ENTRY 17 -- The Tryst

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March 3rd 1987

Published: January 6th 2006

An Excerpt from the Travel Journal of Nigel Fox circa 1925

Entry 17 -- The Tryst

During the time that Hans was involved with the Armanenshaft, the Reverend H. Nigel Fox had been kept busy teaching about 'Christ’s call to radical discipleship'. However, I again slipped into a deep depression; melancholia beyond measure overwhelmed me. In desperation, Sipho ordered me to walk about the grounds once a day. He did everything in his power to cheer me up, trying to entice me to eat by purchasing 'delectables' from his cafe. However, my appetite had vanished; my gloom deepened. Stopping my daily devotions, I was the picture of despair.

On a particularly hot and muggy August afternoon, my tea was interrupted by a knock at the door. Sipho was on an errand, so I dragged myself to the vestibule to confront this intruder. To my consternation, the cheeky visitor, a perfect stranger, had shown herself in. My irritation ebbed slightly as I fixed my gaze upon a vision of loveliness.

I have a vivid recollection of that moment. It was one of those exquisite times in life when one is joyfully glad to be in this world. The woman standing before me appeared to be in her middle twenties (later I would learn she was somewhat older). Her rosy lips were parted into a dazzling, white smile; a feature that could soften the hardest heart. Her garments were expensive looking, fashionable, and I might say, a little bit naughty. A green cloche hugged her head, not detracting in the least from her shiny dark hair, cut in a flattering bob. Her dress hung straight from her shoulders to her hips, but flared pleasingly to the hemline just above her knees. A rope of green beads hung in three perfect strands on her bosom, which, from the portion that I could see, was just as enticing as the rest of her: a pure enchantress. After a brief moment, her seductive eyes made contact with mine...but being quite the amateur with regard to a woman's eyes, I just stood there looking dumfounded and bewildered.

Naturally everything in these modern times seemed slightly risqué, but I had never had the opportunity to view the new fashions so closely. It appeared she was wearing no support garments! (I personally had nothing against a bit of attractive jiggle, as it were.) Even before knowing her name, I surmised that she must be French, as they tend to lack the modesty we English cultivate. I was therefore taken aback when she began our awkward intercourse in an American accent. "Thought I would be neighbourly and bring you some cookies."

-ii-
I invited her in...or further in, as the case may be. Tea was much improved with the addition of her 'peanut butter cookies', which I scoffed back so very quickly that I rather embarrassed myself. Although Norah LaPierre was somewhat forward, she was a genial women if ever there was one: decidedly refreshing! As it turned out, she was a lady of wealth, wit and warmth. Her charm was only exceeded by her good looks. A curl of dark hair on each cheek accentuated her classic beauty: cheekbones high, eyes slightly slanted with lashes long and dark giving her an almost exotic look. I could not help but be disarmed by the light sprinkling of freckles across her tiny nose, which, thankfully, she had not tried to cover up with powder.

Although I had never favoured slang nor the American disuse of the English language, I found her modernisms in no wise offensive. It would not be untrue to say that she had a rich vocabulary and loved to strike a novel phrase. At the same time it was clear that she was a lady of culture and breeding. She had led a most fascinating life. Married to a much older gentleman, she explained that she had been a widow for almost five years. Norah LaPierre was vague about what brought her to the region of Somerset, but vocal about the folk of East Avalon. She had found the people cold and unfriendly. By this point in our conversation, Sipho had returned. He drew attention to himself when he loudly agreed with our assessment of the townspeople: "Ewe, Mfundisi!"

After introducing Sipho, I shared with her the fact that I had been allowed to go to America to finish my education and told her about the enjoyable years I had spent in her country as a student and young minister in the Episcopal church. This revelation led to a tense moment. When she realised that I was an ordained man, she put out her American cigarette and pursed her lips in amazement. There was a long, awkward silence. (To this day it never ceases to amaze how the presence of a clergyman can put a damper on any situation; I dare say I would have fared better if I had been an undertaker.) With an air of gay nonchalance, I instructed Sipho to bring out a bottle of rye and some Canada Dry ginger-ale. Reaching over to her silver cigarette case, I picked up a fag and put it between my lips. Norah LaPierre hesitantly gave me a light. "Swell," I said as I inhaled deeply, and we were soon back to a more relaxed state.

