Love Without Measure. Caroline Anderson
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come?’ he asked quietly.
‘Oh, no. I enjoy your company, young fella. Too many old girls in this place for my liking. No, I was thinking of you. I just can’t see the attraction in talking to an old codger like me.’
Patrick smiled, a sad half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
‘I find you very interesting. You’ve had a fascinating life.’
The man snorted. ‘You must have a very boring life, young man, if you find mine fascinating. Very boring.’
Patrick thought back over the last few years, and gave a wry, quiet laugh. ‘It’s quite exciting enough for me. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
They shook hands formally, and Patrick turned to leave. As he did so the man called him back.
‘Patrick?’ he said.
He turned towards him again. ‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know who you are, young man, but I’d be proud if you were my son.’
Patrick’s face twisted slightly. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you very much. Goodnight.’
He went out, waving a greeting at the sister who was busy wheeling another resident through the grounds, and slipped behind the wheel of his car—his father’s car, in fact.
For a moment he remained motionless, letting the pain ease away, giving himself time. Then he started the car and drove back to the lovely Tudor house where he had grown up, and where he was now staying with his mother.
She was in the front garden when he pulled up, and she straightened and went to greet him with a kiss. ‘How was he?’ she asked.
Patrick shrugged. The same.’
‘Still doesn’t know you?’
He shook his head. His eyes blurred, fogging his vision, and he blinked hard. ‘I miss him,’ he said unevenly.
‘So do I,’ his mother said sadly. Oh, Patrick, I’m so glad you’re home.’
They hugged each other, drawing comfort from the contact, sharing their sorrow. The lump in Patrick’s throat grew, and he eased away.
‘I’ll put the car in the garage, then I need to change.’
‘Don’t be long. I want to hear all about your day.’
He didn’t doubt it. He put the car away and went in through the side door into the converted stable-block that had been turned into a self-contained annexe for guests. He had refused to stay in the house with his mother, preferring instead to maintain his independence and privacy while still being close at hand.
Now, as he stripped in the airy bedroom and wandered through to the little bathroom to shower, he was glad he had insisted. He needed room to himself, a little time and space to be quiet and recharge his batteries.
And God knows they were flat enough. This sudden deterioration of his father’s was the last straw, the Alzheimer’s that had been creeping up now claiming his memory and distancing him from the son who had travelled back across half the world to be near him.
A heavy sadness settled in Patrick’s chest, joining the other weight that lay there at all times, ignored for the most part but omnipresent, a constant anchor round his heart.
He turned on the shower and stood under the hot, stinging spray, his eyes closed, letting the water pelt over him and wash away the smell of the nursing-home.
Ideally he would like to bring his father home, but his mother couldn’t cope alone now her husband was incontinent. Perhaps, with Patrick’s help and the services of an agency nurse, it would be possible.
He would consider it, talk it over with his mother.
Half an hour later he joined her in the conservatory overlooking the garden that had been his father’s pride and joy. It was a mess, the weeds forming a mat between the perennials, the vegetable patch untended. Patrick had cut the grass at the weekend but already it seemed to be growing. His mother did what she could, but there was too much for one person to look after. They needed a gardener.
He sighed and picked up the wine his mother had poured him, raising it to his lips. It was cold and crisp, rinsing away the strain of the day.
‘So—tell me about your new job,’ his mother began, tucking her feet under her bottom like a girl and leaning eagerly towards him. ‘What are the rest of the staff like? Are you going to be happy working there?’
He thought of Jack Lawrence, his boss—apparently casual and yet with a mind like a steel trap, decisive and efficient. Kathleen, his wife, a softly-spoken little Irishwoman with a spark in her eye and a core of iron.
And Anna.
Something unfamiliar and forgotten happened in his chest, a sort of tightening, a feeling of anticipation.
She was no oil-painting, their little staff nurse. Not that little, really, unless she was beside him, then she seemed unbelievably fragile, with her wide grey eyes and clear, almost transparent skin. Her hair was long, he guessed. It was hard to tell with it twisted up under her cap, but certainly shoulder-length at least, and a wonderful dark brown, like polished mahogany. She wasn’t really pretty, but there was a life in her, an inner beauty that transcended her slightly uneven features and made her if anything even more attractive.
She was too thin, of course. Kathleen had implied that no one took care of her. Certainly she didn’t take care of herself. The way she had fallen on those sandwiches ——
‘Well?’
He blinked. ‘Um…’
‘I asked about your colleagues, and you went into a trance.’
He grinned easily at his mother. ‘Sorry, I was thinking about the day. Yes, they’re fine. A good bunch of people. I think I’m going to enjoy working there.’
His mother sipped her wine and regarded him steadily. ‘Are you going to tell me about the woman who put that look in your eye, or are you going to keep me guessing?’
He could feel the flush on the back of his neck. ‘Woman?’ he said casually.
His mother sighed. ‘You’re going to keep me guessing. OK.’
‘Whatever makes you think there’s a woman?’ he asked with feigned amusement.
‘Patrick!’ The gently teasing reproof undid him. He never could hide anything from his mother.
He laughed awkwardly. ‘Her name’s Anna Jarvis. She’s single, about twenty-five, a staff nurse.’
‘And you like her?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I like her. She’s a good colleague.’
‘And you find her attractive.’
‘She’s all right. Nothing special.’
His mother snorted softly. ‘Patrick, you’re a lousy liar. She’s lit a fire under you, I can tell. Why don’t you let it burn, for a change?’
‘For what? Casual sex? I thought you didn’t approve.’ His voice was deliberately light, but his mother wasn’t fooled.
‘I don’t. There are other relationships ‘
‘Mother, I am not getting married again!’
Patrick smacked his glass down too hard and stood up, ramming his hands into his trouser pockets and glaring down the darkening garden.
His mother’s hand was gentle on his shoulder. ‘Patrick, I’m sorry. It just hurts me to see you so alone. You’re like a caged lion without a mate. You need a partner, someone to share things with.’
‘I had a partner.’
‘I know.’
Her hand fell