Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 [c] 2004.  Marie Marshall

   [This story is for Serena]

   "Our Mountain"

   I finally did it.  I finally put an advert in the contact column of a
magazine.

   "Bi-curious mid-forties female seeks similar 25 - 50 in Eastern Scotland
area to satisfy curiosity."

   As an afterthought I added "GSOH".  Everybody always puts that in, so it
would be - what?  - unconventional to leave it out.  Hang on, what did I
care about being conventional?  Maybe quite a bit.  It means, as if you
didn't know, "good sense of humour".

   As for the rest of the ad, well firstly it just has to be "bi-curious".
Simply to put "lesbian" implies a certainty that could be off-putting to
the seeker.  It's best to leave things with a hint of uncertainty.  It
says, "I don't know if I really am a lesbian, but I think I fancy women, so
let's find out." Hmmm.  "To satisfy curiosity" is just a hint of GSOH. 
"Satisfy", you see?  Bi-curious, "curiosity", get it?

   No?  Well hardly anyone else did.  Weeks went by and I heard nothing. 
It cost me a tenner too!  I grumbled for a while, and then shrugged my
shoulders and got on with life.

   But I had forgotten the box number at the end of the ad.  The magazine
had put that in, and it was their practice to wait until a number of
replies had come before forwarding them to the advertisers.  One day an
envelope arrived through my letterbox.  It had the return address of the
magazine.  It was very, very thin.  I hesitated.  I didn't open it.  I
almost tore it up and threw it in the recycling.  I didn't though - no, I
opened it.  Silly, my hands were trembling, and I shredded the envelope as
I opened it, bending the card inside.  The single card.

   "Dear bi-curious mid-forties female," It ran, in small, neat writing. 
"I'm sorry if that sounds a bit stupid, but I don't know what else to call
you.  I hope you don't mind my replying, because I don't quite fit the
profile you asked for.  I'm only 24, do you mind?  I have been feeling
lonely, and that's why I read the contact ads.  Yours was the only one I
liked.  It made me smile.  Shall we take a chance, and see if we like each
other?  I've never done this before.  How do we get in touch?  Here's my
email address - use that if you like."

   It was signed "RG", and the email address gave no hint of where she
lived, but then they never do.  I walked through to the spare room, where I
kept the computer, and sat down in front of it.  I switched it on.  As it
booted up, I sat and looked at the card, reading it through again.  I
thought of my last lesbian fling - several years ago now - with Juliet, my
gorgeous, selfish, oriental woman.  I had felt so down when she finished
with me, that I no longer had the heart to go looking for girlfriends, and
I had drifted around rudderless for quite some time.  And suddenly here I
was in my mid-forties!  All those years ago, before Juliet, I was a more
confident person I guess.  Nothing really phased me.  I inhabited the
fringe of our local lesbian scene, and so I knew where to go to pick up. 
My type?  I didn't have a type.  Colour, size, style - all were the same to
me, so long as they were cute.  Age?  Anything within reason, but in those
days I thought thirty-five was old!  Now here I was, so lacking in
confidence that I had turned to contact ads.  Sad or what?  I had set my
parameters at a twenty-five year spread, and still had failed to hit the
target.  Somebody kick me.  Please.

   I clicked on the icon for Outlook Express.  The programme opened.  I sat
there, doing nothing, until my screen-saver kicked in.

   "Are you going to reply to this bloody card ore aren't you?" said a
voice in my head.  "Because if you aren't, switch off the computer, tear up
the card, and go and get on with the ironing.  It's been piling up for a
week!"

   Anything is better than ironing, so I jogged my mouse to bring the
screen back into life, and opened a new mail message.

   "Dear RG.  I got your card," I typed.  So far so good.  " Thanks very
much for replying to my ad.  I've never done this before either, so we're
equal there.  I'm glad my ad made you smile, and no I don't mind that
you're only 24.  You sound like a nice girl.  Shall we meet?"

   I back-spaced over everything after "24", and went on.

   "Actually, you were the only person to reply to my ad." Damn, no! 
Backspace, backspace...

   "I'd like to give this a try, if you would.  Let's get to know one
another.  There's no need for us to meet unless and until you are ready."
No, I re-typed that as "quite ready" and went on.  " Email me back if it's
still OK.  Kisses.  Eva."

   I read it through and then deleted the "kisses".  Too forward.  To soon.

   Send.  Oh glory be!

