Читать книгу A Very Public Affair - Sally Wentworth, Sally Wentworth - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

THE car that paused at the road junction was big and sleek, silver-grey in colour beneath the street lights. It made a statement that was easy to read: whoever drove a car like this had to be successful, rich, a winner. Huddled in a shop doorway and shivering with cold, Clare—hopeless, completely broke, a loser—raised tired lids to glance at it, deeply envying the mobile cocoon of warmth and luxury on this freezing winter’s night.

The lights changed to green and the car drove on, but turned into the courtyard of a block of flats just a few yards down the street on the opposite side. Watching, Clare saw the car pull up at the entrance and a man get out. He seemed in a great hurry, almost running through the doorway. He didn’t even bother to shut the car door properly. Such casual disregard held Clare’s attention. She waited for the man to come out again, her eyes fixed on the car, her whole mind consumed with the thought of the warmth inside it.

Slowly she dragged herself to her feet and as if drawn by an invisible but powerful magnet crossed the road towards the flats. Once out of the shelter of the doorway the icy blast of the wind caught her, made her gasp at its fierceness and brought tears that ran like icicles down her cheeks. Reaching the other side, Clare peered through the ornate iron railings that surrounded the block. The man still hadn’t come out and the car door was definitely open a couple of inches. She glanced round to see if anyone was watching, but it was almost one in the morning and the street was empty. Even the London traffic had ceased, everyone eager to get home on such a cold night.

For a moment longer she hesitated, but a gust of freezing wind chilled her to the marrow and sent her hurrying through the entrance, up to the car. A moment later her numb fingers had found the latch of the rear door and she slipped inside, pulling that and the driver’s door closed behind her. Immediately the cold of the wind was gone, making her give a sob of heartfelt relief. The inside of the car was very dark, but the back seat was deep and padded. Clare felt something fabric under her hand and found it was a rug, large and thick and beautifully soft. With a sigh of sheer bliss she lay back on the seat, curled into it and pulled the rug completely over herself.

The car must be new; she could smell the richness of the leather upholstery, catch the unmistakable hessian and wool smell of new carpet. But most of all she felt the warmth that still lingered. It was so long since she’d been warm. The winter had been so severe and she’d been cold for so long that it was almost impossible to remember what it had been like to be warm all the time, for it to be so commonplace that she hadn’t even thought about it.

Clare’s thoughts drifted, her tired brain unable to concentrate, and she fell asleep.

It was twenty minutes later before Jack Straker came out to the car. He had changed from the evening suit he’d been wearing when the phone call came and now had on jeans and a sweater, clothes more comfortable for the long drive north. He put his suitcase in the boot and threw his camel overcoat into the back, his movements brisk, compelled by the urgency in the voice of his father’s neighbour. Flu, she’d said, but his father hadn’t let her call him. Now pneumonia had set in and he wasn’t getting better, was not responding to treatment. She was worried, but now her own family had gone down with the flu virus, giving her no time to spare for her elderly neighbour, and the old man refused to go into hospital.

He would, Jack thought. Such obstinacy was typical of his father. It was what had made him insist, when he’d retired from business, on going to live in a remote area of the Lake District so that he could devote his life to the fishing that he loved.

The grimness in Jack’s lean face softened as he thought of his father. They didn’t see each other often. They were both men of independent spirit—his father because that was the way he wanted to be, and Jack because that was the way he’d been brought up—but the bond between them still went deep. Jack’s mother was dead, had died many years ago, and his father had shown no inclination to remarry, either out of love or the need for companionship. He was a man who could be perfectly content in his own company, and he had managed very competently until this illness had struck him down.

The unexpectedness of the neighbour’s emergency call had been a shock, especially coming as it had when he’d been at a nightclub after an evening spent at the opera. Reaching the motor way that ringed London, Jack put his foot down and headed north.

Having the coat thrown over her had startled Clare out of her sleep. She’d woken in fright, thinking that she was still in the shop doorway and that she was being attacked. But then the car had started to move and she’d remembered where she was. For a moment she was petrified that she’d been seen, but then realised that she couldn’t have been or the driver would have thrown her out. Clare hazily thought that she ought to let the driver know she was there, or heaven knew where she might end up. But the car was so warm, and the heavy overcoat had made her cosier still. She thought about it, and while she was still thinking fell deeply asleep again.

