Holly had had a quiet, productive morning.
She'd made raisin and cinnamon scones and Eve's pudding and carrot and pineapple cake. A dish of rice pudding was baking slowly in the bottom of the Aga, with a joint of beef on the shelf above. A tray of oil occupied the top shelf, heating up for the roast potatoes.
She was just separating the cauliflower florets when the door from the hall opened and Jay came in, carrying a heap of bedclothes which he calmly put into the washing machine. Without a word or a glance in her direction, he loaded it with powder and softener and switched it on. From the hall came the sound of the bathroom door closing, followed by the distant squeal of the shower curtain rings on the track above the tub.
"There are dressing gowns on the back of the door in your room," she said cheerfully, filling a saucepan with cold water. "Take one in for Mal when he's finished. There's time for both of you to wash and change, but you can set the table while you're waiting, if you wouldn't mind."
"May I ask you a question?" he asked, squatting to pick out one of the neatly-folded white damask tablecloths from the bottom cupboard of the Welsh dresser where they were always kept.
"Of course you can, love. Ask me whatever you like." She tilted the chopping board neatly so the florets slid into the water. "I'm not guaranteeing to answer, though. You know that."
He glanced up at her. "If I hadn't come up here – would you have gotten in touch with me to tell me Mal was here?"
For a moment she frowned out of the window behind the sink, seeing and not seeing the white tracery of snow on the dark tree trunks beyond the wall. "No," she said at last. "I would have wanted to, of course, but don't you see, that would have been interfering. When I found out what had happened, I hoped you'd come, I believed you'd come – but one of the things that was hardest for me to learn in my job is that ultimately, people have to heal themselves."
"Mal says you healed him after– when he needed it."
"That's not quite how it works. More accurately, I provided the environment for him to find healing in. But minds are like bones – they have to heal from within. You can manipulate a broken bone, you can pin it in place, you can splint it and do whatever you like, but ultimately, the bone heals itself. Or doesn't."
He brought out the tablecloth, and threw it over the small table in its alcove which she'd cleared ready. The crystal candelabrum was on the windowsill, and he placed it in the middle of the table with military precision.
He continued the rest of the operation in thoughtful silence. Finally, he leaned on the back of a chair and stared across at her. "Holly, do you think Mal is healed?"
She returned his gaze equally pensively for a moment before her eyes softened and she touched his arm, the lightest of caresses. "Sweetie, what difference would that information make to you, truly?"
"None at all."
The potatoes were ready to go in for roasting. She took out the hot fat, dropped the potatoes in carefully and turned them to coat all their surfaces. Only when the oven door was closed again did she reply. "With that kind of damage, I'm not sure anyone can ever be described as 'healed', not fully. He's come a long way, but mending wounds as deep as his is a very long process. So long it may take the rest of his lifetime – and never be fully completed.
"May I ask why you want to know?"
"Because I want to understand how to provide the best support for him that I possibly can. I want you to give me all the help I need, as much as you can. I want to be there for him when you can't be."
The door to the hall opened at that moment. Malcolm padded in, barefoot, with only a bath-sheet wrapped around himself, and with an absolute lack of artifice or self-consciousness crossed to Jay and slipped an arm around his shoulders, burying his face in the side of his neck. Regardless of the damp, Jay slipped an arm of his own around him in response, and with a downward look of deep tenderness, cupped his free hand gently around his lover's face.
Holly enjoyed the sight for a moment longer, feeling honoured that they shared this most private moment with her freely and willingly, and then turned away to look out across the garden, though her heart was overflowing with joy for them and the scene was one she would treasure forever.
She'd spoken the truth: it was unlikely that Malcolm would ever fully and completely recover from what had been done to him. She had helped him in his hours of direst need, and in that lay the roots of a friendship that had endured ever since; but she had always known that there was a deep, wounded place inside him where even her love could not reach. Now, she could hope that finally he had found someone who was strong enough to discover that place and accept it, and thereby one day perhaps – just perhaps – bring about that impossible redemption.
The clouds were breaking, out across the dale. A finger of cold, clear sunshine pried through a rent in the grey and laid a stripe of pale gold across the snowy moors high above; a circling buzzard passed through it briefly and soared away towards Nappa Scar. Even as she watched, a second buzzard lifted from the pinewoods and flew in pursuit. Maybe, come the spring, she would sit and watch their courtship flights, high in the clear air.
The End.