Catherine

The first time I saw Isabella, I was checking into Darwin Lodge. She was sat with an older man taking afternoon tea. Short black hair, olive skin and those dark, unfathomable eyes that made my heart flutter like hummingbird wings.

My hand shook as I signed the hotel form. I was exhausted after the long flight, but I didn’t think that was the reason. I glanced at the girl again as she sipped from her cup.

Her eyes met mine, piercing me with an intensity that made my breathing stop and sent the hummingbird into overdrive.

Belatedly, I realised her expression was almost hostile. The heat rose in my face, and I quickly looked away, confused.

Who was she? I wondered. How could I have offended her in the two minutes I’d been here? The man accompanying her looked old enough to be her grandfather.

“Welcome to the Falklands,” said my host.

“Thank you. What time does the tour start?”

“Breakfast is at eight. My son, Angus, will be here at nine and will be your guide for the next two days.”

“Great. And how many of us will there be?”

“Just yourself and the couple over there.” He gestured to the girl and the old man in the sunroom.

Oh…

“They’re from Argentina,” he whispered confidentially.

Ohhh…

So how the hell was this going to work out? I asked myself. Here I was, visiting the site of a desperate little war between the two nations who claimed ownership of the islands, and I was booked on a battlefield tour with the ‘enemy’.

Well I guess that explained the hostility.

oOo

Not for the first time, I wondered what I was doing. I hate flying. Almost as much as I hate the cold. And here I was in the frigid South Atlantic after an 18-hour flight from the UK. I was shattered. Shattered, and emotionally drained.

It was a long way to travel in order to grant the wishes of a dying man. I’d held my father’s hand as the light faded from his eyes, and for the first time I’d desperately wanted to know – to understand – the part of his life that he’d never talked about. That he’d never talked about, but which had affected his entire being for as long as I could remember.

Now I carried his ashes in my bag. His ashes and the letter he’d written to me in his unsteady hand before he died.

His words were burned on my soul and were the reason I was here.

oOo

As we’d approached Mount Pleasant Airport, I’d seen the whole Archipelago laid out before me. For the first time, guarding the approaches to the capital, Stanley, I had seen the mountains where the final clashes of the Falklands campaign were fought – Tumbledown, Longdon, Harriet and, of course, Two Sisters, where my father had gone into battle for the first and last time.

The skies were a startlingly clear blue and, according to the pilot’s announcement, it was a pleasant 9°C (48°F) on the ground – not the cold I’d dreaded and, in fact, a positively balmy temperature for November in these remote islands.

Darwin Lodge had sent a vehicle to meet me; a battered old Land Rover that could easily have been left behind by the military forty-three years earlier. The cover was down and the drive on the gravel road to the isolated settlement was surprisingly pleasant. The terrain was pretty much what I expected; undulating peaty grasslands dominated the landscape. No trees, but plenty of rocks. From what I’d read, it was difficult ground to negotiate on foot – as the Paras and Marines who’d crossed this boggy terrain could undoubtedly attest to.

ooOoo

In the dining room that evening, the couple were again sitting together.

“Good evening,” I murmured as I walked to my own table.

The old man nodded politely, but the girl ignored me. We were the only diners, and the evening passed in an uncomfortable silence as we consumed our mutton. I stole brief glances at her, but only once did our eyes meet, and I felt the shock go right through me as if I’d been tasered.  

ooOoo

That night I dreamt of her. Dreamt of this petite, captivating woman with her disdainful look, whom I’d not yet met. Dreamt of her naked, her sensual, alluring body enchanting me, her sinuous limbs entwined with mine, her deft, slender fingers working me into a dripping frenzy. Thrusting, circling, pinching…  

I woke up gasping for breath, my state of arousal off the scale, my snatch sticky and sodden, my clit throbbing painfully as I bucked in orgasm.

Oh my word, what was happening to me...?

ooOoo

They were there at breakfast but, blushing, I was unable to meet her eyes.

At nine o'clock, the three of us gravitated outside.

“It looks like we are booked on the same tour.” After her previous silence, I was shocked by her sudden loquaciousness. Her voice was husky, cultured. Her English heavily accented, but perfect.

“I am Isabella. This is my uncle – my Great-Uncle Hector,” she corrected. “He doesn’t speak English.” With a courteous smile, Hector inclined his head.

“Ca – Catherine,” I stammered.

She nodded, duty complete.

Angus, our guide, emerged from the house, his boots crunching on the gravel.  He nodded at us. “I see you’ve met,” he said. “It’s just a short walk this morning.” We all nodded. We’d chosen Darwin Lodge because it was right next to Goose Green, site of the first major battle on the island. And also where most of the Argentine dead were buried.  

“The Falkands consist of about 750 islands,” he informed us. “It’s home to 3,469 people, along with half a million sheep and lots of penguins.”

I wasn’t really listening. I was watching Isabella. Her poise was startling. I was sure she could sense me staring at her.

