TWELVE
The Rectory is in darkness when Boyd returns to it. It does nothing to lift his mood, and finding a note from his mother waiting for him on the kitchen table only adds to his morose displeasure. She has gone to a meeting of one of the many clubs and organisations she belongs to. The note does not specify which. It could be anything from Pagan Eco Warriors for World Peace to the W-bloody-I for all he knows.
Leaving Grace was hard. She was marginally more cheerful by the time he did, but that didn't make it any easier. Adding to his fretfulness about her emotional and physical well-being is the grinding, gnawing pain in his leg that seems only to have grown worse as the day has worn on.
There is food in the fridge, he discovers, but nothing he feels like picking at, and he certainly has no enthusiasm for the idea of cooking. He goes in search of biscuits instead, knowing there will be a packet or two stashed on one of the higher shelves in the larder. There are. The larder may have been repainted and reshelved, but some things never change.
He retreats to his father's study, the room at the rear of the house that was once the drawing room. It's not a shrine to Douglas's memory, but it has escaped the relentless tide of creative eccentricity that has swamped most of the rest of the house since his death.
The old, scuffed leather sofa is still there, though when he settles on it, Boyd wonders if it has somehow shrunk since his childhood.
There's a picture of his father above the fireplace. A young man in military uniform. Objectively handsome. Thoughtful look about him.
To the earnest young soldier, Boyd says, "What the hell am I going to do about Dawn, dad? She loathes me, and she's probably got at least some reason to."
There's no answer. He didn't expect one.
"I think my leg is getting worse," he confides to the picture. "Christ knows what's going to happen if it doesn't heal properly."
He knows, though. Of course he does. He's not young enough to be worth rehabilitating and reassigning. He'll be pensioned off and left to his own devices.
And then there's Grace. Not just the horrors of the last week, but the effect the tension between her and her daughter is having on her.
She loves him.
That's everything.
But is it enough? For her?
A scuffling followed by excited barking tells him his mother and her faithful companion are home. He doesn't stir from the sofa, and sure enough moments later a small grey shape barges its way into the study.
"Don't go off on one," Boyd tells the dog. "I'm allowed to be in here."
Buster does not look convinced, but after a moment he wags his stumpy tail a little.
"Warming to me, are you?" Boyd inquires. "About bloody time."
"Peter." Clara's voice out in the hall. The door opens wider and she peers in at him. "What on earth are you doing sitting in here in the gloom?"
"Talking to my father," he says, as if it is the most natural thing in the world.
She doesn't seem fazed. "I see. Grace isn't with you?"
"Tomorrow," he says. "Around lunchtime, I think. I'm going to go and get her."
"Darling," Clara says, her tone gentle, "I really think you should stay here. You're supposed to be convalescing."
Boyd grunts, then shrugs. "Who else is there to look after her?"
"Well, doesn't she have any other family apart from that daughter of hers?"
"Not really; not in a position to help. Certainly not down here."
Clara seems to consider the matter for several long moments. When she speaks again, it's to ask a direct question: "How's your leg? And don't lie to me, Peter. I can always tell when you're lying."
"It hurts."
"A lot?"
"Yes."
She frowns. "Perhaps we should make an appointment at the surgery. Doctor Lowell is very good. I'm sure she'd -"
"No," he tells her.
"Peter."
"No, mother. It's fine. It just needs time to settle."
"Hm." Another pause. "Have you eaten?"
"A few biscuits. I didn't fancy the dish of organic whatever-the-hell-it-is."
"Good. I made it for Buster."
Hearing his name, the little dog wags his tail again. Boyd eyes him with disgust, but keeps his thoughts to himself.
"Come along," Clara says, brisk suddenly. "I'll make you something."
"There's no need."
"You're my son," she says. "There's every need."
He doesn't protest further. Follows her gladly, even. Settles at the kitchen table when ordered to, and props his leg on another chair, shoving a cushion under the cast. It helps almost immediately.
Her back to him as she bustles about at the kitchen counter, Clara asks, "How was she?"
He doesn't need to ask who she is.
"Seems a little better in some ways," he acknowledges. "They got her walking from the chair to the bed. It was only a few steps, but she managed it. I bribed her to do it again."
Clara turns, looks over at him. "What did you bribe her with?"
Boyd grins. "A kiss."
His mother chuckles as she opens the fridge. A moment later a large glass of orange juice is deposited next to him. "Vitamin C," is the spoken accompaniment.
He doesn't argue, just sips.
"Was it a good kiss?"
The memory of it is almost dreamy. "Very." He doesn't tell Clara that the kisses when Tina left were even better, nor that he sat in the back of Tony's car with his leg resting on the seat as he daydreamed about them all the way back.
He's besotted, he acknowledges wryly. But maybe that's okay. Maybe after so many years of heartache and hardship, he's allowed to be. He certainly doesn't seem to have any interest in fighting it.
"What's bothering you, Little Peter?"
She always knows. Always. Then again, so does Grace.
