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¬¬He sat in the waiting room waiting for the call to board the ferry. In truth he couldn’t wait to get back to Guernsey. This ¬¬¬¬unplanned trip to Britain had been a frustrating nuisance. He had achieved what was intended, the proofs had been edited, again, and the publishers were finally ready to launch the new book in his Space Police series. Donal Macherty was a fairly private, but successful author, he liked to get away from the hustle and bustle and just write; he had just settled down, a couple of weeks into writing the next in his other series – ‘Inspector Black’ - when his agent (the only one who had his ‘secret’ mobile number) told him the book needed extra proof reading, and his approval for the changes. Still, he thought, now he was heading back to the island, no more distractions; nothing but peace and quiet. Apart from Nobby and Toby of course, but they were welcome.

He looked up from his newspaper to see two sisters opposite. The looked quite like each other, and both were really quite stunning. Lefty was the shorter of the two, maybe 5 feet 5 inches, and stocky in a sexy way. Not fat, just built in a solid way, like a fit girl, fit as in she was healthy and not less than size 0 and waif like; though she was fit as in attractive too. She had what he would describe as a closed face. It didn’t reveal what she was thinking, their eyes met and then travelled on looking round the room. He was pretty sure she could tell he thought she was attractive, what she thought was anybody’s guess. She had a sculpted face, though she was chunky, no, not chunky, just built properly, her face showed no fat. Her face had angles and pointy bits, like her nose, her cheeks, her eyes came to points at the edges, her lips were sharp rather than soft and luscious as he would often describe women in his books. But the face was one he would love to see more of, it had some hidden depths. Briefly he took in the rest of her body again and confirmed that her bust was solid, prominent. He was sure it was all her, the size fitted with the solidity of the rest of her body. She didn’t look like someone who would wear a padded bra. Her legs of course were covered by trousers, of course they were; this wasn’t a skirty flirty (as he called them in his head at book launches – the ones who wore a short skirt to show off their legs, an uplift bra and a tight top. They always thought they were special, okay they were eye candy, but what really mattered was whether they could do their job; and fifty percent of the time the answer was no. Of course the male assistants were very often just as incompetent. Nothing more irritating than turning up at a book signing or a talk and finding no water, or no chair, or no table! Even, once, no venue!).

Righty (as he’d call her) had definite brown hair rather than her sister’s light brown or blond hair; longer, an inch or two below her shoulders, slightly wavy, it looked shiny. She was taller and slimmer. No massive overplayed bust here, again someone comfortable with her body shape so her slimmer body was reflected in her bust, her waist, her bottom (he noticed as she got up to get some coffees) and, he suspected, her legs. She also wore trousers, he could imagine they were an active pair, not given to lazing around. Perhaps, he thought, he was reading too much into slight clues. He thought no more about the two of them except to wish his ex could have been happier with her shape.

After bust implants, botox, collagen, liposuction, suntan machine sessions, clothes that emphasised her assets, etc., etc., etc., she was never satisfied. He spent a fortune, or rather she spent a fortune of his money (and hers), and each time saw her changing away from what he had once loved. And yet she wasn’t happy. Then she took up with her fitness trainer; so pedestrian and uninventive he thought when he heard. He would never use that in a plot. They split after a couple of years, but, in fairness to her, she hadn’t tried to come back. She had trained as a beauty therapist and now worked in Dagenham he thought. He’d had no contact for 5 months, and was happier for it. His solicitor and accountant now dealt with the little remaining paper work.

He noticed the older (taller) of the two sisters put her arm round the other. Then the mother arrived and sat with them. Ah! Shame on him, he hadn’t even noticed that Righty had bought three coffees! For a writer of detective fiction that was pretty poor. The mother sat beside Righty, leant forward and addressed some words to Lefty. Wait. He observed them a little more surreptitiously. Yes, the body language suggested she was mother to Righty but not Lefty, she was too polite. That wasn’t the action of a mother, but of the mother of the friend of this person. Oh God! He was a useless detective! They weren’t sisters at all, they were lovers. That made sense of the arm round Lefty; maybe slightly proprietorial, but definitively protective, and indubitably not quite the normal action of a sister; it wasn’t a friendly hug, it was a lovers encirclement. He’d realised that when she’d done it, but he’d already decided they were sisters and so that wrongly coloured his view. He took out a notebook and made a note, his thoughts on the next Inspector Black were starting to gel and this fitted in well, lots of false trails brought on by the police making assumptions and building on those wrong assumptions.