   I was on tenterhooks.  I think I logged on about once every hour.  I'm
on dial-up, or I might have just left the thing running.  No reply came the
whole of that day, or that evening.  I went to bed, but didn't do much more
than doze.  The next day went by, and I was worse than useless at work. 
The rest of the week went by, and I slumped and ate chocolate.  The weekend
came, and I forced myself to go shopping, to do chores, to busy myself
around the flat.  On Sunday morning I had a long lie-in, and actually
managed some sleep.  I got up, showered, wrapped my kimono round me, and
made some toast and coffee, before switching on the computer.  I had half
an ear on Alastair Cooke's "Letter from America", when I heard the familiar
chime that meant I had mail.  I checked my in-box.
"Re: Hi RG."
I clicked on it, and read the message slowly, looking for the hidden
message which would say "I don't think this is a good idea after all." This

is what I saw:

   "Dear Eva.  I am so glad you got in touch, and I must apologize for not
having replied immediately.  Your email was a lovely surprise waiting for
me when I got back from a week away.  I had the chance of a cheap holiday,
and I took it.  Anyhow, I never expected to hear from you - it's ages since
I sent my card in to the magazine!  Yes, let's give this a try.  Maybe
you're as lonely and unsure as I am, so let's get to know each other. 
Please email me back.  Kisses.  RG."

   "Kisses" - good grief!

   I sat down and composed a reply.

   "Dear RG..."

   That was the start of a week of emails, one a day.  We limited ourselves
by mutual agreement, so that we neither of us would feel any pressure.  She
had an office job, she said.  She liked hill-walking and classical music,
and hoped that didn't sound too boring.  She watched American sci-fi on the
TV - "The X-files" and so on - and hoped that didn't make her sound like an
"anorak".  Her favourite food was Italian, same as mine [I wondered if it
had the same effect on her waistline as it did on mine].  Always she signed
herself only "RG", as if deliberately holding something back.  I did not
press her on this.  Always she signed off with "kisses".  I still signed
off with nothing.  Amazingly, by the end of the week we had decided to
meet.

   "Dear RG," I wrote.  "It would be good to meet for coffee on Saturday
morning.  How does that sound?  I know, let's do this the traditional way.
In stories, people always meet under the station clock.  Let's do that." I
gave her the name of the nearest big town, and she agreed.  Ten o'clock,
Saturday.

   No need to say that I was nervous.  I seemed to have been living on my
nerves since the moment her card had arrived.  I was up with the birdies on
Saturday, and spent a long time after my shower staring into my wardrobe,
wondering what to wear.  Of course there was no point in getting dolled up
- not for Saturday morning coffee.  On the other hand I could hardly turn
up in my scruff.  I settled for safe and boring - my knee-length, black
skirt, and a cream blouse.  I put on a string of imitation pearls, took
them off again, and decided to carry a cardigan.  I worried that this
seemed a little too conservative, and so I set about putting on some
make-up.  I was half-way through putting on my lipstick, when I suddenly
though, "Heavens, no!  I'm going to look as if I have been painted!  She's
an outdoor type - go for a natural look." So I took off all my make-up and
started again, trying for a "light touch".  Eventually I got more or less
what I wanted, and brushed my hair.  It would all come adrift again, of
course.

   My train actually arrived at ten-oh-one.  I had forgotten that the clock
at ***** station was sited below the departures board, and when I came out
of the corridor that led from the platform to the concourse, there was a
crowd of people there.  I stopped a few feet away.  I could see that some
of them were looking up at the departure board, deciding which platform to
go to.  Others were in couples or threesomes.  One or two were alone, and a
couple of those were women.  Which one was she?

   My eyes were drawn to a young woman whose back was towards me.  At that
moment, as if at a signal, the rest of the crowd walked away in various
directions, and the young woman was left on her own.  I looked at her.  She
was about my height.  She was wearing a frock which was beige, with a muted
floral pattern, and flat sandals.  There was a rope of plaited, fair hair
hanging down her back, and her shoulders were fairly broad.  She looked at
her watch, and as she bent her neck forward, I could see that it was long
and remarkably graceful.

   I took a couple of steps towards her.

   "RG?" I asked, tentatively.

   She turned round, and I looked into her face.  It was a fairly long
oval, but with a pointed chin.  Her nose was long and straight, and her
mouth was turned down slightly at the corners.  Her eyes were dark, and her
eyebrows arched over them.  She had a simple, girl-next-door beauty, and I
was taken completely by surprise by it.  I watched her expression, and saw
it change to something like relief.

   "Is it Eva?  Oh I thought for a minute you weren't coming!  It's great
to meet you.  I feel like saying `at last', because of course it is so long
since I replied to the ad.  Oh, and by the way, the `R' stands for Roberta,
but please call me Bobbie.  Everyone else does."

