Return to Eden

I looked out of the window as the aircraft banked to line up with the Port Eden airstrip. Below me I saw the town spread out in the late afternoon sun like a necklace clinging to the edge of Eden Bay and behind the town the tree covered hills.

There were half a dozen boats out in the bay looking like tiny insects on the water. “Amateur fishermen,” I thought. I saw a larger boat ploughing across the bay towards the open sea that was obviously one of the boats of Port Eden’s small professional fishing fleet. Glancing out beyond the bay I could see what looked like a naval patrol vessel scurrying northwards.

The aircraft straightened and I heard the clunk as the undercarriage was lowered and locked. A brief bump and squeal as we touched down and the aircraft was taxying to the shed like building that served as Port Eden’s passenger terminal.

We came to a stop and after a brief pause the door was opened and the dozen passengers on Port Eden’s twice weekly flight went down the steps to be greeted by hugging friends and relatives.

I was one of the last to alight and looking around I saw her hurrying towards me. We embraced each other, clinging close, and I breathed in the familiar fragrance of her body, fresh, with a slightly disinfectant aroma that came from the soap she always used and that I had loved as a child.

“Darling, oh darling, it’s so good to have you home.”

Eight years! Eight years away studying, walking hospital wards, a brief period of locum work, and I had come home to work in my father’s old practice.

In all those eight years there had only been brief visits home. The last but one, eighteen months ago, had been to attend my father’s funeral and in the midst of my own grief and guilt feelings, to try and comfort my distraught mother.

It had been a tragic death. Father had been taking a flight in a friend’s light aircraft, and soon after taking off from the Port Eden airstrip the plane had crashed, killing both father and his friend.

On my very last visit, almost a year ago, I had found mother looking tired and still grieving for my father. I think like me she bore the burden not only of his loss, but her own guilt feelings.

It had been a blow for the town as well, since father had at one time been the only local G.P. and much loved by the people. In time, and as the town became increasingly a tourist attraction, the medical practice had grown to take in two other doctors. On father's death he had been replaced by a series of locums, leaving his place open for me once I had qualified. Now I had, as it were, come into my inheritance.

We waited for my luggage to be unloaded and then putting it into the car we made our way home.

I had returned to Port Eden, the place of my childhood and youth, the place of innocence that in the very last day before I left home to start my studies in the capital, I had marred. Perhaps like Adam cast out of his Garden of Eden, I would find that once gone from Eden, the way back is barred?

How had I marred my Eden? How disfigured the face of innocence?

I could reply that it was through one momentary act, but now I know that this was not true. The thoughts that motivated the action had long been there; in fact from the time I first entered puberty and became consciously aware of pressing sexual needs, the idea had been there.

The deed itself, the outcome of those long harboured thoughts and feelings, took place on the day before I left Port Eden for the metropolis to commence my studies.

It was a hot day, and our family home had what in those days was the luxury of our own swimming pool. Mother and I had been cooling off in the water and on getting out we lay side by side on the edge of the pool on blow up mattresses.

Mother seemed to doze off so I lay propped on my elbow looking at her. She had in the past worn a very modest one piece bathing suit. On that day she wore a new and much less modest two piece.

She was lying on her back; her auburn hair spread out like a soft web, her face, tending to be long with a rounded chin, was in repose. She was thirty nine at the time and could hardly be described as pretty or beautiful. She was what the locals called, “Handsome.”

There was nobility about her, a dignity. As a child I was always immensely proud to be seen with her, so tall and trim, carrying herself with an easy uprightness.

I looked at her long shapely legs, slightly tanned. At the top of her thighs, where the cloth of her swimming bottoms passed over the clear mound of her mons, the fabric moulded into the firm cleft of her vaginal lips beneath. There seemed to be no sign of pubic hair.

I saw her breasts rising and falling with her breathing; her beautiful breasts exposed in a way that in my presence they had never been before. Naked almost to the nipples, her deep cleavage displayed to my sight, I began to get an erection.