The big car ate up the miles, its engine the soft purr of a well-bred cat. Jack turned on the radio to a classical music channel but kept it low. The programme was interrupted from time to time by traffic bulletins which spoke of freezing temperatures and the threat of snow as he went ever further north. Two hours out of London he pulled off the motor way into a service area, where he filled the car up with petrol then went into the café where he bought a flask of coffee and a couple of rolls.

Clare didn’t wake then, but she did when Jack stopped again some time later and took a drink from the flask. It was the aroma of the coffee that got to her, filtering through the covers and making her insides ache with hunger. Gently, very slowly, she pulled the cover from around her face. The smell of the coffee was immediately stronger, making her throat tighten with thirst. She thought she’d die for a cup, for just a mouthful, a taste. Then she heard him unwrap a roll and smelt the ham that filled it, had to push her hand in her mouth and bite on it to stop herself crying out, the hunger in her belly a physical pain.

It was a relief when the car started off again and there was just the sound of music and the smell of the leather seats. She saw white wisps hitting the windows and knew that it was snowing. With a great shiver, Clare pulled the car rug close again. Fleetingly she wondered about the driver. She could see it was a man, but that was about all. His head was mostly hidden by the head rest, and all she could see of him was a wide pair of shoulders and the top of his dark head faintly outlined by the lights on the dashboard. Impossible to tell any more of him, but she had the impression that he was young. Was that good or bad? And how would he react when he found her, when they arrived at wherever he was heading?

Clare found she didn’t much care—about any of it. Things could hardly get worse for her than they were already, so what was the point of worrying? At least at the moment she was warm and comfortable, and she decided just to be thankful for that and to hell with the rest. So she slept again as the car continued on through the night—more slowly now in the bad conditions.

It was almost seven in the morning and the sky had lightened, but Jack still needed his headlights; the snow was becoming much heavier as the wipers incessantly cleared it from the windscreen. He had left the main road behind and the snow was worse on these minor roads, piling into drifts so that he had to use all his concentration. Coming to a crossroads, Jack slowed to peer at the signpost but was unable to read it. Pulling into the side, he looked at the map but realised it was no good; he would have to go and clear the damn sign.

Opening the door of the car, he felt the cold hit him. He stretched his shoulders, easing his aching back muscles, then opened the rear door and reached in for his overcoat. He pulled it out. Beneath it the rumpled car rug moved! Jack stared, then reached in and yanked the rug away to reveal the figure lying on the seat.

‘What the heck? How the hell did you get in there?’ And, grabbing hold of an enveloping anorak, he dragged the person out of the car.

Coming to with a shock, Clare almost fell as he pulled her roughly out into the road. Her legs had gone stiff from being curled up for so long and she could hardly stand, making her stumble and catch hold of him to steady herself. Immediately Jack pushed her away and then gave her a violent shake, his face full of anger and distaste.

‘Who are you? When did you get in the car?’ Clare didn’t answer and he gave her another rough shake. The hood of the anorak fell off and her hair, long and dark, tumbled about her head. ‘Good grief! A girl.’

For a moment they stood in the road, the snow swirling about them as they stared at each other. Clare, looking at him in nervous alarm, saw that Jack was tall and that she’d been right in thinking him young—he looked to be in his late twenties, his hair almost as dark as her own. His eyes full of startled anger, he said again, ‘Who are you? How did you get in the car?’

A snowflake settled on her lashes and Clare lifted her hand to wipe it away, then shivered and said, ‘Please—I’m cold.’

Jack hesitated, then gave a curse and strode over to clear the sign. Taking this as an acceptance of her being there, Clare quickly got back into the car. He joined her a minute later, closing the door to keep out the cold, then looked at her over the back of his seat. ‘Where did you get in—at the petrol station?’

Clare nodded, not seeing any point in telling him she’d been there all the way from London.

‘Damn! I haven’t got time to take you all the way back there. Where do you live?’ She didn’t speak and he said exasperatedly, ‘Haven’t you got a tongue in your head? Where do you live?’

‘I—I don’t live anywhere.’

