desert rat?" he asked.
"Aye, I was invalided out after El Alamein."
"Aye, well, you're right," said Andrew. "The car's a Citroen. I've driven her back from Marseilles."
The young man looked impressed. "Some drive," he said.
"Aye," said Andrew. "Would you know who stays at the old house at Auchencorun now?"
"Auchencorun? They do say that Lady Campbell is still alive, but she has not been seen in my days. Miss Fiona's still there, and Miss Seonaidh. You will see them about in an old green Morris whiles. But they keep quiet. I hear they've some land girls, forbye."
"Miss Fiona's there? Well, my friend, thank you kindly. It would be good to see her again."
"You'll be needing directions?"
"Back towards Tarbert, turn left, half a mile, left again by a wee cottage, five miles?"
"Aye, the wee cottage is a ruin now, and the track's not good. But ye'll dae fine."
Andrew thanked him, and walked back to the car, opening the door and sinking into the comfortable seat. He turned the ignition key, and at once the engine rumbled into life. He made a wide turn, and headed back up the road.
The track was, in fact, not nearly so bad as Andrew remembered it; the ruts not so deep, the vegetation between them not so high. There were potholes, yes, but the long smooth suspension of the Citroen coped easily, and the miles passed swiftly.
He stopped for a moment where a wee streamlet crossed the road, and, wetting his handkerchief, carefully wiped his face. He took off his jacket and folded it neatly on the passenger seat; under it he wore a submariner's knitted jersey. It would do. Distantly along the shore, he heard the beating of a gong.
The rumble of the straight six echoed back off the grey granite frontage of the house. Andrew braked to a stop at the foot of the steps, switched off the ignition, swung open the door, and stepped out.
As he did so the front door opened, and framed a young woman with blazing red hair wearing a pair of dungarees over a work shirt several sizes too big.
"Good afternoon," said Andrew, "I wonder if Miss Fiona Campbell would be at home?"
The red-haired girl smiled. "I'm Fiona Campbell, but you'll be wanting my aunt. Come in, I'll go and find her. You'll take tea?"
The drawing room was much as he remembered it, at first sight. Untidier; papers and books piled on the dresser, and spilling off small tables.
And then he looked at the overmantel, and his eye was caught. He walked, slowly, not quite believing, over to it. He knew the painting. Of course he knew it. He'd painted it. Fiona, naked, lying in sunlight, her back to the viewer, curled on a golden autumn leaf drift. Painted, he remembered, after the last time they'd met: after that awful, bleak, cold day at his father's funeral, when they'd both tried to bridge the gulf between them, and failed. He remembered where he'd last seen it, in the shed in the shipyard where he'd left all thing things from his flat to await the auctioneer, when he'd left Scotland, when he'd sailed south.
He remembered the photograph it had been painted from: taken on a bright October day in 1919, in the glade where he had deflowered her a month before. It was one of a series; he remembered them all, as they had re-enacted that coition with the little folding camera she'd urged him to buy on its flimsy tripod, and the bulb release in her hand. Both he and Fiona had -- or had had, he certainly had his, although three had bullet holes through them from the Stuka attack on *Fliodhais* -- prints of each of them.
But this, the most innocent of them, the least explicit, was the one he had made into a painting, a painting that had hung over his bed in the flat in Dumbarton from the day it was finished until the day he had left.
How had it got here? It didn't really matter: what mattered was that she had chosen to hang it, not in a private room, but in the most public room in the house.
His mouth was dry.
Behind him, the door opened. He turned.