He was just contemplating the mother, who was closer to his own age; but that couldn’t be right. The girl must be 20-ish, so she must be at least 40-ish. She looked good on it. He fell neatly between the two, okay, nearer the upper end. He’d been writing an average of a book every 9 months since his first published at 25, now at 36 he was quite well preserved, he knew that and was proud of it. But he had to admit, she looked good too. He was just starting to doze when the announcement came to board, and the whole room rose and, in true English fashion, magically arranged itself into a queue. On board the ship the 3 females were sitting round a table, while he had engineered a superb seat at the front of the cabin, with an excellent view. He took out his book (Neil Gaiman, nothing like a bit of relaxation), and happily watched as the boat began to slip out of the harbour. It fascinated him how the dinghies and motorboats and wind surfers and the rest were carefully shepherded out of the way by a police boat with flashing blue lights. Like driving an overlarge lorry through London, he mused. Then onto the open sea, and he wandered off to treat himself to a cheese toasty and orange juice, sat back down, opened his book and promptly dozed off.

Some might have chosen to fly back to London for the business meeting, but Donal didn’t like flying unless he had to. He could have taken his car back, but really, what was the point? He might just as well have given up and gone home. So he travelled back as a pedestrian, then took the train to London, and stayed in a hotel. All in all, more relaxing, and as close to being part of a holiday as possible. He wasn’t on holiday of course, but he was able to keep in the mindset of ‘away from home’ and that was what he needed.

As they cruised past the large cruise ships and smoothly entered the harbour, the clouds were beginning to gather. He couldn’t help noticing the three women again as they collected their rucksacks and marched off the ship and along the harbour. The rain began to fall. Donal maintained his public transport journey by waiting in the drizzle for the bus. An hour and a half later he had arrived on the far side of the island and walked the mile back to his rental cottage overlooking a quiet sandy bay. Not one other house had been built here. Why? Well there had been the mine field after the war, even after clearing it, some kept turning up; it seemed that rabbits had buried them deeper sometimes and then they would suddenly re-surface. Builders stayed unenthusiastic to be blown up for another decade. Then the farmer who owned the land didn’t want to sell, and finally, and in addition, the discovery of Lesser Spotted Dungwort, the only known colony on Guernsey (and a slightly different sub-species compared to the Jersey variety) meant it became protected. The farmer got old and reclusive and finally died, leaving a cottage with no electricity and a leaking roof. The Guernsey man who bought it had an eye for a good thing and it was an ideal place for an isolated escape.

An hour after he arrived back, after a shower to clean up and wash the city dust away, Nobby turned up. “Like a bad penny” Donal laughed and tickled his ears, Nobby purred. “You’re just after some more fish” said Donal, and went to get a tin of sardines. The cat purred louder. Half the sardines went on a saucer on the floor, and half out on the first floor balcony. Toby swooped down and ate them, balancing on one leg, the other hanging useless. The visitor book mentioned both these creatures as friendly and regular visitors; it was lucky that Donal was happy to have non-human visitors, though he knew that distracted him from his work. Some visitors had written advice that a bucket of water over the cat and a stone for the bird worked. Others had been horrified and condemned such a callous attitude. Judging by the well-fed rear view of the cat, it was not too hard done by the occasional less welcoming resident. The seagull looked a little scrawny, Donal suspected that having one useful leg meant there was no way it could survive entirely free of human help.

The rain came on heavier and combined with a growing wind. Toby flew off to find a safe haven, and the cat was encouraged to leave. Donal was sure it wasn’t a stray, it would head back to its own house and, no doubt, get fed again. Nothing on TV, he made himself a bunch of egg fried sandwiches, there being only eggs, bread and cheese in the fridge, with a carton of longlife milk and a bottle of Whispering Reeds, New Zealand Chardonnay. He put on a DVD of ‘Stagecoach’ and enjoyed his food and wine, listening to the rising storm outside; happy that he wasn’t still on a ferry; he wasn’t a good sailor.