I could claim that it was the circumstances; my last day in the old home and Port Eden; mother physically revealed to me as never before that aroused lustful feelings for her, but again, it would not be true.

I had harboured such thoughts and feelings before; had experienced what people call, “Unnatural desires” for her.

The close childhood bond between mother and I had, during puberty, taken on a physical - a sexual aspect. Even when having sex with girls during my teenage years it had always been mother I hungered for.

Now with mother lying beside me asleep and looking so vulnerable, I stretched my hand out and cupped her breast. I softly pressed the nipple, and to my horror, mother stirred. Her eyes opened; those dark fathomless eyes.

Frozen by the shock of being caught out, for a moment I did not move. Then before I could recover and snatch my hand away, mother’s hand closed over mine, and she murmured, “That’s nice, darling, don’t stop.”

I still made no move, so mother, who was still holding my hand, pushed down her bikini top and placed my hand on her naked breast, gently squeezing my hand over it. The sensation of that firm ivory flesh sent me almost dizzy for a moment, and then I felt mother’s warm moist lips on mine, her tongue licking and probing.

She broke from the kiss and smiling at me said, “We shouldn’t, darling, but it might be our only time.”

She lay back and I pushed my hand down the top of her bikini bottoms, searching for the entrance to her vagina. My fingers touched its moist warmth and probed in.

Mother began to say, “Lovely, darling, don’t st…”

Then the sound of my father’s car coming up the drive; there was hurried restoration of mother’s bikini, and I fled into the house, my heart thundering as I realised what a narrow escape we had had.

For the rest of the time before I left nothing was said or done by mother and I. One might almost have supposed it had not happened, that it had been a dream, an illusion. But it had happened and in happening it had revealed our true feelings. Clearly we both had a sexual desire for each other, and that knowledge was not going to easily fade. It would hang like some skeleton in a cupboard, or like a ghost always there to haunt us and our future relationship.

Over the eight years I was away studying, I had returned home only for brief intervals. I had a feeling of unease being in the same house as mother, and continued to be sexually aroused by her presence. If we had spoken to each other about what had occurred, opened our hearts, things might have been easier, but we didn’t. The ghost was there, but both of us seemed to be trying to pretend we couldn’t see it.

Just before my return to Port Eden, when speaking on the telephone to mother, I had suggested that it might be more convenient if, after settling in to the practice, I found a place of my own.

Mother had protested at this, “But darling, I’ve been so looking forward to your coming home and staying here. If you’re worried…I mean…I wouldn’t interfere…you know…if you wanted to bring friends…someone home…”

It was clear what she meant, and in struggling to make a response I came out rather lamely with, “Thank you for being so understanding, mother.”

Of course, if I did find someone to be my sexual partner, I was not likely to bring her home. In fact I was a trifle disappointed that mother had suggested that it would be all right. Was it that I wanted her to be jealous of any woman I might have sex with? Did I want to hurt her?

A little self examination soon revealed that if mother had a sexual partner I would certainly be resentful. Such a partner would be receiving what I wanted. What do they call that? “Dog in the manger”? What I couldn’t have for myself I didn’t want anyone else to have.

Mother’s final word on the subject had been, “Let’s see how it works out, shall we?” So with some trepidation on my part at least, I had agreed that mother and I should live together. If the feelings revealed beside the swimming pool all those years ago still lingered, then we might easily make life a hell of frustration for each other, but I felt I had to give it a try as mother was so enthusiastic.

The locum who was currently working in the practice had a couple of weeks before she finished. So apart from meeting and discussing arrangements with my future colleagues and the practice accountant, I had time to get to know Port Eden again.

Mother was keen to show me around, pointing out the new buildings that had been erected in my absence, including a rather up market restaurant that she suggested we should visit one evening. Incongruously the place was called “The Oyster Shell”. It was incongruous since oysters were not a feature of our part of the coast.

We went together to visit old friends to renew acquaintance, and for me to be introduced to mother’s newer friends. Mother seemed inordinately proud of me, and I got the impression that before introductions were properly affected, there was the suspicion that I was mother’s young toy boy.

