The man opens the door and they follow him into the house. Harry's no longer leaning on Ruth for support, but he keeps his arm round her shoulders anyway and she's grateful for the warmth, comfort and the sheer pleasure of it. She's still somewhat amazed by how quickly he'd recovered from his near drowning, though admittedly she's lost all awareness of time; perhaps they'd been on the beach for hours. The man had only given Harry a moment to catch his breath before coaxing him to get up, alternating between encouragement, demands and threats. At first it hadn't seemed to be working, but when their rescuer had started shouting orders and abuse at him, making fun of his weakness, Harry had finally began to respond. Something ingrained during his army days or just stubborn male pride, she'd wondered as she'd watched him slowly push himself up onto all fours before promptly vomiting several times. She'd moved forward to touch him then, her concern for him increasing by the second, but the man had held her back with his arm, scared perhaps that Harry might collapse in a heap again if she attempted to comfort him. He'd given Harry a moment to recover before yelling at him again, something that had been necessary in order to be heard over the din of the storm, until he'd began trying to stand. This time, she hadn't let him stop her from moving forward, grasping his left arm and slinging it over her shoulder while their rescuer did the same with his right. Harry had had to lean on the pair of them for most of the way, but seemed to get stronger as they approached what looked like the only shelter for miles - the man's stone cottage, set back from the beach and, thankfully, towards the nearer of the two headlands.
"Wait here," their saviour instructs as he closes and bolts the door behind them. "The storm's knocked out the power again." They watch as the beam from his torch moves into the kitchen beyond the tiny hall.
"Best get out of these wet things," Harry murmurs softly, his voice croaky from lack of use and the salt water he'd swallowed. It's the first thing either of them has said to the other since he'd pointed out the gathering storm clouds and urged her to swim faster.
"Yes," she whispers hoarsely as he pulls his arm from around her shoulders and she lifts her hands to unbuckle the life vest, but it's too stiff for her to manage, her fingers too cold and numb, her strength spent. She hears the zip of his jacket slide down in the dark and the swishing of sodden fabric as he pulls it off. Then she lets out a sigh of frustration as the buckle refuses to budge.
"All right?" he asks.
"I can't get the buckles undone," she explains, still wrestling with the wretched things.
"Let me help," he says and she feels his hand connect with her arm and trail down to her elbow and then across her stomach, searching for the buckles in the dark. Once he's located one of them, it only takes him two seconds to unbuckle it and its fellows.
"Thanks," she whispers as she removes the vest, her numb fingers making the whole process difficult and slow. She shivers. She doesn't think she's ever felt this cold before. She's just about to throw caution to the wind and ask Harry to hold her in the hope of getting warm again, when their host reappears, carrying an oil lamp.
Ruth's hands instinctively drop the vest and wrap around her chest, pulling closed the ripped fabric of her shirt. Harry notices her reaction and discomfort, so he steps in front of her, shielding her almost completely from view with his body. Her heart warms at his thoughtfulness and his desire to protect her, and she steps forward slightly, pressing lightly into his back in gratitude. The move is instinctive and completed before she can think of all the reasons she shouldn't be doing this, but Harry doesn't seem to mind, if anything, he seems pleased, reaching back and squeezing her hand gently with his own, though she can hardly feel it. She shivers from the cold again and turns her gaze on their rescuer.
It's their first glimpse of this stranger who's saved their lives. He's of average height, stocky and looks a little older than Harry, perhaps in his early sixties, with a thick head of silver hair, a rough beard, and very bushy eyebrows. In fact, he looks quite wild and she's suddenly very grateful for Harry's presence, though her rational mind is telling her that it's probably only her recent experience on the boat that's making her fear this man. He's well dressed for the weather, and even though his outer garments are drenched from the storm, he looks like he's warm and dry inside.
"Well, it looks like the phone's out as well," he states with resignation. "The number of times I've told them they need to bury the lines, but will they listen?"
"You have no mobile?" Harry croaks with a frown of concern, and she knows what he's thinking. They need to get in touch with the team back on the Grid.
