A searing sun caressed ripe and ready cornfields. Rich yellow heated to a dusted tawny. Tall stalks flaunted their swelling seed to the sun's power. Silence enveloped the land. Nothing moved---
Except Peter Grover, and he loved it all. Loved the heat, the scorching fecund fields, the dry aroma of sun-toasted corn, the quiet, the solitude. No people. Ideal for a solitary man. An official track lay two fields to the south, on his left. That was the joy of this walk along the boundary of corn. It was his alone. No one ever came this way
The lone piping of a curlew was an intrusion. Too hot for birdsong.
Gazing over the corn, Peter saw, to the south, the tawny shades merge with hazy blue on the far horizon. He would write about this when he got home. Sometimes he wished he could paint, to capture the essence of everything natural. Still, he was pleased he could put it into writing, use his own sense of imagery. Get yourself a notebook, he had told himself so many times. Inspiration was fleeting. Interpreting nature with his own words was his way, his ambition
At that moment, a lone, playful breeze rose from the west to set the corn gently swaying. 'Sensuous undulations of an aroused woman.' The imagery was in his head almost automatically. Would he remember it?
Just as quickly the breeze was gone. 'A fickle lover to another field.' Peter liked that one. But it needed writing down before he forgot.
Negotiating a jutting embankment, he found himself smiling ruefully at his choice of image. What did he know about an aroused woman? Maybe something seen on TV or at the cinema. But in reality? A tight- lipped kiss with Brenda Bowles, or a tentative hand over Betty Shields left breast while it was covered with a thick winter coat. Might as well have stroked a turnip in a sack. That summed up his experience. And they never came back for an extension of a relationship.
In other words, minimal contact, which is what he had with most of his school peers. He knew they found him different. Different tastes, different interests. Peter's deep interest in the way nature looked or acted was often far away from the more down to earth interests of others his age. Viewing this cornfield in sunlight was something close to perfection.
Being different had never been easy to take. He recalled a time, when he was eleven years. It was some celebration or other, and the house was full of relatives and friends, all merry, all well into their cups. An uncle had asked Peter, "Which do you prefer, Peter? Rugby or Soccer?" Before he could frame his own response his mother had blurted out.
"He plays neither, but he's very fond of nature study."
Even now, seven years later, Peter could remember the way eyes had looked at him pityingly, before turning away to continue their pleasures. His mother had spoken from a sense of pride, but that wasn't the way it came across.
He learned to live with the contempt of others when it came to active interests. Consequently he had few friends. Maybe Richie Harker, the real egg-head of his final school year. Richie could talk about any subject, and Peter had some good conversations with him about the environment or animal welfare.
His choice of subjects when he applied for university had even been questioned. Biology, English Literature, with a subsidiary Environmental Studies, had many jeering 'Biology and English Literature? That's a weird mixture.' Peter knew that they matched perfectly for his intentions, but having made their comments, school colleagues would turn away muttering, "Suppose it sums you up."
However, the ridicule of years had taught him to accept the situation, to follow his own desired path. When university started in September he would be taking those subjects, to follow his goal. To use the natural world to stimulate his writing, whether it be poems or some descriptive longer work. At home he had reams of his early attempts.
Peter knew that he would never be happier than viewing the world on a day like today. Away to the southern horizon, where all afternoon there had been that hazy mix, there now appeared a clear charcoal dividing line. Interesting, thought Peter, keeping his eyes to the left so that he did not have to look at the one blot on the scene. That was a black, rusting corrugated roof, which Peter had found covered a storage for bales of hay in the upper field, open on three sides with more corrugated iron blocking the west wall, presumably against the prevailing wind. It was always an unwelcome intrusion on his pastoral strolls.
Suddenly, shockingly, up ahead there came the suggestion of another intrusion. A flash of pale blue beyond a slight bend. Someone else on his patch? That wasn't allowed.
Within seconds he saw that the blue was a summer dress on the slender figure of a young woman---coming in his direction!
Annoyed at having his solitude invaded, Peter's first reaction was to turn back quickly. But, when the woman was about twenty metres away something held him to the spot. Long dark hair, 'the colour of autumn' flowed down to her shoulders. His imagery had him looking closer. Only one person had ever provoked the self-same image. The swaying walk was so familiar. Was it? Could it be? Peter's breath caught in his throat. It was her. It was Gina Marlow. His big crush from early High School days, where she had been two years ahead of him.
At fourteen he had suddenly become aware of the vision that walked the school corridor, with shy, downcast eyes. So delectable, even in the dowdy school uniform. Peter had marked the times she would pass a particular point on the corridor, and had been there just to drink in the wonder of her. The green eyes, the high cheek bones, the smile, which was never directed at him. She didn't know that he existed.
In her final year something had happened though. Some older boys, so the story went, had cornered her in the gym store cupboard and had their way with her on a mattress. Peter was furious at the very thought of it. Wanted to lash out at whoever was involved, while knowing that he'd never have the bravado.
It was all the worse when she never appeared at school again in the latter weeks of her final year. Sometimes Peter was sure he had been unhappy since that time. He could delude himself that she was the reason he never had girl friends.
Now, as he stood desperately thinking of what to do or say, she was almost alongside him, looking at him blandly. In the two years since he had last seen her she had become even more beautiful, he was sure. In the thin cotton dress she was wearing, her bosom, waist and hips were targets for his eyes.
"Had a good look?" Her first words, accompanied by a teasing smile, had him trying hard to breath.
At last he managed to stammer, "You—you're Gina Marlow."
She looked surprised, "My God, has my reputation returned here?"
"You were at Addison High---so was I—two years behind," Peter said. He told her his name, although there was no reason why she should have known it. Then, without thought, without a conscious wish, he added, "I had a crush on you." And immediately wanted the ground to swallow him.
What had made him make that admission? He was mortified, and even more so as a knowing smile lit up her face, "And did nothing about it? That puts you into a special category." Her voice took on a more teasing tone, "And now you have me at your mercy."
"No! No, I always walk here---I didn't know you'd be here." Inside his desperate mind some alien imp was goading him to consider what he might do if she was at his mercy. You wouldn't have a clue, would you? But already he felt something strange about this. How could this challenging—no, daring woman be the same Gina Marlow?
She shook her head as though trying to clear her own mind, her lustrous hair brushed over her face, as she said, "Why are you walking here, anyway?"
"I always walk here."
"I've never seen you," she shrugged. "Then I've only been here a few days. Visiting grandparents. Go home tonight." She looked away across the fields before her eyes settled back on him with an almost piercing intensity. "Well, why do you walk here?"
Peter told her of his enjoyment in recording natural things in writing.
"A poet? You don't look like a poet."
