Oh, Magdalene! (or, Maggie Can Sing): The Storm

4

Chores mostly taken care of, Maggie was growing all the more uneasy. A storm was brewing. Foul weather on the way. Maggie looked long and hard out the window, watching as the Valerie rocked and rocked all the fiercer as the wind howled. She was sick with worry.

She'd packed some leftover slow roast duck and roasted vegetables aside for Fynn besides. So she might as well use it as an excuse to go and check on him before it was too late. She threw on a pale duck egg blue anorak and her white gumboots over her emerald green stockings and long sleeved shift dress, her takeaway in hand, and she was off. The ground beneath her slippery, she moved deftly and with caution along the quay to Fynn's.

She tapped twice on the door once aboard and entered.

"Mags! Ya shouldn't have come! It's bloody mad out there!" Clouds gathering all the more brooding in deep grays and dark blues and bleeding purples, a sudden hail storm or worse evermore eminent.

"Sorry, Fynn, but I, I just has to make sure you were okay. I dunno. I don't suppose you and the pussy cats could come across to ours for the night until the storm passes at least? It'd be no trouble and I really do worry for your safety out here on the Valerie..."

"You poor fretting angel. Valerie's weathered far worse, I promise you. We'll be just fine. And you know I'd be the first to invite you in for a cuppa, but this time I think it's best if you hurry back for all I'd love the pleasure of our company as always."

"Um, okay, but here." And she thrust the tupperware of leftovers into his hands. A slight touch. His hands warm. When she'd had occasion, his hands were always warm. A longing coming over her and just there, and she wondered if he'd felt it or if she was just imagining things, but a spark that had jumped, touching inadvertently. But of course, of course he'd felt it too.

Quickly making her way back to the riverside cottage, the skies opened up, thunder cracking. Just be brave, Maggie told herself as she tried to be as swift but careful as possible in her white wellies. A gust of wind just about blew her clear off her feet and she grabbed for the Seachant, a catamaran moored just beside her right then and there. Trying to regain her balance, the next Maggie knew she was paralysed, collapsed, humming with current.

Fynn could hardly believe his eyes. Maggie struck – no two ways – by a freak bolt of lightning.

“Fuck,” he cursed and rushed as fast as his nimble attack could carry him to be by her side. He knew CPR from his former days in the National Sea Rescue and now he needed it, more than he'd ever needed it. But Maggie hung beautifully in the balance of transcendence.

Vaguely, as if from another room, she heard the voice of Fynn calling furiously to her, pleading, begging, but she was too busy dancing. There was no one but her and the bright light and the music as she danced and danced and danced, never before so light on her feet, as if an eternity dancing and she didn't want it to end, oh the music and the light and the glorious music, dancing and dancing and dancing, yes an eternity's promise. And then suddenly Fynn appeared and took her hand in his hand and they danced now together as the music began to slow and she knew it, the song.

‘At Last’ by Etta James.

"Don't you go leaving me now," Fynn whispered into her ear as he cradled her head in the nape of his neck, the heady scent of the wide and the wild and the wondrous ocean. "Just don't you dare go leaving me now." And he held her all the closer while Etta James sang her heart out.

The next thing Maggie knew she was sitting bolt upright, a concerned crowd, some she knew, some she didn't, all around her. And then her smile alighted on him, her saviour. He wiped his brow, still knitted in fear and worry, his usual tan vanished from him, ashen. She wanted to say but couldn't. Oh, Fynn. If only she could say his name. But it she couldn't will it for all she tried. She flung her arms around him and held on, never wanting to let go. Let the villagers talk!

When she finally released him from her iron grip of a hug, all she could manage was to keep grinning at him like an idiot.

Say something! she yelled in her head.

And stop grinning like an idiot!

But she couldn't say a singe word and simply grinned all the more like the idiot she felt.

"Okay, show's over, folks!" Fynn finally announced, sure now that the worst of it was over. Gallantly, and just like a regular Clark Gable, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her off as if she weighed nothing, all the way to the Valerie.

He didn't trust her husband, not one bit, to keep vigil through the night, and if that poor excuse of a man had any beef with that, well that was a matter for another day. Right now, Maggie needed him and that was all he needed to know. He wasn't the only one who couldn't give a fig what the villagers figured! Let 'em talk...

He laid her gently in his small single bed and took out an extra quilt she'd gifted him, to add to the layers of blankets and make sure she kept warm. He poured water into the cherry red kettle and popped it onto the open flame to boil.