We went visiting old haunts, small bays and beaches along the coast, and walked some of the hill trails we had walked together in years gone by.

I have read somewhere that people who have lived together, like brothers and sisters, or in my case, mother and I, are rarely sexually attracted to each other. That had clearly not been the case with mother and me. Now, after eight years of being apart except for my brief visits home, it might have been anticipated that our feelings for each other had cooled. I quickly discovered mine had not diminished, if anything they were more intense.

Mother was approaching forty nine and I twenty seven. Despite the grief she had experienced, the years had been kind to mother. When we walked through the shopping area of Port Eden I noticed men turning round to have another look at her, and on social occasions when the company included males their desire to get a glimpse of her breasts and thighs was all too obvious.

Even though mother gave no encouragement to these prurient males I felt anger and jealousy as they sniffed around her like dogs round a bitch on heat.

To my shame I even tried to see whether there were any signs of a lover in her life, but could detect no one.

During my “getting to know you” times with old and new acquaintances, I seemed to draw the interest of a few females, young and old, married and unmarried. Had I cared to follow up I might have quickly got myself a sexual partner, but for the moment I held back.

The truth was, that as I had predicted, living in close contact with mother was difficult. At night in bed I became particularly aware that she was also in bed on the other side of the dividing wall. A vivid picture would arise in my mind, and I had to masturbate to relieve my sexual tension.

Even during the day and in mother’s presence, I was constantly aware of her as an extremely desirable woman. This was despite the fact that after our greeting at the airstrip mother seemed to maintain a physical reserve between us.

It was perhaps this slight distancing of her self during our first week together that made her even more desirable. That physical and emotional distancing seemed something of a challenge for me, but one I did not take up.

On Monday morning of my second week at home mother asked, “Mark, how would you like to eat out tonight? We could go to the Oyster Shell. It’s usually pretty quiet on Monday evenings. If you like I’ll book us a nice table. My treat,” she added.”

It sounded fine to me, so I agreed.

The first flush of getting to know the town again and the locals having passed, when the household chores were finished that day, we took another of the walking trails in the hills for a few hours. Much to my chagrin I had noted that mother could out-walk me with ease.

Arriving home in the late afternoon we showered and changed for our evening out.

The table mother had booked was right beside a long high window that overlooked Eden Bay. It was dusk and that day’s amateur fishermen had by then flurried back to shore. On the horizon I could see dark clouds gathering and flashes of lightening. The storm was still too far away for thunder to be heard, but it seemed to be approaching the town.

“Looks like we’re in for a rough night,” mother commented.

It is not unusual on our part of the coast for there to be summer storms. The air grows oppressively hot, and if the storm does break over the town one can get the seemingly contradictory situation where it is still hot, but hail, chunks of ice, are falling from the sky.

We ordered our meal and mother, beckoning the drink waiter, ordered a very expensive bottle of red wine.

To this day I cannot recall what we ate, but I do remember that mother ordered a second bottle of wine. This was completely out of character for her, since she was a very moderate drinker of alcohol.

I think when we left the restaurant we were somewhat tipsy.

The storm had by then crowded up to the town and thunder and lightening was all around us. As we pulled into the carport the hail came down hammering on the carport roof like demonic beings trying to smash their way through.

We went in and I flopped down in an armchair somewhat fuzzy in the head. To my surprise mother went to the drinks cabinet and took out a bottle of whisky and glasses. She poured two liberal drinks, placing one on the table beside my chair, and then she dropped down on the divan and lay back on the cushions.

I sat staring at her. She had a long dark green dress that while it exposed very little flesh, clung to her body, displaying the swell of her breasts and the curves of her hips. I felt my manhood begin to stiffen.

We sat silent for a while, sipping our drinks and listening to the storm raging outside. I could hear the sizzle of lightening striking close at hand followed immediately by the crack of thunder. The hail had ceased, to be replaced by the sound of rain on the roof.

Mother was sipping her whisky slowly and looking at me intently, and then she patted the divan and said, “Come and sit next to me, Mark, I want to talk.”