In fact, as the afternoon progressed, she actually appeared fond of me. I felt my spirits rise. We became comfortable in each other's company. Compared with my stuffy countrymen, being with Norah was like breathing fresh air on a crisp spring morning. My, how I had missed America. I do believe I was becoming a bit sentimental! We two 'colonials' planned a picnic for this upcoming Saturday. She rose to make her departure; I must say I was fairly smitten with her charms!

Forty (ish)

After Norah left, I found myself staring into the long looking-glass on my wardrobe door. Forty is a disquieting age. It catches many of us unawares . . . primordial being and youth behind us: old age and eternity ahead. It is not that we are old, rather it is that we know that we are no longer young. I assessed myself critically as men of forty years of age often do. In truth, what was before me did not appal. Nigel Fox had managed to avoid that centralised embonpoint which hangs over so many trouser-tops. His hair was still thick and full but greying; his beard was clipped short and rather distinguished looking. The laugh-lines round his eyes were pronounced but only when he smiled broadly. All in all, I told myself, I was not unattractive.

Norah was nine years my junior. Could I even begin to hope that the attraction would be mutual? Long-buried feelings began to stir. I went through my wardrobe looking for something that might be appropriate for a casual 'picnicking' atmosphere. Far in the back, I discovered a summer-weight suit from my early Umtata days. It was ready-made but passable-looking. Sipho peered up from the very old 'penny dreadful' that he had been reading. His cold, codfish eyes scanned me in a most unpleasant fashion as I whistled a gay tune whilst readying myself for romance: my depression completely forgotten. Sipho put down his reading material and lit an American cigarette. The good humour and jocularity which normally marked my friend's demeanour were definitely wanting as he walked from the room. I must say I felt he was being a little hard on me and his attitude was beginning to grate. My acquaintance with a lady friend should not concern him in the least.

A fast Car. . .

Saturday arrived, along with Norah in a customised Auburn motor car complete with special wing mirrors. "Aren't you looking smart today?" she stated in a matter of fact tone.

A fast car and a woman; I was indeed changing my image! This lady of means was even more beautiful than her sporty conveyance. It was an extraordinarily hot summer day; one my father would have referred to as a 'veritable scorcher' and Norah was dressed accordingly (however definitely too scantily for even this modern era). I reminded myself, however, that this was to be a private day: just the two of us, away from all others. A day of love-making, as it were.

As she began to get out of the vehicle to change sides, I insisted that Norah continue driving. I could sense that this move had impressed her. From our prior discussion, one could deduce that she had a modern outlook about the role of women in society; even believing in universal suffrage! Sipho helped me load the motor car with a picnic basket, along with the Canadian whiskey and lots of cool-drink. We also packed the Kodak and a bumbershoot. My trusted servant was not amused at the fact that he was being left out of the excursion. Rarely had there been such a harshness on his features. He looked a miserable sod.

Following a quick stop for petrol, we were on our way. Notwithstanding the fact that Norah did not have a driving licence* she was a skilled driver; but rather too reckless for my liking. I was beginning to see why she had provided me with a driving cap and goggles! On one frightening occasion she seemed to forget that we were in England, and proceeded up the wrong side of the road and almost plowed into a bakkie.

We found a quiet, secluded area at the far end of the lake which dominated the landscape. It was all that the English country side should be. Meadows stretched in every direction, and one could almost picture King Arthur riding over hill and dale. Under a sprawling tree with branches that practically touched the ground, we set out our car-robe and picnic lunch. Because of the braai-pit and Norah's love of beef our outing began to resemble a barbecue more than anything else. We enjoyed the excellent food, and, by early afternoon had acquired a healthy afterglow from the Canadian rye whiskey. My previous inhibitions were thrown to the wind. It was at this point Norah declared that we should go wading in the lake. We took off our shoes and stockings, I rolled up my trouser legs, and we made our way into the refreshingly cool water. There was a large, fallen tree that protruded some fifteen feet into the lake and a huge rock a few feet from its end.

"Bet you can't get to that rock and back!" Norah dared, teasingly.

Always one for a challenge, I carefully inched myself along the log and jumped onto the rock, which was like a small island. "Care to join me?" I tempted. She showed some reluctance at first; I tormented her in pitiless fashion until she finally took up my invitation.

