I’ll make a lunch for us. When will you collect me?”
We agreed on noon. He reached behind my head and tugged gently on my ponytail to tease me, then jumped into the driver’s seat and roared off.
It was almost dark. I stood there for a moment in front of Midpoint. Mark hadn’t tried to kiss me goodnight, and I couldn’t decide whether I was relieved or disappointed.
M ARCH 1962
S PRING H OLIDAY FROM S MITH
G IBBS H ILL L IGHTHOUSE
S OUTHAMPTON P ARISH , B ERMUDA
There was a bowl of Bermuda fish chowder in our refrigerator, which our housekeeper had made the day before, and it had been delicious when my parents and I had it last night. I took the left over chowder and poured it equally into two glass jars. And spoons. Then I made sandwiches with Irish cheese, the year’s first lettuce from our garden, and Portuguese bread our housekeeper had baked. What else? A thermos of coffee. Then I baked oatmeal cookies, and wrapped them in two cloth napkins to keep them warm. Finally, an old sheet from the bottom of Mother’s linen closet. I put all of this in a flower basket that Mother used to collect cut flowers in our garden. Then I sat down and waited for Mark to collect me.
When he did, I walked out with my basket, and he said, “Fiona, you’re a beautiful girl.”
I was startled; no one other than my parents and grandparents had ever said anything remotely like this to me. I didn’t get compliments often, or really even at all. My figure was athletic and boyish, and even at age 18 my breasts were small. My parents liked me to keep my hair long. It was straight and light brown, and since I was a small girl it had hung down to the small of my back.
I loved hearing him say that I was beautiful. I said, “I’ll give you exactly 15 minutes to stop talking nonsense like that.” He laughed.
It was a perfect Bermuda morning after yesterday’s rain, and Mark had the hood on the MG down. We drove along Middle Road and pulled alongside the road near Gibbs Hill.
“Let’s take the basket and leave it at the foot of the lighthouse,” I said. “We’ll climb the stairs to the top and then have lunch.”
As a girl, I must have climbed to the top of the lighthouse dozens of times – 185 steps up each time. As we went up the steep, narrow staircase, Mark said from behind me, “Now I know how you came to be so fit, if this is your idea of a pleasant way to spend a morning.”
I laughed. “When I’m here by myself, I usually run up the stairs.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
The view from the top was terrific. We could see most of the island, and the Atlantic on three sides of the island. It was such a clear morning that we could pick out on the horizon the tiny fishing boats that sailed out of St. George’s.
“When was this built?” Mark asked.
“Every school child in Bermuda knows that the lighthouse gave its first light the night of May 1, 1846. The iron column of the lighthouse was made in England and then bolted together here.”
Later, we walked to the edge of the tiny lawn below the lighthouse to a spot where there was a bit of shade. I spread out the sheet on the grass, sat down on it, smoothed out my skirt, and began pulling food from the basket. Mark sat down across from me. We ate and talked. We finished the chowder and sandwiches, and I poured him a cup of coffee.
“I hope you don’t take milk. I entirely forgot milk. I never drank coffee until I got to Smith, but tea isn’t easy to find in the States, so I started drinking coffee.”
We talked for a long time, and then he leaned toward me and drew his finger across my left cheek. I just looked at him, with my hands on my skirt in my lap. I was totally naïve, but even I realized what was about to happen.
I had been kissed only once. That had been after a mixer at Smith – a ‘mixer’ being a chaperoned party with boys imported from nearby colleges. I liked that boy well enough, but he had not the slightest idea of what he was about.
We agreed on noon. He reached behind my head and tugged gently on my ponytail to tease me, then jumped into the driver’s seat and roared off.
It was almost dark. I stood there for a moment in front of Midpoint. Mark hadn’t tried to kiss me goodnight, and I couldn’t decide whether I was relieved or disappointed.
M ARCH 1962
S PRING H OLIDAY FROM S MITH
G IBBS H ILL L IGHTHOUSE
S OUTHAMPTON P ARISH , B ERMUDA
There was a bowl of Bermuda fish chowder in our refrigerator, which our housekeeper had made the day before, and it had been delicious when my parents and I had it last night. I took the left over chowder and poured it equally into two glass jars. And spoons. Then I made sandwiches with Irish cheese, the year’s first lettuce from our garden, and Portuguese bread our housekeeper had baked. What else? A thermos of coffee. Then I baked oatmeal cookies, and wrapped them in two cloth napkins to keep them warm. Finally, an old sheet from the bottom of Mother’s linen closet. I put all of this in a flower basket that Mother used to collect cut flowers in our garden. Then I sat down and waited for Mark to collect me.
When he did, I walked out with my basket, and he said, “Fiona, you’re a beautiful girl.”
I was startled; no one other than my parents and grandparents had ever said anything remotely like this to me. I didn’t get compliments often, or really even at all. My figure was athletic and boyish, and even at age 18 my breasts were small. My parents liked me to keep my hair long. It was straight and light brown, and since I was a small girl it had hung down to the small of my back.
I loved hearing him say that I was beautiful. I said, “I’ll give you exactly 15 minutes to stop talking nonsense like that.” He laughed.
It was a perfect Bermuda morning after yesterday’s rain, and Mark had the hood on the MG down. We drove along Middle Road and pulled alongside the road near Gibbs Hill.
“Let’s take the basket and leave it at the foot of the lighthouse,” I said. “We’ll climb the stairs to the top and then have lunch.”
As a girl, I must have climbed to the top of the lighthouse dozens of times – 185 steps up each time. As we went up the steep, narrow staircase, Mark said from behind me, “Now I know how you came to be so fit, if this is your idea of a pleasant way to spend a morning.”
I laughed. “When I’m here by myself, I usually run up the stairs.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
The view from the top was terrific. We could see most of the island, and the Atlantic on three sides of the island. It was such a clear morning that we could pick out on the horizon the tiny fishing boats that sailed out of St. George’s.
“When was this built?” Mark asked.
“Every school child in Bermuda knows that the lighthouse gave its first light the night of May 1, 1846. The iron column of the lighthouse was made in England and then bolted together here.”
Later, we walked to the edge of the tiny lawn below the lighthouse to a spot where there was a bit of shade. I spread out the sheet on the grass, sat down on it, smoothed out my skirt, and began pulling food from the basket. Mark sat down across from me. We ate and talked. We finished the chowder and sandwiches, and I poured him a cup of coffee.
“I hope you don’t take milk. I entirely forgot milk. I never drank coffee until I got to Smith, but tea isn’t easy to find in the States, so I started drinking coffee.”
We talked for a long time, and then he leaned toward me and drew his finger across my left cheek. I just looked at him, with my hands on my skirt in my lap. I was totally naïve, but even I realized what was about to happen.
I had been kissed only once. That had been after a mixer at Smith – a ‘mixer’ being a chaperoned party with boys imported from nearby colleges. I liked that boy well enough, but he had not the slightest idea of what he was about.
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