"No reception up here," the man shakes his head. "Closest place with a working phone'll be the farm three miles west of here, but in this storm..." he tails off, shaking his head. There's a pause and then he volunteers, "Name's Fred, Fred Wilkins."
"I'm Harry," Harry replies, "Harry Stevens, and this is my wife, Ruth." She stiffens in surprise, but then relaxes once more as she realises that, under the circumstances, it's best for them to pose as a married couple and using their real first names will make it much easier to remember who they're meant to be. With them suffering from hypothermia and exhaustion, this is no time to be constructing elaborate legends.
Fred nods, saying, "You'd best get out of your wet clothes. Come on in."
Harry steps forward to follow their host into the kitchen, and she stays close behind him, keeping his body between her and Fred. They stop by the kitchen table and Fred steps over to a cupboard and gets out three glasses and a bottle of brandy from which he pours them all a stiff measure. The liquid burns her throat as it slides down, but it serves it's purpose very well and she can soon feel its warmth seep into her insides. "God, that feels good," Ruth murmurs softly and takes another swig, draining the glass.
She sees Harry smile and Fred chuckles as he says, "I'll start a fire, make some tea, and warm some soup. I have a few cans somewhere. There's a bathtub upstairs and there should be enough water for one bath, but no more with the power out. It won't be hot mind, but I dare say it'll be warm enough for your purposes. I'll dig out a few hot-water bottles too and bring them up to you along with the tea and soup. You can have my bed tonight. Best thing you can do is get in there as fast as you can to warm up."
"Oh no," Ruth objects, "we couldn't possibly."
"It's a double," he states. "The only other bedroom has a single bed. It's no trouble. I often sleep in there anyway."
Ruth is speechless, but Harry replies, "Thank you. We're very grateful for your help."
"It's no bother," he shrugs. "It's Bella you should thank really. If she hadn't darted out into the storm, I'd never have ventured out. Eh, Bella?" He pats the Border Collie who enjoys the attention and barks in approval. "You're a good girl." Then he turns to them again and says, "Follow me."
They both follow him slowly up the stairs, and once on the landing, he pauses and says briskly, "The bathroom's straight ahead. This here'll be your room for tonight." He opens the door on the right, letting it swing open so they can get a glimpse of the cosy, surprisingly tidy, room, equipped with a queen size bed, a large wardrobe and chest of drawers, and a fireplace in the corner. "Take what you need in the way of clothes from in there. If you can't find anything that fits, Ruth, try the other room. Some of my daughter's things might be a better fit. I'll be back in a jiffy with the hot-water bottles, the tea, and the soup. All right?"
"Thank you, Fred," Harry replies.
The other man nods and disappears downstairs again. Once alone, she looks at Harry, hoping he will take charge as she knows that the situation is about to get rather awkward. "All right?" he asks as he turns to face her. She nods watching his face that's a little worse for wear, his cheek bone bruised, his lips chapped and blue from the cold, and waiting for him to continue as she wonders if he's feeling as nervous and uncomfortable at the prospect of them sharing a bath and bed as she is. A little part of her is almost grateful for the opportunity she's been given to be so intimate with him, the man she's been secretly in love with for months now, but she can't help worrying that he doesn't feel the same way and that this'll damage their working relationship irrevocably. "Ruth," he murmurs, breaking into her thoughts, "we really must get out of these clothes. You go ahead and get into that bath."
"What about you?" she asks uncertainly.
"I'll be fine," he smiles. "Go on. You need to get warm."
He doesn't intend to join her, she realises and suddenly feels angry, not because she sees it as a rejection, but because, in trying to be a gentleman, he's being very stupid. So she shakes her head at him and says firmly, "We'll share it." She watches as his face registers surprise at the suggestion or her tone of voice, she's not sure which, before she adds, "We're both adults, Harry, and this is a life or death situation. I can't let you freeze out here. You need the bath as much as I do, so let's go." And with that, she determinedly leads the way to the bathroom.