More Comfort Food

by LesLuv

 

If there is one area of frustration in my life, it is television producers. I sometimes wonder what they actually do, apart from messing up perfectly good shows. But that's another story, and the only reason for introducing it is to say how this particular day began.

The phone rang at 7.30 am. I was still in bed, half asleep, savouring the warmth, idly planning the day. Now there was no way I was getting out of bed to answer it, so it would either go to 'record', or Polina would answer if she was home yet. She's a charge nurse in a church-run nursing home, doing three nights a week, arriving home between 7.30 and nine, depending on staffing and traffic . She'd often bring tea and toast if I was not already up, get undressed and jump into bed with me. Bliss.

This morning, however, she did answer the phone, for she came into the bedroom, listening to the instrument, a startled expression on her face. 'Uh oh,' I thought, 'trouble.' For weeks I had been arguing with a certain producer about rewrites, and was ready to toss in the towel if there was any more petulance from him. From Polina's expression I guessed she was getting an earful.

"Uh huh," She said, glancing at me and rapidly blinking her eyes then listening again. "Just a minute."

She sat on the edge of the bed, covered the mouthpiece with her hand, and said, "Are we doing anything this afternoon?"

Not Jake the flake, then. I shook my head.

"No, that'd be fine. You have the address?" She repeated it, said, "Well, Marie, you've certainly given me a surprise, and we'll be looking forward to seeing you and the girls. Thanks so much. Bye."

She dropped the phone and herself onto the bed and looked at me, mouth open, astonishment etched.

"Well I never." She said slowly. "That was my cousin. My cousin Marie. My God, this is something. Look, darling, get yourself up, I'll make tea and I'll fill you in. Talk about a blast from the past." She leaned down and kissed me. We'd known each other nearly 45 years, and had been lovers for 42 of them. We had never grown tired of each other's company – amazing, considering the breakups of so many relationships both hetero and homosexual – and although things had been tough at times, this wonderful woman was my soul mate for life. If she said 'get up,' I dld.

Tea and toast (homemade bread and jam) in a warm kitchen when it's about 3 degrees outside is a slice of heaven. "Well, tell me." She could tell stories with the best, and this promised to be a beaut.

"Do you remember my uncle Sean? Dad's younger brother?"

I thought about it. The name was almost a memory. I shook my head. "No, I don't think so."

 "You only met him at dad's funeral, so I'm not surprised. Well, we never saw much of him, specially since he lived in the Blue Mountains outside Sydney, but I remember hearing he'd got married, and that was that. Well, that phone call was from his daughter Marie. Now, hold your breath. She saw my name in a story posted on Leslita last week. A story called Comfort Food. Now 'Fannell' is not the most common name in the world, and coupled with Polina, it has to be unique. You'd mentioned Melbourne in the story, so she hopped on a plane, got a phone book and looked for my number. Simple, eh?"

"Holy Mackerel!" I was dumbfounded. I said above that you can get some surprising results from posting on a site like Leslita, and boy, did this bear that out.

Polina grinned at me. "But there's more, as the salesman says. She has two daughters of her own. And they're here with her. And they'll be here about two."

"Oh my God!" My jaw dropped. This was too much all at once. I was all a dither. "Are they staying? How old are they? What will we have? Are they staying for dinner? Two…"

She held up a hand. "Whoa, girl. Have another cuppa and I'll tell you all I know."

What she knew was not all that much. Marie was 39, her two girls were Joanne, ten, and Grace, seven. She was divorced, worked as a systems analyst from home, and lived in Nelson Bay, north of Sydney. She was excited, as she had not been told much about her cousin. And that was that.

Except that she had a lot to discuss, things that had a bearing on the story she'd read, we could expect surprises, that they'd be staying for dinner, and that my sweet love had invited them to stay the night.

I confess we love girls, something you might have already guessed. Love them in the sense of wanting to cuddle them, kiss them, teach them and help them on their journey through life. I'd never thought of having a sexual encounter with one except in my mind, and I doubt if Polina had either. Sure, we'd watched them, sighed with nostalgia, perhaps even felt envious at how taut and terrific some looked, but doing what we had done and still did? Well –

We'd hardly ever had somone to stay before, apart from a few that have passed out after too much to drink – oh, and a distant relative of my mother's who imposed for two weeks (shudders) and the occassional toddler from the charity we help – but I must say I felt a tweak of curiosity. OK, lust, maybe.

I did some cooking, topping up the biscuit dapartment and preparing dinner while Polina got some sleep. She was up by one, showered and dressed in her blue silk, looking positively ravishing. I said earlier that she was a plump child. This had become muscle and curves over the years, and believe me, even at 54 she turned heads. Of both sexes. She was dark, like her father, but had the same open, inviting air that had also distinguished her mother, Felice, from the crowd. Even strangers said that they had instinctively wanted to talk to her, and although I was a good deal taller and fairer, she was the magnet.