   No hint of disappointment.  She liked me.  And instantly I liked her
too. I suggested a coffee shop I knew in town, and she readily agreed.  It
wasn't a trendy one, but like everyone else they had by now got round to
latte and mocha.  We both had a cappuccino, and we sat and talked like old
friends.  Then we went shopping.  Neither of us was a shop-till-you-drop
person, but each other's company made walking round the town a pleasure. 
Buoyed up by this pleasure, we even bought one or two things.

   We went for lunch - a different coffee shop, one which did panini and
tray-bakes - and as we sat over the remains of it, She let me hold her hand
under the cover of the tablecloth.

   "Shall we see each other again?" I asked.

   "Yes, I'd like that."

   I wrote my phone number on a piece of paper, and she slipped it into her
purse.

   She looked at her watch, and said that there was a train due in about
half an hour.  I paid for our lunch - I insisted on it - and we walked back
to the station.  We walked side by side, not touching, although sometimes
her arm brushed mine, and I felt a little thrill, even more so than when I
had held her hand.  Once we were on the Station platform, we talked very
little.  We just stood together, by one of those Victorian, cast-iron
pillars that holds up the canopy.  There was hardly anyone else on the
platform, and as her train drew in she leant forward and gave me a quick,
light kiss on my lips.

   "'Bye."

   She sat in a window seat, and as her train pulled out, I mouthed "Call
me." She nodded and waved.  I watched that train until it was out of sight,
and then waited for my own to come.  It wasn't due for another hour, and I
suddenly felt very lonely.

   At home, I had time to stop and think about it all.  We had found an
instant rapport.  To me she seemed very beautiful, and that wasn't simply
because she was young and I had been without a girlfriend for so long.  I
was aware that I was twenty years her senior.  I was no longer young
myself, needed to watch my figure and be careful about what I wore.  And
yet she had seemed to accept me, to enjoy my company, to let me hold her
hand ... and that kiss goodbye, which had been such a surprise to me.

   Next day, just as I was washing up the breakfast things, the phone rang.
It was Bobbie.

   "Hi.  You said to call you."

   "Yes.  Right.  Hi." For a moment or two I was stuck for something to
say, but it was Bobbie who broke the silence.

   "I really enjoyed our date, and I was just ringing to see what you
fancied doing next.  I'm not being too pushy, am I?  Just say if I am.  You
know that I've never had a girlfriend before, and I'm not really sure how
to go about this!"

   These words - "date", "girlfriend"!

   "Well," I said.  "How do you like Italian food?"

   "Love it - it's my favourite, my absolute favourite!  You know it is.  I
told you."

   "OK then, why not come here for a meal next Saturday.  I cook a mean
Spag Bolly."

   "Spaghetti Bolognese?  Great.  I can't wait.  Can you meet me at the
station again?"

   "Yes, I'll pick you up in my car.  Seven o'clock?"

   "Fine.  Should I bring anything?"

   "Only yourself." I heard myself saying that, and I thought, "You're the
only thing I need."

   "OK then.  See you."

   "Bye."

   "Bye." I hung up, and immediately regretted not telling her how much I
too had enjoyed our first "date".

   Cooking, getting oneself dressed for a special person, and acting as a
taxi service are all difficult activities to juggle.  They seemed to take
up most of the following Saturday, particularly as my Spag Bolly definitely
does not come out of a jar.  I puree my own tomatoes, and use fresh garlic
cloves.  I planned a light starter, and lemon sorbet for desert too.  Just
before seven o'clock, however, I pulled into the station car-park, turned
the engine off, and sat in the car.  Suddenly it occurred to me that Bobbie
wouldn't recognise my car, so I opened the door and got out.  I had only
just locked the door and taken a few steps away from it, when she walked
through the station's automatic doors.  She looked round, spotted me,
smiled, and waved, quickening her pace, and approaching me with a grace and
vivacity that took me by surprise.  It was only a matter of two or three
yards back to my car, but as soon as she drew level with me she took my
hand.  We walked back to the car like a couple of children - schoolfriends
on the beach.  She had on that same floral dress that she had worn the
first time we met, this time with a powder-blue cardigan over her
shoulders.

   "Seatbelt," I said, peremptorily, as I do to everyone who rides with me.
She disobeyed, but only to lean over to my side and give me a kiss on my
cheek.  I blushed - I actually blushed.

   We drove in silence for a while.  My place was a good half-hour away,
and I kept wondering why I hadn't picked her up at my local station.  I had
come all the way to the place where we had first met.  Was that why?  Was
it special to me now?  Was it neutral territory?  I couldn't answer my own
questions.