"Dawn," he says, simply. Doesn't think any more is necessary. Doesn't know how he would even begin to explain.
"Ah." Clara continues to move around, the scent of something wonderful beginning to fill the air. Boyd's hears his stomach growl. So, it seems, does Clara because suddenly she is scolding him. "You don't look after yourself. That's why you need me; why I need you to be here."
She sets a knife and fork on the table beside him, but she's not quick enough to disguise the tremor in her hand as she does so. Boyd catches her wrist, looks up at her. "Mum?"
Without warning, her arms go round him, hugging him tight. Her cheek comes to rest against the top of his head; he hears a long, slow breath that has a slight catch in it. He grasps her back, grateful for the strength he still feels in her arms, the reassuring steadiness of her grip.
Voice muffled, Clara makes an admission that startles him. "You worried me so much, my darling boy. Seeing you in hospital like that…" She sniffs, and he feels like his heart is about to break. "I lost your father. I can't lose you as well."
Boyd tightens his arms around her. "I'm not going anywhere," he promises, guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders. "You're stuck with me. I love you." It's an entirely honest disclosure.
"I love you, too, Little Peter."
Clara straightens, seems to gather herself. Still, he worries. Not since the early days after his father died has he seen cracks in her armour like this. Leaning back against the table, she strokes his hair. "Don't go to the hospital tomorrow," she urges. "Stay here and rest. You look worn to the bone, son. She'll be here after lunch. Why tire yourself with the journey?"
He studies her, sees the fear lurking beneath the familiar, caring face that has kept him grounded all his life. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "For upsetting you. For worrying you."
"You're my child, it's my job to worry about you."
"Still, I didn't mean for any of this to happen. We thought… we really thought the house would be fine to visit. There was nothing to say it wasn't. I never would have taken Grace there if I thought – "
"Shh," whispers Clara, smoothing his hair. "You don't need to justify yourself to me. I know you. And I've seen the way you look at her. You would never willingly put her in harm's way; it's obvious she means everything to you."
"Were you surprised?"
She doesn't need him to elaborate. "No. You've talked about her for years. Having met her, I understand perfectly."
"There's something about her," he says. "I don't know what, but…"
Clara smiles. "She's a perfect match for you, that's all it is."
It sounds like more hippie bollocks, but who is he to argue? Maybe she is. It certainly feels like it, after all. The sheer intensity of his attraction to her, his need to protect her, his desire to simply be with her…
"Talk to me," Clara urges. "What's on your mind?"
They're back to it. It's impossible to avoid.
He should have known.
"Dawn," he sighs, wondering how to even begin to explain what happened, what he thinks might happen.
Clara studies him for a moment, then she says, "Do you remember all that trouble with Luke when he was, what, thirteen or fourteen?"
It's not something Boyd's ever likely to forget. "Fourteen."
"Your sister thought you were too hard on him."
"So did Mary," he tells her. He doesn't elaborate, doesn't tell her how much it contributed to the break-up of his marriage. "What else was I supposed to do, mum? It wasn't his first offence, and I'm a police officer, for God's sake."
"He hated you for it."
It hurts. Still. "He did."
"But you know, in your heart of hearts, that it was the right thing to do."
"I thought it was. The short, sharp shock, that's what they used to call it."
"Moorland wasn't a Borstal, dear."
"No, it was a detention and training centre. Still had bars on the windows, though, didn't it?"
"My point is," Clara says, "it was tough love. Emphasis on the love. I think that's perhaps what Dawn needs."
"I don't follow you."
"She seems to resent her mother a great deal, from what I saw and from everything you've said. Maybe she has cause to, I don't know, but if I was her mother, I'd be more interested in showing her that I loved her than in pandering to her tantrums."
"Grace is hardly pandering to her, Clara. Quite the opposite."
"And you?" Clara asks, moving to the stove to check on whatever it is she is creating.
"What about me?
"If you're going to be in a long-term relationship with her mother, that settles a degree of responsibility for the girl on you."
"She's hardly a girl."
"Don't split hairs, dear. You know what I'm saying. You're not going to win her over by trying to charm her, that much is quite clear." Leaving the stove again, Clara settles at the table. "So do what you did with Luke. Tough love. Be kind, but be firm. She'll respect you for it in the end."
"I don't know..." He shrugs, unusually indecisive.
"She's jealous, Peter. Jealous, and worried for her mother."
"Jealous?"
"You're the centre of her mother's attention. How would you feel if I acquired a gentleman friend?"
The idea is faintly horrifying. "What, at your age?"
Clara scowls at him. "I didn't bring you up to be so parochial."
"Sorry." He holds up a hand. "Sorry. I don't know... I've never really thought about it."
"You don't like the idea, though, do you? That's quite clear. Well, do you think Dawn feels any different?"
"Probably not," he admits.
"Talk to her, Peter. Next time you get the chance, talk to her. Reasonably and quietly. Show some empathy instead of lecturing her, or leaping to her mother's defence."