Maggie was still without words and grinning for all the world like the fool she felt. She wanted to confess all to him. How she'd heard him calling to her from far off. The bright lights and the music and how he'd appeared to her in the end and how they'd danced to Etta James and how he'd begged her not to go just yet and how she'd stayed just for him. But the words wouldn't come.

He reckoned a strong and sweet and milky coffee was in order, just the way she liked it. He stirred slowly and deliberately, his nerves still a little shot.

"Here ya go." And she thanked him with her eyes and palms together almost in prayer. Etta James still ringing out in her ears. And the scent of him, of the ocean, as they'd danced like that, and the warmth of his hands, before she'd been returned to the deck and the pouring rain and the ogling crowd and the ashen pallor of Fynn thinking he'd nearly lost her.

She sipped on her coffee, thawing out, and tucked the quilt ever closer around herself. She'd given him this quilt, she remembered. One of her nana's. She loved it. But her husband would've been plain appalled if she'd so much as tried to lay it on their bed for winter. She couldn't bear to leave it to simply gather dust in one of his seamless cupboards. And she knew Fynn would at least appreciate its warmth and perhaps even its provenance.

While she sipped away and fiddled with the quilt, Fynn was erstwhile busy in the kitchen making her a rollie with the freshly opened Golden Virginia tobacco and hemp papers and eco friendly filters. Though not much of a smoker himself, he rolled one for himself too. Desperate times. A stiff Scotch too. For a minute there he'd thought he'd lost her forever.

From inside the kitsch blue kitchen cupboard out came the silver Art Deco lighter he'd had repaired especially for her to always have on the Valerie. He returned to the little single bed, plonking himself down on a small three legged stool opposite, whiskey by his feet. He handed her the rollie. Again she smiled, grateful, but without a word as she held it up while he leant forward to light it for her. Then his.

God it was glorious! She so desperately wanted to thank him, but she knew that he knew and she took a long and slow and satisfying drag, exhaling with squealish delight. And then all of a sudden and utterly without warning, a voice rang out, proud and strong and Etta incarnate, belting!

"At last my love has come along! My lonely days are over... And life is like a song!"

Fynn shifted forward, eyes on Maggie, astounded. Meanwhile Maggie held her hand up to her mouth, just as astounded, staring back at Fynn with saucers for eyes and one big question mark in those big, green peepers.

Then he grinned. And she grinned back. She shrugged and took another drag of her rollie, blowing out smoke rings, triumphant.

"Apparently Maggie can sing!" He chuckled, in part relief, in part still in shock.

But for all the fretting and worry, Fynn clapped his hands, a slow cheer, and laughed heartily all the more. "Un-befucking-believable!"

***

Morning had dawned, Maggie dozing still. Fynn hauled out two quaint egg cups and made a soft boiled egg with 'soldiers' for dunking for each of them, with the toast from the leftover sourdough. Maggie had once told him that her nana had always made it for her growing up and that of all her favourite meals, it was this simple breakfast she loved most of all.

He set it neatly at the table and woke her gently.

Maggie woolfed it down hungrily.

He took her voracious appetite as a good sign to her recovery.

Next the kettle was ready and he whipped up her usual. Real coffee.

She looked on lustfully at the packet of Golden Virginia and paraphenalia on the table...

Then at him, longingly.

"Go for it," he grinned at her. "It's all yours." He loved indulging her every wish.

So simple though they were, he soaked in the look of sheer delight on her face.

With quick and sure hands, she made herself a neat rollie. Another good sign.

He reached across the table to light it for her. She took a drag and then a sip of her sweet and milky coffee and then another drag...

"I've got sunshine, on a cloudy day... When it's cold outside, I got the month of May..." This time, belting a little Otis. She reached out a seeking hand, smiling all the while and tousled his unruly mop, knotted by the unforgiving sea air. An irresistible affection for him.

Suddenly an idea came to him.

It was a song that had never ceased to get on her toes once upon a time.

Oh if only she knew how he knew her. All those years, never once missing a beat, forever studying her, and everything, all there was, no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential, each and every joy in her precious heart. Making quick work of it he went to haul out his bluetooth speaker from under the bed base. But first, he just couldn't help himself... He lifted the pillow where Maggie had rested her head and pressed it to his nose, breathing in the scent of her. But music!

He placed the boombox on the little table, connecting it to his phone while Maggie watched on, growing ever more curious. He found it in no time at all on YouTube and pushed play.

Her favourite.

None other than 'Freedom' by the late, great George Michael!

He knew it!