   "I've missed you," said Bobbie.  As simple as that.  She said what I had
been thinking, but hadn't dared to say.  Our first time together had indeed
been a little experience of something golden for me, and out of the
ordinary.  When it ended, I had felt lonely.  I had almost wished that it
had never happened at all, and then being away from her would not have felt
so bad.  Now I recalled that this was how it had always been with me at the
start of a relationship or an affair.  But there was something different
about it this time; it was as if there had always been a hole in my life,
somewhere for a missing piece of me to fit, and it was shaped like her.  I
was falling in love.  Maybe I already had fallen in love.  So soon!  And
yet that was like me too.  Relationships in my life had flared up like
brilliant fireworks, only to die down.  Now it occurred to me that I was
scared of love, scared of feeling that way again, terrified of rising only
to fall.  Silly, silly Eva - I told myself.  But the feeling wouldn't go
away.

   When we got to my flat, she took a bottle of wine out of her bag and
presented it to me.

   "Oh, Bobbie," I said.  "I told you not to bring anything." But secretly
I was pleased that she had disobeyed me again.  I said to myself that could
get used to her not doing as I asked.  I handed her a corkscrew, and
suggested that she should open the bottle while I put the finishing touches
to the meal, and quickly made Bruschetta.  I hadn't meant that she should
pour a glass for each of us, but that's what she did, bringing one to me in
my galley-kitchen.

   "Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

   "Um ... sit in the lounge and look beautiful," I suggested.  She
laughed.

   "Well, I can manage the first half of that!"

   She really didn't know.  We women never seem to be satisfied with the
way we look, but the fact that she really did not know how beautiful she
was made her all the more beautiful to me.  Yes, it was true, I was indeed
falling in love with her.  She went and sat down on my sofa, and we had a
conversation which was half-shouted, and half carried on whenever I found
some slight excuse to bustle through, carrying something from the kitchen
to the dining table at the far end of the lounge.  We talked about nothing
- light, even brittle small-talk, our faces flushed by something more than
the first few sips of wine.  Eventually the meal was ready, and we took our
places at the table, the food engaging our mouths so that we no longer had
to make conversation.  Neither of us spoke, except for when Bobbie paid a
compliment to my cooking.

   "This is absolutely gorgeous!"

   She seemed to relish every mouthful of every course, which was very
gratifying to me.  I felt a rosy glow come over me.  The evening was a
success, and here I was with a beautiful woman ... whom I loved.  Why not
admit it to myself?  For the first time in I-don't-know-how-long I actually
loved someone.  I would be exaggerating to say that it felt like my first
time all over again, because my fist time had been three decades before. 
But it felt very new, and very special.  I watched enchanted as she tested
my sorbet with the tip of her tongue, and I felt my libido being
kick-started.  Perhaps it was the effect of the wine rather the
suggestiveness of her tongue-tipping.

   We finished the meal.  We finished the wine too.  I found a half-full
bottle that I had opened a couple of days before, and poured us two more
glasses, which we took to the sofa.  There we sat, and looked at each
other. It was perfect, everything was perfect.

   I put my wineglass down, and took hers from her hand, leaning over her
to put it on a surface nearby.  Then I kissed her lightly on her lips,
lingering for a moment there.  Somehow the wine had turned sweeter on her
lips and her breath.  She put her arms round me, and we kissed again,
stopping every few seconds to look into each other's eyes, to see if we
really meant it.  The combination of the wine and kissing Bobbie - now this
is really true, it doesn't just happen in silly stories - was making my
heart race.  We closed our eyes and pressed our lips together.  I found her
tongue with mine, we fought with them tip-to-tip until I forced mine
through and rolled it round and round hers.  One of her hands was behind my
head, caressing my neck, and the fingers of the other were rubbing gently
up and down two or three vertebrae in the small of my back.  I felt that
everything had been leading up to this, and now everything had been made
perfect.

   I loved her.  Maybe I was getting carried away, but now I was absolutely
sure that I loved her.  I wanted to tell her, but I didn't want to stop
kissing her.  I wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, how special she
was, and how special she made me feel.  My right hand had been resting
gently by her waist, but now I brought it upwards and cupped it round her
left breast.  It was firm, round, and at that moment was the most precious
thing I had ever held in my hand.  I moved my hand all around it, mapping
it in my mind, loving not only its wonderful, womanly shape, but also how
the fabric of her dress felt on the palm of my hand, and how I could make
out the shape of her bra beneath it.  Maybe this was the way I could tell
her how much I loved her?  I moved a couple of fingers into the top of her
dress, tweaking one or two buttons undone, then continued inside, exploring
the top of her bra.  She caught my hand, and broke off our kiss.

