THIRTEEN
Washing her hands, Grace casts a quick, curious glance around the small, windowless downstairs bathroom. A wet room, she realises. The flooring, the hinged seat under the shower, and the chrome handrails all tell her that the room was designed for an invalid. Boyd's late father, she assumes. Cancer, if she remembers correctly.
So far, the house has surprised her. Bigger than she expected, though hardly stately, it's so far removed from her own childhood home that she has trouble imagining a time when it nurtured a young, busy family.
It's only a few steps back to the conservatory, thank goodness, and Boyd is hovering there amongst the greenery, looking tense and tired. There is a large, fluffy orange cat sitting on the chair next to hers. Green eyes regard her from a square, solid head.
"Apollo, I presume," she says, making her way slowly towards the chairs. "He's a handsome chap."
"Son of Leto," Boyd tells her. "She was a stray Clara found hiding in the garage. She had a couple of kittens. One died. The other..." he gestures at the large, sedate-looking cat. "Well, as you can see, he turned into a great lump of a thing."
"He's gorgeous," Grace says, settling back into her chair with a grateful sigh. The nausea is beginning to abate, but the exhaustion is relentless.
Clara appears, bearing cups and saucers. "I've asked Eve to stay for dinner. She seems very nice."
Boyd looks horrified. "What? Why?"
"Because it's polite, dear," his mother explains, handing Grace one of the cups. "Did you know she grew up in Hindhead, not far from here?"
"I knew she was from Hampshire," Grace says.
"What's she doing?" Boyd asks, voice heavy with suspicion.
"At the moment?" Clara waits for him to sit at the table and then hands him his cup. "She's in the kitchen, looking at the pictures of that holiday we had in Ilfracombe when you were four. Apparently, she has an aunt who lives there."
Boyd looks as if he is on the verge of apoplexy. "She's what?!"
"Calm down, dear," Clara tells him. "What harm can it possibly do?"
"Calm down?" he thunders. "Fuck's sake, mother! There are pictures of me – "
"Playing naked on the beach," Clara says. "Yes, I know. You were a little boy. That's what children do."
"Oh dear," Grace murmurs. It's funny – incredibly so – but even she's aware that there are certain lines that should never be crossed.
"Please tell me you're joking?" Boyd sounds just a little desperate.
"No, not at all. The album was in the dining room, with all the others. When she said – "
Boyd is in motion, heading into the house with a surprising turn of speed for a man on crutches.
Clara looks at Grace, clearly bewildered. "I didn't think he'd mind."
"Well," Grace says, finding her words with care, "you have to understand he has a position to maintain. He's the CCU's commanding officer. Eve is lovely, but..."
"I didn't think it would do any harm." For the first time Clara looks contrite. "Should I do something?"
"I think that horse has rather bolted."
"Stable doors?"
"Quite." Grace decides a change of subject is called for. "You have a lovely home."
"Thank you," Clara brightens. "Do you know, it was almost derelict when we bought it. That's the only way we could have afforded it at the time, of course. Douglas did a lot of the initial work himself. He was very handy like that."
"My father was the same."
"He and Peter renovated this conservatory together. 'Sixty-six, I think, something like that. It was unusable before that. Victorian, but in a terrible state." Clara looks around, clearly lost in a moment of reverie. She smiles to herself, then looks at Grace. "I think we'll eat out here, actually. Much nicer than the dining room, and you won't have to move."
"I have to confess I'm not very hungry," Grace admits.
"You must eat something," Clara insists, "even if it's just a little. Then we'll get you settled upstairs and you can have a good, long sleep."
"That sounds heavenly."
"You're in the big room at the back. There's a lovely view of the orchard and the woods beyond. Sometimes you can see fallow deer."
"Thank you," Grace tells her, not knowing what else to say. "You really are being very kind."
"My motives aren't entirely altruistic, I'm afraid," Clara admits. "Peter... has had a difficult couple of years."
Grace nods. "He has."
"You make him happy," Clara says, "and I want to see him happy. He was such a sunny little boy. Intense, of course, and wild, too, but happy. It hurts to see him so... crushed. So weighed down by everything. You understand?"
Better than you imagine, Grace thinks. She says, "I do. I care about him a great deal, you know."
"I can tell." Clara nods. She glances round, says, "I think I'd better go and rescue your colleague."
"She doesn't need it," Grace assured her with a tired smile. "Eve can hold her own against Boy... Peter."
"I suspect you're right," Clara agrees with a chuckle. "Still, I'd better check on dinner. Is there anything you need?"
Grace shakes her head. "I'm absolutely fine just resting a little, if that's all right."
"Perfectly." Clara smiles at her, then makes her way back into the house.
She tries, but Grace can't fight the pull of slumber. When Eve appears in the conservatory, she is startled out of a light doze by her friend quietly calling her name.
"Mm?" she mumbles, fumbling with the half-empty cup that she has somehow managed not to spill.
"Steady," warns that distinctive voice. Pale, slim fingers close over hers, steadying the china and the remaining liquid inside.
It takes a herculean effort, but somehow Grace manages to swim back up into consciousness. "I'm sorry," she apologises, automatically.
"Don't be." It's an order, but a gentle one. Dark eyes are studying her, framed by frowning brows. Eve's fingers close over her wrist, her frown deepening. "How bad is your pain right now?" she asks, concerned.
Feeling old and worn, Grace caves in. Admits, "Pretty bad."
Eve sighs, releasing her arm. "Why didn't you say something?"
She doesn't have a real answer. Not one that will be satisfactory, anyway. "Well, you know…" She lifts her injured arm, gestures vaguely.
"I see." Very knowing. Somehow, Grace suspects she doesn't have to explain. "Where are your pills? In the little bag?"
