We had decided on a three weeks tour of the large island that is off the south coast of the mainland. Using one of my father's "toys," an expensive 4WD, we had left on the night ferry and arrived on the island next morning.
Our first stop was to be the city at the northern end of the island. It is strange that we had traveled to many countries, but never visited this lovely place before.
I took the road east out of the port of arrival, passing through landscape that many said resembled English rural countryside. It certainly was much greener than most of our mainland continent, and was dotted with small farms and villages.
Mother was delighted. Perhaps her delight was less than charitable, as I am sure much of it emanated from the fact that at the last minute my father had decided he could not come with us.
"A business matter has come up," he said. This being translated meant, "I've just got myself a new girl and will be too busy fucking her."
For those who are interest, my father is a businessman and a rich child. He has a superficial charm that he uses to good effect. His life is crowded with his "toys," as my mother calls them. All the latest he has to have, and having got them, loses interest almost immediately.
I am sad to say that this loss of interest includes his neglect of my mother. She had been waylaid by his charm when only eighteen. He had to have the best and most beautiful, and in mother he got what he sought. For a while she was feted as a sort of prize he had won, then he lost interest.
I think he must have got mother pregnant with me the first time they had sex, which I am convinced was before they got married. I believe that I am the reason mother still stayed with him, so I could have the best. To give him credit where it's due, he was generous with his money where mother was concerned. The contract with her seemed to be, "I'll supply the money, you stay beautiful and impress my dinner party guests and run the house, and stay out of my affairs (including his affairs with other women).
He also had a sort of contract with me. "Do well at your studies so I can boast about you, and I'll send you to the best schools, cover your university costs, let you play with some of my toys (like the 4WD), but stay out of my way."
I do not suggest that these contracts were written documents, or had ever been expressed in words. It was simply his attitude that conveyed the message.
It was the long summer university vacation, and mother was delighted to have me to herself for three weeks. I was equally happy to have her to myself. Being with her was to feel that I was escorting a lovely cultured woman, which indeed she was and is. The down side of this is, of course, that everywhere she goes she draws the attention of men. Perhaps I should be pleased about this, but in fact, I feel jealous. Unlike the mainland, the distances between towns and cities on the island are not very great, and quickly we were entering the city we were heading for.
We were stopping at a motel, and since my father had arranged all the accommodation bookings, it was the most expensive place in town. Its staff suffered from that strange combination of haughty obsequiousness, and any attempt to do something for oneself was frowned upon, including unpacking from the vehicle.
Once unpacked we set out to see the city. We found it delightful, with its lack of skyscrapers, its one way streets and narrow side lanes.
We went into the tourist bureau, and receiving a pile of pamphlets mother found one advertising a symphony concert by the island orchestra. Jeered at by father for her love of music, mother decided we should take the opportunity to go to the concert.
I was not so enthusiastic as mother, but she pleaded with me like a little girl begging daddy for an ice cream, so I went along with the idea. As it happened, we only managed to get tickets because of a cancellation.
We spent the rest of the day rambling round the town and poking into all sorst of odd and quaint corners. It is the sort of town where the city fathers have been prevented by popular pressure, from tearing down everything in sight for the sake of money, and been forced to let the citizens enjoy a more relaxed way of life. My father would have been appalled at this desecration of his god, Mammon.
In the late afternoon we decided on a meal at a pub called, "The Old Oak." For a very small price, we received a huge meal, all of which we could not eat. In addition, we drank a large carafe of rough red wine, and staggered out partly overcome by the amount of food we had consumed, and partly under the influence of the wine.
With mother clinging to my arm, we made our way to the new concert hall that had been built to blend in with the surrounding architecture, but had a stunning interior.
The orchestra is the smallest of our national orchestras, but is renown for the excellence of its performances. I did not see myself as a devotee of symphonic music, but I must say this orchestra went a long way to converting me. Their work was thrilling to say the least.
Mother sat leaning against me with her head on my shoulder most of the time, and after the last piece, a tone poem by Sibelius, I had to prevent her from standing on the seat as the audience nearly clapped and cheered the roof off.
