Kandy Heat

By Adam Mann

“She was prepared to give up everything for the man she met sitting on her kitchen doorstep!”
Harry is no spring chicken and is developing a dairy farm in Sri Lanka, and is an author of historical novels based mainly on Asian recorded history. Whilst visiting his publisher’s agent in London, and waiting for his publisher’s cheque to clear, he decides to visit his family home of many years earlier. He meets the tenant, Makshi, an Indian lady nutritionist, but whilst they are enjoying a coffee together a man with a baseball bat attacks her car! He is confronted by Makshi and Harry, and attacks Harry in a drug induced rage, just missing his head with the baseball bat, but badly bruising his left shoulder. The baseball bat has a mind of its own and breaks the attacker’s leg.
Harry would have continued on his journey to childhood places and meeting old friends, but stays overnight with Makshi before she takes him to her hospital for x-rays and treatment. Harry agrees to stay with Makshi for several days, ostensibly to let his shoulder mend, but their relationship develops over those days, with several explicit sexual acts which surprises both of them. Their relationship matures and they decide to live together, sometimes feigning marriage, which many people assume they are.
The attacker is taken to court, and pleads ‘racialism’ as his defence as Harry’s father came from South Africa, and where Makshi was born. The attacker is eventually convicted of actual bodily harm. Makshi completes the remaining years of her hospital contract, and they both fly to Sri Lanka where they live on Harry’s farm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ButterflyBooks
• Release date: Sep 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311934840

Adam Mann

Adam Mann has lived and worked in Africa and then Asia for many years. He has always been fascinated by personal relationships, and in real life is now enjoying his fourth marriage, after being widowed, divorced, and even had a marriage annulled as this ‘wife’ had forgotten to get divorced.As a result he has extensive experience of social and sexual activities, which he brings into his books in explicit detail. Underlying all these activities is a quest for a loving and ongoing relationship with his partner.Adam Mann is a pen name.

Book preview

Butterfly Books

Kandy Heat -

Never too old to be loved!

By Adam Mann

© Adam Mann, 2014.

Adam Mann has asserted his right to be identified as the Author of this work.

Revised edition published in January 2021

ISBN 9781311934840

Also by Adam Mann:

Please see the last page of this novel for over 20 other books.

"A good storyteller is a person who has a good memory and hopes other people haven’t."

Irvin Shrewsbury Cobb

When I’m good, I’m very very good, but when I’m bad, I’m better.

Mae West.

"The duration of passion is proportionate with the original resistance of the woman."

Honore de Balzac

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Chapter One

I walked down the road with a spring in my step. It was early September and one of the best times of the year to enjoy the English country side, as a man called William Allingham once said ‘autumn is the mellow time’. I had just reached the turn off to the right hand side, and knew that there was now only two or three hundred yards to go. I had not been back here for a long, long time. The narrow road crossed two small bridges over a fast flowing river, and I stopped for a moment to see if I could see any trout in the water. As I leaned over the rail, I saw a grey shape in the water dive into a clump of reeds, and a few flecks of mud were washed downstream in the clean and fast flowing water.

Probably a grayling, I decided, as I knew the rainbow trout preferred swimming in a bend in the river where the water was slightly deeper. I remembered as a boy leaning over the river bank with my hand in the water, trying to ‘tickle’ a trout, and I’d seen Carter Judd to it successfully, but I think when he did he also brought up a large chunk of water weed at the same time with the fish in the middle.

I stood up and walked on. The house I was looking for was on a rise on the right, and as it was painted white the house was easy to see through the overgrown hedgerows. The lane in front of me divided into two with the left hand lane leading to a farm, and straight ahead the lane lead to a chalk pit and on the right again was the gate of the house that I was looking for. The two thatched cottages that I remembered at the junction had had a serious makeover, and had probably been rebuilt. The thatched roofs had disappeared, and the white plaster walls were now ugly clay coloured brick, unpainted, not the mellow red handmade red bricks, but with cheap machine made bricks. The gardens either side had also been changed into small driveways for a vehicle, and there were a lot of discarded children’s toys and bicycles, even a dolls pram, lying on its side on the short driveway.

The large white painted five barred main gate for the house was wide open, and I walked in, up a flight of steps on the left from the driveway and along a gravel path to the kitchen door. I knocked but no one was in, and I could not see any cars in the drive behind the house. There was a small alcove, shielding the door from the rain, and a place for boots and umbrellas, so I sat on the single step, and leaned on the wall. Tiredness was growing on me, and I decided to wait for whoever lived in the house to return.

Perhaps I’d better explain a bit more. This house had been built by my father about sixty years ago, when I was just a small boy. Ten years later he sold it and we all moved to live in Dublin. The house was called ‘Fairfield’, and the name has stayed that way with several changes of owners. Where I am now is in the Lambourne valley in Berkshire in England, and the trout stream on the road leading here is the river Lambourne, which is very cold which is why trout like it and thrive in it. Nowadays trout fishing licences are in high demand and expensive, so both banks of the river have neatly trimmed footpaths.

I’m getting a bit ancient to be walking around by myself. I am now 67, but have managed to keep myself fit, and have never been fat. I used to be 1.86m, but might have shrunk a bit, and I have always been around 70kgs. My dark brown hair is now largely grey, and I’ve managed to keep it and not go bald, but that might be an heredity factor.

I was wearing a dark blue sweater over my shirt, and I had managed to buy an army type pack, or haversack. It was worn like a rucksack, but carried higher on the shoulders. It was made from thick webbing like material and was square and green, army green, without any small pockets on the outside. In it I had an anorak and some clothes, and my laptop. I had not made a plan of where I was going; I just followed my nose. By the way my name is Harry.

I sat on the doorstep and I must have fallen asleep leaning on the wall because I felt a hand shaking my shoulder gently. I struggled to my feet and smiled at the lady who had opened the kitchen door behind me. I was early evening.

Good evening, I managed to say, blinking my eyes, and getting to my feet.

The lady was not English, and was wearing a blue shalwa camise with a whitish coloured shawl, a dupatta, draped backwards around her shoulders and covering her bosom. She was shorter than me as now we were both on eye level with each other, but she was standing on the step, and I was standing on the ground. She must have looked down to see if I was carrying anything, to deliver. My pack was on the floor at my feet.

Good evening, she said with a perfect English accent, with perhaps just a slight trace of South Africa, and added, What can I do for you?

I used to live in this house as a boy, I explained, not wanting to waste time, and as was passing I thought I’d call.

Where is your car? she asked looking around.

I walked, I explained.

Where from?

Newbury,

"You’d better