Title: Honey Mine
Author: oosh@gmx.net
Keywords: FF,Lesbian,rom

Honey Mine

2 April 2003, revised 5-15 June

by oosh@gmx.net


"Well, that's lovely to hear... and I'm relieved, because I have to
tell you..." Ellie's mother drops the receiver to her breast and turns
toward the door, afraid that her daughter may be eavesdropping.

All is quiet. No creak of floorboards. Ellie is probably still
closeted in her room, as she usually is these days, doing goodness
knows what in there. Ellie's mother would rather not think, although 
she suspects.

She turns back to the telephone and lifts the receiver to her mouth
once more. "...I just wish she could be like that when she's at home.
You don't know what it's like for me - for us. We have to be so
careful... Touchy? I should say! ... How long? The last couple of
weeks, at least. Honestly, it makes me wonder if something's going
on... I only have to say the wrong word, and she blows up in my face.
She's like an unexploded..."

The voice in the earpiece interrupts, and again, Ellie's mother
turns, anxiously watching the doorway.

"No, that's not it at all," she says, a more confident tone entering
her voice now. "Quite the opposite: he keeps calling for her. But she
won't talk to him. She keeps telling me she'll call him back; but she
never does. - At least, not when I'm around. And she's been staying
out ever such a lot recently. She says she's babysitting. But I can't
believe that she..."

Out of the corner of her eye, Ellie's mother sees a shadowy movement
out in the passage. "Well, dear, I must get on. Thanks for the
update, though. She seems to have gone down a bomb! And I'll - er -
keep you abreast of any developments... Bye."

She turns toward the door. Was the blasted girl eavesdropping? - Had
she said anything on the phone that might cause friction? Only that
she was glad that Ellie had found something worthwhile to occupy her
time at last, instead of moping around with that awful Ian Barnes.
And mother's views on that subject have always been crystal clear.

"Ellie?" she calls. "Ellie?"

There is a moan from the kitchen.

Ellie's mother composes an affectionate smile - a smile of approval.
She wears it as one might wear a headscarf, or a brooch. Once it is
properly adjusted, she bustles in, to find her daughter seated at the
table, staring moodily at a plate, empty save for a few crumbs and a
smear of jam. "That was Amanda on the phone."

Ellie looks up moodily. "Oh yeah." She looks down again.

Amanda was the one who started it. She was the one who told Mum about
poor Mrs Davis - on her own with two difficult children, and not
coping. Needed help. And of course Mum was only too keen to rope
Ellie in. Ellie can do it. Ellie needs something worthwhile to do.
Worthwhile - huh!

"Amanda saw Myra Davis this morning. She's singing your praises,
you'll be glad to hear."

Ellie blushes, and makes a non-committal noise.

"She says the children adore you. And apparently Myra seems a
lot brighter. You're obviously a big hit."

Ellie turns a deeper red, and her mother laughs; but Ellie twists her
lips, refusing to smile. "I... I ought to be getting my stuff
together. MzzDavis wanted me to babysit again tonight."

"Not seeing Ian tonight, then?" Mother asks as lightly as she can.

"Why? Has he rung?" The blush abruptly disappears.

"Only about two or three times."

"If he rings..." Ellie sighs, seemingly annoyed. "If he rings again,
tell him I'll call him, okay?" Abruptly, she launches herself from
her chair and prances out, flicking her hair. The exaggerated sway of
her hips, beautiful in their tight, faded denim, underlines her
vexation. But then she is gone, and there is only the sound of sprung
footsteps upon the stairs, and the slam of Ellie's bedroom door.

In her room, Ellie stands cursing. "Why can't you fucking stay out of
it... Mother?" A venomous whisper.

Yes, Ellie is angry. Angry because her thing with Ian now seems so
small, so far away, so... crap. Angry because Mother is so, so
fucking right, and so completely fucking wrong. She knows nothing.
Nothing.

What was it she said? "You ought to help her, Ellie. Her husband is a
hero - a real hero."

Of course, Ellie had been unconvinced. She couldn't say what she
thought. What she thought was: "You're just trying to say that Ian's
a waste of space. Which you do every day anyway. Why don't you save
your breath?"