My brain wasn’t working all that fast, but I had a premonition that I knew what was coming. I crossed to the divan and flopped down beside her, lying back on the cushions, trying to clear my head.

Mother took my hand and said, “You know what we’ve got to talk about don’t you, darling? We’ve avoided it for a long time, but I don’t think we can avoid it for ever, and even if we could, I don’t think we should.”

“The ghost,” I thought. “At last we’re going to admit we can see it. It’s surprising what some alcohol can do.”

“That last day before you left home,” mother went on, “when your father almost caught us in a compromising position, do you think about it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“If we’re to live together I think we have to clear the air, Mark. We’ve got to know where we stand with one another, don’t you agree?”

Mother sounded almost detached, so trying to emulate her I said, “Yes, of course, we’ve got to clear things up.”

There was a long painful pause, and then mother said, “Is there anything you’d like to say about what happened?”

“I’m not sure what to say. It just happened…it was a moment of weakness…and I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? That you had a moment of weakness? That you touched my breast? That I responded? What exactly are you sorry for, Mark?”

I realise how fatuous my expression of sorrow had been. I was not really sorry but confused. I wanted to burst out with the truth – to say straight out “I want to make love with you,” but I hadn’t the courage.

“Mark,” mother went on, “what happened that afternoon revealed what we were both feeling - what we both wanted. I’m sorry too, but I’m sorry because we couldn’t finish what we started.”

I started to interrupt but mother went on; “Yes, I knew the risks. I knew that if we had a sexual intercourse that afternoon it probably would not have been the end. Had it been successful for both of us we would have wanted more and your visits home would not have been so brief…”

I tried to protest, but mother cut me off again.

“Oh yes, I know why you came home so infrequently and stayed for so short a time. You knew that there was the danger that we would come together sexually so, let’s face it, you kept running away. I’m right, aren’t I?”

I sighed. She had read me with complete accuracy. I decided to be open about how I felt.

“Yes, you’re right. I thought if we were too much in each others company and opportunity presented, something would happen.”

“That’s why you suggested not living with me permanently, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I snapped at her. I was beginning to get heated at being pressed to reveal my feelings and motives. “You’re dead right. And it’s true; I don’t see how we can live together. If you want to know how it really is, then you’d better know my feelings haven’t changed. If anything they’re more powerful than ever. It’s all very well for you to want to “clear the air”, but can you tell me how living together I can deal with how I feel?”

“Can’t you see the obvious way out, Mark?”

“You want me to go after all? Well why not say so straight out.”

“Aren’t you avoiding, or at least missing, the main point, Mark?”

“Which is?”

“We give expression to our physical desire for each other.”

“But it would be incest.”

“It would have been incest the first time plus adultery, but if your father hadn’t turned up we would still have gone ahead.”

“Yes, but…”

“For God’s sake, Mark, do you think you’re the only one with sexual feelings? Don’t you think I’ve been frustrated all these years? You know how I responded that first time. You said you feel the same now, so why should you imagine I don’t feel the same?”

“You’ve sort of kept a physical distance.”

“Yes, of course I have. I knew the moment I didn’t – if I had physical contact with you I’d…can’t you see I’ve waited to see whether you would approach me, but you’ve been keeping your distance as well. After a week like that I knew we couldn’t go on avoiding the issue. That’s what tonight is about.”

We sat silent, listening to the storm. There was a sudden sizzle of lightening followed immediately by an explosion of thunder. The lights went out.

The house was in the older part of town and electricity was still brought to us over wires suspended in poles. It was not unusual during storms for a power failure to take place.

For a few moments, until my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could not see mother, but heard her say above the continuing uproar of the storm, “Can’t we try again, darling? There’s no one to interrupt us this time?”

I felt her hand touch me on the thigh and it moved to find my penis and caress it gently through the cloth of my trousers.

“I can feel you want to try, my love…you do, don’t you?”

It felt as if there was something constricting my throat as I gasped, “Yes.”