With full acknowledgements for the inspiration of this story, to Colleen Thomas, and her 'Irish Eyes'. My apologies if she is offended.
Prologue.
It was just turned three-thirty on a hot August summer afternoon, in 1982, and the very air itself was sleeping, one eye drowsily open. The occasional drawn-out protest from a whirling flock of blackbirds, as they were threatened by an imaginary foe, was the only thing to disturb the dozy quiet of the riverbank.
The river itself was called the 'Deben', and it ran along the eastern edge of the little country town of Woodbridge, in County Suffolk, not far from Felixtowe, a sea-side town on the east coast of England. This river was not one of your sparkling waterways, that are sometimes part of various commercials promoting tourism. Nevertheless it was a part of history, and history has a habit of showing it's age after a while.
Of course, human history depends on how it's perceived... or even needed, but rivers are a different kind of cat. They have been there since they were formed a millennia ago, and this sometimes rather muddy one, was still grumbling at it's luck in being tidal. Rather than being fed by fresh mountain streams, like some of it's distant cousins that the sea had hinted at from time to time, as it surged in slowly.
Right now, the quiet river was the only thing moving, it was hours past that delicious sublime high point that it reached twice a day - changing tides, and eager to join it's brethren in the nearby sea. The few tourists that were visiting the scenic area, fell easily into the spirit - or lack of it - of things. Sitting and lying in the shade of the trees, they languidly fanned themselves with various brochures that urged them to visit this, and do that.
One of the attractions was located at nearby Sutton Hoo.
It was a graveyard for the bones of a dinosaur, but a dinosaur without legs... this was an ancient wooden ship, and a burial site for an Anglo-Saxon king who had reigned here, fifteen hundred years ago. Somehow, the languid waters still conveyed the memories of when only yesterday, invaders had appeared from nowhere, carried in strange vessels that seemed to fly over the waters.
Then a movement disturbed the tranquil scene, and now another invader, a sleek car... a two-door 'Jaguar' saloon, eased its silent way into the parking lot overlooking the quiet river, and stopped. For a while, nothing happened, then the door opened on the driver's side, and a woman got out and stood looking around.
Then she took off her lightweight cotton windbreaker that she wore over her dress - the 'Jag.' was air-conditioned of course - and put it on the seat, picked up her purse and closed the door. She slowly made her way to an empty bench under the trees that overlooked the river, and sat herself down.
Her graceful movements would have spoken volumes to a keen observer, expressing as they did, her presence to the world around her.
She was very beautiful still... she was fifty-two, and time and genes had been very kind to her. She looked no older than in her thirties, and she thanked the fates every morning, when she looked into the mirror.
Her thick and lustrous pale golden hair, which normally hung loosely down to the small of her elegant back, was today pulled back in a lusciously fat pony-tail, bound in a colourful scarf. Several loose strands of hair were casually arranged on each side of her lovely face, framing it artistically.
She was fairly tall, and her short summer dress, though loose, couldn't hide the very shapely body, her thrusting breasts and her almost sinful bottom. Her legs were a sweet continuation of that sin; her calves and trim ankles were accentuated by the high-heeled wedged sandals, that she wore.
The keen observer might well have concluded, that here was a beautiful woman who knew her place, and how to keep it. In short, a woman who had it all, and sought nothing else out of life. And would have been right... and also wrong in just one respect.
Because Megan.. that was her name.. was on a pilgrimage. A trip to nostalgia, back through time to the golden years of her first lesbian love affair. An affair with her long time girl-friend... they had grown up together, gone to school together, worked together in the same office, then finally become lovers.
Her friend and lover had been named Chelsy, and the last time Megan had seen her was back in 1956, twenty-six years ago....
Chapter 1.
Megan had arrived yesterday in the late afternoon, and checked into the fondly remembered hotel at the main intersection. She had carefully parked the Jag. in the inner courtyard, easing it in between the lesser cars.
She had been pleasantly surprised, although she had mentioned it to her travel agent, when she found that she actually had the same room that she and Chelsy had occupied often, many years ago. She was to be pleasantly surprised even further, when she was taken up to the room, and found that it had been completely renovated.
It had been enlarged, it was now a suite, and a large full bathroom had been installed, all very modern. Everything looked new... except for the queen-sized bed, with it's old brass bedstead, and Megan had flopped out on it in pleasure. She chuckled to herself... Chelsy would have liked this!
Mind you, the old single room had seemed big enough to them thirty-odd years ago, big enough for their shenanigans.... even with the white porcelain pot under the bed, and the bathroom down the hall.
Then she smiled to herself, realizing that everything here seemed smaller to her assimilated North American standards, that she had lived with over the years. It had been the same in reverse, when she had first gone to Canada long ago.
The main street, now called the 'Thoroughfare' , had been changed to one-way traffic only. The sidewalks had been widened, but some quaint little stores still seemed to be tripping over each other. The town had obviously embraced the growing concept of tourism as a means to economic survival, and seemed to be doing a pretty good job of it, she thought.
She chuckled as she thought back to the old days, when traffic was both ways... you took your life in your hands on the narrow sidewalks at night, when cars piloted by inebriated drivers, roared recklessly past.