But it was true. Gerry Davis was a hero. A man with the kind of
courage that few people alive could dream of. A man who could creep
twenty yards across the ground, light as a kitten, towards an
unexploded mine. A man who could feel it carefully with his fingers,
while the sweat of fear wept from his face. Who could feel gently for
the weak spot, the link, the fuse, and with infinite tenderness, ease
the danger away with his own fingers. Bomb disposal officer, first
class.

And who knew it? His comrades, of course. There would be the slaps
on the back, afterwards. The drinks at the bar. "Have another one,
Gerry." But nobody knew it like those two kids. Nobody! Gemma -
silent, crafty Gemma - she knew. "There's nobody like my dad," she'd
said, clutching her pillow with just a little too much force. And
Jimmy! What pride in his eye, as he rolled his toy SRVB1 across the
carpet! "It's just there," he would whisper, "just there. So we stop
here, and we get out." In his mind, he is out there with his father,
out there in the hell of war, living whatever he can of that fear
with the mind of a seven year old boy.

And Myra - what of her? Does she love him for it, or hate him? Not
easy to say. Unforgettable, that first afternoon, with Myra sitting,
brooding in front of the silent television, oblivious to the
children, just watching the war headlines scrolling up on teletext.
All you could hear, when Jimmy was quiet, was the tick tick tick of
that damn clock. What was she thinking?

At first, Ellie thought that she must be worrying about him, away
from her for months, not even able to write back, unable to say he
loved her - nothing. Living with that kind of danger, there can be no
room for any other emotion but fear - fear beforehand, and after, the
elation of having survived another - what would they call it? Another
job?

And is that why she seems to hate him, sometimes? What can there be
left over for her? For them?

At first, it seemed as if all that courage, all that plus, somehow
needed a balancing minus somewhere else. It was as if that sublime
heroism out on the battlefield left at home a still more terrible
void: the children, hyperactive, grasping, clinging, desperate for
affection, and the mother, sucked dry of every feeling, just staring
at the headlines in uncomprehending despair.

But nothing is quite as simple as it seems, is it? Even in that
vortex of emptiness, strange anaerobic creatures grow, and flourish
unsuspected.

Why was it, by the end of the first afternoon, that little Jimmy
would not let her go? She'd been standing by the door, and he
fastened on to her leg, gripping her tightly to him, his little hands
gripping in places that were suddenly unexpectedly sensitive. And why
had she responded as she did? Never, when Ian touched her, had such
thrills coursed through her body. What was it Myra had said, with
that wry little smile?

- "Who'd be a mother, eh?"

I. I want to be a mother. That's what Ellie had felt. I want to be a
mother, and be loved like this. Be touched like this. By need, simple
need.

Later, Jimmy had shown her his most prized possession: the model of a
bomb that Gerry had made for him out of olive-wood, sanded smooth and
polished with penetrating wax, redolent of turpentine. "Feel it! All
nice and smooth, isn't it?" he had said, his eyes huge with
excitement. "Put your finger here! What do you feel?"

Ellie hadn't known. But Jimmy could tell her, delighted to share his
father's esoteric knowledge. "Do you feel a little bump?"

Yes, Ellie felt it. Just a little bump.

"That's the fuse!"

"And what does the fuse do?"

"That's what makes the bomb go off." And Jimmy had closed his eyes, 
drawn a big breath, and let out a piercing "BOO-OOM!"

Ellie had covered her ears and laughed. But both Gemma and Myra were
ashen-faced.

And then there were the rough-and-tumble games. Jimmy in particular
liked those. Gemma would sit, just like her mother, and watch, a
sneer upon her face. Sometimes she would pretend to read a book, or
play with one of her dolls, holding it to her breast.

Can a seven year old boy feel sexual desire? It seemed like it. Every
game, no matter what the pretext, ended up with Jimmy sliding his
hands under Ellie's t-shirt, up the sleeve, down through the neck, or
in at the waist - always feeling, exploring, tickling, until she had
to swat him away. At first she thought it was innocent - but was it?
"He loves you, Ellie," Myra had said. "He thinks you're the cat's
whiskers."