His eyebrows rose, then he frowned. ‘I suppose you’ve run away from home.’ Again Clare didn’t speak and he thumped his clenched fist against the seat in annoyance. ‘What the hell am I going to do with you?’

Terrified that he might kick her out into the snow, Clare sat very still, her hazel eyes, large with apprehension, fixed on his face.

As if reading her thoughts, Jack said, ‘I ought to throw you out. I would too, if it wasn’t so damn cold.’ Making up his mind, he turned away and put on his safety belt, started the car and began to drive again. ‘Don’t think that I’m letting you get away with this. As soon as I possibly can I’m going to hand you over to the police and let them deal with you.’

With a great inner sigh of relief Clare settled back in the seat, but stayed sitting up, just pulling the rug around her again. Looking out of the windows, she could see no houses anywhere, just expanses of open fields and sometimes a few trees, their branches already white with snow. The man, she could see, was giving all his attention to his driving. Once the car skidded and it looked as if they were headed for a ditch, but he quickly straightened it, then gave a grunt of satisfaction as he saw a farmhouse and turned up the lane that ran along the side of it. The lane was short—about half a mile—then they came to another house, a smaller one, built of grey stone and with a copse of fir trees to the side. There was another car parked outside.

‘Stay here,’ the driver ordered, and didn’t even glance at Clare as he hurried to the house.

The door was unlocked. Jack pushed it open and, seeing the landing light was on, ran upstairs. ‘Mrs Murray?’

She was in his father’s room, and turned with a great look of relief. ‘Thank goodness you’ve come. The doctor’s been and he’s left some medicine.’ Already she was reaching for her coat.

Glancing at the bed, Jack saw his father was sleeping. They went out on the landing before he said, ‘How is he?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry—he’s bad. Here, I’ve written down the doctor’s number. He’ll be able to tell you more than I can, although you might have trouble getting him; everyone around seems to be down with this flu.’

‘You’ll be wanting to get back to your family. How are they?’

‘Oh, they’re young and strong; they’ll recover.’ She stopped short and flushed a little. And Jack, seeing it, suddenly realised with a sick feeling of shock what she was afraid to tell him.

‘Is he so ill?’ he said faintly, hoping against hope that she would deny it. But she gave a brief nod and went ahead of him down the stairs. ‘I’ll drive you home,’ he said mechanically, his brain trying to come to terms with it but refusing to accept such terrible news.

‘No, I have the car.’ Mrs Murray looked out of the window. ‘It’s a good job you got here when you did; the lane soon gets blocked with snow and my husband’s too ill to get the tractor out to clear it.’

She left him, and Jack went back to his father’s room. He sat by the bed and took hold of his father’s limp hand. For the first time he realised how aged the man looked. He was an old man, but Jack had never realised it before. His skin was very white and his breathing was laboured, unnatural. Jack sat beside him, his thoughts full of regret and sadness, and it was a long time before he remembered the girl in the car.

Clare saw the woman hurry out of the house and the car drive away. She waited for the man to come back, peering out through the ever-thickening snow. Now that the engine was turned off the car began to get cold again. And she was hungry, so hungry. Still the man didn’t come back. At last, driven by hunger and by the warmth and shelter that the house promised, Clare got out of the car, gasping as the wind cut into her and the snow covered her shoes. Hurrying to the door, she went to knock, then hesitated and tried the knob. The door opened and she went quickly inside, afraid of making the man angry again but too cold and hungry not to risk it.

Closing the door, she looked apprehensively round, expecting any moment to have someone come up and demand to know what she was doing there. But the hall, with its black and white chequered floor, was empty. Fleetingly Clare noticed that it held the weirdest furniture and ornaments she’d ever seen, but then she saw an open door at the end of the passage from which came the smell of something cooking—a rich, savoury smell that had her through the door and into the kitchen in two seconds flat.

The delicious smell came from a large pan that simmered on the range. Broth? Stew? Soup? Hardly able to control the shaking eagerness of her hands, Clare found a bowl and spooned a large helping into it. She was so starved that she had eaten three helpings before she even bothered to look about her. The kitchen was large, well-lit, and beautifully warm. Again the furniture seemed different—it wasn’t just square and utilitarian, there were curves and flowing lines, and the chairs round the table had very high backs, high enough to lean her head against. There was a big dresser against one wall and on its shelves was lots of china in unusual shapes and in bright, bold colours: orange, yellow and vivid blue. The vibrant colours added to the warmth and welcome of the room, and brought a smile to her pale cheeks.