   "No, wait ...no ... not just ... Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" She burst
into tears.  A moment before she had been holding me, kissing me, and now
she had her face in her hands and was sobbing uncontrollably.  I sat there,
one arm awkwardly over the back of the sofa, unsure whether to say
anything, whether to offer a sign of comfort, a hand on her arm.  I was
numb.  There was nothing left now but the effect of the wine.  The alcohol
had brought the blood to the surface of my skin, and suddenly I felt cold.

   "I've spoilt everything," said Bobbie, between sobs.

   "No, no," I said, actually thinking, "Yes, yes", and then rebuking
myself with the thought that it had been my clumsy, tipsy groping which had
brought everything crashing down, and nothing she had done.  But I couldn't
say this.  I couldn't say anything.  I had been building up courage to say
"I love you", and I was now mute, incapable of saying anything at all.

   "I had better go home," she said, with no expression in her voice.

   "I'll drive you to the station," I said, instantly remembering that I
had had far too much to drink.  I called myself every sort of stupid tart -
how crass of me to assume that the evening would end with our falling into
bed with each other.  Well I was getting my come-uppance now!  No girl, an
unsteady drive to the station, a flat full of washing-up.  Life.  Bloody
life.  Why did I bother, if everything was going to dissolve into silliness
and disappointment again, and again, and again?

   We drove in silence.  I was concentrating hard on my driving, looking
out for a possible police car; although they were not common round here, it
would be just my luck for this evening to be an exception.  I didn't take
Bobbie to town, as I knew that there was a train which was due to make a
rare stop at our local halt.  She sat in the passenger seat, staring
straight ahead.

   At the halt, when we got out of the car, the silence continued.  We
stood on the tarmac platform, staring up the line, into the darkness,
longing for the lights of the train to come and end out misery.  I almost
felt like taking her into my arms and hurling us both onto the track.  Yes,
I was just that miserable.  I took her hand - I had to do something, make
some sort of contact.  She didn't resist, but gave no sign, no
acknowledgement.  Then the train came, and she simply took her hand from
mine, and got on it without a word.  While the train stood briefly there, I
looked through the window at her.  She simply looked straight ahead.  So
when it began to move, I turned and walked back to my car.

   Back at my flat, there was the table full of dirty dishes, the kitchen
full of pots and pans.  The smell of long-finished cooking was in the air,
and there on the kitchen counter was a bottle, with about half an inch of
wine in it.

   "Dregs," I thought.  "Bloody, bloody dregs.  That is life!"

   I kicked off my shoes, sat down on the sofa.  It was my turn to cry.

   The next day, when I booted up the computer and opened my email
programme, there was a message for me.  I stared at it, dreading opening
it. I had been given the kiss-off many times before, but only now was
information technology at last going to catch up with the universal pastime
of dumping Eva!  "Oh hell," I thought.  "Let's get it over with." I clicked
on it and read.

   "Dear Eva.  I am so, so sorry, darling.  I ruined our whole evening."
Just a minute - SHE ruined our evening?  I read on.  "When the train pulled
out of the station, I looked round.  I wanted to wave to you, but you were
already walking away.  I felt so unhappy.  Please say you forgive me.  It
was wrong of me to make you drive me when you had been drinking.  I just
want to tell you that it really WAS a lovely evening.  The meal was
delicious - you had gone to so much trouble for me, and you looked
beautiful too.  Look, I want to be with you so much, so can we forget what
happened?  Will you come out with me next Saturday?  Will you come and do
something I love doing?  Please say yes.  Kisses.  Bobbie."

   I sat there for ten minutes, maybe fifteen.  No, it must have been more,
because when I forced my eyes into focus again the monitor was black - not
even my screensaver was to be seen.  Somehow I couldn't make my mind
understand Bobbie's email.  It was a wonderful message - I looked
beautiful, she wanted to see me again, and so on - but this just would not
register.  It beat against the wall of mutual hurt like a wave against a
sea-wall.  I hit the reply button.

   "Dear Bobbie.  I can't do this..."

   I typed that in.  It was how I felt.  I sat there with these very words
revolving in my head.  "I can't do this.  I can't hurt myself.  I can't
hurt someone else.  I realise I was meant to be on my own.  I'm a walking
disaster area.  I have never had a proper relationship in my life.  Maybe
I'm not really a lesbian after all.  Having relationships with women has
brought me nothing but pain..." It was all true, and for several minutes I
actually thought that I had typed this into my reply.  But when I looked
again, only the first six words were there, and it felt as though I was
being offered a lifeline.  The negative feelings were still churning away,
but now there was a counter-current.  "Can't I do this?  Must I turn down a
chance of happiness?  Is it really bound to go wrong?" I forced myself to
backspace, and wrote again.