Boyd considers the words, then allows a small smile. "You're quite clever, really, aren't you, mother?"
Standing up, she aims a pretend cuff at his head. It doesn't land. Never did, even when he was a boisterous little boy forever getting into trouble. "Cheeky."
He watches as she serves up his dinner. Some sort of pasta dish, quick and easy, but, as he soon discovers, very tasty. As he ploughs through the plate, her expression grows increasingly satisfied.
"Look at you," she says, and when he shoots her an inquiring glance, she continues, "Little Peter. As tall as your father, and just as handsome. Whatever happened to that skinny little boy whose knees were always grazed?"
"He grew up," Boyd says.
"And had a son of his own."
"Mum..."
She sighs. "Oh, I know. You don't want to talk about Luke. I don't understand why. Not talking about him won't bring him back, will it? Isn't it time you celebrated the life he did have rather than mourned the way it was cut short?"
"Now you sound like Grace."
"That should tell you something, then, shouldn't it? He was a lovely little boy, Peter."
"He was. But at the end of the day, he was too like me... and I wasn't enough like dad."
Clara shakes her head, but doesn't contradict him. Instead, she says, "Being a parent is hard."
He grunts. "Tell me about it."
"Which brings us right back to Dawn."
"Firm but fair, I know, I know. I got the memo, thanks." Boyd pushes his now-empty plate away. "I'll do what I can, but I'm not holding out much hope."
"She doesn't have to like you, Peter, she just has to accept you."
"That seems like a big enough hurdle right now."
"You were very good at hurdling when you were at school."
"Mm." He stretches, finds himself yawning. "God, I'm tired."
"Go to bed," Clara tells him. "I won't wake you. Sleep until midday if you want to."
"Grace –"
"Can presumably afford a taxi. It can't be much more than thirty miles."
He's not going to win, he realises. At least, not without bloodshed. "All right," he says grudgingly. "I'll text her."
"She'll understand."
"I bloody hope so." He gathers up his crutches. "Clara?"
She looks at him expectantly. "What?"
"I meant it, you know. I love you. I'm sorry you were worried."
"Get along with you," she says, but she looks pleased, nevertheless.
His bed is comfortable. So, so comfortable, after the long, arduous day of travelling and manoeuvring around on crutches. His arms ache, his shoulders ache, his back aches, and his leg hurts like a bitch, but the minute he sinks into the mattress, at least some of that ebbs and with it, some of the tension.
He smells lavender, he thinks. Wonders if his mother has been in here with dried herbs during the day.
Maybe Grace and Clara really are right, and rest is what he needs. He won't rest properly, though, he knows, until she's here. Until he can keep an eye on her. Until he can see for himself that she's okay, that she's not going anywhere.
He suspects that Grace could tell him an awful lot of things based on that line of thought, but he doesn't intend to tell her. Instead, he closes his eyes and concentrates on falling asleep.
The dreams stalk him almost immediately, it seems. He's falling, with nothing to grab on to, screaming for help, terrified. Grace is beside him, unresponsive, blood trailing from her lips. She's just beyond his reach, wrapped in green light that wriggles and moves, obscures her from view, no matter what he does, how much he tries to get to her.
Benson is coming at him, spindle raised, eyes dark with rage. Blood is spilling from him, drowning him.
McDonald is punching Grace, slamming her into the wall. She's screaming, her expression one of pure fear and all Boyd wants to do is get to her, help her.
He can't. Something is making his body sluggish, is spreading warmly thorough his veins. The green light is back, shooting arrows or streaks around him and there's laughter and blue flickers and no-one understands his desperation. He can't see her, can't hear Grace, and he's never felt terror like it.
The third man – Townsend, a small voice at the back of his mind pipes up – is advancing. Kicking him. Wrapping his thick hands around Grace's neck. Threatening to do things to her that leaves him yelling and scrabbling for something, anything, to use as a weapon.
"Peter!"
He thrashes, fights back at the green streaks attacking him. Swears and bellows and threatens to rain all sorts of hell down on those around him.
"Little Peter, open your eyes."
He gasps, chokes, and sits bolt upright, immediately groaning in pain.
"Shhhh," croons Clara, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder. "It was just a dream."
Wild-eyed, Boyd turns to stare at her.
"You were screaming," she explains softly. "All sorts of things, but Grace featured a lot. Nightmares about what happened, I presume?"
Weakly, he nods. Falls back against his pillows, wincing at the deep ache running through most of his body. "Yeah. Some of it was real, some of it was my mind filling in the gaps, I think. There are bits I don't remember, and bits that I've heard about but didn't see."
"You need some more painkillers."
He grunts in acknowledgement, tries to force himself to relax and get more comfortable. It doesn't work.
Clara stands up, her long white nightdress billowing around her, a knitted soft cream shawl clutched about her shoulders. She disappears, ordering him to stay where he is.
Where, he wonders faintly, is he likely to go?