She glanced down at the bowl she’d been using and guiltily went to look in the pan. It was only a quarter full now. Clare gulped, wondering if she’d eaten most of the food intended for a whole family. She began to wonder, too, where the car driver had got to—but just then heard a door closing somewhere, and then rapid footsteps coming down the stairs. Nervously she went out into the hall.

Jack saw her as he came round the bend in the stairs, and stopped short in surprise. He had hardly taken her in before and was too full of shock over his father to do so now. All he knew was that the girl was a worry, an inconvenience he definitely didn’t want, especially now. Annoyance making his voice harsh, he said, ‘I told you to wait in the car.’

‘It was cold.’

He saw that she was still wearing the anorak, that it was dirty and stained, as were the jeans that had made him think at first that she was a boy. Jack’s nose wrinkled a little in distaste as he came down into the hall. ‘When did you run away?’

It was impossible to deny that she was a runaway, but Clare couldn’t see why he had to know, so she didn’t answer.

Jack sighed. ‘Have you at least got a name?’

She hesitated, then said, ‘It’s Clare.’

He was surprised, expecting her—if she’d told him at all—to have a far more common name. But perhaps she’d made it up. Deciding that she had, his face hardened. ‘Clare what?’ he demanded brusquely.

Not liking his tone, Clare’s chin came up a little. ‘Smith,’ she said shortly.

His eyes went to her face at that, and registered a pair of defiant hazel eyes. With an angry exclamation he went past her into the kitchen. ‘You’re going to have to say who you are some time, you know. If not to me, then to the police.’ Noticing the bowl on the table, he said wryly, ‘I see you made yourself at home.’

‘I’m sorry. I was hungry.’

He glanced in the pan, then said, ‘You may as well finish it off.’

Clare didn’t argue, immediately coming to fill her bowl again, but she managed to say, ‘Don’t you want any? It’s very good.’

‘No. I’ll just make myself some coffee.’ He gave her an assessing look, surprised by the educated tones of her voice. He’d expected her to be from a different background. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two,’ Clare lied.

Jack gave a short laugh. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that?’ He had picked up the kettle but turned with it in his hands to look at her. She was, he realised, very thin and pale, and there were dark shadows round her eyes. She looked like a Victorian waif, thrown out into the snow. Roughly he said, ‘You look about fourteen.’

‘I’m not!’ Clare said indignantly. ‘I’m twenty-two.’ She caught his eyebrows rising disbelievingly. ‘Well—twenty, anyway.’ But that was still a lie because she was only just nineteen.

She took her bowl to the table and a few minutes later he came to sit opposite with his mug of coffee. ‘You,’ Jack said shortly, ‘are a damn nuisance. My father is upstairs and he’s...’ He hesitated and found that he was unable to say ‘dying,’ so said instead, ‘He’s very ill, and I can’t leave him. So I’ll have to phone the nearest police station and ask them to come and collect you.’ He saw her fingers tighten on the spoon, but she didn’t speak or look at him. ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘it would make things a whole lot easier if you’d tell me who you are so that your parents could come instead. I’m sure they must be terribly worried about you and—’

‘I haven’t any parents,’ Clare said shortly. Jack looked at her set face, wondering if she was lying again. ‘Well, there must be someone who—’

‘There isn’t.’

He became exasperated. ‘Look, I haven’t got time to play games. It’s your parents, guardian, or whatever—or the police. Which is it to be?’

Clare raised a strained face to look at him. ‘The police won’t want to know. I’m over-age and I have the right to lead whatever kind of life I want, wherever I want. They can’t make me go back.’

‘Well, at least you’ve admitted that there is somewhere for you to go back to,’ Jack pounced. He stood up, fretting to get back to his father’s side. ‘And you’re certainly not staying here.’

Going out to the car, he brought in his suitcase and overcoat. And his mobile phone, knowing that his father had never allowed a phone to be installed in the house—that or a television set. Dumping his case on the floor in the hall, Jack went into his father’s book-lined study and called the number that Mrs Murray had left for him. There was some delay, but eventually he was connected with the local doctor. The doctor went into much greater detail but in the end the news was just the same: his father was dying; there was nothing more they could do for him.