And then there was that awful time she'd worn her short mini. What a
ridiculous mistake! It would have been bad enough on its own, but
Myra and Gemma sat there, pretending to pay no attention, but
watching, more avidly than ever.

Alone in her room, Ellie blushes at the memory. What had possessed
her to dress like that? The whole atmosphere became overcharged -
particularly in Jimmy's case. Several times, Gemma had intervened,
pushing Jimmy off and fighting him herself. "You're not to touch her
like that!" And when, finally, Jimmy's tireless wrestling and groping
and  play-fighting had worked her up, to the point that she knew she
was getting excited and careless, Myra had stood over them, silent,
straight-mouthed and trembling, and Jimmy had fled upstairs. Did she
disapprove? That was how it had seemed at the time. But in
retrospect, perhaps it was something else, something that dared not
find expression.

Had that, perhaps, been the turning point, the trigger that set
everything else in motion? In retrospect, it must have been, because
for the first time it became obvious that Gemma was competing with
her brother in earnest for Ellie's attention and affection. That
night, after the bedtime story, Gemma had insisted on a cuddle. And a
rather touchy-feely cuddle it had turned out to be, to the extent
that Ellie had involuntarily let out a little moan - and Gemma drew
back, asked: "Do you like that feeling?" Perhaps she knew already.
Perhaps she knew perfectly well what she was doing.

And the very next day, Jimmy wanted to be the bomb disposal man...
and Ellie had to play the part of the bomb. And of course he had
touched her just there. How had he known, at his age? Could Gemma
have told him? But if so, perhaps they weren't competing at all:
perhaps they were colluding, in some mysterious way? Could that make
sense? Either way, in the light of subsequent events, it had almost
ceased to matter.

And once she'd extricated herself from Gemma, there was mother,
frozen in front of the silent television. Tick tick tick from the
clock. "Come here," she'd said, patting the cushion, and she'd made
Ellie sit down there beside her on the sofa.

"You must think I'm a terrible mother," she'd said, "making you do 
everything like this. I do love my children, really." She began 
breathing heavily, biting on her knuckle.

That was exactly what Ellie had been thinking, but it was clearly not 
the time to say so. She'd had to mumble reassuring denials.

"I'm not usually like this, Ellie. It just hasn't been the same
since... Since he..." She'd reached for Ellie's hand, almost crushed
it in her own. "You see, almost as soon as he went, I realized...
that I was... pregnant."

Ellie had wriggled away a little, afraid of this sudden disclosure.

"He'd only been gone a week, and I knew this was going to be a long
job - much more dangerous than any he's had before. And me on my own,
not knowing when I'd see him again."

Of course, Myra was speaking of the war. Ellie thought of Ian being
away, living a life of deadly peril, for weeks... for months. But she
just couldn't imagine it. People like Ian preferred to sit around in
bars, looking cool in front of their mates. Sure, when Ian hadn't
been around, she'd sometimes missed him. - Or perhaps it was a part
of her, that missed a part of him. Anyway, it was nothing like this
chasm of emptiness. This was something people like Ian could never
hope to fill.

"I wanted it so much... Him doing... what he does... I wanted so much
for us to have... another baby. So that I could be... you know."

Ellie didn't know. She couldn't imagine someone actually wanting to
be pregnant. Hell! Ian had tried to insist that she go on the pill.
But her friends had all assured her: you feel sick all the time. Who
wants to feel sick all the time? Anyway, if he was so keen to do it,
why shouldn't he take care of the necessities? It was terrifying
enough for her as it was, always having to worry in case it slipped
off, or something spilled out...

"I thought that if I was here, at home, having his child..."

And really, perhaps that was why she got so turned on when Jimmy
played his childish wrestling games, and Gemma had her cuddles. They
were innocent. Why couldn't Ian just touch her as they did - out of
love? Why couldn't he understand that she just wanted to be touched
as they touched her, without always demanding more, more?

"And when I missed my period, I thought I was sure."

Ian. Bloody Ian. All he can think about is getting off inside me,
while I lie awake at night, terrified in case...

"The sickness got worse. And I really was sure. And then... I had my
next period. Heavier than usual."

What? "I'm... so sorry..."

Myra sighed. She didn't seem sad, just resigned. "I suppose it wasn't
meant to be."