The storm got worse, he couldn’t resist taking a walk across the dunes to the beach, where in the gloom he could see the waves crashing over the rocks offshore. A mental note was made about the size of the waves, the sound of screaming wind, roaring water, whistling vegetation. All the emotion, ideal for a murder perhaps. Still, fantastic to see. Back in the cottage he dried off yet again and went to bed.

The morning dawned, as so often after a storm, bright and clear. Clouds still scudded across the sky in the lessening wind. He turned the Volvo round, time to restock the fridge; a trip to Waitrose was called for. The local shops were fine for essentials and even for small luxuries, but for the rest, no, a big supermarket was needed occasionally. As he passed through the village, he saw a fish van in the car park and stopped to see, he liked fresh fish. Plenty to tempt him, finally he bought some plaice, probably too much but then he could freeze some, and Nobby and Toby would help out. As he turned to walk back to the car, thinking ‘coffee?’ He noticed the three women from the ferry, waiting at the bus stop across the road. They looked bedraggled. He pulled out of the car park, hesitated and then thought ‘what the heck’

“Can I offer you a lift?”

“Are you going to St Peter Port?”

“Yes, actually. Here, put the rucksacks in the back”

The daughter (‘Righty’) got into the front, whilst the mother and ‘Lefty’ got into the back. “My names Donal by the way, you were on the ferry yesterday weren’t you?” He set off towards St Peter Port.

“Hello Donal. I’m Angela and this is Mary and my Mum, Angie. And Yes, we came over for a couple of weeks camping. Obviously picked the wrong week.”

“I think it’s cheering up now though. The town has lots to see”

“Too late for us, a branch broke a pole in our tent, and “ she hesitated, realising she was revealing their sleeping arrangements “Mum’s tent leaked”

“Oh dear, I’m guessing not a good night then. Is there a camping shop? I think there might be one near the main street. I could take you round to tourist information if you like, to ask.”

From the back, together, Mary and Angie responded “No, no, that’s fine” and then laughed together.

Angela said “We’ve decided to give up, I know that sounds defeatist, but we just had an awful night and got soaked. We’re still damp to be honest”

“I noticed you looked bedraggled, no offence. That’s a real shame. So, you’re getting the ferry this afternoon? It’s a bit late for the morning one”

“Yes”

“Well, can I buy you all a coffee? There’s a place coming up which is very nice. Somewhere to relax before going off?”

Angela looked round at the other two, soundless facial expressions between the three in that way that women have. Donal had used that non-verbal communication in his ‘Black is Back’, the fourth in the series. “That would be nice, if you can spare the time”

He turned in and they all got out, at the counter he deliberately ordered a coconut slice that he didn’t want to persuade the three to have something. Then, before they could produce purses from zipped up pockets, he had paid for the drinks and food and marched to a table.

“You must let us pay” Angie said

“No, no, I’d be offended. Honestly.” Angie went off to the toilets and Mary was looking at some Guernsey biscuits on a display. She didn’t look like a souvenir hunter. “So, Angela, how long have you two been together?” He decided it best to bring it out in the open. He knew what they were, was entirely relaxed, and wasn’t after them in any way.

“We’ve known each other since we were fifteen, well, I was fifteen, Mary was fourteen. We just got on together.” Mary came over and sat down. Angela took her hand. “But we didn’t really get together until a couple of years ago.”

“I thought you were sisters at first, even though you are different shapes, somehow you look similar. I should explain, I write books and tend to observe people. I’ve rented a cottage for the summer to write.”

“Have we heard of you?”