‘He knows; he made me tell him when I wanted him to go into hospital,’ the doctor told Jack. ‘But he said he wanted to die in his own home.’

‘Is he in pain?’

‘No. The medication I’ve left for him will remedy that. It’s just a matter of time.’

His voice thin and strangled, not sounding at all like his own, Jack said, ‘How long?’

‘It’s hard to say. A few days. Perhaps a week. I’ll come as often as I can, but I’ve a flu epidemic on my hands. Will you be staying with him, or do you want me to try and get a nurse?’

‘No, that won’t be necessary; I’ll be here as long as he needs me.’

He gave the doctor his mobile number then rang off. For a long moment he just sat staring at the wall, then roused himself and called the local police. They could do nothing about the girl today, they said when he explained the position. Half their men were down with the flu. They advised him to just send her on her way.

‘It’s snowing outside,’ Jack pointed out.

He could almost hear the shrug in the policeman’s voice. ‘Unless you want to bring charges against her for breaking into your car, there’s not a lot we can do except try and persuade her to go home. Has she given you her name? We could look on the missing-persons file and see if we can find an address for her.’

With inner anger, Jack told them to just come and collect the girl as soon as possible.

Going back into the kitchen, he found Clare washing out the now empty pan. She had taken off the anorak but it was impossible to tell what sort of figure she had as she seemed to be wearing several layers of sweaters. She turned her smudged, green-flecked eyes to look at him apprehensively. At any other time Jack might have felt some sympathy, if not pity for her. But not now; his thoughts were too full of the days ahead and taking care of his father.

‘You’ll have to stay here until tomorrow,’ he said abruptly. ‘The police can’t come for you until the morning.’

Clare relaxed a little, but then thought that maybe her troubles weren’t over—she would be alone here with this man. But no, almost at once she realised that she had nothing to fear. He was too much preoccupied with his sick father to even think about her in that way.

‘Come with me and I’ll show you where you can sleep.’ She followed him up the stairs. The banister rails were in that same flowing style, like graceful lilies. When they reached the corridor at the top he pointed out his father’s room. ‘I’ll take the one next door.’ He opened another door further down. ‘I suppose you’d better have this room. You’ll have to make the bed up. There’s blankets and things in that cupboard on the landing. And the bathroom’s over there.’

He turned to go to his father’s room, but Clare said quickly, ‘Please—can I have a bath?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He looked surprised that she’d asked.

‘And—and you know my name, but I don’t know yours.’

He gave a curt laugh. ‘I know the name you’ve chosen to tell me, you mean.’

Having slept in the car for several hours, and feeling full of good food, warm for the first time in weeks, and knowing that she had somewhere to stay for the night, Clare was able to say lightly, ‘A new life deserves a new name.’

His left eyebrow rose. ‘Smith? Surely you could do better than that?’

She smiled a little and he saw with surprise that there was a trace of beauty in her thin features. Somehow this made him angrier, and he said harshly, ‘My name’s Straker, Jack Straker. Look, I may be stuck with you till tomorrow but I shall expect you to keep out of the way. I haven’t got time to worry about you. Understand?’

Her face flushed at the obvious rebuff and she said stiffly, ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

He nodded and went on his way.

Jack’s father might have been anti-telephones but he had utilised modem technology to take care of his creature comforts; the house was centrally heated and there was a very efficient plumbing and water-heating system. Clare must have stayed in the bath for over a couple of hours, washing her hair, absolutely wallowing in the pleasure of soaking in all that lovely hot water.

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.

Words were a waste of time; it was too soon for them, Clare realised. So she sat down next to him and put comforting arms round his shoulders. His body was shaking and for a while he couldn’t control his grief—the terrible pain of it, the dreadful fatigue that left him without the strength to hide it.

Somehow it didn’t feel strange, holding him like this. Jack was still virtually a stranger, and yet she knew exactly what he was going through—understood all the raw emotion that engulfed him. It didn’t seem at all incongruous that her slight strength should support him, that he should lean against her while he went through these first terrible spasms of ache and loss.