When she nods, Eve vanishes back into the house. Moments later, Boyd appears, a string bag slung over his shoulder as he swings himself into the room. He stops by the table, dumps the bag on the surface. Pauses in the act of unpacking cutlery and setting it out when he looks over at her. A deep glower of concern forms, burying itself into his features.
"What?" she croaks, and it really is a croak. All the retching and heaving in the car have left her throat feeling as raw as it was when she first came back to awareness in hospital.
He makes his way over to her, and she's struck by how steady he seems, how much more confident in moving he is. It's a wonderful sight.
Boyd perches himself on the footstool. Takes her now empty cup and places it on the table out of the way before tucking her hand into his. "A question I could ask you," he acknowledges. "What's the matter?" His concern is almost palpable, the worry in his eyes cutting into her. "You look terrible," he says softly. "What is it, Grace?"
She shakes her head slightly, not to be dismissive, just to try and dispel some of that concern. "I'm so very tired," she explains. "And I'm in a bit of pain. The journey was hard."
"You're in a lot of pain," Eve chides, striding back into the room, medication in one hand, a glass of water in the other. "Grace, you've got to be honest. You need say when you feel so bad. The better you control your pain now, the more quickly you'll be mobile which will help no end." She holds out the glass, watches as the pain relief is taken, the water sipped. "I can't say it enough. And the same goes for you too, Boyd," she adds, turning her attention to him. "The more comfortable you are, the better you will heal. Both of you must remember that."
Thoroughly scolded, Grace nods meekly. "I wasn't trying to tough it out, it's just… new surroundings… it's been a hard day… and well, Clara is being so nice about it all, so…"
"Oh, I understand," nods Eve, "but remember, you can't have fun if you're miserable with pain or exhaustion, and the two go hand in hand."
Grace studies her friend. Wonders if the sly comment was in fact a sly comment. Decides that it was and is trying to summon a warning look when a cheeky wink is delivered.
Boyd sees it too. Studiously ignores the smirk developing on Eve's face.
She knows.
Grace is saved from having to say anything further when Clara appears. She's carrying a tray, the contents of which smell delicious.
"I know you're not hungry, Grace, dear," she begins, "but please try and eat something. I won't be offended if you can't manage much."
It's an effort to sit up straighter. Boyd helps, pulling her gently more upright as Eve grabs a spare cushion and stuffs it behind her back.
"It's a stew," Clara adds. "Lots of vitamins, and it should be easy for you to swallow."
It is. Easy to swallow, clearly full of vitamins, and incredibly tasty.
Grace manages more than she thought she would, but eventually the exhaustion wins and she really can't do any more. It's Eve who gets to her feet and catches her as she begins to slide sideways out of the chair, quite literally nodding off into her dinner.
Rousing a little, she feels faintly embarrassed. Can't find the words to express it though. Everything has become rather too hazy, strangely fuzzy around the edges.
"Enough," Clara declares. "Let's get you upstairs to bed." She rises gracefully from the table. Enlists Eve's help in getting Grace upright.
Swaying between them, alarmed at the weakness in her legs, the uncoordinated nature of her feet, Grace feels an incipient edge of panic begin to creep in.
"It's okay," Clara is murmuring, one arm bracing her far more firmly than should be possible given her age. "You've just overreached yourself, that's all. A good, long sleep in a comfortable bed and you'll feel much better. Come along, Eve, help me get her upstairs. We'll fetch the crutch later."
A chair scrapes on the slate floor, something rustles nearby. "Absolutely not," orders Clara, cheerful, but implacable. "You, my boy, are going to sit there and finish your dinner. Say goodnight to Grace, now."
The awkward, assisted battle up the stairs revives her a little. The painkillers are beginning to take hold, too, and that helps the partial resurgence of her natural curiosity. Her self-appointed guardians escort her into the bathroom, then discreetly withdraw while she attends to her own needs. The bathroom is large and comfortable, much like the rest of the house, but she doesn't linger.
Back in the upstairs hall, she leans heavily on Eve as Clara waves at each door in turn. "That's my room. You're in the spare room opposite the bathroom. That's the box room, and Peter's room is on the end."
Eve, Grace can see, is still fascinated, her gaze flicking this way and that, noting every tiny detail from the antique bookcase with its imposing array of tomes to the framed photographs on the walls.
The spare room isn't as big as she somehow expected, but it is comfortably furnished, with a double bed, an easy chair by the window, and a matching solid wood chest of drawers and wardrobe. On the wall opposite the bed there is a striking painting of a mountainous landscape that looks as if it might be Scotland.
Clara sees her looking. "One of Peter's," she says. "Aonach Eagach at Glencoe."
"Boyd painted that?" Eve asks, sounding every bit as incredulous as she does intrigued.
Clara nods. "He did. We went on holiday there when he was, what, fifteen or sixteen? He was a very talented artist. I hoped for a while he would go to art school, but it wasn't for him."
Eve's reply passes Grace by. Seated on the edge of the bed, she is beginning to fade again. The gnawing pain has released its grip on her, but the exhaustion is bearing down hard, its weight becoming almost unbearable.
"Come on," Eve says, and Grace realises with a start that Clara has withdrawn. "Let's get you into bed."
She hasn't got the energy to argue, much less resist. There's something impersonal yet comforting about Eve's quiet, capable assistance.
"Is it over?" she hears herself ask as she is helped to settle back against soft pillows. "Is it really over?"
"It is," Eve says, her voice quiet, compassionate. "At least, the worst of it is over. All you have to do now is get better."
"No more nightmares," Grace mutters, more to herself than to Eve. Her eyes are closing despite herself, the fatigue now so great there's nothing she can do but surrender.
For the first time in days she does not dream of the derelict house and the violence it brought.
- End of Part I -
The story continues in "Amor Vincit Omnia – Part II"