A Very Public Affair. Sally Wentworth
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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