Clare went on holding him for what seemed a long time, but eventually his trembling eased a little and he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and lifted his head. Clare went to move away but he turned within her arms. His eyes, dark and still wide with shock, held hers. She was wearing just an old shirt that she’d found in a drawer, a man’s, much too big for her and coming down to her knees. Jack, his face intense, reached out to touch it at the neck.

‘This was his.’

‘Yes.’ She tried to say sorry, thinking that he was offended by it, but the words died in her throat as she looked into his eyes and began to understand even more.

Slowly he ran his fingers down over her breast. ‘You’re so alive,’ he said huskily, his voice strained. ‘So alive.’

Clare caught her breath at his touch. Instinctively she knew what he wanted—and why. His father’s death had made him realise his own vulnerability, how precarious life was. He needed to be close—very close—to someone, to convince himself that life could go on. For a long moment she looked deeply into the intense grey eyes that held hers, then stood up and slowly lifted the shirt, pulled it over her head and stood before him in all the beauty of her naked youth.

Jack groaned as he looked at her, a sound almost of agony, then reached out a trembling hand to touch her waist, her thighs. ‘Are you sure? Oh, God, are you sure?’

For answer she leant forward and placed her lips against his.

The trembling in his body was so strong that she could feel it even in this light touch. For a moment he just let her kiss him, but then Jack surged to his feet, his hand behind her head, his mouth taking hers now in urgent need. Still kissing her, making small, animal sounds against her mouth, he somehow dragged off his clothes until he, too, was naked. He touched her breasts and ran kisses down her throat as she arched her neck, wanting him now. Bending her back against his arm, he let his other hand run free over her, glorying in her living warmth, the velvet softness of her skin.

Jack’s need for her was dreadful, the deepest hunger he’d ever known, an ache so bad that he could scarcely bear the pain of it. He needed to shut out the pictures in his mind, to experience the joy, the certainty of sexual fulfilment—to convince himself that life was still sweet. He needed it so badly that nothing else mattered, not conscience, convention, not even common sense.

In the young, pliant body in his arms he knew he would find solace, would assuage the devils of guilt and grief that haunted his mind. His hot, unsteady hands pulled her close to him so that he could hold her against his length, feel the heat of her. He heard her gasp when he put his hands low on her hips and held her against his growing manhood. That excited him unbearably. He wound his hand in her long dark hair and took her mouth again, letting passion have free rein. She was excited now, he could feel it in the heat of her skin, hear it in her gasping breath. Her hands were on him, as eager as his own.

With a cry, Jack swung her onto the bed. Her hair spread like a fan across the whiteness of the pillow. He saw her face below him, her features sharpened by desire, but it was the heart of her he wanted—the one place where he could find the peace and fulfilment he craved. So he took her, took her in desperate, driven hunger. No tender act of love this, but a savage need for reassurance to overcome the primitive age-long fear of mortality. And as excitement came, engulfed him, Jack wanted to shout out that he was alive—alive!

He fell asleep almost at once and slept long and deeply, held in Clare’s arms in the narrow bed. Some hours later he half woke, still too exhausted to be fully aware of his surroundings, but realised he was in bed and that the room was dark. He felt the woman beside him and without opening his eyes reached for her. She kissed him, murmured his name, used her hands and body to arouse him, then pushed him back and came over him, taking her own pleasure, her long cry of excitement filling the room.

When Jack finally woke it was to a feeling of immeasurable peace. He was alone in the room and sunshine, of all things, shafted through the window. For a little while he lay there, knowing that he had made love and savouring the wonderful feeling. But slowly, and then with sickening clarity, remembrance came. His father was dead—and he had taken Clare, the young girl who had foisted herself on him but nevertheless had had a right to be safe from him. At first he was appalled, not because he’d done such a thing with his father newly dead—the old man, he knew, would have been quite amused by it—but because he might have taken Clare against her will. But then he remembered that she had been a very eager participant and that guilt eased a little. But not his conscience. He should never have done it. There were no circumstances that justified what he’d done.

But Jack wasn’t the type to brood on the past, on what couldn’t be undone. Swiftly he got up, went to the bathroom and dressed, then ran downstairs.

Clare was in the kitchen. She was keyed up with excitement. Last night had been out of this world for her, a revelation of what sex, fantastic sex, could be like. She felt so good, so content and happy. She had never known that sex could make you feel like this—walking on air, wanting to laugh for no reason at all, to sing and dance around the room. Even if the sun hadn’t been shining it would still have been the most wonderful day.