Angus described the battle that had taken place at Goose Green. My father had been a Royal Marine Commando. But this had not been their fight. This was, as Angus related, where the 600 soldiers of 2 Para, after a hard march, had fought their way up the isthmus through the night in freezing rain. And, after a brutal fight which included the loss of their commanding officer, they eventually convinced the defending garrison to surrender.

The casualties had hit both sides hard.

Isabella spoke rapidly to her uncle, then asked Angus, “We would like to visit the Argentine Military Cemetery. Will you wait here for us?”

“Would – would you mind if I came with you?” I asked hesitantly as Angus nodded to her. “I – I would like to pay my respects, too.”

ooOoo

Isabella

I wanted to refuse. This tall, beautiful English woman with her pale skin and ash-blond hair. I guessed she was at least ten years older than my twenty-three years – maybe a little more.

In my head, I knew this woman wasn’t responsible for the death of my grandfather, or for my uncle’s suffering. And my heart – when she first looked at me yesterday, I thought it might stop. Even now, it was beating erratically as I looked at her exquisite face. She exuded a fragility – a vulnerability – that I did not expect. Being British, I assumed she would be arrogant, but that was not the case. If anything, her manner suggested respect.

It was very confusing.

That I was attracted to her, I knew. I could not deny it. But I also knew that it was wrong. She was my enemy. But something about her made me unable to hate her.

And somehow, I knew she was attracted to me, too.

I spoke to my uncle.

“She wants to come with us.”

“Of course,” he replied.

We walked slowly between the lines of the fallen – the 236 crosses representing the Argentines who died in the Malvinas. Many of them right here at Goose Green. My uncle stopped often to read the names.

“I know so many of these men,” he whispered.

He turned to me, his eyes wet with tears. “It was so cold,” he said with a shiver.

“You feared them?”

He hesitated, and I could see the memories surfacing in the lines of his haunted face.

It was night. The noise was terrifying – our artillery shells firing and theirs landing amongst us; the darkness broken by tracer and explosions. Men were yelling and screaming all around me. I continued firing my rifle in the direction of the British, desperately trying to see where they were.

Was I afraid? Yes, I was terrified.

And then they were on top of us, crazed, blackened faces screaming and shooting, and then I was falling, and for a few seconds I was in shock, feeling nothing. And for a moment, all was calm. I noticed that it had started snowing.

But then the pain began…

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I feared them.”

I turned away. “I hate them!” I hissed, the tears flowing freely down my own face.

I felt my uncle’s hand on my shoulder. “Do not hate the British, Isabella. I do not. They were just doing their job. The same as we were trying to do. But they were honourable men. You will understand soon.”

ooOoo

Afterwards, Angus provided a picnic lunch for us to share. The Englishwoman, Catherine, had said nothing as we’d walked amongst the dead.

I thought about what my uncle had said. How we should not hate. Catherine was my enemy, but I realised I did not know why she was here.

“What has brought you to the Malvinas, Catherine?” I asked, trying to be polite.

“My father died recently. He wanted me to…” she swallowed, but did not finish what she going to say. “… um, he was a Royal Marine with 45 Commando.”

A coldness swept through me. “45 Commando,” I whispered. These had been the men who attacked my grandfather’s regiment. The men who had climbed the mountain in the dark on that freezing night.

My grandfather had died there, on Two Sisters, and Catherine’s father could have been the man who killed him.

I walked away from this woman.

How could I forgive this?

ooOoo

We drove to San Carlos Water, where Angus described how the British troops had made their surprise amphibious landing so far from Stanley. He led us to a decrepit, grimy-looking building with a corrugated roof.

“Once the Paras and Marines landed, the Brigade set up a field hospital here in this abandoned slaughterhouse. It became known as the ‘Red and Green Life Machine," he explained.

“It was commanded by Surgeon-Commander Rick Jolly – the only man to be decorated by both sides at the end of the war. Both British and Argentinian soldiers were treated here, and they said that if you arrived alive, you left alive. The medical staff even carried on operating during an Argentinian air attack, which left two unexploded bombs lodged in the roof for the duration of the conflict.

I noticed Hector looking around the building, his eyes were very quiet. Again, I wondered what was going on in his head.

I had broken memories of this place. After the shelling at Goose Green, it was a blessed relief when someone gave me morphine. I drifted in and out of consciousness. At some point, I had arrived here. I remembered the smell, and people shouting. Someone had spoken to me in English. They had been gentle. Then they injected me with something. After that, there was nothing.

“I was here,” he told me. “This was where they brought me after the battle. Where they gave me back my life. Then they sent me home.”

Afterwards, we visited another, smaller cemetery. Angus told us that this held the remains of 14 of the 255 British servicemen who had died during the conflict.

It gave me a lot to think about. Seeing the British dead did not make me feel more inclined to like them.

But maybe I understood Hector’s words a little more.

ooOoo

Catherine

I had been deep in thought throughout the day. I had watched Isabella and her great-uncle and wanted to reach out to them. To console them in their loss. But I did not think I would be welcome.