Things, of course, rarely match one's preconceived notions. The cousin and her offspring duly arrived and were made welcome, but it was immediately apparent that Marie had a problem. She was too bright, too talkative, and we've been around long enough to know that such things hide the dark. Sure, she was pretty, buxom in a blondish way, was dressed well and had minimal makeup, but – well, you know what I mean.

The two girls were the counterpoint. Joanne, the eldest, had inherited some of her uncle's dark coloured genes, Grace looked more like her mother, but both girls were almost unnaturally quiet and withdrawn.

Did they want to play? There were lots of things in one of the spare rooms. Gameboys? We had those. Go to the garden, try the swing? Throw a ball? All were met with a shake of the head. They sat on chairs and looked straight ahead. Hmmm.

Coffee, cakes and biscuits were served. The girls had a cordial and a biscuit. After the ritual was done with, Marie said to the girls, "Now I want you two to leave us for a few minutes. Mummy has to talk to Pat and Polina about some things, so be good girls and go outside. It's a lovely day, and you'll find some things to play with. Shoo. Off you go." And she gestured them out.

 But whatever it was she wanted to say, she didn't. Bright chat about her trip down, her job, her whatever, was finally cut off by Polina, who simply said, "Marie, why have you come?"

This brought silence. Finally, there was a sigh and the following story, which is not verbatim, as it took about two hours to elicit. She had been reading Leslita stories for about a year, and she liked them because she had come to realise she was a lesbian at heart. She'd been unhappily married for twelve years, the two girls had resulted, and when her hubbie found out about Leslita and her sexual preferences he'd blown his top, sought a divorce and been granted it, with visiting rights. Then, when she'd read 'Comfort Food', she realized her problems were not unique, and knew she had to find Polina to ask her advice.

"You see," she said, "dad did the same to me as yours did to you- " she paused, began to cry, and when neither of us intervened, went on, "- made me have sex with him."

Somehow this was not so surprising, so we just waited. "I told Mum. She did not believe me, and even when she saw us together she closed her eyes. It was horrible. I was just a thing. Like a toy doll." She started to cry again.

Well, her story continued up to about the present day. I was feeling sick and disgusted, but Polina was of sterner stuff.

"Have you had counselling or seen a psych?" A shake of the head. "You need to. But, in the mean time, I'll do what I can. Stay here tonight, I'll ring a lady I know and get you in to see her, because you need help. I told Felice, my mother, when dad tried it on with me, and I'm really sad that your mother ignored what was happening, but, my dear, we are going to move on from there. You are a lovely young woman, and your girls deserve to have you free of your ghosts and being able to live a reasonably happy life." She looked at me. "The spare rooms are ready, aren't they?"

I nodded agreement, then said, "I'm going to get the girls. It's getting late, it's time for tea, you need to unpack" – she'd brought one suitcase - "and I'm used to young ones that feel they have problems."

Marie's tears had stopped, and she gave me a wan smile. "They sure have those," she answered. "I'm so sorry to be such a nuisance, a drag, but I'm going mad, you know? I've felt like throwing it all in, letting Jack take the girls, and going to The Gap."

The Gap is one of Sydney's best known jumping off points – for suicides, that is.

"We'll put a stop to that, my dear. This is a life for living. And having fun. And pleasure. How do you feel about your girls being in the same house as a couple of old dykes?" Polina could be brusque when she wanted to be.

A fleeting smile crossed her face. "I don't think that's their problem. And I reckon I can handle it too, especially when one's a relative. 'All in the family' sounds safer than anywhere else." This time the smile lasted longer.

The girls looked a little more cheerful, I must say, when I found them in the potting shed examining my tiny fern growths. Just another hobby, but a very relaxing one, away from computers and telephones.

"Hello," I said, "please call me Patricia, and I wonder if you know what those things are?"

"They look like tiny ferns." Grace was brighter than her sister. So far, at any rate.

"They are. Some of the rarest ferns in the world. I grow them on a special fertilizer, then help them get big so they can go home to the forests where they belong. Otherwise they might die out all together."

"When do you write your stories?" This from Joanne. She saw my puzzled look, and went on, a frown etching her ten-year-old face, "You know, the ones on the net. Comfort Food and stuff. We read them, didn't we, Grace?"

The seven-year-old troubled angel nodded. "Joanne read most of it to me, some of the words were hard."