“Probably not.” He didn’t volunteer information, he was not a big headed writer, the type that gets offended because their latest magnum opus isn’t on everybody’s lips. He wrote as much for his own pleasure as for others, it was nice that other people did like his work. Anyway, he wrote under two different names for his work, he had once been invited to two book shops in the same town to sign books as ‘Derek Jacobs’ for Inspector Black and ‘German Van Tille’ for Space Police. That was difficult, particularly when the press were expected. He dealt with it with a false beard and moustache. He still laughed at the memory sometimes. They carried on talking. This was their first holiday together, he read between the lines that this meant first holiday with mum and daughter and lesbian lover. It was a test to see how they’d get on together, and so far that had gone fine, but the weather was another matter. Angie and Angela were experienced campers and thought it would allow for a cheap holiday to test the waters for them all; Mary hadn’t been camping since Girl Guides but was up for anything to get along with (he was interpreting here) Angela’s mother. “Why Guernsey?”

Angela answered “Guernsey was apparently where I was conceived”, her mother went a definite shade of pink, but Angela continued “A holiday job which changed Mum’s life, the waiter from Italy never knew he was a father” Perhaps more information than he’d needed, but interesting.

“Did either of you ever think of tracing him?”

“No, I thought since he never knew; he might have a wife and family and that could get destroyed. Of course he might be alone, but then, let’s be honest, Mum was young and silly – well you were, it happens – and he might not be anything like what I’d want for a father. So I’m content not knowing.”

“Listen, the cottage has two bedrooms, I’m using the second as a workroom, but that’s because I’m lazy. I could easily move my writing into my room, there’s loads of room, space I mean” He smiled, his desire to write good prose had influenced how he spoke, to use room twice in a sentence, very lazy. “The settee opens out to a bed, and the cottage is for four, so you’d be welcome to stay. I know this is a little precipitative, but I just don’t like to think of you having to give up so soon. Especially since you probably wanted to show Angela the island she was conceived on” He smiled at Angie and could see she was already wavering. “I tell you what, I’ll get us another coffee. Have a chat and decide. If it’s no I can easily still drop you at the ferry terminal. I won’t be offended, I promise. On the other hand if you stay you might find yourself in the next book; I do tend to store up characters for fun”

The conversation was animated, he could see that from the counter. He would have loved to listen. Who was for, who against? He dallied by the cakes to give them time. Suddenly Mary was by his side “Thanks, we’ll take the offer, we’ll give you something towards the cottage hire”

“We can talk about that. I’m glad you’re staying. Are you okay with it?”

“Oh, yes, I think. This is the first time we’ve been openly gay as a couple, it’s taking time to get used to people’s reactions. Let me help with those.” She took two cups “Some people, like you, are totally cool. Angie was okay, but clearly a bit hesitant. Others are downright hostile. Some builders shouted ‘What a waste’ at us recently.”

Donal smiled at her “I can’t say I don’t agree, you are both very attractive. As a male I can say it is disappointing to see such attractiveness being, well, restricted; and less likely to be inherited”

“So it would be okay if we were ugly dikes?” She wasn’t quite as happy as she had been

“I know, I know. All very silly. But I know a couple of girl friends, not girlfriends, but friends who are girls, who have said the same about Max and Mike, two gay friends of mine. They both work out, they look superb – even I can see that – but their bodies aren’t available for lusting after by women. It works both ways. And of course I understand that it works the other way too, presumably you can think a woman is attractive and unavailable if she is heterosexual?”

“I’ve never had that problem, Angela is my first, and only, love. That sounds corny I know”

“It sounds wonderfully romantic. I wish I could say such a thing. Lucy, my ex, was not my first.”

“But hopefully also not your last” They were friends again. Mary was starting to appreciate his frank openness. They walked back to the table and the four carried on chatting. The three women felt that perhaps their holiday wasn’t ruined, because a mysterious stranger had offered them a place to stay. If any of them was thinking ‘what’s his game? What is he after?’ she didn’t betray it on her face.

“I can still drop you off in St Peter Port if you like, or we can all go shopping and then you can come back and ‘freshen up’”

“Do we look that bad?” joked Angela

“You look, a little rough, which is only natural.”

“Do you have a dryer we could use? All our changes of clothes are damp.”

Again the conversation went round and finally, somehow it was concluded that Angela and Angie should spend some time together in St Peter Port and then get the bus across the island. Mary would come shopping with Donal, his heart skipped with pleasure; even though he stood no chance, he still enjoyed the idea of shopping with an attractive, chatty woman for a change. He wasn’t quite sure how this plan had been arrived at, but knew enough about women to accept that talking was only half the process, somehow women could come to a conclusion that had never been suggested or discussed. It was a mystery that he was sure an author could make a fortune with, if he could describe it effectively. He couldn’t.

