Warm sheets

Pale blue light peeked under the curtains when Stanley began to stir. He rubbed groggy eyes as he pulled himself up. The sight of his own bare chest gave him a start as did the realisation he was naked, his pyjamas still neatly folded in his cabinet.

As memories flooded back, he threw up the sheets to find an empty space next to him. He rubbed the bed sheets before bending down to examine the surface. What he might expect to see, he wasn’t sure, but he could see no sign that someone had slept next to him.

After dressing, the same sight greeted him throughout the house. No white robe lay on the floor. No shoes waited by the door. He started to suspect his own memory, after all it was ridiculous that such a thing should happen to him.

Knock-knocking came from the door, a firm and regular beat. Stanley quickly shuffled to the door, opening it expectantly, but instead of a beautiful mysterious woman, he was greeted by a boy, his face all grinning. Stanley's shoulders slumped in disappointment.

‘Morning Stanley! How are you today. I’ve got yah a newspaper and some fresh bread,’ the boy said as he brandished a cloth bag.

‘Robert, it’s just you,’ Stanley managed to say, in voice so low and desponded it was dragging along the floorboards. ‘Come in.’

‘Why course it’s me! Who else would it be,’ Robert said as he carried the shopping to the kitchen.

‘You’re right, who else indeed,’ Stanley laughed in contrast to his limp and rounded shoulders and cold eyes.

His day went much as any other, trudging through mud, and he started to dismiss his night visitor as nothing more than a dream. Yet that night, as he sat at his desk writing more notes by the gentle light of his lamp, once again tapping came from his door. He rushed as quickly as his leg would allow and found, once again, Snow on his doorstep.

‘Snow you’re back,’ he said. ‘I feared I’d be cold and lonely tonight.’

‘Then let us get under the sheets and warm ourselves up.’ Snow said as she leaned against him.

They spent that night together just as the first, and a third night came just like the first two, but on the fourth, no knock came. Nor on the fifth. By time the sixth night came and went, he was thoroughly exhausted. He had taken to sleeping in his recliner chair ready for the slightest sound. There had been many, from the haunting call of tawny owls to wailing foxes.

That day back on the marsh, the seventh since first meeting Snow, he sat on a low rise of grass with his chin resting in his hands. his eyes were bloodshot, and he could hardly keep his eyelids open.

Mr Stapleton busied himself nearby catching butterflies. He had already caught a small copper and peacock, keeping them in a small box, their final fate on hold.

‘What do you want with those for?’ Mr Fobbing asked, his lips curled up in disgust.

‘They are for my collection, Mr Fobbing.’ Mr Stapleton replied, gently tapping the box slung over his shoulder.

‘Surely you have plenty of both. Why take more?’

‘Well yes,’ Mr Stapleton conceded. ‘Although none from this marsh. It shows a healthy and thriving community that even the smallest insects are bountiful.’

‘They won’t be bountiful if you keep taking erm like that they won’t’

‘You stick to your hobbies, and I’ll stick to mine,’ Mr Stapleton responded, nodding at the gun on Mr Fobbing’s shoulder.

A sigh came from Stanley on his mound. Both men looked up. They had noticed the growing gloom surrounding their junior and commiserated.

‘No need to panic, Stanley.’ Mr Stapleton consoled, 'It’s early yet. We might still find a pair, even a nest.’

Stanley nodded. They hadn’t seen the avocet again since that first day. He now was disappointed both by day and night. Maybe they had been too hopeful after all.

Mr Fobbing turned away, once again lifting his binoculars to scan the fleets and water channels close by. As he rotated, he suddenly stopped and back tracked to a mere some hundred metres away. He pointed. ‘There.’

Mr Stapleton followed the end of his finger and saw a white ghost move through the reeds. ‘The avocet! Stanley, it’s still here!'

Stanley jumped up, joining the others. Leaning on his walking stick, he saw the bird weaving through the reeds before vanishing completely. Mr Fobbing let his binoculars drop down. ‘It’s away from the water. Could be it has a nest nearby.’

‘Maybe. We've only seen one bird, but they could be taking it in turns on the nest. It’s still early in the season, but we can hope.’ Mr Stanley replied.

That night, Stanley returned to his cottage, his hopes revived. He sat on his recliner, waited and pondered. Where had Snow been the last three nights, and even more important where had she come from in the first place.

He didn’t have long to think, however, as a sound from outside soon caught his attention. Mud squelched and gravel crunched. Stanley wasted no time and ran to answer the door, catching a surprised Snow outside, her hand raised ready to knock.

He laughed at her wide-eyed stare. ‘This time it’s me that has caught you out,’ he grabbed hold of her and squeezed tightly.

She returned his embrace gladly. ‘Not so tight!’ she laughed.

Stanley felt her silken hair against his cheeks, felt the warmth of her body. ‘I thought you were gone. Where have you been?’

‘I was close by. Did you miss me?’ she stroked his face as she walked inside.

He followed her attentively. ‘More than you can know.’

‘My sweet Stanley, let me keep my days as I please, and I promise you, my nights are yours.’ She took hold of his hand and led him to the bedroom.

His desires forced all other thoughts from his head. There would be plenty of time later for thinking. ‘For you, anything.’