What happened next would give me cause for amusement. Halfway along the log she lost her balance and slipped off, tumbling into the lake with a loud 'kerplunk'. As she climbed ashore, she assured me that she was quite all right: only her pride had been injured. The effect of the wet clothing clinging to her body was decidedly immodest. Her firm, well-rounded bosom, flat tummy and small buttocks were fully revealed.

I must confess I gloated upon her!

"Must not be rude and stare," she scolded me, in a manner that sounded more like an invitation to treat than a rebuke.

"Are you sure you are quite all right?" I said, noticing a red patch on her arm where it had slapped the water.

"Well, my forearm does sting a bit," she smiled. "Why don't you kiss it and make it better? That's what daddy used to do."

I obliged, notwithstanding I had never kissed any part of a woman before!

"Nigel, you're blushing," she said, still smiling.

"Are you cold?" I inquired, intending to change the subject.

"Not on a warm day like this!" she replied taking such breath as to make her bosom heave. "In fact, my dip in the lake was quite an exhilarating experience!"

Returning to the braai-pit, I told her that very few ladies could fall into a lake and look as good as she did, soaking wet. We polished off the rye and ginger-ale. Norah sat sunning herself, and then we went for a stroll along a winding path that led through a small copse. She held my hand and we chatted comfortably with each other. Whether it was the libations of alcohol or those compassionate emerald-green eyes, I revealed more of my feelings than I had to anyone before.

Mater Saeva Cupidinum

As the weeks passed, and much to my surprise, we found ourselves keeping company. Of course in a small community, this was accompanied by some degree of social notoriety. It may be fairly said that on occasion I found her habits free and more than a little familiar. Yet I welcomed them! Not only was Norah beautiful and witty, but she also had a remarkable mind which revealed itself in a variety of ways.

It is at this point that I feel it necessary to make a confession. The Reverend H. Nigel Fox had always been a celibate. Indeed, this had been an important aspect of his call to the priesthood as an Anglo Catholic, who would vehemently support the Oxford movement. Some disapproved of my 'Romish tendencies' but I remained firm in my beliefs . . . that is until now. A mysterious metamorphosis had been taking place. So very subtle was this transformation that it would be impossible to pinpoint the hour or even the day that it occurred. Some part of that celibate divine that had long been dormant was dormant no more!

Sipho recognised it first and feared for my health. Indeed, my behaviour resembled that of an infatuated schoolboy. Something strange and wonderful had been awakened! The profound effect of one Norah LaPierre was bewildering in the finest sense of the word.

Pigs get fat . . .

Norah, like many who came to this part of the world, had been drawn by the legends of Glastonbury. But unlike most of the tourists, my female companion seemed to be on some sort of secret quest relating to the mysteries surrounding the abbey. I suspected that she had taken up this venture to relieve the boredom of her more than comfortable independence.

I was soon to discover that she had impressive abilities when it came to high finance. This, for some reason, I found intimidating. She knew the market. Of course nobody knows the stock market, but she appeared to know. One day while trying to show her that I too, was no slouch, I informed her that thanks to my investments I was a millionaire. As my rodomontade continued, she just glared in a condescending fashion and said, "Pigs get fat; hogs get slaughtered."

"What?!" was my indignant reply.

"Pigs get fat . . . hogs get slaughtered. There are many hogs who are in the stock market who are about to be financially slaughtered; including you, my dear Mister Fox."

"I am not a hog," I puffed. It was a most feeble bit of bluster.

"You have the bulk of your fortune tied up in the stock market, do you not? Have you borrowed any money?"

"Oh . . . about four hundred thousand."

"And what if you had to pay it back to-morrow?" she patiently asked.

"I would sell some of my stock; not a problem."

"Not a problem; my dear if you have buyers."

I went quiet.

"Your stocks are only worth one million because to-day there are a lot of greedy hogs wanting to buy and make money quickly. Eventually, these buyers are going to wake up and what shall happen to the value of your stock?"

"With no buyers it will drop," I said contritely, my voice low, "and, if the bank forces me to sell, I shall be ruined."

Norah smiled. "Pigs get fat; hogs get slaughtered."

After that day I wisely got out of debt, made only safe investments in those items that had real value, and remained very liquid. Many, many hogs went to market . . . but this little piggy stayed home.

*Actually she did have provisional driving licence.