We returned to The Old Oak for a late drink, and after fending off a couple of young fellows who, as they say, tried to "chat up" mother (I'm a fairly formidable looking chap although much inclined to non-violence) we wended our way back to our snooty accommodation. I perhaps should have said, "tottered".
Two rooms had been booked one for mother and father, and one for me. Under the influence of the "late drink" we had consumed, and the music still rolling and thundering in our heads, I kissed mother goodnight at the door to her room in a rather unsonly manner. She responded in an equally unmotherly fashion and despite or because of my inebriated condition, I felt my penis starting to swell.
Having given mother my goodnight salutation, I continued on to my own room next door, entered, stripped off my clothes, and fell into bed naked. I must have gone to sleep in a matter of seconds.
When I woke in the morning, I had a head that I wished did not belong to me. Putting on my dressing gown, I tapped on the communicating door between my room and mother's, and I heard a feeble voice bid me enter.
Mother was still in bed, and looking at me through bleary eyes, she groaned. Like me, she had gone to bed naked, and her breasts were exposed above the bedclothes. I suppose my staring at this winsome exposure drew mother's attention to her partial denudation, and she pulled up the sheet to cover herself, much, I must admit, to my regret.
"I can't get up just yet, Blake, and I don't want any breakfast. You amuse yourself for a couple of hours while I try to recover."
With that, I went off for a shower and breakfast, and for the next couple of hours, I carried out further investigations of the fascinating little city.
Returning to the motel I found mother up and apparently recovered from the worst of her hangover. She was wearing a very expensive Levi suit and looked wonderful. In fact, mother seemed to look wonderful whatever she wore. I think that it must have been very annoying to other women who, wearing the same garments, looked as if they were clad in Op Shop throw outs.
Our first task was to make a booking for the theatre that night. Then we were off to see one of the local scenic spots called, "The Ravine." Here a river came tumbling down into a huge pool, then flowed out into the main river that fronted the city.
We crossed a swing bridge that really did swing, walked through the park, then returned to the entrance on an airlift chair.
Mother was fully recovered and seemed to be experiencing a sort of personality transformation.
Perhaps a description of mother is in order. Her name is Eve, but first her physical aspects. She has abundant auburn hair worn shoulder length, sometimes tied back as it was now, and sometimes flowing down the sides of her face to cascade over her shoulders. She has beautifully regular classical features with slightly dark complexion. I had sometimes wondered if she had some Anglo-Indian background, but she has always said that she knew of no such antecedents.
One of her loveliest features is her neck that is long, and seems to flow down to her shoulders. I always enjoy…but no, more of that later.
She is tall for a woman, I think about 1.7 metres, and my male ego is only just saved by my being a few centimetres taller.
In later times, I have by dint of cunning managed to determine her other measurements, more of less. They are about 38-26-39. Not, I believe the so-called "perfect female figure," but even mother could not have it all, and who is complaining anyway?
I once checked out her bra and found that she used a C cup, so…?
Her legs are long, strong and well shaped and in proportion with her body; she carries herself very erect, back straight and head high.
I have overheard someone describing her as an "austere beauty." That I think describes her rather well in the normal circumstances of her life. I think the slightly serious manner she adopted was a sort of defence, first against the pain she must have felt at my father's apparent lack of love for her, and also as a means of fending off would-be paramours, of which there had been many hopefuls.
It was only as I grew into adulthood that I realised that this austere aspect of mother existed. From my earliest memories of her, she had always been warm and loving towards me. I think that this was the real Eve. She wanted to be affectionate, but rejected by my father and sometimes plagued by men wanting her body, she shut down this side of her character to all except me, and perhaps her mother and father while they lived.
My money-orientated father united mother and I by his jeers and sneers. Regarding me, it was largely because of my desire to be an artist. "Bloody useless sod. Gay are you? How much do you reckon you'll make painting pictures?"
More than the sneers at me, I was deeply pained when I overheard him on a number of occasions taunting mother with comments like, "Hoping he'll (naming some man) give you a good fucking, are you?" If ever there was a woman sexually faithful in the face of rejection, it was mother. At least, until she finally decided to cut free from him.
So back to our second day in the little city.