Soon Maggie was tapping her feet, song building, momentum building, a song so very much a part of her, lived and loved and felt, and it was coursing through her. And he sat smiling, his little social experiment working its magic, as in no time at all and she was up on her feet, dancing like he hadn't seen her dance on nigh on a decade, just like she used to, like it was just her and the music, but this time singing with a set of pipes that just floored him!

Jesus, Maggie could sing! And good God was he ever in love with this woman....

Song over and Maggie collapsed at the table and gestured again at the coffee cup, making herself another neat rollie. Grinning madly.

"Sure thing, love." It had just slipped out. He hadn't meant to call her 'love' though it was plain that he meant it. Shy, he turned quickly to the kettle and the task of making her another coffee. But Maggie had heard every word and wished so very desperately to tell him how she'd stayed just for him and only because he'd asked, because he had appeared to her, because it was him who had saved her during that fateful storm. But again, the words wouldn't come.... Only the music.... Maybe more Otis... As it gurgled forth like a well spring...

"I'll be the rainbow when the sun is gone...To wrap you in my colours and keep you warm... That's how strong my love is...Dahling, that's how strong my love is...That's how strong my love is..."

He had turned from the boiling kettle and their eyes locked.

Her singing again but each and every word she meant with each and every bit of her soul. And only for him. A bolt of lightning making her all the bolder.

"Well, Mags...Otis again eh? I guess... If you want to know how strong my love is... How do I know you? You can't even begin to know how I know you but maybe this will help..." And with that he smiled that lopsided smile of his she loved. The next thing she knew 'This Charming Man' by The Smiths was booming from the bluetooth speaker... Yet another tune she was defenceless against; she just had to dance... And sing! Twirling circles about his boat, she couldn't remember when she'd last felt this happy.

"I would go out tonight... But I haven't got a stitch to wear!"

And the lopsided smile fixed to Fynn's face.

Song over, she hugged him again, like her very life depended on it and then collapsed once again at the table for another rollie and another of his dreamy coffees, utterly in her element.

He sat opposite, sipping all the while but not once taking his eyes off her, he streamed another of her favourites... 'Lullaby' by The Cure – for the speaker. Then a little Stranglers. And of course 'This Must Be the Place' by the Talking Heads.

Suddenly a sadness came over her eyes, a sadness that supposed she didn't deserve something, anything, nothing good in her life and she conjured Etta, a melancholy sweetness to her voice as she sang out....

"I want a Sunday kind of love, a love that lasts past Saturday night... I want a Sunday kind of love..."

"Okay Etta, you got it in me. It ain't gonna be easy... But you got me."

"I'm so tired of being alone. I'm so tired all on my own..." Al Green. Swooning. Crooning. Eyes teary and pleading all the more.

"Here, Mags, when you want it. When you're ready. It's yours. All I've ever wanted is to be all yours and only yours."

With that, Fynn reached in the kitsch blue kitchen cupboard for the green velvet box and set it before her. Her eyes widened, pleading all the more, but still words escaped her.

"Go on, Mags."

With that, slowly and steadily, hands a little shaky, and with the utmost care and reverence, she undid the little silver clasp on the box and opened it up, revealing the Claddagh Irish promise ring within.

"Ever since I witnessed you dancing on that magical night, I've loved you. I've had all these years since. Just. I'm a fecking idiot to have waited all these years. Jesus, Maggie, I'm sorry. You've deserved so much better. All these years. And all these years, I've had this ring. But I'm yours. Really, I've always been yours."

Maggie gazed at the ring and then up at Fynn and then again at the ring. She shook her head. No. Not yet. Not like this, she wanted to tell him. But that didn't mean never. Soon. This was the life she wanted. This was the life she deserved, or at least she hoped she did.

Her husband didn't love her. Not really. She was just another one of his acquisitions. But no, not like this. And she pushed the emerald box across the table, having closed gently the silver clasp. Back into Fynn's hands. Earnestly she wanted to tell him. Her eyes earnestly asking not to give up. So very earnest.

She held his warm hand in hers.

"Try a little tenderness..." she sung softly.

"Okay, Otis, I hear you. I'll wait. I've waited for you all these years. Ain't about to stop now. That said, the storm has cleared. Got any plans? Anything in mind?”

Grateful she pulled away and took a swig of her coffee, reigniting her fag and grinning, she nodded.

"Alright, little lady, you lead the way."

And she grinned all the more. Plans she had. Plans she had indeed.

Coffee & Cigarettes by Peter Rappoli