No, but it wasn't meant not to be, either.

"Hold me, Ellie. Just for a moment. Please."

And Ellie found herself saying all kinds of things she couldn't quite
remember: "It's not your fault... He knows you love him..." while
Myra sobbed and sobbed. And then, from nowhere, the fateful words -
where had they come from? "You aren't nothing, you aren't empty..."

At that, Myra had pushed her away, had wrapped herself in her own
arms. "Go now," she had said. "Go. But come back tomorrow."

* * *

At first, there seemed to be no change. Perhaps the children were a
bit more relaxed; and perhaps Myra didn't look away so quickly
whenever Ellie turned to her. Perhaps it was time to acknowledge what 
Ellie had always sensed: Myra's eyes on her, and not the television, 
whenever her back was turned. But Jimmy had been more insistent than
ever on his bomb disposal game - the one where Ellie had to be the
bomb.

"Ha-ha," he crowed, "this is the fuse."

"Don't touch me there!"

"But it is!"

And in her corner, Gemma gave a sly smile, and looked away into her
book.

At last, Myra, not taking her eyes from the television, shuffled in
her dressing-gown and issued her edict: "Jimmy... Gemma... time for
bed!"

"Oww-ww-ww!"

Growling, "Up you go!"

Four elephant feet upon the stairs.

Ellie sat up, straightening her clothes. Breathless. Feeling foolish. 
Blushing.

Myra, exigent: "Get them to sleep. Then come down again."

And at last, side by side on the sofa: "They love you, you know."

Ellie helpless. Not finding words.

"You have come to us out of nowhere."

"I... My mum said I should come." Sounds pretty crap. "I mean, you 
need someone. I mean, with Jimmy and..."

"I make you spend all your time here. You must have a boyfriend?"

"Yes, I've... Well, not really."

"Do you know what Jimmy says about you?"

"No."

Myra's eyes, then. Compelling her. "He says you are beautiful."

Ellie looked away.

"Look at me, Ellie."

No. I am bad. I should not feel this. I could never be a mother.

"Ellie, you are dangerous, like a bomb. You are trapping us all. Do
you know that?"

And then, suddenly, without intending to, without expecting it, they 
had kissed. My God! Kissed for hours!

And after that...

* * *

It is late. She has been standing here too long, remembering.
Remembering the love, the need... And the pleasure. Yes, to be
honest, the pleasure. Nothing like those sad, sweaty little fucks
with Ian. Never again...!

Yeah, much too far in now. No turning back.

Hurriedly, Ellie strips. For a moment, she stares in wonder and
disgust at the viscous puddle in her knickers. Myra likes it, calls
it "your honey, your lovely honey." But Ellie is still not used to
it. Ian could never do that to her. But Myra... Just thinking about
Myra... Abruptly, she hurls the soaked underwear under the bed, then
throws on one of her most seductive outfits - the one Ian liked so
very much. That should go down well. Mascara? That will have to do.
Lipstick? No point. Hair? Quick brush. Heels. Rush down.

"My God! I thought you were babysitting. Where are you going?"

"To MzzDavis. I thought I said."

"But... This late? And dolled-up like that?"

"Why not?"

The door bangs. There is just the tick-tick-tick of heels on the
pathway, quick and steady like a clock, then fading, fading into
fearful silence.

Ellie's mother sighs.

Shortly, another door opens. Myra, too, is resplendent. She stands 
back, so that they can look at one another.

No facial expressions, no words. Just eyes wide in delighted amazement.

Ellie presses the door closed behind her, gently, with her
fingertips, shutting out everything she has known. She didn't run.
Not in these heels. Forced herself not to. Why, then, is she so out
of breath?

Myra: "They're in bed."

"Asleep?"

"I didn't tell them you were coming." Myra swallows. Breath coming 
faster and faster. Arms held out. "So come. Oh honey, honey, come to 
me... You dangerous, dangerous thing... We have to make you safe, 
don't we, hmmm? Or you will destroy us all..."

Lips greet lips, and sightless eyes all-seeing, in-seeing stare, while 
slender fingers delicately embark upon their brave and necessary task. 

And, many wonderful minutes later, a carefully controlled explosion.