Alone in the semi-darkness, Boyd is painfully aware of how fast his heart his beating, how cold and clammy he feels. There's a blanket tossed across the bottom of the bed; freeing his good leg from beneath the quilt he's able to hook a fold of it, drag it close enough that his fingers can close on the fabric and pull it closer.
Shivering, he shakes it out and tucks it around his shoulders and rests back, semi-reclined.
Clara returns with painkillers and a hot drink. Lights a stick of incense and wafts it in the corners of the room before setting it on the desk. She sits beside him again as he sips and swallows. It's tea of some kind, oddly flavoured but not unpleasant. Strangely soothing.
"What time is it?" he asks.
"A little after three."
"Christ." He shivers again, pulls the quilt higher up his chest.
A gentle hand touches his forehead. "Are you running a temperature?"
"I don't think so."
"Hm. Good."
She studies him. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"About what?"
"Little Peter, you've been talking in your sleep since you went to bed. Just now you were screaming in fear."
He stares into the depths of his mug for what seems like a long time. "One of the men… he threw me down the stairs. That's when my leg got broken. I keep dreaming of falling."
"Perhaps a normal reaction to such a thing," she suggests.
Boyd shrugs. "That's not all. Before I fell, Grace was knocked unconscious. One of the men slammed her into the wall. I can still hear the crack of her head hitting it…" He shivers, can't suppress it. "After I landed at the bottom of the stairs they left. I couldn't see her, couldn't hear her, couldn't talk to her. And I couldn't move – my leg was bent the wrong way and my stomach was bleeding. I couldn't get to her."
It sounds feeble and pathetic and stupid, and Boyd hates himself for it. Hates his weakness, despises his fear.
Clara is still studying him, empathy radiating from her. "You can't settle because you can't see her?" she suggests.
"I think so," he admits, though the edges of his awareness are becoming heavy and it's a struggle to keep his eyes open.
"Lie down," Clara urges, gathering his blanket and tucking him in.
It's a huge fight to understand her. "The tea," he slurs.
"Sleep, my boy," she whispers, her voice becoming fainter and fainter. "Grace will be here tomorrow, safely with you. Now sleep."
His dreams, and his nightmares, are stripped from him. At least, when he finally wrestles his way back to consciousness, Boyd has no recollection of anything other than Clara's soft voice crooning him into oblivion, much like it did when he was a little boy fighting nightmares about terrifying things that hid in the shadows.
His mouth is dry and full of an unpleasant metallic taste. He feels sluggish, not exactly drowsy, but very much as if he'd consumed far too much Scotch the previous evening. Which he knows damn well he didn't.
Zopiclone. His doctor prescribed it not long after Luke's death. He took it once, and disliked it so much that the rest of the tablets went down the bathroom sink.
Well, damn.
Boyd turns his head, tries to focus on his watch, lying on the little table next to the head of the bed. It's a struggle. The curtains are closed, he's struggling to focus, and his reading glasses are... somewhere else in the house.
It's past eleven. In the morning.
He can't exactly spring out of bed, but he's out of it, onto his crutches and down the stairs – via a quick trip to the bathroom – as fast as he can possibly make it.
Clara is not in the living room or the kitchen, so he heads for the conservatory, bellowing, "Mother!"
She's sitting on one of the rattan chairs, Apollo on her lap and Buster at her feet as she works deftly with a crochet hook. She looks up at his wrathful entrance, asks, "Did you sleep well in the end, dear?"
"Don't play sweet and innocent with me, you infuriating old crone," he growls at her. "You spiked my tea!"
"Spiked?"
"You know exactly what it means." He glares at her. "Zopiclone? Really? Where the hell did you get that from?"
"The doctor prescribed it for me at Christmas when I was having trouble sleeping," she says. She frowns. "How did you know?"
"I've had it before. Side effects can include a metallic taste in the mouth."
"Ah." She nods. "I didn't get that, but I did read about it on the packet."
"Drugging someone without their consent is a criminal offence, mother."
"Is it? Oh dear." She doesn't look at all flustered. Nor does she look contrite. "Peter?"
"What?" He sounds grumpy and he knows it.
"Why are you standing in the conservatory wearing just a pair of shorts?"
"They're pyjamas."
"They most certainly are not," she contradicts.
"Pyjama shorts. Flannel went the way of the dinosaurs."
"Well, I think you should go and put some clothes on. Mrs Sharpe will be here soon."
He continues to glower. "Who?"
"The cleaning lady. She's lovely; you'll like her."
Boyd shifts his weight on his crutches. "Why are we having this inane conversation? You knew Grace was being discharged today, and you drugged me!"
"Don't be so melodramatic, dear," Clara says. "And if you had bothered to check your telephone, you would know that she's not going to be here before late afternoon at the very earliest."
"My telephone," he says, drawing the words out. "You've been looking at my phone?"
"Well, not intentionally. I took it out of your room last night so that it wouldn't disturb you, and it made a dinging noise this morning while I was making tea. I just happened to glance at it –"
"'Just happened'?"
"It was on the side, by the kettle."