"We liked it, didn't we? 'Cause that's what happened to Mummy too. I mean, what her dad did. But we really liked the bits about you and Aunty Polina. We lick each other too, don't we, Grace? And Mummy does too. Mummy says men are bastards, we're better off staying with girls, because we can trust them. And they taste better."

Oh, my God. "I see. Well, we're going to go inside now, and see what the food tastes like. I don't know about you two, but I'm hungry. Coming?"

They did, and seemed a little more relaxed over the meal, talking to me, but eyeing Polina a bit warily. They were hungry, too, as was their mother, and the food soon vanished.

By eight the two girls were tucked up in bed, Grace falling asleep as I read her one of my mother's children's stories; Joanne, with tears in her eyes, saying "You will help Mummy, won't you?"

Oh God. I mumbled something before running from the room, crying my heart out. How could I not?

Marie took a bit longer to settle. "You'll think I'm bad, terrible, but I'm just a sham, really. Oh, Polina, I think this is going to work out, don't you?"

"We'll see." My lover was matter of fact. She was the pragmatist, I the romantic. I know that in every relationship there's a differentiation between roles, and although we blended very well indeed, Polina was the doer while I was the philosopher. Although, as one of my professors had once said disparagingly, 'Thank God there are no women philosophers.', not realising the irony of the statement.

"Time for bed, my dear," she said to our guest. "You've had a big day, the girls are asleep, and I've only had a few hours. Come to breakfast when you're ready. You're our guest for as long as you want. You can relax." She rose and gave her a hug. "Tomorrow is another day. Night night."

Marie slowly stood, blew us a kiss, and wobbled off, having drunk two big glasses of our best red, and was now feeling the effect. We also wobbled off to bed, Polina yawning. "Thank God I'm not working tonight." Amen.

My dear love was so tired, in fact, that she dropped off almost immediately. She mumbled, " 'Night," as I kissed her, and although I was full of things to say, I knew they would wait until morning. I dropped off, the same as any normal, untroubled person.

Some time later I was disturbed by a small body climbing into bed beside me. I was lying on my side, facing the edge, so I could see it was Grace. As I roused from slumber, I heard her voice. "Cuddle me, Aunty Pat?"

I shifted toward the centre of the bed, giving her a bit more room, then slid an arm around the tiny body. "What is it, sweet?" I mumbled.

"I'm frightened. I'm not in my own bed. And Joanne is talking in her sleep again. I get scared when she does that."

Maybe I should have studied psychology, but nothing could have prepared me for the next thing. Her lips were pressed to mine, and a small tongue tried to find entry to my mouth. I freed my other hand and gently pushed her away. Sweet Jesus, what had we got ourselves into?

"I always do that to Mummy. It's a love kiss."

Oh, fuck. Sweet innocence corrupted. "OK, we'll have a cuddle and I'll take you back to bed. We have to get our sleep, don't we."

She was silent for a minute, and I was about to stir out of bed when she asked with a quaver, "Would you lick me, please Aunty Pat? Mummy does it when I can't sleep, and I do so like it. So does Joanne. She does it to me too, and I do it to her. She gets all excited and yells, but I don't. I just like it."

I would have thought I'd be appalled at such a suggestion, but a picture of little girl pubes dripping love juice had wormed its way into my mind. Then the image of Polina, aged eleven, opening her legs so I could taste her juices flashed on, and the tempter, who I had dismissed as a figment at the same age said, 'Bet she's beautiful. And she needs it. It'll be good for both of you.'

I'd like to be all moral and tell you that I did not do any such thing because I'd be tainted with the same sickness her mother had, but that would be hypocrisy. What I actually did was to pull the bedclothes back, slide out of bed over the top of her, swing her legs over the side of the bed, open them and stick my tongue inside that seven-year-old cunt. It was small, of course, but it tasted so good I had a good suck as well. I even tongued her almost-non-existant clitoris, producing a sigh of content.

Five minutes and I pulled her nightie down, picked her up, went to their room and gently slid her back between the sheets. She was already asleep. I wasn't. I needed Polina, but that would have been cruel, so I licked my lips, got back into bed and cuddled my love. She shifted closer to me, and I felt good. No guilt. Well, hardly any.

That was last night. Today Polina has taken Marie to her psychologist friend, and I've taken the girls to the park and the shops. Grace was warm and friendly, held my hand all the way. Joanne didn't say much, but looked very steadily at me as we were in the bus. Calculating. How much has her sister told her? Probably everything. Will I survive the inquisition? Who cares. I'm too old to worry about it. But the taste of her was still in my memory. I wondered if Joanne tasted as good.

If anything of note happens later, I'll tell you afterwards. Right now I need a drink, having spent a couple of hours jotting this down. I should say I'll tell you later if you want me to. You may not like what I've done.

Love, Patricia