   "Dear Bobbie.  I'll be honest.  You have no idea what a relief it is to
hear from you.  I have been beating myself up ever since last night.  You
have nothing to reproach yourself for, because in fact it's all my
fault..." No, I backspaced over that last sentence, and continued.  "Let's
not worry about last night being anyone's fault.  Yes, I'd love to come and
do something you love doing.  Let me know what you have in mind.  Kisses
too.  Eva."

   "Dear Eva," came the reply, eventually.  "I want to get out and stretch
my legs.  Do you have any walking boots?"

   In my reply I lied - yes I had boots - and made a mental note to visit
the nearest outdoor shop.  It would be worth it for that golden girl.  I
was now determined to grab this chance of happiness with both hands, but I
must admit that I baulked a little, the following Saturday, when she showed
me the hill she wanted us to climb.  Mountain, rather!

   "It's a `Corbett'," she said.  "It's under three thousand feet, so it's
only a wee one."

   I looked at it, and wondered whether I would even manage the walk-in
along the moorland track.

   "Bobbie, please remember you're younger and fitter than I am!"

   She laughed, as if dismissing the fact that I was twenty years her
senior, and set off along the track.

   "Come on!"

   New boots, borrowed rucksack, borrowed trekking pole, old slacks tucked
into thick socks, musty anorak.  I must have looked quite a sight.  Bobbie
had on a pair of high-quality hiking trousers which had seen some wear, but
which were still both serviceable and stylish.  She had a checked shirt
with cuffs rolled back a couple of times, worn loose outside a sweatshirt.
She looked free, happy, and full of health as she strode casually ahead of
me, that plait swinging from side to side.  I allowed myself to be
mesmerised by its swing for some time, and that seemed to pull me along;
but soon I began to feel tiredness nip my leg muscles.

   "Bobbie, can we stop?  For a bit."

   She turned round, stopped, and walked the two or three paces back to me.

   "I'm sorry, Eva," she said, and it occurred to me to look back and count
the number of times she had apologized to me since we had first met.  Too
many apologies can be a sign of a lack of self-confidence.  Yet here, in
this environment, she seemed so full of confidence, so erect, so much her
natural self.  She put her hand on my arm.

   "I have been so used to walking by myself.  I get carried away.  It's
just so beautiful here.  Look back at the wood we came through after we
left the car park.  See how the footpath winds through the heather.  We're
already much higher - just look at the horizon!"

   I did look round, and it was beautiful.  I understood why she had had no
eyes for me.  Distant peaks which had been invisible from the road were now
forming a grey ring above the green of the nearer, wooded hills.  I had the
impression that the world had begun to open out like a flower.  I took a
deep breath, so deep it hurt my lungs, and realised that the air had a
totally different smell here, cleaner, so sharp that it was almost a taste.

   "Gives you energy you thought you didn't have, doesn't it!" she said
with a smile.  "I've been neglecting you - stupid of me.  I'll walk at your
pace.  We'll have lunch by the loch."

   We walked onwards, more easily now, but not without effort for all that.
She stayed by my side.  For a lot of the time, I gazed at her profile, and
at her graceful neck, and sometimes she looked across and smiled, meeting
my gaze with hers.  I stumbled once over a loose stone, and she caught my
hand.  That was a good excuse for a touch, but nevertheless I decided to
keep my eyes on the path a little more from then on.  Eventually we rounded
a bend, keeping a knoll to our left, and came upon the loch.  It wasn't
entirely natural, but had been enlarged by the placing of a small barrage
across a little pass.  The path went straight across the barrage.  We found
a convenient rock to sit on, and Bobbie busied herself getting sandwiches
out of her rucksack.  I took my camera from mine, and sneaked a couple of
photos of her.

   "Cut that out!" she said, with a grin.

   We were not alone on the mountain.  One or two people passed us, some
even came the other way, back from a much earlier climb.  As I munched a
sandwich I let my eyes follow the path.  Once it had crossed the barrage it
climbed suddenly and sharply up the mountain.  I realised that the ascent
was very steep.  I stopped chewing.

   "Bobbie, I don't think I can make it up that.  I'm tired out.  I'm not
as young as you are."

   Bobbie didn't say anything for a while.  We finished out sandwiches and
she handed me a Mars bar.

   "It's the first time I've been out for eighteen months," she said.  "To
be honest, I'm not the great outdoor girl I crack on to be.  My legs are
aching too."