When Jack finally came in she ran to him, looking eagerly at his face, waiting for him to smile at her with the intimacy of shared knowledge. But he didn’t take her in his arms as she wanted. Instead he put her gently aside. “There are a lot of phone calls I ought to make.’

‘Oh. Of course.’ She stood back. He moved towards the door but she said impulsively, ‘Jack?’

Half turning, he gave a crooked kind of grin. ‘We’ll talk later. In about half an hour. OK?’

She nodded, satisfied, and he went out to the study.

He was gone for longer than he’d said; it was almost an hour before he came back. She supposed that he had been informing other members of his family of -his father’s death, and she wondered how long it would be before the funeral would take place. Jack, she was sure, would stay on here until then, so they could still be alone here together. Excitement rose at the thought.

But this hope was immediately shattered when Jack returned and said, ‘I’ve been in touch with other relatives; they’ll be coming here as soon as they can.’ He paused, then said heavily, ‘About last night. I suppose I ought to apologise, but I’m afraid I’m not sorry that it happened. I needed you—and I’m pretty certain you needed me almost as much.’ He didn’t wait for her to speak, but went on, ‘But the fact remains that I took advantage of you being here. For your sake I shouldn’t have done that.’ He shrugged. ‘But I did, and I’m grateful that you were so—accommodating.’ His grey eyes rested on her face. ‘And I’d like to show my gratitude by giving you this. It should keep you while you sort yourself out’ And he held out a folded piece of paper.

Clare didn’t take it She could see it was a cheque. Anger flared through her. Her chair fell over as she sprung to her feet. ‘What the hell do you think I am—a prostitute? I didn’t do it for money!’

Jack, too, stood up and came round the table. Catching hold of her arm, he said forcefully, ‘I know that. It isn’t a payment.’

Clare laughed bitterly. ‘What else would you call it?’

‘It’s just a token, a way of saying thanks. What other way do I have?’

There were a million ways, Clare thought. Like taking her in his arms and saying how wonderful it had been for him. He could have kissed her, smiled, said he wanted it to happen all over again. Now. Tomorrow. That she was important to him now. But all he’d said was that he’d needed her, she’d been there, available, and so he’d taken her. Used her, in other words, but was going to assuage his conscience by paying for it! Clare felt a great surge of humiliation, and what had been wonderful suddenly became tainted and dirty.

Her voice tight, Clare said, ‘I’m leaving here. Now!’

Her pride and dignity astounded him. Jack had expected her to take the money with relief, if not with pleasure—not act as if he’d somehow defiled her by offering it. She was destitute, for heaven’s sake, and he’d only wanted to help her, to show his gratitude in the most practical way possible. But maybe it was better this way. He didn’t want her clinging round him, creating a scene when he asked her to leave, so he said shortly, ‘I’ve already arranged for a taxi to collect you. The trains are running, so it will take you to the nearest mainline station.’

She stared at him, her face stony. ‘You just can’t wait to get rid of me, can you?’

Jack paused, his eyes on her face, seeing that her anger gave her beauty. He felt a terrible reluctance to hurt her, but he knew it had to be done. His voice expressionless, he said, ‘One of the people who’s on their way here, who will be arriving probably later today, is my wife.’

The train was almost empty. Clare sat next to the window, looking unseeingly out at the fleeing landscape, the snow gradually giving way to patchwork fields and bare-branched trees. Jack had given her money for the fare to London and she’d had to take it. And just now, in the pocket of her anorak, she’d found the cheque he’d tried to give her earlier. It was for an immense amount, enough to keep her for ages. She would have liked to just tear it up, but she’d be an utter fool to do that. She could have afforded that kind of gesture when she’d thought there was a chance of staying with him, but not now that he had finally kicked her out. Out of his bed, out of his life.

She felt hot tears sting her eyes, but somehow blinked them back. What else had she expected, for heaven’s sake? He’d been bound to kick her out eventually, and if she’d hoped for something more then she’d been just kidding herself. She had to forget that night. Forget Jack Straker. It was time to start a new life for herself, and the easiest way to do that was to forget he even existed.