Shopping in the supermarket was a new experience, with a young woman beside him. He found himself buying items that he wouldn’t normally consider – such as cheesecake – and items that hadn’t appeared on his list for several years – like tampons. Mary suggested she should buy them separately, but the additional cost was, as he pointed out, quite small. He explained that since this was a work trip he could lay the cost of food against tax. Actually he was aware that if his accountant, or the taxman, looked into it, they would see a rise in costs and that things like tampons and ‘Elle’ magazine suddenly appeared; how would he, a single man, explain that? Oh, yes, he’d say he was researching a story line.

Mary and he got back before the other two, they had got to know each other and both agreed that leaving Mother and Daughter to work out the details of their rather changed plans made sense. The two of them would feel under pressure if they discussed it in front of people, friends or strangers. So when Angela and Angie arrived they found the shopping put away, the second bedroom cleared and ready for use, and some spare bedding in a corner for use on the sofa bed. That was the one part he felt guilty about, there was something deep in the middle-class English psyche that said putting the guest on the sofa was wrong. But he stuck to the plan, sensing that in any case Angie would refuse to swap, and after all he needed the space for writing. He was already thinking about ‘The case of the murdered lesbian’ for a future plot, although wondering if it was a hackneyed plot line.

They were delighted with the cottage, delighted with the view, delighted most of all with the washing machine and dryer (combined) Donal had the impression that everything went in. The place was festooned with the first wash. Female underwear even off the body has a certain salacious attraction to a man, women just didn’t seem to understand that a bra hanging up advertised the fact that it sometimes contained a pair of well-shaped breasts. He found himself guessing which bra belonged to whom. Nothing hanging up, bra or pants, was too obviously Angie’s as opposed to her daughter’s or her lover’s. Odd that, no, not really, she was good looking and still young-ish. What age do you have to be to wear M&S matronly gargantupants? His mother’s age probably. He stopped himself quickly, that wasn’t a route he wished to pontificate on. Too late, the image of his mother in baggy pants and bra supporting nearly non-existent saggy breast filled his mind. He had to stop thinking of plot or writing for fully an hour; he went bird watching instead. A Stone Curlew? Maybe, they had been seen, but he knew he was unlikely to be the one to see them without careful, patient observation.

When he got back the underwear had disappeared; the dryer was drying the last load of socks, pants and stuff; the sleeping bags, they had decided, were too big and since they didn’t need them, they would leave them lying out in the second bedroom to dry naturally. The weather turned wet again and the three were pleased to be under a solid roof.

Wine was opened, baked potatoes put on – Donal had decided not to go crazy and act like ‘the big man’ and that was good because there were distinct fussy vegetarian tendencies emerging, and cheesecake was to follow – and a game of scrabble started. Donal thought he, being a wordsmith, would win easily. He did win, but not easily, a lesson in not assuming too much he thought, a worthwhile lesson.

The following day, the three made efforts to get out of his way quite early, setting off to walk parts of the island and then take a bus to see one of the museums. They returned tired and pleased with their adventures. Donal had not got on as much as he would have liked, he was distracted by new ideas for plot lines and spent the day taking notes for future books (perhaps Inspector Black finds himself working with a lesbian policewoman, perhaps the space police have to investigate a crime on lesburn – a planet made up of one sex only). Only in the afternoon did he finally establish in his own mind a satisfactory explanation for the murder weapon – a red wine bottle – containing traces of white wine (it had been re-used for home-made wine, which explained a lot; as you’d know if you’d read ‘Inspector Black and the Turncoat Vinery’). Nobby seemed to sense there were visitors and turned up early to welcome them. Toby the seagull came later for his meal.