After we returned to Darwin Lodge, I took a long, hot shower, trying to wash away the sadness of the things I had seen. I could not help but think of Isabella, perhaps doing the same, naked in the shower next door.

For the first time, at dinner that night, they invited me to join them; more mutton. But the Argentinian Malbec Hector ordered seemed to somewhat lower the tensions between us.

Even so, the looks Isabella gave me whilst we ate oscillated between dislike, confusion and something else I couldn’t identify.

After relating Hector’s story, Isabella told me that her grandfather – Hector’s brother – had died on Two Sisters when my father’s unit attacked them, and how he had left his pregnant wife in their hometown without a husband.

It was the site we would be visiting the next day.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled inadequately. I didn’t know what else to say.

Later, when we walked back to our rooms. Isabella took my hand in hers.

“I should hate you, Catherine. But for some reason, I do not.”

She leaned up and kissed me on the cheek. Then, taking me by surprise, she pushed me hard up against the wall and our lips met and I tasted her for the first time; tasted blackberries and spice and all things nice, and felt my legs go weak just as she pulled away.

“Good night, Catherine,” she said, and disappeared into her room.

Breathless and stunned, I opened my own door and stepped inside.

ooOoo

Isabella / Catherine

I took several deep breaths.

What on earth was happening to me?

I couldn’t begin to comprehend how confused I was feeling. A relationship with the woman in the room next door just wasn’t – couldn’t – be!

And yet… I remembered how wonderful it had felt to hold her for one, wild moment; to feel her lips crushed against mine.

I slowly undressed, imagining her doing the same on the other side of the wall; imagining her naked as I stood there in my underwear.

The events of the afternoon had woken something in me that I couldn’t put back.

My nipples were hard. I rolled them gently between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. Little shocks coursed down through my body, and I gasped as my panties started to flood.

I eased my hand inside the flimsy material, slipping a finger into my sticky wetness. I closed my eyes and an image of her doing the same etched itself into my mind.

I pushed two fingers right inside myself, coated them with my sticky secretions and raised them to my mouth, sucking them, tasting my essence and relishing the flavour. I could hear myself moaning like a bitch in heat, wishing it was her I was devouring instead.

Impatiently, I pushed my panties down my thighs, exposing my snatch. Sliding my fingers back into my cunt, I teased, gently playing with myself, stroking between my folds. I gasped as a finger grazed my clit.

Oh, God yes! Such an undeniable feeling of enjoyment, and wantonness, mixed with the guilt that I shouldn’t be doing this, here in this place, and certainly not with the image of someone I…

I daren’t finish the thought.

But I was too far gone. I had to – needed – to finish!

My fingers quickly manipulated my desperate clit, circling, pressing, pinching. Oh my God – my eyes were closed, my back arched – yes! Yes! Yes! I was coming, coming, coming…

I wanted to cry out, but no sound would come; I couldn’t breathe; I was bucking and squirting as I came. And I couldn’t stop coming, multiple orgasms hitting me again, and again, and again, seemingly going on forever…

ooOoo

Isabella

I did not sleep well. Erotic images of Catherine continued to fill my head, disturbing my slumber.

As soon as the dawn light appeared through the window, I took a long, hot shower, washing away the heat and sweat of the previous evening and tried not to think about the day ahead.

This trip had already been incredibly emotional. Today we were going to visit the mountain where my grandfather, Tomás, had died.

And Catherine? – I still did not understand what role she had to play in this.

ooOoo

Catherine

It was another clear day, and one that was loaded with emotion. But surprisingly, because of Isabella and Hector, it was much easier than I expected.

Angus drove us up the farm track most of the way, and we walked together to the summit of the northernmost peak, where the memorial lay.

There, I scattered Tom’s ashes, and the wind caught them, making them spin and dance in the morning light, and then they were gone, part of the beautiful, desolate landscape that had claimed so much of him in such a short time.

I cried shamelessly as the words of my father’s letter played in my head.

Dear Catherine

I’m sorry I was not the father I would have wished.

The things that occurred on 11 June 1982 have never left me. It is difficult, perhaps, to understand how one night in these remote islands can change your life entirely.  That mountain has been with me every single day since. Now my time is done, it is time to return; to be at one with the events that shaped my life forever after.

Please, it will mean so much if you can do this for me.

Yours,

Dad

"Be free, Dad," I whispered. And Isabella hugged me as we wept.

Oddly, I think the similarity between my father’s name, Tom, and that of Isabella’s grandfather – Tomás – had made an unexpected difference; one that had, perhaps, made reconciliation between us more possible.

ooOoo

That final evening, I was again invited to join them for dinner. It was a more sombre meal than the previous night, and Hector, I was sure, sensed something between Isabella and myself – though what it was, even I could not have told you. But after dessert, Hector made his excuses and retired to his room – perhaps realising that we needed time alone to talk.

But Isabella didn’t say a word. Instead, she took my hand and led me to her room. We sat next to each other on her...