Boyd narrows his eyes at her. "No-one checks my phone but me."
"I didn't check it," Clara insists. "Aren't you rather missing the point? Grace isn't going to be here until later."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I didn't read the message. Not all of it." She puts her crochet aside. "Why don't you go and get dressed while I make you a late breakfast?"
"I need a shower."
"Oh. Can you manage?"
"I can if you have a black bin bag."
She looks genuinely confused. "What? Why?"
"To put around my cast," he says irritably. "What else? Not allowed to get it wet."
"Wouldn't it be easier if I just – "
"No, it would not," he barks, horrified by the unspoken suggestion. "For God's sake, Clara!"
"I've seen it all before, Peter."
Almost choking with indignation, he replies, "Not since before I went to bloody primary school, you haven't. No. Absolutely not."
She shakes her head at him. "You're just like your father – stubborn as a mule."
"Have you got a bin liner, or not?" he demands.
"In the kitchen in the cupboard under the sink. I'll get one for you."
"Thank you." It's a growl, and she notices. Notices, but doesn't rise to it. Good.
Showering is an awkward performance that leaves Boyd achy, tired and irritable, but eventually he is back in his room wrestling his way into clothes. There's a chill about that day that makes him tug on a thick sweater before heading back downstairs. His promised breakfast is waiting for him, and by the time he's consumed both the food and two cups of coffee, he's feeling much more clear-headed and human.
Mrs Sharpe, short, plump and smiling, bustles around the house at great speed, leaving a trail of fresh smelling scents and gleaming surfaces in her wake. It's almost dizzying to watch her, he decides, retreating to the conservatory to sit in his favourite chair and watch the birds in the garden.
The hens are loose, pottering aimlessly about as usual, and he can see Matilda, too, lumbering slowly across the grass towards the great oak tree that is almost dead centre in the middle of the lawn, and beneath which a rickety old garden bench rests.
The sun, though weak, is out, and the room is peaceful. Briefly, he closes his eyes, and is startled awake by Clara drifting past him and placing something on the small, spindly table beside him.
"Mum?" Eyes heavy, voice thick with sleep, he wonders what's happening.
"It's just water," she replies easily, "and your phone. It beeped again, and before you ask, no, I didn't look at it."
She settles in her own chair, smiles as Apollo appears from nowhere and tucks himself onto her lap, purring contentedly as she strokes his ears.
Boyd looks at his messages, sees Grace has been seen by the physio. She's been promised a shower, too, if she can walk to the bathroom.
He calls her, asks about her night. Learns she has had the catheter removed and is mobile enough – with a single crutch – to get to and from the chair herself. She sounds breathless, and when he asks why, he learns she has just completed her first solo trip to the bathroom. The lure of the shower is just too powerful.
"Curtain still closed?" he wants to know as she settles herself back in bed.
"What do you think?" is the quick, tart reply.
Boyd chuckles, wishes he could see her expression. "You'll be out of there soon," he murmurs.
"Not soon enough!"
"Oh dear, has she been that bad?" He feels genuinely sorry for her, having been stuck alone in Tina's company.
"Again, what do you think?"
The conversation continues, and though she's doing her best to hide it, he can hear the glumness in her. Boyd wants to ask if she's heard from Dawn, but in the end, he doesn't broach the subject. Doesn't want to make her feel any worse than she already does.
They chatter for a few more minutes, then Grace tells him, "Lisa's here. Time for a real shower." The sudden lightness of her tone brings a spark of happiness to him.
"Enjoy," he tells her, meaning it wholeheartedly, resting his head back against the chair, relaxing. "My shower this morning was glorious."
"Wish you were here," she suddenly says, impish.
Startling visions explode into life behind his closed eyes. "What, you mean…"
"Mm."
Well damn.
Immediately his thoughts turn to the bathroom upstairs, which was renovated while his father was ill. Big, easy access shower, especially for those with mobility problems.
"Wait until you get here," he murmurs, almost purrs.
She's very quick on the uptake. "Walk-in?" There's a speculative note in her tone that does nothing to steady the sudden thrill of excitement rushing through him.
"Indeed," he confirms. "Plenty big enough for two."
There's a pause, then, "I can't wait." He can hear Lisa in the background, and then Grace again. "I have to go, sorry."
"Have fun," he wishes her. "I'll be thinking about you."
Grace cackles. "I'm sure you will."
He ends the call, grinning to himself at the thoughts and visions chasing freely through his mind. Sitting up, reaching for his glass of water, Boyd accidentally catches his mother's eye. Finds he had entirely forgotten she was sitting there.
"Showering together does not save time," Clara observes, peering sedately at him over the top of her reading glasses.
Boyd smirks at her. "Maybe not, but it's a damn sight more fun, that's for sure."
"Just like your father," she says again. The sigh that accompanies the accusation is ambiguous at best.
"I don't want to know," Boyd says promptly. There are some things that should be left mysterious about parents, whatever age their children may be.