   She stood up and put her hands on her hips.  She was half-turned away
from me, and I could see that she was looking fixedly at the summit of the
mountain.  She stood like that for five minutes or more.  A couple well
into their fifties walked past us; she watched them cross the barrage and
carry on up the first few feet of the ascent.  Then she looked up at the
summit again.

   "I can do that," she said.

   It may have been my stubborn bloody-mindedness taking over, it may have
been the rush of energy from the Mars, but whatever it was that lent me a
little extra, I stood up too, and started to re-pack the rucksacks.

   "Come on then," I said, and she smiled.  I realised how she had gently
persuaded me to carry on.  After all, it was only a Corbett.

   There did come a time - several times in fact - when I was convinced
that I had bitten off more than I could chew.  But each time Bobbie halted
us, let me rest for thirty seconds, and set me a target of the next stunted
tree or the next prominent rock to reach.  A point came when I felt I had
nothing left, but Bobbie pointed upwards.

   "See that?  That's the cairn at the top.  We're almost there.  Still
want to go back?" Her smile was radiant.

   I can't explain why I felt so exhilarated when we reached the top.  It
was hardly Everest.  Scarcely three and a half hours had passed since we
had left the car park, and here at the summit several other people were
resting after their climb, or standing with binoculars, or sharing coffee
from a flask as if they were on an afternoon stroll.  But suddenly to me it
was a big deal.  I could see for miles, for three hundred and sixty
degrees. Bobbie pointed distant hills out to me, East and West Lomond way
down in Fife, Schiehallion the fairy hill of the Picts, Cairnwell and the
ski-slope peaks of Glenshee, and up into the Cairngorms.  I was high in all
senses of the word.  We sat with our backs to the cairn, and ate what was
left of our packed food.  It tasted better up here.  There was no scent at
all left in the air; up here it was absolutely pure.  Suddenly I felt so
grateful to her for sharing this little miracle with me.  The chilly breeze
and the strong sun fought for the upper hand against my face.  I shut my
eyes, and perhaps I dozed a little.  I came to when I felt Bobbies hand in
mine, pulling me to my feet.  I looked around and realised that everyone
else had gone.

   "Time for one last look around," she said.  I only had eyes for her
beautiful face.  She put her arms round my neck, I pulled her close to me,
and we kissed, gently, lingering.

   "I love you, Eva," said Bobbie when we pulled apart.  I looked into her
eyes, and saw only sincerity.

   "I love you too," I said.  I meant it.  I don't think I had ever meant
those words so much.

   "You're my first love ever.  Do you realise that?  I don't think I have
ever felt this way.  I love you with all of my heart."

   When had I last heard words like this?  No, when had I ever?  If I had,
then they were lost somewhere in my youth, and at the time had carried all
the flash-flood of teenage emotion, raw, sudden, and destructive.  For one
wild moment I was captivated by those teenage feelings again, and only just
caught myself with the recollection that I was a woman in her forties. 
Those words of love were being spoken to me now by a woman - maybe my
junior, but certainly my equal in all things.  But still I had the wild
notion that it would be an amazing experience to make love here, on the
summit of a highland hill!

   "We must start down," said Bobbie, and I shook the thought from my head.

   Descents are often worse than climbs.  My tired legs protested at the
strain upon my knees, and I leant heavily on my trekking pole.  With every
step I looked up, eager to catch a sight of the view as it dwindled. 
Eventually we were down at the barrage again, then passing our lunch spot,
then carrying on down the long walk-in path.  As we approached the trees,
Bobbie picked up her pace a little.

   "What's your hurry?" I asked.

   "I want to make the trees soon," she replied with a grin.  "I'm
absolutely bursting for a wee!"

   We both laughed at the incongruity of a bodily function in the middle of
such a magic day.  When we got to the trees, Bobbie left my side and
hurried a few yards off.  She found a convenient bush, looked around to
check that she was not too much in view, and squatted down.  I heard the
zip go on her trousers.  Through the leaves of the bush, I could make out a
little of the check pattern of her shirt, and I strained my ears to hear
any sounds she made.  I didn't know why, but I wanted to go over and watch
her.  I don't have any kind of thing for watching girls wee, at least I
don't think I do; I guess it was nothing more than wanting that intimacy,
and wanting to know that she felt safe and easy about doing that in my
company.  I shook my head, dismissed the thought, and turned away.  Soon
she was back by my side, and we walked on through the wood, to the car
park.

   Two tired women - lovers - drove home down the back road, a narrow lane
with passing-places and poles to show the location of the road after winter
blizzards.

