A Very Public Affair

Since she’d left what Jack had called her ‘home’—but which she’d thought of as purgatory—she’d tried to keep herself clean, washing herself in public ladies’ cloakrooms after she’d had to leave the cheap hotel where she’d stayed until her money had run out. She’d been able to wash and change her clothes then, too, because she’d carried a backpack crammed with her belongings. But, to her despair, it had been stolen one night as she’d lain asleep on a park bench and since then she’d had nothing but the clothes she was wearing.

Reluctant to put her beautifully clean body back into them, Clare found a towelling robe hanging on the bathroom door and put that on instead. Her hair she towelled as dry as possible, but she had nothing to brush it with so it had to stay a dark, tangled mass about her head. Bare footed, she picked up all her clothes and took them downstairs to the kitchen, then thrust the whole lot into the washing machine and switched it on. Checking the cupboards and freezer, she found that the house was well-stocked with food, so, still feeling guilty at having eaten all the stew, she set about cooking a meal.

Upstairs, old Mr Straker woke at last. When he saw Jack he smiled and reached for his hand. Jack gripped it tightly. They didn’t speak; there was no need for words. They both knew why he had come and that this would be their last time together.

The kitchen seemed to buzz with activity. When Jack went down there to get his father some water he found Ctaic—still in the bathrobe—busily blending soup, the tumble-dryer turning, pans simmering on the stove. ‘I thought you’d be hungry by now,’ she explained, her face a little flushed. ‘So I made some lunch. I’ll go upstairs while you eat it,’ she added hastily, remembering she was supposed to keep out of his way.

Jack almost did a double take, she looked so different. With her hair all mussed like that, and the colour in her cheeks, she looked startlingly attractive, almost beautiful. Taken aback, unprepared for her to look anything like human, let alone this, all he could find to say was, ‘You haven’t got any shoes on.’

‘I’ve only got the one pair, and they’re really grotty.’

‘What about your clothes?’

She peinted to the tumble-dryer.

‘Are they all you’ve got?’

Clare’s face hardened a little. Of course they were all she’d darn well got! Couldn’t he see that? Acidly she said, ‘If I’d known I was coming to stay I’d have brought a suitcase full of designer clothes with me.’

Immediately after she’d said it she wished she hadn’t; after all, it wasn’t his fault that she’d ended up here and been dumped on him like this. Expecting him to get mad, she was completely surprised when Jack gave a rough laugh. He didn’t speak, but went away and came back with a thick pair of woollen socks that he held out to her. ‘My dad uses these when he goes hill walking. They should keep your feet warm.’

Slowly Clare walked over to take them. It was such a small thing, probably meant nothing to him, but it was a long time since anyone had shown her any kindness and it brought silly tears to her eyes. ‘Thanks,’ she said huskily as she took them.

Shrugging, he turned to get some water.

‘I’m making some soup. Do you think your father might like some?’ Clare ventured.

‘Let’s give it a try.’

Jack went upstairs carrying a tray, leaving Clare to eat alone, and he didn’t come down again until an hour or so later for his own lunch, by which time her clothes were dry and Clare had dressed again.

She left him alone to eat it, spending the time looking round the house. Every room seemed to be filled with the unusual furniture and ornaments, and the more she looked at it the more it grew on her. She was examining a pretty lamp, shaped like three intertwining tulips, in what was evidently the sitting-room, when Jack came in.

‘I’ve never seen furniture like this before,’ she explained.

‘It’s art deco and art nouveau,’ Jack said casually. ‘My father has a passion for it. He’s been collecting it most of his life.’ He saw her puzzled look and said, ‘There are books galore on it in the study, if you’re interested.’

Jack went back upstairs, dismissing the girl from his mind. His father woke again for a while and he gave him his medicine, but soon he was asleep, his breathing laboured, painful. Jack brought the pillows and duvet from the room that Mrs Murray had got ready for him, made up a bed on the settee in the old man’s room and spent the night there in lonely vigil.

In the morning his phone rang. It was Mrs Murray, saying that the lane was blocked with snow and she couldn’t get through to the house. Later the police rang and said the main road was blocked, too; they didn’t know when they could get there. So he was stuck with Clare indefinitely.

He hadn’t slept much; the settee was too short for his six feet two inches. And the previous night there had been the long drive to get here. He was dog-tired but full of deep anger against the fate that had done this to his father, against the girl for hiding in his car, definitely against the snow and even—God help him—because his father hadn’t taken better care of himself and had allowed himself to become so ill.

The days stretched endlessly into one another. The skies were so dark outside that Jack sometimes didn’t know whether it was day or night. He slept only when his father did—and that was only lightly, continuously waking to listen again to the old man’s agonised breathing. Sometimes he was a little better and managed to talk, although it was obvious that it pained him. Those moments were precious to Jack, making up for many wasted opportunities, for enforced separations. The doctor phoned every day, but there was little help or advice he could give. The roads were still blocked, but he had left plenty of medication; there was nothing else he could do.

At least Jack didn’t have to worry about preparing food; Clare had taken it on herself to do that, to do the washing and even clean the house. When Jack came downstairs he would find her working away, apparently quite happily, or else curled up in the armchair in the kitchen, deep in one of his father’s books on art nouveau. They didn’t talk much; he wasn’t interested in her, but he was grateful that she had taken so many niggling worries off his shoulders.