"Well – "
"No," he stops her. "As far as I'm concerned, you and dad only had sex twice."
"Once for you, and once for your sister?" Clara guesses.
"Exactly."
She chuckles, and he can't help grinning back at her. It's a surprisingly gentle, harmonious moment.
"Lunch?" Clara suggests, encouraging Apollo to jump from her lap so she can stand up.
"Why not?" he responds, automatically reaching for his crutches. "We could go to the pub, you know. You don't have to keep feeding me."
"I like feeding you," his mother says. "At least I know you're getting some proper nutrition. Living on takeaways and convenience food is not healthy, Peter."
He's had the same lecture more times than he can count over the years. Getting to his feet, he wobbles slightly, startling Apollo who streaks for the door to the garden, standing ajar. It's a domino effect. Apollo's sudden flight wakes Buster from his slumbers, and half-awake he gives chase, tangling himself round Boyd's feet.
He's down before he knows it, catastrophic pain shooting up his leg like white fire, and his head cracks smartly on the conservatory's tiled floor making him see stars.
"Peter!" Horrified, Clara rushes towards him.
Boyd can't speak. Can't even curse. He isn't aware of it, but he half-curls into a semi-foetal position, tightening every muscle against the brutal onslaught of pain. He's dimly aware of making a sound that's half-sob, half-gasp as he tries to suck in air. There's a greyness at the edge of his vision that suggests he might be on the verge of passing out.
"Peter!" Closer this time, and more desperate. "Peter!"
The pain begins to subside, becoming merely agonising, but the greyness goes away, too, and he's able to manage a thready, "I'm... okay."
Clara is helping him to sit up. He doesn't resist. Lets her help him. Even momentarily rests his head on her shoulder as he breathes hard, trying to gather himself.
"Oh, my poor boy," his mother says, sounding choked herself. Then, "Your head... you're bleeding..."
He is, Boyd discovers, staring stupidly at the evidence on his fingers. "Cracked my head on the floor..."
"I'll call the doctor," Clara says. "I'm sure she'll come out..."
"No," he says, exploring the injury gingerly. "It's not bad. Really. Just a little cut."
"What on earth happened?"
"Your bloody dog tried to kill me."
"Buster?" Clara says, looking at the little dog who's now sitting innocently by the part-open door. "What? How?"
"Got under my feet. Christ, that hurts..."
"Your head?"
"My leg." The pain reaches right up into his hip, making him feel faintly nauseous.
"Can you stand?"
He grimaces. "Give me a minute."
Clara gets to her feet. "Stay there."
"Why?" he asks. "Wait. You're not calling the doctor? Clara, don't."
"Just stay there," she repeats, and rushes into the house.
Boyd does as he's told. Not much else he can do. He's trying slow, steady breaths when his phone rings. It's a bit of a struggle to wrestle it from his pocket, and when he answers it, it's with a gruff, "Yes?"
"Boyd?" Grace's voice. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," he growls. "Absolutely bloody fine. Couldn't be better."
"What's the matter? What's happened?"
"Fell over the bloody dog."
"Oh dear." She sounds more amused than he would like. "Shall I call back?"
"No, no." He makes an effort to sound more friendly. "What can I do for you?"
"I have news."
"Go on."
"Good news."
"Grace..."
She seems to take pity on him. "They're letting me go after the afternoon round. Eve's coming here straight from work, and she's going to give me a lift down."
"Eve is?"
"Yes."
He decides he doesn't want to think about it. "Okay."
"That's all, really."
"Okay," he says again.
"I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm."
He sighs. "Sorry. I'm just a bit shaken up. Leg hurts."
"Ambulance?"
"God, no. I'm fine. Or, I will be in a moment or two."
"All right." A pause. "I'll see you later, then."
Even through his misery, Boyd can hear the note of uncertainty in her voice. He redoubles his efforts to sound at least halfway like himself. "That's great news, Grace. Really."
He's just finished his goodbyes when Clara returns. To his absolute horror she is pushing the foldable wheelchair that was consigned to his father's study. His rebellion is immediate. "No. Oh, no. No."
"It's this," Clara informs him sweetly, "or I call the doctor. Your choice."
"Fuck's fucking sake!"
"Peter." Reproachful.
He doesn't apologise. Glaring at the wheelchair, he mutters, "All right, all right. You win."
Clara smiles. "Good."
It's not as bad as he feared. In fact, male pride aside, it's a damn sight more convenient than he'd considered. The floors are smooth, so moving is no problem, and his body relaxes almost instantly as he comes to a halt at the kitchen table.
No strain in his arms and shoulders, no gnawing pain in his abdomen where the stitches and heavy scabbing of his wounds are now becoming a serious irritation – the urge to pick at them in the shower had been more than considerable.
"What can I do?" he asks, wanting to be busy. Distracted.
Clara dumps a bowl of potatoes in front of him and hands him a peeler. "You can start on these for me so I don't have to do them later."