   "There it is," said Bobbie.  "Over to the left.  We just climbed that."

   I looked briefly at the lonely, conical shape on the skyline.  The road
was too twisty for a long look.  Then I spotted a faint track leading off
the road and petering out after a few yards into the moorland.  I took a
decision, stopped, and backed the car into it.

   "I want to look at our mountain," I said.  Our mountain.  That was what
it was now.  I switched off the engine, and gazed out over the highland
landscape.

   "It looks bigger from further away," I said.  "Does that sound daft?"

   "Yes, but I know what you mean!"

   We looked at each other.  The feeling of love which had overwhelmed us
on the top of our mountain had not lessened.  We kissed, long, tenderly,
but harder than we had before.  Hardly able to tear our lips from each
other's, we undid our seatbelts, got out of the front of the car, into the
back, and into each other's arms.  The afternoon sun was fading to a rich,
orangey-yellow, but it was still broad daylight; cars passed occasionally
along the road.  But here we were in the back of a car, necking like a
couple of teenagers.  My hands found a way under her shirt and sweatshirt,
and this time she let me carry on and hold her breasts.  Her hands were
doing the same to me, her fingertips seeking a way under my bra to play
with my nipples.  Love was expressing itself as hasty, hungry sex.  Here,
now, there seemed to be nothing wrong with it.  It was coming so naturally
to both of us, coming with spontaneity and joy, ripe with meaning and full
of emotion.  I pushed my breasts forward to meet her hands.

   No time for subtlety, no time for anything but haste, while the daylight
lasted, while our mountain was still in sight.  I pulled my hands from
under her sweatshirt and thrust one between her legs.  She gave a gasp, and
opened her legs as wide as she could in the back of a car, and then did the
same to me.  We kneaded each other, pushing our sexes against each other's
hand, feeling two layers of clothing slide over and rub against the places
we were both desperate to have touched and stroked.  I tore at her zip and
pushed my hand inside, and again she followed suit.  I had a moment's
surprise when I found that she was entirely smooth.  My partners of
years-gone-by were all natural down there, and I had never before touched
someone who shaved herself - so there was something new for me too. 
Bobbie's fingers stroked my curls, and I remembered that I was her first
lover, and that she was enjoying something very new to her too.

   Then we carried on.  Very gently, but insistently, we masturbated each
other into the gloaming.  Eventually, when the first car passed by with
headlights on to pierce the growing gloom, we reached the point where we
could not sustain our kissing for crying out in joy.

   Afterwards, we sat for a while in each other's arms, our clothes still
in disarray, and our womanly scents mingling in the close air of the car.

   "Do you realise you're the first person who's ever made me come?" said
Bobbie.  "I never thought I would lose my virginity like this!  Actually it
was lovely.  By the way, have I told you during the last five minutes that
I love you?"

   It took a long time for us to negotiate the twisting, narrow road, and
it had been dark for an hour and a half by the time we reached my place.

   "You're not going home tonight," I said as we pulled up.  "I won't let
you!"

   "I couldn't go.  Not tonight.  I couldn't be without you."

   So she stayed.  That evening we made up for the haste of the late
afternoon's lovemaking by quietly undressing each other, and by being able
to look each other over to appreciate the beauty that we scarcely realised
we had.  Certainly it was there for our eyes - I have no idea what any
other woman would have thought of either of us.  We took our time running
our hands over the lines and curves of each other's bodies, and over
holding each other close in order to feel bare skin against bare skin, or
curls against a shaven place.  Eventually we took what felt like an aeon
exploring each other's intimacy with tongue and finger.  Love as intense as
that we had felt earlier in full view of our mountain, climaxes longer in
coming, and gentler, but somehow higher.  Then sleep, very deep indeed, in
each other's arms.

   That is almost the whole story.  It has gone on from there.  We have
never moved in together, because we enjoy "dating" too much - we enjoy
missing each other, and looking forward to the next time.  That is the
mundane side of it - a love story much like anyone else's.  Here's the
romantic side.

   One day Bobbie said to me: "Eva, I love you with all my heart.  One day,
sometime, I will leave you - but I will never stop loving you.  Can you
understand that?"

   "Yes," I said.  "Perfectly.  I understand perfectly.

   And I did.  I do.  A bird in a cage only sings about loss.  In twenty
years time she will be in her mid forties, and I will simply be old.  No
one can ever take away what we have.  Bobbie is now the love of my life,
and she will always be free.  I understood.  I understood perfectly.  And
the feeling of sadness that my understanding brought was only surpassed by
the feeling of happiness.  We started from the pages of a magazine, and
arrived at a mountain.  We will always have the mountain.