The following day they went out for the morning and came back to relax, they were starting to feel more at home, which was good. Donal found guests who tried too hard to fit in more trouble than ones who just did their own thing. That had been one of the smaller problems with his ex. She wanted to control every aspect of a visitor’s visit, he wanted to welcome them and let them get on with it. The afternoon the two girls spent on the patio, sun bathing; Angie got as far as shorts and a teeshirt and read a book. Donal couldn’t help noticing they all three looked good. He retreated to his room to work and tried to ignore the view across the patio of bikini-clad shapely flesh; he couldn’t see Angie from there.

The next day was hot; the three felt comfortable enough to stay around and take in the warmth, he was typing and unaware of the time. Nobby had come round the night before and received his payment for affection – some sardines. But so engrossed in the plot was Donal, in which Inspector Black had just worked out that the murdered child was the cousin of the Chief Constable’s mistress who had turned up at A&E with a badly scratched face which she claimed she got from a rose bush but DNA confirmed that the child’s DNA was in the scratches, and the local police station had been targeted for closure by the same Chief Constable who didn’t like Black ever since he beat him in the annual golf tournament. He was trying to tie this properly to the stolen burnt out Reliant found in the car park of the Ramada, and so far failing. So he was totally engrossed and had genuinely failed to notice a) the sunbathing girls on the patio outside his window, b) that these same girls had undone their bikini tops (face down) for a better tan and c) that Toby was due. So the screams were a rude wake up call.

Toby had arrived, been somewhat disconcerted by the changes on the patio. He was used to fluttering down and waiting for his food. He probably landed on the roof, looked and then gave the seagull equivalent of a shrug and swooped down to land clumsily on the sun lounger beside Mary’s head. She opened sleepy eyes to see a massive bird 6 inches from her face and jumped up screaming. This had the dual effect of making Angela scream in sympathy and jump up too. She was sure it was something awful. Toby, on the other hand, was hugely affronted at this poor greeting and was flapping his wings and screeching at them. The noise was cacophonous. Donal realised immediately what the problem was and rushed to the patio with a slice of bread and calming word for seagull and women alike (the bread was just for the seagull). What greeted him was two young 20 year-olds jumping up and down, both unaware that they had left their bikini bras on the sun beds when they jumped up. Their well-formed breasts were jiggling up and down as they waved arms at the bird, they made no effort to cover themselves, giving Donal a very clear view of why some might think such lovely shape was sadly lost to the male sex. In the corner, Angie was a shade of puce as she could barely catch her breath from laughing so hard.

“I am so sorry, I forgot to mention Toby. He comes over for some food every day.

Here Toby calm down.” He held out some bread and the seagull grabbed it and flew onto the roof to eat it, away from these noisy newcomers. Donal turned and, perhaps somewhat theatrically, took the two bras and handed them to the girls. It was at that moment they both realised what he was seeing, and why his eyeline wasn’t quite as horizontal on their faces as it had been hitherto. The two of them were young, fit and perky. They were both well- rather than over- endowed. Mary’s tits were firm and pyramidal, ‘topped off with a cherry’ he thought. He meant the very red areoles on her quite white flesh. Her nipples were at this stage not very prominent. Angela’s were more fleshy, still firm, but with those curves which he had so far only managed to describe as ‘breast shaped’. Her nipples were quite erect and she had the smoothest areoles he’d ever seen, no sign of the bumps that most breasts show. The girls covered themselves up (‘shame’ he thought) and Angie managed to stop laughing long enough to listen to the explanation of the bird.

“You seem to collect waifs and strays don’t you?” said one of them. Now he noticed that Mary’s covered up breasts were sporting two very clearly erect nipples. Did she get some sexual pleasure in being accidentally seen topless? The question was partially answered when the two girls disappeared not long after into their room. Donal returned to his work and Angie to her book. He wondered if she could hear what he could, the very clear sounds of two young females reaching a most pleasurable orgasm, pr two ... or three?. He really wanted to know what they had done. No sound of electronics, so he assumed it was all natural, but fingers? Lips? Mutual genital rubbing? His erection got the better of him and he wasn’t sure if Angie had seen him stroking himself (through his trousers) when she brought in a coffee. “I hope they aren’t distracting you too much” she said, which was vague enough to refer to the bikini clad sun-bathing, the topless excitement, or the sounds of carnal pleasure which had receded now.