It's simple work, something he was often tasked with as a child. It keeps his hands busy, though. Enough that he doesn't shrug her off as his mother returns with a damp cloth and gently cleans the blood away from his wound.
"Small cut," she pronounces.
"I told you so," he pushes back, still stubborn. "I'm fine."
"So you've said. So you always say."
"Well, I am."
"Hm." Clara regards him quietly for a moment. Inspects his head again before moving back to the counter. "Sometimes I think you need a woman in your life, just to keep an eye on you," she tells him.
Boyd doesn't stop concentrating on what he's doing, long experience having taught him that it's all too easy to cut a finger or thumb if he isn't careful. "Why do you say that?"
Clara opens the fridge, collects something, moves back towards the sink. "You don't look after yourself, my darling," is her simple response. "You work far too hard, you drink too much of that infernal spirit your father was so fond of, and you don't eat properly. Don't sleep enough, don't relax. Don't enjoy life."
"I – " he begins, automatically wanting to protest, but then he stops. Her words ring true, he can't deny it.
Her back to him, Clara's voice is quite clear as she expresses her thoughts. "It's as if you're punishing yourself."
Her honesty hits him hard. Far harder than he would have expected. Can he argue with her though?
No.
It's not intentional, but… he's been unhappy for a long time, he knows.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, gaze locked on the potato in his hands.
"Do you do it intentionally?"
Does he? "Not consciously," he decides.
"Promise me something, please," Clara's voice breaks. Looking up, he sees her take hold of the counter. Steady herself.
"Mum?"
She turns, leans back against the surface. Stares straight at him. "Take better care of yourself. Live. Try to be happy. For me, please. I can't bear to see you so miserable, Little Peter. It's breaking my heart." She looks desperate, he realises. Distraught. It tears at him, in a raw, visceral way he wouldn't have thought possible.
But then, he's always been her little boy, just like Susan was always their father's little girl.
"I'm sorry." Rarely has he ever meant something as much. Fundamentally, Clara has always been there for him, no matter what. His first and most loyal supporter. Which is exactly the reason so few women in his life have been introduced to her.
He's guilty of everything she's accusing him of, and probably more. But seeing her so upset… he raises his arms, holds her tightly when she moves towards him, wraps her own slender arms around him. "I'm sorry," he repeats, but he means it wholeheartedly.
She clings tightly to him for long moments before she straightens, rests back against the table but keeps her hands on his shoulders. "This thing with Grace," she begins, "when I saw the way you look at her… I could see you as you used to be."
Because it's her, and only because it's her, he admits something he has quietly been mulling over. "I feel like I have… balance… when I'm around her."
"Well, that can only be a good thing."
"It is," he agrees.
Clara seems reassured, because she kisses the top of his head and then drifts back over towards the sink and her preparations. Analysing his thoughts, Boyd finishes the potatoes in short order. They eat quietly, and then, aching and more tired than he cares to admit, he retreats to the living room and the big sofa, lying fully stretched and resting his painful leg. There will be more bruises to add to his collection, he thinks wryly as he settles himself.
Bloody dog.
He doesn't intend to sleep, just wants to lie peacefully and think about all the thorny issues that have arisen in recent days, but slumber claims him anyway, dragging him away from the real world and all its pain and pressures.
It feels like only moments later that Clara is shaking him gently. "Peter."
"Mmff?" Confused, he frowns up at her.
She nods towards the window. "A car's just pulled up on the drive. One of those big off-road things."
Eve, he thinks, trying to sit up straight and look at his watch all at once. "What time is it?!"
"A little after six. You were so soundly asleep I didn't want to wake you."
He manages to get both feet on the floor. "Crutches?"
"The wheelchair – "
"I want the damn crutches, mother," he snaps at her. The idea of facing Eve while confined to a wheelchair is just too unpalatable.
Clara's lips tighten – a very bad sign – but she goes to fetch them anyway. Her silence is telling, however.
Struggling upright, he says, "I'm sorry."
"You always are," Clara says, "until the next time. That temper of yours – "
"I know, I know." He can't remember how many times he's had exactly the same lecture. "Look, I am sorry, but right now..."
She seems to hesitate, then she nods. "Come along, then. Let's go and welcome our guests."
He limps behind her, leaning heavily on the crutches, waits for her to open the imposing front door, then follows her out into the early-evening breeze that's stirring the leaves of the profusion of shrubs that fill most of the front garden that isn't occupied by the swoop of driveway.
Eve is already out of the car, a tall, willowy figure dressed all in black, and she is helping Grace out of the passenger door. The latter looks pale and drawn, but there is a determined set to her jaw that Boyd recognises and quietly celebrates.
Clara bustles forwards. "Grace, my dear. Do you need any help?"
"No," Grace says. "Thank you, but Eve seems to be managing very well."
"She bloody should be," Boyd puts in, "since she's a doctor."
"Eve, is it?" Clara says to the woman concerned. Smiling, she holds out a hand. "I'm Clara Boyd."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Eve says, with more enthusiasm than Boyd cares for. "Can you give Grace a hand into the house while I rescue her luggage?"