One morning, when they’d been there nearly a week, Clare came into the kitchen to clear away after his breakfast and found him still there, slumped in the armchair and deeply asleep. She had always been intimidated by him, but he looked so vulnerable now.

She moved to look at him, at the strong, lean face with its square chin, wide forehead and straight dark brows. His features were clean-cut, finely drawn, but his good looks weren’t the first thing that you noticed about him—it was his determination and self assurance that came across most strongly. You got the impression he would be irritated at being liked for his looks; it was his personality that was all-important.

Studying him, Clare thought that if she had met him in other circumstances she would have been attracted by him, the way young girls are often attracted by the hint of ruthlessness and power in a man.

She thought she’d better wake him, and said, ‘Mr Straker.’ Then, more loudly, ‘Mr Straker.’ He didn’t even blink, he was so soundly asleep. She hesitated, but then decided to let him sleep on and instead went upstairs to the invalid’s room.

It was the first time she’d seen Jack’s father, and Clare knew at once that he was dying. Her grandmother had looked just like that, so pale and sunken, when Clare had been taken to say goodbye to her before she’d died, ten years ago now. Sitting down in the chair where Jack had spent so many hours, she quietly kept watch while he slept.

It was over an hour before Jack woke, doing so with a start. Immediately he ran upstairs and was furious when he saw Clare by his father’s bed. Grabbing hold of her arm, he propelled her outside onto the landing. ‘Why were you with him?’

‘You were asleep, so—’

‘Did he call out? Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘You were so tired. I thought—’

‘Who the hell asked you to think?’ Jack snarled. ‘You keep out of there. I don’t want him waking to find some stranger with him instead of me. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly clear,’ Clare answered shortly, her colour rising. Tugging her arm free, she headed towards the stairs.

Watching her, seeing the injured set of her shoulders, Jack gave an inner groan. ‘Look, I didn’t mean...’ But she was already running down the stairs.

The sleep had done him little good; for the rest of that day he kept dozing in the chair and jerking awake. In the afternoon his father’s breathing seemed to have eased a little and Jack looked at him hopefully, wondering if, against all the odds, he would recover. Towards evening, hardly able to keep his eyes open, Jack went down to the kitchen to make himself a drink. Clare, reading in her room, heard him go, and return some ten minutes later. Then came the most terrible sound—a great cry of anguish followed by, ‘No! No! Oh, God, no!’

Leaping up, she ran out onto the landing. Jack came slowly out of his father’s room, his face completely white and rigid with shock.

‘What is it? What’s happ—?’ Clare suddenly realised, and her heart filled with sympathy for Jack.

His voice slurred, unnatural, he said, ‘He’s dead.’

Clare reached out a tentative hand of comfort but he didn’t even see it. Brushing past her, Jack went down the stairs and into the study where he’d left his mobile phone. Even though he had expected this, the shock was so great that his mind was refusing to really take in what had happened, to accept the finality of it. It was as if that part of his mind and all the emotions that it would evoke had been blanked off, and he was concentrating entirely on practical things. With a hand that visibly shook, Jack called the doctor and told him.

‘There’s a snow plough in the village now,’ Jack was told. ‘I’ll get the driver to come up your lane and I’ll follow with an ambulance. They’ve already cleared most of the road, so it shouldn’t take too long.’

But it was over three hours before they heard a noise outside and saw the lights of the vehicles. Jack spent the time pacing the floor in the hall, just striding up and down, refusing to think, to feel, while Clare stayed quietly in the kitchen out of the way, sensing that he needed to be alone. The doctor, looking tired out, dealt quickly with the formalities. Old Mr Straker’s body was taken away in the ambulance and then Jack and Clare were alone again in the silent house.

Jack had gone up with the doctor to his father’s room and hadn’t come down. After a while Clare went upstairs and got ready for bed, but as she came out of the bathroom she heard what sounded like a groan, and stood irresolutely on the landing.

Inside the room Jack stared down at the empty bed, the mental padlocks he had put on his mind slowly dissolving as he at last began to accept his father’s death. And, because he had held back his feelings with such iron will-power and determination for all these hours, his feelings completely overwhelmed him as he relaxed. He was consumed by a tidal wave of grief that robbed him of all self-control. He went out of the room, staggering, holding onto the door jamb as if his legs wouldn’t support him.

Clare saw that his arm was up across his face and he looked to be in deep distress. Going to him, she took his arm and he leaned heavily on her. ‘I wasn’t there!’ he exclaimed brokenly, anger and guilt adding to his grief. ‘All these hours—and yet I wasn’t there when he went, when he needed me.’ Swinging away from her he leaned his head against the wall, beating at it with his clenched fists. ‘There was still so much to say. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t wake,’ Clare soothed. She shut the door of the room and tried to pull Jack away. He let her lead him. His body was shaking not only from grief but from utter exhaustion, she saw. ‘You’re so tired; you must sleep now.’

The bed in his own room wasn’t made up so she guided him into hers. He was still muttering incoherently and shaking his head from side to side in deep grief, blaming himself for going downstairs. ‘I shouldn’t have left him. I shouldn’t have left him.’

‘You weren’t to know.’

She sat him on the bed and bent to pull off his shoes, tried to push him back onto the pillow. But he got agitatedly to his feet and strode up and down the small room as if he were in a prison cell. Then abruptly he sat down again, his head in his hands.