"Certainly. Come along, Grace, let's get you inside."
Seldom in his life has Boyd felt so utterly superfluous. To Grace, he says, "You okay? How do you feel?"
"A little sick from the drive," she confesses, leaning both on Clara and on her crutch, "but rather better than I expected. What have you done to your head?"
"Told you, fell over the bloody dog."
She doesn't immediately respond, and it's only as they reach the doorway that he sees quite how grey her skin is. Something clenches in his stomach.
"Let's get you to the conservatory," Clara is saying, as she gently shepherds Grace towards the back of the house. "You can sit and rest there." As the pair slowly disappear, Boyd hovers, waiting for Eve. She arrives in the doorway with a suitcase and a small bag, treating him to a quizzical expression.
"Something wrong?" she asks.
Boyd frowns. Finds he is at a loss. "Grace," he manages.
"Ah. She struggled with the drive – too upright, I think, and far too many potholes, no matter how carefully I drove."
Boyd winces at the thought.
"Also," Eve continues, "she suffers from motion sickness, did you know that? I had no idea. That lovely nurse filled her with anti-emetics before we left but she's been retching most of the way. No idea how she's kept her lunch down."
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, feeling a little queasy himself. He wonders how he's never known that.
"Yeah, she's got to be in pain. Probably needs to lie down and rest."
He's leaning against the door, holding it open as she struggles through it, dragging the suitcase across the gravel and over the threshold. Once inside, it seems infinitely easier for her to manage. Eve looks around with keen interest. "You really grew up here?" she asks, something far too similar to childlike glee in her words as she studies everything she can set her eyes on with an intensity that's unnerving at best.
"Yes." Boyd tries to redirect the conversation. "You think she's in pain?"
Eve looks at him, and for a moment he has the intensely uncomfortable sensation that she's trying to decide if he's stupid or not. Aloud, she tells him, "Well, she was retching continuously, and she's got broken ribs, so…" She points to the suitcase. "Where do you want me to put this?"
He wants to deal with it himself. Knows he can't. "Can you get it to the top of the stairs?"
"Of course." Within a minute the case is on the landing and Eve is back beside him, so he points her through to the kitchen, knowing it will take him far longer than it will her to get there.
He's right, and when he makes his way through the door, Clara is at the stove, stirring the large pot of stew that has been simmering gently there for hours. "Tea, dear?" she asks Eve. "Peter?"
"Please," he nods. "Where's Grace?"
"The conservatory, darling. She looks wiped out."
Every instinct he has is screaming at him not to leave Eve alone with his mother, but the need to see Grace is too great. He leaves the two women to chat about Lord knows what and swings his way out towards the big glass room. The cackle of laughter that follows him down the hallway makes him shiver.
Grace has been installed in the rattan chair beside his. Her eyes are closed and she's leaning into the cushions as if she has simply wilted.
Ashen. That's the first word that comes to mind as he studies her. Grey-faced and clearly in considerable discomfort. With some difficulty he edges his footstool over beside her and perches on it, reaching out to take her hand.
"Hi," she murmurs, squeezing his fingers. Her voice sounds weaker than it did on the phone.
"Is it that bad?" he asks, unable to disguise his concern.
"It'll settle," she assures him. "I'm just… shattered. Who'd have thought sitting in a car could be so hideous?"
Leaning forward is precarious business, but he manages to do so, to brace himself on the arms of her chair so that he can kiss her gently. It's not the welcome he wanted, but it will have to do for now.
"I missed you," Boyd admits.
Grace opens her eyes, smiles tiredly at him. "And I missed you, too. So much."
The urge to comfort her is incredibly powerful. "You're here now. No more doctors and nurses poking and prodding. From here on in, it's just getting better, okay?"
"If you say so."
It's so far from what he would expect that Boyd knows in that instant that she is feeling truly awful. There's no fight, no protest, no banter. No reassurance either.
She sees him watching her. Reads his mind, it seems. "I'm fine. I just need a good night's sleep. Uninterrupted sleep!"
The way she spits it out makes him grimace. "Tina?" he ventures.
"Tina," she scowls.
"If we ever see her again, I'll find some excuse to arrest her," he promises.
That startles a laugh from her. Seems to lift some of her weary, gloomy mood. "Where's Eve?"
"In the kitchen with my mother."
"Oh."
Boyd frowns. "Oh? What's that supposed to mean?"
She doesn't answer immediately.
"Grace?"
She frowns slightly, rests her head back. "Nothing. Just… she was asking about Clara all the way here. I think she's very… curious."
"Oh God," he groans. "Well, that's me well and truly screwed, then, isn't it?"
Grace's forehead crinkles into a frown. "What do you mean?"
"Authority," he says. "Respect, all that."
She almost smirks, but instead of continuing the topic, she says, "I hate to ask, but where's the bathroom, I need to... you know."
"Oh." Boyd nods towards the door between the house and the conservatory. "First door on the left."
cont...